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flokali · 2 months

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Hi!! I am brainrotting and cannot get it out of my mind, so I thought to share. A very simple thought.

Accolyte Zhongli. Very willing to please et cetera. But biting him? Like come on, biting a Dragon? Is it ownership? Is it playful bite? You know, the sudden urge to bite someone (or is it just me?). So biting a very willing Zhongli.

Sobbing. This will haunt me for a while.

Slight NSF_W

Thinking so many thoughts... happy belated valentines day every1 ><

Warnings: NB! Reader, yandere!Zhongli, SAGAU, implied Dom!Reader/Sub!Zhongli, unhealthy relationship dynamics, biting, soft-violence (?), possessive behavior, jealousy, ask to tag!

Dragons in Liyue are known to be loyal, fierce, and elegant; the stories always describe them as powerful beasts who are to be respected, with sincere hearts and wisdom beyond a mere mortal’s understanding.

In a way, such behaviors did translate to your acolyte, Zhongli. He was one of your oldest followers, not just in age but time serving you, over six millenia he has existed and can proudly state he’s worshiped you for most of it. You would think that the years would have mellowed him out, polished up the edges of his devotion, soothe the tempest in his heart into a much milder dribble, and yet – you knew very few of your acolytes who could rival the passion he seemed to hold towards you.

The relationship between you and all of your followers was strange, at least to you — going from a normal person to being worshiped as a God was not an easy process, much less in a world as different from your own as Teyvat was to Earth — however none were perhaps as strange as the relationship between you and Zhongli.

He is always at your side, from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep. At first, his insistence on being your attendant had been met with heavy resistance from the others but his stubbornness greatly overpowered their annoyance; no matter what rotation you were in, Zhongli was always by your side.

You knew of his vessel, Morax, the large dragon that he’d used to fake his death, and you knew that “Zhongli” wasn’t his true form – you just hadn’t guessed some traits would have seeped into the other form or maybe it was simply part of his personality.

He was possessive and overprotective over you, it was like an internal struggle between submission and the need to monopolize you was constantly going on in his head, yet he refused to outwardly admit it.

“I am simply concerned for you, Your Grace.” He’d say whenever you’d bring up his overbearing nature, considering that he and the rest viewed you as an all-powerful being, you’d think he’d have more trust in your ability to protect yourself. And yet, whenever he’s allowed, he’ll always attempt to deter you from leaving his side. At some point you realized it was probably for his sake rather than your own, but by then you had grown endeared to the man and decided to allow it anyway.

Even as your most loyal follower who you spent most of your days with, Zhongli had his quirks and habits about him that simply baffled you – no matter how many days you’d spent with the former Archon, there were just things he’d do and say that’d leave you questioning all you knew about him prior.

All you really knew about him before was reduced to what had been revealed in game, from the Traveler’s perspective and the NPC’s who’d speak about him. Meeting him and interacting with him quickly let you know that his personality, at least when directed towards you, was quite different from what you had assumed from your previous observations.

An example of such discrepancies was his obsessive need to please you.

The traditional Liyue clothes you once complimented him on? Most of his wardrobe has changed to include such attires more frequently. The hair accessory you bought him once when you traveled to Fontaine? You don’t think you’ve seen him without it since. That one time you complimented him when he wore warmer tones? It seems his closet has been rid of any other color.

It was unsettling if not a bit cute, who wouldn’t be a little bit flattered to know their opinion held such weight to a man such as Morax; but it was only a matter of time before it all escalated

Somewhere, at some point, your relationship with Zhongli changed – morphing into something more complex than you would have expected. You would soon wonder if he was classified more so as a lover or some sort of concubinus than a mere helper, his role as an attendant seeming more like a guise so he could spend his time with you each day.

Fleeting touches now lasted longer, the feeling of his hot gaze on you burned stronger with every passing moment, it was a natural escalation; kisses now were no longer restrained to the hand, they now landed on your lips, your cheeks, your neck, wandering hands found their home in your waist and the small of your back.

When he told you he loved you, you knew not if he spoke as a devotee or a lover.

It was during a heated make out session that you found out his weakness to being marked and claimed, much to your surprise. He’d been quite insistent on not leaving a single mark on your person, not a hickey or bite, you guessed it must have been a preference but never asked about it either. You decided that, for the time being, you would avoid the topic until it naturally came up - and up did it come.

You had been on top of him, sitting on his lap and caressing his hair as your lips danced with one another’s, his golden eyes were shut tight in pleasure as he let you use his lips and body as you wished. His hands rested on your waist, tightly gripping at your robes and skin as he desperately clung onto your body. Soft whines left his lips periodically, his breathing was quick and you could feel his heart beating where your chests met.

You playfully decided to trail kisses across his face, at first he whined when he felt the loss of your lips on his but he soon fell quiet – other than a few moans and whimpers – as you left open mouthed kisses into his skin and down his neck.

It’s there that, in the heat of the moment, you decide to bite his neck, leaving a small hickey on his flushed skin. His reaction is immediate; his head falls backwards, his whole body heats up and you feel something stiffen below you, his face burns a bright red as a loud moan escapes his lips. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your skin to a point you are certain it’ll leave a mark, and his heartbeat quickens; pleasure basically radiates off of his body the minute your teeth nib at his neck.

You stop, teeth sunken into his skin and hand tangled in his hair, his reaction so lewd and surprising you become flustered and stop dead in your tracks.

Zhongli, however, only pulls you tighter into his body, using a hand to press your face deeper into his neck, as if urging you to use more force in your bite – timidly you give in and nibble into his flesh, further deepening the imprint of your teeth in his skin. His whole body feels hot to the touch, his mind feels hazy, your soft bites into his skin send shockwaves through him.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, did you? Or else you wouldn’t have been so careless when picking the spot, but it doesn’t matter, in this moment of intense pleasure, the former Archon decides to give into delusion and believe you knew the meaning behind biting a draconic being such as himself — and in the neck of all places as well.

Old traditions dictate that a bite mark, especially in the jugular or neck, was a sign of ownership. It was often that mates would mark each other in the neck with enough force to leave scars, sinking sharp teeth into one another with ironic tenderness. It showed trust and care for the other, both to be marked and leave a mark, as it required vulnerability and care from both parties. It was a deeply intimate act, one that would be reserved to life-long partners and mates, it was a gesture of possessiveness and devotion tinted with love.

If he were to be honest, Zhongli would have thought himself to be the one to mark you instead of the other way around, it’d been something he’d often fantasized at night before your arrival, and yet, as he felt your — significantly duller teeth — bite into him he could feel his admiration and love for you grow as he became yours; even if you may not have known.

He’d always imagined himself on top of you, your naked form beneath him, as he sunk his canines into your flesh until he tasted your holy blood. He’d imagined himself cradling your pleasure stricken body while you moaned his name, a sinful sound coming from a divine being. Instead, it is himself that lays within your grasp, panting in ecstasy as he holds himself back from coming completely undone and showing a depraved side of himself even he did not know of.

If he was honest, he almost wishes you’d draw blood, sink your teeth so deep into his skin it breaks layers of flesh and leaves a deep scar that could never heal – a sign of your favoritism and ownership, one that he could proudly say was unique to him. If only you weren’t so careful with him, so scared of hurting him; he means no offense, but your current form is significantly weaker than his and he’s survived wars most have not heard of; even if you wanted to sink your nails into his skin and carve your name into his body, he thinks his strength and shear devotion to you alone would prove the pain to be nonexistent.

A gasp of your name leaves his parted lips, it’s erotic - the way his pink lips let a symphony of pleasured sounds - a wave of hormones rushing through his body, sending his brain into overdrive.

You look up at him, not having expected such a lewd reaction, but the sight of his half-lidded eyes as they burn into your own sends a hot-buzz down your spine. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bloodied as he bites them, his bare chest is heaving up and down; the expression on his face is orgasmic. His loose hair sticks to his forehead as sweat runs down his temples, clearly your gesture had taken quite an effect on him.

You slowly remove your lips from their spot, about to question his reaction - wondering if you’d perhaps crossed a line, but he stops you with a crooked smile and warm hands against the back of your head.

“It is okay, Your Grace,” he whispers, tongue darting to wet his drying lips, he guides your head back into his neck, “bite me all you want, my neck is yours for the taking.”

You giggle a bit at his eagerness, feeling his hard-on press against your ass. You playfully adjust yourself in his lap, softly nipping at his neck before biting down in a new spot.

“Ha-ah,” he moans once more, you feel him startle beneath you, “don’t be afraid to draw out blood, either… in fact, please, feel free to do so.”

He can only hope you take on the challenge, eager to flaunt your lovely bites to Neuvillette and any poor soul that even so much as thinks of questioning his position in your life.

#๋࣭. ancient scrolls #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #male yandere #yandere zhongli #yandere sagau #yandere sagau zhongli #yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #sagau #yandere morax #yandere rex lapis #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin zhongli x reader

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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Will wakes up sometime around two, stumbling over to Arts & Crafts. He looks so incredibly, adorably sleepy, face creased with pillow marks and hair sticking out everywhere even worse than usual, that Nico can’t help his smile.

“Morning,” he says quietly, shifting over in the bench to make room. “Or, well, afternoon.”

“Mmfh,” Will responds. He sways on his feet, eyes still closed, so Nico has reach back and take his hand, guiding him to the seat Nico cleared for him.

“Still sleepy?”

Instead of answering, Will slumps onto his shoulder. Nico tenses for a moment, but quickly relaxes — Will is out of it. He’s a heavy weight on Nico’s side, and his breath comes out in little puffs; he’s halfway to snoring. He sets aside the clay sculpture he was making, wiping off his hands, and shifts slightly to make his shoulder more comfortable, sliding his hands in Will’s hair. After a quick glance to double check that no one’s around, he cards through the matted curls, carefully untangling the birds nest that sits currently upon his head.

“Night shift was long?”

Will groans, nuzzling deeper into Nico’s neck. Nico huffs, allowing it, turning his half-limp body so he’s practically sitting on top of him. It’s kind of a nice weight, actually. And Will is warm, slumped and half-sprawled in his lap like a freckly blanket.

“Got thrown up on three times.”

It takes Nico a second to decipher the words, mumbled as they are. His finger gets caught in a strand of Will’s hair as he winces, tugging a touch too hard. Will shivers.

“Oof.”

“Mhm. Shouldn’t complain, though. Not Cecil’s fault.” He pauses. “Well, it’s a little his fault. I told him not to mess with Billie’s garden.”

Nico smiles. “You know, it’s not the first time a Hermes kid has been poisoned for their dumbassery. You could’ve left his cabin to handle him.”

“They would do a horrible job. They might actually make him worse.”

“Yep.”

“…I can’t leave him to suffer, Neeks.”

“Hero complex,” Nico teases. “Sounds like a natural consequence to me.”

“Shhhh. I’m sleeping.”

“It’s two thirty in the afternoon, Solace.”

“Pot, kettle, et cetera.”

Nico smiles. “Only dorky people say et cetera when they’re half asleep.” He shifts, accepting that he has a lapful of head medic, now, no refunds or exchanges. It’s still, somehow, very comfortable — he feels as if he’s laying in a sun patch, under a warm, heavy blanket. Plus, Will smells like strawberries and lavender and his sandalwood shampoo. Nico could get used to it.

He does, however, subtly raise a couple skeleton to stand guard outside the gazebo — no need to get anyone gossiping. As cute as a sleepy Solace is, Nico can and will shove him to the ground the second anyone gets too close. He has a Reputation.

(He is a liar.)

“Did I miss the strawberry coffee cake this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Aw.”

Nico hums, untangling the last of his hair. Without anything for his hands to do, he slides them under Will’s hoodie, resting them in his stomach, ignoring his whining and exaggerated shiver at Nico’s ice-cold hands.

If Nico is going to function as his personal bean-bag chair, Will is going to function as his space heater. Fair’s fair.

“Saved a piece for you, though.”

He feels Will’s grin more than sees it, twisted up as they are. He feels his happy little wiggle, too, arms flailing before wrapping around Nico’s waist, thighs shifting before re-bracketing his hips.

“You’re my actual favourite.”

“Hm. I think you say that to all the boys you save you strawberry cake and let you nap on them.”

“Nah.” Will’s breathing starts to slow, body stilling as he rests his head right about Nico’s heart. He can feel his puffs of breath in his collarbone, tickling the skin under his thin t-shirt. “Just you.”

Nico flushes, more pleased than he’s willing to admit, and rests his chin on his head, watching over the strawberry fields. He checks that Will is actually asleep, and when he is, he presses a quick, darting kiss to his still-creased cheek, and smiles.

“You’re my favourite, too.”

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cephaloheath · 15 days

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I'm not a FIRST member, but I wanted to spread the word. The official Rooster Teeth shutdown date has been announced. May 15 is when it all goes down. One month from today.

This is your absolute LAST CHANCE to save ANYTHING from Rooster Teeth you may want to keep, whether it be RWBY, Red vs Blue, Camp Camp, et cetera. If you have any unfinished business, take care of it NOW. Once the calendar hits the 15th, the axe falls.

And just so you know, this is NOT me raising the RWBY white flag. Not even close. I'm not giving up hope anytime soon. Even when the site goes down, we still can't give up. The only time we can ever give up is when Kerry comes out and tells us it's over. And seeing how passionate he and the rest of CRWBY are about this series, that's not going to happen until they have exhausted EVERY option.

Anyway, just wanted to let you all know. May 15 is when the guillotine comes down. Do whatever you need to before then.

#rwby #save rwby #save crwby #greenlight volume 10 #this is your last chance #do whatever you need to do now #before it's too late #rooster teeth

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sanguineterrain · 7 months

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hiii! can i request reader being a vigilante and also jason’s ex? they’re on the same mission/have to work together and reader gets injured or smn?

thank you so much! I love your writing!

thanks for requesting! this turned into a whole ass one shot 😭 hope you like ❤️

jason todd x gn!reader. tw: fighting, exes, physical violence, reader is captured but they're fine, jason is NOT over you (and he doesn't want to be), making up, fluffy ending. 2k words (lol)

****

The Cave is exactly how you remember. Foolishly, you thought maybe it would've rotted after you broke up with Jason.

That's certainly how you felt.

But no. It's the same, and the other Bats are the same. Dick and Tim are there, probably because you're the most familiar with them... after your ex, of course... and Barbara already pushed the envelope by contacting you.

Still, Gotham is your city too. And if the Bats need an extra set of hands to protect the city, then so be it.

"Hey, glad you could make it," Dick says warmly.

At times, you envy how easygoing he can be. Even though he can have a temper, Dick Grayson, for the most part, shakes hands like a politician. He doesn't burn bridges. He doesn't hold grudges, at least not publicly.

You, on the other hand, are perhaps too much like his younger brother: you absolutely hold grudges, and you don't let go easily.

"Hi, guys," you say, trying to be civil. "What's up?"

"So—"

The roar of a motorcycle pulling into the Cave cuts Tim off. Quick anger soars through you as Red Hood dismounts the bike. He takes off his helmet.

You haven't seen Jason in a year. Judging by his physique, the breakup did not take a toll on him. If anything, he seems bigger than you remember. Asshole.

You can pinpoint the moment that he finally sees you, and he stops in his tracks.

"Oh, boy," you hear Tim mumble.

Jason is silent. You cross your arms, keeping your face neutral.

"I didn't know you worked with the Bats, Hood. Thought you flew solo."

Jason is quiet for another moment. Then he speaks.

"Things change."

"Clearly."

"Anyway!" Dick says, clapping his hands. "Pretty straightforward mission. Drugs, warehouse, bad guys, et cetera. We have to clear out these shipments tomorrow night, or they'll hit the streets, and we'll be too late. Robin and I will take Gotham Heights. Signal, Black Bat, and Red Robin will take downtown. And, um, you two can clear out the Bowery."

"Hood can handle the Bowery himself," you say. "Gimme another section."

Jason scoffs. You glance at him.

"Something funny?" you ask, teeth grit.

"Once again, you're biting off more than you can chew," he says, hands on his waist. "It's stupid and you're gonna get yourself into trouble. Just clear out the Bowery with me. Plenty of room for both of us."

"I don't know if you know this, but I actually do pretty okay on my own. Just because you're one of Batman's special little prodigies doesn't mean the rest of us can't get by."

You glance at the others. "No offense."

"None taken," Tim says. "You're far better adjusted than us, no contest."

Jason rolls his eyes. "C'mon. You don't have anything to prove to us. We know you're capable, but these guys are rough. We team up for safety."

"Oh, now you care about being a part of a team?" you snap. "You didn't give a shit when it was me asking—no, begging you and Roy to help me with the League mission in Sydney."

Jason's jaw tenses. "That was different."

"Guys, I think we should—"

"Why? Because you only get your hands dirty locally?" you ask, shaking with anger.

"Because if I had gotten involved, it would've put a target on your back," Jason says icily. "You would've been killed. You were nowhere near ready to take on the League. I wouldn't have been able to protect you and fight them."

"You know, right there, you sounded just like Bruce. Did you take tips from him?"

Silence. Jason's boiling with anger, you can tell.

"Bruce wouldn't have had the sense to stop you from going," he finally says, tone even. "He's not too good at that."

"Bruce would've cared enough to back me up. And he wouldn't have driven a wedge between me and my team."

It's just words; there's no way to know whether Batman would've actually backed you up. Probably not, considering his history. But it hurts Jason, and you take the moment to whirl around to look at Dick and Tim, who are wildly uncomfortable. Dick looks sad.

"It's better to team up," Dick says gently.

You bristle. "Whatever. I'll see you tomorrow."

You stalk out of the Cave.

Stupid fucking exes. Stupid fucking vigilantes.

****

"Okay, just to make things clear..."

"In and out. Report at the Cave," you say, tightening your equipment. "I got it, Nightwing. Over and out."

You silence your comm before he can respond. You're tired of their voices.

Thankfully, Jason has taken the hint and is on the opposite end of the Bowery. Which means you can slip away in peace.

You did this as a favor for Barbara, but now you're seriously rethinking getting reinvolved with the Bats. It never ends well.

The warehouses on the East End of Old Gotham are no problem. You clear out five within an hour. You check the comm briefly. It's pretty much silent, so you turn it off and keep going.

The West End, however, is a little harder.

Because you're only one person, someone figures out your pattern. You're clobbered over the head before you can drop in through the roof.

This is the last time you do a favor for anybody in Gotham.

****

You wake up tied to a chair. Your head pounds, and your lip is bloody. Not good.

"—way the Bat will show. They're a nobody vigilante."

"Tony, you're a fuckin' idiot if you think Batman doesn't know exactly what the fuck goes on in this city. Swear to God, I shoulda left you with Mom in Boise. Nothing but cotton in your head."

"Oh, fuck off, Al, you'd still be droolin' on your couch crying over Marie if I hadn't come back to Jersey."

"You little—"

"Very sorry to interrupt this family spat," you say. "But I'm on a tight schedule here, so if you could just speed things up..."

"Smartass, huh?" Al asks, waving a gun. "I wouldn't be so bold tied to a chair, toots."

"Toots? Are you a hundred years old?"

Tony snickers. Al glares at him and stalks over to you. He doesn't hesitate before whacking you upside the head with his gun. Your ears ring, and you hunch forward.

"Watch your mouth," he growls, and you're in too much pain to come up with a response to that.

Presently, you realize that your earbud is out of your ear. Probably destroyed. You have no other way of sending a distress signal. By the time you miss the report at the Cave, it'll be too late.

You were a failure then, and you're a failure now. Even your ex-boyfriend took pity on you.

Jason. God, look at how you'd left things. How his face had fallen when you'd called him Bruce. He used to love Bruce, and you know exactly what happened that changed that. And you used it against him.

Now you're facing the consequences. This is your own damn fault.

"Load everything into the truck," Al says into a walkie. "Then move out. Tell the others the same."

There's a crackled reply. Then shouting. Then silence.

You look up in surprise. Al curses and points at you.

"Stay here and watch them," he orders Tony.

"But Al, what if Batman comes here?"

"That's what guns are for, you freakin' idiot!"

You snort. As if guns could stop any of them, much less Batman.

But whatever. These guys probably didn't go into selling drugs because of their big IQs.

Tony and five other men stay to guard you. You work on trying to slip out of the handcuffs and rope.

Bang!

The first gunshot hits one goon in the leg. A second gets hit in the shoulder. Hip. Foot. Opposite leg.

Red Hood steps out of the shadows, then. Tony immediately looks sick.

"H-Hood? This ain't your territory, what're you—"

"You've got something of mine, Lewis," Jason says, voice smooth and dangerous.

Tony decides that, fuck his brother, he's getting out of here alive, and runs. Jason doesn't pay him any mind, instead walking to you.

He cuts the ropes first, then picks the handcuffs. Jason roughly rubs your wrists and ankles, pushing blood back into your extremities.

"What're you doing?" you ask. "Go get him. He's meeting his brother downtown."

You can't see Jason's expression through the helmet, but if looks could kill...

"Hood—"

"What. The hell. Is wrong with you."

You scowl. "I didn't come here for a fucking lecture."

"Well, you're gonna get one. This wasn't the plan. And you turned off your comm? Are you trying to get yourself killed? You have a death wish or something?"

"It didn't make sense to put both of us in the Bowery—"

"You could've died tonight!" Jason yells.

"And wouldn't you have liked that!" you snap back. "Proves the fact that I'm a failure quite nicely."

Jason tears off his helmet. His eyes are wide with anger and... guilt. Helplessness.

He's afraid.

"Don't you fucking say that," he says lowly. "I'd rather die again than find your body."

"What the fuck do you care?" you snarl. "I'm not your responsibility, remember? What does it matter if I dropped off the face of the earth?"

"Because I still love you!"

All of your anger drains.

Your body buzzes like it wants to feel him again. Traitor.

"That would kill me," Jason finishes quietly. "And I wouldn't come back from that death."

Your mouth feels like you swallowed chalk. And bees.

"You love me?" you whisper.

"You're hard to get over," he says. "Still haven't managed it."

"But... you said our breakup was for the best."

Jason sighs. His anger fades. "It was. I was a jackass. I let my shit with Bruce and the Pit and everything get in the way of what was important. Which is you."

"You were good to me, Jay," you say. "And we were okay. Till... till Sydney."

Jason winces. "I should've handled it better. And I should've treated you better."

"You're a good man, Jason. I don't regret my relationship with you. I regret it ending."

He looks at you. His face is twisted in pain.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he says. "And you're not a failure. Not even close."

You scoff, your eyes wet. "Aren't I? Couldn't even handle a simple drug bust."

"No, you're not. Nothing about what we do is simple, even if we're gaslit into thinking so. In this life, you need someone to watch your back. Even B doesn't work alone."

You try to stand, suddenly feeling like a raw nerve. You stand up too fast, though, and blood rushes to your head. You might also be mildly concussed.

Jason immediately slips an arm around your waist as you teeter forward and puts you upright.

"Easy, sweetheart," he says, and doesn't let go until you're steady.

You raise a brow. Jason grimaces.

"Sorry. Force a' habit."

You scoff, suddenly shy. "Habit, huh? Still think of me as your sweetheart?"

"Never stopped."

You roll your eyes, but it's fond now. "Anybody ever tell you you don't know how to move on?"

"Mm. I've heard it once or twice."

Your lips tingle. You've missed kissing him.

"I'm sorry I compared you to Bruce," you say. "You're nothing like him."

Jason shrugs. "Some of me is exactly like him. The fact that I didn't put a bullet in anybody's brain even though they kidnapped you isn't me at all. But I forgive you. And I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't know the Sydney mission had festered so much."

"It's okay, Jay. You're right, I wasn't ready to take down the League or kill anybody. I'm grateful you stopped me."

Jason takes a careful step forward, eyes darting to your lips. You smirk.

"Hot for communication, are we?" you ask.

"Oh," he says, suddenly reticent. "Sorry. Too forward. Shit. I've... I've just missed you so much. I thought maybe you—that there was a vibe—but if there isn't, then—"

You take the last step and kiss him, and your lips buzz in satisfaction. Jason kisses back just as eagerly, hands flying to your waist and squeezing. But his hands roam, holding and cupping like he's been starved for the last year.

"I missed you too, Jaybird," you say between kisses.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd imagine #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood fanfiction #jason todd fanfiction #batman fanfiction #dc fanfiction #one shot #inbox #blurb

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getvalentined · 2 months

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Okay I know I keep saying I'm gonna do a big post about Vincent in Rebirth and I've kinda been waiting until both my besties have gotten to him so that I can explode at both of them about him first, but there is one point that I've talked about a bit on the twits and I'm gonna babble about over here in greater detail.

There won't be a lot (if any?) direct spoilers here, but I'll be using screenshots that are absolutely spoilers to drive the point home, so keep that in mind.

Babbling under the cut.

One thing that really strikes me about Vincent's design in Rebirth is how he looks so...young. There's no other way to describe it, he looks young. In Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus he had this sort of agelessness to him, particularly when compared to the rest of the cast; it was hard to get a read on how old he was aside from "younger than Hojo" because of this. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 35 at a glance, and up into a healthy 40+ during some scenes.

In Rebirth, that agelessness has been completely thrown out, and the only thing lending even an iota of uncertainty to his age is how covered up he is. The moment you see anything more than his eyes, it's excessively clear that this is a man in his mid-twenties, no older.

It's particularly obvious when he's confused or in pain, moments when he's not tooling his expression into something more neutral, when wouldn't be consciously presenting himself a specific way.

At a glance, Vincent is definitely older than Cloud, sure, but he's undeniably younger than Barret and Cid, he's younger than the majority of the extended cast—Reeve, Tseng, Rufus, the "emissary from Wutai," et cetera. He might even be younger than Sephiroth.

This makes the incongruity between his apparent age and his behavior hit particularly hard, in a way that it was never really able to in the Compilation thus far.

The way Vincent talks is off, noticeably off, and not just in a way to indicate education or accent—the way he structures his sentences follows grammatical standards from decades ago. Him commenting "if we're to stay the night" at Gold Saucer is one that really sticks out to me, because when other characters use similar sentence structure in the series (Genesis is the most egregious example of this) it's explicitly an indication that they're speaking in an old-fashioned way, they're being intentionally over-the-top. Vincent, though? He isn't doing that. The comment is so simple and offhand, there's no question that this is just how Vincent talks.

But he's a man in his twenties.

Vincent knows Dio as an antique collector, even though it's been over twenty years since he was in that business—Cid is the one that calls him out on this, because Cid clearly "knows" that he's older than Vincent, and Vincent brushes him off with a simple statement: "I've been around a while."

But he's...a man in his twenties?

When Cid warns him that the Tiny Bronco's radio is old enough to be considered an antique, Vincent is pleased—and in spite of having failed to properly operate the brick-phone-outdated security system in the mansion earlier, he has no problems operating the aforementioned antique radio.

But he's a man in his twenties! He's obviously a man in his twenties!

The juxtaposition between his appearance and his behavior is so stark as to be distressing; even if you don't know what happened to him, you can tell that there's something terribly wrong here.

Because Vincent Valentine is a man in his twenties, and he will be until the end of the world.

#ff7 rebirth spoilers #ff7 rebirth #ff7r #ff7rb #vincent valentine #fandom ramble

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copperbadge · 21 hours

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Lately, it's felt like every time I've started to work on writing, I'll just be getting into the rhythm of it when I get interrupted, either by work or the cats or because the time I'd booked in the library study room is up (you can only do two hours at a time, and only four hours a week total). It was getting to the point where I kept re-reading the same chapter or so of previous work but never managing to add to it.

So I tried an experiment this past weekend -- I found a really cheap rate on a local hotel room, and on Friday I took an overnight bag and a very old laptop with limited processing power and checked into a room about a mile from home for a quasi "staycation". I unpacked and had a quiet night on Friday, as prelude to working Saturday-Sunday. The idea was to write uninterrupted by other people, pets, the presence of all my Stuff around me at home, et cetera.

I had snacks but I also bought meals out, which was nice; I don't often order in or buy out when I'm at home. The way I set up was that I would do fifty minutes of writing with do-not-disturb engaged on my phone and then ten minutes of checking email, texts, etc. since often what pulls me out of writing is a text or an email that needs answering, or the anxiety that I'm missing one that would. If I set it so that every hour I check, well, nobody's going to die if something doesn't get answered in an hour, so the anxiety isn't there, and neither is the distraction. (I found a nice app for this, review later depending on how functional it continues to be for me, but it's a like $4 app called Forest.)

It worked pretty well -- writing for an uninterrupted hour, as long as I know what I'm working on, is very functional for me. I average about two thousand words, that way, though there is a limit to the number of hours I can put in. I ended up doing two hours in the morning and one hour in the afternoon, then switched from fiction writing to clearing out my tumblr drafts and some correspondence for the fourth hour. So it went something like

Go out and get breakfast, bring back and eat in room

Change into lounging clothes and do two one-hour sessions

Go out and get lunch, eat lunch out

Bit of a rest break back in the room

Two one-hour sessions, one of writing; when tired, switch to something that requires less creativity

Go out and get dinner, bring back and eat in room

And then in the evening the plan was to watch movies or catch up on reading, but I ended up being mentally weary, so instead I did some simple tarot reading. It was less divination or even meditation than just messing around, keeping the creativity stimulated; I did a couple of Creative Writing spreads, some very brief divination spreads (I nicked a nice three-card spread here that I mentally call He To Hecuba, and just used it in general rather than for a specific question) and then invented a spread when I was starting to get irritated that the same like, five cards kept coming up, more on this in its own post.

Sunday I did one more writing session but it was less successful, I think partly because what I was writing required a lot of research and partly because the previous day I'd dumped eight thousand words into the file. (Research took longer because I brought the most garbage laptop known to man, and the browsers crash if you try to open Google Maps, but in other ways it was ideal since there wasn't much I could do on it other than write.) But I had a good breakfast, got some rest, packed up easily enough, and headed home just ahead of the rain storm.

I don't think it's something I'll be able to do in that format especially often, since the deal I got on the hotel was an anomaly and Chicago lodging, even just AirBNB stuff, is stupid expensive. But in addition to helping get some work done it was a nice break, so I'm going to look into ways I could swing it on a perhaps monthly basis, or some other way to cheaply spend an entire day alone with decent access to a bathroom/snacks and a way to come and go easily. I've looked into coworking spaces before but they tend to be prohibitively expensive and don't really have the setup I'd prefer; there's a hostel on the north side with private rooms that I might try out but it doesn't seem significantly cheaper than a hotel. I might just have to pick one weekend a month and watch last-minute hotel price cuts where they simply want to fill a room for a day or two.

Anyway, functionally I wrote almost a fifth of a novel this weekend, and one that I wasn't feeling super on fire about; I'm feeling much better about it now that I've got some established plot going and I feel like I "know" the newer characters a bit better. (Also I'm enjoying writing Simon as someone who is absolutely entranced by his love interest and clueless that what he's feeling isn't mild antipathy because they met while fighting over ricotta.) So it was a big help, although if I were to put a budget line item in the Extribulum Press ledger for "writing staycation" it would wipe out my royalties surplus very quickly.

#writing #shivadhverse

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solarmorrigan · 10 months

Text

So this started out as some scribbly thoughts on FTM Steve and devolved a little bit into smutty Steddie rambling. As happens. So anyway, explicit text below the cut, click through at your own discretion, et cetera

Warnings(?) for some clumsy language and hints of period-typical transphobia; some discussion of Steve and Nancy together, but only for Steddie purposes. This is mostly just silly

“So, wait, you slept with how many girls in high school, and still managed to keep this a secret?” Eddie asks, brows climbing his forehead.

“Not as many as rumor would’ve had you think.” Steve shrugs. “Like maybe four? The rest, I just… didn’t discourage when they exaggerated. Helped my image.”

Eddie can’t help but snort. He’s glad Steve outgrew that image. “Still, four is a lot to keep a lid on. All of them agreed not to tell and then just – didn’t?”

“Actually, most of them never found out. It was only–” Steve pauses, eyeing Eddie cautiously, as if talking about his past female sexual conquests with his current boyfriend is fine, but what he’s going to say next will be a bridge too far. “It was only Nancy who ever knew.”

Ah.

Ah, yes. Nancy. Nancy Wheeler. Steve’s one true love.

Until now, Eddie fiercely reminds himself. He eyes the t-shirt that is very much his that Steve is very much wearing and slides over the jealousy to address his more pressing question.

“Okay, how did you have sex with at least three other people without them finding out you don’t have a–” Eddie stops short, fumbles for a moment, “a, uh, conventional dick?”

Steve snickers. “Nice save. And, uh – I never actually took off my pants. My talents are in other areas, and I always provided enough of a distraction that they didn’t seem to notice when I just… took care of myself.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Eddie, who can’t help but give him the laugh he’s looking for. “It didn’t say flattering things about my stamina, but multiple orgasms are a pretty good bribe. I got good reviews.”

“Huh.” Somehow, Eddie can’t help but feel impressed; he doesn’t quite understand why Steve had felt the need to do it at all—still doesn’t really understand Steve’s drive for popularity when he’d been in high school—but he can admit the skill in the subterfuge. “But you told Wheeler?”

He’s not sure why he’s asking. A part of him, he thinks, wants to make sure Steve had been able to tell her on his own terms, rather than having his hand forced.

Steve shifts, shrugs. He doesn’t look sad, but he’s maybe a little melancholy.

“Nance wasn’t… temporary, for me. She wasn’t a fling, and I didn’t want to hide from her. And it’s the same with you.” Steve’s gaze falls heavy on Eddie. “You are the… third? person I’ve ever told. I want you to know just– all of me.”

Eddie reaches out, grabbing for Steve’s hand; he’s pretty sure he’d be physically incapable of stopping himself from somehow touching Steve after an admission like that.

A thought is beginning to form, however, leading back to what had started this conversation in the first place. Eddie would bet anything that if Wheeler was the first person Steve told, then Buckley was the second.

And that meant only one person Steve had slept with had ever known all of him – but just how much of all of him had Wheeler been interested in?

“How’d she take it? Wheeler, I mean,” Eddie asks, as casually as possible while his thumb is still stroking Steve’s knuckles.

“Uh… pretty good, actually. She was kinda surprised, and she wanted a little bit of time to come around to the idea, but I think she was mostly just bothered that she didn’t figure it out before I told her.” Steve smiles, distantly fond. “But after that, she was cool. We didn’t talk about it much, but I knew that I could talk to her if I wanted to. I’d never had that before. It was… nice.”

It does sound nice. It had probably been the first time anyone had ever been close to accepting every part of who Steve is, and Eddie feels almost bad about turning the memory to sex.

Almost, but not quite.

“So… she was cool with…” Eddie’s eyes flash down below the belt, obvious and significant, “getting involved?”

A sly grin spreads over Steve’s face as he catches Eddie’s eyes. “Are you trying to ask what Nancy and I did in bed?”

Eddie throws his hands up in defense, forgetting for a moment that he’s holding one of Steve’s hands and pulling it up with him. “I’m just trying to figure out what I’m working with here,” he insists, smiling a little too hard to be innocent. “Now, you insinuated you have talents in the oral and digital departments—which I am very interested in, by the way—but what I want to know is what’s been done for you.”

Steve eyes Eddie like he’s considering whether or not to answer, but the way he’s licking his lips says he’s already decided, even if he doesn’t quite realize that himself.

“She… definitely didn’t mind being involved,” he says finally; there’s a slight stain of pink gathering at the tops of his cheeks that Eddie sort of wants to bite. “She would finger me. Sometimes she’d go down on me, but I think we both enjoyed it more the other way around. I think she liked seeing me get myself off while I did it, and I– definitely liked that, too.”

Eddie makes the mistake of imagining it: Steve on his knees, fingers buried in his cunt, wet and dripping, his hips jerking down onto his own hand, maybe kneeling between Eddie’s legs while he does it, maybe looking up through his lashes while he sucks Eddie’s cock.

A little noise escapes Eddie.

“How about… toys?” he manages after a moment. He’s leaning closer now, raptly watching the way the flush on Steve’s face darkens. “You ever try those?”

“I have a… a couple,” Steve says, voice gone low and rough, his eyes fastened now to Eddie’s mouth. “We didn’t use them together, though, they’re just mine.”

Oh, they’re going to revisit that. They are absolutely going to revisit that, but right now Eddie is on a mission. He won’t let himself be distracted.

He slides closer, practically on top of Steve now, one hand on his hip and the other spread warmly over his ribs.

“Never thought about a strap?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, not nearly as nonchalant as he’s pretending. “Thought about it, never quite got there.”

“Which way were you thinking? Would you have worn it? Or…” Eddie is going out on a limb here; just because Steve has a pussy doesn’t mean he likes the idea of penetration, but Eddie has a hunch. “Or would it have been the other way around?”

A sharp breath escapes Steve’s chest. “Do you want that?” he asks, soft, almost hopeful.

Eddie strokes a thumb across his ribs. “Want what?”

“To fuck me.”

This time it’s Eddie who goes breathless. “Is that even a fucking question?” he demands, and then, in case he wasn’t clear, adds, “I would want very much to do that, yeah. If you want me to.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would,” Steve says. “I mean, I know you’re strictly into guys, and I don’t exactly have… a conventional dick.”

“You’re not gonna let that one go, are you?” Eddie asks, eyeing Steve’s smirk.

“We’ll see,” Steve says, which likely means no.

“Fine. But Steve,” Eddie reaches up, cupping Steve’s face in his hands, “I am one hundred fucking percent into you. You are a guy. You are an incredibly hot guy whose pants I have been wanting to get into forever, no matter what you’ve got in there.”

Steve smiles, and Eddie caresses the corners of it with his thumbs.

“Well, you do seem to prefer the weirder shit, anyway,” Steve murmurs.

“Not weird. Different,” Eddie says, and Steve makes a face at him but readily allows him the kiss he presses in for after that.

“So have you…” Steve starts, once they’ve broken apart, “ever been with a guy with my, uh– sort of equipment?”

Eddie would make fun of how awkwardly the words had tumbled out if he hadn’t suddenly been feeling a bit awkward himself.

“Not, uh, exactly.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him and Eddie amends snappishly, “okay, fine, not at all, no.”

“But you’re open to it?” Steve checks, as if the way Eddie has pressed against him like a needy cat has left any room for doubt.

“More than open,” Eddie says. “I might just, y’know– need some direction? To start with?”

“Directions, huh?” Steve smirks. “I can work with that.”

Eddie has no doubt that he can – and that Eddie will enjoy every second of it.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #trans steve harrington #stranger things #solar wrote #let me know if there's something I need to tag this with that I missed #eddiesteve

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honeydewsblue · 3 months

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april 2005

prelude ; second & first impressions

gojo satoru has the skies and ocean in his eyes—the heavens and the earth. the light and clouds and seas, everything and the void, they all show themselves in the celestite carved and polished to make up his iris. he has that impossible hue the gods mixed themselves with sanctity and their creation. nothing less for their little god. nothing more in fear that he will reach too close. you hear he’s getting real close to it, though—to godhood.

a god amongst men, and he’s only fifteen.

that is your second-hand impression of him.

your first-hand impression: he is a fucking dick, and whatever religious symbolism the color of his eyes hold means jack shit to you. they’re all too complicated and controversial on their own, anyway.

he is a god, he is holy, he is responsible (ha!). that’s what white and blue say he is.

when he walks into class on the first day, well over 45 minutes late and acting like he owns the whole damn school, you know you’ve both been lied to and given a plain, distasteful truth. he is not holy, but he’s the closest thing to a god on earth. if his ego is anything to go by.

it takes all of 5 minutes for a fight to break out between him and the only other special grade in class. you share a look with ieiri, who’s already pulled her phone out.

geto suguru and gojo satoru are both given detention for the rest of the day.

the next day, he barely regards you. you hear him get scolded by geto, something about his manners, and you subtly scoot away in case of emergency. to your surprise, all you hear is a scoff and in place of a brawl, there is banter. the scolding doesn’t do much. he doesn’t deign to apologize to you. you could care less—he doesn’t owe you any attention.

it’s when he calls you weak during a mission that ticks you off.

the next couple of weeks go like that. he ignores you and only acknowledges you to dig at your strength. you think he forgets you exist at any other time; out of sight out of mind. so much for having all encompassing eyes.

to you, he is arrogant, and he is egotistical, and he is god-awful.

being a god amongst men must do that to a person. when you are truly, undeniably above all others, it’s almost reasonable to be all those things: egotistical, arrogant, and god-awful. it’s all he’d known.

his title—young master, the boy-god, the strongest, et cetera, ad nauseam—demands the worship of his subordinates without him having to say a word. worship feeds into ego, and he’s been worshipped since the day he was born.

people have hated him since the day he was born, too. they’ve wanted to knock him right off the stairs of heaven he was born climbing up. bounties and assassination attempts have been tacked on his head ever since the world tipped on it’s axis.

gojo satoru has it all, silver spoon fed to him and served on a shining silver platter. there are people hungry for his head to drop clean onto it with a matching silver blade.

godhood doesn’t mix well with man. people are not meant to be as benevolent, as selfless as their deities are. they aren’t capable of it. that’s why they pray.

it’s all bull. gojo is the closest thing to a god and the farthest thing from a man. he is a teenage boy.

#𐙚 ˖ ◜ ꒰ glimpses of life ꒱#jjk gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #my writing ණ��(ᵒ͈̑ᴗ̂ᵒ͈̑ )

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carlandrea · 2 years

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Why Legolas Greenleaf was Chosen for the Fellowship of the Ring

First, Why Not Glorfindel, (with Glorfindel standing in for, in general, any ancient heroes who might be hanging around Rivendell)

This is a stealth mission. The first priority should not be Heroics, which, if anything goes well, should not be necessary. It would have been useful to have Glorfindel when they encountered, for example, the Balrog, but ideally, they would not have encountered a balrog

So then, if you're not expecting to use Heroics, than having someone that much more powerful than the rest of the party is actually a massive liability. If Legolas fell victim to the ring, then Aragorn and Boromir could take him out. If Glorfindel was sent on the mission and tried to take the ring, then everyone else is kind of just fucked. He's Glorfindel. It's the same reason none of the people Frodo offers the ring to takes it. (Gandalf is mildly a complication for this point but like Gandalf just really needs to be here. We need Gandalf.)

Could Gandalf fight Glorfindel? idk. I feel like a redditor just asking the question. it wouldn't be good for anyone if he did, that's for fucking sure

Why Legolas Specifically

He's good at stealth. He's a good scout. He's cheerful and not prone to despair. He's a good fit for this kind of mission

As a Mirkwood elf, he does not have the same vested personal interest in the Three surviving that a Rivendell or Lothlorien elf might have. He is not going on a specific quest to destroy his own home, which would be the kind of thing the Ring would love to latch on to.

Also, as a Silvan elf, his people mildly have a much better track record with the cursed shinies than like. the high elves. the wise. et fucking cetera (I am not open to corrections as to whether Legolas is a silvan elf <3)

But also—specifically—Legolas is someone who is very used to creeping dread and despair, and he's still Like That. He's still Legolas. He's still weird and cheerful and excited about trees. My first point is that he's not prone to despair, and I just want to stress that he has been under this kind of pressure—under the creeping shadow—for his entire life.

he's not tired in the way that so many elves are

Also—

I made another short post about this, and I got this response:

#personally I've always thought it's because #he's actually from one of the places right now #where Men Dwarves and Elves all talk to each other#whereas an elf from Rivendell or Loth Lorien may be very wise and learn'd in what you need to know to be considered learn'd #but have they spoken to someone who isn't of their kin in the last thousand years? #have they experience traveling paths unknown to them and finding their way? #can they hear an insult and try to reach through cultural differences? #would they be able to walk into a texmex restuarant for the first time and go 'oh it's spelled t-a-c-o gotcha CHOMP mmm' #(I suspect not)

(tags by @fairy-anon-godmother)

Which I really agree with!!

In Conclusion:

My boy was perfect for this quest :) He's cheerful, he's young, and he's exactly what the fellowship needs in their elf

#lotr #Legolas #lotr newsletter spoilers

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writefightandflightclub · 2 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Seven (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Phew! Well, the last couple of chapters were a lot, hey? I wonder what will happen next, tee hee! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. You give me life! ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

“Hey,” you croak, as Frankie cracks the door to your room, finding you laying in the glum light. You’re on top of the covers and hugging your pillow to your chest, body curled around the white mass like you’re trying to form a human s’more.

Of course, you can’t sleep. You’re just slumped there, despondent, blinking into the crow black dark. Your tears have subsided, at least. But you feel sapped. Like you barely have any energy to feel anything anymore.

“Hey,” Frankie returns, dipping the mattress as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Benny send you?” You had insisted Benny go and get some shut eye, after comforting you for the better part of half an hour. There were hugs and warm tea and threats to handle Pope if he’d done something to deserve it. He hadn’t, you’d explained. He hadn’t done a damn thing worse than you, at least.

“Negative.”

You hum neutrally and scooch your body up so that you’re sitting with your back to the headboard, knees drawn up around the pillow you still cling to like a security blanket.

“I’m gonna say something, okay?” Frankie says firmly, and you brace, fully expecting to receive some tough love. You note with relief, however, that as the man turns his head towards you, his eyes are nothing but soft. “You and me. We’re going back to your sister’s tomorrow. Get you some space.”

Space from him. That much is implied.

“No, Frankie.” Your throat tightens. All you’ve had is space. For months. The last thing you need is more.

He places a hand on your knee, his tone firm and almost paternal. He’s going to make a damn good father, you think, with a swell of pride. “That’s what we’ll do. It’s not going to be like this anymore. We’re gonna stop taking chunks out of each other.”

All you had wanted to do was to be close again. You’d never meant-

“-Frankie.”

“Just think about it.”

You nod, and Frankie pats your knee. Stifles a yawn. Presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He looks wiped. With a gust of breath he stands, preparing to leave. “G’night, chiquita. Get some rest, alright?”

“Yeah. And Frankie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

You sweep your hand through the air. “For the drama. Et cetera.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know…” You cast a sidelong glance towards the black pane of the window. “Is… he coming back?”

The man drags his tongue along his lip. He does that when he’s uncertain. “He’ll be back.”

“How do you know?” You don’t remember the last time you felt or sounded so small.

“Because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment,” Frankie attempts a lopsided smile, his cheek tugging on the corner of his mouth; but it drops when he realises his joke hasn’t landed. “Just… try to get some rest. Okay?”

You nod, and you watch Frankie leave, his face murky but kind through the shadows as he gently tugs your door closed behind him.

When he’s gone, you wait a moment for his footsteps to retreat and then you cross to the window, cracking it open far enough that you can hear the gentle shush of the waves. Far enough that you could hear either the sound of a truck pulling away in the dead of night, or the front door clicking gently closed, perhaps.

You lie back on top of the bed covers, flat on your back, and your limbs stretched out like a starfish. You lie with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling - exhausted, but wide awake.

And, after who knows how long like this, you hear footsteps tramping on to the porch. You hear the front door gently being latched, and the soft pad of someone travelling up the stairs. You hear the footsteps pause outside of your door for a moment and you hold your breath. You imagine an outstretched fist, primed to knock, but you dismiss this as wishful thinking. You’ve done a lot of that lately. Too much.

Then, finally, you hear him shuffle into his room, clicking the door shut behind him.

Only then - when you know he’s back - can you sleep.

And, as you drift off, your thoughts of him merge with the soporific sounds of the waves.

You’d doubt, with how much you’ve ached for him already, that you could hurt anymore, but you know fine well that it’s possible. After all, the waves break over and over, don’t they?

They break, and they break, and they break.

***

The following morning is an awkward affair. Everyone is tetchy, and even after a very necessary lie-in, residual grumpiness abounds.

It figures. A shouting match and a rude awakening will do that.

Still, the day must go on. You get knocked down? You keep moving.

Will, ever an early riser and a true hero, brews up the first pot of coffee. Starts cooking up some breakfast, and, one by one, you and the boys filter downstairs, chasing the scent of sustenance.

“Don’t even,” you say to Tom the moment he opens his mouth, the room falling silent as you waddle sleepily downstairs, gravitating straight towards the caffeine and the relative safety of Will. Frankie, Benny, and Tom are sat around the dining table, and, you note -because of course you do- that Santiago is glaringly absent.

Maybe Frankie advised him not to come downstairs just yet. Perhaps he’s simply sulking. Or sleeping. Or avoiding you. Perhaps, maybe, possibly a million and one things, which you’ll never know the reasoning behind.

It doesn’t even matter now.

You’re done trying to figure him out. Since when did that ever get you anywhere useful?

Instead then, you attempt to refocus. To divert your attention away from your sun, and towards the wider constellation of stars you are proud to call your squad. And, of course, to your plate of breakfast - that deserves attention too.

The one thing you refuse to focus on, for the moment, is the elephant in the room.

Still, you glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“What else is new with you then, Benny boy? Seeing anyone?” You reach for just about the only topic you hadn’t covered with him yesterday evening - when you had been trying ever so valiantly to distract yourself from Santiago and all that he entails.

In response, his baby blues dance with mischief and he grins, raising one arm to pop a bicep in celebration even as he shovels forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth with the other. “I had myself a date the other night.” He probably flexes in his sleep, this man.

“She stay for breakfast, Benjamin?” Frankie interjects, finally managing to be vocal again now that he’s been provided with the sweet hit of his second mug of caffeine.

“‘Catfish. She was breakfast.”

You hear Will groan from over at the stove. “Too much information, Ben.”

Ben, meanwhile, looks entirely unapologetic.

“Whatever happened to being a gentleman, huh? The way your Granny raised you?” Tom enquires with a thin smile. “Thought gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but I was a gentleman, Redfly. Let her finish first ‘n’ everythin’.” Benny offers a shit-eating grin, and you are once again grateful for the distraction as the room descends into fond bickering, the back-and-forth culminating in Will whipping his sibling with a rolled tea towel for continuing to overshare, accidentally catching Tom in the crossfire.

“Those dirty-minded individuals asked the questions, man,” Benny defends, jabbing his finger around in a circle at the rest of you in accusation. “They always wanna know what action I’m getting. Hell, no-one ever asks me what I’m readin’.”

You snicker.

You glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Of course not. We’re trying to live vicariously through you, man,” Tom interjects. “We don’t want to vicariously read things.”

“Especially not the pretentious shit you read, Benjamin,” Frankie digs, before collecting up the plates and conveying them over to the sink. And, given a natural lull in the conversation, Benny takes the opportunity to grab your attention.

“You still up for training later, hon? I’m tabled for a beastly session this afternoon.”

It briefly crosses your mind to wonder where Benny gets his abundance of energy. You, on the other hand, can’t even be bothered to trace that train of thought through to completion. “Yeah. Maybe, Ben. I, uh, need to drive into town this morning though.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, with a mouthful of streaky bacon, swivelling his cap to sit backwards on his head as though that will help him pay better attention to you.

You glance once more -only briefly, of course- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Mmm-hmm. Need to grab something from the pharmacy.” You blink, attempting to look as innocent as possible, but your face burns with a flare of heat, and you can’t help but scratch your nose self-consciously.

You feel as though they all know the purpose of your trip - somehow - even though that’s impossible. And, you pray that even if they do, that they will at least have the courtesy to let it slide.

Unfortunately though, you suddenly remember that Tom exists, and that therefore, you’re likely not getting away with it that easy.

“You and Pope all out of condoms or something?” he guffaws around the lip of his coffee mug as he takes a deep swig.

“Tom,” Frankie warns, subtly shaking his head as he comes to retake his seat by you.

Oddly though, Tom’s comment barely even manages to irk you. You pat your defender on the arm. “Frankie. I’m fine.”

He surveys you regardless, to be sure, and you are grateful for it. Frankie knows fine well that Tom has a talent for rubbing you up the wrong way. The two of you have never quite seen eye to eye.

“See, she can handle herself just fine,” Tom reminds him pointedly. He never did like the way the rest of the boys fussed so damn hard over you. His tone has the veneer of light-heartedness. “You can take a joke, right?”

Your lips twitch around some halfway cruel retort, but, turns out, you truly have no ire left today. You’re all out - and besides, you’re not looking to burn any more bridges than you have already on this trip.

“Listen,” you begin sincerely, cradling your mug of coffee between your palms. Deciding to nip this in the bud before it spirals. “Are we good, Tom? I was a little bit hot-tempered yesterday. I’m sorry.”

Once again, you glance towards the mouth of the stairs. Your gaze lingers a fraction longer this time, until it ticks back to Tom.

He looks at you levelly for a moment over the rim of his mug, before his brown eyes begin to shine with a dull, metered-out warmth. Nothing like the warmth of your sun, of course, but shining on your more brightly than Tom had deigned to in a long while, at least. “Sure we are. So long as you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night again. I need my beauty sleep.”

You hold your palms up in rare surrender. “You got it.”

“What was all that about, anyway?” Tom needles, shuffling forward in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Beside you, you can sense Frankie and Benny ready to knock him back should he dare to overstep. You wonder suddenly if you’re too harsh on the guy. If you need to loosen off, be a little kinder.

You wrap both hands more tightly around your coffee now, letting the warmth bleed through into your interlaced fingertips and the steam rise under your chin. “The usual,” you dismiss, not wanting to go into specifics. That would involve replaying it all. Would call for a digging out of the shrapnel lodged in your chest - an activity far too involved to undertake alongside a lazy breakfast. “Sometimes a storm is what it takes to clear the air, right?”

“And?” Tom cranes forwards a little more. You clock Frankie’s nostrils flaring subtly in annoyance. “Is the air clear now?”

You know what Tom’s asking. Was anything resolved? Are you two done?

Is all this over?

Apparently curious, all three of the men direct their gaze toward you, keenly awaiting your answer. You even reach for one -an answer- but you come up lacking, and your uncertainty carves a notch into your brow. Makes your mouth go dry. Your gaze flicks to the mouth of the stairs, and this time, you can’t look away from it. “I…”

Thankfully, unfortunately, you are saved and damned all at once as Santiago finally appears. Emerging from the spot you’ve been glancing intermittently at all through breakfast.

All the faces in the kitchen turn abruptly towards him as his careless footfalls sound out, and suddenly his eager skip down the stairs entirely loses steam. His pace slows, dragging to a dead halt by the time he has reached the base of the stairs.

Your eyes go as wide as they can, through no fault of your own, and despite being the focus of the whole group’s attention, Santiago stares straight ahead at you. Of course he does. Only you, as though there is no-one else in the room to acknowledge.

“Morning,” he addresses, solely to you, his expression impassive, yes - but certainly not harsh. Not angry.

“Morning,“ you respond, as brightly as possible, your eyes still wide and unblinking, and it is a little unnerving as every other head in the room swivels simultaneously around to face you. Oh good. Because you’d worried this might be awkward. You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Will has bacon,” you offer stiffly, your whole body so full of tension it feels brittle; like it could snap.

As if the product of some hive mind, the heads swivel in unison back towards Santiago. He doesn’t drop his gaze from you, however. Doesn’t even blink - just looks between your left eye and right repeatedly. “Fabulous. Thanks.”

Sure. Okay. This is totally normal. Except… you don’t think you’ve ever heard Santiago describe something as “fabulous” in his life. But why not start now, hey? This is fine.

You watch him turn. Walk towards Will and the stove top, and when his gaze finally drops from yours it is like the taut line which was drawn across the room finally snaps, blissfully allowing some of the tension to sag with it.

“Good timing, Garcia. Here.” Will doesn’t miss a beat, transferring the spatula into Santiago’s hand and shuffling him seamlessly into his position before he can clock what’s happening. “I’m officially passing the torch of Breakfast Duty into your capable hands.“

“Uh. Sure,” Santiago obliges, obediently beginning to move the sizzling strips around the pan as Benny stands, already crowding him to jostle for seconds. Will slaps the waffled tea towel across Santiago’s shoulder for good measure too, and you die a little inside at how goddamn domestic he looks. Especially since he’s still wearing his fluffy sheepskin slippers. Rocking his bedhead of gently tousled, greying curls.

It makes you yearn.

“Want a ride into town, soldier?” Will calls to you across the space, jutting his chin up at you and snapping you from your stupor. Immediately, you scrape your chair back, the gentle throb of nerves making you eager to animate. Eager to jump on any excuse to get the hell out of there.

“Yes! Please!”

You scoop up your plate and cutlery, and you attempt to take Frankie’s to the sink too. That is, until he protectively winds his arm around it like a bear defending its cub and begins actively batting your hand away. You guess he wants second helpings too.

You sidle over to the stove then, where Santiago is dedicating himself to his latest occupation with vigour, Benny equally invested in hovering with his empty plate - and not above begging for scraps.

“Where to in town?” Santiago asks in a hushed voice, his thick eyebrow arcing. You dismiss your plate into the dish bowl to soak, and he pauses his spatula duties momentarily to await your response.

“Pharmacy.” You look at him pointedly.

His face crumples with something resembling apology. Or - perhaps more likely - regret. “Okay.”

Your eyes lock for a moment, and he looks so different to you this morning than he had in the dead of the night. It is more than the gentle morning sun giving a soft glow to his features, the dusting of late summer freckles on his nose popping in the light. It is more than the wholesome appearance of him cooking up breakfast. More than the hush in his tone, and the way his chin dips down, making his eyes look big and round and gentle as he looks at you from beneath his long sweep of lashes.

You suspect that he is purposefully making himself soft. Blunting his harsh edges so deliberately and so entirely that you fear he will sluice to the floor like the insides of a cracked egg. “You, uh… You need anything? Need me to…?”

Santiago. Honey. You’ve done quite enough already.

“No,” you say, but the word doesn’t audibly make it out the first time around. You clear your throat. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay.”

Your gaze dips to the dried, rogue fleck of toothpaste right on the corner of his mouth. You can’t explain why, but this tiny, human detail makes your chest ache. “Talk later?”

He forces his sober expression to twist into a halfway smile. His eyes grow big and earnest, that cup of coffee gaze gently warming you. “Okay.”

Don’t, you inwardly plead with him. Don’t give me hope. Don’t break me again, Santiago.

A niggle plays at your brow. It’s odd, really. You remember the words and venom spat from each of your mouths yesterday. Of course you do. But you can no longer feel the all-consuming ire that came along with them. That part -that feeling- is absent. Every scrap of anger consumed. It seems as alien to you as the raging storm must feel to the clear morning which follows.

And so, you can’t help it. Really can’t help it. You dip forwards to kiss Santiago, softly. Right on the point of his beautifully high cheekbone, giving his tea-towel adorned shoulder a light squeeze.

You leave, then, to the sight of that subtle crimson flush darkening his cheeks, your gesture evidently both confounding and flustering him.

You leave too, to the sound of Benny yelling “Look alive, Pope! Don’t burn my goddamn bacon!”. The spatula has gone limp in his hand as Santiago’s gaze trails after you, and the tension is once again pulled taut like a string across the room. You imagine a festival of blush red balloons tied all along it, rising and dancing like your hope.

You leave, with an answer to Tom’s question.

You and Santiago? Is it over?

No. It’s not done.

But you are done with being angry.

You’re done breaking, and no longer will you throw yourself against those rocks.

***

The time away from the house was useful, and the scenes of the open coast slipping by smoothed your roughened edges out like a tossed, worn pebble. The salt-saturated air humming through your wound-down window had you drinking in deep, energising lungfuls. Then, there was Will’s steady, reassuring drawl, and all the feelings of security that came along with it.

Steady, dependendable, straightforward Will. You always knew where you stood with him.

At least, that’s who he had always been to you. Not the volatile, ticking time bomb you’d heard he’d become since he’d gotten out. Since he’d almost choked a man out in the tinned produce aisle.

It was good to have time to talk with him. You were endlessly glad to hear the ways Will was moving forward. You were glad -first and foremost- for him, of course; but you couldn’t deny it bolstered your own hope too. To know that there was a route out? A path onward - even when some things attempted to drag you back? It felt good.

Speaking of things which dragged you to them, you were also grateful that Will didn’t press you (too much) on Santiago-shaped matters. In fairness, at this point the whole squad is probably sick to death of the topic. Regardless though, it was refreshing to talk about other things. About Will’s new life. His bizarro public speaking gig. His worry for Benny, as an unfailingly attentive and loyal big bro. His insistence that the “kid” is not living up to his full potential.

Benny’s doing fine, you had assured him. Benny’s… buoyant.

So, in sum, it was safe to say that despite everything, by the time you had arrived back to the house you’d felt decompressed. It made you wonder if - maybe - last night’s storm really had succeeded in clearing the air. Of course, that depended on Santiago too, and where he was at today. Whether he had any more drama brewing, up in that pretty head of his.

From his vibe this morning though? You had gotten the sense that he was oh so tired too.

It didn’t change anything of course. The fighting. The fucking. Not really. Not any of it. The anger, once given its release valve, had simply moved through you like weather. It had turned out, it was all mostly bluster. Ephemeral. Shifting. And it couldn’t touch the truth of things, could it? The permanence and depth of your love for him? Not really.

It did change something in you though, that unforgiving storm. If nothing else, it had made you acutely aware of how powerless you are. Your weather cannot move the mountains, and Santiago is as stubborn and immoveable as a wall of rock.

You’d believed, at one time, that perhaps you could succeed in shifting him. Encouraging him. Convincing him.

But now you know for sure.

The only way he’s running into your arms is of his own accord. In his own good time.

When he’s ready.

If he ever is, of course; ready. And on that topic, you’re less and less sure that he ever will be. That Santiago will ever be ready to be loved by you.

It’s sad in one way to realise that. But in another way, it’s freeing. To give up. To stop trying to shape things into what you’d hoped they could be, and to simply let things be whatever they are. To make peace with the truth of things. And peace? It may sound counterintuitive, but as a soldier, peace is all you’d ever really wanted.

Perhaps that’s why you feel calm as you pace down the track back to the house. Why there’s a spring in your step as you fix up a sandwich for yourself and Will, heading out across the dunes to where the boys laze by that frilled edge of ocean. Perhaps you feel calm because you really have exhausted all of your options.

Because there’s truly nothing else you can do.

Because it’s out of your control.

Because you cannot move mountains.

And so, when you join the group and Santiago flashes you a tentative and oh so pure smile? You return it easily this time.

You can’t change yourself and how you feel. You’ve tried that. You certainly can’t change him. You’ve tried that too.

And… why would you want to, anyway, huh? To change him? In so many ways, you think, as you watch his rich, scratchy laugh bob in his throat, and see those delicious crinkles radiate from around his eyes, he’s perfect exactly as he is.

After all, he’s your best friend.

And, for the remainder of the afternoon, you simply want to focus on that.

For today, you reckon you’ll simply have to try to see him in pieces. In fragments.

You don’t want to admit to yourself that’s the only way you can make it through, but when you do realise, it strikes you. If you too find it hard to reconcile who he’s always been to you with all that he could be, then maybe you and he never were so different after all.

He certainly could never grasp all of you at once, could he?

***

The rest of the day passes pleasantly - much to everyone’s relief, you suspect. After the card games wrap up, there is plenty more entertainment to be had. There is time whiled away goofing around with a football and a frisbee. There’s a grill session on the dunes and chilled beers and music. When the heat becomes too sticky, too intense, there are sea swims and splashing around in the waves and everyone trying to dunk Benny. There’s solitary time too. Time for sunbathing and reading and podcasting and naps; and, in between, there is the cyclical eruption and waning of amiable chatter - whenever someone sparks up with a talking point.

In sum, you all opt to just be with each other. No particular agenda in mind, and it feels good. Really good.

You’ve missed them all. Hell, even Tom, though you’d never tell him that to his face.

The stretch of beach you’ve claimed is stunning too. The sands are golden and fine-grained and the water is perfectly temperate; but, it’s a hidden gem, the patch not attracting a fraction of the stifling crowds you’d find along the main drag. Throughout the day, other people come and go, of course. There’s the family with the adorable little kids, for example. The little boy, in particular, who had seemed to take a real liking to Benny - and who’d even roped him into helping build sandcastles. You’d watched, fondly, as each of your squad’s faces had split with wholesome, eye-swallowing grins at the adorableness of it all. There was the lone woman who spent 45 minutes giving you evil eyes - apparently, you’d deducted, for daring to be surrounded by five attractive men. You’d even suspected she might march over and punch you at one point, judging from the hate seething in her eyes when Will had asked you to slather-up his milky-white back with his trusty factor 50.

Mostly though, it had stayed pretty quiet, and you and the boys had more or less had the beach all to yourselves.

Various members of the group would filter off every now and again, of course. To replenish supplies, grab a new book, or buy an ice cream from the truck which pulled up. But, there had always been a core contingent remaining, even as the intensity of the day’s heat had begun to burn off, replaced with a softer, gentler, and more oranged glow.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t realise it, until it had already happened.

That by now, you and Santiago were alone.

You look up from your book and all of a sudden, you are the only one left lounging on the blankets. You look out to the water, and Santiago is the only figure to be found there too, currently floating on his back, bobbing over each gentle, orange-frilled wave which laps up to the shore.

Christ. When did it get so late?

Santiago must realise the predicament at a similar moment to you, you think, as by the time you have finished swivelling your head to scan the sands for signs of anyone else -finding no-one but a distant dog walker- he has already begun to wade out of the water.

It is something you have watched him do so many times today, but now that it is just the two of you, this time it hits just a little different. This time, you notice him. Really notice him. Can’t help it. You watch him rise out of the water in the golden glow of the descending sun, and shake the rivulets of water from his darkened, wetted curls. See his tan chest emerge first, the colour in his shoulders a deeper, richer brown already from a day soaking up the sun. That silver chain of his swinging and glinting in between his smooth, shapely pecs. And, you note the soft cushion of his tummy swelling over the waistband of his swim shorts, the garment sodden and clinging tightly to his ample hips and thighs. Even slipping down just a little as he wades from out of the water, revealing a hint of his happy trail as he beelines directly towards where you lay.

Your stomach twists with a deep, hot yearning, and you are grateful that you have at least a moment to compose yourself before he arrives, sea-shined and dripping, at your now deserted camp. You have the wherewithal, at least, to throw him a towel as he reaches you, trying not to stare (too much) as he begins to dry himself off.

“Thanks,” he offers, with a lazy flash of teeth, and you unconsciously rearrange yourself, very suddenly aware - now that you’re alone - that you are stripped right down to your flimsy bikini.

You see a swallow sink down Santi’s corded throat as his eyes skim down the length of you, but he is quick to obscure it. He’s still playing nice. Softening himself, you think.

With a laugh as roughly hewn as driftwood, he flicks some water at you after scrunching his hand through his sodden curls, spraying cold flecks across the bare expanse of your belly, causing you to tense and squeal. His shoulders shake with gentle mirth, and, once he’s towelled off and wrung out his shorts a little, he spreads his towel out next to you, parking his ample ass down.

“Didn’t feel like a swim? The water’s nice.”

“Nah.”

His head swivels about, eyes traversing the length of the beach. He scoops a hand around his stubble, and you hear it rasp like sand. “Where the shit did everybody go?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “Beats me. I was far too engrossed in my trashy novel to notice.” You dog-ear the page of said book and put it to one-side before leaning back, supporting your torso on bent elbows, legs still elongated before you and crossed neatly at the ankle. The position pushes your breasts out, and you swear Santiago tries valiantly to look just about anywhere else - more or less succeeding too.

“Then… I think we’re alone now.”

A mischievous smile catches the corners of your mouth. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

You turn your head towards him, to see if he’s picked up on your song-lyric-inspired choice of words, but the solemnity of his expression catches you off-guard. His brows are drawn down, the sockets of his eyes all shadowed despite the golden hour glow still pouring over the horizon, lighting the stark contours of him.

In unison, the two of you shift position, coming to sit cross-legged. Side-by-side, looking out over the ocean. It seems easier that way, you think. Not to face each other directly as you each say whatever it is you need to say.

You know that it’s come time to say it. That it’s overdue.

Besides, it’s undeniably beautiful, looking out across the view like this. Enjoying the lapping waves and the undulating, orange zest water stretched out below that burning sky. Now cooling, post-dip, Santiago reaches over for his trusty tartan blanket. Silently, he first tucks it around his shoulders, then he passes it around yours. It’s a stretch for the square of fabric, and so you huddle a little closer to one another, finding it is even more warming as your bodies press together. The wetness of his thigh, from those water-logged, sand-coated trunks contacts you too, but you make no effort to move away, instead resting your folded thigh just on top of his.

You can smell the ocean on him. Salt and sunshine and sunscreen. He smells like summer.

You look out across the landscape with renewed concentration as you wait for him to speak, not ready to face whatever expression his features may offer. You look outward with vigour while you wait for him to look inward, and you worry that his words - when they come - will surely be more ugly than the sight before you. Will be bitter and not sweet.

You even brace for it.

You’re so used to the storm.

Still, when he eventually speaks, you are surprised. Surprised that he is calm and steady. That his voice is like slow, warm sand pooling into your cupped hands. That his words are both bitter and sweet. “Hey. C’mere.” You link your arm into him. Lean your head onto his shoulder as his tone grows wistful. “Do you… Do you remember that night in Philadelphia?”

You smile immediately. There had been only one such night in Philadelphia.

It had been your birthday. You and Santiago had been catching a connecting flight, heading back from a deployment and en route to meet the boys off-base to celebrate. However, all the planes had been grounded due to some technical hitch with the tower. You’d been bummed that your plans had been ruined; but Santiago had come through. Had gifted you one of the best nights of your life. A very silly, drunken night, if you recall.

You cringe, hazy, smooth-edged memories flooding back. You clap a hand to your face with residual embarrassment. “Christ. The karaoke.”

Santiago chuckles warmly, and you feel his laugh reverberate through you. “It wasn’t karaoke! You hijacked the goddamn wedding band.”

Your hand clamps in dismay over your mouth now, and you lift your head from his shoulder to face him. “Oh my god. You’re right.”

Your laughs mingle together in the tight space between you, becoming indistinguishable, like the tide and the shore. “I still can’t believe you blagged our way into a wedding reception.”

“I can’t believe it took us so long to get rumbled,” his hand settles over yours, where your arm is still hooked into his.

You beam at him. “Thank God I’m stealthy.”

He pumps his eyebrows, entirely incredulous. “You? Yeah right.”

“I’m sure I must’ve helped, Pope.”

“No, cariño, no. You were not helping.” He scratches at his layer of scruff. “Shit. What was it… What did you tell the kid on the desk your name was, again?”

You try to recall, and when you remember you snort in a full-blown laugh. Your ensuing, chaotic giggle planes tears of joy out of the corners of your eyes. “Mariana Trench!”

“You’re fucking despicable. You know that?” Santiago laughs along with you, and God. It feels good. Really good. It feels effortless, your mirth sharing space like this instead of your anger. Your laughs mingle then dissipate, withdrawing gently like the retreat of a wave.

You lean your head back on to his shoulder, but your giggle fit is evidently not wholly through - not just yet. Your shoulders begin to shake up against him - gently at first, and then with a rising chuckle. “Whiskey in the jar-o,” you sing under your breath, wistfully recalling your drunken duet of choice. “Fuck, Santi. That was a good night.”

He rests his head on top of yours, the weight of it a comfort. “Yeah. Yeah it was,” he agrees. “Jesus, I’m telling you though. They were lucky we showed up. Before we livened things up? The dance floor was as dead as a battlefield after one of Redfly’s sweeps.”

You hum at the fond memory, a soft smile arcing over your face. He has you curious though. “What made you think of that night?” Why this memory, out of everything?

He stiffens noticeably up against you. Sits more upright. Presses his palms together. “That was, uh. That was the night that I-”

“-Vomited into a soup tureen?” You interject with a snort, as another random memory flashes back to you.

“No. Nope,” Santi counters decisively. “That was Cat’s Oma’s 80th.”

You giggle chaotically again. “Oh yeah. Shit.” You miss that lady. She was a sweetie.

“Hey. Listen,” Santiago begins with far more gravity. Enough gravity that you shift, turning your body as he draws your gaze to him. You had been waiting for this moment to arrive; but, now that it’s here, you wish you could cling on to the sweet things for a few moments longer. Still, you settle opposite him now, the two of you still cross-legged but positioned face to face. He adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging on each corner. With a watery smile, you slide your palms on to his wrecked, perfect knees and give him a gentle squeeze there, seemingly pushing his croaked words out with the gesture too. “I want to say that I’m sorry.”

You have nothing for a moment. No words, at least. Nothing but the motion of your hands smoothing back and forth over his knees. Nothing but the pained expression as your eyes swim with an ocean of feeling, deep enough to rival the vast body of water before you.

You note that his eyes are wet too as he settles his own hands over yours, gathering them up into his grasp. He stares down intently at your hands, his brow notching with a deep frown. He drags in a slow breath and releases it. “This got so fucked up, and… that’s not it at all.” He looks back to you then, his umber eyes shining with remorse. Deep regret welling in his resonant tone. “That’s not how I want to show up for you.”

Your tongue, too, reaches for an apology as readily as your hands had reached out for him. “Fuck, Santiago. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry too.” You had never meant to hurt him. You had never wanted that.

He drops his gaze to your neat pairing of hands. Gingerly begins to smooth the rough, sea-pruned pads of his thumbs over your knuckles, your skin humming dully where he touches. “I mean it. I’m sorry for everything.” The tendons in his jaw clench, muscles slipping over bone. He drags your cupped hand into his lap, drawing an absent-minded spiral in your palm with the pad of his thumb. The sensation makes a pleasant tingle bed down beneath your skin. “I swear. I never meant for my bullshit to affect you. Christ - that was the whole fucking point. Thought the least I could do, after everything, was protect you from that.”

At his earnest words, your chest tightens, and you abruptly halt the dance of his fingers by clasping his hands, gathering them between your own palms like a prayer. Your voice cracks in half like a broken promise. “Santiago. For Christ’s sake. You think I need protecting?” The implication in his words cleaves your heart in two. “From you?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. Sniffs. The muscle in his cheek tugs up, and you feel his hands go clammy in your grasp.

He frees himself from your grip for a moment, before continuing to skim his fingers up and down your forearm arm in a gentle, tender dance. The lightness of his touch contrasts starkly with the heaviness settling into his brow, his wet, puppy dog eyes swimming beneath. “I dunno. I was always a better fucking soldier than I was a friend.” He swallows, his voice so soft you can barely hear him. “Than I was… anything else you might’ve needed me to be.”

“No. That’s not true,” you respond adamantly, your head shaking vigorously from side to side. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“Except when it counted.”

“No!” you emphasise, the thrust of your words carrying your whole body forward. You shift position, transferring on to folded knees, crouching before him in the sand. Reaching, to slip your palms up to each side of his face, and you hold him like a prayer now. “No, Santiago. Especially when it counted. Believe me.”

He tries to turn away from you - you see it. He tries to begin his retreat, like usual, but this time, you capture his roughened cheek with one palm and you hold his gaze with yours. You speak firmly, willing him to understand. “Santiago Garcia. Idiota. You’re my hero.”

He scoffs lightly. His face twitches with scepticism. With doubt. With this self-deprecation he always carries, usually so well concealed by his confidence and easy charm. And yet, as you caress his stubble-flecked cheek with your palm, he sinks gratefully into your touch. Leans against it, his eyes fanning closed and his long lashes splaying down towards his cheeks.

“God,” he breathes softly in Spanish, barely audible. “No-one has called me that in a long time." He lives in a world of aliases and nicknames, and you see the weight of his grief twist his face at hearing his name fall from your mouth.

“I mean it. Do you hear me?” you plead, snagging his eyes to yours as they drift open. “You have made my life more beautiful in a thousand ways. You’re not -and you never were- something I need protecting from.” You regard Santiago, and his pretty eyes glisten, wet with a well of scarcely contained emotion -starlight in his lashes. “I love you, Santiago. Whatever has happened. Whatever happens. I love you. Not when you’re this ‘perfect’ version of yourself you finally deem worthy of love.” You search his eyes “That’s bullshit. I love you. I love you now.”

Santiago slowly, gradually musters a nod, and you smooth your hands over him. Over his shoulders. the nape of his neck. His chest. Trying to plaster over the evident cracks as his emotion crashes like a wave against rocks. He scoops a hand around his stubble, his lower lip now downturned. Trembling with feeling. Fat, liquid tears shining in his eyes, threatening to overspill. “I love you too.”

What a terrible, sad thing, you think. That you love each other. That there’s such bounty and abundance, but that at the same time… it is never quite enough.

Maybe one day, it will be; enough.

For now though, it is still something which causes you pain. And, you can see -more clearly than ever now- that it hurts him too.

His eyes dance over everything but you. His face twists. Contorts and tightens as he wrestles with it, but he cannot hold back the tide a moment longer. Full, wet tears spill down Santiago’s cheeks, and he makes some attempt to fumble them away, until they grow too numerous. You reach for him instead, and for a moment he tries to gently bat your hand away. “Hey,” you scold, protest, smooth. “Santiago.” His eyes drop, and his gaze fixes intently on a spot in the sand as you gingerly scoop his tears away with your crooked forefinger. The finger you then trace lovingly along the length of his jaw. The finger you trace along his eyebrow. The point of his cheekbone. Every place the waning golden light paints him. Your eyes dance over him. Every contour. Every sharp angle and every hollow. Every soft, silver curl. And he stays perfectly still. Unmoving, as though he is afraid your touch will withdraw like a tide at any moment.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and it is at once bitter and sweet. “It hurts. It… hurts to be without you.”

For a stretched moment, you do not believe he will respond, the only sign of movement from him a lone tear sluicing down his sculpted cheek. But, eventually, his words come. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I need to find a way it doesn’t hurt you to be with me.” You shake your head, a protest dying on your lips as Santiago drags your hands to him. “I know you won’t buy this. You don’t have to. But I do want out. I swear it’s just this one last job with Lorea. And then I can… Then maybe we can…”

He trails off, his words waning. Breaking on the rocks.

He never could articulate a future with you, could he? Never could seem to dream that up.

You could be angry about that, you suppose, but you truly have no more anger left to give. You could be sad instead but, turns out, you’re out of that feeling too. All you have left to offer in this moment, in fact, is a small, resigned smile.

“It’s okay,” you smooth, and what’s more, you mean it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Your fingers play over the leather and beads of his bracelets. Over the tendons in his wrist. The light hairs on his forearms.

You’re done with all of that now. Done trying to push him towards a future you’re not even sure he wants with you. Not sure he ever wanted. It’s funny almost, as you sit here, letting the future go. You sit here with him, so much history humming between you it’s like standing amidst ruins. Like you are two statues, memories and stories carved into your bodies. Sometimes, it feels like the past is all you have. But, you are thankful when the sinking, orange segment of sun draws you to it, reminding you there is one more thing you have. Something between the past and future.

You have the here and now.

You reach for it.

It’s all you’ve got. Might be all you ever have with him.

You twist your body, turning outward again, away from him. You fold your knees up to your chin and you loop your arms around them, fixing your eyes straight ahead on the undulating ocean.

“That’s one thing I always loved about you, you know,” you push out. “How you always live smack bang in the moment. I’m constantly wishing it all the fuck away, aren’t I? Always thinking fifty steps ahead.”

Santiago follows your lead, swivelling to face the sunset too. His body becomes all right angles as he plants his elbows on the points of his spread knees, his butt and the soles of his feet flat to the floor, his hands loosely laced together in the space between his legs. “You should. You should think about that stuff. You deserve all that. Everything you talked about last night.”

His words cause a tight lump to rise in your throat.

Do you?

Does he really believe that?

Because, if so, then why in the hell don’t you deserve him? Why can’t he be the one to give it to you?

You offer a theory.

“Does it bore you, or something? The thought of a future like that?” The question emerges tattered, torn on hooks in your throat which try to hold it back; but it’s something you’ve wondered for too long to suppress it any longer. You’ve wondered without ever wanting to push that thought too far - too afraid of the answer.

“Yeah,” he says levelly, not a hint of doubt in his voice, and you hold your breath. “With anyone else, yeah. But not with you.” You are relieved but that fades ever so quickly, your face crumpling into something halfway petulant.

“Then… why?”

Why is he still running?

Why is he running from the life you could offer him if it’s something he wants too?

You hear Santiago tug in and release a deep sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see him lace his fingers together, soothing his thumb over his own hand like he’s retracing your comfort. “Because… I’m not brave like you.” His voice tips up at the end. Like a question. He reserves all of his doubt for himself, then? It’s not you he refuses to believe in?

“You’re ridiculous. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“Heh. Yeah,” he lifts a hand to self-consciously scratch at the bristle of hairs at the nape of his neck. You hug your knees more tightly to your chest. “Running into bullets. Eliminating threats, sure. But… running into safe hands? I’m a fucking coward.”

You hum, a neutral, bland sound which expresses neither agreement nor disagreement. Which takes you nowhere.

There’s nowhere left to go.

Perhaps the road ends here.

Dead end after dead end.

Only resignation.

“Maybe we were on the same path, once upon a time, huh?” You throw the statement out with little conviction. You’re giving up on the idea that your words or your actions can make the slightest bit of difference to what could be. For now, you simply wish to make sense of what is. “Maybe - I dunno. Maybe I just ran too far ahead. Racing towards this dream of the future, before you were ready to go there. Maybe I just created too much distance.”

Santiago hums now too. A tight, pensive sound. “Huh. Is that what you think happened?”

You rub your palms over your own face. Dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. You have as much energy as a spent wave. “Uch. I don’t know.” Wordlessly, tentatively, Santiago reaches, retucking the soft tartan blanket around your shoulders. You manage to smile softly at him, surprised that it does not feel at all forced. “Maybe we just forget all that now. Maybe we just… I dunno. Live in the moment?”

Santiago’s palm draws slow circles on your upper back. You shuffle a little closer to him. “Okay. Then what do you want?” he enquires. “Right now? In this moment?”

His arm weighs over your shoulder, huddling you closer. “Oh. I don’t know. What does it even matter?”

“We leave here tomorrow. So tell me. What do you want right now?”

You could imagine that you are tired of wanting. That all you want is a moment free of wanting anything at all. But that’s not true, is it? You want the very same thing you’ve craved for so long. You want him. Finally though, something in you has shifted. You find yourself able to envisage a future which is far more immediate. Something you can grasp now instead of distantly yearning for.

The words feel hard and tight in your chest, but by the time they reach your lips, they feel so very soft and loose. Easy to sound out. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. All this time I missed you so much.” Unconsciously, Santiago holds you just a little more tightly. “I just…”

“What?” he whispers.

“I want us to fall asleep together. I want to hold you. I just want us to have one moment like that, Santi. Peaceful, you know? After everything, don’t we at least deserve that?” You tug in a breath to launch your next words, your throat closing protectively around them. Making them sound small. “And… And maybe…”

“What? What else?”

“Can’t we just fuck and feel happy about it? Can’t we have just one fucking moment together that doesn’t feel like an ending?”

You wait, your raw-wound words laid out in a line on the sand. You brace. You brace for them to be washed away. To have the salt poured in.

“Okay.”

Your eyes snap to his in surprise, and you find his soft, ardent gaze dancing over your features. “Okay?”

Santiago’s fingers lace with yours, and he tugs you to standing. “Come with me. Come on.”

He gathers up the remaining supplies, slinging the filled beach bag over one shoulder. Then, he folds his other arm around your middle. Tucks you into him. You let him lead you to the house, and it’s nice. It’s nice that for once, you’re not begging him to follow.

You let him lead you up the dunes, back to the house, and up the stairs.

You leave the golden, sinking sun behind you, but with Santiago’s warm, molten gaze shining on you, you still feel the sun on your face.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia #ride or die series

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