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writefightandflightclub · 24 days

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

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

Author’s note: Hope you like this next instalment! It’s a long one, and it’s a flashback, so it feels like a HUGE RISK to shove this in so far into the story. However, this memory of Santiago’s and reader’s is SO vivid in my mind I feel I could basically use it as a patronus charm. Therefore, if you’re at all invested in these two by now, I do feel like the payoff is worth it, and that it will set you up PERFECTLY for the next, concluding chapter! (Also: ooh, intrigue, as we get to see how they were with each other back in their youth, you know?). Anyway, as always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

P.s. there’s a timeline goof as a song mentioned in this, although recorded in ‘88, was not released until 2015. But we’re just gonna look past that, okay? 😝 In this world it was released early.

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

Word count: 16.6k for this part. (SORRY!)

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

Many years earlier

Santiago is tired. Ready to crawl into the cocoon of his bed and draw the covers over his head, refusing to surface again until he’s dragged feet first outta there. Unfortunately for him though, sleep is not on the cards.

Instead, he has a vitally important mission to attend to. And, in the face of a mission, this particular soldier never settles for anything less than completion. That doctrine is especially true - he has proven time and again - when it comes to taking care of you.

Tonight, Santiago is tasked with making your birthday a memorable one; or, as memorable as he can muster with the $40 he currently has to his name.

“Civilian aircraft, man. Where’s a goddamn helo when you need one?” you fruitlessly complain as he nods along in sympathy.

Evidently, sleep is the last thing on your mind. You’d been looking forward to cutting loose for weeks, with this night touted as “the birthday to end all birthdays”. Serendipitously, this was the first time your birthday had coincided with a period of leave since you signed up to serve and, thwarting all that, your connecting flight was grounded unexpectedly.

Santiago feels crushed - on your behalf - that the plans have gone so pear-shaped.

“One o’ these days, getting shot for the Motherland will gain me some fucking privileges, huh?”

Santiago flinches at that particular addition. He doesn’t like to think about that day. That day’d had him waking up in frequent cold sweats going on a year now. He’d put himself on the line countless times - no problem- but almost losing you had been decidedly different. Had been the single most terrifying moment of his career (and his life) to date, all told. Which sure was saying something considering the hairy situations he routinely found himself in.

Graciously, your present circumstances are considerably less dire. You’ve still been griping, of course. And, your complaints have not succeeded in changing a damn thing. It is now abundantly clear - if it wasn’t already - that the two of you are stranded for the night. So, here you are, holed up in a dingy and characterless airport motel in Philadelphia.

It beats enemy fire, for sure… but even so, Santiago is acutely aware of how much you’ve been looking forward to this. To the rare chance to catch-up with your far flung squad mates, scattered every which way across the globe since graduating basic. He knows too, that the anticipation of this reunion had acted as your glue - had held you together - through what had been a particularly brutal deployment.

“I haven’t seen Miller in months, man. I need to give that bastard some grief soon or I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

“We can call that pendejo tomorrow,” Santiago soothes, popping a stick of gum and beginning to chew obnoxiously. “Hey. We can even pool our insults, huh? Really get him going.”

You raise your palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. “Shit. I just miss the fucker, Santiago.” For the first time tonight he hears your voice break, your stoicism cracking apart and revealing your soft middle.

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

Santiago knows how crushed you are. And so, for whatever it’s worth, the man resolves to show you the best night he possibly can, all circumstances considered.

“Come on,” he encourages, kneeling before you as your lower lip quivers. He plants a hand on your thigh and jostles your leg gently. Meanwhile, you sit slumped on the long edge of the lumpy motel bed, beginning to feel rather more sorry for yourself. “You and me, baby. I’ll make this night special, I swear. Just give me a chance, huh?”

“How?” you sound, throwing your palms up and gesturing to your dismal surroundings. “This place is barely even a step-up from the barracks.” You eye a particularly suspect stain on the carpet with disdain. “Actually, I think it might even be a step down.”

Santiago’s face crumples obediently in a measured display of sympathy, but honestly, his first instinct is to chuckle. You look so forlorn in this moment, Santiago has to consciously suppress his smile. You are the most stubborn, ferocious, determined person he’s ever met. You are fucking tough. Hell, he’s seen Staff Sergeants buckle in a crisis before you’ve even come close to breaking - and yet here you are. Almost in tears because you can’t make your birthday party. It’s all a little incongruous to him that out of everything, this would be the thing to take you down.

At the same time though, of course. He understands it perfectly.

Santiago has understood for a long time now that you possess a (well-concealed) softer side. Knows it better than most others do, in fact. As you’ve gradually allowed him to sneak past your militia-guarded perimeter -only a soldier of his calibre capable of making it, he’d wager - he’s begun to catch more and more frequent glimpses of the achingly soft heart you guard within. If your tough exterior had initially magnetised him to you, it was your soft heart which ensured he’d stuck around.

Solemnly then, he pats your thigh in a consolatory gesture. Of course, Santiago gets it. He knows it isn’t the presents or the attention or fuss which you’ll miss tonight - though they would have gone over well too, he’s sure. He knows that it is your brothers (in arms, if not blood) that you are feeling the loss of. The squad mates you love dearly, and to whom you are loyal with a tenacity Santiago has rarely witnessed. A loyalty he too feels blessed -strictly in the lapsed Catholic sense - to be on the receiving end of.

Valiantly fighting back glassy tears, you pop your lower lip in a display of petulance as he rubs reassuring circles into your knee. “Philly sucks ass.”

This time, he can’t quite quash his smile all the way.

“Philly sucks ass, huh?” he repeats, buying himself time to think.

Santiago isn’t sure whether you know that for a fact. He isn’t even sure you’ve ever been to Philly before to assess how much ass it does or does not suck. But, he does know that, irregardless of facts, you seem altogether determined to wallow in your self-pity.

Santiago has noticed this about you. How you always developed an inalienable picture in your head of how you hope things will end up. It’s inspirational at times - your ability to visualise victory, for example, even in the most dire of circumstances, has held missions together. Has held him together. At other times though, it only set you up for disappointment. How could it not, when, through no fault of your own, you cannot reliably manifest the various futures you set your heart on.

It’s not as though you ever ask for a lot; but sometimes, in your profession, even asking for a little is asking far too much.

Still, it is brave, Santiago thinks, to hope for things. For his part, he has learned the hard way not to hope for anything much.

Your shoulders sag in time with his as he exhales a breath and, though your display is dejected, Santiago gathers a soft smile. You are stubborn, that’s for sure, but in him you’ve met your match - or so he likes to think. Santiago is perhaps the only person who could reasonably claim the title of being twice as stubborn as you are, and (while he realises deep down he probably shouldn’t wear that as a badge of honour) he has often pushed his theory to its limit. And so, stubbornly, refusing to give up, Santiago rises to standing. He fishes around in his jeans pocket, yanks out a fistful of dimes and small bills, and brandishes them victoriously.

He waves them enticingly in front of your face then, but you forlornly swat them -and him- away. However, he knows from the dull, reluctant spark in your eyes when he makes his pitch that he is finally on to something. “I saw some peanut butter cups in the hallway vending machine,” he sing-songs, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knows fine well they’re your favourite, and he can’t believe he’d forgotten his secret weapon: chocolate. “We can clean them out, take a cab, find some shitty ass dive bar, and have ourselves a sweet ol’ time. Whaddya say?”

Nothing else had worked, and so Santiago is eminently thankful when a smile finally twitches your mouth. Honestly, he’d been about one attempt away from offering to eat you out all night - and he hadn’t been sure whether that would’ve made you happy, or would’ve resulted in you verbally lambasting him.

On balance, he figured it was probably best that he didn’t risk either kind of tongue-wagging.

“Fine,” you concede whilst swallowing a mischievous grin, not at all eager to let on that Santiago has finally cracked you. “But don’t you be expecting to muscle in on my Reese’s, understood?”

Santiago chuckles warmly, slipping into Spanish. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Birthday Princess.”

You snort at your newly bestowed title, playfully adjusting an invisible crown on your head, and you extend your palm towards his to shake on it. The gesture, as Santiago’s palm over-enthusiastically clasps yours, causes dimes and bills to scatter chaotically to the floor. A shit-eating grin etches itself across his face and meanwhile, your boisterous laugh rings out through the tight space. “Shit, Pope. Don’t drop it on this grim-ass fucking carpet.”

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

“And you don’t know where the hell he’s been?”

“The opposite. I shared a bunk with that hijo de puta, I know exactly where he’s been.”

With easy laughter eddying between you now, you both crouch, carefully gathering up the spoils of the latest Pope/Catfish wager to change hands.

“I really need to meet that guy.”

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”

Your hand brushes Santiago’s as you transfer him a mess of coins, sending a trail of goosebumps shivering up his arm. It always surprises him how soft you feel to the touch, accustomed as he has become to his own calloused hands - and to those of even rougher men than him.

“Garcia. I swear to you I’ve never clapped eyes on the bastard.”

“You just don’t remember him.”

“Shit. Well maybe he’s not very fucking memorable. Jog my memory. What did we talk about?”

His shit-eating grin is back. “I dunno. But I bet you talked for the both of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, batting Santiago lightly -more or less- in the upper arm.

“I just mean he’s quiet. Takes a while to warm up, that’s all. But he’s a good guy. You’ll like him, I promise.”

“Okay.” You shove the remaining dime into Santiago’s palm.

“Okay?”

“He’s clearly special to you, so he’s special to me too. Introduce me to him. Again.”

Santiago smiles at you, gentle crinkles forming around his eyes. He’s already told Frankie so much about you, and he really thinks the two of you will get on. “Deal.” You both stand, and Santiago once again extends his cash-filled hand towards you.

With a cheeky grin you chide him, not eager for a repeat calamity, but your tone is fond. “Don’t you dare shake on it, idiota.”

Your smile digresses to your eyes. You extend your palm to pat him on his stubbled cheek - in a gesture weighing heavily with affection. Your lips animate, and Santiago wonders whether something sentimental might actually come to the fore.

You whisper, low. “You have thirty seconds to get me my peanut butter cups.”

He chortles and, for the first time (perhaps since imagining his head between your legs), Santiago is eminently excited to see where the night will lead him.

Safe to say, he might be dog-tired… but he finally feels like staying awake.

***

Despite your very vocal distaste for the music, and the clientele, and…well, just about everything in the first dive bar you and Santiago stumble across, the combination of cheap beers and even cheaper shots has succeeded in getting you efficiently merry. And, despite your earlier reticence, you now seem plenty eager to continue the party.

Considering he could only afford cab fare from the motel to a dead neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, it wasn’t going too badly, he thought. Though, Santiago had hastily steered you outta the first joint when a group of creeps had started leching on you. He knows you can handle yourself and he wouldda been happy to back you; but tonight especially, conflict is the last thing he wants for you. He figures you’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. That you finally deserve a little peace. So, instead, he links your arm in his to keep your tipsy ass steady as he steers you down the main drag, desperately searching his mind - and scanning the unfamiliar streets - for what to do next.

His mission, as it stands, is to satiate your threefold desire - for drinks, dancing, and good music. Tricky, given that he is already down to $10 dollars, give or take - and he’ll need that for the cab ride back to the crummy motel.

Truth is, as he ambles with you for a few blocks, he is running out of ideas for how to show you a good time. What’s more, ever since he first entertained the idea, in his desperation, all his dumb ass can come up with is to offer to eat you out until morning. It’s pretty much becoming an intrusive thought at this point and, as the sordid image of you spread out for him further invades his mind, he quickly tries to blink it away.

He doesn’t want to be that guy. You receive more than enough unwarranted attention as it is. And besides, Santiago would never want you to misinterpret that the reason he hangs around is to -eventually- get in your pants.

You are so much more than that to him. Sometimes, he even has to keep his distance, so that in moments of weakness he doesn’t forget it.

You’d held him at arms length for a while there too.

Soldiers; not friends.

He hadn’t won you over, he knew, because of his sparkling wit and charm. You’d been drawn to him because he was competent. Surprisingly level-headed for someone so baby-faced. You’d wanted people you could work with. People you could trust to get the job done; because you had to trust them with your life.

The two of you have some undeniable chemistry, that’s for sure. At least, on his end, he’d felt something fierce and magnetic right out of the gate. Even so, from the outset, and even as your friendship had deepened, the two of you had seemed to quickly forge a tacit agreement.

Friends; not lovers.

You had made the assessment quickly, jointly, unconsciously. After all, under the rather intense circumstances in which you’d met? You’d each needed a friend - a genuine friend - far more than you’d needed a lay. For you especially, as he understood it, the former had been far more difficult to secure than the latter, especially as a woman in a highly-charged cesspit of toxic masculinity. And for him? Well, as talented as Santiago is at gaining connections, he doesn’t find all too many people he is willing to go deep with. To trust - and he trusts you with his life.

When he’d found you then, he’d grabbed firmly on to you, and had resolved that nothing would get in the way of the friendship you’d forged. Not even - or perhaps especially not - his own… urges.

Still. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Not like you’ve never gotten him a tad… flustered. Indeed, as the rhythm of your steps marching in time beside him lulls him into calmness, feeling safe, his mind wanders in precisely that direction.

So what though? He’s only human, right? Prone to fantasising; like he is now, he supposes, as he thinks vaguely about licking and kissing down your enticing, bare expanse of stomach. About popping the button on those low slung jeans. Shimmying them down over your hips just enough to sink his mouth over the mound of you and suck.

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.

He swallows then, feeling guilty for being such a horndog, and he turns to you. You seem to be perfectly content. To be enjoying the hit of fresh air, the apples of your cheeks sheened, with a subtle glow, from the exertion of your dance moves back in the dive bar. And honestly? Looking at you? As guilty as he feels for thinking about you like that, Santiago can’t muster a single better idea of what to do with you.

He pushes it down, of course. Chalks it up to being just a tad pent-up following a seemingly endless deployment. That’s all it is, right? His dick is just looking for a little relief, and you are the closest, attractive body capable of providing him a warm welcome?

Sure, he rationalises. That’s all it is. He can find a girl one night soon and take her home, like he’s done plenty of times before to work out his urges. Except for the fact that seeing you out of those (helpfully) modest fatigues is reminding him you are exactly his type.

“You’ve gone quiet, Pope,” you frown as he -no doubt- looks at you dopily. “What are you plotting?”

With your question, Santiago tears himself violently from his thoughts as you interrupt their increasingly feral trajectory. Still, in scrambling for a deflection, all he is able to land on is something else deep and wet. “The Mariana Trench,” he fumbles.

Hell. Maybe he isn’t quite as smart as he gives himself credit for. Or, maybe all the blood is simply rushing to his crotch instead of his brain - for some reason.

Even so. He urges himself to get his mind out of the gutter and to focus up. You deserve so much more than bearing the brunt of his accumulated sexual frustrations. So. Much. More.

You laugh at his response though, oblivious as you are to his inner monologue, even linking your arm into his more tightly - as though he isn’t a huge perv. Your bright, infectious, beer-addled laugh bounces off of the surrounding asphalt and concrete. And, whilst it ricochets off of everything else, it sinks into him, mixing just a little more of you into his generic, rapidly dissolving fantasy. It offers a luminous gilding around the edges of his hazy desire, stirring in a vivid and more golden want than he has strength in this moment to acknowledge - never mind name.

“Okay, weirdo. Sure. You’re thinking about the butt crack of the ocean? Miller been feeding you National Geographic documentaries again? You guys do know pay-per-view exists, right?”

“Fine. You got me,” he confesses, your paces slowing as you gradually halt by the crosswalk, the two of you realising you have no particular destination in mind. “That was bullshit. I was actually thinking about what the hell I’m gonna do with you next.”

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.

Santiago looks you up and down where you stand, out of habit more than anything - a result of that now familiar “buddy up” system soldiers make use of to check each other for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline and the shock, you don’t even know you’re bleeding out. This time, thankfully, the only ailment Santiago notices is the goose flesh prickling your skin, and he wishes that he had a jacket to offer you to keep you warm.

“Oh?” You turn your body in to face him. Sway just a tad, eyes a little bleary, and Santiago instinctually plants his hands around your waist to keep you stable, touching on the smooth, bare skin where your ratty old band tee fails to meet your waistband - by approximately the width of four thick fingers. You shiver even though his touch must be warm. “Okay. Well what are you going to do with me, Santiago?”

You blink at him then, your eyes wide and - dare he say - hopeful, one eyebrow arcing in idle curiosity.

You are typically the decisive one. You are always clear on what you want. Tonight, however, it is evident that you are counting on him to lead you somewhere.

Even though he doubts his ability to take the lead, rather fortuitously, Santiago does (miraculously) manage to stumble upon one single idea outside of the realm of cunnilingus… “Hey, come here,” he coaxes, taking your hands in his. “Close your eyes.” You oblige him, folding your grip around him, firm and sure. His heart swells a little at the instant, implicit trust you exhibit - no hesitation. “Do you hear that?”

Santiago’s eyes remain open, observing you as your eyes blink clumsily shut. You slide your soft hands up his forearms, bracing yourself with a gentle “woah”, no doubt as the closing of your eyes makes your alcohol-saturated world sway and swirl just a little more intensely. “Listen, cariño,” he scolds good-naturedly, cupping his palms at your elbows. “Do you hear it?”

He can’t help but smile as your face scrunches in adorable contemplation. Then, he can’t help smiling even wider, as you begin to tap his arms and jump excitedly up and down on the spot. You hear it too then. The distant thud of music bouncing off of the tall buildings.

“Music!” you exclaim excitedly, opening your eyes and grinning at him, still bouncing on the spot like an excited kid.

The full beam of your unfiltered smile knocks him for six for second. It has been a while, honestly, since he’s seen it glow that bright. Turned all the way up. You’d gone through some shit on this deployment. Blood, horror, pain; rinse and repeat. Some of your spark had understandably dulled, and honestly, he had worried -in part, a little selfishly- that it might never come back to its full strength.

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.

Santiago had quickly come to learn that you possess a singular combination of character traits - and not only the magical ability to piss him off more than anyone else could. No, in fact, he’d learned quickly that you possess a singular kind of zest for life. One which he’d feared was too pure to survive long in the dark. Honestly, he’d believed your optimism and your joy was naive at first. Something to be knocked out of you in boot camp. But he was wrong so far. At every turn you endure. At every turn, you shine. As he feels increasingly bogged down, saturated with inky, oily shadows, you are bright. His guiding light, always calling him home from the edge of the dark, shadow-coiled path he skirts.

“Do we follow it?” you ask excitedly, the glint of adventure in your bright eyes, and in that moment he could swear he’d follow you anywhere.

“Yeah. Of course we follow it. It’s our goddamn duty to follow it.” Santiago stomps his boot and waves his arm in a sloppy military salute - the kind that would earn him fifty push-ups back at base. You follow suit, even more sloppy, but entirely resolute in your faux seriousness.

“Tonight, I swear my oath and pledge my allegiance to music, so help me God.”

Santiago stomps emphatically again, for effect - an overblown, cheesy action-movie-style salute, his strong jaw set in an overly caricatured display. You beam again, a face-splitting grin, and he…

…realises he is having fun.

In this moment, you are giddy. You are bright. Full of life, and Santiago briefly wonders if this is how things could be. If it could be like this all the time if only you could get out. If you could leave the military behind. God. You are the last person he wants to lose from his side, but a knot twists in his stomach at the thought you should get out while you still can. Before it drags you down like it is him. Before he drags you down with him, since you’ve seemingly tied your fates to his with red bloodied ribbons, wound between your bones and his.

He doesn’t have much time to consider those things though. To let the blood seep into the edges like it always does; because you start running. You take Santiago’s hand in yours and run towards the distant thud of noise, leading him behind you and laughing and whooping as you do. Making a grey night in a grey part of town feel vibrant. Making him feel vibrant by association. He realises only then how numb he’s felt lately. How your buoyant smile had been the only thing to feed his own these past months.

You are so much more than a throwaway fantasy to him.

You truly are the friend he’s needed so desperately, and feels so, so lucky to have found.

He runs with you, and he hopes, silently, selfishly, somewhere in the pit of him, that your paths never wind in different directions.

He’ll follow you anywhere.

***

After a few, giddy, chaotic minutes of tracing the ricocheting sounds, you find yourselves in the lobby of a seedy hotel, breaths sawing in and out of your lungs and mirthful, intermittent giggles spilling out of you.

“I’m on the guest list!” you insist with a hiccough, trying your utmost to blag your way into the wedding party contained beyond the double doors; the established source of the music.

Your assertion is much to the chagrin of the teenaged, stoner-looking kid on the front desk, who is clearly milking his new-found authority for all it’s worth.

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”

Santiago looks at you expectantly, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, his chest already shaking and nose scrunching with a mildly tipsy, sleep-deprived concoction of mischief.

“The name’s Trench,” you deadpan, and the poor fellow actually begins to skim his index finger down the alphabetised list. “Mariana Trench.”

Santiago eyeballs you. Honestly, half of him is awed by your balls, even as the other half is despairing of your chosen (and completely unnecessary) alias. Still, he sees the funny side, of course, and has to swallow a hearty laugh by faux coughing into his fist.

There are not many factors helping your case here; especially the fact your body is already unconsciously bopping along to the music. Santiago has to physically encourage you back to your spot with his arm around your middle, and, as the rhythm continually beckons you forth, he hastily tucks you into his side in a fruitless attempt to subdue you.

By the time Santiago’s gaze flicks back to the kid at the desk, he’s folded his arms over his chest like a stern math teacher, clearly enjoying his upper hand. “Dude,” the kid probes sceptically, perhaps sensing that Santiago is the more sensible (or at least more sober) of the two of you. “What are the names of the bride and groom?”

“Nicole and Dio,” Santiago fires off smugly, causing you to first gasp and - second - to gawk at him like a fish (which is funny, because for all you know he’s made those up too).

“How did you know that?” you hiss-whisper, thinking you are being oh so subtle, and Santiago elbows you discreetly in the ribs for your trouble. This time though, he is unable to stifle his laughter entirely, a throaty chuckle shaking out of him, and the crinkles around his eyes rehearsing deeper future furrows.

Meanwhile, whilst the kid at the desk continues to eye him sceptically, he cannot refute Santiago’s knowledge. The soldier silently praises his undeniable powers of observation - and the fact the kid seems to have entirely forgotten about the huge fuck-off sign standing in the entrance lobby.

“Yeah. Still no.” This kid is a tough nut.

“Shit,” you plead. “Well can I at least use the restroom?”

“I guess that’s fine,” the kid concedes with an eye roll, gesturing towards the left hand side of the lobby.

You saunter off, beelining towards the door with such ferocity that you whack your hip off of the doorframe on the way in there.

Santiago winces in time with your “ouch!”, but as you throw your arms in the air, triumphantly insisting you are fine, he turns his attention back to his mission; to get you whatever you want for your birthday.

Sporting the friendliest smile he can muster in the full knowledge this kid behind the desk hates him already, Santiago mosies up to the counter.

“Come on, buddy. Hook us up,” he reasons. “It’s a Tuesday night and everywhere else is closed by now.”

“Dude, your attempts to get laid are not my issue.”

“No. No, it’s… She’s my friend. It’s her birthday and-”

“-Then take her to a fucking Chilli’s, bro. Still not my problem.”

Santiago huffs, still trying to keep his face neutral. Non-threatening. He needs to step things up before you return from the restroom.

“Listen, buddy.” The kid scowls at him then as if to confirm - I’m emphatically not your buddy. “Do you know what it’s like to be shot in service of your country?”

“What?!”

He nods behind him, in your general direction, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline (and reaching for a hasty explanation before the kid presses the under-desk alarm button). “Because she does.” Santiago rests his folded arms up on the counter. Leaning-in. Going all out with the eye contact. “When I tell you she’s had a shitty time of it? Lying on the ground, bleeding out. So, look, man. I just want to give her a good time tonight, alright? Would you please help me out, man? She’s fucking earned this.”

A gulp trails down the kid’s neck, and he tucks his long, straight blonde hair behind his ears. “You’re intense, bro. Anyone ever told you that?”

Santiago opens his mouth again, wishing to further embellish his case; but before he can do so the kid caves, waving his palms in total surrender. “Fuck, man. Do what you want, but for the love of God, would you just stop talking to me?”

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

“Yep. Whatever. Don’t get paid enough for this shit, bro.”

Santiago hears the door swing behind him, and joins you just in time to lead you further into the building, pleased that he is able to report victory. He’s almost forgotten about the front desk already - until the kid calls after him, growing bolder the further you two retreat, apparently. “This is why I’m a pacifist, dude! You might wanna think about it.”

“Sure thing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

Then, Santiago gently ushers you into the corridor leading towards the party, taking a moment to celebrate his “smooth-talking”. Before he can even think about bragging though, you throw your arms up in the air in a tada gesture and exclaim “you are welcome!”. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’d had no part in getting past the gate, and so instead, he opts to finally vent his quashed laughter. The fact you’d name-dropped Mariana Trench, specifically, supplies a giggle hearty enough that it makes his abs ache.

“Oh. By the way. How do I look?” you question, when the two of you are just shy of making an entrance to the main hall.

Santiago turns to you and looks you up and down. Notices the fresh application of smeared red over your plush mouth. Surveys your jeans and tee with approval, as though you are outfitted in a gown. “Good, chica.”

“Good!” You step forward then, towards him, and lay your palms flat on his upper chest. “Now. You know what I wanna do?” For a split second, with your proximity, and the husky thrall of your voice, Santiago finds himself imagining what you might want to do to him - if he should be so lucky. “I wanna dance. Will you dance with meeee, Santiaaaaggooo?”

Santiago feels a lump lodge itself in his throat. Tries hard to forget that… well… red lipstick and dancing? They are - more often than not - your highly decipherable code for being horny. Shit - he wonders if you are as pent up as he is.

“You got it!” he musters, getting himself quickly in check. Christ, he needs to prioritise getting laid - just as soon as he is no longer wholly dedicated to your birthday.

“Yay!”

You lead him by the hand and, once again, Santiago does not complain. Then, swinging open one of two double doors, plastered with unsightly fire regulations, you enter the fray.

The doors open on a busy room, bathed in beams of chaotic coloured light. In reality, the interior is drab. A sad, grey, carpeted room. A few busted ceiling tiles up top. The circular event tables are flanked by a sorry stage at one side - fronted by a sticky, modest square of dance floor - and a small bar at the other. Finally, the far wall is edged with a rather depleted buffet, and intermittent bowls of greying macaroni. Whilst the room itself is nothing to write home about, however, the jubilation inside makes it feel positively wonderful.

Santiago feels only for a split second like he is intruding. Within moments, he is all wrapped-up in the buzz. Enveloped by it. The band’s amps are turned up far too loud. The dance floor is awash with couples gyrating on each other and groups of singles circling each other, looking for an in. Throngs of friends and family are grouped throughout the room, laughing and chatting, taking photos on disposable cameras and clinking glasses, and when the two of you enter, matching smiles plastered on your faces, no-one even bats an eye.

“We’re really doing this?” Santiago raises his voice above the tremor of the music. “Crashing a fucking wedding?”

“Relax! It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, Garcia. It’s not even against the Geneva Convention.”

“Jesus! I’m not a fucking war criminal!”

“Relax, Santiago,” you encourage, tone soothing and your hands massaging into his shoulders; and, finally, he lets himself. For once, he lets his guard down. So, as you travel deeper into the room, Santiago begins to move a little less like a soldier on patrol, and allows his gait to loosen up. Allows himself to approach the room not as a soldier on high alert, but simply as some guy with his buddy, looking for a good time. “Attaboy,” you encourage, seeing him visibly unclench - a rare thing. “We’re good, alright? Hey. I’ll even leave a pack of Reese’s on the table. That way, we even brought a gift.”

“And you’ll keep a low profile, right?”

“Of course!” You flash him a faux innocent grin, which he sees right through.

Yeah, figures, he thinks. Honestly, he isn’t sure you are capable of blending in - stealth ops aside, of course. But here? Without your camo and a distinct lack of a gilly suit? Baby, look at you, you’re gonna be noticed.

“Alright. We dance. Just keep it low key or-“

“-Sure, sure,” you dismiss, waving your hand through the air as though to erase his plea. “But first, tequilaaaa!”

Evidently, you are ignoring him completely, and yet the beaming smile on your face is so utterly worth it that Santiago could care less. “Eh. Whatever you say, Princesa.”

You wink at him. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

Santiago watches you skip gracelessly over to the bar, making zero attempt to blend into the crowd (unsurprising). You order up two shots, downing one instantly and handing the other to him with a jubilant, mildly devilish grin. At this stage, Santiago is deliberately a few drinks behind you, having wanted to remain sober enough to take care of you. So, he figures he has a little wiggle room remaining before he reaches the point of no return. Egged on by your encouraging nods, he tips it down the hatch.

“Cheers!” you exclaim, clumsily clinking your little plastic shot glass against his. The remains of the amber liquid still glisten on your mouth, lending an appealing shine to your red lips. As you mop the drips away with the back of your hand, you slightly smear the shade towards your cheek.

Before Santiago can rectify the situation for you though, you’ve once again taken his hand and trailed him behind you, clumsily weaving through the crowd as he interjects “sorry!” each time you bash - either your body or his - into someone else’s. Before long though, the two of you are safely tucked right in the midst of it all, adding to the messy, merry throng on the compact dance floor. The amateurish but jubilantly played rock covers from the band began to vibrate all the way through his chest as you position right next to the speakers.

As the vibrations tickle through him, bass inflating like a balloon in his rib cage, drowning out his thoughts and his heartbeat, you dance. With his thoughts silenced - or, rather, out-volumed- he slips into his body as if it is his own again. As if it belongs to him, and not just to some notion of God and country.

You, for your part, dance as if compelled to. As though, after living for so long with your body following orders, exercising control, being disciplined, staying in line, you can finally let it be free. Can finally let it express itself.

You move well, Santiago notes as he allows his own body to limber, freeing up his arms and his hips and feeling the buzz of the music and the alcohol thrum pleasantly through his body. It all feels somewhat alien to him now, his body stiff and lacking muscle memory for such imprecise, unplanned movements. You though? You move with abandon. With joy, like you never forgot how to feel it, belting the lyrics right from your chest. Jumping and waving your arms when the guitar solo drops.

It makes him deeply happy to see you like this. What’s more, amidst the dance floor of preened, deliberate women encircling your space, their movements seemingly contrived to be appealing, alluring, sexual, your reckless expression is far sexier to him. You feel freed, wild - and it almost feels dangerous to him. This clear absence of regiments and rules and barriers feels dangerous, even the barriers between your body and his disintegrating as you dance closer, the beat shaking you together like sand on a drum skin.

Indeed, your bodies are pushed ever closer and closer as the surprisingly heaving crowd compresses you tighter and tighter in the minimal, sticky-floored maneuver room. And so, after you’ve suffered one too many bumps and restrictions from stray shoulders and elbows, you finally give in to it, looping your arms around his neck and choosing to dance with him.

Instinctually, automatically, Santiago’s hands fall to your hips, gripping you there as your body sways and rolls in time to the music, the raw, dirty hard rock vocals moving through you and bedding down into your body.

At first, when your body presses up against his and the hot breath of your laughter fans over his neck, Santiago thinks about adjusting. About sliding his hands back up to your waist, where -perhaps- the gesture may seem less intimate. May allow for a little more room and a little less contact.

It isn’t as though the two of you are strangers to touching. You are both tactile people, and besides, you’re often in close quarters. You’ve slammed each other to the mat plenty of times. He’s had your sweaty, writhing body all over his. Your grunts of submission sounding in his ear. Huffs of exertion fanning against his neck. Thighs locked with his. His hips pinning you. But this? This is a little different. It isn’t precise, technical touch. It isn’t objective-driven. There are no clear rules, besides friends not lovers, and even that distinction is starting to feel a little blurry.

No, this kinda touch is something else. It is raw. It is instinctual; and that scares him, in truth.

However, it doesn’t scare him nearly enough to want to stop.

He does not move his hands from your rolling, swaying hips. Can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gives in to it. To the music. To the feeling. To you. And, when does, he finds himself surprised by how fluidly your bodies move together. Symbiotically. Like a team. Like you do in battle, sure. In the field. Like it is the most natural thing in the world; but this time, your combining is not at all driven by survival. It is driven by living, and Santiago could swear, in this moment, that he has never felt quite so alive.

The room is getting hot. The undulating crowd of bodies surrounding you is only adding to it. Exertion is glowing on your skin. He can feel it up against him, your sweat bleeding through your damp t-shirt where your breasts press into him. Can feel it beneath his fingers, tacky and slick, as he wraps his hands around that bare flash of skin at your midriff. God, you are smooth, and soft, and slick, and he is momentarily transfixed by a bead of sweat sinking down the centre of your chest, disappearing beneath the “v” of your shirt.

Someone else’s body briefly presses up against his in the crush and he cringes away from the feel of their slick skin… but you? Yours? You feel good to him. He doesn’t mind it.

That scares him too; but still, not enough to stop.

With a joyous, unfettered laugh you claim back some space, spinning Santiago underneath your arm, your dance moves growing increasingly outlandish. Of course, Santiago follows your lead. Always does. And, before long, the two of you can barely dance from laughing and can barely laugh from your insistence to keep dancing.

It feels good. Good to push your respective bodies to their limit on your own terms for once. To be with each other, side by side, in a scenario which could not be further from life or death; but that feels a thousand times more vital and central to being alive.

Seeing your smile strobe as the blue party lights slip and flash over the planes of your face, the beats and riffs pulsing through his body, Santiago feels giddy and he feels bright. With laughter bobbing in his throat and aching in his sides, he feels goddamn luminescent, and so he can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but wonder if this is how he would feel all the time. If he got out. If the two of you could just be people, instead of soldiers.

Santiago holds on to it. He holds on to you. To the feeling of freedom. Of pure, unfettered joy. Of this strange peace amidst the blurry, heavy noise.

He holds on to it while he can. He smiles with you until his face hurts. Laughs with you until his breath wanes. Dances with you longer than he should, song after song. Dances until he is sweating through his t-shirt, a dark “v” of sweat trailing down his chest. Dances, long after that now familiar heat in his newly ailing knees has crossed into discomfort. Dances closer and closer to the speaker until the music is indistinguishable from him, beating through his chest and down into his bones, and still; the two of you move your bodies. The two of you cling to each other like your life depends on it - and perhaps, precisely because of all the times it has.

When you lean forward, cupping his ear, your lips almost pressed right to his skin to be heard over the din, a warm snake travels down his spine. “See! We still haven’t been found out!” You draw back to flash him a mischievous grin, your eyes glinting with a spark far more warming than the heat which already slickens his skin.

You are most definitely up to something. You dip forward again as he strains to hear you. “Wanna be a little bolder?” There is a dark and delicious lilt in your voice. A tempting thing, enticing him into trouble - as per usual.

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.

He wants to kiss you, in fact. To test the limits of just how well your bodies can move together. But… just like all the other times tonight he lets that desire atrophy. Pushes it outside of his body. You are so much more to him than the tingle in his dick. Offer him so much more than whatever parts of you he could seek out with his hands and his mouth, skin finding skin, finding deep, dark wetness.

If you wanted it, hey, it’s not like he would say no. He isn’t that strong; but he’d decided long ago that when it came to crossing that line, he would simply follow your lead.

“What did you have in mind?” Santiago asks, dipping his own lips towards your ear.

Your response is not quite what he expects. You simply throw both arms up into the air, your eyebrows jumping up with them. “Karaokeeee!”

It is a pleasant surprise, to be honest. He loves to see you like this. To see you have fun. Chasing your whims. Getting to be damn silly. For so long, everything has been so grim and so serious.

However, even if your suggestion - at first - inspires a broad, nose-crinkling smile, Santiago looks up at the freestanding mic in horror next - when he realises exactly what you are about to do. “Shit. Sweetie. It’s not-”

-It is already too late. You are already clambering up on stage and taking your position by the vacant mic spot. “…It’s not karaoke,” Santi mumbles under his breath, mentally readjusting his level on how wasted you are.

“Come with me, Pope!” you shout down to him, making grabby hands towards him. Next, you commandeer the mic pole as the frontman - who had simply stepped out for brief swig of water - looks on in confusion.

Santiago sighs and slides his palm over his face, for he knows, fine well, exactly what is about to go down. That, after all the times you’ve saved his skin, tended his wounds, and -damn- even been shot to keep him safe, he for sure isn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself. At least, not alone.

Cringing already from the forceful embarrassment of commandeering an entire stage at a wedding he’s just crashed, Santiago sets his jaw in resignation and hops semi-gracefully up there, rising to stand right next to you.

“What happens in Philadelphia…” he mumbles, before bracing himself and accepting his fate.

He raises his arm as a shield against the intense spotlight, and can suddenly see that the whole party is looking by now, heads whipping around following your triumphant “woop” into the microphone.

He makes a mental note to explain to you what the words “low profile” mean later, as clearly, you’ve completely failed to grasp that concept.

Santiago gulps as he looks out across the confused sea of faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he prays that no-one will actually yell “who the fuck are you?” Then, not for the first time this evening, he desperately attempts to conjure up a plan of action. Once again, he is pretty sure that cunnilingus won’t quite cut it here either.

His goal right now is two-fold. To enable you to sing on stage, like you want to, and to avoid being forcibly removed from the venue. It is unfortunate that the former goal seems to void the latter, but hey. He’s been in stickier situations. And, with luck, Santiago remembers one useful thing. The fact that -according to damn near everyone- he’s a charming little fucker. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to put that theory to the test.

“Nicole and Dio.” He gestures to the bride, and motions to gesture towards the groom too. That is, before realising he has no idea who “Dio” is in the crowd, so instead, he lets his arm flop uselessly back to his side. Next, he takes what he feels is a well-earned moment to let the feedback from the microphone die, wincing slightly at the noise, and becoming acutely aware of the sizzle of nervous sweat burning off of his forehead. “I think it’s safe to say,” he ventures with a little more confidence, straining to remember his cousin’s wedding and every platitude he might repeat, “that a love like yours comes around once in a lifetime. I know I speak for both of us when we say we’d like to wish you a lifetime of happiness together to enjoy it.” You helpfully lean forward in that moment and give another celebratory woop. “Thanks for that, sweetie,” he deadpans, wiping his brow just as urgently as he scans the room, searching for something -anything- he can pull from to meet his twinned objectives.

Suddenly though, against all odds, he actually spots his way out. Emphatically, triumphantly, he points towards the Irish flag proudly adorning the far wall, and dearly hopes he is on to something. “A million tiny things had to align for you two to come together. You could even say it was fate. So, in tribute to the miles travelled by your ancestors, here it is. This one is for the Irish-Americans in the house!” Firstly, he is relieved, to say the least, when that statement earns a hearty cheer from the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Metallica; Whiskey in the jar.” Secondly, he is relieved when that statement earns further cheers, particularly from you.

Next, Santiago looks confidently to the band, deciding he will simply stare at them pointedly until the drums kick in. “For Nicole and Dio!” he adds with a flourish after an uncomfortably long moment of inaction; and, as the crowd gets behind Santiago, who on earth are they to deny him?

“Everybody on the dance floor!” you add, with an enthusiasm so overblown it can’t fail to be infectious.

Still, when Santiago finally thinks he has it nailed, you turn to him with a sudden and pronounced wash of horror on your face. “Garcia. Shit. It’s not karaoke!”

“Princesa,” he soothes as the band kicks in, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist to avert your knees buckling in fright. “If it’s not karaoke, why the shit do I have a mic and a backing track, huh?” You still look unsure. “Come on, sing it with me. You’re hot as hell up here, don’t go shy on me.”

Santiago turns, forgetting the crowd entirely as his mission revolves wholly around you.

He begins to sing to you, gaze soft and encouraging until you relax back into it, your broad, electric smile returning. He tugs you closer into him, snug and safe until you grow bold enough to sing along with him into your one shared mic, gradually letting go and -bolstered by him- giving it increasing amounts of gusto.

The pool of guests at your feet are going surprisingly wild for it too, almost every one in the room having now descended on to the dance floor.

“Here,” he encourages, as soon as he feels you’re ready, handing the mic off to you for the remaining verses of the song. “You got this, sweetie.”

He lets you have your moment in the spotlight, cheering you on from the sidelines as you sing and air-guitar your way through the final chorus. You aren’t necessarily singing at your best after belting out lyrics at top volume, but what you lack in vocal ability you sure make up for in spirit. You have bags of that, and you perform it with plenty of showmanship, throwing yourself all over the stage and making Santiago’s face split with joy as he whoops along with you, fist-pumping enthusiastically.

You even end the song by taking a knee and exclaiming “Nicole and Dio!”, raising your mic arm triumphantly in the air like the rock star you are - which is a huge relief to Santiago, as it had looked for a moment like you were about to stage dive into the completely unsuspecting crowd.

You wrap it up to what Santiago will later describe as rapturous applause. You milk it for all it's worth, before relinquishing the mic to the actual band and skipping over to your biggest fan.

“Was I fucking amazing?” you ask, bundling him into an enclosing hug.

“Holy shit. Felt like I was watching Kerrang.”

You punch him playfully in the arm for his shit-eating grin. “Dickhead.”

“What’s next for the Birthday Princess?” Santi asks, hopping off of the stage and guiding you safely down too.

He’s secretly praying you’ll say “back to the motel”, but it doesn’t surprise him at all when you throw your arms jubilantly into the air and yell: “more dancing!”.

Santiago brings the pad of his thumb up to the corner of your mouth, finally smoothing away that damn lipstick smear he wishes he’d gotten to before your impromptu stage show. “Go for it, hermosa,” he insists fondly. “I’ll be with you in a sec, yeah? After pulling that shit, I don’t think we have long before we get busted. You gonna be ready to hustle soon?”

You nod, fist-bump him, and skitter off to the dance floor, your seemingly boundless energy carrying you right the way through towards dawn.

Santiago will give this track a miss, he thinks. His knees need a goddamn time-out; but his eyes still linger on you, shining fondly as you are folded into the crowd.

***

“Touching speech, lad,” a low-timbre voice sounds to Santiago’s left. “But who in the devil are ya?”

Santiago, who is sat blissfully nursing a glass of ice cold tap water, immediately swivels on his barstool. This puts him face-to-face with an older gentleman, of considerable stature.

The man’s crinkled, bushy-eyebrowed face is stern; but not unkind, even as his chin juts up in challenge. Santiago rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. There is no point trying to wriggle out of this one, and he’s already sure of it.

“Okay,” he responds, his voice slow and low and his palms raising defensively in the air. The man might be both older and frailer than Santiago, but he exudes a certain authority which trumps his own youthful confidence. In short, Santiago certainly doesn’t want to piss him off. “You got me. It’s a long story, and we weren’t technically invited… but we don’t mean any trouble, Sir. And, hey, we did bring a gift,” Santiago adds for good measure, not entirely convinced that the mushed up peanut butter cups in your jeans pocket will make any shade of difference now - but hoping.

The man presses his lips together and hums, as if mulling over the guilty party’s fate. After a moment of contemplation though, the older gentleman unceremoniously releases some of the rigidity from his body, slumping down into Santiago’s neighbouring bar stool with a sense of resolution. A gulp trails down Santiago’s neck all the same. “You a military pair, kid?” the man asks casually, making-out like he’s thoroughly absorbed in rolling his cigarette papers, but his sharp eyes still finding time to needle Santiago incisively. “I know the type.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. Well.” The man licks along the long edge of cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “You came clean, I’ll keep quiet. Besides commandeering the stage(!), you two don’t seem like too much trouble.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I’m Colin, by the way. Nicole’s granddaddy.” The man extends a hand and Santiago shakes it.

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”

Santiago would’ve allowed some of the tension to seep out of his own rigid body by now; except for the fact he can sense the man is not quite finished with him. He lights the tip of his cigarette with a battered-looking, engraved lighter, smoke swirling around him and becoming one with his white-gray, thinning hair. “Since I’ve been so generous, lad, how’s about you explain to me the circumstances that brought you to crash my granddaughter’s wedding?”

From the man’s unwavering stare, Santiago knows fine well this is a demand and not a suggestion. He rubs his sweaty palms together, finding himself reluctant to spill but with little apparent choice in the matter. Still, as his gaze flicks back in the direction of you, he feels a softness overcome him. “It’s her birthday. We’re on leave. Had a big trip planned to reunite with some buddies but the airport-“

“-ah. All shut down.” Colin nods in partial understanding, taking a long drag on his smoke.

“Yes, sir. So I, uh. Well, I had to improvise.”

Colin’s eyes flutter briefly closed. Then, a small flicker of a smile appears, as he - apparently - achieves a fuller understanding than Santiago’s divulgence should have allowed. An understanding which Santiago isn’t sure he has attained himself, as it stands. Is he missing something? “I see. You wanted to show her a good time.”

“Yeah. Yessir.”

To Santiago’s utter surprise, the man’s hand clasps down on top of his closest shoulder, the cigarette still pinned precariously in between his forefingers, and the smoke tangling around Santiago’s curls like future grays attempting to stick. “What are you drinking, lad?”

“Uh. Water,” Santiago replies simply, recalling the glass sweating on the bar top.

“Not any more.” Colin signals the bartender with a barely perceptible raise of his chin, and manages to convey his order simply by raising two of his fingers in the air.

Santiago watches as a bottle, sporting an affixed yellow post-it note, is grabbed-up from its secret hiding spot under the counter. Must be the good stuff.

When served, Colin slides one glass over to Santiago with the back of his age-spotted palm. “You don’t have to drink it, o’ course - I’ll just think you’re a rude fecker if you don’t.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men swivel on their stools to face the bar and Santiago takes a sip, doing his best to hide his reaction to the intensity of it.

Colin guffaws. “Yeah. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.”

Santiago splutters, attempting to quickly smooth himself. “Cheers. To Nicole.” He hoists his glass in the air.

“Aye. Here’s to that.”

Santiago smiles, clinking his glass with Colin’s and hoping against all odds that you might come and rescue him soon.

You don’t, but mercifully the chat is suspended for a moment as the man coiffs his cigarette and his drink, and Santiago even suspects he has been forgotten entirely as another guest draws Colin into niceties and conversation.

Therefore, after a few warming swigs have slipped down his throat, each one followed by a grimace, Santiago turns, realising it has been a minute since he’s had eyes on you. He quickly locates you on the dance floor, boogying with some tall, white guy. A guy who is - with your encouragement - getting rather handsy. Seeing this, all of Santiago’s muscles tighten and he feels the vague urge to leap up off of his bar stool - that is, until Colin interjects.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Santiago’s initial thought is “no”; but he has a feeling Coilin may offer his unsolicited advice regardless. “Don’t crash weddings?” he jests half-heartedly, the lion’s share of his attention still on you and that guy’s damn hands.

“Marry her.”

Santiago’s gaze flips immediately towards Colin, his face the picture of abject confusion. “Sorry. Who?”

Colin chuckles to himself, evidently quite tickled, and nods his head gently in your direction. “Your lady friend.”

Santiago saws his palm over the five-o-clock shadow adorning his jaw. A weak, throaty chuckle bobs in his throat. He finds it funny. Preposterous. “With respect, Sir. That’s not gonna happen.” It is knee-jerk. Santiago had sworn off marriage long ago. Had long ago given up on the prospect of any form of happy ending. Besides, you and him? He doesn’t think so.

“Oh. Boyo,” Colin begins, his tone juuuust condescending enough to make Santiago stiffen. “You find someone who makes you as happy as that, you marry her. Trust me, lad.”

Santiago purses his lips. Tightens them into a thin line. “We’re not… together.” Not that it’s any of this guy’s business what you are to him; but he’s just not getting it.

“You love her,” Colin says softly. Almost gently, as though he’s breaking bad news.

”What?” Santiago shakes his head incredulously, blinking several times in succession.

“I can barely see past my own arm these days, lad, but I can see that much.”

There is that hand, clasping his shoulder again. This time it feels different. “You love her.”

The first time Colin had spoken these words, Santiago had bristled. Felt provoked. He should feel similarly now too - he knows it - but upon hearing them for a second time, a sudden clarity settles over him. In fact, he’s never felt less confused by a statement in his life.

He feels his mouth go dry. A sudden ringing in his ears. He could’ve sworn he had hands and feet earlier in the evening, but right now he can’t feel them.

Of course he loves you, he thinks, reaching for logic. For rationalisations. But it’s not like that. That’s simply what happens when you go through so much together. You bond, intensely. That’s all it is. All it amounts to.

Colin has this all wrong.

Santiago looks at you then. Really looks at you, as you grab your dance partner by the shirt and shove your tongue in his mouth, pulling away from the kiss with a wolfish grin. Some kind of feeling he can’t hope to name tightens like a fist in his stomach when you do that. “She’s…” Santiago wants to protest. Wants to say that no, he doesn’t. But those aren’t quite the words which find their way out. Instead, he says quietly, like he’s delivering bad news now: “she’s my best friend.”

“Ah,” Colin breathes, in a fresh tone of relief. As if satisfied. As if he has now achieved full understanding - even if Santiago has not. The older man stubs out his cig and downs the dregs of his whiskey, cheersing Santiago once more with a clink of his empty glass. “There you go then. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Isn’t that the same thing?

It is a blur from there. A blur as Colin once again outstretches his hand and Santiago obliges by shaking it, his arm feeling limp and useless like a bag of cotton-wool. It is a blur as Colin wishes him well with a jolly “take care, lad,” sauntering away with no concern for the destruction left in his wake.

It is a blur as you sidle over, as though the volume in the room has been turned down all of a sudden. It becomes gradually louder again as you approach.

You.

“Fuck, you okay, Garcia? You look like you’re about to puke.”

There’s nothing here.

Nothing with you.

Nothing he could have with you. No way.

“Seriously! You look queasy as hell.” You place your hand across his brow to see if he’s burning up.

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.

You nod, still looking sceptical but opting to buy what he’s selling. “You just tired? Too much dancing?”

”Heh. Something like that.” It is a struggle to push the words out, but he surprises himself. Gradually sinks himself back into the room. Back into his body.

Santiago notices the brief spark of an idea fleet over your face as you regard him and, in the next moment, you dip forward to chastely kiss him on the cheek. He feels a deep, blooming heat develop under his skin, his cheeks darkening with a crimson flush, and he resists the urge to clamp his palm over the spot your lips touched. “What was that for?”

A delicate smile dances on your mouth. “Thank you, butthead. I’m having a good birthday.”

It’s what you don’t say. It’s what your eyes are telling him. Your body language. Your touch. You’re telling him things you’ve been saying for a long time now. Things which, thanks to Colin, beg a whole load of new questions.

You slip your hand down his arm, grasping his hand in yours. For a moment he just stares, looking down at your hands clasped there together. He is vaguely aware of the track switching in the background, to a slower, more heartfelt tune, and, by the time he drags his eyes back-up to yours, he figures he’s got a head start already on what you’re about to ask.

He makes it so you don’t even have to. “One more dance?”

He stands, capturing your waist with his wrapped arm, leading you back towards the dance floor. The surprise and relief and glee on your face as he preempts you is almost too bright for him to look at.

“You even know how to slow dance, Garcia?” you ask as he maneuvers the two of you into prime position, right in the beam of a sweeping purple spotlight, the dancefloor filling exclusively with swaying couples as the tender, swooping song resonates through the room.

“Haven’t slow danced since prom,” he admits. “But I’ll follow your lead, Princesa.”

“You a’ways do, asshat.”

“You know? You’re not wrong. Now, come here.”

He holds his arms out and you step into his sturdy circumference, no hesitation. Trust implicit, your bodies moving in sync. You drape the loop of your arms gently around his shoulders, your twined fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a warm shudder through him. His hands hover helplessly for a moment, but he eventually settles them on your hips, drawing your body closer, tightening the space between you as you each sway together, cheek to cheek.

“I - I can’t believe you did this for me, you know?” Your voice is lower, dropped in your throat. Heavy with solemnity as though you are thanking him for taking a bullet for you or something. “Tonight. The karaoke. Everything.”

“Well,” he dismisses, against the shell of your ear. It’s not nearly enough.“You got shot for me, so...”

Your light, lilting laugh fans across his check. It isn’t funny at all, wasn’t a joke; except that it’s so tragic it kinda has to come full-circle, he supposes. “Fine,” you offer. “Call it even?”

Even?

It could never get close to even.

Santiago feels a surge of emotion welling in him. Like suddenly there is a mechanism dredging all the settled silt back up to the surface. It rises all the way up - into his chest, into his throat. He pulls back slightly until you are face to face, his expression far more severe than the situation merits; but he can’t help it. It feels barbed, difficult, coming out of his mouth, but it needs to be said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me, you know?” His eyes are glistening, a telltale softness nestled beneath his thick brows, and his thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles into the meat of your hips. “You’re…. I… I mean. You’re… my best friend.”

You gawp back at him for a moment, visibly caught off-guard by his emotional intensity. Then: “oh no,” you whisper-shout into the space between you, as though if you push too much sound out, the emotions might overspill along with it. “Don’t get all soppy on me, you hear? You’re the only fucker who knows I have emotions, and I damn sure wanna keep it that way.”

His gaze flits all over your face. “Secret’s safe with me, Princesa.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He smiles at you - a smile that only reaches his eyes.

You nestle yourself back into the crook of his shoulder, your body pressed right up against his. One hand grasping at his back. The fingers of the other clasping his shorn head, dancing over the prickled hair of his army-issue buzzcut.

He holds you, and in turn you hold him even tighter. You hold each other tightly until you are no longer even dancing. Until you are simply an island in a sea of undulating couples, holding on to each other for dear life.

It scares him.

It scares him to his depths that he never wants to let you go; but not enough to stop.

As he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your neck and embraces you tightly, he thinks about it. He thinks about whether he believes in happy endings. He thinks about whether his, if he could be so lucky, would involve you.

Those thoughts are interrupted when he feels a wetness bloom on his shoulder. Feels you jerking and sniffing against him, and he experiences your sudden outpouring of pain as acutely as though it is his own.

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

”No. It’s…” You sniff. “It’s just been so hard lately. And, you know. Tonight has been so… It’s been so…”

He thinks he knows what you mean. Thinks he understands you completely. “Perfect?” he ventures.

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”

He holds you as you cry. And there’s not a chance in hell he’s letting you go.

***

Considering your intoxication level, the sudden onset of tiredness, and your tears, Santiago figures it’s about time to head. He manages to get you in a cab back to the motel eventually - only after you’ve visited the ladies restroom, become fast friends with an equally drunken Nicole, bestowed her with peanut butter cups, and promised to meet-up next time you’re in the city. By this point, you are already dropping, and the soporific movements of the cab have you falling asleep draped over Santiago’s lap.

He pays the driver when you arrive, stirring you with a warm hand smoothing up and down your back. He tries to be calm. Soothes you with his voice; because he knows all too well that for someone in the military, a rude awakening is no small thing.

He walks you to the room and helps you sit down on the bed. Tugs your boots off for you as you opt to bury your nose deep in your own armpit and sniff.

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”

“Fuck that. You can shower in the morning.”

“I stink.”

“Trust me. You’ve smelled much worse.” He smiles softly as his comment earns an indignant snort from you, but the ire in your face is quickly snuffed as he looks up to you a little too softly. “Let’s get you dressed for bed, alright, birthday girl?”

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”

He swallows a smile at seeing you in this sleepy state. It’s not often that you allow anyone else to take care of you. In fact, Santiago feels a strange surge of honour - a glow within his chest - that tonight, he is the one who has the privilege.

You unabashedly begin to strip off your jeans and top next, and Santiago quickly scoops up an oversized t-shirt from the gaping mouth of your hold-all. “Here,” he says, swallowing the tremor in his voice as he gathers the fabric up and guides the garment gently over your head to cover you. Gingerly passes your arms through the right holes. “That’s it. Put this on, alright? Can you get your bra out from under there?”

You maneuver the clasp and straps beneath the cover of the shirt until you are pulling the bra out from the confines of your tee, triumphantly flinging it across the room with a soft “woo!”, to which Santiago’s lips twitch in silent amusement.

“Need to brush my teeth at least,” you argue, holding your arms up and out - making grabby hands to signal for his help.

“Alright. Sure. Let’s go together.” Santiago helps you stand. Maneuvers and encourages you onwards. He wraps his closest arm around your waist, and his other hand catches the arm you throw out to him so he can keep you steady. Then, steps in sync, you pad the short distance to the bathroom, Santiago lightly directing you away from bumping your hip on the doorframe (again) as you pass through it. “That’s it. Little off course there,” he chuckles. “Almost as bad as Ironhead’s God-awful driving.”

You turn your head over your shoulder and scold him good-naturedly. “Ouch. Don’t remind me.”

“Yikes, sorry. Too soon?” You’d teased Will for the unfortunate humvee training exercise that had put you in med bay, but Santiago guesses you aren’t quite ready to have him joke about it yet.

“Never getting back in a car with that bastard in the driver’s seat, trust me. Fella takes off-road a little too literally, you know? Still have that goddamn tweak in my back too to prove it.”

“You do, huh?” Shit, you’ve certainly hidden it well enough - had insisted you were unscathed, in fact, when sober - and so Santiago mentally logs that information for later.

With a little bit of wriggling around, you squeeze into the tight bathroom space. When you reach the bathroom sink, Santiago is still behind you, his hands now clamped on your hips and keeping you steady. When you turn on the faucet and bend enthusiastically towards the stream of water however - hinging at the hips and dipping to splash your face with cold water - Santi punches out a strangled note. Which is natural, he thinks, given that your panty-clad, half-bare ass is thrust further into his hands (and his crotch), with decidedly no room in the cramped space for him to back-up. “Woah, Jesus. Keep it vertical, would you?”

“Shit, sorry. Liked that did you?” you mock, with a dirty, chaotic snigger.

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

With a nervous twist in his belly, Santiago flees to the more expansive space of the bedroom, leaving you to complete your task. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, he throws open the window, thankful when the relative cool of the night air kisses his skin. The room has grown hot and sticky all of a sudden. Too close. Lord knows why.

He perches himself inside the opened wooden square then, the flung-open frame an awkward perch. He rests with one leg hiked up on the ‘sill and one foot bracing him on the floor, his back reclining against the biting vertical edge.

Only when you reenter does he reluctantly drag his eyes away from the black night and into the soft, shadowed shell of the dreary room. Despite this dimness, he can barely bring himself to look at you in this moment. It is as though you are too bright for him, and so he quickly -and uncharacteristically- averts his eyes.

Still, you’re like a magnet, and his gaze quickly relocates you without much trouble.

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”

Despite looking bleary-eyed - dead on your feet, even - you nod in response to his proposition and, much unlike earlier, Santiago suddenly feels he wouldn’t dream of sleeping. You perch yourself on the edge of the bed and flick on the lamp, casting a sallow glow throughout the room. It makes you look at once dream-like and infinitely more real to him, as the glare highlights the goose flesh trailing up your arms and thighs. The tired circles under your eyes. He doesn’t know how you make such details attractive, but as far as he is concerned, there is no bad light to cast you in.

You lay down, legs stretched out on the scratchy comforter, and torso propped against the stiff, unforgiving pillows. You make space for him to lie down alongside you, and yet Santiago opts to hover, not ready to relinquish his window seat. It’s as uncomfortable as it probably looks, however, and so he fumbles in his pocket for a smoke, figuring it as good an excuse as any to be sitting up there - instead of lying next to you. He stares out into the blackened parking lot with enough vigour to convince an onlooker it is entirely compelling - instead of looking at you.

You are quiet for a moment following and Santiago lets it hang, exhaling twists of smoke from his mouth to the window. Flicking his spent ash down onto the asphalt below. Then, you expel a blustery sigh.

“Shit,” you grumble. You click your tongue. Santiago turns to see you lying flat on your back now, staring contemplatively up at the dusty, motionless ceiling fan, arms folded behind your head. “That guy I made out with.”

Santiago takes an even deeper drag on his smoke; perhaps unconsciously hoping that if he is occupied long enough, he won’t be required to respond at all.

Your head lollops to the side, your gaze finding his. “Do me a favour and don’t tell Tommy I did that, okay?”

Fuck.

“Wait. Tommy?! You and Tommy?” The words are expelled faster than he would’ve wanted, almost making him choke on a cloak of hot smoke. “Tommy fucking Nelson?”

“Yeahhh. We’ve, um, sorta… been hooking-up lately.”

Santiago quickly inhales another drag, smoke seething out of his nostrils as he flicks the used cigarette butt down to the asphalt below. He is grateful that the lungful gives him a second to think before he speaks - yet apparently, it is not quite long enough. “Shit. The guy’s so stacked I swear he must have abs on his dick.”

You laugh; and Santiago decides that, based on the beauteous sound of it alone, Tommy fucking Nelson doesn’t even remotely deserve you.

“I dunno about abs on his dick… but he’s got enough to work with, know what I mean?”

Santiago continues to peer out of the window, and so you don’t see his face crumple with a frown. “So he’s good, huh?”

You scoff to yourself. “Oh. Fuck. Not really. He doesn’t do much of the work…” Your dirty laugh sounds out. “Fortunately, I’m a goddamn miracle worker when it comes to getting myself off.”

Strike two. Tommy Nelson definitely doesn’t deserve you.

You giggle. Giggle like this is a girls’ fucking sleepover. Like you are revealing some - far more innocent - secret to a best friend.

But… of course. Because that’s precisely what he is to you, right? Nothing more, nothing less. And that’s never bothered him before. Has never bothered him until precisely now.

What exactly has gotten into him tonight, then? Why does some old guy have his head in a spin? Why is he delaying crawling onto his side of the bed? Why can’t he look at you?

Further delaying the inevitable, Santiago pats down his pockets, hoping for another cigarette with which to prolong his diversion by the window. However, he comes up short. Has no other recourse left besides brushing his teeth, kicking off his shoes, stripping down to his boxers, and laying his body out alongside yours. The mattress dips as he settles on top of the covers, and you swivel on to your side to face him.

“Hey.” You prod him in the pec. “What about you anyway?”

“What about me?”

You reach down. Snap the elastic hem of his boxers until it pings back against his toned stomach. “Been getting any lately?”

He makes a vague, non-committal sound, hoping it will be enough; but, of course, you don’t stop there.

“Your dream girl… Let’s see.” Your eyes spark, far too animated considering such a long night. “Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s… nude. Huge breasts.” Santiago had wanted to roll his eyes at you, honestly, but he finds he can’t quite quash his smile. “She’s… I know… draped in the American Flag.” His face splits with mirth. “Reciting the Fifth Amendment.” You prod him emphatically in the pec. “Plus she plays bass in a Pearl Jam cover band and gives next-level blow jobs.” His gaze sweeps over your shit-eating grin like a paintbrush over a canvas. Like fingers down a guitar fret. Like it belongs there. Like he belongs here. “Well?” you’d needled. “Am I warm yet?”

“Wait, I think I know her.” Santiago snaps his fingers. “Hey. Yeah. Didn’t she hook-up with Benny last week?”

You twist as chaotic laugh spills out of you, throwing your arm over him and dipping your head towards his bare chest. It is a small thing. A minute, unconscious action. A brief touch. A single moment. Except… the way it makes his stomach lurch makes it completely undeniable to him. Undeniable that the only girl doing it for him is you.

He realises it all now though, as he looks at you. Realises he’s been seeing you in pieces. In fragments; because of course he has. Of course, because he’s been trying to survive, and if he’d dared to think, instead, about living? Well, then he’d have far too much to lose.

“Come onnn,” you purr, jutting out your bottom lip, entirely oblivious to the way the ground is disappearing from beneath him as you remain curled into his side. “Give me some gossip. It’s my birthday!”

He swallows. Tries to pull himself together. Tries to be exactly what you need him to be.

“Christ.” He nervously scratches at the stubble sprouting along his jaw. “Well. Let’s see. First of all, I’ve spent so long without any action but my own goddamn fist that even Morales is starting to look appealing.”

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”

“He should be so lucky. Anyway. He’s got a girl back home. High school kinda sweetheart deal.”

You scoff. “What? For real?”

“Mm hmm. He’s in it too. His eyes mightta wandered occasionally - but as far as I know his dick never has.”

You pump your eyebrows like that surprises you. “Good for him.” And then: “It won’t last though.”

“Christ. You’re really that cynical already?”

“Something like that,” you smirk. “Guess it comes with the old age.”

“Oh yeah. Speaking of birthdays…” Santiago pushes off his elbow and swivels, reaching to fumble a tiny, square parcel from his jeans pocket. He settles back into position with a grin on his face, extending his gift toward you. You eye it sceptically, but with casual intrigue.

“Fuck me. Something else from your trousers that’s been manhandled to death, Santiago? You know how to treat a lady.”

He can’t explain why he feels nervous as you weigh the package in your palm. “It’s… for protection.”

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”

You rise up, settling cross-legged on top of the covers, and Santiago shifts to mirror you, with a lopsided, self-conscious smile. You pause, looking between him and the package with a gentle, subdued glee. You gingerly peel the red tissue paper away, revealing the gift nestled within. As soon as you observe what is inside, however, the glee evaporates from your face. You look down at it, for once rendered speechless before you say his name, the sound as thin as the wisps of smoke still eddying up on the ceiling. “Santiago.”

He swallows. Saws his hand across his stubble, suddenly worried that the gesture is all off. “It’s-”

Your eyes snap up to his, your expression raw and soft. “-I know what it is.”

You look back down to the gift now, warmly. Lift them up, a string of black rosary beads unfurling. The beads his mom had gifted him for protection the day before he’d shipped out, clamping her hands over his and reciting a prayer he didn’t believe in, but which he’d felt all the way down to his marrow. The beads that he’d kept on him ever since, usually nestled in the pocket of his tac vest. The beads which his mother had prayed would keep him safe. Would protect him, when it had turned out to be you who had answered her prayer. You who had protected him, at whatever cost.

“But I can’t-“

Stupid. You’re stupid. Of course you can.

“It’s no big deal. I’m just a cheapskate,” he minimises.

You inhale, about to launch a protest, but you must read something altogether too earnest in his face, since any such argument is subdued as soon as you look at him. Instead then, you hold them up once more, your eyes glistening as you admire the cheap, plastic beads for far more than they are worth.

“But won’t your mom-“

“Be mad I gave them away?” You let the beads pool in one palm, the red tissue paper now strewn over your lap like swatches of blood. Santiago clamps his hands over yours, nestling the beads safely within, in a gesture which mirrors his mother’s own plea a little too closely. He empathises with her then. With her fear of being left behind. With her fear for his soul and its fate. “Are you shitting me? You saved her angelito. She’d probably sign the goddamn house over to you. I mean, shit - she’s already been bugging me to bring her new hija over for tamales.”

He hasn’t ever told you that before. Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you gently cup his face and dip to render a light, chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. When you draw back from him, you look almost as surprised by the gesture as he is.

“Santiago.” Your eyes well-up. “It really means a lot.”

He doesn’t have words for a moment. It does. It means a lot to him, and he’s struck with sentimentality when he realises that it means something to you too. He nods once, gaze gently dancing over your face.

“I mean it,” you squeeze out through welling tears. “This is the sweetest thing-“

“-Shh. Oh no. No, no, no,” he captures your tears with the crook of his forefinger just as they spill over, motioning as though he is attempting to restore them to whence they came, a soft yet playful concern dancing over his face. “Quick sharp. Put these back,” he whisper-shouts, faux urgently. “No-one can know you feel things.”

His remark causes you to laugh through your tears, as you hastily lift a balled fist to scrub them away. The sounds dissolve into a pleasant yet taut silence, leaving the two of you simply looking into each other’s eyes.

You are the first to break it, dropping your gaze down towards your lap.

“Listen. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.“

Your expression grows more troubled then, a divot notching in your brow and your head shaking softly side to side. “Santiago. I need to say this. You… you don’t owe me any debt. Okay? And… and don’t you even think -ever- about trying to repay it. You hear me?”

He owes you everything, and he’ll repay it however he can; but he isn’t about to argue with you. Instead, he simply nods. Forces an even, concessionary smile, leaning into a swift topic change. “You tired yet?”

“Yeah. Exhausted.”

“Let’s lie down then, alright?”

“Mmm.” You set the beads down so carefully on your nightstand that it constricts his chest, arranging them in a nest of tissue paper. “It’s just… I…”

“What?”

He flicks off the lamp and you lay down on your back, staring up at the ceiling fan, the room now illuminated only by the distant glow of the motel’s neon sign across the lot. It bathes the room in a purple-tinged dark. When your voice comes back, it is small. “It’s just that I… I don’t want this night to end.”

Santiago lays himself out, right next to you. “Then let’s try and stay awake, huh?”

“Yeah. Let’s do that.” You shiver; then, instead of crawling beneath the scratchy comforter like he expects, you curl into his side. Rest your head against his chest. Santiago’s arms hover over you for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do. In actual fact though, it comes far too naturally to him.

He wraps you in his arms, and begins to smooth one hand up and down your back - of course, being careful not to venture too low, even as you torque your body into his touch.

You exhale against him. Hum, up against his bare, tan skin. Drape your arm over him, and, reliably, there is that knot again. That fist, tightening inside his chest.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice smaller than it needs to be. “Birthday princess?”

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

He hesitates. Stares coldly and contemplatively up at the ceiling fan himself now even as he bundles the warmth of you in his arms. “Do you believe in happy endings?”

He feels your breathy expletive fan over his chest. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”

“Sorry. Forget it, you don’t have to-“

“-No. I do,” you say with certainty. “I do believe in them.”

Santiago hopes that you can’t feel his heart thundering beneath the shell of your ear. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Except… not for people like us.”

His brow tightens, mouth turning down at the corners. “Why not?”

“Well,” you muse, wriggling pointedly until his hand - stopped dead with suspense - resumes its ministrations over your back, his fingers obediently seeking out the knots and notches until your airy hum sounds again. “Because our hands are too bloody now to build anything good. Right?”

It’s strange because, right now, caressing you like this, he could almost forget that his hands are blood-soaked. Your touch is the only reminder he’s had in some time that his hands can indeed be loving. In fact, the whole concept of war feels so entirely incongruous to him while he’s holding you. Like it could not be further away, even though -in your lives- it is only ever around the corner. He pushes his response out from the depths of his chest. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bleak?”

“I dunno.” You shrug, and he doesn’t enjoy how sad your voice grows . How old you somehow sound all of a sudden. “It’s just… They told us we’d be heroes, Santi. But… When was the last time you felt like one?”

You’re my hero, he thinks loudly, in the achingly quiet room; but, he catches the words before they make it out of his throat. In the end, nothing more than a small, reined-in grunt manages to escape.

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

Because you deserve one. More so than anyone he’s ever met, you deserve one.

His fingers and the heel of his hand continue to massage the dink in your back, rooting out every source of tension. Learning how to take the pain apart for you like a weapon in his palm. “Dunno,” he lies. “The wedding. All that.”

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”

“You’re fucking brutal, you know that?”

“And you’re hilarious. Shit. Happy fucking endings? Man. At this point, I think I’d settle for a happy middle, you know? Before I go down in my inevitable blaze of glory.”

“Don’t say that,” Santiago scolds, his voice taut. “I hate when you talk like that.”

He doesn’t blame you. For being cynical or pessimistic - not really. Doesn’t blame you one bit. Not after you’d legitimately looked death in the face. He understands well enough what that can do to a person. How it can change them. How, even someone like you, who always saw a clear, bright path ahead, could begin to doubt the clarity of that vision.

Absent-mindedly, you circle the pad of your forefinger in the valley of his pecs. “What about you, then? Do you believe in all that stuff? Marriage? Happy endings?”

“Meh. Not so much,” he answers honestly, fissures in his voice. Maybe it is his ingrained Catholic guilt talking, but he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves a happy ending. Not after the things he’s done. Not after all that blood.

“Then how about this, Santiago Garcia,” you begin, tone much more playful, like you’ve had a bright idea. “Would you settle for a lifetime of trouble-making with your ride or die?”

You extend your pinky towards him for the most sacred of all vows, and he curls his own little finger around yours.

He intends his response to feel light-hearted. Equally playful. He really does. But, when the words escape his lips they are heavy. Dripping and weighed with sentimentality. “With you, honestly, it doesn’t really feel like settling.” He suddenly feels like someone is sitting on his chest. Like the air is scarce and sharp with some incendiary cloud - about to ignite and burn everything he’s known to the ground.

“Kiss ass,” you poke lightly, and a wistful smile briefly dances across his features.

“It’s only what you’re due.”

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”

“Sure. Maybe you can get Tommy-abs-on-his-dick-Nelson right on that.”

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

Santiago jostles you gently in his embrace. “Hey. Speaking of. Sorry you got lumbered with the sideshow tonight, by the way.”

“Fuck off, Pope,” you huff, like he’s just said something which causes deep offence. “Of all the chumps I couldda been stuck with, I’m glad it was you.” Santiago’s heart flutters, his chest blooming with a hazy, metered-out warmth when he hears you say those words. “Now. Wish me happy birthday one more time, and then sing me a damn lullaby, would you?”

Santiago crushes his chin down to his chest to get a better look at you, having decided that you must surely be joking. “Huh?!”

“We all knew about your guitar skills but you have a beautiful set of pipes too? Been holding out on me, Pope. Now, sing!”

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

“It’s only what I’m due, right? Come on, I haven’t got all night, asshat!” Somehow, the derogatory term sounds imbued with a deep fondness somehow, and it blooms through him.

“Alright. Alright. Keep your panties on.” Shit - you had better.

“Thank you.”

Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you.

He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.”

A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back.

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…”

A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?”

“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly.

“No. No, please.”

He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.”

It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion.

He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it.

He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same.

He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out.

He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?”

It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you.

And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing.

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky.

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:

“And I love her.”

The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward.

“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?”

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.”

An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?”

You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it.

Please.

He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained.

And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same.

He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours…

Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go.

So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it.

Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life.

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you.

The day he realised he was in love with you.

And the day he started running from that.

The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth?

The fourth will be tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle.

He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion.

Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done.

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

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prince-kallisto · 3 months

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Crowley’s Ending Prologue Speech Comparison: Manga vs Game

This is a part 2 to my earlier post regarding the beginning of Crowley’s prologue speech- I didn’t have enough room to put all the photos I wanted haha! 🤣 curse you mobile limitations! Σ(-᷅_-᷄๑)

The official English translation of the Twisted Wonderland manga does differ from the game dialogue. And with Crowley in particular, a lot of liberty is taken with his form of speech. As noticed in the previous part, he seems to use more archaic language than he does in game.

This part of his speech is often repeated in trailers, so I thought it would be nice to compare these as well, since it seems to be a vital speech that is setting up the future of the game’s story. (The manga cuts out several lines of his speech, so I’ll only be comparing the lines used in the manga)

The official English manga translation reads “Thou who art guided by the Dark Mirror…follow the wish of thine heart, and take the hand thou seest reflected in the looking glass. For I…and for them…and for thee…little time doth remain. Take care to never let go of that hand.”

The English game dialogue reads “You, whose image the Dark Mirror did beckon forth…If your heart bids it, take the hand of the one reflected in the mirror….To me. To them. To yourself. The hour grows long, and time is scarce. Keep your grip steady, no matter what may come…”

Although I do like how the manga uses terms like the “looking glass” (a more direct reference to Alice Through the Looking Glass, the sequel book to Alice in Wonderland), I feel like the manga speech comes off as a bit more clunky than the game speech. Only a little bit though, I still adore it!

I love how the manga chose to translate this speech with more archaic language, because interestingly enough, Crowley speaks in a more usual way in the rest of the manga! He does not use “thou” or “thee” or “doth” like he has throughout his opening speech. It’s as if he’s adjusting his speech to be modern (yet formal) for the students, but speaks more archaically in the privacy of the Mirror Chamber. Since most of this speech is directed towards the Dark Mirror (in part 1 that I linked up above), it makes me wonder if he knows his benefactor also speaks and understands this old fashioned language. Like an old friend whose as old as he, like another Fae or even one of the Great Seven.

I’d like to hear everyone’s thoughts on the matter, or like which one you prefer! ٩( ᐛ )و As I mentioned in part one, I cannot read Japanese so I cannot attest to the “accuracy” of either official translation. But if any of you can read Japanese, I’d love to also hear your thoughts about this!

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst analysis #dire crowley #twst dire crowley #twst Crowley #twst manga #kallistopost

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reunionatdawn · 3 months

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My Analysis of the Best Paired Endings in 3H (Part 6: Ferdinand/Dorothea)

(Normal): Thanks but no thanks, Mr. Noble. I already have my heart set on someone else. (Ferdinand & Dorothea support level B reached): I suppose I can settle for you just this once, Ferdie.

The writers obviously put a lot of love into this ship, as it's one of the rare times that the main story dialogue changes depending on Support level between two characters. Plus, since he asks her out on a date outside of their Support chain, it shows that Ferdinand is canonically interested in Dorothea. And this is true in Hopes as well. He fears his mind will "wander to other things" while training with her.

Dorothea: Song and dance live on in our memories, but there's no real record of them. Even memories fade over time. Will anyone remember me when I'm gone?

Dorothea is a Libra, an air sign. Air signs are masculine, but not as much as the fire signs. Libras are extroverted, cozy, and friendly people. Libras, like the Scales that symbolize the sign, are often concerned with attaining balance, harmony, peace, and justice in the world. Dorothea had the motivation to join Edelgard's cause to dismantle the corrupt nobility. But she was also compassionate and hated the idea of fighting people she knew.

Ferdinand: I will do what I'm called to do, even if no mark of me remains in the history books.

Ferdinand bears the Crest of Cichol, which is associated with the Justice Arcana. Justice is a signifier of legal matters being resolved in a fair and balanced manner. It represents the power to distinguish between what is fair and what is unfair, in an impartial way. Ferdinand's dream was to lead the Empire to an age of enlightenment and hold his father accountable for his crimes. The downside to his ambitions was that his life revolved around being recognized for his achievements.

Ferdinand: That is true nobility! Acting in accordance with the people's needs and wishes. As war drags on, those living near the front lines inevitably get the worst of it. Still…Edelgard will not give in. She will push to complete her mission, no matter how many people die. Not everyone with noble blood has noble ideals.

His character arc was about exemplifying true nobility, defined as, "having or showing fine personal qualities or high moral principles and ideals." Not just being noble, defined as, "belonging to a hereditary class with high social or political status." And I would argue that opposing Edelgard was vital to his character arc.

Dorothea: Oh, Ferdie. You opposed Edie for so long… I had real hopes for you, you know? Now you're following her. Is that your duty as a noble? Follow your master when they say to heel? Ferdinand: I will not try to explain my duty or hers. You would not understand. I wish you could.

Dorothea is one of the few non-lord characters that will actually react to another non-lord character's death. If you don't recruit Ferdinand, he will die at the Great Bridge of Myrddin so that his name goes down in history as "the legendary Ferdinand of Adrestia".

If Ferdinand does not complete his arc, Dorothea will be the one who is most disappointed. She will say she had high hopes for him, a reference to their B-Support where he made her treats, and she reconsidered him as husband material. His memory will not live on in the history books, but it does live on in her heart. It was hard not to think of this pairing as "canon" after I saw this dialogue.

Dorothea: Though we only knew each other briefly back at the academy, you were still my friend—but now our paths have diverged forever.

There's even a Hopes version of this dialogue available in Record Keeper. Similar to Edelgard and Byleth in Silver Snow, if Ferdinand and Dorothea's paths diverge, it is treated as a great tragedy of fate. It shows how much the writers favored this particular ship.

(Normal): Yes… I have met someone quite charming recently. I'm hoping we can spend more time together soon. (Dorothea has reached Support Rank A with a male): I am. There is someone whose company I have come to enjoy.

While Dorothea is bisexual, she did seem to have a preference for men. The dialogue in her B-Support with Edelgard only changes if Dorothea has attained A-Support with a male character.

Linhardt: You've probably overcome a lot of tough times, haven't you? I think that's incredible, really, but why not just let go of the suffering and run away from the memories that cause you pain? I suspect you'll find it a better way of living. I know I do. Dorothea: That's not living, Lin. It's running away. If I leave my hardships behind, then all of that means nothing.

She only got into the academy by buttering up some noble, which suggests that she may have had to perform sexual favors. She had a poor self-image, despite her physical beauty. And that is why I think she pursued men so adamantly, even when she was not truly attracted to them. She was running away from her past.

Dorothea: What's important isn't how someone looks, it's their true nature. I don't pretend to know your true nature. I don't even have a very good understanding of my own. But I suppose you see mine just fine, don't you? Just a silly girl with no thoughts in her head except for marrying a noble, yes? Good-bye, Felix.

Dorothea had to hone her masculine energy while living on the streets and performing in the opera. She despised the goddess (although she has a hidden talent for faith). Her paralogue with Ingrid showed how the two had contrasting views on marriage. Dorothea wanted to play the traditionally feminine role of housewife, with a noble husband fulfilling the traditional masculine role of provider and protector.

Dorothea: But if you and I were devoted to one another… maybe we could strive for the future you believe in. Maybe I'd finally understand your path and be able to think about more than just myself. Hubert: Seems it's my turn to not understand. Did you just propose marriage as a way to get to know me?

She was always looking for a wealthy husband to take care of her into her old age, and often came across as nothing but a shallow gold-digger. Because she was afraid of living in poverty, she would settle for a nobleman regardless of whether or not she knew him very well or was actually in love with him.

Sylvain: You know, even when I was a kid, I never had trouble with girls. …But thinking about it now, I wonder what they liked about me back then. They didn't know everything about me… It's just confusing. Dorothea: Oh, where did that come from? No one can know everything about you.

She was at first dismissive of the idea that people need to know each other fully to get married. But she did commiserate with Sylvain about how people wanted to marry her without even knowing anything about her. However, she flirtatiously makes plans to grow old with him immediately afterwards. Even though they still barely knew each other.

Dorothea: I never had much to begin with in life, and I worry that one day, I'll be that way again… That's why I keep searching for someone who will love me. Someone unaware of the songstress, who can love a girl that used to be scared and alone on the streets of the capital… I wonder if such a strange person can even exist.

But what she really wanted was to spend her life with someone who did know her true self. Several of her endings depict her giving up on her goal of finding a rich husband. She is able to find love with Petra and Manuela and those are happy endings for her. But I still think the happiest ending for her is to find her dream man. A rich provider and protector who would know and love her as the scared orphan girl.

Dorothea: Oh, really? You're something different? That's not how I remember things… It was the very day that I was discovered…

I think Ferdinand offered the best closure to her character arc. There was a palpable sexual tension between them in both games, with Dorothea pushing him away yet secretly desiring to be closer. I'd argue she has more far chemistry with him than any of her other potential partners. At the academy, Dorothea did not flirt or make advances on Ferdie, despite him being the exact type of wealthy noble she was after. But in the end, she was more open, honest, and emotionally vulnerable with him than she was with anyone else.

Dorothea: Maybe I can believe you. I've wanted to ever since the day you made me those treats… I thought then that maybe you weren't like the others, but… There's a lot I have to let go of, Ferdie.

The tagline for the game was, "Sweet memories twisted by time's cruel hand". By getting closure with Ferdinand, Dorothea could reclaim a sweet memory and let go of some pain from her past. Ferdie considered Edelgard his rival and prided himself on being better than her. But with Dorothea, he said he wouldn't mind a life of being a simple drone, circling a queen. So, they both find a new way to live with each other. This pairing is a more wholesome alternative for Ferdie than Ferdibert. But Ferdie still is kind of a sub.

Ferdinand & Dorothea Ferdinand reclaimed the position of Duke Aegir and initiated reforms within his domain. Through his political methods, which closely aligned with the needs of the common people, the Aegir Duchy swiftly underwent reconstruction. Behind this success story was the significant contribution of Dorothea, the former songstress who became the Duchess, who dedicated herself to serving the commoners. Ferdinand, recognized for his achievements, was entrusted with governance across all of Fódlan. Despite being busy with his duties, he prioritized spending time with his family. He and Dorothea raised their children together, and their home was always filled with the sound of cheerful singing.

This feels like the picture-perfect ending for both of them. Dorothea achieves her life plan of marrying a rich provider and protector, overcoming her prejudice towards nobles. Her children carry on her legacy, and her memory will live on in their hearts.

And thanks to her experiences as an orphan, Ferdinand's policies benefit the commonfolk. He actually renounced his nobility and lived as a wanderer for five years because he did not believe in Edelgard's ideals, and he wanted to make up for his father's wrongdoings in his own way. He was prepared to leave no mark on history, but he is recognized for his achievements in the end.

#fe3h #fe3h meta #ferdithea #ferdinand von aegir #dorothea arnault

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xx-vergil-xx · 21 days

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Can I ask what pushed you to end Hounds the way you did? It's a fantastic ending, but I'm curious. I expected the Fates to revive Dream, or allow him to inhabit a new form (such as one made by Daniel, so that Dream becomes a dreamthing), etc. But instead, his death is made to have never happened. Which makes it partly feels like Hob's whole road trip journey was for nothing since he lost all those memories and connections with Matthew, the Corinthian, Delirium, Despair, Desire, Death, etc. (thank god he kept the farmhouse). But it's almost like he traded all those memories and connections for Dream. Unless I missed something while reading (I was crying very hard).

Again, fantastic ending, and I'm also glad it's a happy ending. But I'm curious as to why you didn't go in the other direction

howdy! thanks very much for the ask — an excellent query, one which i’m happy to answer

(verg of the future: this answer ended up long! there’s a short form at the top here and at the end <3)

in brief: he did make that trade you described! but not strictly for dream — it was the price of swapping genres!

an explanation:

what i had in mind while planning and writing was less the idea of erasure of prior narrative action and more a subversion of the expected genre, in particular the genre tropes that follow dream in the original arc of the comics, where his story is very classically tragic (with the understood weaving of hob into that tragedy, this being a dream/hob telling and all)

for reference, i also drew a lot of inspiration for hob’s road trip odyssey from the aeneid, an epic that is, yes, about the founding of rome but also (at least to my reading) a fundamental tragedy — the cost of founding rome is aeneas’ home, many of his friends, much of his core family, and the very end of the story is not some victorious depiction of the glory of rome to be (which we do get earlier in the book, with the ekphrasis on his shield) but aeneas, overcome with fury and loss, killing a man who begs his mercy. i’ve always felt that the aeneid, while certainly stepped in the expected amount of roman nationalism, is centrally about a single man and his singular suffering as an instrument of higher destiny.

i wanted to model hob’s arc around the aeneid (minus, y’know, some of the chunks that are strictly battle sequences <3) both because intertextuality is a huge part of how i wanted to handle hounds (story about stories, made of other stories, etc), but also because hob and aeneas are fundamentally parallel characters — nomads with exceptional ordinances, permanently displaced by the passing whims of higher powers, men who are made to reckon with both extraordinary wonder and extraordinary tragedy regularly while still, at their core, just being human. that’s what makes aeneas so compelling — he’s just a man. and so is our beloved hob — that’s his whole thing, his whole narrative function and his whole central ideal, humanity

so then, approaching hounds with both the thought of the sandman’s original tragic contours (see: the whole lead-in to daniel. christ above is the way that goes devastating to read) and the man vs fate core of the aeneid, i was considering a lot of things about how to mess around with both notions without gutting them entirely. i tend to dislike tragedies that become un-tragic without some sort of Serious Payment For It (not to say i don’t like happy stories because i very much do! but i get ticked off when high stakes get deflated too quickly) and i didn’t want to undermine the very real fact that the Fates are typically not versed in notions of empathy and/or leniency, and that dream and hob and those around them did experience and endure devastation and loss, and that death is a fact typically immune to argument.

the world of sandman is not one with easy answers, and to my mind there’s no such thing as a bargain with the Fates where you break even. for hob to get what he wanted, something had to be given, something dear and vital and real. there’s more to what hob actually gives the Fates than he verbally stipulates, which i tried to address largely via the corinthian and his perception of the situation, especially those last conversations with dream in the “swamp”. i have a lot of options about the corinthian in his function as “dark mirror” having a blistering clarity of understanding much of the time, which is why i foisted the onus of those complexities onto his dialogue, rather than hob, who (and i say this with love) is a creature of bias and often blinded to greater repercussions of his actions insofar as they extend beyond his immediate objectives/enjoyments, or dream, who can see the bigger picture but i think often really keeps himself from doing so when it comes to anything at all that’s personal (king of stories has a blindspot for his own). what hob gives the Fates actually costs him almost nothing, in the long run, if we operate with the idea that he cannot remember, nor is there any lasting effect from, his 600-ish heavily-relived years. there’s narrative and symbolic weight, of course — he gives them love as an oath and as nostalgia (sidebar: his driving force is an almost pre-nostalgia, a continual love of the moment as the moment is passing, but anyway) (cuff links), he gives them in a captured moment the lovely discomfort and simultaneous brilliance of being alive (the hook, the finger prick the blood), and he gives them a rich and complicated experience of humanity (those 600 years). but practically, what is actually taken from him that he doesn’t just get back?

only those few months — and in them, a web of real and known connections, all of which matter, and all of which change his understanding of and relationship to things like grief, and loneliness, and fear, and forgiveness. those are important changes, real changes, that would affect how he operates in the world going forward. that development is gone. he returns instead to the (of course, fought-for and hard-won) stasis of what was, which becomes what will always be. in making the Fates and their judgement more complex, he has actually made his own life less complex. now, i’m not going to sit here and argue that “suffering has inherent value” or some shit like that because i think that’s bullshit! pain is just pain. but he does lose experiences which would have shaped him in new ways, and, i think, good ways. even important ways

and he may well be shaped towards similar courses with dream (especially re: learning that lesson about loneliness — i think hob suffers from the curse of always, ultimately, being alone (immortality etc there’s so much discourse about this), and the road trip was in part about him learning that though it is the simplest path it is neither the sole nor the best path), but he certainly doesn’t learn them the same way, with the same faces, with the same acuity and clarity and intensity.

the thing with the Fates (to me anyway) is that you don’t ever just win. maybe you can get what you want, but it’s not easy (it make take a thousand repetitions of your lifetime until friction and the touch of your hands wears the sisyphean boulder down to a pebble — like the parable of the bird scraping its beak on the mountain), and it’s sure not free.

so yes, those months are lost. that’s a big part of the price. and we don’t know, at the end, how much of that thing he really gave ultimately comes back — his new relationship depths with deanna or cori or the other endless, those things aren’t seen. the main arc is resolved — hob and dream — but there are still pieces missing. he loses a piece of his human experience, he gets tossed back around through the wringer of his life (which is often distinctly not pleasant), and he is, as he ever was, a character with a path whose impetus and dictation rest heavily on external forces. even in attempting to channel his life elsewhere, he still has to bargain, and is still subject to the choices of the fates, and in some ways the story remains irrevocably a tragedy, in that one way or another it has loss in a central place. in the latter half of hounds hob really became my attempted version of an aeneas type — a man with a quest and a fated directive, a deeply human and flawed individual, who can alter the path and even irrevocably change the genre of his own narrative, but only at cost.

of course let’s be clear! some of all the actual rendering of this ended up as it did partly because i am not always a clean writer, and for that i apologize! but i did genuinely want that sense of gaps — of faces and voices given over to the gravitational well of the principal narrative arc of hob/dream versus the Fates. i think those things are gone. the narrative is forcibly re-centered around hob and dream, and in doing this — in shifting the story genre — other ties and bonds are not just cut, but unwoven entirely. when you change the kind of story you’re telling, the change is done at the expense of something else. kind of like how there’s a fixed amount of matter in the universe? you can’t create or destroy matter — to make something new you have to take from another place. (sidebar: wow i’m realizing something about my fundamental storytelling beliefs right now! laws of physics! anon your ask has really got my cylinders firing, and most sincerely thank you <3)

still, they might come back. though i didn’t write it as fully as i could have (i will freely admit there was a great deal of burnout at play towards the end there), i had a lot of thoughts re: repetition and density, namely that if you stack a thousand repetitions of a lifetime against each other it’s the equivalent of writing a word over and over and over on a page. when you erase it, the channels remain. language flows most naturally in the direction once etched for it. maybe hob learns those same lessons and knows the same people in the same way — maybe he and the corinthian find that odd patch of common ground, maybe he takes a long drive with delirium through rural maryland. maybe there are echoes. maybe even if it is gone what was still shapes the topography. maybe a kindness or a word exchanged still ring out when you can’t see them or remember them. while the milestones of our lives rippled the most visibly, i think we’re shaped a thousandfold ways by accumulations of small things we can’t distinctly remember. only a feeling of a thing, or the negative space it leaves.

well. tl;dr — i didn’t want to let hob get away without actually giving anything up, nor without his choice to bargain affecting others besides himself in equally irrevocable ways (sidebar: at his core is a selfishness that is both charming and ignoble — he wants to do a good thing for dream but also he makes a call that changes a plenitude of lives other than his own, and i don’t think he really asks, he just does — grey areas are his whole gig to me), because nobody makes a deal with the Fates for free, and changing genre has a price tag. it was my effort to make the tone of the whole beast more authentically sandman-esque, since sandman does a lot of that sort of water-muddying, especially when using understood narrative models/archetypes/etc etc

i am. sorry this was as long as it is! jesus! but i’m sending it off all the same. anyways, anon, thanks very much not only for your lovely kind words and the high honor of your tears (no pulitzer could mean more to me than knowing a thing i wrote really moved someone, seriously thank you) but also for giving me a blank check to go buck wild and ramble about my own damn writing and Things I Just Think <3 i hope you have a lovely day/morning/noon/night, and thanks a bunch for dropping by <3 <3 <3

#the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dreamling #hounds #vergil says hello #vergil says way more than fuckin hello tbh #vergil writes a manifesto woukd be a better line for this #anon has given me the greatest gift: License To Monologue #fingers crossed any of that actually answered the question at hand #thanks for saying hi and asking things because i love both experiences immensely #<3 <3 <3 <3 <3

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cy-cyborg · 6 months

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Hi! I'm trying to include autistic and/or ADHD characters in my stories but I'm afraid I'm not doing a good job. I'm neurotypical, so I fear I might find myself using stereotypes and that's not my intention. Do you have any tips? Thank you in advance, have a nice day!

Ok, so personally I have a lot of trouble coming up with advice for auDHD (autism + ADHD) because, well, the spectrum of experience is so large and there isn't a lot of consistency within the community in regards to what is considered good representation vs just stereotypes. There's a few outliers, like every one I know has agreed Sia's movie "Music" is offensively bad lol, but pretty much everything else I can think of is less clear cut. Generally though, if you want examples of media portrayals of autism done well, avoid anything from or connected to Autism Speaks. They are not a reliable source.

I only really have 3 suggestions:

decide what level of support your character needs. Support needs for autism are variable and they can fluctuate throughout a person's life, but typically, people will fit into one of 3 categories. In Australia it's Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3 with Level 1 is defined as generally being low-support needs, and level 3 being generally very high support needs. Of course, it's a spectrum, so there's massive amounts of variably person-to-person, but as an author, it can be a good idea to pick one of the levels, because you'll typically find more specific information about how autism will present.

Find content creators (as in multiple) with both Autism and ADHD. It's a good idea to listen to the community directly, but when you're writing an AuDHD character in particular, you do need to be aware that those autism and ADHD can play into one another or in some cases, can cancel some traits of each other out (kind of). But it'll be different from person to person. They are very distinct disabilities, but they have some unusual interactions it's vital to be aware of. Ideally, you'll also want to try find auDHD people in the same age range and who are the same gender as your character. Different generations and age groups will treat AuDHD differently, and while It's not a hard and fast thing, both autism and ADHD manifest differently in men and women because of how we are socialized and raised (this applies to trans and nonbinary people too, they'll typically take on traits associated with the gender they were usually raised as, but not always. Personally, I showed a mix of both, but my traits do align more with the typical presentation of AuDHD in girls). Just a little side note, not every person creating content about Autism/ADHD is open to working with authors. Find content creators, listen to them, but don't ask them about your character specifically unless they have stated somewhere that they're open to helping with that kind of thing.

Find sensitivity readers and sensitivity consultants for autism and ADHD. A sensitivity reader goes over your manuscript once the draft is done, but consultants help you from even earlier on in the process. If you're worried about not doing the community justice, this is the best way to go. People online like myself can offer generalized advice, but SR's and SC's will be able to go much more in-depth with you and help you fix moment-to-moment issues in your story.

Some additional things to be mindful of as well when looking up further resources:

Both Autism and ADHD can make it difficult to regulate tone and emotion. This means you are likely going to get information from the community at some point that might not be easy to hear and you're not going to like how its presented to you lol. They're going to be blunt and maybe even "rude". It's not personal (usually lol) but don't expect everyone to be polite, and don't only take criticism from those who are. Tone and emotional regulation is literally a part of both disabilities for a lot of us, and this is a topic a lot of us have strong feelings about to begin with.

I mentioned it already, but avoid taking advice from anything connected to or directly from Autism Speaks.

Social media tends to favor low-support-needs folks, so you'll find info about them, from them, much easier. Even if you're writing a LSN character, be mindful of that bias

Be wary of anyone claiming autism/ADHD is a superpower unironically. This is one of those things that's said by a lot of lower support needs folks and is often a warning sign that they might hold harmful beliefs about other parts of the community and could give you bad info. Just again, something to be aware of when researching.

#disability #disabled #writing #writeblr #writing disability #neurodivergent #adhd #autistic #autism #audhd

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dduane · 1 year

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Diane, I am wondering something about writing and you are very wise and very kind.

For context, I've been seeing a therapist for a few months and just saw a psychiatrist Sunday night and they both used the phrase "dissociative daydreaming". It started when I was about 13 and I'm 28 now and it is getting in the way of my life. I'll be having a one-on-one conversation with someone alone in a quiet room and completely miss a few seconds of what they say, and I zone out a lot when eating at restaurants and it creeps people out. The psychiatrist says we are going to work on getting this under control in the next couple months.

The thing is, I like writing fiction and I do a lot of my imagining while I'm in this "zoned out" state. You know, that being a major part of dissociative daydreaming. So I'm wondering, sorry for assuming (assuming makes an ass out of you and me), but if you do not also dissociative daydream, or any other fiction writers here do, how do you think about your stories? Do you just sit down at your desk and say to yourself "I shall write a story now" without leaving your unoccupied body staring at a wall?

First of all: my apologies for having taken so long to get to this... my ask box is so piled up with overdue stuff right now. (sigh) And thanks for the nice words. I don't know about the "wise", and sometimes I screw up the "kind", but I do what I can with what I've got.

Anyway, re: "Do you just sit down at your desk and say to yourself 'I shall write a story now' without leaving your unoccupied body staring at a wall?"

...Yeah, pretty much. Here's how the story-building process usually goes for me.

First I outline. (As detailed here.) The outlining is for me the equivalent of drawing a blueprint, or doing the measure-twice work that comes before taking a saw to the materials you're going to use to build a bookshelf. For this part of the process, as I assemble the underlying framework of the story, I've found it vital to be as completely present, alert and aware as possible. This is where the order of physical action gets laid out, errors of reasoning get caught, blind alleys get erased from the blueprint, useless character transactions get identified and thrown away, and hunches / incomplete ideas get incorporated.

While assembling the outline, if I find my concentration drifting or somehow compromised, I stop work as quickly as possible and put it aside until I can find time to deal with it when I won't be distracted by other stuff. Much experience has taught me that if I get sloppy about this, I may well wind up being really annoyed about it later on... secondary to having missed something vital about character interactions, or screwed up some important sequence of physical action. The writing time lost in fixing careless errors of this kind infuriates me... so I take my time with the outlining.

It's after the framework of the story is in place that the vaguing-out stages of both writing and thinking about the writing come into play. Over many years I've found that the shower, in the morning, is one of the best places for this. Usually when I'm in active writing mode on a project, the first thing I'll do after waking up (while still in bed) will be to look over the writing done the previous day, and—if there's need—check the outline to see what I was planning to do next. Then I hit the showers.

That's where the ideas really start to flow while I'm unfocused: scene descriptions and action sequences in particular. I don't know what it is, but running water really seems to do it for me. (One time I was up at this place for a writing trip, and plotted about six novels one after the other, over a week. Those tubes in the picture dump a liter of hot water per second onto your head. Very, very effective for me.)

...I'm also absolutely horrified to have to admit that one of the very best places for me to be in order to have dialogue arrive is at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. Possibly because there are few other situations in my day to day life where I more desperately want to have my mind be somewhere else. Anywhere else. (But also: running water again...)

In between these two modes of composition lies a hybrid "full-spectrum" writing mode in which I can switch pretty much seamlessly from total immersion in the scene presently unfolding to a more analytical examination of what's going on: a constant realtime adjustment of format issues, timing, pacing, and a lot of other things. When in this mode I can vague out when necessary, inventing new stuff as needed or refining material that was already there, and then snap back into the mode where I'm keeping an eye on paragraph lengths or whether there are too many em-dashes popping up. :)

...Anyway, that''s how it goes for me. The usual caveat applies here: other people's (entirely successful!) processes will not necessarily look anything like this. ...Meanwhile, I absolutely wish you good results in your upcoming brainwork, and the better management of your own process.

#writing #writing process #also #hot water #LOTS OF HOT WATER

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fruit-salad-ship · 21 days

Text

I took a run at the Viking/Druid AU. This one’s a ‘married for political rest, hate each other at the start, then learn to appreciate.’

Story draft under cut

This particular group of Vikings might be a bit of an off shoot, they were led by peachs family for a fair few generations sucessfully, a notoriously violent lot, theyve come to be knows for their brutality. BUT that was peachs mother, the generation before, and the world needs a calmer head sometimes, so when peach was handed the reigns, her mother dead in battle as she'd always wanted to go, the weight of the village was suddenly on her shoulders. sure she'd prepared for this, but she thought she had more time to goof off and be young and free. alas, this shift fored peach to grow up, to watch her people die through her bad choices at times, to see them hungry or sick, and have to learn on the job how to avoid this, or fix it. Older generations have tried to overthrow her, but she proves she is the best fighter, if not the biggest, certeinly the fiercest, and smartest. She is tall and muscular, but her real edge is in her ability to be five steps ahead. She keeps a calm head unless shes in a besrker rage, something she doesnt do unless she ABSOLUTLEY has to. Triggered by a cocktail of plants, a tonic of strength essentially. the recipy was taught to her by her mother, and her mother before her, and so on, back many generations, and is unique to the family tree, a secret to them only. Peach goes and forages for the plants and parts often. so a few years later, with several mutinies squashed, a village of now healthy, fed, happy people, who trust her leadership, and believe that the young blood in this case has done well, is an accomplishment. Grey is her captain of the troops, hes vital, her confidant, her child hood friend, a guy whos very level and reasonable, traits she has been TRYING to get people to adapt to, and reduce how much bloodshed her people have brought to others.

They still raid and fight, but they pick and choose more wisely, taking from those who have more troops and more to lose, pinching from farmers and villagers is a cowards fight, they have pitchforks, and nothing worth taking. but kings? lords? princes? ohhhhhoho, they got shit they can stand to lose, their lives included. so they target bigger fish. arguably their trade with local hunters is also quite key, being good on the waters means fishing is their lifeblood, and many neighbouring villages have built a tentative truce with the viking settlement in order to trade and barter. it is...hard to work with, as her people are prone to fighting, but peach manages to delegate and calm raised tempers with a surprising level of reason. This same reason extends to the druid population. Her faimly have...perhaps been known to slaughter them upon sight. She has seen it, she had watched her blood strike down witchcraft in a heartbeat through fear, and peach does not wish to extend that fear further.

that being said, she is kind of terrified of druids.

low key tho

so when the druid council arrange a meeting with her, no weapons, no threats, a simple plea for peace, she is open to hearing it. Peach and her council go to discuss, and a peace can be arranged if there is a show of trust. Notably, marriage. A viking leader, to a Druid patron of the gods. if this can be done then surely they can trust in an alliance together. Peach is SO not here for it. She however is overruled by the council, they all agree this is a very reasonable arrangement, and peach is left taking one for the team, so to speak. and its honestly something that puts her in a foul state of mind from the get go

she has no clue who shes being married off to, and goes home sulking, telling grey everything over drink, and he is roaring with laughter. the towns most unapproachable, inhospitable woman has finally been shackled down. he cant even believe it, and does not give a rest to the pokes and prods of his taunting. A fortnight passes and no news, nothing from the druids save for a charm of favorable winds for their ships that arrives by raven. Sure enough the ships do prosper, the winds are behind them, and the fish are plentiful. Peach begrudgingly watches her village flourish, and dreads the next step, one she alone has to venture forward with, one she is honestly mortified about. She toughs it out, and soldiers on. And then the letter to the ceremony arrives. She is to meet her betrothed in a week, and the first meeting will be within the druid community, where peach will come with no more than two escorts to agree to terms, and collect the person in question to return home with. There is no exit clause, this means peace for their people once and for all.

and that long long hike to the heart of the woods where the druids exist is...hell. Shes got real nerves, doesnt even get like this for battles, in fact she states on several ocasions that she'd rather be in the thick of a war in the mud and the dirt and the blood than in the calm of the woods. its almost too calm, lets her mind wander to what kind of awful person shes been tied to for the rest of her life. she pictures an old crone, a witch of the woods, a crusty old being, and shudders, while her two companions make jokes that she'll have to have horrible weird druid sex with an old person. and shes there trying not to throw up.

the druids welcome them in with more hospitality than expected, this is of course a negotiation for peace, and peach activley hands in all her weapons, right off the bat with no arguing. she has to berate the other two ONCE, and no more, to do the same. So theyre in a community of 75-100, all of which follow this weird and wild magic, all somehow touched into natures way, and the vikings are just there, strangers in a foreign land, and people are very wary of them. They are taken to the leaders, sat, offered food and drink, to which peach is feeling too sick to really partake in all that much, picks at best, but her attention is toward the new setup of what is to be rules on how their people interact with each other. No more unnecessary deaths. The work of it all nearly lets her mind slip from the end result, her people will no longer hunt druids, offer trade, military aid and services should need be, and for all forward purposes consider them allies, unless violent action is taken against them, in return they will gain access to medicine and the occasional charms to aid the villagers, magic to bolster their people. It is a truce. A good one. A better one than peach was expecting to get. their negotiations go on into the early hours, and finally the leader of the druids says its late, and peach must be eager to meet his daughter. She pauses, looks up, processes, and then recalls the arrangement. she had NO idea this man she talked with was to be family, she'd have tried to be a little more impressive and imposing, but perhaps her subdued and calm approach was fine. they walk to a rather lovely building, draped with vines and hidden deep into the mossy dirt, he sighs, and looks at peach. a warning is given, his daughter was...not, thrilled about this situation. she may be fierce in her actions and words.

peach is left to knock the door, her brides father not entering, simply waiting a few paces back, calling in a name, a pet name from the sounds of it, and from inside peach can hear the light footsteps of someone. the door opens, plum sticks her head out, glares past peach to her father, shouts 'NO' and slams the door. Peach cant help but laugh.

he sighs, waves a weary hand, and turns to go stating taht peach best get acquainted with his daughter, this is out of his hands. and so peach tries again, calls in to at least ask her name, and gets no response. just told to go away. their conversation starts on a hostile point, and peach sits against the door and tries to reason with her. plum is every bit as stuborn and hard headed as peach is, but shes really throwing a fit about this. peach ends up just as mad, as if this is ideal for either of them?! but its not about them, its about their people, and moving forward with a sense of peace. surely as a druid, of all things, plum could reason with the notion of peace? and thats when the door opens, peach tumbles back, lands looking up, met with a VERY mean glare, plum saying she has no idea what druids should or shoudlnt reason with, that shes just some bloodthirsty idiot with nothing between her ears. harsh but fair. the girls row. and fight, and argue, and get to understanding that they couldnt be more further apart. this goes on for hour, until it becomes a fight, and peach is trying, TRYING not to take the bait, shes twice as big as this little druid and not about to break the truce on the first night. plum however does not care, and eventually peach has to defend herself. it is a close quarters, brutal little spat, and they both end up scraped and bruised.

by the morning peach is ready to go home, black eye and bites and scrapes adorned, the truce is made, plum has been appeased by her father and a whole host of others, she is in NO WAY happy about this, but has come to the bitter conclusion that its for the good of her people. the travel back is mind numbing. plum stops to look at things all the time, shes never really ventured out of her territory for fear of vikings. they have to slow down, get caught in rain, get their path crossed by a bear. the two with peach go to attack it, she tells them to back down, leave it be, and plum at the VERY least appreciates that she lets it pass unbothered. by the time theyre back at the village its all hands on deck to get ready for the festivities, everyones happy to see them, but peach suggests she'll hold a meeting tomorrow once rested and settled, to introduce her...betrothed (she is still mad about it) and inform everyone of the events. natrually some of the older vikings are not happy with plum there, they eye her with hatred, and skulk away. peach doesnt notice, those old farts are always angry, theyre old, its what they do, but plum gets a bad read off them. peach and plum go back to the girls new home together, a longhouse with fair space and one too many weapons. Plum is mildly interested in some of the strange trinkets peach has stolen, but doesnt ask, she is given a bed, a space her own, away from peach, and shown around enough to feel at home. it is very much laced with snide jabs and comments from both sides. things plum does notice: peach makes her own beserker tonic, and seems to be mid-way making a batch now. peach of course doesnt reveal what is in it, nor what its for, it is none of plums concern, and plum pulls the 'well ill be your wife soon enough you may as well tell me now.' card. peach hates it. doesnt cave.

it is another restless night for the girls, they bicker and fight about every little thing. plum kicks her shoes off anywhere, peach never remembers to throw a log on the fire in time, plums constantly tripping over things shes used and not put away, peach cant stand the smell of the tea plum drinks, a home blend. By the time the meeting in the village comes the next day, peach is hardly awake, grouchy, and fed up. but the information of a truce is given, plum is introduced, and the village sets about trying to come to term with the change. Grey is the life saver, he is very calm, and offers to show plum around, giving peach a break. one that she spends the entire time sleeping through. grey and plum actually get on fine, she finds him much less irritating, and perhaps even nice, if she can put aside his murderous skills. she learns the village, the people, the trades, the buildings, she pets the animals, she sees some of them trying to farm, others hauling in fishing nets from the boats. all in all, plum is quietly surprised the vikings have this level of civilisation built, tales and stories would suggest theyre all mindless brutes who do nothing but kill and steal. she is at LEAST pleasently surprised.

she gets home to peach fast asleep by the fire, on a number of furs, and proceeds to dump a jug on water on her, for the fun of it.

the 'i have to marry you, i dont have to like you' comments they share are laced with seething disdain, peach goes to fish, plum goes to forage, they dont see each other unti the next day, and its over a very hostile breakfast. Eventually peach is thankful to leave to fight, and plum is left home to her own devices. This raises issues. While peach is out doing her thing, the older villagers start to fuck with plum, and she has to recall the truce, and not to hit back. they say some horrible things to her, perhaps even get in her face, but it never gets physical, so she leaves it be. She can tough this out for her people, the village will get use to her, shes just new. peach and her raiders get home a week or so later, they haul in goods stolen, and peach has cleared her mind of rage, and tried to be the bigger person...not literally, she already is, but she has returned, and gets home, and doesnt say a word about the tea smell, instead pulling a rather pretty broach from her pocket that looks like a branch of blossom in golds, inlaid with some kind of pinkish gemstone. A peace offering. Plums right, she does have to marry her but he doesnt have to like her, but maybe if they just, got along this could all be a little less shit. Plum says nothing, sees peach is battered and hurt and tired, her body is on the rebound off beserker tonic, so she needs rest. She slinks off, runs herself a bath, and tries to soak her aches out. plum sits and looks at the broach and doesnt say much, rolls over and goes to sleep by the fire. peach finds her curled up, pulls a blanket over her, and goes to her own bed to try and do better tomorrow. well that doesnt quite work out. the next two weeks the girls are slowly at each others throats more and more, its becoming obvious to everyone.

they foil each others fun, ruin each others things, have spite for one and other that extends to their personal space and privacy. Grey watches them both get run ragged by the endless torment they throw at each other. And then finally, the wedding arrives. The dreaded day. it is traditional viking style, with a few tweaks to include the druid nature of one of the brides, and honestly everyones just there to feast and drink afterwards, something the two new wives hardly do. well. peach drinks. a lot and plum throws berries at her for the boring bits. they go home, sleep at opposite ends of the house, and try to just get on with this. its for their people, both say to themselves in the quiet of night. every time peach has to host to other leaders plum is subtly spiteful, makes her look bad tbh, which is fine, but after one particular disaster of a meeting with a local leader who could have been a useful allie, peach sees them off and turns to plum to remind her, NOW she is fucking with pech's people, and another reminder, they are now HER people, shes the chief's wife, she is one of this village too, and shes shooting her own in the foot because shes a spiteful witch. peach is furious, she needed to barter that better, this is less than ideal. plum finally sees that perhaps she went too far. this isnt just a dig at peach, and she hates to say it, but peach is right. these are now her people. and most of them, save for a few, have been nothing but agreeable towards her, some even nice. plum sits up, peach is asleep turned away, ad the druid has time to do something good for once. she sits up and starts to do what she does best.

peach awakens the next day to a myriad of smells she does not know, and finds plum still awake, concocting a whole host of small bottled items. plums things are sprawled out, she hardly notices peach, and when she does, she doesnt say anything, feeling a little bad for the day before. peach asks, has to, its taking up half the house, and plum says shes working. thats as good as peach will get, she knows that, she leaves, goes to help with building a new barn, and doesnt go home until late that day. this goes on for two more days, before peach wakes to the house quiet, no plum, no things out, the chaos has subsided, its cleaned up, mostly. herbs hang and dry neatly, a huge mortar and pestle sits clear of debris, theres a bowl of petals drying, some jars of unusual powders all lined up, its like...plums settled in. her things have places, and has become part of this setting. weeks of not getting along or finding her place here, and finally it seems to be happening. Peach doesnt find her in the yard out front, not the woods when she goes to check the perimeter, nor alogn the lakes edge where plum goes walking. No. Peach finds her in the village, she spots the drift of her curls and peaks out to see what shes doing. Going around offering help, she found the man with the bad cough, the kid with terrible itchy skin, the mother who cant sleep, the man with no luck, even the cow with a funny limp. Plum has made a fix for most of the ailments. She is not the bitter twisted little shit peach has been presented with now, she is calm and kind and open, and seems to radiate true druid energy while doing this kind of work, she is a different person. Peach doesnt say a word, but they clock each other, theres no smile shared, no look of taunt or smugness, they just...they know. they know that plum took on board that these are also her people.

and dare peach say it, shes thankful for her, for once. The villagers repair, thrive even, but some still do not care for her meddling. Peach catches her back at home, coming in late, hands full of splinters, a fresh batch of jerky brought in from the drying racks, she traded a few bits for actual apples too, nice ones from a farmer that came through! She's in a surprisingly good mood, but there is still caution coming home. She doesnt want to cause any more arguments. She tells plum about the apples, to help herself, and leaves her alone to go soak her hands and try to get the splinters out. it is a slow process, but methodical, she quite likes the joy of excavating a big splinter, getting a good sharp blade and sitting in the bath to start this process. She has since become numb to plums tea, she actually has even started to like the smell perhaps, its certainly not nice, but its definitely a smell of home to her now. It shocks her when plum comes to sit with her, the first time ever. Neither talk immediately, peach is trying to catch the wood i her hand and pull it free, so her focus is mostly taken up, and plum is poking at the fire with a stick, sipping her drink, not really paying much attention. its quiet company. after a while, Peach syas she's grateful, her people benefited from plums skills today, she got a lot of people telling her that druid magic helped them with this and that. plums short 'mm' back is enough. they continue in quiet, peach getting slowly more frustrated by one stubborn splinter, going to cut into her hand to get it out, until plum notices and stops her, wordless, takes the knife, finds the problem, and carfully pries it out. takes two goes, and the chip comes free. there is a BRIEF moment where she still holds peachs hand, and looks at her like shes looking for something in her gaze, before giving the knife back and going back to the fire.

this quiet existence is a nice change to the arguments. for weeks after they bicker less, but still of course snap and disagree over so much, but certainly have less quarrels, and come together to put on an air of power should people visit for talks of trade or alliance. peach gifts plum a shawl that was her mothers mothers, a hand woven thing that holds a lot of meaning, and displays her families mark clearly, its not a huge deal, but it kind of is. the girls play it down, but peach is quietly happy to see plum wears it when the chill in the morning air is too much, or when shes wandering the village working. their marriage was not conventional, nor chosen, but they are finding a midground. even if they annoy eachother endlessly. its for their people, not them. but with time the things that bugged them start to hold less weight. Plum can no longer find irritation with peach not putting things away because shes changed, she does actually return items to where they belong. The endless weapons have their own storage, she doesnt leave them lying around. There is never a leak in the roof she cannot fix, and for such a merciless killer (plum thinks, shes never seen her fight) peach holds a calm note to all decision making, and typically never puts her own wants above others in terms of whats good for the masses. She has very little, and gives what she can, but somehow it comes around, and she is never left wanting. Her good nature, and speed to help her own pays back. Plum sees she is not all harsh edges. Peach however has also come to herms with plums temperament. The woman knows when plums going to kick off in a meeting and always manages to calm the situation. plums need to create went from an annoying clutter in the house to something peach finds joy in looking over now.

theres even a quiet love for plums cooking, which is arguably better than she thought it'd be, somehow she expected druits to chew on twigs and berries, but no, plum can and does make many nice things, and so they can take turns and give each other breaks from that task. peach even likes when plum is busy weaving and shes carving some wood and they sit quiet;y by the fire together. its...calm company. quiet. Is peach horny 24-7? yes, but again, shes had to put that aside and ignore it, this is not a marriage of joy, its one of peace.

the scalding tone of 'oh, so you survived then.' every time peach gets back from a trip has become welcoming, plum does not care, she knows, but at least she acknowledges her entering the home now. its something.

it is on one of these late nights, when peach gets in from a volatile battle, the village hit with a violent downpour, the people are struggling to pull the ships in, everyones out to lash them to post and stop the waters taking them, even plum is out helping as best they can to calm animals and settle people. when peach is away, plum acts in her stead, she is the wife, she has to. so shes out, in this miserable weather, and while everyones busy trying not to lose ships, peach notices she cant see plum. not anywhere. with things under control she goes looking. plum however has seen a bunch of goat bolt, a pen left open, a crack of thunder spooking them, and chases them down. cant lose a flock like that, she can get them. but it was a trick. those old vikings, ones who saw peachs mother rule with her bloody iron fist, do not care for this new alliance, and have been compelled to kill plum and break the truce, they dont like this peace with witchcraft users, they liked things the old way. Plum is busy trying to get these goats to come to her, a quiet whisper to them that they understand, to calm, to come to her, and they do. She only turns in time to see three villagers coming at her with an uneasy look, plum says its ok, shes got the goats, asks if they others wrangled the boats? and they dont answer, she takes a step back when she spots theyre armed, and starts considering the peace pact, the tentative nature of this situation. they attack her, and she can retaliate, but it'd scare the villagers, potentially break the peace, peace she'd finally managed to come to terms with herself. she tries to talk them down, reason with them, but they spew old world hate, words plums not heard in the mouths of men for a while, they want the druids gone, they dont trust nor like them.

she winds up a low powered warning spell, firest it at the floor and tries to spook them, but theyve fought druids before, and dont fear her small show of strength, shes pulling punches , big time, and they keep advancing. So she charges up an even bigger hit, warning them, telling them, urging them not to risk the peace, and they dont hear it. In the raging weather, they dont hear the person running in, the three villagers swing weapons, and plum fires a defencive spell. Both hit, but not as they had wanted. between them both peach stands, she has redirected the spell, pointing plum upwards, and taking a fair brunt of whatever she cast, and her other hand wields a weapon blocking the one at the front who swung first. Chief is back and pissed, she barely stepped off the boat, she didnt even get to see the villagers, she didnt have a moment to rest, and now her own are beign traiterous bastards to the peace. She tells everyone to step down, cool off, this is not worth it. She will let the three leave with their lives if they stop now. They made an attempt on her wife, she will not allow them to stay, but in any other situation, theyd be put to death for it. She is giving them a chance to pack, and leave by morning. they dont hear her. Plum is completely preoccupied with the spell she fired off, it was a harsh one, one thats settled under peachs skin, not a direct hit but plenty enough to graze her, she can see her words are a bluff to some degree, shes tried, she was hurt when she got back, now shes more hurt because of her. The men do not back down, calling her a coward in the shadow of her mothers wake, and so peach is forced to fight. and boy does she fight. harder than ever, with a brutality plum has never seen on her. She is fast, and precise, and despite injury plum thought would slow her, peach fells three and is still standing.

she however is now very much out of momentum, she looks plum over, shes fine, the goats are fine, the boats are tied, and she drops as soon as the relief hits. plum is left trying to turn her from drowing in the rain, goats chewing on her hair, being shooed away, plum eventually being found and helped, they get peach in her home and she for the first time ever, tends to the injuries. She is exhausted, the effects of the spell that grazed her are very much settled, and her injuries from the battle are painful but not fatal. Peach will live, but she really pushed herself. plums wondering how she has druid resistance, the spell she cast shoudl have done a lot more damage than this. She doesnt know the tonics peach has ingested all her life have built her tolerance to some things, and she doesnt know peachs family are old school druid killers, all dead now, but peach technically is her natrual enemy. not that plum knows that. peach groggy with pain awakes inside, warm under so many furs and throws, the fire crackles, she can squint out details in the low light, and plums there, asleep next to her, the cold cloth in her hand fallen but still held to her head. Its a very surreal moment. peach is convinced she died, this is not her wife.

she shifts and in that shift plum startles awake, seeing peach now somewhat awake, if not a little hazy. they have their first civil ish conversation after nearly half a year of marriage.

there is a quiet thank you in plums actions, not her words, she wipes blood from peachs skin as they talk, a soothing that chief didnt think she'd ever want, nor need, yet here it was like being cradled, her body cried out for contact, this long with nothing but hostility, this was a welcomed change in her sorry state. plum does tell her she was stupid to redirect magic like that, it was dangerous, and peach can only think of the peace brokered, how fragile it is, now scared people would be if a death was caused by a druid and not her. No one will question it if she cut them down in defence of her wife, thats a reasonable motive for deaths, she warned them, she gave them a chance, they didnt take it. on their head be it. for the first night ever, peach settles on her side, and plum does not go to her own bed, she stays by the fire and lies down and they drift off together. This whole thing does not stop the girls arguing, but their bickering seems mostly laced with concern, or reason. they grow mildly closer by the day, its slow, tentative process, but plums starting to see the joy in her big strong wife, who is surprisingly calm and patient, and peach cant help but notice how intelligent and beautiful the druid is, convinced she might be going mad but accepting it. Its not like anything would happen between them anyway, this whole thing was for the people, not for love of any kind. She is resigned in the thought that she gets to watch plum fuss over a potion or incantation, and sit quietly and see how the light hits her just so when shes by the window grinding up herbs, wiping her brow and ending up with all manner of colours on her face.

it is quiet admiration from a distance, on both parts, too resigned by the situation to act on anything, even when they catch the other looking. even when plum helps peach with a minor injury, or when peach brings home "too many flowers" for a dye, and just happens to leave them for plum on the table. They have a quiet language between them, and their bickering really does mask it day to day. Eventually however theres a new person in town. Another druid brought in by hunters, they found her wandering hurt, and with the new alliance, they offered help as agreed. chief and her wife are overjoyed at this show of hospitality, her people are learning! its a big step, and so with some digging, they find this druid has no allegiance in this area, and had no clue about the treaty. She is weary and seems to drift directly towards peach, who to most holds a very calm reassuring presence, so this is not unusual. They welcome her in, ask if she has any family, she is put up in a small hut, given a job, shows their ways, and once healed seems happy to be part of things here. Plum wakes often to find this new woman with her wife talking, she watches from the house as peach and the druid chat while working, seems like shes always close to her, and certainly is quick to help should anything go wrong with Peach. Plum saw her patch up a cut, and pull a splinter, and hang fish to dry, all simply to spend time. Seems no matter where peach geos, somewhere close, that new druid hangs by. eventually plum catches peach alone at home, night a welcomed break, and tells her to keep an eye on that one, shes got an odd feel to her. peach just laughs, says she sounds jealous if anything, in a mocking kind of teasing tone. The accusation causes an argument, and they end up sleeping on opposite sides of the house in angry heaps of furs.

this continues, the closer the druid gets, the more peach pulls back from her duties, plum picks the slack up, starts to notice peach doesnt come home for longer, is less talkative and interested in plums day to day goings on. This was a marriage of peace, of politics, not of love. so why does she feel awful seeing this? then one day peach goes missing. no one can find her, plum has to take on the role of leader, and calm everyone, reassure them they will find her, and oddly, the other druid is gone too. whispers start to spread. People really like plum now, shes helped so many, proven shes good natured, and cares for them, and start to worry if this is some scandal. Plum reassures them its probably nothing, and sets about working out where peach has gone. she puts an appointed council in charge and gathers her things and does what she does best, using magic and logic to track the path peach last took. it winds plum into the forest and grey catches up to see if she needs help, something she is fine with, theyve grown to be good friends. they wander deeper into the woods, noticing a path, keeping on it. The druid might manouver these forests with ease but if peach is with her, then she will be as haphazard as youd expect of any viking going on a nature trail.

they come to some kind of clearing after a while of travel, signs of a struggle, theres blood, its not animal, its human, and the trail seems to lead further up, a small mountainous peak ahead. they amble up, following the blood drops into a rather discrete cave half way up, slinking further in. Plum feels no natural life here, everything in this area is dark and twisted, the energy here is...disturbed. uncomfortable even. they peak around a rocky outcrop as the muttering of a person is overheard, finding the druid at some kind of alter surrounded by bones of many kinds. sat on her knees behind the other druid, peach, her gear pulled down to reveal her top half streaked in red, blood? no doubt, the druid also seems to have slapped on the same markings with hands, as if she adorned them both with warpaint. her mutterings are so low plum cant catch the incantations, but nothing like this is ever good, and the energy is all off, whatever god she's pulling from, its not a decent one. Plum goes to cast a block, to stop whatever happening, but its not strong enough, bounces off, and also alerts the other druid. So here they stand, Grey tries to be the valiant fighter, and he is good sure, but magic like this trumps anything a sword or axe can do. He is knocked back, not by a spell, no, peach has gotten up, turned to face them, and is brandishing her weapon. her eyes are not her own, the bloody markings all over her skin look like theyre hot from burning, she gets between her wife, grey, and this new druid, and takes a stance to defend the new witch.

if peach fought like a demon before, this took it to a literal point. plum can tell somethings residing in her body, a vessel for something, the runes drawn on her seem to hint at that too, and greys struggling to keep up with her at all, hes getting hurt. an almighty fight plays out, mostly of plum casting double time to not only try to knock the other druid down but defend and bolster grey enough to stand up to whatever peach has become. its exhausting, but quickly they realise grey is not a threat, the real problem is plum, and both attackers go for her, target the caster specifically. this works well, but plum gets to pull one some big-bollock kind of spells shes never got to use before, tells grey to run out of direct sight, and he does, before she casts. the cave is flooded with light, searing, cleansing light, her druidic hail mary, and its fantastic, downs the druid, and dislodges whatever is in her wife, but that things stubborn, got its claws in her. Plum cant think to do anything when shes grabbed and thrown down hard, peach now on top of her, it is not her face, or expression, or eyes, thats not her, but shes in there, plum can sense it, shes hesitating. where peach didnt before, she seems to be now. Plum cant think of anything else to do, so frustrated with seeing what was a good woman in this state. she gets free for a second of peachs grip, lunges forward and kisses her. one last spell, a cleansing one, needs direct contact, these kinds of spells dont tend to work so well without thre being real oomph behind them, a real tether to the afflicted. Plum can move away and cup her wifes face, peach has comepltly stopped, focus flickering from fierce and full of hate to a far softer one. plums little 'come back to us. come back to me.' that no one hears, pulls, and pulls, and drags whatever evil was in there kicking and screaming out.

they can leave there, and leave with their chief dazed, and a little confused, but alive. Greys got under her arm, plums taken the journal from their dead foes body, a coded druidic shes slowly figuring out, unravelling the truth of what happened. Peach was charmed, heavily, from day one, and lured away thanks to that deeply ingrained charm to be a willing receptical for some kind of evil spirit. to bring it into the human world. the druid she killed was essentially a cultist, and a good one at that

very nasty, very devious, knew about the druidic treaty and took advantage of it

it is once peach is home, her people calmed now shes been found, the situation explained, in a way that was careful not to put fear of druids back in them. plum handles it very well, and can go home to her wife, who she now realises she quite enjoys, and sits with her quiet as ever by the fire. she gets peach to try and rehydrate, gives her some of her tea, with WAY too much honey in it, but peach likes it that way, and tries to get her to rest. Peach is so confused, she doesnt recall the last week, her actions werent her own, whatever happened she totally lost herself. plum fills the blanks in, and gets to the point where she cant NOT tell her wife, a woma nshe was bound to in marriage out of oath, not love, that in fact she saw her with this other druid and felt... sad. a flash of peachs old teasing comes back 'jealous much?' and plum laughs, smacks her arm gently, not too hard, peach took some serious damage, but they seem to be acting like normal.

for the first night ever, peach curls up in her bed, in so much pain, trying to find comfort, and plum comes in and crawls over, she could hear peach in the dark struggling, and joins her, a small incantation to repair, like a gentle healing aura, the best she can do for her wife right now. She gets in as the big spoon, and peach feels relief from her touch, the magic helps her sleep, helsp the pain slip away, and they can recover in peace.

they still bicker nd argue, peach has a slow but steady recovery back to full health, but something always resided in her after, something that kept her up at night, something that made her see things in the darkest shadows. Whatever spirit was put in her, plum suspects it left somethign behind. None the less peach leds her people with patience and care, and plum, despite her awareness of peachs new problem, finds ways to improve her situation, and the situations of all the villagers. They are her people too, after all. the wives slowly find new ways to love each other. plum likes the water, so peach takes her out to swim, knows a clear calm river in the wood thats perfect for it. they girls get to drink together on long windy nights, and talk about their families, about each other, about what they like, dont like, where they love being, where they'd want to go and see. they find beauty in each other. It doesnt take too long before they finally find themselves FINALLY getting intimate, as most married couples do

#viking au #fruit salad #brainrot #doodle

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belaephemeral · 1 year

Text

Nilotpala Lotus (Vulpes Zerda)

Pairings: Tighnari x Reader (gender-neutral), Lisa Minci & Reader (platonic), brief Albedo & Reader (platonic)

Word count: 6500

You pull me in like gravity (ground me with your affections)

Series summary: They each have their own way of showcasing their love for you - from the way they embrace you with the distinct form of passion only they could hold, to the gestures that express their affections that leave you to fall ever more inextricably in love with them. In particular, you savour the way they kiss you and the unspoken message of their endearment towards you. It’s like gravity, pulling you once again to them, grounding you to this mortal world; each touch spirals into something more and you eagerly await the paths they forge with you alongside them.

Parts: Nilotpala Lotus (Vulpes Zerda) (current), Glaze Lily (Monoceros Caeli) (coming soon), Qingxin (Crista Doloris) (coming soon), Cor Lapis (Lapis Dei) (coming soon)

Author’s Note: Taking a break from revision to finish this piece that I drafted quite a long time ago. This piece was originally part of a headcanon about how different Genshin characters would kiss you but I got a bit carried away (sorry, I can’t help it ;u;). Since they’re all based on the same prompt/idea, I’ll be making this into a small series. Each narrative develops in different ways - I tried to make the stories parallel each other and have a common theme/characteristic (I hope you can spot it!). Feel free to recommend characters for this series.

You’re well aware of the many capabilities the Chief Officer of the Forest Rangers possesses. From the immaculate precision and accuracy he demonstrates with a bow, the immense intellect and quick wit he holds (which certainly leaves you astounded after intently listening to every single one of his impassioned lectures), to the admirable tenacity he holds to protect Sumeru’s vibrant flora and its vital ecosystem.

You are ever so intimately familiar with his many abilities: him being a doting, affectionate and endearing husband is yet another skill he has recently acquired. You relish in the air of domesticity that envelops each room of your quaint shared abode. Crisp, white parchment paper and scrawls of his hurried yet distinct cursive handwriting are a familiar sight. As you wake to greet another day in the Avidya Forest and flit from room to room for your habitual morning rituals, a gentle smile spills onto your face. Carefully, you hold the message closer to your form as your thumb tenderly brushes over his penned words and idly traces every undulation the pressure of his pen makes against the thin paper. Unfailingly, he leaves messages for you before he departs from the safety of your home and your presence to fulfil his responsibilities as a Forest Watcher.

‘Good morning, my padisarah.

I hope you’ve slept well and are well-rested to face yet another eventful day.

Although I would have liked to awake once again in the warmth of your embrace, I’ve had to unfortunately leave before we could have shared this fine morning together. Recently, there has been increased reports of disturbances around the Divine Tree and some of the Forest Rangers have sighted perpetrators polluting the waters below.

At dawn, I will embark to the Chinvat Ravine with the others to resolve these issues. I will return to you by sundown.

It has gotten warmer lately, so please make sure that you take care of health once you begin researching today. Always be aware and pay close attention to your safety whilst exploring. Even if your capabilities mean that this isn’t much of a concern for you, I want to remind you to be cautious - I would hate to not be able to protect you if you ever injured yourself in the depths of the Forest.

The sunny weather we’re having nowadays is quite pleasant - what do you think about trekking to our favourite spot at Mawtimya Forest? It would be nice to bask in the warm sunshine. We could bring along a few dishes and enjoy the scenery once again. I promise I won’t fall asleep! However, your lap is the perfect place for a midday snooze: who could blame me?

...Oh, look at me, rambling on again. Please bear with me for a little longer, I’m almost done writing.

I await to return to you, my padisarah; you may not know how much you are a blessing to me. We shall meet again under the setting sun and the rising moon.

Forever yours,

Tighnari’

Every time he returns, he fills the empty space you both inhabit with his twinkling laughter, his quick-witted quips and his unique vulpine mannerisms. In every instance, he’s instinctively wrapped his tail around your waist, slightly ever so raised and turned his fluffy ears in elation, and surreptitiously scent-marked you with each nuzzle of his face against the hollow of your neck. Whilst he nestles his fatigued figure into your chest, you’re reminded of each and every one of his endearing characteristics. Each of which a separate reason you’ve fallen so irrevocably and absolutely in love with him.

Easily, you fall into a routine with him. From the way you carefully attached his signature earrings and fasten his distinct viridian, flowing half-cape to his right shoulder. He returns the gesture by fastening the buttons of your shirt and pining onto you the gold brooch he gifted you on your second anniversary. Its design is that of the Kalpalata Lotus he fondly remembers you were enamoured with when you both trekked to the Lokapala Jungle, gazing upon the surreal, gargantuan, fluorescent structures there. He was astounded when you began to scale the rocky cliffs to admire its beauty and brought one of the delicate and exquisite flowers back to him. It’s a memory that’s forever ingrained in his mind: the moment you grasped his hand for them to join yours in gently holding the Kalpalata Lotus that glowed under the blanket of stars laid out across the sky.

He felt something - something so subtle he otherwise may not have noticed it without his adept perceptive ability and heightened vulpine instincts. A potent energy courses through the lotus that rests where your digits and his gloved fingers conjoin and it courses through him. A tingling sensation assimilates through his skin and infiltrates deeper within him - gradually spreading what feels like newfound vitality through each limb and expanse of muscle.

Viscerally, he feels a sigh leave him - like he’s finally at ease, body relaxing and eyelids fluttering as he relents against the sudden wave of fatigue. Unbeknownst to the Forest Watcher, his lithe body slowly sways and collapses into you. It feels as though his mind surrenders to the way the pain embedded into his left shoulder from last week’s attack and the dull aches from his fresh bruises dissipate as a healing glow permeates through every inch of his body. The last he remembers is your tender caress over his drooped ears and foreign words that fall from your lips - a strange incantation he doesn’t remember hearing nor reading from your plethora of alchemy books. Although his wonder as to where you could have learnt such an impressive feat dissolves as the view before him vanishes into a blissful abyss as he feels his weight being placed securely in your firm hold. The rhythmic crunch of the grass beneath your feet, the reverberating chirps of cicadas and the sonorous buzz of fireflies is a symphony that welcomes him as he descends into sleep.

____

Everyday with you is a blessing; it’s ever so easy to fall into a routine with you by his side. It’s exactly because you’ve fallen into this pattern, a waltz you share as you dance around each other to reach for your desired items or complete mundane tasks around your home. A comfortable schedule of rising at early daybreak, of wistful farewells and loving welcome homes. It is because of this routine you’ve settled into that it is a surprise that this has to temporarily come to an end. It was unexpected when a letter sealed with the Knights of Favonius sigil was delivered to your doorstep. It’s even more staggering when you learn it was from an old acquaintance from your alma mater and fellow colleague at Spantamad, requesting your assistance at the city of Mondstadt. Although the idea of reuniting with the talented sorceress is delightful, the thought of leaving your partner saddles you with an uneasy bout of despondency.

Despite your concerns, Tighnari’s altruistic and compassionate nature shines through. He puts your worrisome mind at rest through kind and genuine reassurances, regaling of how he’d faithfully protect your cosy dwelling in your absence and consoles your apprehension by promising he won’t encounter any trouble whilst you’re gone. What drastic or lethal could possibly occur during the duration of your visit to the City of Freedom?

What’s more is that he’s well aware of your boundless curiosity, your inquisitive nature, and your insatiable desire to discover new things. Experiencing the vast plains of Mondstadt and traversing through its rocky and breathtaking vistas should quench your eagerness to explore unfamiliar, foreign terrain. Of course, he’ll miss you, agonisingly so, but if it’s for you - he’d sacrifice anything for you - be it his soul, his time or his own wishes so you’d be able to fulfil your own.

On the day of your departure, his send-off takes noticeably longer than what he claims it would would have taken. The first thing on his agenda is presenting you with a small jute sachet of crushed herbs, Nilotpala Lotus petals and an assortment of flower buds just in case you have a headache. Regardless of the medicinal remedies he preaches that they hold, you notice the hint of spice and the soothing floral fragrance - it’s his unmistakable scent and this pouch is definitely an indirect token to remind you of him during your travels.

Next, he presents a fresh leather-bound journal to you. He explains that it’s for you to write about your experiences but in a small case you receive alongside it, filled to the brim with translucent sheets, intricate instruments and a wooden block, you know he’s hoping that his fascination with botany is finally rubbing off on you. You know he’s hoping that you’ll press flowers into the margins of each page, a small souvenir for each place that you traverse.

“If you do find fallen leaves or other plants, just press them between some dry sheets of paper. You’ll be able to make quite an attractive and handy bookmark out of them. I’ve also heard that Cecilias and Small Lamp Grass are in bloom this season - they would make fascinating biological specimens to examine or decorative pieces to create. They’re incredibly versatile.” Stifling a laugh with the back of your hand as Tighnari’s tail gleefully swishes side to side upon discussing his favourite past time, the vulpine male glares at your teasing gaze and droops his ears in displeasure. You give into his whims - encircling your arms around his nimble frame and snuggling into soft fabric of his navy hoodie.

Of course, watching you depart from Avidya Forest is no easy task for Tighnari. Trying to delay your inevitable leave, he tries to distract you from noticing how many minutes go by or how the sun has already reached the peak of the sky when it was just dawn a few minutes (maybe hours ago). He attempts to mask his desperation and reluctance through talking, a tried and true strategy that will allow him to remain with you just a second longer. His cogent lectures and words of caution are readily accepted and you don’t notice how the clock’s hands have already moved past your designated departure time. He’s panicking but he doesn’t want you to see. He doesn’t want you to see that his entire being glows in your presence and the fear that this will vanish once you aren’t by his side. It’s because he knows how this trip is important to you.

It’s part of his nature to put others before himself, so once again he’ll do the same for his beloved. The one eternally by his side and permanently resides in his heart regardless of the distance between you. So, he hesitantly concludes his speech. Now, he has to let you go.

Sometimes you think you know better than him. Especially when it comes to what he deserves and what he can choose to do with you. Truly, as someone so selfless and constantly worrying about other people’s wellbeing, you want him to be more selfish with you. You want him to place more emphasis on his feelings and his desires in your relationship. So, as you see his self-sacrifing nature resurface in this moment, you plant supple kisses on the apples of his cheeks and the corner of his mouth, momentarily stupefying him and relishing in the way he unconsciously croons at your actions.

In return, draws you closer to him, innocently nuzzling the tip of your nose with his and grounding himself with your presence before you drift away and what he fears is like losing his centre of gravity. The close proximity between you two grants him a clear view of the flush that spreads onto your cheeks and of the exquisite way your vibrant eyes dilate at his loving gaze. “My padisarah,” he steadily breathes out, chest pressed against your own, arms enclosed around your figure and shimmering verdant pupils passing fleeting glances to your cupid’s bow and what lays beneath. “I can’t believe I almost forgot to give you the most important thing.”

His mouth descends onto yours and you gasp at the way his fangs trace your bottom lip and nibbles onto it. As he pulls away, he revels in your dazed look. He wants you to feel how infatuated your touch leaves him. He wants to express how dumbfounded he feels in your embrace. And you do. He’s downright irresistible.

His mischievous antics have doused you in a honey-like stupor as you swiftly grasp his collar and bring him closer, more so than he already is. His lips are still delectable and sweet with the Zaytun Peaches you shared with him earlier.

Losing yourself in his hold, you squeeze him against your chest, flustering him with the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. Content in your hold, you can feel his mouth forming a smile against your lips. However, the male seems to have something else on his mind. Briskly, he breaks away from you to part his lips and plunges towards the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Daringly, a sharp suck astounds you as he latches onto the area that he knows is your sensitive spot, carefully brushing his canines against your supple skin. He loves the way your pulse stutters and comes to life under his lips; he shudders at the way your hand reflexively grips his waist, moving downwards to massage nonsensical patterns into the curve of his hip, and inwardly spurs him on to leave one last message against your skin before you leave.

Reluctantly, and biting back the groan that eagerly wants to escape your mouth, you lightly push his chest. “Stop, ‘Nari,” you slur, drunken off his intoxicating touch, “I need to start my journey before the sun sets.” Chuckling at the way he relents despite your attempts to resist his persistent advances, you realise you are no better than him. Regardless of your resistance, your body betrays you and melts underneath the fangs that desire to spell out his name down the length of your neck. “You little minx,” you huff, half-exasperated and half-determined to quell the flourishing bud his embrace plants into the core of your being, “If you continue with this, it might be absolutely hard for me to ever leave you, my blossom.”

Resolutely, you detangle his body from yours, placing an appropriate distance between the both of you. You wistfully smile at the whine that tumbles from his lips and the sheen of glaze that momentarily eclipse over his vibrant burnt sienna and viridescent orbs. At an attempt to sober him up, you slide your hands to his chin and cup them gingerly, planting a chaste kiss on his forehead. Adorably, he shifts his gaze from yours, huffing both in frustration and embarrassment. Frustrated that you would tempt him so and embarrassed that he unravelled himself in such an carnal way, surrending himself temporarily to his innate, animalistic, vulpine instincts. Peering at the light red bruises decorating the nape of your neck and clavicle, he exhales in annoyance at how you stopped him from marking you once again.

Pettily, he sharply turns his head away from you as you shoot him a teasing smirk and delivers his signature sidelong glance that expresses his contempt, displeasure and so much more. His pouty exterior falls as after chuckling at his antics, you slowly make your way to the door to collect your belongings.

Turning back to him, you beckon him into your arms for one last chaste and longing hug. You bury your nose into his navy hair, trying to ignore the way your chest feels as though its being compressed by an incredible weight and how your eyes fervidly burn with unshed tears. Tighnari’s keen senses pick up on the way your heart lurches. To console you, he rubs your back soothingly, and his tail lovingly and warmly curls around your waist. He knows rather too well what wishing someone farewell feels like - how you might shatter once they leave your view forever, how you may find yourself floundering in their absence, or how the distance extinguishes any vestiges of warm within your heart.

However, he knows better, he knows you better. You won’t falter no matter the circumstance, you will perserve and he knows you’ll bloom even if he won’t be able to see you. In a few months, you’ll return to him, return to this humble and cosy abode you share, return to this life you’ve built together. He’s certain of it. He only needs to let you go for a while and before you or him realise, you’ll both be back to where you belong, to where your were always meant to be.

Eventually, he takes a step back, wiping a stray tear off of your face with the pad of his thumb. Willing a wistful beam, you whisper, worried that your chest will heave and your breath hitch with the weight of melancholy that bears onto you: “I’ll see you soon, my love. Don’t miss me too much, okay?”

“Of course, my padisarah. I’ll be waiting for your letters. Have a safe journey and always know that my heart travels with you.”

____

“I’m so sorry Lisa,” you splutter, stumbling as you weave through stray piles of books, hurriedly shrugging on your coat and gathering your loose papers off the antique mahogany table.

“Do be careful, darling, I haven’t sorted through those titles yet,” she responds, a knowing smile on her face as she languidly watches you frantically dart around the room. She’s rarely seen you so frantic and she would have never expected you to lose your composure so quickly. “The last thing we need is for you to be injured. We wouldn’t want your dear husband seeing you in such a state would we now?”

Your trip to the Mondstadt was rather eventful to say the least. Initially you expected the lethargic librarian had required your assistance for something urgent - certainly it must have been important for her to send such a vaguely worded letter to your doorstep? However, it turns out she merely wanted to bask in your companionship once again and needed someone she could confide in during this particularly busy period for the Knights of Favonius. What exactly brought you here may have been the nostalgia (that much you could discern as she began gushing about her fond memories of being your roommate and that sneaky comment about her results always beating yours in each module despite your diligent nature and her indolent disposition - a statement that was definitely not needed as you shot a glare at the tittering brunette) or it could have been the bundles of Sumeru Roses she specifically requested and emphasised in the postscript of her message.

You’re considering it’s possibly the latter as you periodically pick up the sound of her cup being picked up and placed down onto the matching floral decorative saucer you’ve temporarily lent to her. The scent of Sumeru Rose and Harra Fruit you’ve blended into her tea wafts throughout the library as you sit across the Chief Alchemist. Albedo ecstatically reads your ongoing research into medicinal alchemy, sifting through beautifully illustrated diagrams depicting your various experiments, admiring the dried Viparyas and Dream Flowers you’ve preserved and the little notes you leave next to them (although there also seems to be other sentences scrawled in a cursive script underneath your handwriting), and analysing your extraction of different compounds and materials for prolonging life and revitalisation. Flattered by his words of praise and wonder, you express your awe on his experimentation of utilising alchemy to bloom an other-worldy seed, the intricacy and accuracy of expertly rendered objects and stages of investigation (the style is oddly familiar to the cover of some books published in Liyue that Tighnari owns), and the graphite sketches of his laboratory and the snowscape of Dragonspine Mountain.

“It must be exhilarating to be able to venture out to many areas in Sumeru to conduct your research. It’s very much the same for me up on Dragonspine. To go out into the world and investigate, turning the ‘unknown’ into the ‘known’, that is the true raison d'etre of us alchemists… Ah, it’s truly an invigorating feeling.” The blond sighs contentedly and then suggests, “Seeing as to how adept you are with drawing, how about one day joining me to sketch the scenic views of Starsnatch Cliff?” Beaming at his words, you nod in affirmation: “I’d love to join you! It would be a perfect chance for me to showcase the beauty of Mondstadt to Tighnari.”

In response to your excited reply, he chuckles and then places a hand on his chin as he ponders pensively: “From what you’ve told me about him, your husband sounds like a truly exceptional man. It would be a pleasure if I could meet him in the near future.”

Slowly, time passed between the two of you. As the librarian took her daily afternoon nap, the amiable chatter between two fellow alchemists murmured throughout the expansive library and discussed a plethora of topics as the wax candles began to burn and diminish infront of them.

In between documenting your experiences to your beloved, traversing the diverse plains of Mondstadt and pressing flowers into the journal Tighnari gifted you, Lisa uncharacteristically makes it a point for you to visit her companions and most importantly, her dear mentee, Razor.

Gently raising the teapot filled with lilac Sumeru Rose petals, you began to pour the fresh brew into a small flask as per Lisa’s request. You were rather elated as she recounted how she wished for her beloved pupil to try her favourite blend of tea when studying at the Akademiya. With her languorous attitude, you wouldn’t have guessed she was a capable and competent teacher. For her to have someone regard her as part of his Lupical fills you with a sense of warmth as it seems that carefree, frivolous roommate of yours has slowly matured and has yet another person she can dedicate herself to. The sudden onslaught of sentimentality makes you wonder of the family you could have with your spouse back in Avidya Forest (although this will come in due time and he’s certainly assured you that you’re welcome to take your time, you might want to take him up on his offer soon).

An unexpected crash wrenches you out of your dreamy reverie and jolts your entire being. The teapot lurches toward and the steaming liquid scorches the back of your hand. Hissing in pain, you soothe the sting by murmuring a brief incantation, the words embossing themselves into your flesh and weaving throughout the mark. Swiftly, you set down the items to rush over to the source of the strident sound.

Witnessing the brunette crumpled on the herringbone wooden floors, you drop to your knees to hold onto her heaving form. As you do so, you’re careful of the fallen stack of thick tomes, the shards of broken porcelain scattered next to her and the moist soil spilled around her. Her hands which previously found purchase on the ledge of the bookshelf now finds themselves against your chest as she fists the material of your shirt. Panting, her forehead rests against your clavicle as she desperately refills her lungs with air only for it to be quickly forced out of her.

Urgently, you bring her fully into your grasp. Encircling your arms around her figure, your index finger inscribes foreign symbols between the peaks of her shoulders. They soon glow with a luminous white as it sinks into her and a mirrored version of your writing engraves itself into your back.

Suddenly, you can feel a numbing prickling sensation around the corners of your heart, the organ relentlessly pounding painfully against your ribcage and each inhale feels incredibly onerous. However, you resist against the agonising sensation to quell the embers that threaten to consume your life-force and the thick black tar that attempts to drown every ounce of your being. Methodically, you inhale and exhale, a rhythm that Lisa follows, and you fervently whisper strings of conjurations against the crown of her head.

The time it takes for the pain to subside feels like hours. You don’t know whether it’s completely vanished as it feels as though it remains heavy within your chest and stubbornly clings onto you despite your various attempts to rid it. “You’ve never used alchemy in such a way,” she murmurs dolefully, a distant look in her emerald orbs. And when she speaks your name, you freeze: “I don’t believe you’ve been telling me the whole truth this entire time. But then again, there has been something I’ve been hiding from you as well.”

It astounds you how Lisa’s nonchalant and easy-going exterior doesn’t falter, not even after she told you of the curse that plagues her body; her years slowly depleting before her eyes and a pre-mature demise she has no choice but to helplessly give into. You’re not sure of what she thinks of your confession as to the source of your powers nor the minuscule pawn that endows you with the faculties that assist in your alchemy and elemental abilities. Instead, you’re left to grapple with the revelations you’ve encountered today as the librarian chides her young pupil and ushers him towards you. Cheerily, she exclaims: “Come on over here Razor, that's it, good boy!” she places her hands on her hips before continuing: ”Let's do some combat practice — I've found you the perfect partner. Hey! Come back!”

The silver-haired male was rather interesting to say the least. Well, that was expected considering his teacher. You were thoroughly impressed by his fighting capabilities and his exceptional use of his Electro vision. It was incredibly endearing to see him so eager to demonstrate the results of Lisa’s teaching by taking you to various mountains and telling you about the basic properties of their local plants and fruits. Intently, you listened to him as your trio eventually settled on a field to drink your rose blend. Whilst indulging in Wolfhooks and Sunsettias, you taught him how to press the Windwheel Asters he collected to create a present for his Lupical.

Sparing a glance at the brunette dozing against next to you, you understand her lethargic nature. If you were in her circumstances, you would be fully dedicating yourself to your work and efficiently using the time you had left to discover more of this mortal world. However, that’s the attitude you’ve developed from your time in the Akademiya. You could understand how the ephemerality of the time she has remaining means that it may be better spent in tranquil afternoons, simple routines and being around those she loves.

Gazing towards the glaring sun, you wonder what your husband could be doing as you relish in this quiet evening. Unbeknownst to you, an acute sense of impending turmoil and the ever present feeling that chaos is bound to spill over lingers in his mind after the events that have unfolded in Sumeru over the past few days. His anxiety grows as he watches the departing figure of The Doctor, his ambiguous words and thinly veiled threat setting him on edge, and uncertain to the trick up his sleeve he’s yet to unveil.

____

“I’m so sorry Lisa,” you splutter as the worry gnawing at the pit of your stomach is suddenly absolutely unbearable and threatens to consume you whole. The overflow urges you to return to him. It may have been the diminishing number of letters, the lack of updates from Collei on the status of the Avidya Forest and her training, and the fact that the sigil you’ve embedded into your wedding ring sears against the skin of your ring finger, writing a message of warming that spirals down the length of your digit and across your palm. At the sight of it, your fear boils over the precipice and you’ve decided to ensure nothing happens to your beloved and your companions in Sumeru.

Granting Lisa one last farewell, you burst through the doors of the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. The golden band you adorn tingles, glimmering with a radiant light of viridian and translucent white. You extend your left hand to view the ivy-like incantations that spread along the expanse of your arm. Swiftly, you write the script embedded into your skin into harsh gusts of wind that fervently blow past you. Once the symbols are aligned and placed in their appropriate positions, you enfuse your sword with elemental energy, closing your eyes and deftly slice through them.

A clank of metal and the sharp, reverberating sound of blades colliding resound in your ears as you open your optics and glare at the Fatui Pyro Agent before you. Before you could counter his incoming strike, from behind you, you hear a swift ‘ffwhip’ as an arrow embued with Dendro flies past you, precisely lodging itself into his chest and forcefully knocking him back a few meters.

Tighnari pants, grateful to whoever parried the attack for him. However, he does a double take, recognising that distinct stance, the remnants of great ancient power, and your familiar fragrance. “My padisarah,” he exhales breathlessly, lowering his bow, genuinely bewildered by your unexpected entrance. Holding your blade upright, you peer over your shoulder to shoot Tighnari a smirk, disguising the anguish you felt prior and the relief that he’s safe and next to you once again: “Hello, my love, did you miss me?”

____

“You’re so stubborn.”

The exasperated statement is the first thing he hears as he stirs awake. The warm cloth resting against his forehead is soon replaced with a damp one, easing the dull throbbing rattling each corner and crevice of his mind. Next to him, the bed dips, and the unknown figure leans over to examine his injured body. Pulling himself from the depths of his dreamless sleep and adjusting his eyes to the blinding light that aggressively beams down on him, he groans.

Upon awaking, he is starkly reminded of how absolutely exhausted he is: his body feels like lead, his limbs weary and sluggish, and there’s a persistent electric buzz that stings his skin. Gathering the last vestiges of his strength, he wills himself to rise. But just as he pushes against his elbows to lift his head and shoulders off the plush bed beneath him, two palms firmly press against his chest, which he now realises is bare, and steadily guides him back to his original reclined position.

“I wouldn’t do anything hasty right now.” The fuzzy shapes amalgamate to form your beautiful, but extremely vexed, visage. You cross your arms and shoot a pointed look at the male: “Would it kill you to think about yourself for once? For such a talented student of the Amurta, you really are foolish sometimes.”

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers lackadaisically.

“I’m still mad at you Tighnari.” Ouch, he’s on first name basis now. “I know that your patients are important to you but you need to tend to your injuries first. Do you know how long it took me to even get around to treating your wounds? Normal people don’t get struck by lightning and then just walk it off. Normal people don’t push themselves to the brink. I was so worried when you collapsed. With the lightning strike and the other injuries your body sustained, you were out for a few days.”

You exhale a shaky breath, “Please don’t scare me like that again. I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t so lucky this time. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” As you cup his cheek with your palm, your sleeves shift ever so slightly and he catches the foreign symbols sprawling down your arm, matching the lightning marks on his body.

Silently, you settle next to him on the bed, laying your head next to him. He slowly regains his strength, just enough to pull his body closer to yours and gently rests himself against your chest. He preens contentedly as you weave your fingers through the strands of his two-toned hair.

“I’m so sorry, my padisarah,” the vulpine morosely mumbles into your collarbone, listening to the metronome of your heartbeat. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Honestly, I thought it wasn’t too bad, at first, but I guess I should know my limits better than anyone.” Placing a chaste peck against your jaw, he whispers, “Thank you for saving me. You seem to always know whenever I’m in trouble. Should I start calling you my guardian angel? It seems like a rather fitting title for the celestial beauty that appears before me whenever I’m in a bind.”

Wistfully, you think of the chipped pawn that flickers between your fingers before it dematerialises into tiny shards of ivory light. But a smile eventually finds itself on your face as you glance at your husband, alive and safe, and back to you, back in your arms and in your embrace where destiny has decided preordained he will be. Somewhere that in the centuries you’ve roamed the mortal plane of Tevyat, you feel that maybe fate has blessed you with and is finally giving worth to your various sacrifices.

You release a huff, “I know that you were concerned about Haypasia but please try to take care of yourself more in the future - I’m going to hold you to that. Anyways, if I was your guardian angel, you still probably wouldn’t listen to me. I might as well become your devil - then it would in character for me to punish you whenever you go against my words. How does that sound, my little darling?”

Guffawing, Tighnari snidely comments: “You, a devil? Oh, you’re being delusional, that definitely doesn’t suit you. You’re too sincere and benevolent for your own good - those two ideas are not compatible with one another - they’re like oil and water. Besides if you ever wanted to punish me,” he pauses, punctuating his statement with a light peck on the tip of your nose, peering into your eyes teasingly: “you’d have to catch me first.”

He catches a tsk leave your mouth as you rise from the bed. Soon, he registers the way the pillow dips underneath him and he soon finds both of your hands on each side of his head. Languidly, you hover over his form, caging his figure under your own with a familiar glint in your eye.

“Is that a threat or a challenge, my love?”

“Take it however you want dearest. I’d love to see you best me,” he purrs as a familiar syrupy sensation coagulates in his being and his arms instinctively wrap themselves around your neck.

However, the fog that threatens to cloud his eyes is quickly dispelled by the acute bolt of pain that shoots across his chest and down to his hands, jolting himself violently away from you.

Despite your sympathy towards the pitiful sight of him wincing and his ears flattening against his head, you chuckle: “Serves you right. Maybe you should have taken into account whether you would be physically fit enough to give into your carnal desires. I’ve been gone for months, surely you missed me in more ways than one, right dearest?”

He pathetically whines as the pain dissipates into a dull ache pulsating under each inch of muscle in his upper body: “But, please, my padisarah-”

“Just when I was thinking about starting a family with you. I guess we can’t have any new additions when your in this sorry state.”

Abruptly, Tighnari freezes. A family? He remembers briefly mentioning it to when you were courting him whilst he was still a student of the Amurta and just a few weeks after your marriage. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to pressure you into starting one due to his responsibilities as a Forest Watcher and your various alchemical research projects. However, the fact that you’re ready for this next chapter of your lives fills the vulpine male with an insurmountable level of joy.

Impulsively, he pulls you down to him and esctatically rolls over your stunned form. “Are you serious? I’d love to! In fact, I think I’m feeling better already so why don’t we-”

You stop him in his tracks by pressing a finger against his lips: “Slow down ‘Nari,” you chastise, “you aren’t fully healed yet.”

“If that’s the case, then what about tomorrow?”

“No.”

“How about the day after that then?”

You shot back a reply in jest: “It’s not even February, why are you so eager?”

“Well since it’s you, I’m always eager to copulate-”

Embarrassed by the next words to leave his mouth, you exclaim: “Okay, I get it! You’re truly incorrigible. I don’t know how I can endure you and your high libido.”

“I, for one, think it’s because of my charming nature and irresistibly brilliant mind. How could you forget? You said so after-”

“Alright, alright, I give.” You pause to contemplate, sighing before continuing: “Fine, after assessing the severity of your injuries, you’ll be fine by next week.” At your words, you feel his tail softly swish from side-to-side and his ears perk up in elation.

Glancing at your husband, who now peers up at you endearingly, adorning an ebullient beam that you just can’t help but mirror and emanating an exuberant glow you’re glad to see return to him, you plant a kiss against his lips. “You’re such a handful but sometimes I wonder what I could have done to ever deserve you.”

Tighnari flushes at your words, a light pink dusting his cheeks: “I could say the same for you, my padisarah. I can’t believe life led me to you; I couldn’t imagine not having you or your blinding radiance by my side. I’m so grateful to have you as my partner - I don’t know if I could convey how much you mean to me. Well, I could but we may be here for a millenia.”

Warmly, you meet his gaze, staring into those beautiful viridian and hazel optics with your own, “We might have time for that don’t you think?” you remark cheekily, before tenderly announcing: “You’re my universe, Tighnari, I love you.”

“I love you too, my padisarah.”

Underneath the warm rays of the setting sun, Tighnari feels a wave of drowsiness wash over him, lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of your chest and the birdsong outside the open windows. Eventually, the tranquil sight of your beloved slumbeing against your bosom, the sound of the soft breeze entering the room you share, and the relief of being able to return to your home, your soulmate and your dearly missed routine, urges you to succumb to his warmth and doze underneath him.

Although you both don’t dream, you unconsciously catch glimpses of your future together. And you hope that it becomes more than that, that it becomes your reality. Because you wouldn’t want to live out an intangible dream, you want to carve out the next stage of your lives in the waking world. Because you suddenly feel that this is what you’ve always been fated to do. And for once you’re grateful that destiny has led you to him, the love of your life.

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