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merlincmgirl · 8 months ago

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Gentle Sex - Fireball x FReader - NSFW

Summary: Fireball returns back to you but he's not quite the same. Something has happened and he just wants to be as close to you as possible.

Characters: Fireball (The Bad Batch)

Pairing: Fireball x F!Reader

Word Count: 4,153

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, soft sex, riding, fingering, PinV sex, fluff and smut, they're both saps for each other.

Author's Note: This is set during TBB season 3, and Fireball lived god damn it because I am still hurt over him. It got really emotional really quickly. Again, another story that kind of ran away with itself.

The apartment was covered in a complete darkness, barely any light peeking through the windows. The barest hint of moonlight highlighted the empty living room as Fireball let himself in. He felt weighed down, armour getting heavier with every shaky breath he let out as he locked the door behind him. Every bone and muscle in his body ached as he fell back against the wall. Today had been one of the worst days of his life. The Empire had found them, and they had only just managed to escape by the skin of their teeth. He could still feel the heat flash against his skin before he was thrown back. He could have died. Could have marched on and nobody would have been the wiser about the fate of the clones.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up and began the exhausting task of taking his armour off and stacking it next to the door. As he was unhooking his belt, his fingers stilled on the holsters of his blaster. No. He wouldn’t be leaving that with the rest of his armour. Not tonight. Placing it to one side, he made the instinctual moves he needed to be finally free from the plastoid.

Fireball headed to the windows, then the back door and finally the front door again, triple checking the locks and that they were secure. It was something that he always reminded his cyare about whenever he was off planet for a while. He wanted to make sure his riddur was safe while he was on base and she had to return home to work and her other responsibilities. Before he could even blink a flash went off behind his eyes and he groaned, shoulder twinging after the hit it had received. Reaching up to rub the flash away, he knew it wasn’t real. Just like the crack and shifting of rock that sounded like it was coming from all around him.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room he was in, seeing the flowers in the vase you had left on the table, hear the buzzing of the conservator in the kitchen and the smell of the soap you used as you washed your clothes. It helped settle his nerves and he dragged his hands down his face.

To think he was about to ask you to stay on the rebel base permanently with him. He was glad that you were far away from Teth. That you hadn’t been there visiting when the Empire had caught up to them. He could still feel the stickiness of the bacta on his shoulder, glad that the shadow clone had missed by an inch or so otherwise he’d been marching on. And you wouldn’t know anything about it until it was safe enough for Rex to turn up at your door and tell you. Maybe not even then. It was dangerous to contact others, the Empire constantly monitoring communication systems. Rex would have to tell you over comms or a message about his death. He couldn’t imagine you finding out like that.

He needed to find you now, to feel you in his arms and hold you close to him. To know that you were real and that he was alive. That this time you had been lucky.

Heading to the quarters at the back of the apartment, Fireball let himself in and finally felt more relaxed than he had for hours. Seeing you safe and sound was a balm to his frayed nerves. You were fast asleep, not a care in the world. Unable to help it, he ran his fingers through your hair before he stripped off his blacks. He wanted to get in beside you, feel your warmth against him and hear the soft breaths you let out, imagining how they would feel against his exposed tanned skin.

“Fire?” a voice groaned, and he grimaced at waking you up.

“Go back to sleep cyare” he whispered, sliding in beside you and wrapping his arms around your middle, pulling you back to him.

“Sleep? No! Missed you” you murmured, still half asleep as you turned in his arms to face him. You nuzzled in closer, pressing a kiss to the bottom of his neck and letting out a contented sigh. It felt amazing to have Fireball back home. Even if he had sneaked into your apartment and didn’t announce his visit. It was such a wonderful surprise to have him here.

Fireball sighed, closing his eyes as he held you close to him, not willing to let you go just yet. Having you here in his arms was overwhelming. To think that this could have all been taken away from him so easily, to have your love and then for it to be so easily ripped away.

“Missed you too” he mumbled, burying his face into your hair, his breathing shaky as he took you in. The scent of your shampoo, the feel of your soft skin against his, the warmth you radiated after being so wrapped up in your blanket, the soft sounds of your sleep addled brain coming out of your mouth as you began to wake up. “So much, cyare” he admitted, closing his eyes and holding you even tighter.

“Fire” you grumbled, pushing against his hold slightly so you could breathe a little easier. “You okay?” you asked, feeling the slight tremble in his hands as he held you closer to him.

Instead of answering, Fireball rolled you over so you were on your back, settling above you as he let his weight press you into the mattress. Running a hand from your hip all the way up your sides, tracing the curves of your breast and up your throat to cup your cheek, he couldn’t help but let out a little huff of air at having you underneath him. Not wasting time on words, he lowered his lips to yours, gently prying them apart so he could slip in his tongue, exploring your mouth and letting out quiet moans at reuniting with you once again.

You couldn’t help but melt into his kiss, running a hand up his back to run your fingers through his dark hair. You tugged on the strands, leaving a little nip on his bottom lip as you did so, expecting his playful swipe of tongue against your own. Instead, you felt him caress your cheek, your jaw and just feel you.

Something was wrong, this was not how his normal returns would go. Most times, he could barely wait to get through the doors before he was on you, pressing you against him and tugging off your clothes as soon as he could. Whispering filth in your ear about how he had missed you and what he was going to do to you to make up for all those lonely nights without each other. Would complain how he only had his brothers for company when you weren’t there, how he’d have to listen to their idiocy while he thought about you.

This, however, was not that. Was nowhere close to what you would have expected from Fireball and his playful and teasing personality. This was more contradictory; gentle, yet tense at the same time. He was acting strange. Something must have happened to make him act like this. You wondered if it was his brothers, if the rebellion had been crushed before it began. As you went to push him away, he groaned and shook his head before returning his lips to yours, laying gentle kisses all up and down your jaw. Again, too slow. Not like he normally did, and definitely not like when he wanted to take him time and make you squirm.

“Let me kiss you” he whispered, nuzzling his nose with yours as you felt something hard brush against your thigh. Letting out a little sigh, he took in a deep breath, almost like he was trying to soak you in. “Want you like this” he told you, running a hand down to tug the neckline of your sleepwear down.

“Why are you being so gentle with me? I like it when you’re rough” you frowned, pulling away enough to get your words out and to cup his face, to try and get him to look at you. But all he seemed incapable of doing anything but hold you close, not willing to let you get away from him.

“Just let me have this, please cyar’ika. I need to feel you tonight, need to hold you close to me” Fireball murmurs, kissing gently down your neck and to your chest. He whines, still not close enough to you for his liking. Pulling away, he climbs up your bed until he sits against the headboard.

There’s so much sadness in his eyes, you’re about to ask him if he wants to stop before large, warm, calloused hands are gripping you and tugging you onto his lap. You’re straddling his lap, his cock pressing against your core as you run a gentle hand through his greying hair, the lighter strands mixing with his dark ones effortlessly. “We can stop this if you want? We don’t have to do this. We can just hold each other” you suggested softly, watching how he almost melted into your touch. Whatever Fireball needed at the moment, you would provide that for him. Be it a gentle touch, some loving words or the feel of your bodies moving against each other. Whatever he needed, you wanted him to feel comfortable and relaxed.

However, at your words, Fireball shuddered and tensed up, wrapping an arm around your waist and another round your back and pulling you closer. “No, please! I need you, cyare. Just like this” he begs, hand gliding up into your hair before he pulls you down for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle and desperate all at the same time, the way he holds your head in his large hand, the way his lips move against your own and the way his tongue asks for entrance into your mouth makes your heart ache with love.

Nodding, you can’t help but to give in to him. Whatever it was had shaken Fireball enough for him to act like this, he was obviously too distressed to talk about it. So if he needed you like this, you would be there to hold him against you and provide the comfort and safety he needed at this time. You pulled away, reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Gonna take this off, okay?” you breathed, resting your forehead together against his. Fireball let out a shuddering breath, pressing his head into yours before helping you to pull off your shirt. You were thankful to have forgone your usual bottoms, instead going to bed in just your panties.

“So beautiful” he let out, voice full of awe and appreciation as he took in the sight of your heaving chest, your breasts bouncing slightly at the momentum. He lifted a hand to them, feeling the weight of them in his hands before pressing gentle kisses to each one before taking a nipple into his mouth.

You groaned, unable to help it as your hips rocked against his. The feeling of his hot mouth against your chest had your eyes slipping closed, hands coming to run through his hair and holding him closer to you. “Yes, you’re so good at that, riddur. Make me feel so special” you praised him, knowing how much he enjoyed listening to how he made you feel.

“You’re special… always come back to you… ner kar’ta, ner cyare” he whispered back to you, mouth barely lifting from your chest.

You could feel the vibration of his words echo in your chest and across your skin. Tugging him up by the back of his neck, you pressed an urgent kiss to his lips, trying to encourage him to move a little faster. You loved whenever he spoke Mando’a to you, the language making his voice drop lower and roughen up his words so that they felt like caresses against your sensitive skin.

“Fireball” you gasped, trailing your hands down his broad chest, your hands found the small wound that looked recent. Very, very recent if the residue of bacta had anything to say about it. Instantly you pulled away, scowling down at the mark on your trooper’s shoulder. He had been hurt. The thought made dread settle in your stomach at the sight. “You’re hurt! We shouldn’t be doing this” you protested, gently running your fingertips over the red and raised skin.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, not hurting at all. I’m here mesh’la, I promise. I just need you, need to feel you against me right now. Please” he begged, shaking his head and pulling you down onto his hardened cock. He squeezed your hips, sending you a small smile in reassurance before he began sucking a mark underneath your breast. You just know the bruise would be something for you to remember him by when he returned to the clone rebellion.

Letting him pull you back down against him, sinking into that head space as you began to rock against him, teasing you both at the friction.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, biting his lip as his fingers tucked underneath the hem of your panties. You could feel his calloused fingertips brushing against your skin, squeezing slightly before running soothingly across your hips, never daring to venture lower like you wanted him too.

“Of course!” you consented, helping to raise yourself up and aid him in taking off your underwear. He slipped them under your knees, carefully pulling them down your legs until they were off and he threw them somewhere in your bedroom. You didn’t care as long as he was touching you.

“Never leaving you, cyar’ika” he vowed before his face turned into a grimace and he shook his head. As you opened your mouth to check in with him once more, he gripped the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss, his other hand venturing down to your wet core. Words were forgotten as you felt yourself get lost in him. The feel of him against you, the dark hair on his chest tickling yours, his strong thighs beneath you spreading you open for him. As he trailed his fingers between your folds, gathering your wetness, you couldn’t help but whimper at the touch of him. It had been so long since he was here with you, since you could properly take care of each other without the use of toys and a temperamental comm line. “You’re so wet for me pretty girl” he moaned in appreciation before rubbing at your clit with his thumb.

Your hips jumped up at touch, seeking out more pleasure from him. “Fireball, please, I need more” you insisted, tired of his careful caresses of your labia. You wanted to feel him. Feel his long, talented fingers slide inside of you, prepare you for him after being so long away from each other.

“Anything” he promised, licking a stripe from your neck and up your throat, stopping at the spot just under your ear where he devoted all his attention into giving you gentle kisses and leaving a mark there for all to see.

With that, he gently and slowly pressed one finger into you, and you sighed, sinking onto him. “That’s it, Fire! Maker, just there!” you gasped, reaching down to guide his hand into a better position so you could rock your hips against his hand.

He hummed against the skin of your neck, one of his hands gripping your hips to guide your movements against him. With his help, you managed to find a good rhythm as you ducked yourself open on his finger, letting out a loud moan as Fireball pressed another finger inside of you, pressing deep and crooking them to find that spot inside of you.

It took him a couple of tries but you could feel yourself tighten around him as he continued to play that bundle of nerves inside of you, strumming away as though he was trying to match a beat in his head. You clutched at him, grounding against his hand to try and seek your pleasure, to feel the heat wash over you as you sought your release.

“Good girl, you’re so beautiful like this. So perfect” Fireball smiled, spreading kisses all over the swell of your breasts. He closed his eyes, listening to your sounds of pleasure and ecstasy as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He needed to prepare you for him as well as make sure that whatever happens, you would remember nights like these with him.

When he was sure you were prepared for his cock, he pulled his fingers away, mouth seeking yours as he continued to rub his desperate cock against you slightly before stilling. “Need you, mesh’la” he reiterated, guiding you over his cock and gently holding you as you sunk down onto his length.

“I’m here Fireball, I promise, I’m not leaving you” you assured, stroking his cheek before wrapping yourself tight around him, knowing and feeling like he needed that close connection tonight. To feel how close the two of you were, with nothing in between you but the love, respect and care you had for each other.

Taking great care, you began to bounce back onto his cock just as he thrust up into you, both of you letting out loud moans of pleasure as you felt his length fill you and you squeezed down around his cock. Pushing a few strands of hair away from his sweaty forehead, you both rocked against each other, barely pulling off from his cock. You didn’t want to be too far away from him.

Gasping and panting heavily, Fireball took one of your hardened buds into his mouth, running his tongue around the nipple before he sucked on it softly as he tugged you even closer to him. He couldn’t get enough of you, wanted to savour this moment for as long as he lived. The feel of your body pressed against his, both of you climbing and chasing that pleasure that only the other could give. He couldn’t help but let out a quiet high sound as he felt your walls ripple around him.

“So beautiful” he breathed, hips thrusting up into you as he held you still, hands gripping tightly onto your hips. He swallowed your whine, sliding his hands around your body and up and down your back, determined to not let there be any space in between you. You were intoxicating to him, he could never get enough of you.

“Fire!” you hissed, dropping your head onto his shoulder as a hand slipped above where you were connected, finding the bundle of nerves that was swollen against his touch.

“Please, mesh’la. Please cum around me, I need to feel you soak my cock.”

Shaking your head, you brought your face up to his, taking in the desperate and loving look that he was sending your way. “Cum with me, I know you’re close” you whispered, pressing your lips against his as you thrust your hips back down to him.

Fireball couldn’t help but sob as he felt you tighten and clench around him. You cried out his name, digging your nails into his back as your walls shook and you felt your release wash over you. His cock throbbed inside of you, shooting ropes of cum inside of you. He held you close, both of you shuddering through your intense orgasm.

Without needing to be asked, you held him against your chest as he sobbed, tears flowing down his cheeks. Pressing gentle and tender kisses against the crown of his head, you couldn’t help but feel a few tears of your own build behind your eyes. This brave, strong trooper had been through enough. And whatever had happened before he came home to you had obviously shook him. It was no wonder that his release had triggered this intense emotional reaction.

Shushing and making soothing noises, you rocked him as much as you could with how you were still connected to him. Playing with the short curls at the back of his neck, you assured him he was safe, that he was loved and that he always had you. That for tonight at least he could relax and put down his every worry.

“I nearly died.”

The words cut straight to your heart, and you tightened your grip around him, fear lodging in your throat.

“What? Wha-what do you mean?” you stuttered, hoping that you had misheard him. It wasn’t that you didn’t know that death was a very real possibility for him. He was fighting back against the Empire and trying to rescue his brothers. But this was one of the first times that you had even came close to experiencing him being taken from you.

“The Empire… they found the base. One of their shadow clones infiltrated the base and was shooting at us. I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand there while Nemec was hurt so I… I laid covering fire” he explained, words pouring out of him along with his tears.

“Of course you did, you’re so brave. I know you would do anything for your brothers” you reassured, squeezing him to you.

“I grabbed a flame thrower, thought it might throw off his scope but he… he got a hit in.”

“You shoulder?” you frowned, reaching for the wound that he had. Fireball nodded, taking another shuddering breath.

“I dropped the flame thrower, realised it was next to some thermal detonators and I… I ran. I felt the heat, the light from the blast… I can still feel it cyare, it’s like it’s burnt into me” he admitted, running a hand over his face once more.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re bound to feel it when you’re still working through this and processing everything” you reminded him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back.

“I’m a soldier! I was made to withstand the pressure and stress of war!” he grumbled out, shaking his head in objection.

“How much though? You nearly died baby, that doesn’t just leave you, no matter your genetic engineering” you soothed, kissing his temple.

Fireball sighed, agreeing with you as he wrapped his arms around your waist and lifting you off him. You grimaced at the feel of his release trickling out of you. Making sure not to let you go too much, Fireball resituated you both so you were lying on his chest and he was relaxing against the bed. You were both a lot more comfortable, and you could continue to touch and soothe each other as Fireball told you exactly what happened to him.

“I heard the walls and roof start to crack and cave in. Rex managed to drag me back to the command post before I could be crushed” he retold, closing his eyes as you traced patterns on his chest.

“Remind me to give him an extra big hamper next time I see him” you grinned, hoping to bring that smile that you loved onto his face. Looking up, you caught the twitch of his lips as he scoffed at your joke.

“I’m sure he’d love that!” he remarked, amused at the thought of Rex receiving a hamper and not knowing what to do or say to you. His face fell as he remembered how close he was to actually leaving you, how Rex would have to tell you about his death. “All that time, I could remember seeing your face. Thinking that it wasn’t fair, that we haven’t had our time together yet. It wasn’t enough. I don’t think it will ever be enough” Fireball revealed, looking down at you.

You swallowed the ball in your throat, snuggling into him even more. You couldn’t think about how it would feel if you lost Fireball. It would be like your whole world would collapse on itself, your heart would break into a million pieces with no hope of ever recovering. It was a fate you didn’t want to think about at all.

“I don’t think eternity would be enough for us” you agreed, tears slipping down your cheeks and onto his chest. He rubbed a warm, soothing palm against your spine. “But… I don’t want to waste any more of our time Fireball. What happened has just proven it. So ask me” you breathed, gulping back the lump in your throat and the nerves settling into your belly.

“What?” he gaped, eyebrows risen in surprise at your response.

“Ask me the question we’ve both been dancing around for ages now” you instructed him, looking up into his honey-coloured eyes.

“Would you join me and the others?”

#fireball #the bad batch #tbb fireball #fireball x reader #star wars #star wars x reader #bad batch #star wars the bad batch #star wars the clone wars #tcw #sw tcw #the clone wars #clones #clone troopers #kinktober 2024

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imagineitdearies · 9 months ago

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~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe.) Thanks to my new author discord community for voting on this one! 🩵

In which Tyrus walks in on Astarion's 'alone time.'

Even though they’d cleared the tunnel under the river, secured the fishing hut and passage to sneak into the House of Healing, and had a half-reliable map of the Gauntlet of Shar, the war council had delayed an infiltration for almost a tenday merely arguing over who would go.

With the colder weather creeping in and battles stagnating into standoffs, Tyrus supposed they foolishly thought they had time.

Morfred wanted a larger group to ensure they had enough support. Jaheira said no more than three highly-skilled individuals, to give them better chances at stealth. Ganyl simply wanted to go, even though his entire enclave was against risking their leader, and it took two meetings just to talk him down. Halfred didn’t think the quiet assassination plan of Ketheric Thorm was a good idea in the first place. They all worried that Ketheric’s brother, Malus Thorm, could be too tight-lipped or ignorant of the Gauntlet’s secret entrance to be worth the risk of fighting first.

Astarion had given up on attendance for the last two meetings. But as designated ‘Leader of the Vampires,’ however underqualified Tyrus felt he was for such a role, he felt obligated to attend. Just so he’d have updates to give Astarion and the spawn army below, really. He and Astarion had come up with the idea of a quiet assassination to avoid further bloodshed, so they were already guaranteed a spot in the party if and when it was approved. Halsin was a tentative third in Ganyl’s place, though Jaheira wanted it to be herself who struck Ketheric’s killing blow.

Now Tyrus felt close to giving up himself. He left the meeting before its scheduled end when Jaheira and Halfred started a shouting match about the risks of trying Ketheric's son at the Waning Moon Tavern instead, and Messaged Ganyl to send word if a decision had finally been made. Then he crossed the road past the armory, over the short bridge and around the small, cheery fountain in front of their temporary abode of late, the Last Light Inn.

Tyrus let out a plaintive sigh of relief the moment he was through the doors and could shrug off the sapping weight of the Cloak of Dragomir, avoiding the occasional beam of sunlight until he reached the stairs and could head down to the basement floor. Most of the rooms were used for storage—but at the end, built around the low docks the inn now used to receive war supplies from the east, were a couple of suites that looked directly out over the Chionthar.

He hadn’t expected to find Astarion in their suite, really. His partner liked to socialize a lot more than Tyrus ever did. In their short time here, he’d already been chatting with some soldiers at the inn’s bar, meeting more often with Halsin, and playing enough lanceboard he now could beat Tyrus if he focused hard enough. Astarion was used to crowds, to strangers, while Tyrus still found himself seeking the safety of four walls and a single locked door.

As he reached the door, however, Tyrus thought that safety must have been an illusion as his ears picked up Astarion’s voice, loud and seemingly in distress.

“Ah!—ah, gods—Tyrus!”

Tyrus wrenched the door open in a panic, hurrying inside—

—and was confronted with the sight of Astarion in a bath, pale face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, steamy water sloshing around the fast pace of his wrist under the water as he tugged at his pink, erect cock.

Tyrus stared. Even as Astarion’s eyes wrenched open bleary and wide, his hand freezing in the water, Tyrus couldn’t stop looking. He’d seen Astarion’s cock before so many times—but in his defense, it’d been months. Only feeling the shape of it in Astarion’s trousers when their kissing progressed further, only seeing Astarion’s bare body offhandedly as they dressed. Now Tyrus could also admire how much more lively Astarion’s skin looked despite still being pale, how his half-submerged, muscled middle had softened into looking less malnourished and dehydrated thanks to a healthy diet.

After another second, Astarion relaxed a bit. He waved toward Tyrus with the hand that had a moment before held a death-grip on the wooden tub’s edge, smirking as he huffed, “Could you close that, love?”

Tyrus’s momentary shock at the man’s beauty faded, then, in time for his rational brain to kick in. “I can come back later—?” he started to offer.

“No—no, I . . .” Astarion interjected, only to hesitate. His eyes trailed away for a moment, uncertainty lining his face.

Tyrus retreated back to the door. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he spoke in earnest, and smiled at Astarion when the other vampire tentatively met his gaze again. “Truly—I’d much rather you enjoy yourself, like you’ve been wanting to.”

“Not quite like how I’ve wanted to,” Astarion scoffed, though a moment later the lines on his face faded. “No, stay here, darling. If you’d like to. I’m only imagining you here anyhow.”

“That’s quite different,” Tyrus pointed out, though he went ahead and shut the door, locking it for good measure before turning back to Astarion.

“Is it? I was just thinking of you interrupting me like this,” Astarion smirked, gesturing at himself. The hand in the water wandered back between his legs and began to lightly stroke as he sighed, “Though in my head I skipped the part where a whole conversation would be necessary for you to join. Bring a stool?” he nodded at the floor just next to the tub.

Tyrus didn’t hesitate to obey. He grabbed a small cushioned one in front of the sheet-covered mirror and placed it so he could sit just next to the tub’s head. His stomach swooped at being this close to Astarion—at watching him stroke himself again, bare and exposed save for the flimsy distortion of the sudsy water.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to help, or at least kiss Astarion. But he wouldn’t dare do a thing without checking, given how impossible it’d been for Astarion to be sexually intimate since Cazador’s death.

And Astarion was such a pretty sight just to watch, with his eyes shutting again and dark lashes on display, pink lips slightly parted. Meanwhile, his small breaths and huffs of pleasure as he built back into a rhythm sounded sweeter to Tyrus’s ears than any melody. Even the smell of him was delightful. That smoky, musky perfume he always had a slight hint of at the palace was now much more refined and strong thanks to their shopping in the city. It was already a feast for the senses, if not all of them.

But when Astarion’s other hand extended just a bit past the tub, palm up, Tyrus was quick to take it and enjoy a sense of touch as well. Astarion hummed and pulled their clasped hands down into the water, flattening Tyrus’s palm to rub against his inner thigh. Tyrus gratefully mimicked the movement, and next let Astarion’s hand overtop his guide him to gently handle Astarion’s ball sack, eventually taking over to stroke his erection in tight, quick motions Tyrus still remembered the rhythm of well.

Astarion’s hand stayed cupped around his throughout it all, continually guiding and keeping control even as he sighed, “Tyrus . . . uh, I’ve missed these hands . . .”

“Would you like it if I did anything else?” Tyrus murmured, after another minute of nothing but stroking and listening to Astarion’s heavy breathing.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, head lifting to regard Tyrus with a furrowed brow. His hand slowed Tyrus’s to a stop. “Such as?”

Tyrus bit back the assertion of Anything, anything at all. Giving actual ideas would probably be more helpful, if Astarion didn’t have his own. “Kiss you. Your lips, your neck,” Tyrus started with. “Or . . . here,” smiling as his thumb idly swiped over the head of Astarion’s cock and his partner visibly shuddered in response. Letting his voice go a bit lower, as he pointed out, “I don’t need to breathe, after all.”

“Fuck,” Astarion swore, then gave a short, barking laugh. “This is what four months of celibacy has done to my sweet, virtuous partner? I didn’t think you even liked that sort of activity, darling.”

“I haven’t ever tried it, technically. At least not of my own accord, so,” Tyrus shrugged.

The air went somber ever-so-slightly at his words.

"Shall I?" Tyrus asked in hopes of dispelling it.

“Not this time, my love,” Astarion sighed, starting to move Tyrus’s hand again around him. “But . . . yes—kiss me, please. I think I just need a little bit more of something—”

Tyrus wasted no further time. They’d kissed goodbye only hours ago when he left for the council meeting, but it’d been more than a tenday since Astarion had kissed him like this. One of their first nights in this inn, in fact, before he’d grabbed one of Tyrus’s wandering hands by the wrist and ended things rather abruptly. But whatever else Tyrus did or did not feel in the mood for otherwise, he never got tired of kisses—Astarion’s free hand cupping his jaw close, lips so passionately pressing and sliding against Tyrus’s, tongue darting out to taste and in return welcoming him in.

His instinct was to bury his free hand in Astarion’s curls, but Tyrus gripped the tub’s edge instead. He didn’t want to risk the wrong touch ending this lovely, easy moment. Not when Astarion was so clearly enjoying his other hand’s touch at the moment, hips bucking up and splashing the water a bit more.

Sometime later, a small moan escaped Tyrus when Astarion slid his hand back to tightly cup the nape of his neck, angling Tyrus’s head for an even deeper, all-consuming kiss. Astarion’s hand tightened a bit further around Tyrus’s in the water, so he sped up his movements even more—and groaned with Astarion as the other elf wrenched free of their kiss and threw his head back, shouting “Tyrus!” shakily, his cock pulsing in Tyrus's grip, his spend streaking in the water as the press of his bent legs made the wooden tub slightly creak in protest.

Tyrus kissed down Astarion’s neck and bobbing adam’s apple, slowing his strokes with the guidance of Astarion’s hand as Astarion breathed harshly through the aftershocks. When at last Astarion released his grip on Tyrus in the water, head resting against the tub again, Tyrus went back to gently stroking his smooth inner thigh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s clavicle, listening to them both breathe for a moment before whispering, “Alright?”

Astarion huffed—and then he began laughing. A soft, lighthearted, warm sound Tyrus couldn’t help but smile at, and hoped never to forget as Astarion’s chest lightly shook underneath him. Then Astarion’s wet arm emerged from the water and wrapped around Tyrus, pulling him in just a bit closer despite the awkwardness of the tub between them.

“Oh, besides a sore wrist of late,” he chortled, laying his cheek against Tyrus’s head when his giggling finally stopped. “I did start to find some enjoyment, even managed an orgasm the last two times, though. And this? Hmm . . . this is nice.”

Tyrus smiled wider against his chest. Of course, after another minute his back twinged and he regretfully had to pull from Astarion’s embrace—but was grateful his partner quickly dried off and joined him on the bed, despite the fact only Tyrus still needed a trance.

Once they'd both changed and his lover was spooning him snugly from behind, Tyrus thought to ask, “Have there been other things you like to imagine? Any specifics that I should take into account?”

The entire line of Astarion’s body froze up behind him. “I . . . I wouldn’t say there’s much I’m sure about acting on, darling,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “It’s been hard enough just to imagine sex without the thought of a customer, or him, intruding. Once that’s less an issue, I—I should be back to normal.”

“Normal,” Tyrus huffed, shaking his head and hugging Astarion’s arm a little closer to his chest. Being around relatively ‘normal’ people of late had taught Tyrus just how far off he and anyone else from the spawn colony were likely ever to be from such an ideal. “But hand jobs with you guiding me, would you say that goes on the safe list?” he stipulated.

Astarion was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the tip of Tyrus’s ear, repeating, “The safe list, what a sad state of affairs—but yes, I’d call that a success. We’ll have to see about your mouth. And perhaps, if you’re up for it, I think I'd enjoy some unconventional stimulation, just skin-to-skin.” A beat of silence, then Astarion’s voice came out so soft and uncertain, almost afraid, as he admitted, “I . . . I’d still like a break from anything so performative as full intercourse, if that’s alright . . . and, if you can forgive it, I may still just need time, before I can offer attentive service to you, love . . .”

Tyrus twisted under Astarion’s arm so he could face him—but only to wrap his arms tightly around him, tucking his chin into the crook of Astarion’s neck. Declaring, gently but firmly, “There’s nothing to forgive, and no service to worry about. You have always been so giving, love." Even more softly, he coaxed, "Now, let’s take care of you for a while?”

Tyrus felt his partner’s body shudder in his arms. Then, increment by increment, Astarion melted into the embrace.

“Gods, I do love you,” he whispered in answer.

#fic: perfect slaughter #PS: drabbles #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x oc #astarion x male oc #tystar #damn I've been in a writing slump #can always count on tystar to drag me out 🩵#send me prayers for my original story guys #worldbuilding is hard and annoyingly never-ending 💀

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lieutenantfloyd · 1 year ago

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Narrow Honor | Gurney Halleck x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Following the fall of the Imperium to the Fremen, House Atriedes hosts a dinner party for the remaining Great Houses. where Paul Atriedes informed them of his future plans. After the Reverend Mothers airs a number of personal and political grievances, You—a skilled Bene Gesserit and leader of the Fedaykin fighters—come to the defense of your marriage to Warmaster Gurney Halleck.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, arranged marriage, religion, heavy references of religion and use of scripture (Orange Catholic! Reader), canon divergence, the Bene Gesserit are terrible but Gurney plays the Baliset and makes everything ok.

Authors Note: This is very self indulgent, and can be read as x Reader or with an OC in mind.

Read on AO3

Paul Maud’dib sits solemnly at the head of the large stone table. The space around him is populated by the most important figures of the known universe.

Reverend Mother Jessica and the former Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV are seated on either side of the Lisan al Gaib. Princess irulan stands next to him, and flush with the wall behind them stands Chani. It took some convincing to get her here, but you’re most grateful that she’s in attendance.

To the left of Jessica is Stilgar, followed by the Fenring Reverend Mother, Lady Fenring herself, and two representatives from the Great Houses. Past Shaddam on Paul’s right sits House Corrino’s Reverend Mother, followed by four more representatives from the other Great Houses. You sit in the final chair, heading the table along with Paul, while Gurney stands doggedly behind your left shoulder.

Tensions are at an all time high, yet Paul looks as head strong as ever. Given your storied friendship and allegiance, his apparent security brings you ease.

A servant makes rounds and fills everyone's glasses with their choice of wine and water. The guests find relief from the dry, agitated air of Arrakis while each Fremen and member of House Atriedes in attendance leaves their own glasses untouched. While you know the liquids to be pure, they might as well be poisoned. you cringe at the blatant gluttony and wastefulness of it all. From across the room, you spot Paul sporting a similar look of disgust. Though his is almost immediately silenced in favor of a neutral but commanding stare. Your eyes then fall to Jessica, who signals to you both in hand speak.

A necessary sacrifice.

You sit calm and quiet as the future of the now-fallen Imperium is laid out in exact terms. You've both attended and led plenty of meetings similar to this in the past months, but know that you are attending this one as more of a formality than anything. Despite the topic of conversation being impossibly heavy, you now feel a strange weightlessness after waging war against your Harkonnen oppressors for so long.

Time advances unmonitored. Though your thoughts have been elsewhere, your senses have remained on alert. Sapped power, burst egos, and foiled plans are far too high in number around the table for you to ever feel comfortable.

Suddenly the sound of your name leaving Paul’s mouth finds your ears, and you perk up.

“-their sacrifices have been crucial to our cause, and as such I will personally see that they both retain their respective titles of Fedaykin leader and House Atriedes Warmaster.”

Angered murmurs break out amongst the table, but no one offers a formal rejection.

As Paul gives his closing statement, Gurney’s palm meets your shoulder and you place your own atop the dorsal side of his hand. Your subtle display of affection goes entirely unnoticed, but a silent affirmation passes between you. Equals in battle and in marriage.

The formal aspect of the dinner now over, the guests stand and begin mingling—albeit uncomfortably—amongst each other.

Again you hear the Corrino and Fenring Reverend Mothers speaking. Only this time they offer biting criticism not only of the situation at hand, but of your marriage—a marriage that they had a large hand in arranging. The things directed at yourself breeze past you, but you will allow none of their bitterness to be directed towards your Warmaster.

“-would have never allowed this shameful union to go forth if we had foreseen such an outcome. How terrible it is to see a talented yet difficult woman forced alongside such a brutal, ugly man…”

With a shattered heart, you feel Gurney’s stalwart hand leave you as he recoils at their hatred. Each and every forgotten doubt and insecurity about your arrangement suddenly comes flooding back to him. At the same time, you're assaulted by memories of countless cruel words shouted at you by members of the Sisterhood during your many years of training.

Jessica—your friend to the point of kinship—signs to you once more. Times have changed. Outside of us, the Sisterhood holds no power here.

Knowing her words to be true, you push your chair backward and stand in firm defiance of them.

"SIT DOWN!" you command in Bene Gesserit tongue.

Your ears are immediately allowed to savor the dull thud of bodies colliding with chairs. Paul dismisses Gurney and Stilgar in anticipation of your actions, knowing full well how their temper and affection will bring nothing but harm.

you don’t move a muscle as they leave. Though just as anticipated, you sense Gurney lingering just beyond the door.

Always a worrier, that one.

A glimmer of thought flashes behind your eyes then. A well trained Bene Gesserit wife should silence herself when in the company of both her husband and others. As quickly as the thought appears, your mind stamps it out. You know deeply how your talents greatly shadow your desire to comply.

Slamming your hands flat against the table, you capture what remaining attention isn't upon you and you hesitate none to unleash your displeasure.

"How dare you speak of your husband in this manner! Each of us sat lounging around this table knows perfectly well the nature of what he has done, achieved, and survived. There is not one individual amongst the Fremen or House Atriedes who will say that Gurney is an unrighteous or dishonorable man! And who knows the true nature of a man better than his own wife? How shameful of you to say that our marriage is anything short of suitable and well-anointed!"

your voice carries clear into the hall, and you sense only prideful satisfaction from your beloved standing in wait outside the door.

"Your flagrant talk has made clear where your allegiances lie. While we Fremen will do nothing of harm to you, we will also provide you no assistance in whatever lies ahead."

You inhale a sharpened breath. Paul offers a nod of endorsement without hesitation. An angry grin burns across your face.

"I hope your travels home are pleasant, seeing as you are no longer welcome here on Arrakis."

You turn on your heel without giving them the slightest chance to respond. your thoughts are focused solely on your desire to be away from everything. The fabric of your skirts flits behind you as your crysknife’s sand colored sheath glints against the sunlight.

"May shame befall each of you." you curse as you stride out of the room.

No one—not even Jessica or Chani—attempts to follow you. A fact of which you are thankful for.

Your footing is sure as you enter the hallway. The door closes behind you and you’re only a mere few feet past it before your arm is captured. If it were anyone else, your knife would have long since been buried in their flesh. Yet you know his touch as intimately as you know anything, and you willingly let yourself be pulled away.

You are content as he weaves his way through the halls and into your shared quarters.

Once the door is shut, you start to rid yourself of your armor and ceremonial clothing.

As you unpin your head-covering, you give quiet thanks for your strength along with the peace you are granted by Your Warmasters' safe return. You take the time to savor the slight weight of the Orange Catholic Bible you keep beneath your chest plate—a habit you formed after the Harkonnen’s and Sardaukar’s joint attack that led to Gurney’s apparent death. Your mind floats easily to the scriptures. A renewed comfort filling you as you recite Psalm 29:11 under your breath. The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace.

After dressing yourself in soft and informal clothing, you pad your way over to Gurney and join him in sitting on your bed.

He’s discarded his shoes but remains in his earlier outfit. You’d usually scold him for dirtying the smooth, pale bed linens with his day clothes, but you decide against it after the mentally tiring events of today.

You settle less than an arm's length away from him and sit with crossed legs before you begin to loosen a small, knotted braid that lie buried amongst your tangled curls.

“May I request a song, beloved?”

He obliges you, and you hum softly along to the tune he plucks on his baliset.

So much uncertainty lies outside your door, and we both know that there is much to talk about. Nonetheless, you the heavy topics minimal thought. Both of you are in agreement that these quiet moments of domesticity are too far and few between to not be seized.

As his song comes to an end, you close the gap between us and make your feelings for him known—the same feelings that drive you to defend him so fiercely. The kiss you share is soft, and you’re satisfied with the content grumble that rolls through his chest.

A sudden jolt of laughter grows inside you. Unable to contain it, you pull away from his lips. He feigns offense at your departure before gruffly prompting you to explain.

“When the Bene Gesserit first declared our arrangement, they had hoped you’d give you a life of hardship. Given your frightening reputation, It made simple sense. But, knowing what you know now, you can’t help but find humor in how wrong their assessment was.”

“You don’t see your reputation as earned?” he interjects teasingly, and you send him a playful but sharp look in response.

“If only you’d seen their faces when I spoke out of turn…” you say.

Something in the air shifts, and his brow creases with earnest. A few beats of silence pass.

“I know their faces because I’ve seen the looks you earn. This was just the first time you’ve noticed.”

You soften instantly at his words. Gurney is not a man for flattery, and your training affirms that he only speaks truth.

“Stop being so… modest. You’ve well earned your praise.” He continues, taking note of your silence.

A sudden heat rises to your cheeks. He watches you for a few moments before shaking his head solemnly.

"All that you, Jessica, and the boy went through after the attacks… What you yourself have achieved…” he mumbles, shaking his head again.

“That lies behind us, and we must now look forward,” you say, bringing a hand to his face and running your thumb absentmindedly along the deep scar of his cheek.

You meant nothing but comfort, but his eyes quickly grow dark with concern. He doesn’t need to speak for you to know exactly what clouds his mind.

The future. It worries me.

Taking this as a cue, you give him a soft yet reassuring smile before changing the subject entirely.

“Seeing as we missed out on dinner, would you be a dear and go collect our portions?” you say while shifting to lie down flatly on our bed.

"Are you asking me to steal, my lady?”

You turn your head towards him.

“It’s not stealing if it’s already intended for you,” you say mirroring his playful stare with your tone.

“Hmm, is that so?” he grunts, “and how would that defense hold up against the Council?” he finishes with an added air of challenge.

While forming a response you notice that Gurney is already slipping into his shoes.

“Given that the council is presumably dissolved under Paul’s leadership, we’ll just have to wait and find out.” you counter.

He clicks his tongue, though not disapprovingly.

“Always one step ahead, aren’t you?”

“As is the Bene Gesserit way,” you reply, smiling.

You may be a hawkish and unwanted member of the Sisterhood, but that doesn’t mean you despise them in return. Their teachings have undoubtedly saved your life on more occasions than you care to count. They also—albeit accidentally—blessed you with a Great House that cares for you and a wonderful man made of humor, wit, and strength. While you and the Bene Gesserit may never see eye to eye, those two simple facts are more than enough to earn them a narrow piece of your honor.

#dune #gurney halleck #gurney halleck x reader #gurney x reader #dune x reader #dune fanfiction #dune part 2 #dune part two #dune 2024

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writefightandflightclub · 1 year ago

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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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blindmagdalena · 2 years ago

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Hey again! So following up on the s/o with close older brother question, let's say the older brother kinda sorta knows that Homelander is fucked up, and has the "talk" with him (the "if you hurt a thread of hair on my sibling I'll fuck you up" type talk. The older brother doesn't really care that Homelander is this famous powerful being or whatever). Maybe the older brother tries to keep Homelander's s/o away from him. How would that scenario go?

Clearly Homelander's persona as an upstanding hero and dream-perfect boyfriend has lulled this moron into a false sense of security. He thinks he can speak to him with some kind of authority the moment he gets a whiff of something being off.

He's in for a harsh wakeup call.

“It you hurt her I’ll—“

“You’ll what?” Homelander interjects sharply, smiling in the same way a beast bares its teeth. The threat of it echoes in his eyes, wide and unkindly set. “No, really. You’ll what?”

Your brother only hesitates a second, but that’s all Homelander needs to pounce.

“That’s right. Not a fucking thing. I could shove your fist all the way down your throat and high-five you out your ass, and no one in this world would do a goddamn thing about it. You wanna know why?”

He leans in, that predator grin stretching wider. “I’m me, and you’re nobody.”

He relishes the look that puts on the poor saps face. He can’t help but continue to push, to establish that he’s the only one calling the shots here.

“Here’s the deal, bro,” he says, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Your sister? She fucking worships me. I don’t care how close you were or how much you thought she loved you, she’s mine now. And I will tell you one goddamn thing for certain, buckaroo,” he says, possessiveness making his tone vicious. His gloved hand tightens like a claw on the man's shoulder. “No one tells me what to do with what’s mine," he says through his teeth, leaning uncomfortably close. "Threaten me again and you’ll be eating from a tube and shitting into a bag for the rest of your miserable life.”

He soaks up the look of horror on the man’s face, knowing that by saying something so extreme, something so entirely out of character for the man you know, you’ll never believe it. If your brother tries to tattle, he'll look like the psychopath. Homelander will naturally deny every word of it while being as supportive as any good boyfriend should be.

“Okie-dokie. Good talk, bro!” He says, abruptly chipper, his smile now broad and eerily friendly. He gives him a harsh pat on the back and leaves him to stew on his friendly advice. “Let’s not do it again, okay?” He stops in the doorway, turning to point his index finger at him, thumb raised. “And remember, you’re the real hero.”

He savors the fading sound of the man’s heart pounding in his chest and the lingering bitter stink of his fear as he walks away. The taste of you will be the sweetest chaser to it.

#couldn't help myself i just love writing homelander threatening people #homelander x reader #homelander x you #jealousy #darling anon #ask and you shall receive #my writing

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chickensarentcheap · 4 months ago

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Some Esme and Tyler :)

Especially for you @tragiclyhip

@watermeezer @youflickedtooharddamnit @secretaryunpaid @kmc1989 @alisbackalleybbq

@asirensrage @residentdormouse @ninjasawakenedmystar @mrsmungus @creators-club

I'm missing people, I just know it...

“I only fought my way back for you. So I could have more time to drive you completely insane.”

“You weren’t THAT bad. You occasionally got on my already frayed nerves, but…” She lightly smacks his butt. “...you were really hot, so it made it a bit easier to deal with.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You always grope your mercenaries like that?”

“That was hardly groping. And no, I don’t. Only the really tall, blue-eyed, tatted-up Australian ones.”

“You meet a lot of them, do ya?”

“Tons,” she teases. “They’re a dime a dozen. I do like it, though.” She smoothes her palms down the front of his bulletproof vest. “You’ve always looked really good in black. It’s very sexy.”

“You’re nervous, aren’t you.”

Sighing, she fidgets with the frayed hem on the waist of his jacket. “Is it that obvious?”

He holds his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Just a bit. You always talk about crazy shit when you’re nervous.”

“What’s so crazy about it? It’s a compliment. Okay, so maybe it isn’t exactly the right TIME to be saying it…”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I appreciate the ego-stroking.”

“And you are a whole other level of hot. When you’re all geared up. It’s so intimidating and masculine and badass. Not that you aren’t masculine or badass all the time, but it’s just heightened, you know? And with that jacket and the vest over it? You look even thicker.”

He smirks, then nods his thanks to Yaz when he hands him his earpiece for communications, popping it into place before turning back to Esme. “Listen, if you call me fat one more time…”

“I’ve already explained this to you. I’m not calling you fat. I’m calling you THICK. It’s two totally different things.”

“In your warped little mind, anyway.”

“And even if you were, I’d still be madly in lust with you.”

“So we’ve narrowed it down, have we?” He chides, and snags a bulletproof vest from the supply case open in the middle of the table. “To just lust?”

“Well, I DO love you. That’s never in question. But sometimes the lust does have a slight edge. Are you telling me that there are never times when you don’t lust me more than you love me?”

“I love and lust you in equal amounts.”

“You are so diplomatic.”

“They’re both huge amounts, in case you haven’t figured that out.”

“You really ARE just a big sap.”

“Remember how you said maybe it isn’t the time or place for certain talk? Well, this is it. This is the time and place. Are you honestly feeling that confident? Insulting the guy that’s in charge of keeping your ass in one piece?”

“Like you would ever let anything happen to me. Regardless of how annoyed you are.”

“It’s because you’re so cute. You get away with a lot. Arms up.”

She does as instructed, her eyes never leaving his face as he slips the garment over her head. Tugging firmly at the fabric until it settles perfectly just above her waist; calloused palms smoothing down the front and back before his fingers begin tending to the velcro straps. And she notices the very distinct change in him in his persona. The seemingly smooth and easy transition from the angry and vulnerable Tyler from the night before to stern and focused -and extremely intuitive and skilled- mercenary. The darkness that now inhabits his eyes, the edge and the authority that creeps into his voice, the confident and assertive body language.

It’s the Tyler she remembers from years ago. The one who had tended to her vest and made sure she was feeling safe and secure in her own skin before sending her on her way. It had been those rough and rugged edges that had started the tumble into blinding lust and unprecedented love, but it had been what lay beneath that had sealed it. Those five days in the dirty little room had allowed her access to the Tyler that he hid from everyone else. Not just the softness and the lingering humanity that this weary and broken man still possessed, but the tenderness and patience and adoration that he had poured upon her. And she repeats her actions from that day as she reaches up to clear locks of hair from his furrowed brow; a shaky yet reassuring smile curving her lips.

“I was just thinking about how…” A startled gasp interrupts her words, a grimace replacing the smile. “Ow! Too tight! My lungs do need space to work!”

“Sorry.” He adjusts the straps. “I think I was being a little overcautious there.”

“Yeah, just a bit.”

Hands keeping a firm hold on the shoulders of the vest, he pulls her into him, lips pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. A pure and innocent form of intimacy that brings tears to her eyes; so many words left unsaid, yet so many promises being made at the same time. “What were you thinking about?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Dhaka.” She notices the beginnings of his scowl and quickly adds, “But not the bad things. About when you dropped me off. Before going to get Ovi out of that apartment. You did the same thing; you wouldn’t let me put on my vest. You insisted on doing it. Didn’t give me much of a chance, actually.”

“I needed to make sure you’d be safe. It made me feel better. Doing it for you.”

“Maybe this sounds really odd, but I liked it. Then AND now.”

“You ARE really odd,” he teases, shooting her a wink before turning back to his selection of equipment. “Now, don’t make me regret this. Don’t get trigger-happy and shoot me in the ass.”

“Ooooo….” She accepts the weapon offered; slipping the Glock out of its holster and checking the magazine. “...a shiny toy just for me. I don’t get another clip?”

“I’m hoping you won’t need to use that one. IF, for some reason, you run out, I’ve got more.”

“By the way, I would NEVER shoot you in the butt,” she assures him as she returns the revolver to its holster, then reaches under her coat and clips it to the waist of her jeans. “It’s too nice of an ass to take any chances with. But there was this guy that I served with in Kabul, that put his sidearm down on a lawn chair and then sat on it. Took a nine-millimetre right between the legs. Came out of it okay. Well, one ball less, mind you.”

“You shot him in the nuts, didn’t you.”

“I am completely innocent. Although he pissed off enough people that I’m sure a lot of us WANTED to.”

“Okay…listen…” He firmly seizes her by both shoulders. “...I know you’re not just a regular client off the street, and you have a lot of personal experience with shit like this, so I don’t know exactly why I’m about to say what I’m going to…”

“Force of habit?”

“..and I’m not trying to be a complete asshole, so…”

“It’s okay, Tyler. I get it. If anyone does, it’s me.”

“You stay close to me. At all times. Always behind, never in front. Unless I tell you otherwise. You listen to everything I say. Whatever I tell you to do, whenever I tell you to do it, you don’t hesitate. You don’t give me a hard time, you don’t argue, you don’t second guess me, and you don’t question a goddamn thing. If I want your opinion or your ideas, I’ll ask for them. Got it?”

She nods.

“You wanna get out of here alive, you cooperate. Now, I know how much pleasure you get out of being a complete pain in my ass…”

“One of the greatest joys of my life.”

“…but I really need you to toe the line. This isn’t a regular job. This isn’t Dhaka; we’re not partners this time. This is MY show to run. So I need you to just go easy on me, yeah? Just do what I say? Because this is way too personal, and I have way too much to lose. So does Millie. She needs her mum. And at the risk of being called a sap, I kinda need her too.”

#Tyler and Esme series #Lost and Found #fd: Extraction #OTP: Tyler Rake and Esme Drummond #Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fanfic #Tyler Rake fan fiction

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selmasemlan · 7 months ago

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Finding Strength in Desperation

Summary: Walking through the desert is not easy, especially when you´re Luna and you don't wanna be a burden to you friends

Pairing: Zoro Roronoa x Luna (OFC)

Author note: I´m baaaaack

Warning: none, cuteness

Word count: 971

Series Masterlist

Finding Strength in Desperation

The desert stretched endlessly before them, a harsh, unforgiving landscape of sand and heat. The sun beat down relentlessly, turning the ground into a burning sea of gold. Each step felt heavier than the last, and the Straw Hat crew trudged forward, their spirits high but their bodies weary.

Luna walked close to Zoro, her steps faltering occasionally as the heat sapped her strength. She could feel her throat drying up, her skin tingling with the lack of moisture. But she didn’t say anything, not wanting to be a burden on the crew. They had enough to worry about without her adding to it.

Zoro, however, was not so easily fooled. He kept a close eye on her, noticing the way her shoulders slumped, the slight stumble in her steps. Whenever they stopped for a short break, he made sure she drank from the single water bottle they’d saved just for her.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her as they paused in the shadow of a rocky outcrop. “Drink.”

Luna shook her head, glancing around at the others. “I’m okay, Zoro. I don’t want to take more than my share.”

“Drink, Luna,” he repeated, his voice firm but gentle. His gaze softened as he looked at her, understanding in his eyes. “You need it more than we do.”

She hesitated, then took the bottle, sipping carefully. The water was warm, but it was still refreshing. She handed it back, trying to smile despite her exhaustion. “Thank you.”

Zoro just nodded, tucking the bottle back into his pack. “Just don’t push yourself too hard,” he murmured, his voice low so only she could hear. “We need you to stay healthy.”

Luna glanced at him, surprised by the concern in his tone. She nodded, her smile a little more genuine this time. “I’ll try.”

As they continued their journey, the crew’s pace slowed. The heat was oppressive, and even Luffy’s boundless energy seemed to be waning. Luna did her best to keep up, but every step felt like a monumental effort. Her powers relied on her being well-hydrated, and in this environment, she felt herself weakening more with each passing hour.

It was Luffy who finally voiced what everyone was thinking. “Why does Luna get her own water bottle?” he asked, his voice carrying over the sandy dunes. He wasn’t complaining, exactly, but his tone was tinged with confusion and a hint of his usual impatience.

Nami turned to him, her face flushed from the heat but still composed. “Because of her powers, Luffy. Luna needs more water than we do, or she could get really sick.”

Luffy blinked, his eyes widening as the realization sank in. “Like, how sick?”

Nami’s expression grew serious. “If she doesn’t get enough water, it could be fatal. She could literally dry up.”

Luffy’s face shifted from confusion to concern in an instant. He glanced over at Luna, who was walking beside Zoro, her eyes downcast and her steps unsteady. “Luna, are you okay?”

Luna looked up, startled by his sudden attention. She forced a smile, trying to appear more energetic than she felt. “I’m fine, Luffy. Really.”

But Zoro, who had been watching her closely, shook his head. “She’s exhausted,” he said bluntly, his gaze never leaving Luna. “She’s just too stubborn to say it.”

Luna opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, Luffy had crossed the short distance between them. With a firm but gentle grip, he lifted her up and slung her over his back, his hands steady as he held her securely.

“Luffy!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with surprise and a bit of embarrassment. “I can walk, really—”

“Nope,” Luffy said, his tone final. “You’re not walking anymore.”

Sanji, who had been watching from a few steps away, scowled. “Oi, Luffy, be careful with her! You’re being too rough! And if anyone’s going to carry Luna, it should be me!”

But Luffy ignored him, his focus solely on Luna. “You’re too important to get sick, Luna,” he said, his voice unusually serious. “We can’t risk it.”

Luna blinked, feeling a surge of emotion at his words. She was still embarrassed to be carried like this, but Luffy’s concern—and the crew’s—was warming her heart despite the exhaustion. She glanced back at Zoro, who was watching her with a small, approving nod, and then at the others. Even Sanji, despite his usual antics, looked genuinely worried.

“Okay,” she said softly, resting her head against Luffy’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

The crew continued onward, Luffy carrying Luna with surprising gentleness. The others adjusted their pace, making sure not to push too hard. Nami kept an eye on the map, searching for the nearest oasis, while Zoro stayed close, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, his presence a steady reassurance.

Every now and then, Luffy would glance back at Luna, his eyes full of concern. “Are you feeling any better?”

Luna nodded, her eyes half-closed as she rested. “Yes, a little. Thank you, Luffy.”

Sanji, still grumbling under his breath about Luffy’s lack of finesse, looked over at her. “If you need anything, Luna, just say the word. I’ll whip up something special as soon as we get to the next town.”

Luna smiled faintly, her exhaustion making it hard to keep her eyes open. “That sounds nice, Sanji. Thank you.”

As they pressed on, Luna felt the crew’s support surrounding her like a protective shield. Despite the harsh conditions, despite the challenges ahead, she knew she wasn’t alone. They were a team, a family, and they would face whatever came their way together.

And with that thought in mind, she let herself relax, trusting Luffy and the others to take care of her, just as she would take care of them when the time came.

#one piece fanfic #selmasemlan #zoro roronoa x reader #straw hat pirates #fairy tide #selmasemlan fic #zoro roronoa x original character #luffy d monkey #luffy x original character #zoro roronoa #nami #vinsmoke sanji #tony tony chopper #one piece chopper #robin #one piece fanfiction #one piece robin

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suchi05 · 6 months ago

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SAP Role Review | SAP Authorization Review | SAP Role Redesign | ToggleNow

An authorization redesign in SAP is critical to strengthen security, streamline access governance, and enhance overall efficiency within the SAP system. Over time, businesses evolve, and with these changes come shifts in roles & responsibilities. Often, initial authorization setups in SAP may not align accurately with these changes, leading to potential security gaps or unnecessary Segregation of Duties. Therefore, a redesign becomes necessary to ensure that the right individuals have access to the appropriate resources, mitigating risks associated with unauthorized data access or system misuse.

By undertaking an authorization redesign, enterprises can expect improved compliance adherence and reduced vulnerability to internal and external risks. This redesign allows for a thorough reassessment of user privileges, enabling organizations to align permissions more closely with current job functions. Moreover, a redesigned authorization framework fosters greater transparency and accountability across the system. Overall, the necessity for an authorization redesign in SAP is pivotal in adapting to evolving business landscapes, and ensuring seamless functionality within the system.

Read more: https://togglenow.com/services/sap-authorization-review-redesign/

#SAP Authorization redesign #SAP Authorization Review #SAP Authorization Design #SAP Role Design #SAP security role design #SAP security audit #Audit Management #SAP Audit Services #SAP Audit Management

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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Authoritarian states’ traditional approach to conflict outside their borders is to choose sides—supplying political-diplomatic support and military muscle to their allies—or to freeze the conflict while keeping a hand in to stir the pot and shape possible outcomes. Russia has done both: the first by backing Syria’s Bashar al Assad against various rebel movements, and the second by trying to dominate the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan.

Authoritarians are not known for expending resources on peacemaking ventures with uncertain outcomes. Nor do they focus on good governance norms after a settlement. They are often content to consolidate the power and standing of local authoritarians.

Yet that pattern seems to be shifting. Today, we are witnessing a number of authoritarian or semi-authoritarian states engage in mediation, and conflict management. China has mediated between Iran and Saudi Arabia. Qatar has led talks between Israel and Hamas, and Turkey has done the same between Russia and Ukraine leading to the Black Sea Grain deal that lapsed last year.

In an attempt at heavy-handed conflict management, Russia tried to freeze the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict and sent in peacekeepers in 2020 but stood aside when the Azerbaijani forces took decisive action to seize the disputed territory three years later. Such activities are pursued by a wide range of nominal and quasi-democracies, military governments, presidential one-party states, and monarchies.

The impact of this surge in authoritarian peacemaking gets less attention than it deserves. Authoritarian states are buffeting the peacemaking diplomacy of Western states, blocking or undercutting Western initiatives and challenging Western leadership of the global peacemaking agenda. The most obvious impact has been the global polarization that creates gridlock in the U.N. Security Council, undercuts support for U.N. peace operations and saps coherence around critical norms such as human rights and individual freedoms.

This pattern constrains what the U.N. can do in conflict management, mediation and peacebuilding. It also directly challenges the ability of NGOs to work for dialogue and reconciliation in fragile and war-torn places such as Georgia where pro-Russian parties are imposing Russian-style controls on the activity of NGOs that receive external support. Such action undermines the unofficial playbook for peacemaking and good governance.

By pushing back against Western conceptions about managing conflict, authoritarian peacemaking is part-and-parcel of a more general global backlash against intrusive and interventionist western policies that may undercut the perceived authority and legitimacy of incumbent regimes.

This backlash privileges state sovereignty against notions about “global” norms relating to rights and governance. Sadly, the U.S. government has made the undermining of international norms easier by adopting double standards on civilian protection and human rights law in Ukraine and Gaza. Such conduct actually helps China attack American soft power in Africa and undercuts U.S. diplomatic efforts at the U.N.

But the authoritarian surge is not necessarily either effective or coherent. Consider, for example, the difficulty experienced by Egypt’s military regime and Qatar’s monarchy in bringing Hamas and Israel to a deal, even with strong backing from the U.S. and other Western and Arab states. Regional authoritarians have not been notably successful in bringing about peace and stability in Libya and have aggravated rather than alleviated its internal clan and tribal factionalism.

They have failed to cohere effectively for peace in Yemen. Regional authoritarians made Syria’s tragic civil war divisions worse before ceding the field to the Russians. In all these cases, the authoritarians ran into the hard realities of intractable conflicts where the local parties have plenty of weapons and have not yet exhausted their unilateral options. In some cases, they made the problem worse.

At first glance, it might appear that authoritarian states bring certain advantages to the table. One attribute is internal unity of command and policy coherence at the level of the individual state. Unlike liberal states, they can potentially bring not only a whole of government approach but also a whole of society focus in their strategy for dealing with conflicts. Messy internal policy debates do not bother them. Authoritarians generally place top priority on achieving stability and creating a favorable context for advancing regime interests, and their policies are best understood as transactional.

In practice the record of their approaches is quite mixed. In one model, for the transactions to succeed, it is necessary for the existing regime or the “winner” in a civil war to be capable of being a reliable partner to the external authoritarian conflict manager. In a second model, the authoritarian goal is to back a factional side—either to exploit natural resources or block an adversary or rival state, or perhaps both.

The idea of a negotiated settlement may not be a priority or be viewed as less desirable than some degree of continued instability. This scenario can slide into a third model in which rival authoritarians seek to impose a favorable outcome on the country and compete with rival external powers through the provision of military and political support. While authoritarian states may have internal coherence, they are often in conflict with other states.

It is not clear that any of these models is good for peace or for the lives of ordinary civilians. In the case of Syria, Russia prevailed by applying the first model, carpet-bombing cities to help the local authoritarian prevail, imposing a very cold peace. But it is not clear that authoritarian states will be successful in imposing outright victories in many other situations.

The case of Libya provides a vivid illustration of what can happen with the second model when outsiders pile in to pursue their varied agendas: In this case Egypt, Russia, the UAE, and the Saudis (to say nothing of the French) decided to support Gen. Khalifa Haftar’s designs against the U.N.-recognized unity government in Tripoli, backed by Turkey, Qatar, Italy, and the United States.

Commercial, strategic, and ideological agendas coursed across the strife-torn land, leading a succession of U.N. special envoys to resign in frustration, blaming the Libyan factions (rather than their backers) for a lack of political will to work for reconciliation and create conditions for holding elections. Libya’s disorder does not remain in Libya, as the neighboring Sudanese can attest.

In the case of the Ethiopia-Tigray civil war in 2020 to 2022, the Ethiopians enjoyed military support from the authoritarian regime of Eritrea as well as Turkey, Iran, and the UAE. But it was the African Union-based mediation of former Nigerian President Olusegun Obasanjo supported by former Kenyan President Uhuru Kenyatta and senior envoys of the U.S. and South African governments negotiated an end to the fighting. This followed the Ethiopian government’s ability to impose itself militarily on Tigray at a key moment in 2022 thanks to Turkish drones—though the country is still facing insurgents in other regions.

But it is clear that Sudan is not endowed with such resources for conflict management, despite the high hopes generated by the internationally celebrated Juba Accord of October 2020 between its transitional government and a range of rebel movements. Two and a half years later, the current civil war erupted, causing the gravest humanitarian crisis in the world, affecting some 6.6 million internally displaced persons and 2 million refugees fleeing into neighboring countries.

Rival military factions are tearing the country apart while attracting external authoritarians like flies to flypaper. The Saudis and the United States continue to host peace efforts, but Sudan’s military leaders enjoy widespread backing from authoritarian states: The regime’s forces are aided by Egypt, the Saudis, and Iran while the rival Rapid Support Forces are allied with Libya’s Haftar, the Chad regime of Mahamat Deby, plus the Russians, the UAE, and an assortment of allies in neighboring states. This is the second model with a vengeance, and it looks increasingly like it is sliding into the third model of authoritarian rivals pushing their proxies to the finish.

Spectacles like these do not seem to augur well for the peacemaking business. They undercut the potential for international organizations to play their traditional role. The Security Council regularly takes up the Sudan file but is prevented by gridlock from naming names and using serious pressure to stop the fighting. The UAE strenuously denies its role in fueling the fighting in an unholy alliance including Haftar and Deby, and the western permanent members of the Security Council are well aware they cannot ignore likely vetoes from China and Russia.

At the regional level, African Union members are divided, and the Gulf Cooperation Council is hampered by the intense feuding between the Saudis and the UAE. Sudan is a laboratory case of how warring factions export their divisions to external sponsors who return the favor by exporting their own divisions back into the conflict.

At first glance, all of this may look bad for the United States and, more generally, the West because it points to the erosion of the West’s hard and soft power. High-minded efforts at conflict management and good governance contend face-to-face with the most cynical practitioners of transactional statecraft. However, U.S. diplomats need a closer look at peacemaking cases to understand how U.S. statecraft can sometimes be effective in corralling recalcitrant antagonists, operating behind the scenes or employing more of an invisible hand.

When necessary, the United States is capable of standing back and advancing its interests by empowering others, sharing credit, and borrowing leverage and even credibility from other players, including the transactional authoritarians, however unprincipled they are.

During the Balkan wars of the 1990s, it fell to the U.S. government to knock mostly authoritarian heads and impose a stop to the fighting. Representatives of the U.K., France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and the European Union attended the Dayton peace conference. In the case of Colombia’s long civil conflicts, Washington first deployed diplomatic leadership via Plan Colombia and helped shape the balance of power between the government and the Marxist rebels of the FARC.

In the next phase, the U.S. government operated more indirectly via a special envoy who participated discreetly in a process led by Cuba and Norway with facilitator countries Venezuela and Chile, all loosely coordinating with major European and neighboring states, the U.N., and the E.U., leading to the 2016 Colombian peace accords. Washington played its hand decisively but less visibly in the Northern Ireland process leading to the 1998 Good Friday agreement.

This less direct public face of peacemaking has a history. In 1905, Theodore Roosevelt indirectly maneuvered Tsarist Russia and imperial Japan to terminate a hugely costly war, leaving the visible negotiation to the direct parties. He never personally visited the conference table in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but actively communicated with relevant governments and, in effect, borrowed leverage from authoritarian and democratic states alike, while blocking alternative approaches. The process required Roosevelt to navigate the politics of two authoritarian regimes which could not admit their need for his help.

Fast forward to the 1980s and 1990s when U.S. negotiators borrowed leverage from allies and erstwhile adversaries in bringing authoritarian regimes to make peace in Southern Africa (working with the British, Portuguese, and other Western allies as well as the Soviets, Cubans, Zambians, Congolese, Cape Verdeans, Mozambicans and the U.N. Secretariat), and to avert civil war in Ethiopia (working with Sweden, Britain, the Soviets, Israel, Sudan, and the Marxist-oriented rebel Eritrean and Tigrayan movements).

This is not a brand-new way of operating but one that could become more common in an age of multiple overlapping alignments where other states are partners on some issues and troublesome obstacles on others. It could also be less of a drain on the political capital available to presidents and secretaries of state. To work, it requires top level officials to delegate and a willingness to work closely with friends, partners, and other parties they wouldn’t want to bring home for dinner.

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