#Shutter Curved Slats

[tacobacoyeet]

la sombra | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!reader, retired!patrick, alcohol, crying, cursing, everyone say thank you to @artdcnaldson for sending the picture that inspired this whole fic

The island was the last dot on the map. A speck of green surrounded by turquoise, barely big enough to house the string of low bungalows and the stubborn curve of jungle that clung to the cliffs. It didn’t boast resorts or spas or curated experiences. It wasn’t tagged on Instagram. That’s what you liked about it.

You arrived with a round-trip ticket, a weathered suitcase with only enough clothing for a week, and a silence that pressed against your ribs like a bruise. The divorce had been finalized two weeks ago. Twelve years of love—if you could even call it that by the end—reduced to paperwork and the sour memory of his voice echoing through empty rooms. He’d said things. You had too. But his words stuck longer.

"You always need so much."

"You're exhausting to love."

"Maybe you're just better alone."

Maybe you were. You hadn’t decided yet. But the city was too loud, too filled with people who looked at you with pity or, worse, relief. So you booked the first place that didn’t have a concierge or Wi-Fi. The island had no formal name. Locals called it La Sombra—the shadow. Something about the cliffs.

When the ferry pulled away and left you standing on the dock, you realized it was quiet in a way you hadn’t felt in years. The kind of quiet that made your heartbeat feel too loud.

You walked up the dirt path toward your bungalow with the sun already warming your shoulders, the humidity curling your hair at the edges. The woman who ran the rentals handed you a key on a string and said, simply, "You’ll get used to the birds."

Inside, the bungalow smelled like lemon oil and salt. The bed was wide and draped with mosquito netting. The floor creaked when you walked barefoot across it, and dust danced in the streaks of sunlight coming through the slatted blinds. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the hush settle around you.

You unpacked your suitcase in silence, folded your clothes into neat piles, lined up your books along the bedside table like talismans. A small framed photo—your mother, before she got sick—went beside the lamp. A bottle of lavender oil from your last birthday. The things that still made you feel like yourself.

It was hotter than you expected. The kind of sticky, thick heat that pressed into your skin and clung to the back of your neck. You stripped off your travel clothes and pulled on a linen tank top, bare feet padding across the wood as you tried to force the windows open. Most of them cooperated, swinging outward with a creak. But the bedroom window—the one that faced the sea—was jammed.

You tried once, twice. Pressed your palms against the frame and gave it all your weight. Nothing. The latch refused to budge. Swearing under your breath, you grabbed your key and stepped outside, circling the bungalow to try from the other side.

The light out here was harsher, all white glare and golden sand. You shaded your eyes with one hand, squinting up at the wooden shutter. It sat half-cocked, paint peeling at the corners. You reached up, fingers brushing the edge—

“Don’t force it. You’ll crack the frame.”

The voice was low, smooth and sun-drowsed, like it hadn’t been used much lately. You turned sharply.

He stood just off the path, leaning lazily against the split rail fence that framed the neighboring bungalow’s edge. Shirtless. A threadbare white towel wrapped around his hips, clinging low. His skin was bronzed, freckled. Salt crusted the tips of his hair. There was a half-buttoned linen shirt slipping off his left shoulder, like it had given up. His eyes—dark, tired, and steady—were fixed on you.

He nodded once toward the window. "It sticks when the heat rolls in. Swells the wood. Gotta pop it from the side, not the middle."

You blinked at him. Sweat prickled the back of your knees.

“I—thank you. I just got here. Didn’t realize it was so stubborn.”

“Most things here are.”

He pushed off the fence and moved closer, stepping barefoot across the grass, slow and unhurried like he belonged to the island as much as the sea did. He didn’t ask permission, just reached up and tapped the frame twice with the flat of his palm, then lifted the window open with ease.

The silence stretched.

You were still staring.

He looked like someone you'd seen before—on a screen, maybe. A memory knocking faintly. But the heat muddled everything, and all you could think to say was, “Thanks.”

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close. "Welcome to La Sombra."

Then he turned and walked away, back toward his bungalow, towel shifting at his hips, shoulders golden in the sunlight. He didn’t look back.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the window frame, heart suddenly loud again in your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t do anything inappropriate. But something about him still left your skin feeling too tight. There was a gravity to the way he moved—something sun-warmed and heavy, like heat mirage off asphalt. You stared after him until he disappeared behind the corner of his bungalow, and only then remembered to breathe.

Your hand slid off the frame.

Inside, the air felt different. Still hot. Still thick. But changed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pressed your fingers into your temples. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the exhaustion. But your body buzzed in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Not since before the silence. Not since before you stopped feeling like someone who could still be wanted.

You pulled your hair back and tried to shake it off.

He was just a man. Just a stranger. You were here to be alone. To heal. To not need anyone.

Still, your eyes drifted back to the window he’d fixed.

The breeze moved through it now.

Soft. Salted. Like something had opened in you too.

---

That evening, the heat still hadn’t broken.

You slipped into a sundress and sandals, hair twisted off your neck, skin still tacky from the shower. The island’s one bar—if you could call it that—was a lean-to with string lights, driftwood stools, and a cooler full of beer that looked older than your divorce papers. You didn’t go expecting anything. You just wanted to be somewhere that wasn't silent.

And then you saw him.

Patrick. At the far end of the bar, laughing low with the bartender and an older man who looked like he’d been born with salt in his blood. Patrick's curls were damp again, clinging to his temples. This time he wore real clothes—if a thin, half-buttoned shirt and board shorts could be considered that. But even then, he looked like something carved out of the sun.

You hovered by the edge of the counter. Ordered something with rum and lime and too much ice. Watched him out of the corner of your eye while pretending not to.

It was the way he moved—loose, unbothered. Like he had nothing to prove and no one left to impress. When he glanced your way, it wasn’t shy. It wasn’t flirtatious either. Just curious.

A beat passed. Then he lifted his glass slightly in greeting.

You raised yours back.

And when he crossed the space between you, leaned one forearm against the bar and said, "So. You stuck with the window, huh?"

You laughed. It surprised you.

"Thought about throwing a rock through it instead."

"Would’ve been a hell of a first impression."

You smiled into your glass. "You mean that wasn’t?"

He smirked. "Jury’s still out."

Then came the drinks. More than a few. You both acknowledged it—openly, lazily, with grins that bordered on goofy. "We’re definitely drunk, right?" you asked, somewhere between your third and fourth round.

Patrick raised his glass like a toast. "Spectacularly."

You giggled into your straw. "Just checking."

"No false pretenses here," he said. "I am deeply sunburnt, pleasantly buzzed, and absolutely not responsible for anything stupid I say in the next hour."

"Good," you said, tapping your glass to his. "Me neither."

The bartender slid another drink your way with a look that said pace yourself, but neither of you listened.

"So," you said, words slurring just a little at the edges. "Patrick. What’s your deal? You live here?"

He exhaled a laugh. "'Deal' is generous. I’ve been here about five years. Came for a week. Never left."

You raised a brow. "That’s... commitment."

"Or cowardice. Depends who you ask."

You tilted your head. "Why’d you stay?"

He hesitated. His gaze flicked toward the surf, the moonlight turning the water silver. Then he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass down a little harder than necessary.

"Tried the whole being-somebody thing," he said. "Didn’t work out."

You waited.

He didn’t look at you as he said, "Played tennis. Professionally. Burned out fast. Lost more matches than I won. Spent more time in hotel rooms than actual homes. Woke up one day and realized I didn’t like who I was around anyone anymore. So I left."

You blinked slowly. The name Patrick Zweig landed differently now. It clicked in a faraway, wine-soft part of your brain.

"That’s why you looked familiar."

"Yeah," he said. "Don’t tell anyone."

You grinned. "There’s no one to tell."

He smiled back, lopsided and tired and stupidly charming. "Then I guess I’m safe with you."

"For now." You started with another round of rum and lime, then switched to something local the bartender recommended with a wink and a warning. The kind of drink that tasted like fire and citrus and made your limbs feel like silk.

He asked what brought you here, and you surprised yourself by answering. You kept it vague at first—"needed space"—but he didn’t press. He just nodded like he knew what that meant. Like he’d needed it once too.

“What about you?” you asked, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass.

Patrick shrugged. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

It should’ve been evasive. It wasn’t. It felt true in a way that made your throat tighten. You both lapsed into silence for a moment, watching a moth bat its wings against the warm light over the bar.

“So what’s the story with this place?” you asked. “Why does everyone talk about it like it’s some secret?”

He smiled—really smiled, finally—and looked out at the dark horizon. “Because it is. It doesn’t want to be found. Just lets you in if you need it bad enough.”

You looked at him. “And you needed it bad enough?”

He looked back. “Didn’t know it until I got here.”

Another drink. Laughter a little louder now. You told him about the worst date you’d ever been on. He told you about the first time he tried surfing and cracked a board in half. You teased each other over music taste. He guessed—correctly—that you cried during The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. You accused him of pretending not to like romantic comedies.

“I don’t pretend,” he said, hand over his heart, drunk and mock-serious. “I just have a brand to protect.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “And what brand is that?”

“Lonely island hermit who knows how to fix windows.”

You snorted into your drink. “Sexy.”

“I try.”

The conversation turned softer then. The kind of softness that comes with alcohol and salt air and the slow settling of trust. You told him about how your ex used to interrupt you mid-sentence. How you forgot what your own voice sounded like when it wasn’t measured or polite. He didn’t offer advice. He just listened, head tilted slightly, fingers absently turning his empty glass.

Eventually, your knees brushed. Then your hands. Then his thigh pressed lightly against yours and neither of you moved.

He looked at you like he was trying not to ask anything.

And you looked back like you already knew the answer.

The kiss was quiet. Almost shy. Rum-sweet. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but still makes a promise.

And when he said, “Let’s get out of here,” you didn’t hesitate.

The walk back to your bungalow was clumsy and giggly and full of soft, stumbling touches—his hand on your lower back, your fingers brushing his wrist. At the door, he stopped.

"You sure?"

You didn’t say anything.

You just pulled him inside.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and then his mouth was back on yours, urgent and open, laughing between kisses. You stumbled into each other, giggling as your shoulders hit the wall. Then his hands were on your hips—your waist—your back—anywhere he could touch. One of you tripped on the woven rug near the entryway and suddenly you were both collapsing sideways onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter.

"Shit—are you okay?" he asked, breathless against your neck, laughter still shaking his chest.

"Totally," you said, pulling him down to you, lips finding his again.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt. It was damp with sweat and ocean and clung to his skin like it didn’t want to be removed. But you made quick work of it anyway, yanking it up over his head, tossing it somewhere you didn’t look. His fingers tugged at the straps of your dress in return, clumsy in their coordination but relentless in their goal.

You kissed and fumbled your way across the room, pausing only to shed another layer—your dress halfway down your body, his shorts undone, the two of you drunk and glowing and practically naked before you reached the bedroom door.

Once inside, he backed you toward the bed, mouths still fused, fingers trailing everywhere. When you sat, he knelt in front of you, hands pushing your thighs apart gently, reverently.

“Let me taste you,” he murmured.

You shivered. Nodded.

He tugged your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours. And then his mouth was there—hot and insistent. His tongue dragged through you, slow and heavy, and you moaned before you could stop yourself. His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you as he kissed and sucked and circled until your spine arched and your fingers dug into the sheets.

Then came his fingers.

He slipped one inside, then another, curling expertly, rhythm syncing with his mouth until your breath hitched hard.

You gasped. "Wait—"

He stopped instantly, pulling back, breathing heavy. "Too much?"

You shook your head, grabbing his wrist. “No, just—just wait. Condom. I want you inside me.”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah. Okay.”

He stood, kissed you hard, then reached for his wallet. The wrapper tore, fast and familiar, and then he was kneeling on the bed, rolling it on, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite keep up.

You reached for him as he settled between your legs, body warm and heavy and ready.

And when he pushed in, you both exhaled—like you’d been holding your breath since the moment you met.

Your head tipped back, a shaky laugh slipping out as you clutched at his shoulders. "Holy shit."

He was shaking with the effort to stay still, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, that’s... fuck."

He rocked into you slowly at first, both of you finding your rhythm in fits and starts, laughing through the awkward friction of drunken limbs and too much heat. The fan spun uselessly overhead, and every surface of your skin felt damp, your bodies sliding together with a kind of slick, delirious friction.

You grabbed at his back, your nails raking lightly down his spine as he found the angle that made you gasp. His mouth dropped open, then found yours again—sloppy, panting, desperate. He kissed like he didn’t know where else to put all that want.

The headboard thunked softly against the wall. The sheets twisted beneath you. One of his hands cupped your jaw, the other anchored you by the hip, keeping you close as his thrusts got rougher, deeper. Still laughing, still panting, still soaked in the scent of alcohol and salt and too many unspoken things far too soon.

"You feel so fucking good," he whispered, teeth grazing your throat.

You were trembling, clinging to him, words slurring with breath. "You’re gonna make me—" another laugh, "—fuck, yes—don’t stop."

He didn’t. Not until you were crying out, back arched, toes curling against the tangled sheets. And even then, he didn’t stop until he followed, hips stuttering, gasping your name into the damp skin of your shoulder.

He collapsed beside you, one arm draped across your belly, the two of you laughing again, softer now. Slower. The room spun a little. The air was thick. Your whole body felt like it had melted into the mattress.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a while.

There was no posturing. No awkwardness. Just skin and sweat and laughter, echoing faintly under the low hum of the ceiling fan.

Outside, the waves kept rolling. Inside, the two of you finally quieted.

You weren’t sure when you drifted off, only that his hand was still resting on your hip, warm and lax, and your cheek was pillowed against his shoulder. The fan above spun in lazy circles, stirring air that barely cooled your skin. The salt dried sticky on your chest. Your legs were tangled together beneath the sheet.

When the morning came, it didn’t arrive gently.

Sunlight poured in through the open windows in a blinding blaze, casting gold over the floorboards and onto the rumpled bed. It was hot—hotter than yesterday somehow—humid in a way that made the sheets cling to your back and your mouth feel dry. Your body ached in all the ways that reminded you of the night before: the way he moved, the way you laughed, the way it felt to be touched like you mattered.

You rolled over with a soft groan, eyes squinting against the light, reaching instinctively for the warm weight beside you—

But it wasn’t there.

The space was empty. Just tangled sheets and the faint scent of salt and sweat. You blinked. Sat up slowly. Heart clenching.

Gone?

The giddiness of the night before dropped, hollow and fast. Maybe he hadn’t meant to stay. Maybe it had only been a story for the bar. Maybe you were a chapter he didn’t even finish.

You wrapped a sheet around yourself and padded barefoot into the main room, stomach tight.

But then—

On the small kitchen table sat a bowl of fresh mango, pineapple, and guava, their colors bright and glistening. A few wildflowers—hastily arranged, some wilted at the edges—sat in a cracked mason jar beside it. And there, folded neatly between the two, was a slip of paper in smudged, crooked handwriting:

hangover cure. also: last night was... really something. you know where to find me. if you want to. but i really want you to. — P

You stared.

Then you smiled. Slow. Warm. Relieved in a way that loosened something tight in your chest.

Still, the guilt crept up too. You were freshly divorced. This was supposed to be a solo escape. You were only here for a week.

But for now, for today, he wanted to see you again. And that felt like enough.

You made coffee. Ate a little fruit. Sat on the steps outside the bungalow with your legs tucked under you, watching a lizard blink slowly on the porch rail. The island moved around you at its own rhythm—kids yelling somewhere near the shore, the buzz of a boat engine far out in the bay, wind whispering through banana leaves.

He wasn’t in sight.

You didn’t expect him to be. And yet, every time you glanced up, your eyes instinctively sought the path that led to his side of the beach.

By noon, you had showered. Worn a different dress. Tried to read one of the books you’d brought but barely made it through a page.

The guilt sat with you like a second shadow. You shouldn’t have let it happen. Shouldn’t have wanted it to happen. Shouldn’t be this affected by someone you barely knew.

But then you'd remember the way he touched you like he knew exactly how to ask permission with his hands. The way he made you laugh into his mouth. The note. The fruit. The wildflowers.

By late afternoon, you walked into the village just to move your legs. You bought more sunscreen. A cold bottle of water. Sat on a bench and listened to old men argue over chess in a language you barely understood.

You didn’t see him.

But when you returned to your bungalow just before sunset, there was a second note tucked under another bundle of flowers on your porch. One line. Written hastily, like he wasn’t sure he should leave it.

low tide. sundown. bonfire by the rocks. if you come, bring that smile.

Your heart thudded.

You set the note down, fingers trembling slightly.

You were going to go.

---

The sun dipped low, spilling honey across the sand and turning the water to fire. You stood at the edge of the bungalow, bare feet brushing the steps, watching the sky shift through every warm color you could name. In your chest, your heartbeat kept an uneven rhythm.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Just a fire. Just a night. Just a man.

But nothing about Patrick had felt like just anything.

By the time you made your way down the narrow path toward the rocky outcrop, the light had thinned to deep lavender. The breeze had cooled, carrying salt and smoke and something sweeter beneath it—something floral and faintly burnt.

The bonfire glowed ahead of you like a beacon. Flames licking at driftwood, snapping softly. And there he was.

Patrick.

He was crouched low, feeding another branch into the fire. His curls were messy, but somehow sat in a way that was nothing short of perfect. A linen shirt rolled to the elbows. His skin caught the light, all bronze and gold and flicker.

He looked up before you could say anything.

And smiled.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just smiled. Soft. Quiet. Lit from the inside.

"Hey," he said, rising to his feet. He dusted his hands on his shorts and stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. "Wasn’t sure you’d come."

You shrugged, trying for casual, but your voice caught. "Wasn’t sure I should."

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just gestured to the fire. “You hungry?”

You noticed then—two skewers stuck into the sand, each holding something charred and a little misshapen. Mango slices. Maybe fish. He scratched the back of his neck. “Island cooking. Not exactly gourmet.”

You laughed. “Looks perfect.”

You sat together in the sand, not quite touching. The fire between you, crackling and dancing. His knee brushed yours when he shifted. Your elbow nearly grazed his when you reached for your drink. You didn’t say much at first. Just listened to the surf and watched the moon rise slow and round behind the trees.

Eventually, he spoke. “I thought about waking you up this morning. Saying something. But…”

“But?”

He looked over at you, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t want to risk ruining it."

You swallowed. “I thought you left."

“I almost did,” he admitted. “Old habit. But then I made it to the porch and didn’t want to be the guy who fucks and disappears. So. Fruit and flowers. Figured it was worth the risk.”

Your smile curved slowly. “It was.”

He turned more fully toward you then. Close. Closer. Close enough to see the sweat still clinging to his neck, the gold in his lashes, the way his mouth parted when he looked at yours.

And when he kissed you again, it was different.

Slower. Calmer. Still hot, still deep, still curling heat low in your belly—but steadier now. Like he wasn’t rushing this time. Like you weren’t either.

You kissed for a while—long, melting, slow. Lips brushing, tongues tangling softly. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. He kissed you like he wanted to learn you by heart. And you let him, sighing into his mouth, anchoring yourself to his bare shoulder.

But something caught in your throat. A breath you couldn’t quite finish. The weight of the week—the weight of your year—rising like a tide in your chest.

You broke the kiss gently, but with urgency. Your hand pressing flat to his chest, pushing back just enough to part.

He blinked at you, surprised but not upset. “Too much?”

You shook your head, stepping away, arms folded over your middle like you were trying to hold something inside. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not.”

The fire crackled behind you, shadows shifting across the sand. Your voice faltered in your throat. “I just got divorced. Two weeks ago. Not even enough time to change my name back or clear my head. And now here you are.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I came here to disappear,” you continued, voice cracking. “Not to feel again. Not like this. And it’s terrifying how easily you made me want to.”

You looked down, your arms tightening. “I’m leaving next week. I don’t want to pretend this is more than it is. I don’t want to pretend I could be enough for someone again, let alone someone like you.”

He stepped forward carefully, until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his chest. “You know what’s funny?” he said softly.

“What?”

“I said those same words when I got here. ‘Just for a week.’ I meant it. But the island had other plans.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it—just something deeply lived-in. “I wasn’t trying to be found either.”

You looked up at him then, and the sadness in your chest stretched wide.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” he said gently. “I’m not even asking you to want me. I just…” His hand ran through his hair. “I’d like to be whatever this is. For as long as we have.”

“But what if I want more?” you whispered. “What if I get used to this? To you?”

He stepped closer still, until your foreheads nearly touched.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he said. “I won’t make you feel foolish for feeling something. I won’t disappear on you. Let’s just let this week be what it is. No pretending. No rules. Just... real.”

The quiet between you was thick. Not tense—full.

You breathed. In. Out. A little steadier now.

And then, softly, you nodded.

He reached for you again, this time slower, his fingers brushing yours as though he didn’t want to startle you. When you leaned into him, the kiss that followed wasn’t eager—it was aching. Gentle. Deep.

But even as you kissed him again, your chest hurt in a way it hadn’t before.

Because now you knew it wouldn’t be enough.

---

The next few days moved strangely. Time loosened around you, less like something passing and more like something folding in. Each morning you woke tangled in sun-drenched sheets and the warm imprint of his body beside yours. Sometimes he was still there, pressed close, one leg thrown over yours like he couldn’t help it. Sometimes he was already up, leaving behind fresh fruit and flowers on the porch—always with a note, always with a promise.

You fell into a rhythm. Morning swims in the crystalline shallows. Long walks through the thick green of the jungle where he knew every bend, every birdcall. Lazy lunches that turned into sticky afternoon naps. Your bodies learned each other’s shapes as easily as they learned the creak of the bungalow floorboards, the scrape of coconut husk chairs on wood.

Evenings came soft and golden. He cooked for you—badly, but with intention. You’d sit on the porch drinking rum from chipped mugs, the salt on your skin clinging sweet. You talked. About books. About silence. About how tennis ruined him and how being wanted had never felt quite like this before.

You laughed a lot. Sometimes until you cried.

But the ache never left. It curled around the edges of your heart like smoke. Because every time you let yourself lean in—into his mouth, his hands, his voice—you felt the clock ticking.

Only a few days left. Then a few less.

You tried not to say it aloud, but it lived between you anyway. In the way his eyes lingered when you thought he wasn’t looking. In the way your hands tightened when he pulled you close. In the way you both hesitated before sleep each night, as if afraid the next breath might be goodbye.

You were falling.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like crashing.

It felt like mourning something beautiful before it was even gone.

---

The day before you were supposed to leave was almost unnervingly normal.

You made coffee. Ate fruit on the porch. Swam until your fingertips pruned and your legs ached in that good, useful way. He met you after lunch, pressed a kiss to your shoulder like he had been doing it for his entire life, and made some joke about you burning in places only he could see.

You let it all happen. You let it feel ordinary. It was easier that way.

You didn’t talk about tomorrow. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer.

That evening, the sky was painted in molten amber, the kind that made everything feel holy. You were sitting on a blanket on the beach, passing a bottle of rum between you, when Patrick turned his head toward the horizon, eyes gleaming.

“Wanna go skinny dipping?”

You blinked at him.

He grinned. “One last first. Come on. Water’s warm. No one’s around. It’s basically a crime not to.”

You laughed, something breathless in your throat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” he waggled his brows, already standing, already peeling his shirt off.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thudding. He looked golden in the fading light, the curve of his spine catching shadows as he waded into the surf.

“Don’t leave me out here alone,” he called, voice half-laugh, half-dare.

So you stripped, giggling, stumbling a little over the hem of your dress, your skin already tingling with anticipation. The air was warm, the sea warmer. It cradled you as you stepped in, arms crossing instinctively before you gave up and just dove under.

When you surfaced, he was there. Close. Salt clung to his lashes. His smile had softened.

You tread water in silence for a beat. The stars above you multiplied with every passing second. The moon spilled a path across the surface. It should have felt free. Liberating. Like a movie.

But something pressed at your chest.

He must’ve felt it, too. Because he swam closer, letting his hand brush your waist under the water.

“Hey,” he said, quiet now. “Still with me?”

You nodded, but it was trembling.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. That close, you felt it more than heard it.

“I don’t want you to,” he said.

You turned your face up to the stars, blinking hard. “I’m scared if I stay, I’ll build a whole life around something that can’t last. That I’ll forget why I came here in the first place. That I’ll forget who I am without all this.”

Patrick’s hand came to rest gently over your heart, fingers spread like he could hold it still.

“You didn’t forget,” he said. “You found something. That’s different.”

You met his eyes. Salt and moonlight and ache.

“I don’t want to break your heart,” you murmured.

He gave you a sad smile. “You already have. But I think you were always supposed to.”

You floated there, water licking at your shoulders, his hand on your chest, your breath shared in the dark.

When you stumbled back to the bungalow, clothes barely thrown back on, your hand stayed in his the whole time—tight, silent, like letting go might break the spell.

Inside, it was dark and humid and quiet, but none of it mattered. The door clicked shut. You turned. And then you were on him—kissing him like you had all the time in the world and none at all. His hands found your waist, your jaw, the back of your neck. You walked him backward into the bedroom, mouths locked, breath heavy, wet clothes clinging to your skin.

He pulled your soaked dress over your head. You tugged at the waistband of his shorts. You were still damp from the ocean, skin salt-sticky and warm. He cupped your face like you might vanish.

You kissed again, slower this time. His lips dragged over yours with something deeper than lust—like longing, like mourning, like gratitude for the fact that you were still here. You whimpered into his mouth as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs, lifting you up.

He laid you down on the bed like you were breakable, but then his mouth was on you, not soft anymore—needy, greedy, wet. He kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach. When he reached the soft inside of your thigh, he looked up at you, breath hot, hands anchoring you in place.

And then he was there.

His tongue parted you and you gasped, back arching, hands flying to his hair. He moaned against you, eating like he was starving. Broad strokes at first, then tighter, faster. You were already so close—your body strung tight, heart already aching. But you held on. Fought the wave. Not yet. Not yet.

“Patrick,” you gasped, one hand fisting in the sheet. “Please.”

He pulled off with a breathless sound, lips slick. “Please what?”

“Come here,” you whispered. “I need you.”

He crawled up, kissing you deep, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. Your hand slid down, wrapping around him, stroking him slowly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

You smiled sadly. “Then we'll die together.”

And then you were sliding down, taking him in your mouth with no hesitation. Your lips wrapped around him slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste and weight of him. His cock pulsed against your tongue, hot and thick, and you flattened your tongue along the underside, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. One of his hands slid into your hair, not to guide but just to anchor himself, fingers curling loosely as if even that was too much. You bobbed your head in a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks and watching his reactions—how his thighs tensed, how his breath stuttered, how his abs clenched each time your tongue flicked over the sensitive tip. You let spit drip down your chin, let your jaw ache, let the moment drag—messy, loving, desperate. Like if you kissed him here long enough, maybe he wouldn’t leave your body ever again. He bucked beneath you, head tipping back, a broken sound falling from his lips. You sucked him slow at first, then deeper, wetter, letting the edge come close before backing off again.

When he pulled you off with trembling hands, he flipped you gently onto your back. A condom appeared like magic from the nightstand, and then he was pushing inside you, inch by inch, stretching you until your breath hitched.

You both groaned—one part pain, two parts relief.

He fucked you like he didn’t know how to say goodbye. Each thrust was deliberate—deep, slow, lingering—like he was carving the memory of your body into his. His chest was pressed to yours, sweat slicking you together, every inch of him taut with restraint. His hands gripped your thighs, your hips, your face, moving between reverence and need. He whispered into your neck, voice cracked and soft, confessions unraveling like thread—"you're everything," "I’ll never forget this," "please don’t forget me."

You cried. Quietly. Without warning. And he kissed the tears from your cheeks, whispering your name over and over.

Your bodies moved together like prayer—sacred and desperate. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he rocked into you, slow and deep, forehead resting against yours. Your breaths synced, your moans layered, and with each roll of his hips, the pain of parting simmered beneath the pleasure. You kissed between gasps, hands wandering frantically over each other’s skin like you could memorize every detail in a single night. His body trembled against yours, and when your release came, it was with a sob that pulled from somewhere ancient inside you, the feeling tearing through you like a heartbreak you had felt before, but never so viscerally. And when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and said nothing.

You stayed like that.

Breathless. Tangled. Drenched in heat and sweat and silence.

The last night. The last time.

And it would never, ever be enough.

---

You woke to the scent of him first—salt, sweat, and something warm beneath the morning sun. His arm was heavy over your waist, one leg thrown over yours, chest pressed to your back, steady in sleep. The room was glowing with golden light, the heat already beginning to settle thick in the air.

For a moment, you stayed still. Let your eyes trace the tangled sheets, the trail of clothes on the floor, the soft rise and fall of his breath behind you.

He hadn’t left.

You blinked, and something stung at the corners of your eyes. Not because you were sad. Not yet. But because something about the quiet—about being held like this—felt so good, it ached.

You shifted slightly, and he stirred, breath puffing against your shoulder.

“Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whispered, not daring to move too far. “You stayed.”

His arm tightened slightly around your waist. “Wasn’t going to miss the last morning.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “God, Patrick…”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. Slow, lingering touches like he was still memorizing the shape of you. When you rolled over to face him, his eyes were open, soft and serious.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just brushed your fingers through the mess of his curls, watched the way his lashes fluttered.

“I don’t want to either,” you finally said. “But I have to.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because… that’s not real life out there. This is a vacation. A dream. I have to go back and figure out who I am again. Who I want to be.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “Then let me be part of that. Let me be real, too.”

You swallowed hard, blinking at the ceiling, the light brushing gold across your cheek.

“You’d leave the island?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“I came here to disappear,” he said finally. “And for a while, I needed that. I didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to fail in front of anyone else. But you…”

He turned onto his side, propping his head in his hand as he looked down at you, his expression so open it hurt.

“You make me want to try again. Not tennis. Not the tour. Just… people. Life. You make me want to be known again.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say. So you reached for his wrist, holding it gently, grounding yourself in the shape of him.

“What if this only works here?” you whispered. “What if the island was the only place it made sense?”

Patrick smiled, soft and sad. “Then we tried. And I’d still be glad we did. I don’t want to wonder what could’ve happened if I’d asked.”

The ache in your chest spread like warmth. Fear and hope tangled tight.

“We go slow,” you said.

He nodded. “As slow as you want.”

You hesitated a second longer, then leaned up to kiss him. Not with fire. Not with hunger.

But with something stronger.

---

The plane was quiet.

Not silent—not with the hum of the engines or the occasional clink of a coffee cart—but quiet in that way only morning flights can be. Soft light filtered through the oval windows, casting everything in a pale gold.

You were in the window seat. Patrick beside you, his leg pressed to yours, his hand resting palm-up on the armrest.

You laced your fingers through his.

Outside, the island was already disappearing beneath the clouds. Just a blur of green and shoreline swallowed by distance. You watched it until you couldn’t see it anymore.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, Patrick leaned in, voice low. “Do you think they’ll miss us?”

You smiled, eyes still on the fading horizon. “The fruit stand lady might. You tipped too much.”

He grinned, squeezing your hand. “You think she knew?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “That I was running away? Or that you’d been hiding for years?”

His smile faded just slightly. “Both.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your joined hands.

It hit you then, all at once. You weren’t going back to your old life. Not really. You were starting something entirely new. And so was he.

Two shadows, left behind on a porch in La Sombra.

Two people, chasing light.

“Let’s figure it out,” you whispered.

Patrick nodded. “Yeah.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. He kissed your hair. The clouds shifted, and below, the ocean stretched out forever.

And somewhere beyond it, a beginning.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance @love-ella333 @jesuistrestriste @cha11engers

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[thedilfdiaries]

I can't hear it now

acacius x f!reader // 3.6k

summary: A love that was never meant to be. A choice that was never truly yours to make. Acacius was never yours to keep, yet in the dark of night, beneath the weight of duty and desire, he was yours still. For stolen moments, for whispered names, for aching hands tracing the lines of something fleeting, something doomed.

But love does not always mean staying. And when his words reach you at last—words of longing, of regret, of a desperate plea—will you go to him? Or will you let the fire consume him, the way he has already consumed you?

warnings: mdni, 18+, alludes to smut, acacius is married, forbidden love, this is pure angst like I hurt myself writing this lol I wanted it to hurt real bad... I am sorry.

notes: this is for Freya's @almostfoxglove 's angst challenge. this was my moodboard. I have not written for Acacius at all so please be gentle with me. The moodboard and song Freya so kindly created and linked really gave me an idea instantly so thank you for giving me such a beautiful idea, this was probably the easiest I've ever plotted out a fic before and it's all thanks to your creative genius. Big thank you to my baby @thundermartini as always for being my biggest cheerleader, reading this over for me and always assuring me. how could I ever write anything without you? I love you so much <3 and big thank yous to my other cheerleaders for always supporting me big time @itwasntimethatdidit40 @sawymredfox and @myownwholewildworld I love you all so so so much <3

masterlist

The room lay bathed in shadow, the moonlight slipping through the narrow slats of the shutters, casting silver bands across the floor. The air was thick—heavy with the mingled scents of sweat and skin. Distant voices carried from the villa beyond, but they were meaningless here, swallowed by the hush of this stolen moment.  

Acacius’ hands found you, firm and unrelenting as he pressed you against the cool stone wall. His tunic hung loose, its ties undone, revealing the golden plane of his chest, glistening in the dim glow. His lips were warm upon your throat, tracing a path of fire that left your breath unsteady, and your limbs weak.  

"You are reckless," you murmured, though your hands betrayed you, tangling in his dark hair, nails grazing his scalp.  

"Reckless?" His voice was a low whisper, rough with amusement, yet laced with hunger. "And yet you are here, pressed against me, trembling beneath my touch."  

You said nothing, could say nothing, for his mouth was upon yours in an instant—urgent, possessive, as though he might claim you wholly in the space of a single heartbeat. You let him, let yourself drown in the sensation of him, for when all else was stripped away, this was all that remained.  

His hands slipped beneath the folds of your clothing, calloused palms branding your skin as they traced the curve of your waist. He drew you closer still, until there was nothing between you but heat and need. A gasp escaped you, and he exhaled a quiet laugh against your lips.  

"Soft, sweet thing," he murmured, though his voice held no mockery. "Do you know how often I dream of this?"  

"Then do not speak of it," you whispered, though even as you said it, you knew it was futile.  

 "Let them hear you," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "Let them see what you do to me."  

A laugh trembled at the edge of your lips, but it died the moment his mouth found yours again, slower this time, less desperate—deep and consuming, as though he wished to savor every moment, every taste. His hands roamed you as if memorizing you, as though the mere thought of parting was unendurable. 

For a fleeting breath, you allowed yourself to forget the wife who awaited him beyond these walls, the life he could never offer you, and the cruel weight of reality that loomed just beyond the night’s embrace.  

But then his lips left yours, trailing lower, and your mind unraveled once more, dissolving into nothing but him, only him.  

"Acacius," you whispered, his name slipping unbidden from your lips, trembling upon the air between you.  

He stilled, his forehead pressing to your collarbone. His breath came heavy, ragged. "Say it again," he murmured, hoarse with longing, his grip tightening upon your hips.  

You obeyed, softer now. "Acacius."  

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze, and in his dark eyes burned something raw, something perilously close to love—but shadowed with something else, something darker still.  

"I am unworthy of you," he said, the words thick with sorrow. "But I would sooner rend the stars from the sky than let you go."  

You cradled his face between your palms, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw. "Then do not," you pleaded.  

If only it could be so simple.  

His lips found yours again, fevered with desperation. His hands roamed your body, as though trying to commit each curve, each breath, each shiver to memory—as though he feared this would be the last time.  

And perhaps it would be.  

The bed was scarcely large enough for one, but neither of you cared as he laid you upon it, the weight of him pressing into you in a way that made you ache, made you crave. Your hands roamed his broad shoulders, pushing the fabric of his tunic aside, eager to feel the heat of him, the solidness of him.  

A growl rumbled low in his throat as he shuddered beneath your touch. "You undo me," he confessed, his lips ghosting over your skin.  

You smiled, breathless. "Then show me."  

He did.  

The world beyond ceased to exist, lost in the press of his body, the reverence of his hands, the whispered prayers of your name against your skin. He worshipped you as though you were something sacred, something divine.  

And for a time, you allowed yourself to believe it.  

When at last you lay spent in his arms, his breath stirring against your temple, he murmured something soft, almost inaudible.  

You did not ask him to repeat it. You did not wish to break the fragile peace that had settled over you both.  

But peace is a fleeting thing.  

As the first light of dawn crept through the shutters, reality stole back in with it.  

"Do you ever wonder?" you whispered, breaking the silence.  

Acacius stirred, his lips grazing the tender hollow beneath your ear. "Of what?"  

"What it would be like," you said. "If we did not have to hide. If this," you gestured faintly between you, "was not all we could ever have."  

He stilled. You felt it in the way his fingers once idly tracing patterns against your skin, froze. The weight of your words hung heavy between you, thick as the morning air.  

"It is better not to think on such things," he said at last, his voice rough, his gaze falling away as he sat up. "I cannot give you what you deserve."  

The words struck as surely as a blade, though you had known them long before he ever spoke them aloud.  

"But you will take all that I may offer," you said, sharper than you had intended.  

His head snapped up, a flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "Do not say that."

"Why not?" you challenged, sitting up, putting space between you. The warmth of him, once a comfort, was now a memory. You already missed it. "It is true, is it not?"  

Marcus raked a hand through his dark hair, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breath. "You think this is easy for me?" he asked. "You think I do not loathe myself with every step I take from you? With every lie I speak to her?"  

You flinched, and he saw it.  

"Do not speak of her," you whispered. "Not here. Not now."  

His hands came to your arms, gentle but firm, forcing you to look at him. "I would protect you from all of this," he swore. "From her. From them. From myself."  

You laughed then, but there was no mirth in it. "You cannot even protect yourself, Marcus."  

His hands fell away. The silence between you was deafening.  

"I love you," he said suddenly, the words scarcely more than breath, yet they shattered you all the same.  

Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned. "Then fight for me," you pleaded. "Do not let this be all we are."  

For a moment, you thought he might say yes. You saw the battle waged behind his eyes, the war between duty and desire. But then his shoulders sagged, and he looked away.  

"This holy ground burns my feet. I cannot stay, and yet I do not want to leave," he said, so softly it nearly broke you.  

Tears slipped free, and you did not stop them. You turned toward the door, your movements slow, heavy with the weight of what had just been spoken—of what had been left unsaid.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your discarded garments, the fabric cool against your skin as you pulled them back into place. Each tie fastened, each fold smoothed, felt like sealing away a part of yourself, tucking it back behind the mask you wore beyond these stolen hours. The warmth of his touch still lingered, but it would fade, as it always did.

"Wait," he said, his voice cracking. "Please."  

You hesitated.  

He reached for the simple band of gold upon his finger, hesitating only a moment before sliding it free.  

"Take it," he murmured, pressing it into your palm. "Keep it. Until we meet again."  

You hated how easily you let yourself believe him. How your heart still clung to the idea that there would be another moment after this, another night where his hands would map your body and his lips would trace words he was too much of a coward to say aloud.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the ache that lodged itself in your throat. “And if we do not?”  

Acacius exhaled sharply through his nose, his head bowing for the briefest moment before he shook it, as though warding off the thought itself. “Do not speak of such things.” His voice was strained, rough with something perilously close to despair.  

You stepped back, slipping the ring into the folds of your clothing. It should not have felt so heavy. And yet, it did.  

Acacius turned away, his movements rigid as he reached for the table in the dim corner of the chamber, where his armor lay in a careful arrangement. A small scroll of parchment rested beside it—deliberately placed, waiting.  

He picked it up, his fingers lingering over the edges, then hesitated before pressing it into your hands.  

“If ever you should change your mind,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the space between you, never daring to meet your gaze, “open it.”  

You hesitated, fingers curling but refusing to take it. “What is this?”  

His jaw tensed, a muscle feathering in his cheek. “A choice.”  

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. “No. It is another way for you to break my heart.”  

Acacius flinched as though you had struck him.  

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Slowly, your fingers closed around the parchment. Without a word, you tucked it away, into the same hidden place where his ring now rested.  

And then you turned.  

You did not look back.  

He did not call you to stay. 

—

Days passed. You did not open the letter.

Every night, you traced the edges of the ring beneath your fingertips, feeling its warmth against your skin, like it still held his touch.

He did not come to you again. You did not go to him.

Then, a week later, you cracked.

It was late when you unrolled the parchment, your hands shaking, the candlelight flickering against the ink-stained words.

My love,

I do not know if these words shall ever reach you. Perhaps they should not. Perhaps it is a cruelty to write at all, to leave behind mere ink when I have already left so much else. And yet, I must. I must, for the weight of what I carry cannot go unspoken.

I did not wish to leave you—never think it so. Had the gods willed another path, I would have taken it, would have stood against fate itself with sword in hand if it meant remaining by your side. But this world is not merciful, nor does it grant peace to men like me. Had I stayed, it would have torn me from you in ways far worse than this. That, I could not allow.

You were my only sanctuary, the one truth I never questioned. To love you was the sole virtue of my life, the one act I shall never repent. And though I am lost to you now, though the fates have severed what was once whole, know this: I am yours, now and always. Neither time nor death shall unmake what we were.

I pray the gods are kinder to you than they have been to me. That joy may find you once more. But if it does not—if the world turns cruel, if you find yourself adrift and wonder whether I still think of you—know that I do. In this life and the next, I shall always think of you.

And so, I ask this of you, though I have no right to, come to me I beg it of you. If there is still a place in your heart that has not turned against me, if even the smallest ember of what we were still lingers, meet me where the olive trees stand at the edge of the city, where the river bends and the world quiets. Let me look upon you once more before the gods tear me away, if only to commit your face to memory, to carry the light of you into whatever darkness awaits me. If nothing else, grant me this.

With all that I am,

Acacius

The candle’s flame flickered against the parchment, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Your hands trembled as you read Acacius’ words, your breath catching on the weight of them.   

Each sentence carved through you like a blade, slicing past your anger, your sorrow, your resolve. I am yours, now and always.   

How dare he? How dare he write such things, spill out his soul onto parchment, and yet still choose duty over you? Still choose a life where you were nothing more than a whispered secret?  

Your vision blurred, a single tear spilling onto the page, smudging the ink where his name had been signed with careful, deliberate strokes.  

You hated him.  

You loved him.  

The fire crackled beside you, the embers shifting like they, too, could feel your turmoil. You held the letter over the flames, hesitating just for a moment—just long enough to wonder if you'd regret it.  

Then, with a sharp inhale, you let go.  

The parchment curled as the fire devoured it, blackening at the edges before collapsing into itself. The words disappeared, burned away as if they had never been written at all. But you felt them, still, seared into your skin, your soul.   

You pressed the ring tethered around your neck against your lips. You should throw that into the fire, too. Should rid yourself of every last piece of him.   

But you couldn't 

Days passed.

You should have let it go. Should have cast the ring into the river, let the current carry it far beyond your reach. Should have buried the memory of him in the recesses of your mind, left it to rot like the dying embers of that flame.

But you did not.

Instead, you wrote.

Your hand trembled over the parchment, but the words came quickly, as though they had been waiting to be freed.

Acacius,

I have burned your letter.  

Not for hatred—though I wish I could hate you. Not for anger—though I should be wrathful. No, I burned it because to read it again would be to let it wound me anew, and I have suffered enough at the hands of your absence. Your words, though fair, are a cruelty. They speak of love yet bring only sorrow.  

You write that you did not wish to leave me, and yet you went. You write that you have loved me, and yet you chose a life where I am nothing but a shadow. You speak of the gods as though they are the authors of this pain, but it was not their hand that severed us—it was yours.  

And yet, I am a fool. A fool, for I write you still. A fool, for though I know you will break me again, I offer you this:  

Come with me.  

Leave the battlefield. Abandon your duty, your name, your oaths. Let the burdens of Rome fall from your shoulders. We will go where no man knows us, where no law binds us, where the weight of our sins shall belong to no one but the gods themselves. You speak of fate as though it is unyielding, but I do not believe in fate. I believe in choice.  

So choose me.  

Come to me, Acacius. And if you do not, if you cannot, then let this be the last time my name passes your lips, the last time you think of me beneath the stars.  

With all that I am,  

Yours

The moment you set the quill down, you felt the finality of it settle into your bones. You had bared your soul upon the parchment, laid it before him with trembling hands. And yet, you did not send it.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Days turned to weeks, and still, the letter remained hidden away, unsent, unread.

And then, one evening, when the city was bathed in the amber glow of torches and the streets murmured with whispered news, you heard his name.

You did not want to turn, did not want to listen. But the words struck you like a blade to the chest, piercing through bone and marrow, hollowing you out from the inside.

Acacius was dead.

They said he fell in battle, a sword through his ribs, the blood pooling beneath him dark as the night sky. They said he fought like a man possessed, as though he had nothing left to lose.

Your breath left you. Your knees buckled, but you did not fall. You could not fall.

You had waited too long.

The letter still sat, unsent. He would never read it. Would never know.

The world felt unbearably still.

But grief did not move you to tears. No, grief moved you to action.

The moon was high when you reached the place where they had laid the fallen. The air was thick with the scent of death, blood, and smoke, and the torches lining the corridor flickered against the stone walls like restless spirits.

You had no right to be here. No place among the mourning wives, the grieving mothers, and the sons who had come to claim the fathers they would never see again.

But you came anyway.

Acacius was there, just as they had said. His body lay upon the raised stone, displayed beneath the flickering torchlight, surrounded by the scent of burning oils. There were no mourners. No whispered prayers. Just silence.  

Just you.  

He looked almost peaceful, as though he had simply closed his eyes and drifted into slumber. But the truth was written in the deep wound beneath his ribs, in the dried blood that marred the golden skin of his chest.  

He had died a soldier’s death.  

Your breath came shallow, uneven, as you stepped forward. No one stopped you. There was no one left to do so.  

Slowly, carefully, you reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against his skin. He was cold. Cold in a way he had never been before. A lump formed in your throat.  

“You fool,” you whispered, the words meant only for him. “You were supposed to come back to me.”  

But he had not.  

You had given him a choice, and in the end, he had made it. He had chosen the battlefield over you, just as he always had. And now he had paid the price for it.  

Your fingers curled around the ring that still hung from your neck, the small band of gold that had once rested upon his hand. You held it tightly, as though you could somehow press all your grief into it, as though it might carry the weight of your sorrow in place of you.  

It would be easy, you thought, to slip it back onto his finger. To leave it with him, to bury it alongside him when the time came. But something inside you rebelled at the thought.  

He had left you behind in life. You would not allow him to do so in death.  

Carefully, you took the ring and tucked it away once more, pressing it against your skin as though to keep him there, with you, even now.  

Then, with hands that did not shake, you reached into the folds of your cloak and withdrew the letter. The one you had never sent. The one that had remained hidden away for far too long.  

Your eyes burned as you looked at it, the inked words staring back at you, mocking you with all the things he would never hear.  

A fool’s hope. That was all it had ever been.  

And yet, still, you bent forward, pressing the parchment into the stillness of his hands.  

“Here,” you whispered. “Take it, Acacius. Take the choice you never made.”  

He could not read it now. But perhaps, if there were gods beyond this life, they would allow him to hear your words. To know that, even in the end, you still wanted him.  

Your gaze lingered on him, tracing the lines of his face, memorizing every detail before the earth claimed him. He had always been beautiful, even in death. And that, more than anything, shattered you.  

A quiet breath left your lips as you leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. His scent was faint now, masked by the oils and the cold stillness of his body, but it was there. Just enough to remind you of what you had lost.  

Then, with all the tenderness you had once held back, you kissed him.  

One last time.  

His lips were cold, unmoving, but you kissed him anyway. Slowly. Softly. As though, for a moment, he might still kiss you back.  

But he did not.  

He never would again.  

When you finally pulled away, your vision blurred with tears you refused to shed. You had lingered long enough.  

So, with one final look, one last whispered goodbye, you turned and walked away.

[bullet-prooflove]

Sugar Boots: Chris LaSalle x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

It’s early when you try to slip out of LaSalle’s sheets, the sun is just starting to creep in through the wooden slats of his shutters as you reach down to scoop up the grey shirt you were wearing last night. An arm wraps around your waist, drawing you back into the bed as Chris buries his face into the curve of your throat

“And where you think you’re going Sugar Boots?”

Sugar Boots, his nickname for you because the first time you’d met you’d been wearing a pair of glitter covered combat boots and he’d gotten a kick out of them.

“Home for a shower before work.” You smile as the stubble on his jaw grazes your bare skin. It ignites that fire inside of you all over again, the one you always feel when you hear that husky Southern twang.

“Shower here instead.” He mumbles as his hands beginning to wander. Already you can feel yourself relenting, you head tipping back against his shoulder as his fingertips delve between your legs. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Love LaSalle? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sanguinesorcery]

Spots to Kiss + 20

Lazy morning, perhaps?

A Kiss Before You Go || Always Accepting

20. A kiss where the back of the neck turns to shoulder

It is the smell of dawn that stirs her awake.

A certain cooled clean smell, the beginnings of a new day. It wisps around closed shutters and ruffles the curtains around the bed. Sheer and glistening, colored ghosts in and out of her half-awake gaze caught in the trickle of morning light through slats over the windows. It ticks in her head that the attendants will be here soon. A reflex, a routine unbroken.

One ear flicks in her startup and she shifts just slightly. There is a vague awareness in the glaze of the weight across her hip, the warm wall against her back. Skin on skin, spine to chest. She knows he is awake. It is in the way he breathes against her, the thud of his heart against her shoulder-blade. Not shallow and faint like one who is still at rest. Steady and even as one who is alert, the reverent stare that still bores into the back of her neck.

It is hard to tell how long he has been awake, how long he has remained in that one position to make sure she sleeps. The day before has been fraught with mental obstacles, the night of entangled passions no less tiring, although in a much different way. He feels the need to keep watch to make sure she is properly rested.

The first waking breath fills her lungs, deep to drink in the faint flavorful breeze as it plays through the windows and stirs her further into wakefulness. It's enough to tell him as well that she is awake enough. She feels his arm raise just slightly, dust across hip and waist, displacing the silken sheet that covers it just barely until the pads of his fingers and palm rest against the curve of her body. Her ear ticks again to register he is there, but she relaxes into that warm calloused touch. Familiar, strong. Safe.

The light tickle of his breath against her active ear, causing it to flick again as she feels his lips against the lobe. A whispered, "Good morning" in so low and deep a rumble, felt against her shoulder and into her back as it rattles his throat and chest. Close. Intimate.

"I hope you slept well." he adds, and she practically arches into his touch as it begins to travel up her side ever-so-slowly with a grumbling greeting of her own in response.

He leaves little fires in its wake, tingling across nerves still half awake. The little chuckle in his chest as her back rubs against him with a little noise of acceptance, unable still to properly formulate any true verbal response. It's not rejection, and she breathes a little deeper to show acceptance to his fingers coiling around the edge of her ribs over a breast. An arm raises to gently run her fingers through his tousled mane before she finally finds her words, enjoying his own little pleasant grumble against her jawline.

"Last night and now this morning?" Her voice croaks a little, rougher than normal from a mixture of the prior night's exploits and the disuse that followed. "You truly are insatiable."

It's not scolding. Playful in the way she says it and in his response, fingers over the exposed nipple of the breast he holds momentarily captive. A kiss to her ear, to her jaw.

"You do make it hard to control myself." he replies, the laugh in his voice reverberating against the back of her neck.

His hand has begun its way back toward her waist, swirling little trails once he knows she is sufficiently back in the game. She knows he already wants her. It's hard not to notice, if not for how he has very carefully curled around her so she can feel him, than for how that travelling hand has started to slip over her hips and beneath the sheets to grip a thigh.

The haze of sleep has dissipated from her mind, only the faintest tendrils remain for brief moments. It's not enough to stop the way her breath stutters for him, the way her heart begins to thud from the promise of the morning's exertion. How she rubs against him in return to remind him she wants him back.

"Be gentle." she relents with a playful pout, a shift to allow him better grip as she rolls just slightly. An invitation to engulf. "And quick. The morning crew will be here soon."

The faint creak of the chains that hold the bedframe to the ceiling betray his movement, taking her permission to envelope her almost entirely. The hand at her thigh slipping slowly and patiently up the inside of it to slide between her lower lips, assessing her readiness for himself. She knows in the way she feels that smug smile against the back of her left shoulder that he revels in the gasp she gives him, a nipping kiss given to establish his claim already so early.

Just as he claims she unravels his impulse control, she can say the same in the way he calls her 'his' causes her to redden and heat at his ministrations.

His lips on her ear again as he drips across her, fingers pushing a little deeper in. He is finding it harder to control himself, she can feel his heated heavier breath across her earlobe, wrapped in the laughing taunt she expects from him.

"No promises."

@dragmirc

[newageshuttersuk]

Bespoke Shutters In London: The Perfect Blend Of Style, Privacy, And Comfort

If you've ever tried to find the right window covering for your home in London, you'll know it's not as easy as it sounds. Curtains can be bulky, blinds might feel too plain, and standard fittings rarely match those quirky window frames in many London homes. That's where plantation shutters made in the UK offer a simple yet stunning solution that fits like a glove. 

Whether for a sunny flat in Camden or a charming Victorian in Clapham, bespoke shutters in London are all about comfort and individuality. 

Why Choose Bespoke Shutters in London? 

1. Shutters Made For Living In London 

London living comes with its own set of quirks. Noise from the streets, unpredictable weather, nosy neighbours—sound familiar? Bespoke shutters are built to tackle these issues while making your home feel more like you. 

Privacy on your terms: Keep the world out without shutting out the daylight. The tilt of the slats gives you complete control—perfect for city life. 

Insulation that works: A big plus in London's ever-changing weather. Close the shutters, and you have an extra layer keeping the heat in or out. 

A look that lasts: Shutters don't fade like fabric or sag like plastic blinds. They hold their shape and style year after year. 

2. Tailored To Your Space And Style 

You don't live in a one-size-fits-all home, so why settle for off-the-shelf window covers? Bespoke shutters are made to measure—down to the last millimetre. Got a curved bay window? No problem. Narrow sash frames? Sorted. 

Better still, you can choose the colour, the material, even the slat size. Want wood? Would you prefer a painted finish? Need something easy to clean? The choices are yours. 

And if you need a completely dark room for sleeping movie nights or a peaceful lie-in, go for a blackout shutter. They're sleek and practical and make a real difference to a room's feeling. 

3. A Practical Upgrade With Lasting Value 

It's easy to get caught up in the look of shutters—but the benefits go deeper. 

Lower energy bills: Shutters add a layer of insulation that keeps things warmer in winter and cooler in summer. 

Noise suppression: Those thick panels do a great job of muffling sound from the street, creating peace in your home. 

Adding value to your property: They are a big tick in the boxes for buyers - clean, stylish, low maintenance. Estate agents will often highlight them in their listings. 

4. Made In The UK To Guarantee Quality 

When you choose to purchase plantation shutters made in the UK, you are gaining experience, craftsmanship and an understanding of British homes and standards. You avoid shipping delays and support local makers who know what works for our windows and weather. 

Looking for trusted, locally-made shutters? See what makes plantation shutters made in the UK a smarter choice for London homes. 

Which Style Works for You? 

Here's a quick guide to popular shutter styles and where they shine: 

Shutter Style - Best Room - Why Pick It? 

Full Height  - Lounge, Bedroom - Classic look with full window coverage 

Tier-on-Tier - Street-Facing Rooms - Open top, closed bottom—great for flexible privacy 

Café Style - Kitchen, Dining - Chic and airy, it allows natural top light 

Solid Panels - Period Homes - Full privacy and improved insulation for older spaces 

All the types have different benefits; therefore, there's sure to be something to suit every room and every situation. 

How To Get Them Fitted (Without The Hassle) 

Getting started is easier than you might think. Here's how it usually works: 

Book a home visit – A fitter measures up and talks you through options. 

Pick your favourites – Choose the style, finish, and extras you love. 

Made to order – Shutters are crafted to your exact specs. 

Installed with care – Professionals fit them, leaving everything neat. 

Conclusion: Choose Comfort, Style, And Functionality 

Bespoke shutters are more than just a window treatment; they upgrade your living. With a custom fit, timeless design, and functional benefits like insulation and privacy, bespoke shutters are an investment for your London home. If you are ready to make a lasting and stylish change to your home, plantation shutters in the UK are the answer.

[woodysshutters]

Enhancing Your Home with the Perfect Porthole Window Shutters

When it comes to unique architectural features, few elements make as charming a statement as a porthole window. Traditionally found on ships, these circular windows have found their way into modern homes, offering a delightful nautical twist to contemporary, coastal, and even rustic interior designs. However, dressing these distinctive windows can pose a real challenge. That's where specially designed circular window shutters step in to make all the difference.

In this blog, we explore everything you need to know about enhancing your porthole windows, from why shutters are the ideal choice to what styles suit your home best.

Why Porthole Windows Are So Special

Porthole windows immediately catch the eye. Their round shape breaks up the straight lines and squares that dominate most architectural designs, adding a soft, whimsical touch. They can be a key design feature in bathrooms, stairwells, attics, and even living rooms.

Besides their aesthetic charm, porthole windows often provide strategic views, enhanced light diffusion, and a sense of airiness in otherwise compact spaces. They feel cozy yet sophisticated, perfect for homeowners looking to add a bit of character to their property.

However, their uniqueness also comes with practical hurdles. Finding the right window treatment—something that doesn’t undermine their character or block their beautiful round frame—can be tricky.

Why Choose Shutters for Your Porthole Window?

Curtains and blinds are the typical go-to solutions for standard windows, but they often fall short when it comes to circular shapes. Curtains can overshadow the window's form, and custom-made blinds can become costly while still offering a less-than-ideal aesthetic.

Shutters, on the other hand, are a game-changer. Circular window shutters are tailored specifically to fit your porthole window, hugging its curves and preserving its unique charm. Beyond aesthetics, shutters bring practical advantages:

Light Control: Adjust louvres to let in just the right amount of sunlight.

Privacy: Gain privacy without fully sacrificing your view.

Insulation: Shutters add an extra layer, helping to maintain interior temperatures.

Durability: High-quality shutters are designed to last for years, even in humid environments like bathrooms.

Easy Maintenance: A simple wipe-down keeps them clean—no hassle with washing or ironing curtains.

By choosing shutters, you’re opting for a solution that enhances rather than hides the beauty of your porthole windows.

Which Style of Shutters is Best for Porthole Windows?

Not all shutters are created equal, especially when dealing with circular shapes. Depending on the room and your preferences, you typically have two main options:

1. Single Louvred Panel Shutters

These are fitted with adjustable slats (or "louvres") that allow you to control light and airflow easily. They work perfectly in living rooms, offices, or bedrooms where flexible light control is key. Louvred shutters maintain the elegance of the porthole window while giving you maximum functionality.

2. Solid Panel Shutters

Solid panels offer a more traditional and bold appearance. Instead of adjustable slats, they consist of a full wood piece. These are excellent for rooms needing more privacy or darkness, like bathrooms or bedrooms. With solid panel shutters, your porthole window becomes an eye-catching yet practical design feature.

Tip: If your porthole window is located in a wet area like a kitchen or bathroom, opt for waterproof finishes to ensure longevity and prevent any damage caused by humidity.

Custom Craftsmanship: The Key to Perfect Fit

Since every porthole window is unique, off-the-shelf solutions rarely work. Custom-made shutters are essential for achieving a snug, beautiful fit.

Companies like Woody’s Shutters specialize in made-to-measure designs, ensuring that every curve of your circular window is perfectly matched. Their craftsmanship uses the finest materials, and every detail—from color to hinge placement—is tailored to your specific needs.

During the design appointment, an expert will help you choose the best style, louvre size, and color to complement your existing décor. After manufacturing, experienced installers ensure your shutters fit seamlessly and enhance the aesthetics of your room.

Testimonials That Tell a Story

Customers who have opted for circular window shutters often rave about the transformation it brings to their homes. From better light management to the clean, polished look, the benefits are well-documented.

Many reviews highlight not only the high-quality craftsmanship but also the outstanding service provided by companies like Woody's Shutters. From the initial quote to the meticulous installation, their customer-centric approach ensures a hassle-free experience and stunning results.

Trends and Inspirations

While traditional white shutters are timeless, current trends show homeowners experimenting with bolder colors, matching or contrasting shutters to their wall shades. Deep blues, muted greys, and even soft sage greens are gaining popularity, especially for porthole windows in statement spaces.

Mixing materials, such as pairing wooden shutters with metallic fixtures, also brings a contemporary twist to classic designs.

Adding plants, artwork, or even ambient lighting around your porthole windows can further emphasize their charm, making them not just windows, but focal points of interior design.

Final Thoughts: Elevate Your Space with Circular Window Shutters

A porthole window is already a special feature in your home; it deserves a window treatment that accentuates its unique beauty. Circular window shutters offer the perfect blend of form and function, providing elegance, versatility, and long-term value.

Whether you’re looking to create a serene bathroom retreat, a cozy reading nook, or a nautical-themed living room, bespoke shutters allow you to take full advantage of your porthole window’s charm.

If you're ready to transform your space with custom circular window shutters, consider reaching out to experts like Woody’s Shutters for a consultation. Their team will help you find the perfect design to elevate your home's style—and ensure your porthole window is nothing short of spectacular.

[artisticblinds]

The Artistry of Blinds and Custom Window Solutions

The Enduring Legacy of Blinds in Design

Window coverings have long been a cornerstone of interior spaces, evolving from rudimentary shields against the elements to sophisticated design elements. Among these, blinds stand out as a perennial favorite, their adjustable slats offering a perfect marriage of utility and elegance. What began as a practical solution for light and privacy control has blossomed into a versatile feature that graces homes, offices, and everything in between. Their staying power lies in their ability to adapt, meeting the needs of each era while retaining a timeless charm.

The appeal of blinds stems from their simplicity and precision. Unlike heavy drapes or fixed shutters, they allow for nuanced adjustments—tilting to catch the morning glow or closing tight against the midday glare. This flexibility has made them a go-to choice for those who value both aesthetics and functionality. Whether framing a cozy reading nook or lining the windows of a sleek corporate office, blinds bring a sense of order and refinement that few alternatives can match.

The Precision Craftsmanship of Made to Measure Blinds

While blinds offer broad appeal, made to measure blinds take customization to a new level. These tailored creations are designed to fit the exact specifications of any window, no matter how unconventional its shape or size. This bespoke approach ensures a flawless finish, eliminating the gaps and awkward fits that can plague off-the-shelf options. For anyone seeking a truly personalized touch, made to measure blinds deliver an unrivaled blend of form and function.

Consider a home with arched windows or a modern loft with expansive, irregular panes. Standard blinds might leave edges exposed or fail to complement the architecture, but made to measure blinds are crafted to embrace every curve and angle. This precision extends beyond fit to include material and style choices, allowing users to select fabrics, colors, and mechanisms that align with their vision. The result is a window treatment that feels like an extension of the space itself, enhancing its character rather than merely covering it.

Blinds as a Canvas for Creativity

Beyond their practical roots, blinds serve as a powerful tool for self-expression. Their clean lines and structured design make them a natural fit for minimalist or contemporary interiors, yet they’re equally at home in rustic or eclectic settings. The variety of materials—wood, metal, fabric—offers endless possibilities, turning a functional necessity into a design statement. A set of wooden blinds might warm a sunlit bedroom, while sleek aluminum slats could sharpen the edge of a modern kitchen.

This versatility allows blinds to play multiple roles within a single space. In a living room, they might soften harsh light to create a serene atmosphere, while in a study, they can frame a view to inspire focus. Their adaptability ensures they remain relevant across shifting trends, offering a foundation that can be layered with other décor elements. For those who see their home as a canvas, blinds provide the perfect starting point to paint a unique picture.

The Tailored Advantage of Custom Blinds

Made to measure blinds elevate this creative potential even further, offering a level of detail that transforms windows into focal points. Their custom nature means they can address specific challenges—like insulating a drafty room or providing privacy in a street-facing apartment—while maintaining a cohesive aesthetic. This tailored approach is especially valuable in multifunctional spaces, where light and mood need to shift throughout the day.

The process of crafting these blinds involves more than just measurements; it’s about understanding the space they’ll inhabit. Whether it’s a narrow window in a cozy attic or a towering expanse in a commercial lobby, made to measure blinds are designed to enhance the environment. They offer control over light and privacy with a finesse that generic options can’t replicate, making them a worthwhile investment for those who prioritize quality and individuality.

A Sustainable Future for Window Treatments

As sustainability becomes a guiding principle in design, both blinds and their custom counterparts are stepping up to the challenge. Eco-friendly materials like bamboo, recycled fabrics, and energy-efficient coatings are increasingly common, reducing environmental impact without compromising style. Blinds help regulate indoor temperatures, cutting energy costs by keeping heat out in summer and warmth in during winter—a benefit that’s amplified by the perfect fit of made to measure options.

Technology is also shaping their future, with innovations like motorized blinds that adjust automatically to sunlight patterns. These advancements promise to make window treatments smarter and more efficient, blending tradition with cutting-edge convenience. As we look ahead, blinds remain a dynamic force, evolving to meet the demands of a world that values both beauty and responsibility.

Conclusion: Windows to a Personalized World

Blinds and made to measure blinds together weave a story of adaptability and artistry. From the universal appeal of blinds to the bespoke brilliance of their custom counterparts, they offer solutions that are as practical as they are inspiring. They frame our views, shape our spaces, and reflect our tastes, proving that even the smallest details can have a profound impact. As design continues to evolve, these window treatments stand as enduring allies, ready to transform any room into a space that’s uniquely ours.

[deltashuttersca]

Shutters for Bay Windows: A Perfect Fit for Unique Spaces

Introduction Bay windows are a beautiful architectural feature that can add charm and character to any home. However, finding the right window treatment for bay windows can be a challenge. At Delta Shutters, we specialize in creating custom shutters for bay windows that fit perfectly and enhance the beauty of your space. Here’s everything you need to know about shutters for bay windows and why they’re a must-have for your home.

1. Custom Fit for Unique Shapes

One of the biggest advantages of shutters for bay windows is their ability to fit perfectly, no matter the shape or size of your windows. Whether you have angled, curved, or trapezoidal bay windows, Delta Shutters can create shutters that fit seamlessly.

For example, a Delta Shutters customer in Toronto praised our team for designing shutters for bay windows that perfectly fit their uniquely shaped windows. If you’re looking for a window treatment that fits like a glove, shutters for bay windows are the way to go.

2. Light Control and Privacy

Shutters for bay windows offer unparalleled control over light and privacy. With adjustable louvers, you can easily tilt the slats to let in natural light while blocking the view from outside. This makes them ideal for:

Living rooms: Create a bright, inviting space with precise light control.

Bedrooms: Enjoy privacy while still letting in soft, diffused light.

Bathrooms: Maintain privacy without sacrificing style.

At Delta Shutters, we offer a variety of louver sizes and materials to suit your needs. Whether you prefer wide louvers for a modern look or smaller louvers for a traditional feel, we’ve got you covered.

3. Energy Efficiency

Shutters for bay windows are not just stylish—they’re also energy-efficient. By providing an extra layer of insulation, they help regulate your home’s temperature, keeping it warm in the winter and cool in the summer. This can lead to significant savings on your energy bills.

For example:

In the winter, shutters for bay windows can reduce heat loss by up to 50%, keeping your home cozy.

In the summer, they can block up to 70% of solar heat, keeping your home cooler.

At Delta Shutters, we offer energy-efficient shutters for bay windows that are perfect for Canadian homes.

4. Durable and Low-Maintenance

Made from high-quality materials like hardwood or composite, shutters for bay windows are built to last. They’re resistant to warping, cracking, and fading, ensuring they remain functional and beautiful for years to come.

Maintenance is a breeze—simply dust or wipe them down with a damp cloth to keep them looking fresh and clean. Unlike curtains that need frequent washing, shutters for bay windows are low-maintenance and long-lasting.

At Delta Shutters, we use only the finest materials to ensure your shutters stand the test of time.

5. Timeless Aesthetic Appeal

Shutters for bay windows add a touch of elegance to any room. Their clean, classic look complements a variety of interior styles, from modern minimalism to traditional elegance. Available in a range of colors, finishes, and louver sizes, shutters for bay windows can be tailored to match your home’s decor perfectly.

For example:

White shutters: Perfect for a fresh, clean look in modern spaces.

Stained wood shutters: Ideal for adding warmth and character to traditional rooms.

At Delta Shutters, we help you choose the perfect design to enhance your home’s aesthetic.

Conclusion Shutters for bay windows are a timeless and functional window treatment that can transform any home. From their perfect fit and energy efficiency to their elegant design and durability, they offer countless benefits that make them a worthwhile investment. At Delta Shutters, we’re committed to helping you find the perfect shutters for bay windows for your space.

Ready to upgrade your windows? Contact us today for a free consultation and discover the difference shutters for bay windows

[dnkme]

Industrial Rolling Shutters vs. Sectional Doors: Which Is Right for You?

When it comes to securing industrial facilities, choosing the right door solution is essential for optimizing both safety and functionality. Two popular options are industrial rolling shutters and sectional doors, each offering unique advantages depending on the specific needs of the space. This guide breaks down the differences between these two types, helping you make an informed decision that best suits your facility’s requirements.

Understanding Industrial Rolling Shutters

Industrial rolling shutters are designed with durability and space-saving functionality in mind. Made from horizontal slats, these doors roll up into a compact coil above the door opening, taking up minimal overhead space. This design is especially useful for large warehouses and factories with limited ceiling height or crowded overhead equipment.

Key Advantages of Rolling Shutters

Space Efficiency: Because rolling shutters roll upward, they leave overhead space open, ideal for facilities with high racking or limited room.

High Durability: Typically constructed from heavy-duty steel or aluminum, rolling shutters withstand wear, extreme weather, and impacts, making them ideal for high-traffic areas.

Enhanced Security: Rolling shutters provide a strong physical barrier, reducing the risk of break-ins and protecting valuable assets.

Customization Options: Rolling shutters come with optional insulation, fire resistance, and automation, allowing for tailored solutions to meet specific industry needs.

What Are Sectional Doors?

Sectional doors are made up of horizontal panels connected by hinges that slide up on a track. When opened, the door’s panels curve and move along the ceiling horizontally, making these doors a common choice for distribution centers and facilities that require wide door openings and frequent access.

Key Advantages of Sectional Doors

Excellent Insulation: Sectional doors often come with insulation, reducing energy loss and creating a controlled environment inside the facility.

Quiet Operation: Thanks to their panel construction, sectional doors tend to operate more quietly than rolling shutters, which can be beneficial in sound-sensitive work environments.

Wide Customization Options: Sectional doors offer a variety of materials and finishes, allowing businesses to create a visually appealing entrance that complements their facility’s exterior.

Ease of Maintenance: Sectional doors often have more accessible parts and panels, making maintenance and repairs simpler compared to rolling shutters.

Comparing Key Features

Feature

Rolling Shutters

Sectional Doors

Space Requirements

Minimal overhead space required

Requires ceiling track clearance

Security

High, due to solid construction

Moderate; may require additional security measures

Insulation

Available but optional

Often highly insulated by default

Durability

High, with impact resistance

Moderate to high, depending on material

Noise Levels

Can be noisy during operation

Typically quieter due to panel design

Ease of Maintenance

Moderate; compact design makes some parts hard to access

High; accessible panels make repairs easier

Ideal Applications for Each Option

Rolling Shutters are best for:

Facilities with high-security needs

Locations where overhead space is limited

High-traffic industrial sites with heavy machinery and potential impact risks

Facilities that need fire-rated or weather-resistant doors

Sectional Doors are best for:

Warehouses or distribution centers that prioritize insulation and temperature control

Sound-sensitive facilities where quieter operation is preferred

Sites with more ample overhead clearance

Spaces that require frequent maintenance or customization in door appearance

Cost Considerations

Rolling shutters often have a lower upfront cost due to simpler installation and materials, especially in basic models. Sectional doors may be more expensive initially due to additional insulation and complex track systems but may provide long-term energy savings in temperature-controlled facilities.

Making Your Decision

When choosing between industrial rolling shutters and sectional doors, consider the following:

Space: Rolling shutters are better for facilities where overhead space is a priority. Sectional doors need ceiling track space but offer more customization and appearance options.

Security Needs: Rolling shutters typically offer a stronger barrier, ideal for high-security areas. For facilities needing basic security, sectional doors with added security features may suffice.

Noise Tolerance: Sectional doors operate more quietly, making them a good choice for sound-sensitive work areas.

Temperature Control: Insulated sectional doors are often superior for environments requiring stable temperatures.

Final Thoughts

Both industrial rolling shutters and sectional doors provide robust, reliable options for facility security and access. By assessing your specific needs in terms of space, security, insulation, and maintenance, you can determine which option is the best fit for your facility. Whichever you choose, investing in a high-quality, durable door solution enhances the safety, functionality, and overall efficiency of your industrial space.

[tricecomp]

Rolling Shutter Raw Material  Bangalore “Rolling Shutter Spare Parts In India” 

Shutter Motors ✓ Corner Post ✓ Counterweight Shaft ✓ Shutter Gear Box ✓Torsion Spring ✓Shutter Spring Wheels ✓ Side Bracket ✓ Polycarbonate Panels ✓Shutter Slats ✓Galvanized Laths ✓Shutter Laths ✓ Shutter Profile ✓MS Solid Salts✓ Shutter Strip ✓Punched Slats ✓Aluminium Single Skin Slats ✓Curved Slats ✓Perforated Slats ✓ Double Skin Extruded Slat ✓ Flat Slats ✓ Single Layer Lath ✓ Guide Channel ✓ Bottom Rail ✓Bottom Lock Plate ✓ T Spring Hanger ✓Lath Hanger✓ Shutter Spring Box ✓End Clip ✓ End Locks ✓ Plastic End Lock Bush ✓ PC Curtain Hooks ✓Zigzag Grill ✓ Grill Chain Link ✓Shutter Manual Chain Operated ✓ Bracket U Cup ✓ Shutter Security Lock ✓Wall Mount Switch ✓ Remote Controller ✓ Mobile Controller ✓Hood Cover,

Searches Related To Rolling Shutter Option At TRICECOMP In India Electrical Operated : Motorized | Remote Control | Mobile Control | Automatic Motors Option : Side Mount | Center Mount | Tubular Manual Operated : Pull and Push | Handle Gear | Hand Chain, Curtain Alloys : Mild Steel | Aluminium | Polycarbonate |Stainless Steel | Plastic | Wooden See Through : Solid | Perforated | Grills | Transparent | Punched | Holo Screen Finnish Option : Mill Finish |Galvanized | Paint | Powder Coated | Polish Travel Opener : Roll Up | Overhead | Lateral | Horizontal | Vertical

[env0writes]

Janus Estuaries Vol.2: Different Doors 1.15.22 “Mothballed Memories in Tartan Fleece”

Honeycomb holes in my childhood blankets Lay moth-eaten dust-laden duvets over my body I too, am broken, like these hand-me down trinkets Warm with all of these memories, rusted, shoddy

I am the Midas of decay Sweet memories stale cookie crumble I know my bones and blood will fail this way Laid up in a pine box, humble

Pillows, sheets, and bamboo brambles Sleeping pains that shoot up the spine Shutter lights, through wood slat blind shambles If this is how the dead sleep, I’ll take the sign

Discomfort carves into my curves With restful, wistful, childish charm Don’t leave a nightlight up to ease my nerves The damage done, from babe to babe have harm

Milk crates shelves that house the broken Solid plastic full up infirm Should I not crave my sleep, I’m past awoken The splitting mind, pulled body too will squirm

Beneath the covers Stitched up, only by my brothers With whom I miss It’s time to sleep, to rest, to reminisce

@env0writes C.Buck Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!

[mtjester]

True Name

For TodoKiri week! Details: TodoKiri — Witch Prince Todoroki, Cursed Monster Kirishima — NSFW, monsterfucking, small top big bottom

Shouto Todoroki only visited the village at night after the townsfolk deserted the streets and locked their doors. His siblings teased him for it, but he enjoyed the atmosphere. Even though the moonlit alleyways sat eerie and silent without the daily crowds, he could feel the townsfolks’ life essence—the soft glow of normal humans unburdened by the birthright of magic—through the plastered walls. He treasured that feeling. It was soothing, almost achingly calm compared to the constant flux and surge of energy that pulsed through the Todoroki ancestral castle. He could catch his breath in the village.

He knew the people there were aware of his frequent visits. He sometimes caught glimpses of them peeking through the slats in their shutters, usually young women who were too intrigued by his mysterious allure to resist. They knew better than to come out to meet him, though, and he didn’t encourage them to try. He didn’t have any desire to create a relationship with the people in the village. It would only end in disaster for them. So he wandered alone, and he returned to the castle by dawn.

That is, until the night a monster dropped down from the rooftops to block his path.

The silhouette alone made it clear that the creature was more than human—the dark form was a mass of solid muscle that dwarfed an average man, and Shouto had to lift his chin to follow the glowing red eyes as the creature straightened to full height. The moonlight bleached the creature’s hair of most color, but where the unruly mane cascaded over its shoulders, the shadows revealed the thick strands to be a deep crimson. Pearlescent burgundy scales met the line of hair and then gave way to stone-colored skin at the curve of its brow and cheekbones. When the creature tipped its head to appraise Shouto, the scales caught the moonlight and glittered softly. Yet, despite all the details of its monstrous appearance, the life force that thrummed from its body was unmistakably human—normal human, the same as the people who hid behind the locked doors of the village. Shouto stared, entranced and intrigued, his breath hitching in his throat. He only snapped back to attention when the creature opened its mouth to speak—revealing at the same time a set of dangerously sharp teeth and a pair of long, savage canines.

“Are you the Witch of Ice and Fire, heir apparent to the Todoroki dynasty?” the beast asked in a deep voice. The sound seemed to vibrate through Shouto’s bones, and his heart skipped beats for an entirely different reason. Goosebumps scattered across his skin. Heat traveled up to his cheeks and down to his groin.

“Who are you?” he asked breathlessly. The creature narrowed its eyes and clenched its jaw, grappling with its thoughts. Its irises danced with an ember-like quality, like the glow of live coals. The shifting radiance was so mesmerizing Shouto couldn’t react when the creature finally moved. A hardened hand struck his neck like a blunt sword, and he crumbled.

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[woodysshutters]

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[dongtopus]

LoKtober day 18: Hurricane

Marion jolted in his seat as a crack of thunder and lighting peeled across the skyline. He managed to just barely catch his book between his ring finger and pinky.

“D’aouch!” The little piece of satin he was using as a bookmark fluttered between his legs, landing in the greased cogs of the coach's elevated table.

As he looked out of the window, the sky darkened. Thick clouds formed at the edge of the plains and a deep rumble rolled across the sky once again. Dozens of sheep began converging toward a single barn in the middle of a nearby field, corralled by the blips of men on horseback waving sticks.

Marion poked his head out of the window, feeling the muggy air on his face.

"Knell" Marion called from the window hesitantly.

"Knell, it's going to rain.” He called from inside the carriage, his lips almost touching the window slats, “Perhaps we should stop until it passes? Somewhere dry so that the horses can wait it out dry.” The carriage coach rumbled on, hoofs clacking against stone with no indication of slowing down, “We must not have that long left to go, a break would do you- or the horses no harm."

Marion began to doubt himself, perhaps Knell simply could not hear him?

"Yes." Knell's eventual response was muffled by the wind, but Marion was satisfied. He reeled his head back in and brought the shutter down, just as a gentle pitter patter of rain had begun.

"Good. he is at least taking suggestions. And just in time, too.'' Marion thought aloud as he settled into his book, wriggling a cushion around on the bench beside him and resting the sole of his shoe on the small raised table in the center of the carriage.

Eventually the rain picked up, and the  light drizzle quickly turned to a shower. The carriage had not yet stopped or slowed down and Marion realised he had read through three chapters since he suggested they stop for a spell. His long finger held onto the corner of the next page and he debated his next act. The rain continued to pelt the screen and the noise only got worse when the carriage began to rumble once it came off the worn road and onto a different, rockier path.

Concern began to set in, The coach was not built for ‘off-road’ adventures, Marion thought.

He wanted to lean out to investigate. He picked up a cowl from a peg behind him and raised the shutter only for his finger to be pelted instantly with three heavy globes of rain.

He let out a yelp, his jaw splitting wide in the pain, strings of spit flew outward as he whipped his hand back in, closing the shutter with a growl and looking down. The wind roared against the shutter like the mocking cacophony of a specter. The rain had burned through his chitinous layer with more ease than he imagined and he watched as blood rushed through the burns. His hand trembled uncontrollably as he clutched at it. 

As the holes began to heal over, they produced a vapour that danced as it dissipated in the air. Marion seethed, silently cursing his curiosity as he pulled a cushion into his lap and wrapped himself in a thick blanket.

He rocked in place as the coach bounced over pebbles and stones. He could hear dirt and gravel being kicked up from the hooves and wheels, pebble-dashing the coaches vintage underside.

The wind grew harsher, and with it came the pelting onslaught of ever more rain. The carriage had not been built for this sort of weather, even when it was brand new, some three hundred and eighteen years ago.

Marion tapped a barometer nestled into the interior wood paneling. The thin, curving arrow remained pointing on the section labelled ‘Fair’. He shook his head as the arrow rocked on its pin. “I wonder if I have just been very fortunate this entire time. Did it ever even work?”

The carriage rocked more, and more, the old frame creaked and squeaked, the wind picked up, the rain was like a thousand cannons firing wet death upon him from every direction. How long until the carriage would spring a leak somewhere? Marion covered his head in a second throw.

“Rock you like a hurricane…” He hummed to himself, feigning calm.

[serpentinerose]

I’ve now published 300k words in the 2Ha Ao3 tag! Thanks to my friend on twt for this prompt to push me over the 300k threshold.

Prompt: Mo Ran and Xue Meng bonding in the 5 years Chu Wanning was in seclusion. 

No spoilers beyond the current tl. Rated G. You can check out the rest of my fics on Ao3 @ serpentinerose. 

Xue Meng thought he could spend the rest of his life without ever hearing the name “Butterfly Town” ever again.

It was almost funny, Mo Ran would say, that this insignificant town a mere half day away from the foot of Sisheng Peak would ever become something of significance to them. A town known for nothing but the captivating fragrance that snaked between the broken slats on windows forever shuttered, for the reddish earth that never produced anything of substance, soaked through with far too much blood for a town of that size. A town of ghosts and promises buried in coffins that shook under the weight of their own grief. Xue Meng would have never stepped foot there a second time, were it not for the fact that Butterfly Town refused to lift its shadowy wings from the course of his life.

Mo Ran would have said all that, Xue Meng thought, but not Mo-zongshi.

Not this tall, broad man in white who stood before him today.

They scrubbed the blood out from under their fingernails, washed the gore from their swords in the stream, and stared into water so deep that neither of them could see what had sunken into that great river. Butterfly Town laid quiet behind them; the disciples of Sisheng Peak had busied themselves with the task of carrying away the wounded and burying the dead. The mangled pieces of demon flesh littering the expanse of the earth behind them were quickly spirited away, sent into flames so high that those red tongues dared to reach toward the sky with its own stripes of red, dispersed among the clouds.

Xue Meng’s fire core had made quick work of that mess. The resultant acrid smoke irritated his nose; he sniffed, stomach clenching at the nauseating smell of roasted meat, sweet and succulent and altogether wrong.

“Hungry already?” His cousin’s voice held little trace of its former ever-present mocking tone, but there was a little humor in it all the same. Mo Ran’s white robes were splattered around the hem with various shades of brown, and Xue Meng wrinkled his nose, wiping away the mess that the yao corpses had made on the shining metal of his armor. 

“Your defense needs work.”

“Your attack needs more work,” Mo Ran shot back, but there was no heat in it. “Anyway, what does it matter? You were supposed to be guarding my back.”

“I was guarding your back,” Xue Meng argued. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t manage to keep in formation. Did anyone ask you to jump ahead? Did you want to show off to the pretty ghost lady?”

Mo Ran barked out a laugh. “I’m surprised you could tell it was a ghost lady at all.”

“It wore a bracelet.” Xue Meng scrubbed his hands together under the water. Red swirls spread on the surface; the dying sun, too, cast its own redness over the glittering water, swallowing away the evidence of their work. “Anyway, it’s too late to head back to Sisheng Peak tonight. We’ll make camp here. The inn seems to be in good shape. They might still have some food and wine to offer us.”

“So you are hungry,” Mo Ran pointed out. “Fine, Young Master. Let’s go get something in that stomach of yours.”

The inn was spared, but barely just. The entire second floor was uninhabitable, but the eatery still held its scattering of mismatched, coarsely carved tables and chairs. It would have to be rebuilt, Xue Meng thought. But not by them.

They had already done enough for this town.

Whatever had remained of the food supply had disappeared far too quickly into their cavernous stomachs. Some of the other disciples had decided to wash off the filth of the day more fully in that dark river, and some had even found the ingenuity to catch a great bounty of silvery fish along the way. It turned out that three arrows and a cloak strung together with spiritual energy were quite enough to form a kind of net. The smell of roasted fish finally cleared that stench of yao corpses from the air. They had eaten quietly, and then, one by one, the disciples trickled out to the tents they had put up along the main street of town, now cleared of all debris.

Butterfly Town had never looked cleaner, Xue Meng thought.

It was just him and Mo Ran left in the inn. The innkeeper had generously offered them a bundle of blanket and a corner of the main eatery hall. Under normal circumstances, Xue Meng would have turned up his nose at the meager accommodation, but not tonight.

After all, Xue Meng doubted if they would get any rest at all this night.

Their dusty table was littered with the clumsy wooden pieces of what would somehow become a Holy Night Guardian. Xue Meng never had any affinity with the process of creation; the constant rumor mills of Sisheng Peak, powered by both its disciples and Elders alike, liked to insist that upon Xue Meng’s first meeting with his shizun at the age of five, he had destroyed an entire room’s worth of inventions with only a file in his hands.

Chu Wanning had looked inordinately pleased, as much as that was possible for his shizun. Or so Xue Meng was told.

Mo Ran’s skills also lay elsewhere, but there was no other choice. Their shizun still remained in seclusion at the Red Lotus Pavilion, shuttered behind barriers too advanced for either of them to broach, and the contingent of Sisheng Peak disciples who had survived this last battle had never trained under the Yuheng Elder.

It was up to them now. Carrying on their shizun’s legacy until he returned. 

Sometimes, Xue Meng wondered whether Mo Ran’s shoulders broadened under that strain merely by adaptation.

They worked in silence; the candlelight flickered between them, casting large shadows that loomed over them, although the shadows seemed more contemplative and watchful rather than ominous even as this broken down inn bowed under the storm swirling overhead. The water dripped at regular intervals from the misshapen slats, scorched in some places and warped in others, and Xue Meng cast a clumsy barrier over their table. Mo Ran’s eyes flickered strangely as that shining blue sphere descended around them.

“What?” Xue Meng demanded.

A ghostly smile curved playfully at Mo Ran’s lips. “Shizun would have scolded you for this barrier.”

“You think you can do better?”

“Yeah, probably,” Mo Ran snorted. “But I’m not going to show off. This is passable enough, I guess, if you were a novice under Elder Xuanji.”

Xue Meng threw a wooden stick at Mo Ran’s head, who ducked it all too nimbly. The relief that flooded him at that moment was unreasonable. Xue Meng kicked himself, but his mouth quirked upward all the same. “Oh, fuck off.”

Mo Ran laughed once, and the shadows seemed to have shifted. The candlelight grew just a touch brighter. Xue Meng fixed his eyes on the notches he had made on that stick of wood; Longcheng was a proud, fearsome sword, more suited to the destruction on the battlefield than the delicate work of carving eyes and a nose into this wooden frame. It was a little ridiculous, Xue Meng thought, that wood could walk and move and protect. A mere instrument in their hands, imbued with their spiritual power, compelled to perform duties it had never asked for, and yet could never refuse.

He wondered if wood could feel. If wood understood what pain was when it was struck. The steel of sword and the steel of lightning. If, when the wood splintered under forces greater than it could withstand, it would also feel the cut deep within whatever sliver of soul had managed to form within its rings.

All wood had once been trees. Living things.

But that was impossible, Xue Meng scolded himself. Strange musings brought on by this strange town. 

After all, wood was just wood.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Mo Ran said. Xue Meng swallowed the lump in his throat that had formed without his knowing. The distance between them, a mere table apart, had seemed as insurmountable as that between Sisheng Peak and wherever it was that Mo Ran found fit to stay for longer than a fortnight or two.

The twisted pieces of wood, discarded from the remnants of their failed Holy Night Guardian, lay on the table between them, next to a jar of wine that the innkeeper managed to scrounge up from the kitchen. They eventually did succeed in making a passable rendition of their shizun’s invention, and that wooden puppet had started its first patrol of the outer perimeter of the village.

It had a crooked little face with a crooked little nose, with arms slightly uneven and a body halfway between ugly and pathetic. Mo Ran had shrugged helplessly when Xue Meng pointed at the way the little wooden puppet stood tilted to the side. Nonetheless, it worked.

It walked. 

It would fight, given time and opportunity.

“Oh.”

“There’s much to do in the world still.” It was as if Mo Ran wanted to argue the point for himself. He twisted the empty porcelain cup in his fingers, stroking at the hairline fracture that had formed on the surface of that fine bone after too many years of use, no matter how careful the washing had been. 

It was simply the way of the world, Xue Meng knew. And in this lower cultivation world, the reality of their lives was filled with far more decay and broken things than what lay just beyond the border into the upper cultivation realm.

“Where are you going?” Xue Meng only said. The wine had not yet gone to his head, although he knew it would, eventually. “Where haven’t you gone yet?’

“Jianghu is vast,” Mo Ran replied smilingly. Xue Meng truly looked at his cousin this time; Mo Ran had changed in recent years, not the least in the expanding span of his shoulders or the widening of his back. Or the ridiculous lengthening of his legs. It wasn’t the simple outfits of white that marked Mo-zongshi out in a crowd, and neither was it that gentle smile that Xue Meng never remembered from his rash cousin’s younger years.

Whatever it was that had changed, Xue Meng could not put it into words. But he could feel it in the way Mo Ran looked at him, the drag of time that had etched itself in that faraway gaze, as if Mo Ran had lived at least two lifetimes and carried the weight of them on those shoulders.

“Shizun would return soon,” Xue Meng noted, taking a sip of his wine. By etiquette, he should have turned away, hid his face behind his sleeve, but there had never been any ceremony between the two of them.

Their backs pressed against one another, dampened with blood and sweats. Their faces splattered with the gore of their targets’ guts, the stench of fresh blood clinging onto their skin for days, for weeks.

If shizun could have seen them then...

Mo Ran’s dark gaze shuttered, and for a quick moment, Xue Meng could swear that those eyes flashed a deep purple color. His cousin’s lips pressed into a thin line so uncharacteristic on that face; and yet, so many things that Xue Meng had never associated with his cousin had begun to be inextricable from that figure.

Mo-zongshi, Xue Meng had heard. Sometimes, when he looked at his cousin’s figure from far away, those white robes picking up the slight breeze of late summer, Xue Meng could almost swear that it was their shizun’s image on that dusty road.

It was only the smile on Mo-zongshi’s face that had distinguished them.

Mo Ran was not smiling now. “I’ll come back before he awakens.”

“How can you know for sure?” Xue Meng demanded. “Have you been counting the days?”

With a jolt, Xue Meng realized that he had not. Four years ago, Xue Meng would have sworn up and down that his life would halt until shizun returned to them.

Each day that passed without his shizun’s commanding presence would have been too unbearable.

And yet, he bore them all. Days turned into weeks turned into months, and soon enough, four years had already passed. Life seemed to move on even when he least wanted it to, and Xue Meng thought he could reach out for the stream of time, wade his fingers through the soft water, and come up with the grains of sand that he had been searching for, undisturbed beneath that torrent. It was only time itself that had revealed to him exactly how foolish he was being.

The sand stayed. The water didn’t, and Xue Meng was carried along with the current.

Mo Ran said nothing, but there was a strange, enigmatic smile on his face. “I’ll be back in time, don’t you worry. You think I’ll let you take all the credit with shizun without me there?”

Xue Meng punched his cousin’s shoulder, thankful that they had taken their armor off for the night. Clad only in their inner sleeping robes, Xue Meng could almost believe they were back in that inn of long ago, refreshed from the hotspring, with shizun just a step behind them as they bickered their way back to their upstairs rooms.

It had been a long time since that inn.

“You know there’s a place for you at Sisheng Peak,” Xue Meng found himself saying without knowing why. The lump in his throat had grown in size; he downed the rest of the wine and filled their cups to the brim again. This time, his words came out slurred. “It’s still your home.”

Mo Ran’s face stiffened, and there was a shadow in that gaze that seemed to hint at things only spoken aloud between the last breath of the night and the first blush of dawn, shrouded in the mist that seemed to descend upon the earth for that particular instant before the sunlight cleared it all away. Xue Meng would have asked his stupid cousin what it was he still thought could be hidden between them, but Mo Ran already shook his head and smiled. “I know. It is my home. It’s simply not time yet.” 

“You’re just hiding,” Xue Meng accused. He wanted to say more. Horrifyingly, there was a tight pressure building up just behind his nose, spilling forth as warm wetness that slid down his face and stained the cracks between the dirty wooden table. “You…”

He wanted to say more, but the words would not come out between the sobs that shook his entire body.

Shizun was already gone, Xue Meng wanted to say. And you would rob me of yet another.

How selfish of you. 

How very like you. 

Even the words spoken in anger, at their very worst, when the vitriol was too much to bear, still bore some remnant of truth.

Slowly, cautiously, Mo Ran reached out a hand for his shoulder. “There, there.”

“S-stupid Mo Weiyu,” Xue Meng managed, swallowing air between the syllables. “You are so stupid.”

“Yeah,” Mo Ran sighed, shifting closer. The hand on his shoulder seemed to emanate warmth far beyond that of an ordinary person; through that thin layer of fabric, Xue Meng felt a rush of something almost like spiritual energy from his cousin’s fingers, knowing that it was all too absurd to feel such a sensation when no such transfer took place. Mo Ran seemed to have that effect on people, much to Xue Meng’s chagrin. “I’m stupid. Xue Meng, come here.”

“No,” Xue Meng hiccupped, hugging the wine gourd to his chest.

“I’m coming over then,” Mo Ran warned. “Don’t hit me.”

“I’m not.” A pause. A sob. “Not promising anything.”

Mo Ran’s shoulder was solid, broader than his own. Xue Meng buried his face into it, letting his tears stain the white of Mo Ran’s robes. His cousin sighed, patted his back awkwardly, and must have looked upward at the ceiling. The slight jostle to his frame suggested as such. “I know you miss him.”

“Who doesn’t miss him?” Xue Meng snarled, but the heat was gone. The words were curtained in tears, shrouded in grief, and every syllable struggled against the jerks of his throat. “You stupid dog.”

“You haven’t called me that in a long time,” Mo Ran commented.

“I haven’t seen you in a l-long time,” Xue Meng stubbornly replied. Mo Ran fingers pried away the wine cup from his hand, set it down on the table, and resumed that stuttered task of patting his back. “Stop touching me.”

“Are you going to stop crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

Mo Ran pushed him away. “You’re not a child anymore, Mengmeng. Don’t lie like that anymore.”

Xue Meng’s lips trembled; he willed them to stop, but his body had never liked to listen to his mind too much. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Mo Ran said. His eyes stretched into long, thin lines, softened by an emotion that Xue Meng could not identify. The corners of Mo Ran’s mouth turned upward even as his brows were weighed down by something heavier than grief. “I miss him too.”

It was the first time he had ever heard his cousin admit that.

Throughout all this time. Throughout all the times they had fallen asleep curled up in a dirty tent in a battlefield, washing up in whatever water they could find, scrubbing the blood from underneath their nails, Xue Meng had never once heard Mo Ran mentioned shizun.

Until now.

“Ge,” Xue Meng tried. “When will he be back?”

“Three hundred and ninety one days,” Mo Ran murmured.

That choking sound came from him. Xue Meng realized belatedly that it had started out as mocking laughter, turned too quickly into something unnameable. It was something he had realized for a long time, Xue Meng thought, the way words sometimes would not suffice, and yet there was nothing to do but cling clumsily to whatever sentiment could be expressed through that inadequacy.

I miss him, Xue Meng wanted to say. You miss him, too.

The words had been spoken, and yet, they might as well have been weightless for how little they truly meant. Platitude. Useless sentiment that talked of everything and conveyed nothing.

Sometimes, the words that mattered the most were the ones least expected.

Three hundred and ninety one days.

“Ge.”

“Go to sleep, Xue Meng,” Mo Ran said. “We still have to teach the village how to use the Holy Night Guardian tomorrow.”

“It’s cold,” Xue Meng whined, and his cousin sighed. The warmth left; Xue Meng shivered relentlessly in his thin robes, and then, from behind, a warm cover had replaced the warmth of Mo Ran’s hand.

His cousin had taken the pile of blanket on the floor and wrapped it around him. “Don’t be a brat. You’ve withstood worse.”

But I don’t want to, Xue Meng thought helplessly, peering up under lashes ladened with tears.

Mo Ran regarded him for a moment, sighed, and ruffled his hair. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t go,” Xue Meng found himself asking. “Ge. Don’t leave.”

A deep sigh. The candlelight was close to extinguished; the wax pooled on that wooden table, the wick almost completely submerged in the melted wax. The shadows on the wall seemed lighter; when there was no light in the world, the shadows, too, melted away.

“I’ll be back,” Mo Ran said, and Xue Meng’s eyes slipped shut.

Mo Ran would be back. Xue Meng knew this to be true. And yet, time ticked away without regard for man’s wishes, and the sand of today will simply remain under that current until one day, a pair of eyes will open in that Red Lotus Pavilion, and this time, the stream would push along whatever rested on that riverbed, sand and silt and stones smoothed by the ever flowing current.

Three hundred and ninety one days.

Xue Meng had been waiting for a long time already.

[beinmybonnet]

21st December 1907, Iquique, Chile 

The church bell rings out in three joyful tones. With a sharp inhale, Joe sends a prayer skywards on the tails of doves.

Gunfire chases the echoes.

___

Joe is vaguely aware that Andy is dragging him backwards, snarling at his ear. His own fury is there, churning low in his stomach but for now a numbing shock has won out over his body. They’re killing them… he thinks as Andy shoves him sideways. 

 She punches the brick beside his head and her own embittered howl joins a building symphony of screaming. He pulls her bloodied hand to his chest and holds it firm, thumb rubbing at the stain. He swallows.

“We have to be ready,” he grinds out, their eyes meeting wide and furious. Andy nods, digging her thumbnail into the back of his hand and then pulls him further into the alley. “As soon as it stops.” He’s desperately trying to think practically now; they need a way in, a way out, god they might even need to dig in right here, and Nicolò-

“Now, move.” Andy’s rounding corners with clipped efficiency, and he remembers to pull the pistol at his belt. The noise is dying down now. “We can get back in through the playground,” she says in a tight voice over her shoulder. Joe flinches and quickens his pace.

The rear of the schoolhouse comes into view and Andy pauses at the low fence. There are yellow ribbons twisted up the slats of the gate. Every window is shattered, every shutter is swinging. Broken glass and shards of wooden frame litter the hard court and herb gardens.  A group of women are hunched under a windowsill, hands over their shaking faces as they cower against the stone. Final bullets thud into the interior wall and Joe is moving, skirting the fence and pointing out towards treeline.

“Go. Into the trees, go now,” he tells the women, pointing east. One has a baby in her arms, nodding, sobbing as she stumbles backwards. Two are tugging on the sleeve of another, a gaping wound in her cheek. “You have to go, she’s gone – run.” he says, swiftly detangling their hands. A wailing child trips out of the  doorway and is scooped up by the women as they stagger away. Andy moves into the space at his side, eyes fixed on the roof.

“Book was up top with the miners,” she says. While there is noise coming from within the school, there’s no movement from above.  “Goddamn Silva, hijo de puta!”

“They can’t leave survivors, they’ll be sweeping the buildings – if it gets back to Santiago-”

“I know – we’ve got minutes. I’ll get Booker, meet you at the church. Fallback to Quipisca if it all goes to shit.” Joe’s nodding before she’s finished speaking, already inching towards the door. It’s been too long, where-

“Joe.”

“Church, shit, Quipisca – I heard you.”

Andy holds his gaze for a moment, then turns away towards the school. “Be fast.”

___

Joe finds him in the westernmost classroom, body curving up from the stone.

For every room searched in stoicism, blinkering himself against the mounting horrors – this one rushes up to greet him in obnoxious lividity. The little ones lie amongst their splintered desks like discarded dolls. Their limp bodies curled together in their fear. There is a small boy slumped against the wall at his feet, his white smock drizzled in ropes of crimson over a heaving chest. Joe allows himself one aching glance across the room at Nicky’s still form, and then crouches quickly before the child, cupping his shaking face in his hands.

“You’re alright, you’re alright – let me see,” he murmurs in Spanish, shifting himself to block the boy’s view of his classmates. He moves his fingers quickly over the small chest and torso, finding a shallow graze across his ribs and a deeper one along his collar. The boy’s red eyes are fixed on Joe’s own now, sobs seizing and catching within him. Joe unties his neck scarf quickly and fastens it tightly around the boy’s own throat, pressing firmly. “There now, looks much better on you.”

Little hands grip tightly at his wrists, trying to pull Joe closer. He’s about to lift the boy up into his arms when there’s a crunch of broken glass from the hallway, and a young woman drags herself through the door on her knees. Joe spins sideways, pistol raised - but she’s crying out desperately, hands tacky with blood and reaching for the child.  

A choked cry for his mother the boy and is wriggling toward the door and then clasped in her arms. Joe exhales heavily, opens his mouth to tell her to go, to run-

-and there’s a shallow breath from behind him

He’s across the room and on his knees in the space between heartbeats. Nicky is facedown, arms curled in against himself but now breathing raggedly. Joe’s eyes roll up in fierce gratitude for those breaths and he quickly runs his hands over Nicky’s shoulders and down his spine, following the line of scarlet rosettes stained over his bowed back.

“Nicolò?”

Nicky presses his palm to the stone to raise himself up, struggling for purchase on the bloody floor. Too bloody. Joe’s hand clenches hard in the damp fabric at the small of Nicky’s back, fingers tightening in dread- that’s too much blood- he’s still bleeding-

But his eyes catch a neat plait trailing under Nicky’s arm. Joe’s breath stalls violently in his throat.

Lifting his head sharply now, Nicky scrambles for traction in the blood with his free hand, his right curled beneath the head of the girl within the cage of his arms. He lifts his body away from her, their clothes clinging and sticking together. His brows knit briefly, ducking his chin to peer at his own chest. Then raises his eyes to trace her form. “No, I…”

The holes piercing her pinafore are a perfect reflection of the exit wounds on Nicky’s own chest. Joe’s heart seizes painfully, and he slides his hand up to rest at the nape of Nicky's neck as he whispers his uncertainty once more. “But I-

“We have to go Nico,” Joe tells him quietly, hating- hating the world beyond the window with every fibre within him. Nicky nods absently but is still staring down at the little body cradled in his hands. He doesn’t move. “Come on, we-”

“I don’t understand.” Nicky's voice is quiet but clear. Eyes locked on unseeing eyes. Joe wants to yell, wants to hold him, wants to lead him out to the Plaza and unleash unholy hell at his side. But he touches the pads of his fingers to Nicky’s chin and tilts his face gently.

“I know.” He pauses, so Nicky can see the truth in his eyes. “But you have done all you can.” A harsh sound claws from Nicky’s throat and Joe winces, knowing. He opens his mouth to speak again, but there is a sharp call and response from the school’s forecourt and Nicky meets his eyes with a grimace. Joe cups his hands beneath slight shoulder blades, and together they lower her back to the floor. Nicky pulls her sodden plaits back to rest across her front, and Joe gently closes her wide eyes with a whispered prayer to carry her on. As they stand Nicky turns to survey the tragedy littered around him, and his expression starts to quake in a way Joe cannot bear for a second longer.

He knots their fingers together and pulls him from horror.

___

In the end, they don’t speak of her until they have crossed the Bolivian border and made a more private camp. At the church, they stood with Booker as he roared into the rafters, blood still dripping from his coat. They had moved quickly through Quipisca, following Andy through the protective grooves in the earth with what was left of the miners and their fractured families – seeing them safely into Noasa.

Nicky is sat at the ridge’s edge, feet hanging in the open air when he speaks the words once more.

“I don’t understand.”

Joe looks up at his side but does not speak. This this will have been taking form in Nicky’s mind since they left Iquique. He hasn’t pressed or pushed – knowing the words would come when Nicky was ready to speak them into the world. He's felt his turmoil in other ways of course, the bite of his nails into Joe’s wrist as they slept, the hard press of his boots into the ground as they hiked – as though he could stamp his rage back down into the earth that had birthed it. Finding words to compliment such depth of feeling has always been harder for Nicky, less instinctive. Thus all that fall from his lips do so with the deliberation and care - never wishing to be misunderstood. Joe swore to himself aeons ago that he would treasure them all.

“There are days, when I don’t understand,” Nicky corrects softly, lifting his left hand to drag his fingers down his own chest. “What is the purpose of my body if not to fall, so that others can stand? What is the purpose of this gift, when I cannot give it?” He pauses, taking a measured breath. “I had her, I shielded her, and it still was not enough. My body could not save her. My death was not enough.” Nicky sags back slightly now, jaw tightening in distress and Joe aches with him. “If death is not enough… I have nothing else to give.”

Joe takes a raw moment to absorb the words, to give them space to breathe – but his own are formed and sure.

“Our deaths can be a gift for this world, I agree. We can give, and give, and we can give again. But all we can do is give, Nicoló . We cannot control what is taken.” A charged pause chases the affirmation.

“So much was taken.” Nicky whispers into the sky.

“It was. What was her name?”

“Magdalena. Her name was Magdalena,” Nicky smiles around the sound. “I was trying to teach them the polka. She was the quickest.”

Joe grins now, his laugh a bark in the night. “I could hear them laughing from the Plaza, I wondered if you were trying to teach them arithmetic.” He takes a neat elbow to the ribs and uses the leverage to tug Nicky’s hands into his lap where he clutches them tightly, running fingertips over familiar knuckles. The view before them is effusively beautiful. The slighter hills roll together casting deep shadows into the valley’s clefts, and he can hear the rush of shallow rapids far below them. The red rock ridge they have settled on juts out into the clean air with pride, confident of its strength and place in the world. But the stars boast their beauty too stridently to be ignored. Joe cannot remember a night he could trace the constellations he learnt as a child so clearly.  

Nicky dips his head to the cradle of Joe’s shoulder, tension starting to leach from his frame. But Joe will not allow them to rest this night until one issue is unwaveringly refuted.

“My love, being unable to prevent their deaths does not void the joy brought to their lives that morning. I would have you know that.” His words are steady. “Death is not your only gift, nor is it your purpose. You have so much more to give this world”

Nicky blinks slowly against the cotton of Joe’s shirt and presses his lips to his collar for a long moment. It’s acceptance, Joe knows. Grateful receipt of honest words.

“Do you feel it Yusuf? What is happening to this world?”

He does. Like a gnawing shadow on his heels. He struggles still to give it form. It’s like the world is racing against itself, ever hastening its pace. He can feel the panic of it - the pressure. It has always been this way, the bitter bite of competition having wounded lands of his heart long ago. A prize sought was a holy land, a shining and maddening city toyed over for generations. Deemed a worthy reward for the sacrifice of many lives.

Today it is 18 pence. A quick little girl, and her whole community lie cold in their grave this night for 18 pence. The exclusivity of their dirt such a point of pride for a country that its people ceased to have meaning. The behemoth of industrial greed blindly claiming them.

Joe’s words are heavy. “I feel it.”

“The world is changing. This is not the end, this growing carelessness for life.”

He picks a star, and pulls Nicky closer.