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precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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bau-muffin · 1 month

Text

“Pure Intentions”

Ship: Aaron Hotchner/Reader

Rating: E

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 1,162 Words

Summary: You are an agent who is also spiritual and loves crystals. So, you decide to give your favorite boss man, SSA Aaron Hotchner, black tourmaline.

Hotch really didn’t know why insomnia had chosen to haunt him on a Sunday night, but he felt the full extent of it when he stepped into the bullpen the next morning. He wasn’t really given to vanity, but he felt like his eyebags were eye-totes now, and even though he had downed a cup of coffee before leaving the house, he felt like if he was still for even a second, he’d fall asleep.

Of course the weekend he had off was when his mind barred him from a good night’s rest- the night before work, no less.

He had not been at his desk for more than ten minutes when you bustled into his office, your smile wide as usual despite being almost eight in the morning.

“Good morning! I was going to wait closer to lunch, but then Penelope told me a case came in, so I decided to give this-“ you stopped to actually look at him, and even though an amused smile was pulling at his lips, he looked so exhausted. “I’m so sorry, I should have asked how you were doing first.”

“I’m not sick, just tired,” Hotch said kindly, “what do you have?”

“Black tourmaline! I know you’re not much of a spiritualist, but the low down on it is that it sponges up negative energy! And I mean… I know you don’t exactly have a choice, you know, to be or not to be around negative energy but…” you shrugged before admitting, “It also reminded me of you too. Also, again I know you don’t put huge stock into it, but I also charged it for you.”

You put the shiny black chunk on his desk, almost shyly. He picked it up, studying it and turning it over in his hands. You half expected him to pull his reading glasses out to look at it, and if he had- well, you couldn’t rightly be held responsible for the noise you might have made.

“This reminds you of me?” Hotch asked skeptically, his brows knitted slightly.

“Mhm! It’s a bodyguard type crystal. And… I guess you have that sort of… vibe? To me anyways,” you added on a little less than tactfully as you were visibly becoming fidgety, your hands smoothing down your skirt.

“You see me as the bodyguard type.”

You put your hands on your hips, an eyebrow raising. “Did you or did you not become overprotective when I said that my car alarm was going off in the parking lot and you insisted on stealthily going towards the car first with your pistol? Or did I hallucinate that?”

“I’ve seen some things in my time, and I know malevolent people would target a woman who’s alone when she’s leaving her workplace,” Hotch said defensively. You only smiled.

“Whatever you say. Regardless, that’s for you. Maybe, one day, I’ll get a keychain for you.”

“Thank you, that was… actually thoughtful and sweet of you. You’re right that I don’t put a whole lot of stock into this… sort of thing,” he admitted as he turned the crystal over in his palm again, “but I think… I think the weight of intentions are real.”

“Maybe those intentions will carry you home safe from this case, then. Judging from the groaning sounds coming from Garcia’s cave, I’m thinking it’s a doozy. By the way…”

“Mm?”

“Do you want me to make you a cup of coffee before you go in to briefing?”

“That would be wonderful of you, thank you. One sugar-“

“-and no cream. I know how you make your coffee, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” you teased.

Hotch shook his head. “The full government name.”

You turned to walk out when he called your name, and you turned back to him.

“Can you come to my desk for a second?”

You complied, going to his desk with a nervous giggle. You thought he was going to speak, but instead he simply rose from his seat and kissed your cheek.

You touched your flushing cheek with a slightly shaky hand. “What was that for?”

He shrugged. “Just a thank you for being as thoughtful as you are. Truly… you make working here a bit easier.”

“Aw, you’re going to make me cry, so I’ll laugh instead.” You were going to turn to flee, but boldness filled you and you leaned up to kiss his cheek, except he moved, and you kissed the corner of his stern lip.

“Uh-” you backed away from him.

“Don’t panic,” Hotch ordered calmly- almost too calmly- “it’s not your fault, it was mine for reacting too quickly.”

Your cheeks flushed hot red and despite his command to not panic, you immediately fled the scene, leaving behind a confused but slightly amused Aaron.

A few minutes later, JJ entered his office with his cup of coffee in one hand and sat it on his desk, the other arm full of file folders. She gestured with her head towards the bullpen, “Hey, um, Agent-“

“I know,” Hotch said with a minuscule smirk, sipping the coffee, and almost immediately moaned aloud. True to your word, you knew exactly how he takes his coffee. He kept glancing towards the crystal sitting on his desk, and when Garcia called for him to come to the briefing room, he carefully slid it in his pocket.

On the jet, after all the details of the case had been discussed, Hotch leaned back in the chair, his fourth cup of coffee of the day in his hand. Even though he made his coffee exactly the same as always, it didn’t taste nearly as good as the one you made for him. He took the black tourmaline out of his pocket and held it in his hand. It works on a jet, right? It’s closer to the sun, it has to be like the best charging method.

“What do you have there?” Rossi asked from across him, looking up from a book- a compilation of Garfield comic strips over the years.

“A crystal. I think it’s… black tourmaline?”

Reid, of course, overheard this and had to jump in with, “you know, within pagan and spiritual circles, black tourmaline has protective properties, banishing negative vibrations, and it’s also supposed to be grounding.” He looked at the crystal in Hotch’s hand. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen this crystal on that agent’s desk. She and Anderson talk about them all the time, and apparently she keeps some of them in her desk, as does Anderson.”

“She and Anderson are good friends,” Hotch volunteered. “She’s the one who gave this to me.”

“She’s a sweet girl,” Rossi commented, sounding too innocent for Hotch’s liking.

“She is,” Hotch agreed simply, not taking the bait.

He and “that agent” were going to have to have a conversation when he got back home- he was entirely too intrigued by you. Perhaps he could ask you what crystal was the best for asking someone on a date.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #fluff #fluffy #fluff fic

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greenunoreversecard · 2 months

Note

HEYYEYHEY CAN I REQUEST LLOYD (ninjago) HEADCANONS PLEASEEEE (ty :3)

A/N: Ofc!I'll do general character ones, as well as x reader ones :) hope ye likey likey:pp

Lloyd, The Greenest and Geekest mf.

General character headcanons:

Half Japanese half Chinese

His hair is box blonde dye and you cannot change my mind.

Left handed

Severely dyslexic and hands off all scroll reading and just reading oriented tasks to kai.

Def gen z vibes. Like, the others give off more inbetween z and millenial, so they dont always get his humor. And sometimes he uses that to his advantage and "Speaks in code" (uses as much slang as possible)

Has LED lights in his room set to forest green.

Has given himself a smiley face tattoo.

Cried over a dead goose once.

OK, just to preface i see cole as a stoner of Sorts and uses the excuse "it gets me closer to my element"

With that in mind cole let lloyd try it and now sometimes when he is told to unwind, of feels like he needs to take a chill pill he and Cole spark up

in the beginning of his leader ship role, he used to Say;"kick ass and take names" and if things went wrong he had the fuck it we ball mindset, but got better with time. There are still times they wing it, though.

if he isnt in his gi he almost exclusively wears his pajamas (aka a Hoodie, tshirt and sweats)

Vv tired, and now has a raging addiction to energy drinks due to his lack of Sleep.

He used to eat worms as a kid bc he Thought he it was evil.

Has a eyebrow piercing, and wants a tongue piercing.

Wears "reading" glasses, that he should technically wear all the time because he can't see up close and has a astigmatism,, but he says yolo. Zane then make him contacts after he almost ran into a moving blade and got his head severed.

Adhd and OCD, as well as the normal line up (anxiety, depression, cptsd)

Lloyd in a relationship:

Hes very distant in the beginning, it'll take time to warm up to you.

He tends to be orage cat vibes.

On the cat trend, he gets close for a bit Before becoming distant. Going through waves of affection, kinda.

He hasn't had like, any good relationships in his life so he tries to "protect" himself when he feels he gets to close to you, and so he pulls away.

He does the fuckboy face when your sad bc it makes you laugh, as well as That weird dice roll

He actually does the face/dice roll combo whenever he Sees you as he walks over, it's an inside joke now

primary giving love language: acts of service and quality time

Primary receiving love language: gifts and words of affirmation. But physical touch is also high up there.

Also, not expensive gifts. He hates those. Give him a stick you saw on a walk that made you think of him. He'll cherish it forever. And maybe cry.

He will cry.

will make noises at you and expects a noise in response or he'll be sad.

Also randomly bites you. He's a nommer

also sends you memes throughout the day.

As well as random pictures with the caption;"BABY LOK THIS IS S. US IF WE WHERE *insert whatever item here*

Called you babe, baby, love, shitface, asshole.

Expect kind and loving gentle bullying.

Doesnt know how to express his emotions to just expect him to come up to you, lightly shake your shoulders and aggressively say;"I love you bitch.i ain't Evea gon stop lovin you. Bitchhhhhhh" (vine reference)

Sends you .5 of everyone, himself included. He's addicted to Taking them. You will not get out of it.

Also sometimes just walks around in nyas stilettos for fun.

You two have fashion shows.

You also take over the Living room sometimes and build giant ass forts to watch shitty reality tv in and make fun oF The people

Overall, once he realizes you won't leave he's the most funniest loving chaotic guy.

But expect it to take a hot minute for him to realsie this

give him time,, but also have some deep talks..

Let him vent

and for the love of God don't hurt the baby's heart.

Expect inside jokes

#no beta we die like jason todd #greeny's inbox #Ninjago x reader #lloyd garmadon #lloyd montgomery garmadon #lego ninjago #Lloyd garmadon x reader #Ninjago x you #Male reader #gn reader #ninjago lloyd

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callsign-relic · 8 months

Note

Hi Relic!

May I please ask for a Yan!Megatron with a Lost Light human liason who treated him decently because of their morals and ethics. Kind but not naive type. Platonic or romantic whichever vibes with you.

The basic sinario is Megatron returns to the Deceptacons, rescued by his biggest fanboi's unit the DJD and he takes the human liason with him as a pet.

Thank you,

Bookwyrm

Hi Bookwyrm! This was my first yandere request AND first IDW Megs requests, so I was SO excited to build on this combination— and I think it worked out great >:) I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: SFW, GN!Human!Reader, yandere, kidnapping

You were truly fascinating.

The first few days of Megatron’s arrival upon the Lost Light were… uncomfortable, to say the least. The multitude of members of the crew were cautious of the former warlord— and at first, Megatron believed it was reasonably so. He was the former leader of the Decepticons, after all, how was anyone to even begin to consider trusting him after millennia of war? Much less put their faith in him as one of the co-captains. Such treatment left a bitter taste in his intake.

But then, you came along.

As a liaison for the planet Earth, you were well aware of all that Megatron had done. How he almost conquered your planet, destroyed your planet— the whole works. The gray bot was certain that this new guest upon the ship was just another face to avoid looking directly at, if he were to spare himself of whatever fearful or disapproving look awaited him. But as time passed, you proved that would not be the case.

Whenever you spoke with him, you never broke eye contact. You never stumbled over your words, never made an on-the-spot excuse to pardon yourself from the conversation. You were kind, polite, decent— more than you could say for any of the inorganic beings upon the ship.

And that behavior aroused something within the mech’s spark.

Perhaps he was deserving of all the sour looks and poor treatment he got. But if there was something he was more deserving of, it was the chance at redemption. And that was something that only you seemed to be willing to give him.

So, he spent more time with you. As much time as he could. You radiated a kindness that Megatron found himself enamored with— an oasis in a desert whose dry conditions the mech had thought he had accustomed himself to. He carried you around in his servos or on his shoulder almost at all times, and to his relief, you never seemed to mind. You never noticed the split second of hesitation that crossed his mind when you asked him to place you down, the ache in his spark that waxed and waned the longer he saw you away from his grasp.

It took everything Megatron had within him to put you down. To let you, the one being who had given him a chance from the beginning, go off on your own.

One day, while you were riding upon his shoulder as he kindly offered to bring you where you needed to go, he had asked you why. Why were you so kind to him, even when he was just about the last mech to ever deserve it? And the way you offered a little chuckle before you spoke made his spark dance in its chamber. “Because,” you had answered in that honey-sweet tone of yours, “I think everyone at least deserves a second chance.”

No one else deserved you. You were so kind it was cloying, yet it was a flavor that Megatron never wanted to forget. He needed it all for himself, and he knew you wanted him too. Why else would you keep spending time with him, if that wasn’t the case?

So when alarms began blaring and warning lights started flashing all over the ship, Megatron wasn’t worried. Well, he was— in the sense that he didn’t know where exactly you were while the ship fell into chaos— but he trusted in the plan he had long since formulated in his helm if a situation like this were ever to arise.

You, meanwhile, were racing through the massive steel halls. Heart pounding in your chest, adrenaline seemingly being the only thing keeping you on your feet right now— you frantically looked to and fro for some kind of hiding place.

You had been told about the Decepticon Justice Division, but outside of the fact that they seemed to be Megatron’s biggest fan club, you really weren’t sure what to expect. But if the sounds of screams and a distant melody was anything to go off of, you at least knew you needed to find someplace to hide and keep yourself safe. As much as it has pained you to sit back and do nothing, you were well aware that, unfortunately, you were the person least capable of helping in this situation. Getting in the way would have done more harm than good.

Eventually, you found yourself in one of the lower engine rooms— a mess of cables and wires strung along the inside of one of the wall panels acting as your hiding place for the time being. Despite you trying to focus on your breathing— anything to calm you down— the earth beneath you trembled rhythmically and the wires around shook in time with it.

Someone was coming.

You tried to bury yourself deeper into the cabling, but eventually the wires became too tight for you to slip through. The most you could do was hide behind a wire and hope it was wide enough to cover you.

As the sound of metal shifting on metal rang ever louder in your ears, you raced through the possibilities in a panic. Was it Kaon? Helex? Oh god, please don’t let it be Tarn—

A shadow finally cast itself over you, and you dared to peek your head around the corner.

A wave of relief washed over you as you were met with a familiar black pede. It was just Megatron. He must have been looking for you to see if you were safe.

“Megatron!” You exclaim, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s just me. Go, help Rodimus and the others. I’m safe here, I’ll be fine. Find me back here when it’s all over.”

But the mech did not reply. The dark crimson pools of his optics gazed down at you with an expression you weren’t sure you could read. A nervous smile crept onto your face and, in an effort to encourage him to go on and help the crew, you tried hiding behind the wiring again. “I’ll be okay, I promise. We have you to help protect us, after all.”

There was another clanging of metal, the sound of a bot’s hydraulics shifting as they’d move their joints, but it wasn’t growing more distant as you expected. It got closer, and it was only when you caught a split second of his dark servo approaching you that you realized Megatron had knelt down to your level and reached for you.

Digits longer than your own body wrapped themselves around your form, and you’re lifted high into the air. You call out Megatron’s name, trying to get his attention as the pressure of his servo around you begins to crush you in its tight grip. But he doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even cast a glance towards you.

You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he knew a safer spot, and was bringing you over there himself. But even if that was the case, it didn’t explain why he was being so forceful with you. The warlord walked briskly out of the engine room and turned down the hallway—

Towards where the DJD had broken in.

Every instinct in your body activated all at once, and you started to struggle beneath the massive mech’s hold. You tried your best to wiggle your torso, kick your legs, anything— but his grip around you was much too tight for you to do anything significant against. With how he didn’t even look at you, you weren’t even sure he was noticing your rash moments, your cries for help.

But he was. As Megatron stormed towards the DJD’s ship as it awaited him, it tore him apart to see you so stressed. But the mech knew what he was doing was the right thing. You were so kind to him, you didn’t deserve to run and hide. You didn’t deserve to be at the mercy of such a brutal group of mechs. You deserved a good life, one that only Megatron could provide for you, under his constant watch and protection.

You had spared Megatron from living a torturous existence. Now, he was simply returning the favor. You would be just as grateful to him as he was to you, and he knew you’d eventually come around to see that.

#relic writes #Transformers #Transformers x reader #reader insert #MTMTE #mtmte x reader #lost light #lost light x reader #Megatron #MTMTE Megatron #megatron x reader #MTMTE Megatron x reader #yandere megatron #lost light megatron x reader

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doobea · 5 months

Text

DAYTIME SHOOTING STAR - REO MIKAGE

synopsis: Being a college student sucks. Having a crush on your best friend also sucks. Your best friend having a crush on your other best friend is . . . kinda the worst. In which, Reo is hopelessly in love with you but you’re hard crushing on Nagi.

-> MASTERLIST. -> PLAYLIST.

contents: second lead syndrome feat. fem!reader & reo, heavy narration in the beginning as per usual whoops, also in an au where bluelock never happened LOL, grandparental meeting, reo x stardew valley vibes, of course y/n and reo get together duh, nagi's been shipping them together since high school word count: 3.9K a/n: FINAL PART OUT YAY :3 thank you for joining me on this journey hehe this was also my first time attempt of writing reo so hopefully his characterization went ok ;-;

VEGA -> prev.

You get the feeling that Nagi is up to something, after a while.

Well, Nagi is always up to something — gaming and dozing off, to be exact. This time, though, all of his attention seems to be fixated on you.

“That’s not your sweater,” he says, pointedly, one day, when you waltz into their apartment with a handful of pastries. You decided to make a detour trip to a local bakery earlier in the morning, carefully curating the palettes of the two males because —well— after that happened you felt like a small offering would be needed in a way.

Like how many others delegate, the kiss was rather… confusing to all. Nagi doesn’t bring it up when you three all return back to festival grounds, nor does he bring it up to Reo when you finally go home. Reo’s been texting you like all things are normal, and you guess it’s because he doesn’t really know what to do either. Though, he’s been more endearing than usual over text, which you take as a sign that something is progressing.

Let’s just say that it’ll be weird for you to wake up without a ‘good morning, did you eat yet?’ text from a certain billionaire’s son.

Backstory aside, Nagi’s not lounging around for once. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hands from a brand you’re not familiar with. Judging by its fine print font and pastel color scheme, you assumed that Nana stopped by not too long ago. And his gaze isn’t leaving your sweater. Whatever, you’re probably not wearing it correctly anyway. Stupid rich people problems.

“It’s Reo’s,” you say, lightly, and scoot by him to place down the baked goods. “He accidentally gave me his sweater when he returned my things, that’s all.”

It wasn’t an accident. Reo had made sure to spray that sweater with all the cologne he had. The sweater is warm, comfortable, and smells just like him. It’s nice.

Nagi gives you a look. It’s not a strong look, but it’s obvious enough to make your cheeks heat up. “Uh huh,” he deadpans before giving you a full up-down. “You’re wearing it, though.”

“Yeah, I am,” you shrug it off, trying to pretend that you don’t understand what the big deal was.

Okay, yeah, your best friend suddenly kisses you and now you’re rethinking about your life choices since high school because you were so sure that you liked his other friend. And the fact that you kissed back? Was that supposed to happen? And you didn’t wear this sweater today in hopes of Reo seeing you, nope that’s not it. Reo doesn’t make you feel warm and fuzzy because this sweater does all of that. It’s a comfort thing and Reo doesn’t bring you comfort… right?

You apparently have some cheesy expression written all over your face, though, and that causes Nagi to pinch your cheek to snap you back to reality. “Suits you,” Nagi decides to end the topic before shifting to the main subject. “Reo’s out this morning.”

“I wasn’t trying to see him,” you grumble out, eyes narrowing as you fix yourself a latte and adding way too many shots of espresso to fight off your internal turmoil. You add a large serving of caramel syrup to balance out the bitterness and then top it off with a heavy serving of whipped cream, sighing happily as you get a mouthful of the sugary concoction within the first sip.

Nagi simply shakes his head and drains the rest of his drink in one go. “Well, he’s been talking about you nonstop, if that makes—” Nagi stops in his tracks when he watches your ears perk up. “—you happy…”

At this point, Nagi probably thinks everyone is in on a poorly executed inside joke, except for him. He doesn’t like it, but what can he do? His two best friends are now awkwardly pinning each other and neither of them are sparing him any details. Then again, he’s not sure if he wants all the details. So, instead of poking a dead fish around, he exits to the living room and throws on a weekly series that he’s been meaning to catch up on. These past two months have been quite tiring.

You eventually join him on the couch, body now running on full blast of caffeine and loads of caramel. “Sei, tell me everything that he’s said, please?” and you throw out your best attempt at puppy eyes because you know that Nagi has always been horrible at saying no to these kinds of things.

But maybe getting a girlfriend has changed him, somewhat.

“You’ll hear it from him, eventually,” Nagi simply answers, smiling.

Of course, regardless of how many times you repeat yourself, Nagi would spit back the same response. Since when did he start caring for Reo’s secrecy all of a sudden? Pretty lame. You zone out when an action sequence comes on the screen and begin texting Reo.

‘where are you’ You text over a character monologue in the background.

‘At some stores, picking up last minute gifts for later.’ Reo replies back with a series of emojis.

By ‘stores’, you would only guess it’s nothing but high-end designer stuff. ‘Gifts’ implying that he’s buying multiple for your family and relatives. ‘Later’ is when the two of you will depart on visiting your hometown for the weekend because it turns out Reo was actually serious about taking up your off-handed comment.

‘i told you not to get anything!!’ You send an angry emoji right after.

Nagi is absolutely reading over your shoulder, too, and if looks could kill, you’re pretty sure you’d be in a million pieces, burning to bits on the floor. “Got a hot date with Reo, huh?”

“Well, you didn’t want to come and we’re not dating…” you huff before pushing him away. “And stop reading my texts!”

“Don’t text while I’m watching my show, it’s distracting.” Nagi shoots back, and you don’t really have an argument for that.

Though, you just glare at him until he eventually backs off and you go back to texting Reo, a bit more subtly, talking about various expensive gifts that he can get instead of showing up to your family doorsteps with diamonds and silk robes. You haven’t had anyone from the city come visit your hometown, so you’re a little nervous to say the least. Especially since someone accompanying you is several tax brackets ahead…though Reo wouldn’t judge you differently. Because he likes you, in more ways than one. Fuck.

You’re ignoring a lot of things happening right now, and bringing him over to meet your family is making you feel weird. Ugh, whatever.

In the end, Reo ends up returning half of his purchases because apparently designer bags and jewelry won't serve your grandparents that well in their everyday lives. So he opts to buy them expensive fruits instead. Fruits are already expensive in the country, so when Reo showed up with boxed grapes that costed more than your current outfit, you could've sworn your eyes were about to pop out of your sockets.

Reo should’ve known better than to wear anything remotely formal when he agreed to come visit your hometown. Tailored suits are expensive and difficult to replace and, from what he’s experienced within the past hour, the mud that’s been splattered all over his dress shoes and pants haven’t gone away no matter how much cleaning reagent he’s used so far. But complaints are off the table, no matter how much he absolutely wants to point out the sweltering heat and the lack of air conditioning in your home.

The plane ride over wasn’t any better. You blatantly refused to use his credit card for first-class seating upgrades regardless how many times he’d begged you.

“It’ll only be a two hour flight, Reo. Plus, economy isn’t that bad.” You reasoned.

Oh, but it was.

He’s a gentleman and gentlemen should always let others pick which seat they want first. Window seat was a non negotiable for you, and he didn’t really mind. What he did mind was the random stranger seated to his right.

Screen brightness — max.

Volume settings — max.

Chewing noises — sadly, also max.

It’s a miracle that he didn’t flag down an attendant and leave you for first class. Well, flight aside, landing happens and, inevitably, comes the next part.

“Are you enjoying your stay so far?”

Your grandmother comes into view, coming to Reo’s rescue with a sunhat and a bottle of water, and the basket next to her was already filled to the brim with all types of vegetable assortments from the garden. Reo graciously takes the hat and sips of the water before glancing down at his own basket, which is very much barren. He thought offering to help with harvesting will win him some brownie points, but he should’ve known how dirty it would get.

“It’s definitely different from what I’m used to, but it’s nice here.” He’s honest about the last part.

The city doesn’t offer much in terms of parks and recreational activities and, despite the fact he’s pretty sure his button up is practically attached to his skin and that there’s probably a centipede (or two) crawling in his shoes, the whole nature thing is pretty serene. Your parents’ old home is a cozy cottage right off the side of the country road, surrounded by rice paddy fields with a wide range of mountains in the backdrop. Occasionally, Reo would see truck drivers making pit stops out in the front to either pick up a small shipment or make small talk with your grandfather — it’s completely foreign to him given that he’s so used to the stuffy business world. Seeing all of this makes Reo understand why some would enjoy a life of simple living and solitude.

Your grandmother laughs. “We were afraid that you wouldn’t like it here.”

To this, Reo digs his hands back into the soil and pulls out a set of carrots in hands. “Sorry, did I give off that impression?” Says the boy who’s currently dressed head to toe in formal wear. Idiot.

“Our granddaughter has been…” she trails off for a moment, finger pursed to her lips and head tilted, before finishing. “She’s been blowing up the family group chat about this trip for a while now. Safe to say she’s been worried.”

Oh. That’s news.

Reo wipes off the puddle of sweat from his face and straightens his back. “It’s beautiful and peaceful here, you wouldn’t be able to get this back in the city. Everyone’s been really nice and the food,” he points down to the field. “You wouldn’t be able to get these without them costing an arm and a leg for the sake of being ‘organic’.”

“Sounds like you want to move here.”

And for the sake of earning those brownie points, “Yeah, I can see myself doing that one day.”

“Imagine that. Can’t stay away from our granddaughter, right?” she teases, and it causes him to do a double take.

“W-What?”

She ignores Reo’s stammering and hands him a pair of gloves and a metal bucket. “Once you finish picking the rest, come meet me by the farmhouse, the cows need some attention.”

Reo might have to rethink his career path after this trip.

“Can you tell your cousins to knock it off, please?” Your best friend is grumbling and hiding behind you for all things safety related.

One thing you forgot to mention, outside of the laborious work, is that your little cousins are an absolute menace to outsiders. The youngest one has been non stop terrorizing Reo around the house with a live grasshopper while the older one keeps throwing him glares and middle fingers. This has been going on right after dinner and Reo’s getting really sick of them and their chattering about how they hate seeing you with someone that needs ‘pampering’.

You huff and roll your eyes playfully. “You think I haven’t tried shutting them up?”

“Good point,” Reo groans from behind. He’s gripping your shoulders as if he’s on life support, shaking every time the youngest one raises the grasshopper closer. “Can’t you just give them an iPad or anything?”

“And what? So they can turn into those kids who stare at a screen all day? No thank you.” You tease, but you give your cousins a final stern look before getting to their eye level.

Reo watches, silent but amused, as you pluck the insect out of the boy’s grasp and pinch his cheek with a light tug, not enough to shed tears but enough to cause him to yelp. You motion the older one over, who just grumbles under his breath but obeys anyway.

“Big sis, we swear we’re just playing together—” the older one starts, and you simply respond with a hard head shake.

“That’s not how we treat guests in our home. Last time I checked, you guys didn’t like it when I made you clean out the pig pen for fun,” you retort with a casual grin. “Time to head back to auntie’s place anyway, it’s way past your bedtimes.”

Both of them sigh in defeat, but that doesn’t stop them from throwing up a pair of middle fingers at Reo. Hey, down with the rich — they’re on the right track in life. And you know deep down they’re just looking out for you ever since your experience in high school, even if the hatred towards city folks is on the extreme side.

You’re stifling a laugh as the pair leave the house. Reo loosens his grip on your shoulders when they are out of ear shot and nudges your sides because you still have that damn grasshopper in your hands.

“Puke or cry in my house and I’m making you sleep with the cows tonight.” The threat is spoken casually, with a bit of affection to it, but Reo knows damn well it’s a valid threat.

“I’m not going to puke or cry,” he replies, haughtily. “And, for the record, I helped the cows earlier today so I’m practically their mother.”

“Oh yeah, thanks for that, you didn’t have to.” You gently toss the grasshopper out the kitchen window, making sure it landed on a patch of soft grass. “Grandma was constantly raving about you after you finished. Saying something about planning the next weekend trip together.”

“Yeah, might as well help around, you know?” Reo weakly chuckles and briefly looks down at his hands. What he doesn’t add is that his hands are going to be sore for the next few days and that maybe your grandparents think he’s going to move in with them in the future. Something of that sort.

“It’s not the worst idea,” You grin. The sun is down, and the stars in the sky are starting to poke through. You catch Reo trying to get a good look before an idea pops up. “My room has a pretty good view of everything, if you want to head up?” You would offer to lay outside but, considering that the ecosystem here offers much bigger bugs, you decided against it.

Unsurprisingly, Reo takes up on the suggestion.

Your old bedroom is sparsely furnished, and that’s intentional. Most of your personal belongings are currently at your college apartment. All that’s left is a full sized bed, an old boxy television with an equally old boxy stand, a couple of bookshelves stuffed full of children's books, and one of those large colorful beanbags by the window sill.

It’s a nice bedroom, for all things considered. A lot more vibrant and has more character than Reo’s old bedroom growing up. From what he’s shown you before, his bedroom was almost a black and white minimalist’s wet dream.

“It’s a bit dusty, hope you don’t mind.”

Your bedroom window has a nice view of the mountain side, and Reo’s quickly distracted by the swarm of fireflies and night stars as he quickly shoves his suitcase into the corner and settles on your bed without a second thought.

“I like it,” He replies, in a careful, casual voice. And maybe it’s just your imagination, but you swear, your best friend sounds both anxious and excited, and maybe there’s a hint of nerves in there, too. Whatever it is, your stomach is back to doing those weird flips.

You try to think. You’re aware of several things right now. First, your best friend is making himself very comfortable in your bed. Second, he’s giving you a look, one that just screams some sort of smug superiority. Third, despite it being humid and warm in your room, you really just want to bury your face into his shoulder. Maybe you should climb in with him, look at the stars together, curled up and snuggling, maybe even run your fingers through his hair, and—

“So,” Reo interrupts and snaps you out of your strange reverie. “You’re sleeping on the floor, right?”

“Huh?” your voice is bleary, and your thoughts are kinda far off. Reo shuffles his way under your sheets and suddenly you put two and two together. “I saved you from those little demons and this is the thanks I get?”

“I deserve it since I worked,” Reo sighs, dramatically, when you finally find the courage to sit down on the ends of the mattress. “Or did you want to share it together?” Tease oozes into his tone.

That last bit makes your heart skip a couple of beats. Alcohol wasn’t in the dinner mix and, even if it was, Reo would never be this bold in front of you. Perhaps there’s something floating in the summer air.

“Stop pretending that you live here,” but you eventually settle yourself underneath the blankets too, just on the other side to put some good inches in between.

Reo’s smiling, and that’s all that matters. It doesn’t bother you when he manages to hog all the blankets and the limited amount of pillows. He’s a gentleman, but also has his needy side that he’s not afraid of showing. Not to mention that he looks good in the dim lighting, even though he’s only been wearing one of your grandpa’s old t-shirts after working in the field. It finally makes the strange fluttering in your stomach calm into a steady, present warmth, and that’s maybe more problematic, but you don’t give it any real thought.

Reo speaks up after a few passing heartbeats. “Can I… say something?”

You swallow thickly. “Go for it.”

It can’t be just your imagination, the way Reo’s mouth parts, just a little, the way his tongue is dating out to wet his lips. You’re leaning forward, hand reaching down between. You can’t stop looking at him.

“I want…” Reo tries to say, but his throat is a giant lump.

“Reo,” You breathe out in response, head tipping, “If you keep looking at me like that, then…”

It comes in swift moments, with Reo pressed close, with both of your hips bumping together, with arms slung over the other’s shoulder. There’s been those moments of laughter, where it feels as if the whole world has faded away in a blur beyond the gaze of your best friend. It’s cliche and dumb, but you feel, in a way, that you’ve been looking at Reo for your life. And you have, really, because he’s always been there for you.

There’s a lot of things that Reo could say. They’re burning on his tongue, building in his throat, getting stuck there. He should just push them out, just say it. Or, maybe, he should say nothing at all, because that wonder and those answers are all reflected in your gaze.

Both of you are so close that he can make out every strand of your lashes. He can see the subtle shift of color in your eyes, the dark band increasing around your pupils, that slight nervous glimmer there. It’s got Reo’s heart pounding in his chest, hammering to be freed. He’s got one hand pressed into the small of your back, stroking there, slow and affectionate. His other hand is trembling, just a little, and he steadies himself bracing it against your cheek.

It’s got you shivering, and Reo realizes that you’re both a bit terrified.

“I want to be yours,” Reo might be nervous as hell, but he steels his voice, and brushes your lips together, he’s so close, when he talks. “I can’t think about anything else when I’m with you. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but—”

“Reo,” you take the initiative here, shifting closer, and settling your lips close to his neck. “It’s okay. I want you too.”

You take another inch forward and Reo allows it. Maybe you’re both getting more comfortable with each other. Maybe getting brave and feeling more grown up. Likely, it’s a combination of everything, and a good dose of ‘fuck it’s, from being young, and dumb, despite it all.

You’re not sure who leans in first but, before it even fully registers, his lips glide over yours. There’s some awkward teeth clacking involved, probably from the fact both of you are way too full of nerves over this, but Reo fixes it and begins to trace his tongue over the small opening of your lips. You move your hands straight to his locks, still damp from the earlier shower he took and the scent of lemongrass and citrus invades your nostrils.

Reo's kissing you as if he wants to swallow you whole. It's hungry, desperate, and intimate in a way that made your heart swell triple in size. The sounds of your beating chest floods your ears as he's pouring his emotions into the kiss, making sure that he's leaving behind evidence that his soul is yours to claim. The heat radiating off his body pulls you in, like an invitation, and you sink further into his touch.

After a moment, you pull back, hands still entangled in his hair.

“Your parents, aren’t you worried about—”

“I don’t pay mind to that type of stuff,” he presses a firm kiss on your forehead. “And you shouldn't have to either. That’s a future thing to worry about.”

That sounds good, you agree, but you’re growing too sleepy to voice it. Instead, you shut your eyes, reaching over blindly to find the edges of the blankets, tugging it up over you two. There’s really no way to move, without cramming at the edge of the mattress. You don’t care, and Reo doesn’t seem to, either.

“Hey, Reo?” You mumble as you both slip into silence.

“Yeah?” He’s tried, but awake enough to shake past the exhaustion, enough to form vague words. “What is it?”

You sit up, just a little, and it’s enough to inspire Reo to force his eyes open. You’re watching him, eyes intent, shining bright with emotion. It’s almost — just almost — enough to have Reo saying those three special little words. They’re right there, on the tip of his tongue, and only then he realizes that he’s terribly in love with you. He’s hopelessly in love. It’s way too early to say it, but he is.

You laugh, burying your face in Reo’s neck again, pressing a kiss there. “I’m glad that you’re here with me.”

Reo has hesitated a lot, during the past months. It’s taken him a while to get here. For once, though, awake or dreaming, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m glad too,” he mumbles, and then, he’s dreaming, of endless what if’s and possibilities with you now in his life.

additional note: idk why it took me over a month to pump this out LMAO but i hope you guys like the ending bc i was mulling over this chapter so many times before deciding to end it as such... anyways, I WILL BE BACK INTO MY BLLK FIC GROOVE HEHE gotta focus on my milestone fics + that ice skating rin series next :3 i love you guys and thanks again for being patient with me ;3

TAGLIST -CLOSED

@celestair @kitorin @popponn @yoisami @anurst @katsukiiishoe @yuzurins @vitaniangel-blog @kunikame @miwafei @astruoise @faeroow @wooasecret @limerence-lu @jaynawayna @iloveblogging2 @futuristicxie @rinlvr @au-ghosttype @wavetokio @yuusami @phtogravi @funnibunneh @idontevenknow129 @startaee @darthvada @livelaughloveisagiyoichi

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock imagines #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #doobea writing #reo mikage x reader #reo mikage #DAYTIME SHOOTING STAR - REO MIKAGE #bllk reo #reo x reader #mikage reo x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x female reader #BYE THIS IS THE FINALE WHOO #why did this take me forever idk #what started out as a mini thing turned into long words uh oh #time to refocus on that rin ice skating thing...

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ncsdlr · 2 months

Text

Sailor's Treasure

Marvel

Warnings: dub!con(?), undetailed overstim, a sprinkle of fluff, hopeful ending

Pairings: Pirate!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Word Count: 3380

A/N: I was about to finish this (literally so close) but then another idea popped into my head and I couldn't really help it so i put this aside and worked on that one. If you find this first, props to you, you're doing it in order. Also, I for sure missed a few things that should have a warning on them, I got lazy:/

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As her ship swayed to a halt, Wanda stood at her wheel and gazed upon all that lived on the island they'd chosen to take a stop-over. Then in the distance, she spotted something moving behind the bushes, mirroring her position as they both stared at each other, one looking into be shaking in the cold night air while one stood calm and curious. Wanda got the vibe that you knew she knew you were there, and that you knew she had seen you.

Wanda turned back to her crew for a second, bidding her goodbyes to them but not exactly telling them where she would be heading. She feared what they might do to you wouldn't be as gentle as what she would do. When she turned back to look at you, the space you once occupied was empty. Wanda wondered where you could be and stepped off her ship, surveying the surrounding area of where you used to be.

Wanda was halfway across the distance from her ship to the bush you were hiding behind, and when she reached that spot, you were not there. She looked left and right, even behind her, but no. All she found was her remaining crew packing up their equipment. A snap of a twig caught her attention, and she moved quickly to reach whatever made the noise, hoping it was you. To her delight, it was you, crouched down beside a tree covering your head with your hands in an attempt to hide yourself better.

The woman found you amusing, a tiny little thing, looking about as innocent as a little bunny. She wasn't even sure if you knew she had already found you or not, and this truly almost made her laugh. While Wanda hovered over you, she scanned your small body, adorned with thin, ripped-up rags, a beige bra covering your chest under the tattered sheets you seem to register as clothes. Despite the ragged, destroyed, and dirtied clothing, you looked rather beautiful, innocent almost. It felt so right to Moana to see that you were hiding like this. She looks so corruptible, Moana thought.

"Y'know, ye'r bad at hiding." You gasped sharply and crawled backward on your hands, grazing them on pointy rocks in the process. Wanda only followed you though, walking closer to you while watching you inch away from her little by little. It was futile really, to attempt to seek safety when she was capable of manhandling you back to harm if she wanted to.

Wanda held the laugh that threatened to escape her for your mind's sake, trying her best not to scare you even more by showing you the kindest eyes she could. She didn't know why, but the more she looked at you, the more she couldn't contain her sloppy desires. It was something about you, something she could not determine that forced her carnality out of her. You made her want to just tear you apart, touch you, ruin you, fuck you for all that you were worth. Wanda wanted to touch your pretty face, caress your hair, feel your skin on her hands, and dig her nails into the supple flesh of your thighs.

So that's what Wanda did, taking a cautious step towards you and kneeling to see you better all the while your body trembled with fear, keeping eye contact with her. Wanda thought, gods she will be the death of me. Wanda placed her hand on your knee lightly, watching as you glanced at it before looking back into her eyes.

"What's ye'r name, Lil girl?" You looked at the woman apprehensively, your hands clasped tightly over your chest. For safety measures, you shifted slightly before deciding that she seemed harmless enough to trust with your name.

"Y-Y/N" Your eyes were wide and seemed accusing, Wanda didn't like that, so she worked to change your fearful view of her. Wanda gently cupped your face, closing the space between your lips and hers to be only a hair away from kissing you.

"Ye'r really pretty, girlie. How 'bout y'let me take care o' ya? I'll make y'feel s'good, lil girl." Wanda tucked your hair behind your ears, looking into your shining doe eyes while you nodded dumbly. The proximity between you and Wanda was dizzying, and the sailor was well aware of the strong effect she had on you. Wanda shamelessly got off to the thought of flustering you.

"Y'gotta trust me now, pretty girl." She murmured, taking hold of your face and closing the gap. Finally, you thought. This whole time you were wondering when things would progress. You were still apprehensive, Wanda felt that in the way your bottom lip trembled against hers as you kissed her back. Your pussy spoke differently though, the heat from it radiating against Wanda's thigh that you didn't know was between your legs.

Wanda pressed her thigh against your core rather harshly, causing you to gasp into her mouth. Her fingers played with the thin strap of your clothes, honestly considering whether or not she should just rip the fabric off your body completely. I mean, it was already torn anyway, so what could be the harm, Wanda thought. So that's what she did, harshly exposing your sweaty skin to the cold night air as your clothes are ripped off of you.

Wanda's hands wander all over your body, touching every inch of you that she could reach. Her kisses traveled south, sucking blush red marks that would turn a deep shade of purple later on your chest and your neck before pressing feather-light kisses between the valley of your plush breast, the same breasts that she squeezed and pulled at like they were some form of stress balls in her rough hands.

Her hands on you drove you to the brink of an orgasm, the way Wanda's lips unknowingly ghosted over the gills on your neck earlier made you let out a stifled moan, gripping at the veld below you to ground yourself. Her kisses feel heavenly on you, and from the way, she kept biting at the cups of your bra with her fingertips, you aided the woman by taking them off of your body yourself. The woman gripped at your tits further, missing the way they shone with a peculiar sparkle, a sparkle that humans certainly did not have.

You didn't even realize the way Wanda had moved to kneel between your legs, and she found the way you looked even more laughable. Your mouth was agape, your eyes lazily open and staring right back at her. It seemed that your body and mind were here but you were officially clouded. Good, Wanda thought gripping your hips and pulling you closer so that your hot mound was pressed against hers.

"Y'ready to feel good, girlie?" Wanda asked, looking into your eyes as if she was staring into your soul. You answered her with a mere nod, your hazy brain unable to verbalize your nod. But, of course, this was not enough for Wanda, she was not satisfied by your stupid nod. She wanted you to speak, and voice your opinion on the matter. Wanda resorted to gripping your face tightly, growling her next words into your mouth.

"Y'gotta speak up or I won't be touchin' ya at all."

"Yes, I'm ready." You hurried out, nodding along to your words in case she wanted more than just your words as well. If earlier you were terrified of the redheaded woman and wanted to rid yourself of her, now you just wanted her inside you.

Creatures of your kind had naturally high libidos, but ever since the attack last year, you were the only one to survive, having to pleasure yourself in times of desperation. It was never enough though, your fingers felt too thin and unpleasurable. You needed something more, someone else to do it for you because you couldn't make yourself cum the way other people did. You were so undeniably horny right now, and both you and Wanda knew she was the only one who could alleviate the hot pain in your abdomen.

Finally, after what felt like years of waiting as a wet mess, Wanda's hand dipped down between your legs, touching your sweet pussy. You cringed as her cold fingertips toyed with you, the semi-unfamiliar feeling jolting you back to reality. You felt as though Wanda should take you right there, fuck you hard and rough without much of a care for your wellbeing and the possible aftermath.

"Mommy, please." You begged, much to Wanda's amusement.

"What are ya beggin' for?" Wanda's eyes shined at you, showing you that she desired the same thing as you. Shameless fucking. Although Wanda clearly understood what you were begging for, she just found you adorably mirthful.

"Begging for you to fuck me, please." You furthered, adding your doe eyes into the mix of pouts and words. At this point, you were sure you'd do anything if it meant you'd have Wanda in you. Thankfully, Wanda aided your pleads, pushing her fingers past your slicked-up cunt and immediately curling her fingers. But of course, you can't have what you want just like that, Wanda thought.

As you lay there waiting for more, your eyes blinked open. You realized at that moment that Wanda's fingers were not moving. You literally cried, tears filling up your eyes and flowing down your cheeks to represent watching the sunset over the waterfalls. It felt beyond frustrating that Wanda just wouldn't move, teasing you all the while staring at you with a knowing look.

As your tears flowed freely, you thought, she won't tease me if I beg more. So, that's what you did, opening your mouth to speak when suddenly all that came out of you were choked and stuttered moans. It was then that Wanda began her onslaught upon your hole, curling her fingers in time with the rhythm pulling them in and out of you at a fast pace. It felt so good, so much so that your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, your back was arching, and one of your hands while the other continued to grip the grass beside you.

Your cum came in spurts of clear, sticky liquid, pooling in Wanda's hand as she strived to keep going. By the time your pussy hurt, she was still going at it, fingering you like she wouldn't get the chance to anymore. Her hand only stopped when yours tried to weakly push her away, and your moans turned into pleasurable whimpers. You panted in her face as her kisses scattered all over your body. If you were being honest, you could barely feel her grounding kisses, each one seeming to dumb you down to nothing even more.

Suddenly, Wanda pulled herself away from you, stripping you of the warmth you received from her. You meant to whine at the woman, but when you registered what she was doing you quickly shut yourself up and obviously gawked at her. Wanda was stripping herself of her clothing, taking each of them off piece by piece and in the process, teasing you with the sultry sway of her hips. As Wanda took off the last piece of clothing on her body, revealing her ample breasts and her toned, smooth-looking stomach, you watched her, taking note of every little mole on her beautiful body.

Your hands moved on their own accord, lightly placing themselves on the back of Wanda's plush thighs and pulling her closer to you. Wanda knelt beside you, caressing your cheeks with the tips of her fingers and pulling you closer to connect her mouth to yours. Then she kissed you with a foreign gentleness that you were not used to during a heated moment such as this. You were used to hot, incendiary sex - not to say that you were complaining because you were honestly loving this new side to lust that Wanda showed you - not this slow one where you were able to take a breath between intense orgasms.

"You're so pretty, Mommy." You murmured against her lips, quiet and soft in the semi-silent night blanketing your escapades with Wanda. In the dim moonlight, you could swear you saw the way a blush red shade crept up Wanda's cheeks. Honestly, there was nothing better to do than bring her closer to you once more for another kiss before she pulled away again, her warm breath fanning over your face as she did so.

"Thank ya, darlin', and call me Wanda." She smirked, her hand making its way to your hands while you nodded at her slowly. Wanda grabbed both of your hands in one of hers and held them above your head on the tree you were propped up against. "Im'na make ya cum like this one more time, then I'll take ya to m'ship. Is that alright h'ney?"

"Yes, please." I just want you now, you thought, feeling the way your pussy clenched around nothing. Wanda scoffed a chuckle at you, lopsidedly grinning at you as two of her fingers easily entered your small hole. Then just like earlier, her finger drilled in and out of you, curling every so often to match her quick thrusts. You gasped and moaned, writhing and shaking, fists tightly clenching in Wanda's hold as the sinful skill of her fingers strived to take you entirely without leaving anything behind.

Your cum was sticky, drenching everything within your range, including the ground, the inside of your thighs, Wanda's hands, and her thighs. You thought she would top once you came in the slightest, but no. She proved you wrong, continuing to fuck you with her fingers relentlessly until you were screaming into the night sky. Wanda gave you a sickening smile as the two of you made eye contact, only then pulling out of you in a show of mercy.

Wanda's fingers left you with a squelching pop, little squirts of your cum still occasionally spurting out of you due to the convulsions Wanda has caused you to have. The fingers Wanda used on you hovered over your mouth, your body making a move before you could even gather your bearings. The warmth of your mouth enveloped Wanda's deft fingers, sucking your own sweet arousal clean off of them before letting them go and leaning your head back as exhausted pants left your mouth.

****

Let's just say Wanda really did take you to her big ship. You were even limping the whole way there before Wanda eventually decided that she carry you instead for efficiency. When the two of you got there, your canoodling fervently continued, heated but soft, rough but gentle. It overwhelmed you in all the best ways possible.

You couldn't really describe it. All you knew was that you felt too good to even be alive. You swore in your mind that Wanda could probably kill you with her fingers given how talented they were and how good she was at using them. Let's not even get you started on her tongue. Boy that muscle really felt like some sort of thick drill with how powerful it felt inside of you. Her tongue reached inside of you the parts that you didn't even know existed, and it felt so damn good that it brought tears down you face and snot coming out of your nose. Disgusting. You couldn't get enough of it. It almost made you want to have her for breakfast.

Almost.

But right now, you can't think about that. What was important at this moment was the fact that you were being fucked from the back like a common village whore, bent over a table near a couch- you couldn't grasp why you couldn't just do it on the couch. Funny, Wanda had called you a slut earlier on. You loved it. You got so wet because of it.

If you were a slut, you were a slut for her.

"Wanda!" You cried out when her fingers played with your clit, rubbing at it tightly all the while she fucked you relentlessly. Wanda grabbed a fistful of your hair and maneuvered you over to the couch. Fuck, you thought as the feeling of your high coming close again, your tears mixed with sweat pouring down your face like rainwater.

You were all but exhausted. You wanted more, and almost as if Wanda could read your mind, she gave you more by way of pulling your hips back against her harsh thrust, reaching even more of you. It almost seemed like she was trying to get in your stomach from down there. And so suddenly, with a loud scream came your sweet cum jetting out of you.

It surprised the both of you when it happened. That's not to say that you've never squitted before though - you have, many times -, but having Wanda make you do that felt different. It felt sinful, so hellish, and so ungodly. It felt right and so, so good. Wanda groaned behind you, somehow still being able to push in and pull out of you rather quickly despite how knowingly tight you were squeezing her very large cock.

"This pussy is mine," Wanda said, pairing it with a hard thrust, making you squeal like a fucking baby. How pathetic of you. "I'ma make ya cum again, baby." That she did. And so many times too. Your face was thoroughly drenched in your tears by the end of it, begging Wanda to at least give you a ten-minute break if she still wanted to continue. She told you that the two of you had better get some rest for come morning time she would be taking you with her. Her exact words were, "I need to have ya."

And so have you she did. When her crew found out about you that same day, they called you out on your species. A shapeshifting siren, the unconcealed gills and scales on your neck being a dead giveaway of such fact. At first, you were scared of what they would do because your kind wasn't exactly well-liked. It helped a lot when you realized Wanda hadn't let go of your hand yet. When you looked up at Wanda, at that time, you really hoped that the genuineness in your eyes would reach her.

Wanda couldn't really resist it, not when she was staring into your eyes and seeing a million untold stories of good and bad. She could tell that there was more to you than just being a siren. Truth be told, Wanda had always wanted to see a siren- or at least, hear a siren song- so having you here right now surely wasn't a problem, right?

In such little time from when the two of you started fucking and that morning, Wanda had grown to trust you somehow, which was strange given she was a sailor who dealt with stupid pirates trying to steal her riches. Knowing you were a siren would definitely change things, like right now with the two of you on the shoreline having, guess what? More sex.

"Oh, I'm yours, I'm yours!" Wanda pulled on the braids she did with your hair while humping you. She grunted and tugged on your hair, leaning closer to your ear to growl into it.

"Louder, baby, louder." As she ordered, you obeyed, moaning louder for her without much effort considering she was giving you everything you could ever ask for. No man or woman you've attracted to you before has ever made you feel like this. none of them stood a chance against Wanda's sharp and hasty thrusts into your dirty pussy.

For the final time that day, you came with a scream, your whole body shuddering and shivering against Wanda as she held you close to her for warmth and comfort. Your eyes had disappeared into the back of your head, your jaw hanging open as your breath stabilized itself. Wanda cooed into your ear, heaving you into her arms and carrying you back into her ship all covered in sand- not that it mattered to her much.

Wanda treated you well and fucked you well, and that was enough reason for you to stay with her as you found yourself growing more fond of her day by day.

#mcu #avengers #lgbtq #marvel #this shit aint real #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #ncsdlr

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furiosophie · 7 months

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Ghost lets himself be pulled up slightly, his hand just as steady on Soap's thigh. "That what you need, Johnny?" he asks, licking his lips behind the balaclava. Soap’s eyes drop to his mouth, flick back up. "You wanna draw blood? Be in control?" "Lt–" Soap starts, lips parted on a rough exhale. A plea or a warning, Ghost can't tell. He's too focused on the way Soap's pupils dilate, and the way the edge of the knife digs into the fabric at his throat. When Graves rears his head not ten days after Las Almas Ghost starts questioning Soap's loyalty, and with it whatever's left of his own sanity.

not from the absence [read on ao3]

ship: john "soap" mactavish/simon "ghost" riley

words: 41,011, completed

tags: canon-typical violence, post-cod mw2 (2022), the boys deal poorly with the las almas fallout, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, literal sleeping together, hurt/comfort, but the kind where you cut each other open with a knife, mutual pining, unresolved sexual tension, emotional constipations more fucked up cousin, mostly bc ghost buried his feelings deeper than his own corpse, post-traumatic stress disorder, unhealthy coping mechanisms, whats wrong with me is also wrong with you typa vibe, minor character death, (none of the 141), ghost POV, 09 ghost backstory, epistolary elements, not beta read we die like roach

COVER/CH1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4 | CH5

#soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #cod mw2 #i thought about just yeeting out 40k in one go but even for me that feels extreem #i've been writing this for so long istg #but i just needed more unhinged soap u understand #something something it takes a certain kind of person to get along with the likes of ghost #something something only two things will ever have me you and death #you get it #anyway #yeet #sop arts #soph writes #id in alt text

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bey0nd-1he-stars · 1 year

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Magic on a canvas - Kaz Brekker

Masterlist

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x artist!reader

Word count: 978

Warnings: none

Summary: You're an artist and one day you want to paint Kaz.

Winter had arrived to Ketterdam and snow was falling upon the dirty streets, covering them in a powder of white snowflakes, making them look crazy and welcoming. It kind of destroyed the whole “barrel vibe” and the criminals all looked like Santa’s workers after being outside. That included your little gang too.

The dregs were still running the businesses as usual, although the ships got a bit delayed and the delivery from the docks to the Slat and to the Crow club were a bit slower than usual because of the cold and the snow and ice on the cobblestones.

You had settled in Kaz office. A canvas propped up and a cup of hot chocolate on the small table beside you. You'd faced the canvas towards the window to take advantage of the natural lightning so Kaz never saw what you were working on until you turned it around to show him. He was currently sitting in his office, working away at some papers he had lying around that needed to be taken care of. He had a glass of liquor on the desktop among the papers, as well as a few rolled up maps from the last heist you'd done. Occasionally, you’d look up from what you were doing to take a sip of your chocolate, or sometimes just to look at him and what he was doing. In truth you were taking in his features to get them down on the canvas as true to reality as possible.

“You need something?” He mumbled, eyes glued on the written lines. He picked up a pencil, scribbled something down and then placed it aside. He looked up to meet your eyes and a teasing smirk made its way to his lips. You returned his smirk and returned to your canvas with a shake of your head. He rolled his eyes at your nonverbal reply but went back to his work nonetheless. But it was hard to try and paint him when he had his head bent forwards, his dark hair falling into his eyes and his brown eyes stuck on papers. So you carefully reached out with the back of your long brush to make him look up from his work. You let the brush end rest under his chin, holding him there, taking in the way the light from the window caught onto his features. Even in the raw light, he looked good. It was a bit unfair, to be honest.

“Thank you,” you mumbled and drew back the brush and returned to your painting. Your actions left Kaz a bit dumbfounded but he quickly shook it off and returned to his work. He’d learned since long to not question you, just go with whatever you were doing and just let it slide, however weird it was. But a small smile still made its way to his lips when he looked down at his work. It was so purely you, what you’d just done. And all while still respecting his boundaries and not touching him with skin to skin contact. His heart stopped for just a moment at the thought.

These actions continued on for a few hours. You’d reach out for him to look up from what he was doing and then he returned to his work. One time he left to go fetch some more drinks for the two of you, one time you left to get some paint. He contemplated if he should look at what you were painting but just when he were to go for it you pushed the door to his office open again and he lost his chance. When the light from the window started to dim down you let out a content sight and put down the brush you’d been holding for hours. You put it in the cup of water where you’d put the others and Kaz looked up to see what you’d been painting. You always showed him when you were finished, but not before that.

The painting on the canvas took him aback a bit. You’d painted him. A scene where he was walking on a snow covered road with white, pearly trees on each side. It wasn’t in a city, it was somewhere else, he didn’t know where. And he looked far better in your painting than he did in real life. You somehow always managed to paint some sort of magic into your paintings, making them breathtaking and beautiful. Your pictures were nowhere near what reality looked like and it always made him gasp a bit for breath. But you’d never painted him before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t shown him, only Ghezen knew. You tilted your head to the side a bit, taking in his reaction. He didn’t say anything for a while, just letting his gaze take in the masterpiece. Then he spoke up after a few solid minutes.

“You make me look so much more beautiful than I do, than I deserve,” his voice was just a whisper. You smiled gently at the words and his gaze flickered from the painting and met yours for a few seconds before returning to the painting.

“You look like that for real, you know. It isn’t just the painting. You look like that right now. At least in my eyes you look like that,” you words were gentle but Kaz heard the honesty behind them. And he believed you. Maybe you did see him that way. His heart swelled at the thought and his breathing got stuck in his throat. He could only nod as he reached out a gloved hand to rest over yours, giving it a soft squeeze before retracting again.

“You look like that too, you know,” he told you, not looking at you but resting his gaze on the painting, “In my eyes, you look that beautiful.”

#kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #kaz rietveld #kaz brekker #kaz brekker x y/n #shadow and bone season 2 #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #six of crows x reader #six of crows #crooked kingdom #grishaverse #dirtyhands #bastard of the barrel

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drabbles-mc · 6 months

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It'll Get Done (Pt. 2)

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto & F!Reader

Find Part 1 Here

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, canon-typical vibes

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: My writer's block has been brutal lately because of lift things, which is deeply unfortunate because I wanted to NaNo this month. But! I did write this for these guys. I just want to put them in rooms and let them talk to each other forever.

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @withmyteeth @narcolini @hausofmamadas @ashlingnarcos @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, plesae let me know!)

Richie didn’t make it back before the end of the day. You only noticed because the kitchen was a little quieter. Not quiet, of course, but quieter. There was one less person that Carmy was yelling at and arguing with. It was amazing how much it cut down on the noise level.

Every now and then as Carmy raced back and forth between the front and the back of the house, you could feel him lingering behind you. The kid exuded stress in a way that you didn’t know was possible. You understood why, because most people if they were thrown into his position would’ve jumped off the sinking ship rather than trying to scoop the water out with a soup ladle, but sometimes you still felt like you should strap him to the chair in the office and force-feed him some of Richie’s Xanax.

You empathized with him. Or you empathized with him at least more than Richie did, which was a low bar these days. But despite the compassion you were dredging up to give him, there were still plenty of times when you felt him standing behind him and all you wanted to do was spin back around to him and ask him what his fucking deal was. It was easier to refrain from doing that on days when Richie was there because he would say it for you.

Carmy came all but skidding back through the kitchen towards the register, going back and forth between muttering and shouting, “Behind,” as he made his way through.

“Calm down, Jeff,” Tina said with a laugh as she went to take her pot off the stove.

You felt your jaw clench on Carmy’s behalf. Tina was knowledgeable about a lot of things and one of those things was, most definitely, how to get under Carmy’s skin. It wasn’t a difficult code to crack but there were so few people in the world who could do it with such expert precision. Her and Richie were two peas in a pod that way.

“It’d be easier for me to calm down, Tina,” Carmy snapped as he kept walking, “if we were able to pay our goddamn vendors!”

She was shaking her head at him—you caught it out of the corner of your eye. But you also noticed that she didn’t say anything more about it. Content to go back and lie in wait for something else to pop up that she could nettle him about. The end of the day might’ve been approaching quickly but you had the feeling in the pit of your stomach that she would be able to find something else before she clocked out without having to work too hard.

When Carmy came back into the kitchen a little while later, he was walking at a much slower pace than he had been before. You were sure that some of that had to do with the fact that the last of the customers had left, and presumably whatever vendor that had showed up looking for money had also left.

He looked on as everyone slowly but surely worked through their cleanup processes. He wasn’t looking at you, but you still asked him, “All good?”

His head snapped in your direction. “What?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you. It wasn’t funny per se, but if you didn’t laugh about it you’d end up crying. “What can I help you with, Carmen?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. N-nothing. No one can help me with,” he let out a huff, raking his hands through his hair, “fuckin’ anything.”

“Little dramatic,” you replied honestly, sarcastic but kind, “but alright.”

It got a weak chuckle out of him. “You know what the fuck was going on in Mikey’s head with all that shit?” he asked as he gestured to the office.

You didn’t have to turn and look where he was pointing to know how bad the mess was. You’d seen it while Mikey was making the mess. You’d been seeing it as Carmy made almost no headway in cleaning any of it up. You didn’t blame him for that. If you’d been in his position, you wouldn’t have any idea where to start either.

“Thank fuckin’ god no,” you finally answered him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line for a second as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah that seems to be…yeah.”

“You should—”

“You can head out, Chef,” Carmy cut you off, and you didn’t know if he even realized that he’d done it. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”

You shook your head. “I can clean up my shit.”

He motioned for you to leave. “It’s fine. I got it.”

“Carm…”

“Seriously,” he reiterated. “Go.”

You looked at him for a moment, and that’s when you could see it in his eyes, the silent plea to just let him have some time to himself. You knew that feeling—it was the whole reason you’d shown up as early as you had that morning in the first place anyway. You knew better than to tell him that he should leave. He wasn’t going to and all it was going to do was turn into an argument. You didn’t need another one of those.

“Fine,” you said with a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You ditched your apron and switched back into your casual shoes, stuffing everything else into your locker while you grabbed your bag and your jacket. Neither you nor Carmy spared each other another goodbye, or any other words in general as you headed out.

There was no point in getting your car keys out of your bag, not when the bar you went to with Richie all the time was within walking distance. The couple blocks felt way longer when it was cold out, but it wasn’t that bad yet.

The bartender recognized you when you walked in, giving you a smile and a nod as he moved to start pulling your drink together before you even sat down. He waited for you to get situated before asking, “Flying solo tonight?”

You laughed as you pulled your phone out of your bag. “That’s an excellent question. Let me call—” The rest of the sentence died on your tongue when the door to the bar flung open and Richie strode through. You instantly let it drop right back into your bag, eyes fixed on Richie even though you were talking to the bartender. “I’m not flying solo tonight, no.”

“Can’t believe you came over here without me!” Richie said as he walked over to you.

“Yeah, well,” you looked up at him from the stool you were sitting on as he clapped his hands down on your shoulders, “least I ordered you a drink.”

He laughed, leaning more onto you. His tone shifted completely as he spoke. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”

You rolled your eyes. “You can always tell me again.”

He kissed the side of your head. “I love you.”

“Damn right,” you said with a nod as Richie plopped down on the seat next to you. You waited until he was comfortable in his seat, leaning forward with his arms braced against the edge of the bar with his breathing evened out, before you tried to have anything resembling a real conversation. “Where the hell did you go all day?”

“What do you mean?”

“You expect me to believe that it was guys and places all day?” You were only bringing it up because, much to Carmy’s dismay, Richie usually was at the restaurant all day every day the place was open. He’d pop in and out briefly for whatever errands he assigned himself, but other than that he was present and accounted for. Being gone all day was noticeable, at least to you if no one else.

It was written all over his face that he was thinking about not elaborating. You saw the shifts in his expression as he tried to come up with a joke, or a lie, or anything besides getting into the reality of it all. But then when he looked you in the eyes again, all he could do was be honest with you. “Tiff called. Had to go pick Eva up from school.”

You nodded. “Got it.” You paused. “Wanna talk about it or—”

“No, no,” he laughed, shifting back into his usual demeanor. “We’re not doing that. You don’t get to do that.”

You let out a confused laugh. “I don’t get to do what?”

“You don’t get to try and use Eva to get out of telling me what the fuck your dumbass boyfriend did!” He paused as the bartender set both your drinks down, taking a moment to thank him before shifting his attention right back to you. “You first.”

You huffed, wishing that you could get out of it again. Even with things that were much lower-stakes, there was only so long that you could dodge Richie and his endless line of questions. You took a long sip of your drink as you tried to figure out what you wanted to say, how you wanted to try and say it. There was no way that you could tell the story that would end with him being anything but pissed off about the entire situation. You couldn’t blame him for that, either. After all, you were still pretty pissed off about it yourself.

“It’s nothing new,” you said, a cop-out you knew that he wasn’t going to accept.

He shook his head, looking down at the glass in his hands before looking at you again. “Tell me the old news, then.”

“I’m done being angry about it, Richie.”

“I’m not,” he replied with no hesitation.

It got you to laugh, at least. “That’s because you’re never done being angry about anything.”

He waited for you to look at him. “You’re really not gonna tell me what he did?” He paused, and when you didn’t say anything, he added on, “That bad?”

You shook your head, drumming your fingers on the outside of your glass. “That pointless.”

“Ah,” he waved you off with that same smirk you’d seen from him so often over the years, “another drink or two and I won’t be able to get you to stop talking shit about him.” He missed the look on your face as he looked back down at his drink and shook his head. “Fuckin’ jagoff.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Yeah—that we can agree on at least.”

“Speaking of which,” he gestured towards the door of the bar, “how was the fuckin’ executive toddler chef the rest of the day?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “An absolute gem once you walked out the door.”

For a split second you could see it on his face that he almost believed you. Then he smartened up and gave you a playful bump against your shoulder with his own. “Fuck you.”

#the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear fanfiction #richie jerimovich #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich x you #my writing #it'll get done #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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theydonthavenames · 1 year

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Can I just quickly point out how Netflix and the rest fucked with us with the stills and trailer they released. They showed us everything yet we knew nothing and made us believe in exactly opposite of what happened. Have a look.

Didn't we all think here shit oh shit Simon is so happy vibing with his new bf at the party. RIP Wilmon, let Sircus reign. Well in the exhibit above the petty little gay bitch is making his almost-ex boyfriend intentionally jealous af and he was winning at it (or rather loosing as we found out later). And that smirk? Nothing to do with Markus, sorry not sorry.

Awww such a cute bff moment. Pahahaha. Little did we know we were about to be hit in the face with the biggest cringe moment of the season. I remember one or two souls saying well they look a bit sus cuddling on a bed like that, and the rest (including me) shouted noo! beauty of platonic friendship! We were played my friends. Lol. Just lol.

Look at this sequence. We thought first day back at school? Reunion moment? What is Simon smiling like that for? Well he's about to break our hearts in two and mend us again at the same time. That includes Wille, actually. We had no idea. Neither did Wille.

The speech makes me lol as well. I don't think anyone was too excited about it. Everyone thought yeah another princely thingy, some shit speech, yawn, whatever. My ass! Who cried at the shitty boring speech? I'll go first 🙋‍♀️

Look at them, some dirty villain-to-half villain deal about to commence. The only dirtiness that commenced was in August's bedroom. And it was actually cute and fluffy af. This must be my most favourite twist this season.

Blue lights in the mirror? Finally August is about to be taken by the police!!! Yeah, party police. Let's move on.

Ohhh Sara baby what's wrong? Are you sad? Is Hillerska treating you badly? Are you having anxiety attack? Did someone hurt you? Listen people, she was horny. For August. Out of all the people. Seriously, wtf Netflix?!?!

I was obsessed with this pic. Aww Wilmon having such a cute couple moment, they're out and proud at Hillerska, not a secret anymore. Nope. Simon just momentarily forgotten he doesn't love Wille anymore and is supposed to move on but then he remembers it and jumps away coz he probably saw Markus looking at them like ???? Still a cute little moment.

Wille on the table, Wille on the table! They all cheer because all Hillerska ship Wilmon too! Not quite. All they ship is their own asses and maybe some heteronormativity. (Is that even a word?) Ugh.

Who's that???? Oh shit that's Markus. Must be Markus. Wille bumped into him at Simon's house 😱 Wille looks sad. I'm so stressed!!! Chill out people, it's only Simon. And Wille's just about to announce he can give up the throne for him. Nothing exciting, you know, just some domestic couple stuff.

And this moment? Looks serious. Simon looks sad? Is he comforting Wille? Has someone died? Well the only person who died at that moment was me okay?

They fucked with us. Or our clowning backfired. Decide for yourself.

#wilmon #young royals #young royals trailer #young royals season two #prince wilhelm #simon eriksson #edvin ryding #omar rudberg #young royals netflix

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merotwst · 1 year

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DRAGGED MY FEET RIGHT DOWN THE ISLE !

‹ . housewardens ›

. ficlets

⇝stuck in a failing and/or loveless marriage with them.

[ n: thank u for 600 followers, everyone! special thanks to @v-anrouge and @/love-thanatopsis for helping me so much with this fic i love u sm this is for u i hope u like it ! not proofread. ]

{ - - - → tw. angst. cheating, alcohol, arguments, aggression, mention of children on kalim's part, gaslighting, mentions of divorce, unhappiness and basically anything u would associate with marriages that just aren't working out exdee. just sad vibes here so stick around if ure in the mood to cry </3 }

⑇

riddle rosehearts ‹ heartslabyul ›

he sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. but despite the lingering tiredness of the day, you would think riddle would be ready to head himself to bed and get some proper rest, right? wrong. he feels like a man being sent off to war.

he'd have much rather spent the night in his office with a blanket and a pillow on the couch. the neck pain would be an easier form of misery to endure than having to spend an hour in a room with tension he often compares to a sinking ship with no lifeboats.

it almost seemed like you lived in separate worlds. he worked, you did whatever it is a dutiful partner does. only you did it far, far away. to your parties you went and talked to your friends, to his meetings he went and shared some good brandy with his own company. you both come home and head to your own separate chambers.

when you're out together you put on a good display of affections for everyone to see. holding hands, kissing each other on the cheek, smiling as if it were all just you against the world. how suffocating.

but behind the facade is an empty world. an empty house. empty hearts. just the clinking of sliver ware on the quiet dinner table sitting eight feet away from each other on both ends. silence was the only way to keep yourselves afloat. distance was your own form of a makeshift lifeboat because your vows at the altar were your own ways of saying it was ‘every man for himself’.

you were two strangers forced to live under the same roof.

and if it were not for his mother trying to salvage your miserable marriage—the marriage of her own engineering—by getting you both to sleep in the same room together, he would have been perfectly content with that dull, dreary, miserable lifestyle. the lifestyle once again, enforced onto him by his beloved mother.

the redhead leaned forward from his leather chair. a breath through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. his hand reached for the whiskey on the table and took one last sip before standing up, mentally hoping you were out to a party with your insufferable company of people. because if not, it's going to be another long night of sad, silent agony in a king sized bed—a sinking ship with no lifeboats.

⑇

leona kingscholar ‹ savanaclaw ›

“open this door right now, [name]! stop acting like a damn brat!”

as the prince yells out that last word he pounds on the door more aggressively than he initially did. it echoed across the halls. the sounds reverberate and bounce back to reach his ears reminding him of the torment of his existence. all his efforts, efforts he never wanted to exert, all come in for naught. this always happens to him. this was the bane of his existence. falena gets the light shone in his face and the cheers and acknowledgement of everyone around him, he gets to pound on a door trying to get his partner to come out of their bathroom because they are late to the party where it was essential they should attend.

‘it takes two to tango’, they say. how does one dance when the other party can't even sit down for one second and look you in the eye without making you feel like you're the biggest burden to have ever arrived in his life? how does one cope with the resentment that's so evidently there? the contempt held for you when you enter a room together and he immediately drops your hand the second everyone starts looking away? you aren't his partner. you are nothing but a prop to him. to get his family off his back. he couldn't even do as much as acknowledge you whenever you entered your chambers alone.

people surround you day after day but you've never felt more alone in your life.

and as leona banged and screamed and twisted the knob the way he twisted your heart up and squeezed it dry, you pulled your knees close to your chest. biting your quivering lower lip till the metallic taste of blood filled your senses.

the light from the open door illuminates the room. your comfortable corner in the bathroom invaded by the lion's dominating presence. and as he watched you, gripping the fabric of your attire like it was your only other anchor to sanity, you felt him soften. ever so slightly, his shoulders eased up. his eyebrows raised a little from their initial cross direction and his eyes showed a hint of melancholy—no... pity. his shadow loomed over your curled up form, cast from the light outside that only reached you and him.

he did not do anything else. he just slightly clutched the key he held in his hands that he used to open the door a little tighter. he watched you for a moment, as if he were observing a small animal being cornered by a predator. silence enveloped the room only broken by your occasional pathetic sniffle and sob. he then turned on his heels.

“change your clothes, they're all wrinkly now. we leave in ten minutes.”

he closed the door to the room and the darkness enveloped you once more.

⑇

azul ashengrotto ‹ octavinelle ›

the vase shattered as it hit the wall barely missing your husband's head. all the jewelry on your dresser tossed and strewn all across the floor. the clothes, the shoes and all the other vain things he'd given you as a consolation for never being home, never being available, never being a husband.

the thing about azul was that he could be a good actor whenever he wanted to be. it's essential for a businessman to know when to play a poker face, when to seem interested or whatnot. he'd mentioned that in passing back then when he would actually talk to you before you were married but now you forget the details. now that you think about it, back then he must have been acting, too. to gain your affections. to make you fall in love with him. so he can achieve his own greedy little goals. you look over at him and can't help a bitter laugh escape your throat.

he gave you a sharp look, “what is it that you find so humorous in this situation, darling?” the businessman asked in a mocking voice, “finally gone mad, have we?”

you turn to him, a small, resentful grin on your face, “oh honey you know i'm always mad for you!” you scream the last part as you hurled one of your favorite shoes at him. your husband was quick to evade this causing it to fly directly to one of your bedroom lamps. the two items fell to the floor with a clatter and smash. the sound of breaking glass mirrored your breaking heart.

azul opened his mouth, a string of insults flowing from his tongue so freely and you mirrored this by shooting your own painful words at his direction. the mingling angry voices bounced across the four walls of the room.

this was not the life you envisioned with him. where was the sweet, suave man that held your hand so gently and softly as he brought you to dinner? where was the kind, generous soul and took a short portion of his day to see you and personally deliver his flowers to you? where was the funny, charismatic person that charmed your family so much they were practically begging you to marry him? where was the husband that vowed to love and to cherish you at the altar?

that man was replaced by the empty space on your bed, the flowers delivered to you by random people you didn't know, the shoes and clothes and other ridiculous things he probably doesn't even pick out himself. and you would sit alone at your home, in front of a full sized mirror that reflected your pathetic state by showing you the tears that streamed down your face night after night that azul spent on his stupid company. the company which you made possible for him by marrying him. what a fool you are.

objects flew, tears shed, hearts broken.

but the saddest of all is that each and every one these things only seem to come from your side of the room and not his.

⑇

kalim al-asim ‹ scarabia ›

you sat in your bedroom, watching the seconds tick by. the clock's hands showed it was two in the morning. normally you would expect a married couple to be in bed together asleep at this hour, but not for you. these days, it seemed to be a somewhat better though. as of late, he was usually out because of the hectic pressures of being head of the family and jamil would attest to this fact.

he'd promised you he wouldn't see her anymore. you wanted to make it work. you begged him to try to make it work with you—even if only for the children. and he agreed. and somehow, this sparked some home in your bitter situation. and that made it bearable for you.

you sat, then stood, then paced, then sat again. restless energy built up in your body thinking of what to say to him when he comes through the door. things were looking up and you wanted to help him relax after another very stretched out day. it's the least you can do for him. after all, no matter what the situation, kalim was always kind to you. he always made you feel like you mattered and listened and made you feel valid. you are essentially the parent to his children and so he made sure he was treating you well to an extent.

but that... that just isn't enough. you're his partner. you needed to feel like his partner. someone he could turn to, someone he could talk to, someone he could run to whenever things got bad. but kalim always kept you at arm's length. he was your husband but he could never completely be a husband.

because he did not love you.

he loved—loves her.

it shows on his disheveled hair. it shows on the perfume that you smell on his clothes. it shows on the lipstick stains on his neck. it shows on the look of shock on his face when he sees you awake. waiting. disappointed.

your twiddling fingers drop to your sides the same way your heart dropped and shattered on the floor. the exhaustion evident on your features when you sit down heavily on the soft cushions of the sofa.

“[name]... i... i thought you were asleep...” kalim sputtered out. he sounded like a child who was just caught snooping around the kitchen late at night.

if only it were as simple as stealing cookies from the kitchen cupboard at two-thirty.

“and i thought we were trying, kalim,” you replied flatly.

he didn't respond. you didn't want to stay. you couldn't. so you stood up and looked him straight in the eye—they looked guilty. and... they feel sorry for you. you hated it.

you turned around, not giving him time to finish whatever ‘explanation’ he had come up with again. you couldn't bear it. you refuse to cry for him—not anymore. you're exhausted and you couldn't bear to be inside that suffocating room with him any longer.

“i'll sleep with the children tonight.” you say before heading to the door leaving your husband and your broken heart along with him.

⑇

vil schoenheit ‹ pomefiore ›

‘there's no business like show business!’

this is true for the most part. it has its ups and downs but vil personally never had much of a say in the matter of whether he would be in the public eye or not. all his life he'd been under the spotlight. the blinding flashes of the cameras, the bright lights of the stage, the softboxes and umbrellas that would make any normal person squint and and turn away don't even make him flinch. but that's not to say it wasn't exhausting.

of course that was the small price to pay for a profession such as vil's. he has made the many greater sacrifices to get where he is in life. and although people who don't live the lifestyle he had would feel the intimidation of the showbiz world, he was surprised you didn't seem like it bothered you much at all.

the people of twisted wonderland adored you when you both started dating. it all seemed like a perfect fairy tale whenever they saw you and vil liked that. of course they weren't really far off. at the beginning it did seem like a fairy tale. you were perfect and even to himself it felt too good to be true.

and sure enough, it was.

majority of your dating life with vil was private but later down the line, after you got married, you both became more public about it. posting more pictures, going out together, attending events.

headlines of ‘the perfect couple’ turn into ‘the luckiest man alive’(referring to vil), to ‘[name]! the real star of the show’.

wherever vil went, people would ask for you. even in movie interviews meant for him—starring him. they were looking for you. they wanted you. they, “only really came because we thought [name] would be here!” in events where he was supposed to be the main attraction.

it's always you, you, you.

and at first he didn't mind. he was proud to have you as his partner. he even did feel like he was the happiest man alive for a while. but the more people asked for you, the more he felt the disappointment and sadness morph into something more bitter. his years and years of endless hard work and silent suffering against neige all came crashing back down in a repeating dance of fighting for acknowledgement. to be recognized as himself. and he thought he was finally over all that. working twice as hard and feeling—being overlooked. but you... he knows you don't do it on purpose. it's not your fault you're so easy to love. vil knows you would never purposefully overshadow him but whenever he sees you in the red carpet waving and smiling at the crowds all cheering and chanting your name like you were some sort of otherworldly being, he couldn't compete.

the way they all run to you without even so much as acknowledging his presence beside you felt the same as getting thrown tomatoes at and booed to him. and he remembers he was even booed at some point for not bringing you along on a public trip!

he didn't know when the sadness fully morphed into bitter resentment but whenever you were alone he found himself criticizing your every move. his subtle, snide remarks of your (perfectly well) clothes turned into full on insults. sometimes he would even guilt you into not attending events you were exclusively invited to.

and he knows you would never betray him. so you take it all quietly. you knew leaving vil would only villanize him more in the public eye. no matter what, he was still your husband and you made a sacred promise on the altar.

you both smile for the cameras in public, the mirage of the most perfect couple to be advertised to the whole of twisted wonderland. but behind closed doors are the heated arguments, the endless screaming, the nights you spent alone in your once lovely home curled up in bed.

your husband might have loved you once, and this hurts him just as much to admit—but vil can never love you again in circumstances like this. but you're both given no choice but to bear it.

there really is no business like show business.

⑇

idia shroud ‹ ignihyde ›

there is no doubt idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to stand out in his own. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor and this isn’t just because of his years and years of experience in strategy games or looking for ways to try and escape social situations he hates so much, but also because he’s just a master at running away from situations.

the only situation people thought he could never escape from was standing with you at the altar. the “most horrifying” day of his life.

to think a hermit shut-in nobody like him would find himself in a lifelong commitment with someone is just absurd. but here you are in your miserable state of trying to get him to get out of his room. constantly bugging him to spend time with you—he’s already married you! is that not enough?

idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor. and he’s spent enough time with you to know exactly how to break you without getting his hands dirty.

he finds himself buying a different house, far from where you are. under the guise of working better with no distractions. lies of saying he would call but never did.

endless nights of you pacing your room, phone to your ear hearing the ringing over and over and over again.

it just kept ringing and ringing and you wanted it to stop. you needed it to stop. you needed an answer.

and when the other line of your connection was the sound of company—of a companion—who was willing to give you the attention you deserved from such a cruel life, idia finally shows himself.

idia shroud is a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one. he knows how to turn a situation in his favor. and he’s always known how to win a game. you've fallen into his trap. he has the receipts of your conversations with the other person you were seeing, the photographs, the evidence. and as he slid the piece of paper and pen towards you on the other side of the table, a cocky grin on his face feeling like he'd finally got exactly what he wanted, he caught a glimpse of your sadness.

your melancholy in the way you picked up the pen and read through the divorce papers of his orchestrating. idia felt a tsunami of guilt wash him away as the sight of all the pain he caused you was so vividly clear to him now. but instead of signing, you drew a line across the piece of paper that was his path to ‘freedom’. and what idia saw that replaced the sadness in you was anger. resentment. betrayal of the worst kind.

there is no doubt india shroud s a clever man. he’s a genius in more ways than one.

but he is also a fool to think you were going to take all these hits lying down.

⑇

malleus draconia ‹ diasomnia ›

people had given you a heads up before you got married that malleus draconia was a serious man.

he married you, sure, but you didn't know what you expected out of this marriage. after all, a marriage arranged by two families didn't really promise much on the love department and your made peace with that.

but you didn't expect the lack of affection to be in this extent.

he wouldn't touch you, let alone even look you in the eye. malleus was constantly busy in his study or going out to attending other formal gatherings. The only times he would come around to spending a portion of his day with you was during dinner. and they were long, painfully quiet dinners.

he had a duty as the prince of briar valley, after all. but you understood that. but sometimes you lie around your empty bedroom thinking about how your life could have been so much more better. the agonizing silence, the awkward touches, the forced smiles. it all felt so terribly depressing.

surely your husband could at least pretend to be comfortable when he's spending the day around you. but somehow it's always just some form of... indifference. whenever you would show small forms of affection like touching his hand or giving him a kiss, he would just stand there, not returning. not reflecting the same amount of affections as you did with him.

and of course you tried your best to make it better. consulting those closest to him to you try to understand him whenever he talked about things he was interested in. you tried to show support on his projects and his interests. you even tried to get invested into the gargoyles and architecture he so dearly loved and finally you thought it worked.

the occasional invite to tea, the small acknowledgements, the small talks about the things he liked. you felt like all your hard work started to pay off.

but when you made your way through the long corridors of the castle with a box of something special in your hands picked especially for the prince one afternoon, your feet came to a halt in front of the mahogany double doors of his study.

two voices—muffled by the barrier between you and the people in the room but it was enough to hear the all important parts of the conversation.

“it all is such a pain, lilia,” he said, “they're constantly trying to catch ny attention. to show me affection. but it all just feels so... miserable.

“i have tried to take your advice. to be more open and responsive to their advances but it just doesn't work. i cannot love them the way they want me to.”

the conversation goes on but you could no longer listen. the ringing in your ears were far louder drowning out any other sound around you.

you made your way back to your chambers silently slipping away.

that night malleus asked about the present left in front of his study and you only sighed softly in response

“it's simply my misery, sir.”.

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