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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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topguncortez · 1 year

Text

Older, Wiser, More Experienced

Spring Break Kickback | Masterlist

synopsis: Bradley knew you were innocent, but he wasn't just sure how innocent you were.

prompt: “There is no way anyone is that innocent.”

word count: 3.1k

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, Bradley is 35), oral sex (f receiving), mentions of phone sex, blink and you miss it corruption kink, a dash of daddy kink.

Bradley wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into when he first walked up and asked for your number. The aura you gave off was a sophisticated one. You handled yourself with such poise and control that he surely thought you were near the same age as him. But then he watched as the bartender asked for your ID, and got a glimpse of the last digits of your birth year and nearly had a heart attack. You asked him if the twelve year age gap was an issue for him, and he just shook his head and smiled.

You were twenty-three, but very mature for your age. You graduated college two years prior, and landed a good job with a well known law firm in LA, handling some high profile clients. You told Bradley that you had to grow up quick, your childhood anything but glamorous. You spent your high school and college years with your nose in your textbooks, determined to get into your dream school and become a lawyer. He admired your charisma and spunk that you had. He liked girls who had goals and followed through with them.

However, those years of spending time alone in your dorm and apartment set you vastly against the rest of your peers. You didn’t know how to tell him, slightly frightened of how he would take it. You had only had one “boyfriend” if you’d even call it that, and he dumped you the second you said you were a virgin. But Bradley was different from college frat boys, but alas he was still a man. And you. . . well you hardly knew the first thing about sex. So, just like how you did in college, you began researching. And man, were you both terrified and intrigued.

Bradley never pressured you with the sex stuff. He was a proper gentleman, and decided to take your cues on everything, not wanting you to feel uncomfortable. Hell for the first six weeks of being together, he didn’t do more than hold your hand. It was a constant battle to not just lean in and kiss your plump lips, but he knew that his mother would smack him if he did without your permission. But then one day you turned to him during the middle of the Lion King and asked him to kiss you.

He had been caught off guard, and it took him a second for his mind to catch up, but he obliged by your request and kissed you. And since that night, nearly two weeks ago, it was like a beast had been unleashed and was clawing its way out of you. You didn’t know that even the simplest kiss could send that shiver down your spine and in between your legs like those smut novels you read could. For the past couple weeks, that’s all the two of you have done, shared quick kisses here and there. But now you laid your head on his chest, you wanted more. His brown eyes were trained on the TV screen in front of him, and you looked over his features.

“Just take a picture, sweetheart,” Bradley looked down at you and you quickly looked away, a blush on your face. You were silent for a moment, before looking back up at him and he looked back at you, “What’s up, darlin?”

You opened your mouth to say something, but suddenly words failed you. The only thing that came to mind was to kiss him and that’s what you did. Bradley reacted within a split second and kissed you back, but as he went to pull away, you put your hand on the back of his neck and deepened the kiss. He was surprised, but didn’t show it. His hand went and rested on the thigh of the leg you had draped over his. His rough palm sends shivers up your body as he moves his hand up and down your skin. You pulled away breathlessly, but pulled his head down to place kisses on your neck.

“More,” You pleaded and Bradley nodded, the hairs of his mustache tickling your skin as he kissed your neck. You closed your eyes tightly as you felt that familiar pulsing in between your legs. That oh so delightful feeling that you had never indulged in, but loved so much. Bradley had been the only real guy to bring out that feeling, and you wanted more of it. As if he could read your mind, he pulled away from your neck and kissed your lips again, shifting your body so he could set you on his lap, straddling him. His hands ghosted down the sides of your body before resting on your hips, pulling you down even more. You gasped as you felt something hard against your thigh, and you pulled back from him.

“What? Too much? I’m sor-” Bradley began to speak but you shook your head, “Talk to me, sweetheart, please.” He gently cupped your cheek and ran his thumb over the supple part of it. You loved when he did that, and nuzzled into the warmth of his hand.

“Bradley, I. . . I’ve never done. . . You’re the first guy I’ve ever kissed,” You admitted and Bradley slowly looked up at you.

“What?”

You wanted to hide, but you knew it was now or never. That if Bradley wasn’t the man you thought he was, it would be better to get the heartbreak over and done with now, than let this go on any longer. You were trying to conjure up in your head what you were going to say next on how you would explain your lack of experience without sounding totally pathetic. That’s how guys your age saw you. Pathetic. What twenty some year old had never had her first kiss? But something deep down, told you that Bradley was different.

“There is no way anyone is that innocent,” Bradley said.

Well, not anymore.

You snapped your head up at him, tears welling in your eyes and he quickly regretted every word that just came out of his mouth. He didn’t mean for it to sound bad. It was that he was utterly shocked. He knew that you wanted to take things slow, and so did he. He was in no rush to just get down and dirty. He genuinely cared about you, and wanted this to be more than a friends with benefits thing. But he didn’t know that your apprehensiveness was due to inexperience. Which now the way you looked at him, made him feel like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“No, baby, it’s not like that,” Bradley said and rested both of his hands on your back.

“Then what is it like, Bradley?” You spat.

“I mean it as. . . You’re a virgin.”

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest, “I am. But I’m not some bible prude.” You turned your nose up and Bradley couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, “I just haven’t found anyone that makes me. . . get. . . mushy?”

“Mushy?”

“That’s how they describe it in the books.”

“Books?”

“Yeah you know like. . . spicy books,” You mumbled. You knew that if you held a tomato up to you right now, you would not be able to spot a difference.

You watched as that boyish grin spread across his face, “You read porn?”

“It’s not porn!” You slap his chest and Bradley chuckles. He wraps his arms around you and brings you in close, so your head is resting on his chest. You suddenly realize that you really like this position and you think that Bradley can tell too.

“I’m following your lead here sweetheart. You tell me what you want to do. I’ll do whatever you are comfortable with,” Bradley said, running his hands up and down your back. You nodded and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. You gently moved so you were laying on the side of him, your head still on his chest and his arms around. He hummed in satisfaction and squeezed you a bit tighter.

— — —

True to Bradley’s word, he had followed your lead completely when it came to sexual things. You hadn’t done anything more than just some making out and on top of the clothes touching, but you knew he was dying to do more. And he knew you were too. It almost caused you pain to push him away, put you were scared of that feeling in your body as you’d grind against Bradley’s lap. Bradley was doing what he could to help you, letting you know that the “mushy” feeling you were feeling was normal and encouraging you to touch yourself when you were alone.

You didn’t know the first thing about masturbating, but luckily Bradley knew a thing or two about female pleasure. He had called you one night, and walked you through the steps. On what to rub, what to touch, how it should feel. You were almost one hundred percent sure that you stopped before you could actually orgasm. The shaking of your legs and that tight feeling in your stomach was too much. Bradley promised that once you actually did it, it would be the most euphoric feeling you ever felt.

“Bradley,” You whined out as his hands skimmed up under the sweatshirt you were wearing. The two of you were having yet another movie night at his place. You were slowly making your way through the Harry Potter series, the fifth installment acting more as background noise than entertainment. Your wear leaning against the arm of the couch, with Bradley nearly on top of you, both of your legs crossed over his lap as you two made out.

“That’s my name, honey,” He said against your skin. He pulled away from you, so you could see his face, his hand grabbing yours and intertwining your fingers with his, “How can I be of service?”

You had been practicing how you were going to say this all week. It wasn’t something that he had even brought up yet, but during one of your research dives you had come across a rather interesting video. And of course that video led you on a deep dive into other videos, but they were all the same, with all the same outcome.

“Do you. . . do you like, uh, oral sex?” You asked him.

It was silent for a moment as Bradley had to restart the computer that was his brain. He wasn’t sure how such a simple, innocent question, turned him on so much.

“Uh, yeah, yeah. Yes, I do like oral sex,” Bradley said. All guys liked a good blowjob every once in a while. Bradley would be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamed of the day you’d get on your knees and put his mouth on him.

“Do you like. . . giving it?”

No one had ever asked Bradley that question before and it had taken him aback. But he nodded and said, “Yeah. I do like giving oral sex. Why do you ask, sweetheart?”

He watched as you fiddled with your intertwined fingers, and as the blush creeped up your neck. You smiled softly as you looked up at him, eyes blown wide with lust and wonder.

“Could you. . . Could you give it to me? Oral sex, I mean.”

Bradley could not think of a single sensible word in his head, so all he did was lean forward and kiss you until his mind could catch up. No girl had ever asked him to give them head, and not that he expected them to. He’d always ask the girl if she was okay with it before he settled between their legs, but he had never flat out been asked like this. And it made him want you all that much more. Bradley pulled back from the kiss and nodded, pecking your forehead.

“Yes. Yes, I can give you that,” Bradley said and you nodded like an eager child on Christmas, “Get comfy, baby. Do you want to stay here or go to my room?”

“Here, please,” You answered quickly. You hadn’t ever seen Bradley’s room before and for some reason, going to his room felt too. . . intimate. You weren’t ready for that step yet, so you let Bradley help you sit up so your back was resting against the back of the couch, and he could kneel in between your legs on the floor.

Bradley kissed you passionately, one of his hands tangling in your hair, while the other rested on your hip. You placed your hands on his shoulders and pulled him as close as he could get with the couch in the way. His hand on your hip slowly crept its way towards the front of your yoga pants. You knew that he could probably feel how wet you were through the thin material, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You needed him. You needed him in a way you never needed a man before.

“You can stop me at any time,” Bradley murmured against your skin, as he pressed hot kisses to your neck, “Just pull my head back and I’ll stop.”

“What if I don’t want you to?” You asked and Bradley smirked.

“Then pull me in closer,” He whispered against your lips. A shiver ran down your spine as Bradley sat back on his heels, his fingers hooked into the top of your pants and pulled them down your legs. You knew that green was his favorite color, and you went out to buy a dark green pair of lace panties for the occasion, “Too good for me,” Bradley’s voice had an extra rasp to it, as his finger traced over the lace pattern covering your cunt, “All so cute and untouched. . . just for me.”

“Just for you. . .” He smirked as he could hear in your voice that you were holding back one small little word, but he’d let it go for now. You’d say it when you were comfortable enough to. And Bradley was dead set on getting you to say it.

Bradley leaned forward, so his head was resting between your parted thighs and placed a kiss on the wet spot on your panties. Having him so close to where you had dreamt about him being was like a headrush, and your hand went to his hair for support. Bradley chuckled as he placed another feather light kiss in the same spot, and nuzzled his nose against your cloth covered clit.

“Haven’t even gotten to the good part and you’re already gripping on for dear life,” He said and you felt your ears turn red, “It’s okay, sweet girl. I got you. I’m gonna take these off now, okay?”

“Okay, Bradley,” The sound of your voice was so innocent, and trusting. It filled Bradley with a sense of pride that you trusted him so much to be your first. He sore that it made him fall in love with you even more.

Ever so carefully he pulled the panties from your body, setting them gently next to your pants. He grabbed one of your ankles, placing a kiss on it before putting it over his shoulder. He leaned in closer to you again, grabbing your other leg and putting it on his shoulder. You looked up at the ceiling and gulped, then you felt his tongue on you. Your jaw dropped, a silent gasp leaving your mouth as your eyes fluttered shut, your hands in his hair. He licked a stripe from your opening to your clit, getting the taste of you on his tongue. He swirled his tongue around your opening several times, before finding your clit.

“Oh!” You moaned, as he sucked your clit into his mouth and then swirled his tongue around it. This felt better than you could’ve ever imagined it.

“Can I touch you?” Bradley asked, and you had to open your eyes and look down at him to focus on what he was talking about. Then you felt it, his finger gently rubbing against your folds, “It’s up to you. I can just use my-”

“Yes. . . Touch me,” You answered and Bradley nodded.

He briefly pulled his hands away from his core to stick his middle and ring fingers in his mouth to wet them, before he was placing his middle finger back on you.

“This might hurt, tell me if it’s too much,” You grabbed Bradley’s free hand and squeezed it, letting him know you understood.

His mouth was back on you, his tongue lapping at your clit, and you felt the feeling of his finger sliding into you. His finger was much larger than yours, and you felt a slight stretch but then it went away and pleasure filled your body. Now you were moaning, not trying to hide the sounds you were making as Bradley ate you out. Between the movement in and out of your core to the way his tongue sucked and swirled around your clit, you were in total bliss. Bradley was right, this was the most euphoric feeling ever.

“Christ! Bradley, I. . . Oh my god!” Your back arched as you felt that familiar feeling in your belly. The one that would always make you stop immediately and lay panting on your bed. Your legs began to shake as your stomach contracted, “Bradley, I-”

“It’s okay,” Bradley said, and kissed your thigh, “Feels good, doesn’t it?” You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes from the beautiful feeling, “Then let it happen. Just let me make you feel good. Just close your eyes and let it happen.”

You nodded and your eyes fluttered shut as he put his tongue back on you. You screwed your eyes shut tightly, and Bradley grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers. He looked up at you right as the dam broke; your back arched off the couch, your mouth wide open in a silent moan, your legs shaking, nipples hard. It was an absolutely beautiful sight. He believed that you were painted by angels. He kept fingering you and lapping at your cunt as you rode out your high, hearing as the breath entered your lungs again. You very weakly pushed his head away, and Bradley sat back on his heels, his mouth glistening with your cum.

“I. . . I never let that happen,” You were still seeing spots in your vision, but it slowly started to feel like you were coming back down to the planet earth, “I always stop when I start to feel that. . . uh-”

“Orgasm?” Bradley asked, his hand was rubbing your bare thigh and you nodded, “Poor girl, you’ve been edging yourself for weeks. No wonder you came so hard.”

“Edging?”

Bradley chuckled and shook his head. He leaned up and placed a kiss on your lips, “My sweet girl. . . I have so much to teach you.”

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow my library blog for notifications when I post:) @cortezslibrary

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shadowandlightt · 3 months

Text

Of Nightmares and Memories /three/ Azriel x reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two

The night of Calanmai came. You were buzzing with energy. You dressed in old clothes, and wrapped yourself in Lucien’s cloak, trying to hide your scent as best as possible. To anyone else out there, it would look like you belonged to the fox. That you were his and no one else’s. Which would also keep you safe from anyone creeping a little too close.

“Stay with me, do you understand?” Lucien questioned.

“I know, I know.”

The beat of the drums outside grows louder and louder. You could feel them in your soul, begging you to run out and join the fun. You ached with anticipation. You were going to leave this dreaded house and finally see your brother again.

You just wanted to lay eyes on him and know that he was still in there somewhere, and wasn’t the monster everyone believed him to be. Certainly he was doing what he had to do to survive? Certainly your sweet caring brother was still in there, buried deep within?

“Come, we don’t have much time,” Lucien said, leading you out of your rooms.

You shiver against the cool night. Though you weren’t sure if it was the cold that was making you shiver, or the thought of seeing him again. You couldn’t tell him who you were, couldn’t allow him to realize you were still alive.

He would destroy the spring court and with it any hopes of beating Amerantha at her own game. If Feyre could just admit that she was in love with Tamlin, which somehow you had a feeling she was slowly falling for the Lord of Spring, everything would change. Maybe you could go home again.

You longed for home. Longed for Valaris, and the group of fae that you called family. You longed for Cassian and Mor constantly fighting and joking. You longed for Amren and her grumpy nature. And Azriel…your Az. The person who seemed to understand you more than anyone else in the world. You longed for him most of all. He was so quiet and understanding, and so beautiful in every possible way. You wished you would have told him. But you were still just a child.

You were still so young when Tamlin and his family took you. Barely even eighteen, but you aged slower somehow, so while you were of age, you barely looked sixteen. So small and young. So much of your life stripped away from you.

You feel Rhys before you spot him. You feel the night rippling off of him, calling your own powers out to play. The headache slowly sets in at the base of your skull as you try to reign in your own shadows and darkness.

He’s talking to Feyre, and for a moment you smile, because you could see them together in another life. Perhaps if she’d been born a Fae. Perhaps if Rhys needed to be the one to break Amerantha’s curse, and not Tamlin. Because you hated the idea of Tamlin getting to be happy with Feyre once this was all said and done. You hated the fact that she would live out her few good years with that beast.

“What do we have here?” His silky voice questioned, violet eyes looking you over, “Already have a play thing, Lucien?”

“Not quite,” I spoke up, daring him to recognize me from beneath the glamor.

you could feel his mental claws scratching against my shields, looking for a way in. He would not find one, of course. Having been trained to block him out since you were old enough to understand the concept.

His eyes narrowed at you, taking a step closer towards you. Meanwhile, Lucien hissed at you to stay put while he dragged Feyre back to the manor house, leaving you alone with Rhys. You ached to tell him, but you couldn’t. If you told him you’d be dead before the next moon rise.

“Who are you?”

You bite back the bile that rises in your throat, “Lucien’s…friend.”

“No, you aren’t.”

You only smirk and try to force your way into his head again, sweat starting to bead on your forehead.

“If you were his friend, you wouldn’t be full of faebane.”

“Maybe I choose this.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he tisks, “Poor little lamb, stuck in spring.”

“I’m far from a little lamb,” You hiss back, hating that you sound and feel weak.

You are weak, in every way that matters now, you’re weak. And Rhys can’t do anything to help you. He can’t take you away from here, he can’t save you. Because he can’t even save himself. He’s stuck under Amerantha’s thumb, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. Your only hope is that poor human girl to actually fall in love with Tamlin. What a fate that would be.

Lucien returns, dropping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. You had to do something, anything to try to let him know you were alive. That you were here. You were right there, just silently begging for him to notice you. So you did the only thing you could think of and flung out what little power you had left. You scratched down his mental shields, already feeling sweat beading on your forehead.

At this point he’d turned his back, ready to move away from the boring conversation. But your little outburst caused him to spin back around and stalk towards you. You thought he might go for your throat, might kill you right there for daring to do anything to him but he didn’t.

“I could kill you right where you stand,” He hisses at you, “Without breaking a sweat.”

“Ah, but you’d have to catch me first,” you struggle to say from the strain of the faebane, “I hear I’m like the wind.”

His eyes widen, hands reaching for you, before Lucien took hold of you and dragged you away. You were back in the manor house before you could even think. Lucien started to yell at you, drowning out the sound of the drums outside, which were growing louder and louder. The rite would start soon, Lucien would be needed.

“What did you say to him?” He demands.

“Nothing, you heard me.”

“No, that meant something!”

“Just something I used to say as a child,” You shake your head, “I’m going to bed. Have fun.”

You wave him off as you go. You felt heavy and tired. But somehow so invigorated. Your brother was still your brother, you knew that. Deep down he was still Rhys, and not the monster everyone believed him to be. Deep down, he was still there, just waiting to come back out like everyone else.

That night you dreamt of your wings. Flying over Valaris with Rhys and your mother. Laughing with Cas and Az at the House of Wind. You dreamt about everything, and at the same time nothing.

“I’m going to get you, little star!” Rhys laughed from behind you as you ran away from him.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” You yell, jumping off of the ledge, “I’m like the wind!”

The air catches your wings and pulls you along. You smile and giggle as you pivot to avoid Rhys again. The wind whips through your hair as you fly, you don’t bother trying to stop it. It only makes you laugh harder. You feel so free as you fly higher and higher over the city. You wonder for a second if they can hear you laughing down in the Rainbow.

You’d have to stop back down there today, you wanted to listen to the music some more. Maybe purchase a painting or two for your rooms. Maybe you could convince Cas or Az to come with you.

Arms reach around you, causing you to shriek. Rhys’ laugh filled your ears and you relaxed into his arms. It was rare to have moments like this now. Your father kept him so busy, much to yours and your mother’s dismay.

He pulls you in close and laughs as you nudge him with your elbow, “I love you, little star,” He whispers to you above the wind.

“I love you too, Rhys.”

When you wake the following morning, you have tears in your eyes. Your pillow is wet with them. You do not get out of bed that day.

Tag List

@historygeekqueen @wallacewillow0773638 @sstrohma @saltedcofeesotch @hnyclover @thelov3lybookworm @queerqueenlynn

#acomaf #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #acotar fic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger

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throwaway-yandere · 2 months

Note

Ansy maybe I can send an idea about this. Maybe this yandere is turning into a zombie/monster, Reader sacrifices or willingly let's the yandere eat reader so the yandere wouldn't hurt others. Other idea, Yandere is a monster/cannibal and reader has a flesh that is very addicting to eat so yandere feels guilty for eating their darling but can't as darling tastes so delicious.

A/n: I'm actually currently writing the prompt I got earlier so here's some short ideas. also, what's up with me writing cannibalism fics for two older brothers with blue-white color schemes?? *shrug*. I'll go with the 2nd idea-ish (I'll tweak it again) in this one. First time doing headcanons so... I'll adios lol.

Content Tags: hello its yandere cannibalism lmao + Whodunit spoilers

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who strangely takes too long to respond to his childhood friend's messages. You're starting to get worried that he's spending too much time inside the dreamscape. Although your race greatly differs from his- being an ordinary human resident and all- you heard numerous stories that Halovians tend to carnally seek glamorous feasts after hosting series of events.

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who finally replied to your recent message, telling you "DON'T COME, PLEASE." with bold capital letters. You can only raise an eyebrow, considering you're already on his front door with a fruit basket at hand. In hindsight, perhaps you should've considered giving him a heads-up beforehand instead of rudely announcing your visit. But you are genuinely worried for his overall wellbeing, especially given what happened to his sister.

And perhaps, you were also just looking for someone who could understand your grief as well. He wasn't the only one stripped of their family so suddenly. The thought of your friend starving himself had pushed your own sadness away in favor of sheer platonic worry. That was how strong your bond was.

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who shook, mortified at the knocks on his front door. As much as possible, he can't let you in. The current nightmare he calls "HUNGER" was an unforgiving beast. He leaned against the other side of the closed door, breathing heavily.

"(Y/n), n-now is not the time for a visit! Forgive me for this crudeness, but I shan't open the door at present." You hear him inhale shakily. "To have you see me like this undermines all the work I've put in our... friendship."

You sighed. "Alright, I'm sorry. But... can I please just leave this on your porch?"

"... I will not bar you from doing so..."

"Thank you."

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY whose hands refused to stop trembling. You're so close. He can almost taste you behind that door. A chill runs down his spine as he noticed just how much his mouth was watering at the thought of taking a bite.

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who thought himself most detestable for his cravings. The Odes of Harmony preaches honesty among its many virtues, and he would drown himself for omitting the grim truth from you. THEY will not be happy with this relapse of his.

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who bit his thumb, drawing blood. THEY wouldn't endorse this behavior from a representative of the Family.

YANDERE CANNIBAL!SUNDAY who looked at his bleeding finger and laughed sorrowfully at the lingering question on his mind.

Whose blood was it? His... or THEIRS?

Sunday could never be at ease after committing this crime. A Halovian like himself would never allow their vision to be clouded in red, and it appears the devil had saw an opportunity to hurl at two birds with one stone. But that would be an inaccurate way to describe it. His wings had not been clipped; he had brutally torn it away himself.

Penacony's most shrewd man lied to the arrogant fool that evening. There were four murders in that timeframe. One was a stowaway, the other was his precious sister, and the last pair was both your father and mother.

THEIR vision of a happy future for you did not welcome HIM.

All he recalls now was their polite disapproval turned screams when he made an attempt to ask for their blessing. Sunday only realized what he had done the moment he had sunk his teeth down your mother's arm, noticing how your father was already but boney remains of himself.

This Halovian ancestry's secret... it served him no good.

Why was he born into this race and why wasn't he raised just like you?

"Watchmaker... How can I ever forgive myself for this...?"

How can he dare proclaim to mete out justice when he deserves to be served the same sentence? "Sunday" himself is a transgressor, unworthy of yielding Harmony's name.

What heathen he was, to partake in flesh and blood that was not for his stomach simply because they both smelled just like you. What heretic he was, to place anger and hunger above his better judgement.

What karma it was, to find out his sister has been killed in his moments of guilt.

What retribution it was, to face that what he had done to others, will be done unto him.

#ansy-writes #yandere sunday #tw: cannibalism #yandere fic #yandere hsr #yandere sunday x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere honkai #yandere #yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere x you #tw yandere #male yandere #yandere headcanons

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creekfiend · 9 months

Text

medieval tapestry beast

#glimmer glamor #the truest appeal of sighthounds is that thyre all medieval tapestry beasts

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 28 days

Text

Datura Pt 9

Summary: With the bargain in place, you'll have to learn to hide your powers while navigating a possibility of allies within Amarantha's court.

Content Warnings: Slight NSFW, suggestiveness, canon typical violence, allusions to assault.

Author's Note: As a little treat for the last chapter being so short, this one is loooooonnnngg. A couple familiar faces make an appearance here, as I decided I wanted to start combining the Hybern storyline with the UTM storyline.

Part 8 is here, rest of the series can be found here

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Again.”

Breath rasps out of you, hands doubled over on your knees, sweat dripping off your forehead. The pounding in your skull intensifies with each labored breath, spots dancing across your vision as you shake your head. “I can’t!”

“You can.”

You raise your head enough to shoot the High Lord of the Night Court a glare. Easy for him to say, he’s not the one shifting forms over and over again. Do High Lord’s even have other forms, aside from Spring? You can’t recall anymore, your head hurts too much. Rhys had decided days ago--at least, you think it’s days, time has become irrelevant in this dark dungeon cell Amarantha has left you both in--that the best way for you to gain control of your powers to better hide them, is to learn how to control the shift. Yours is not quite a beast form, you’re not fully transforming into some sort of beast, but you can grow fangs and claws and shift your eyes into something other. There’s something deeper there you haven’t quite touched, the image of it reveals itself in your dreams, sometimes as this shapeless empty void, others with scales, but you’ll have to dig deeper for whatever that thing is. For now, it’s dampening your power and glamoring your bargain mark, and keeping a harness on the fangs and claws. It’s excruciating, letting them out and shoving them back in, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve done it already. And Rhys just sits there in the corner, watching intently, giving instructions and being a general pain in the ass with each of them.

“Did you think it was going to be easy?” Rhys returns.

You massage your jaw, the throbbing from retracting your fangs making your whole face hurt. “Of course not asshole! I’m just saying a little compassion would be nice.”

Rhys smirks, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted to be babied and treated like a doll.”

You snarl at him like an animal, eyes blazing and your fangs slide into place effortlessly, pricking your bottom lip.

Rhys stands with a grunt, body still recovering from the beating he’d received and the strain on his powers. “You’re so easy to rile up,” he croons, stalking closer. “You wear every emotion so plainly, it’s almost too easy to get you right into this position. And what happens when someone other than me sees, hm?”

He’s right and you hate it.

He stills when he’s only a hair breath away. “I know it’s hard,” he says more gently. “But consider the alternative.”

You don’t want to even think about the alternative. This bargain has to work, you have to make it work, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how long it takes. You can’t let her win.

Your eyes go to the marks still gouged into Rhys’s neck from the collar; his healing abilities have started to return slowly, but he still can’t get the chain off, the wounds still rubbed raw from any and every movement. You can’t let her keep doing this to him either.

“Fine,” you huff.

“Good girl.”

The remark gets him a nice flash of your middle finger before you go back through the steps he’d taught you. It is nice to have the banter between you as a distraction to the reality of your situation, to the cold and darkness that have become a constant companion here far beneath the Mountain. The lack of food and sleep from the elements and the sounds of things prowling around outside is hard enough to bear without the looming threat of Amarantha’s return. This easy thing between you takes the edge off.

You last maybe an hour more, before you slump against the wall, exhausted.

“You’re doing good,” Rhys affirms from his side of the cell. There’s barely enough room for the two of you to stretch your legs, knees brushing as you stretch your weary muscles.

You want to believe him, but you know the confinement is taking a toll on your body. Perhaps part of Amarantha’s plan is to let you go half mad in the dark of the dungeons for your insubordination. At least you had been let out of your room from time to time. Locked away like this, you’re tired more easily. With powers like yours you should be able to do this for longer, but it feels like you’re trying to move the Mountain one rock at a time.

You rub a hand over your face, smearing the filth on your hands from touching the floor across your face. “Don’t patronize me.”

“You can be doing good and still need a lot of work,” he replies. “I thought you wanted me to be sympathetic?”

“Yeah well it means less if I had to force you to say it,” you retort.

He moves so he can come sit next to you. If he had any plans to say anything, it’s halted as the lock on the door slides out of place and it creaks open.

You instinctively reach for his hand, breath caught in your throat, waiting to hear that ominous click of heels on the stone floor. But it’s merely one of her red skinned guards, pushing a single tray across the floor before slamming the door shut again.

Rhys gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before leaning around you to grab the tray, a single, burnt loaf of bread and a cup of water between the two of you.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

He rips the bread in half. “Don’t get all mushy on me now.”

You take the half he offers, stomach rumbling, but you can’t bring yourself to eat it. What’s the point?

“Tell me about it,” he says after a beat. “What’s so special about your little farmhouse in Spring.”

You bring your knees to your chest. “It had a lot of sunlight, for starters.” You miss being able to curl up by the windows with your books and a cup of tea, miss going out into the fields to check the mares and their calves, miss finding an excuse to go into town to listen to the minstrels play in the square.

“I miss my bed and that old quilt I bought off a seamstress on the side of the road,” you continue, tears welling in your eyes. “And my books.”

“What do you like to read?”

“Anything,” you reply. “Everything. Never really mattered to me. Unless it was about math. I hate math.”

Rhys huffs a laugh. “What did math do to you?”

“It’s evil and stupid and who fucking puts letters in with numbers?” It’s such a stupid statement you can’t help but laugh as the words come out. “But I’d read nothing but books about numbers for the rest of my life if it meant we got out of here.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to pull some from my library for you,” he teases.

You turn to look at him. “How have you survived this long, Rhys?”

He washes down the rest of his food with a bit of the water in your shared cup, violet eyes looking anywhere in the cell but your face. “One day at a time,” he says like it’s something he’s said every day. “And… and when it gets bad I think about my friends, my family. I make a list of their names and I recite it in my head until I don’t feel so lonely.”

You take his hand again, because what else are you supposed to do? You cannot magically make this all end right here and now. It will take time. Maybe that’s what hurts most, because this is the first time in weeks you’ve felt like you understand how your powers work, how you can use them, and yet there’s nowhere to direct them. It’s all a waiting game, moving pieces into the right places until you can finally put all this to use. And cauldron is the waiting game grating on your last nerve, but it’s only been a few days. Rhys has been here for fifty. Your heart aches for him.

“But I think,” he finally turns to look at you, and his violet eyes are damp. “I think I’ve forgotten what they look like.”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Some days I want to just lay down and quit,” he whispers. “But I can’t. I won’t. Then she wins and everything I’ve set out to do, to protect, was for nothing. I can’t let it be for nothing.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “It won’t be for nothing.” You won’t let it either, you just need to rest for a bit, then you can get back to it.

He leans his head against yours. “We’ll get you back to your books and your quilt.”

“We’ll get out,” you whisper. Maybe if you tell yourself it enough it’ll be true.

“We’ll get out,” he echos.

After sitting like that for a few moments, collecting yourself, you choke down the stale and mostly ruined bread and little bit of ice cold water you’ll get for the day. It gives you enough energy to get back on your feet at least. Your head still throbs from the strain, but you brace yourself against the wall and will it to pass.

“Let’s try those glamors again.”

“That’s my girl,” Rhys praises.

You focus your attention on the thing that lives in your chest, hoping his position on the floor keeps him from seeing the blush that creeps its way up your neck under the possessiveness in his tone. The banter between you is one thing, but anything else is dangerous territory, and you can’t risk any more danger in your life than you already have.

---

Time passes mostly the same after that, with a little more banter as the tension of being locked up builds between the two of you and a little less vulnerability, granted, but the training regime is the same, until your headaches become less frequent and his jabs at you make you feel less and less like a reason to bring out your claws. The shift becomes a little more bearable over time, and glamoring the bargain ink across your chest becomes the next focus. It takes all your attention for what feels like days, but it’s anyone’s guess.

The progress should make you feel more comfortable, and it does in some ways, but makes you jumpier in others. Every noise outside the door has you checking to make sure a glamor is in place, has you running your tongue over your teeth to ensure your fangs are hidden. Its been steadily getting colder in the cell, the only true indicator that time is passing, and if you can manage to sleep around the shaking of your body, your dreams have started to become less of a call of your powers and more of nightmare of clicking heels and bright red hair and rooms with black vials full of terrible potions. Rhys isn’t any better. Sometimes he wakes screaming, a bit of night chilled darkness seeping from his flushed skin. Some nights you find him staring dutifully at the door, unable to sleep at all.

You’re not sure how much more of this either of you can take before one of you starts bashing against the door again. Between the two of you, perhaps the damage he’d already done would be enough to get it open for real, but what would you do from there? It wasn’t like you could escape. Even if you managed to get out of this cell, she’d just throw you in another.

So you do your best to endure a little longer, even if that means coming up with new ways to cope with it. Cuddling with the High Lord of the Night Court hadn’t really been an option you’d considered until one night it had become so unbearably cold that you could see the clouds of your breath in the air and there wasn’t a full set of clothes between the two of you. Trying to conserve body heat, you’d rolled right into his bare chest and he’d greedily buried his freezing nose into the crook of your neck, teeth chattering against your skin. He’d mumbled something about conserving body heat and that had been all that you were willing to talk about it. From that point on, if you were tired, you’d just lay down next to his large body and let him wrap his arms around you for however long your body could manage to rest in these conditions.

It wasn’t that it felt wrong, it was that it felt right. You could see yourself tangled up like this, in a nice bed, with some warm blankets and fluffy pillows, sunlight streaming through a window above your heads, finally free and out of this terrible place. You try not to let your imagination go too far with that thought, but sometimes it’s the only reason you keep getting up and training; even if it isn’t going to happen for real, at least there’s something to imagine waiting for you at the end of this. You just make sure your shields are up when the thought runs away with you, lest he see them as his powers start to return.

“Your nose is cold,” Rhys says by way of greeting. You can only assume it’s morning, assume that your internal clock still works and that you are, in fact, still on some sort of sleep schedule, but it’s anyone’s guess really.

You crack an eye open to see what he’s talking about, grumbling about it being too early. At some point, you’d nestled quite snuggly into his chest, face buried in the crook of his neck, despite the collar.

“So are your hands,” you retort, closing your eyes again.

He drags one up your back, where the tattered remains of your dress bare your newly scarred skin, in retaliation.

“Bastard,” you snarl but you don’t pull away. Pulling away means waking up; means counting the cracks in the ceiling again, pacing until you feel some warmth in your body again. Pulling away means you have to face another day in this cell and you’re not sure you can do it without bashing your fists into the door Rhys had nearly ruined already.

“You like having my hands on you,” he returns.

“Do I?”

“You were practically begging me to touch you on Calanmai,” he says huskily, warm breath ghosting over your ear.

Your stomach does a little flip at the memory of his hands on you on Calanmai, at the hunger and want that had been so plain on his face you could almost taste it. Things had been so simple then, you didn’t need to worry about letting your own want show. Not like now. “Oh yes, because a night of magic induced horniness is the indicator for what I want.”

But you do want it. Cauldron boil you do you want it. Every drag of his calloused palms across your bare skin makes you want to arch further into his touch, let him explore and taste and claim every bit of you. It’s becoming unbearable. Calanmai was nothing compared to this.

“So what do you want then?” Rhys asks as his hands draw shapes in your skin, near the base of your neck. You swear you hear a hint of vulnerability there, like there might actually be more than banter in this question.

“To sleep,” you reply, because you can’t allow anything more to happen. Amarantha already knows you care enough about him to surrender your powers, if she knew it was anything more, she’d kill him just to spite you.

Rhys hums like he’s thinking about it, but eventually says, “We should train more. Your glamours need more work.”

“Bite me,” you grumble. Training has become even more exhausting. It’s useful stuff for sure, but holding onto your power for too long, then stuffing it back down is starting to feel suffocating. Your powers beg to be unleashed, free and unrestrained from the boundaries you are drawing out for them. No, you can’t allow yourself to think about what you want to happen with the High Lord, but you can’t bring yourself to get up, so here you remain, in limbo between the two. Maybe if he lets you drift back to sleep you’ll never have to make a decision between the two.

He brushes his lips over the shell of your ear, “Ask nicely.”

Your treacherous heart skips a beat at the huskiness of his tone, heat flaring in the pit of your stomach. “Make me, High Lord.”

A laugh rumbles in his chest. “Darling,” he purrs, “don’t start games you can’t finish.”

You have two options here: You can leave it be and get up, leave the line you have made between the two of you right where it is and not have to worry about it; or you can hold your ground and risk stepping right over that boundary line. You know you’re teetering on the knife’s edge here.

“Why wouldn’t I finish?” You turn your head enough to look him in the eyes, batting your eyelashes in feign innocence, even though you know damn well what you’re doing.

He moves so quickly you don't have time to realize it’s happening before he’s rolling you over onto your back, the solid, heavy weight of him pressing you into the floor. All rational thought eddies from your mind as his hips shift against your own.

“You have a lot of attitude for someone so set on going back to bed,” he says and you can’t help but note how dilated his eyes are, the violet almost wholly consumed by his pupils.

This somehow feels more intimate than what you had been doing on Calanmai, despite the fact that his hands were firmly planted next to your head instead of roving over your skin. Gods you hope the filth of the cell covers the scent of your budding arousal because this--him--you want, need, more of it.

“I can be more than one thing at a time,” you reply. It’s taking all your restraint to not reach your hands out and touch the muscles that ripple across his tattooed chest from holding himself up above you. Even after a few days locked away, you can’t stop thinking about how it would taste to run your tongue over those dark swirls of ink.

His eyes narrow as if he can hear your thoughts, and shit, you realize too late that your shields have been down this whole time because you’d thought, since he was still recovering, those daemati powers would be the last to come back. There’s not time to throw your shields up before his lips are crashing into yours.

You’d thought Calanmai was as desperate for something as you’d ever feel, but it’s nothing in comparison to the hunger that consumes you as those full lips settle against your own. There’s no stopping the groan that tears itself from you as he slides a hand under your head, fingers tangling in your matted hair as he slips his tongue behind your teeth.

You see stars, taste citrus and jasmine. He invades all your senses so thoroughly that the very cell feels like it falls away until nothing exists in the world but the two of you.

Calanmai had been feverish, an itch that needed to be scratched, but this is like finding air after being underwater too long. You can’t help but feel dizzy and greedy for more as you drag a hand up the sharp contours of his back.

He hisses softly into your mouth when your fingers accidentally brush the collar and you pull back, finally coming up for air. “Shit, shit I’m sorry-”

But he chases back after you like a man starved anyway. “It’s ok,” in between more kisses, each hungrier than the last, “it’s ok.” You’ve never heard a male’s voice get so low, the sound of it making your whole body turn molten.

Still, you’re conscious of where you put your hands, and sensing your hesitation, he drags them over to his chest, inviting you to touch, to trace his tattoos just as you were thinking about doing the first time you’d seen them. Gods there isn’t a part of him you don’t want to explore; to map out and learn every scare and curve across his bronze skin.

You would have too, if the lock on the door didn’t suddenly click out of place. The resounding echo is like ice water being dumped on your head.

Rhys slides the hand under your head down your back and around your waist, yanking you up off the floor with him while he stands. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he places one last, gentle kiss on your lips. “Remember what we practiced.”

Your head is spinning, legs shaky. Nothing makes any sense. Why is he stopping?

The door opens and more of Amarantha’s guards step in, but there’s no tray of food this time, just a single, metal collar. The sight of it is like having water dumped on your head, all thoughts of Rhys’s body on yours drifting away as reality crashes back into you.

“Her Highness requests your presence,” says one of the two.

Only two. If they were here for Rhys there would be, at least, four, after the stunts he’d been pulling. He has to know that too, but he steps forward anyway, shrugging like it doesn’t bother him, like the smell of you isn’t all over him for anyone to scent.

One of the guards gets a hand on his chest and pushes him back into the wall. “Not you.”

Your mouth feels like it’s made of sandpaper; hands trembling at your sides. You can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t.

There’s a tug beneath your ribs, where the bargain ink lies, some sort of invisible thread going taught as Rhys says, “Breathe. Just like we practiced,” into your mind.

You want to duck behind him and hide, but you do as you’re told, drawing one breath, then another as the second guard steps forward and clamps the collar around your throat. It’s not the same, strange metal that used to dampen your power before, but why would it be when Amarantha thinks she has all your powers? As much as you hated the feeling of it, you kind of wished they’d used it instead, just as an extra barrier to keep your powers at bay.

What little bit of Rhys’s power has returned fills the cell, night chilled mist making the already dark room even harder to see in, save for a slight tint of stardust in his irises. “She’s done everything she was asked,” he snarls. “That collar isn’t necessary.”

“Her Highness says it is.”

You risk a glance at him, needing to steady yourself, dreading the fact that he’s somehow become so important to you that the thought of being taken out of this cell makes you want to start shredding things apart. How had you so quickly dug this hole for yourself.

“I’ll be right here. You can do this.”

They don’t waste any more time, dragging you out by the chain attached to the collar, like you’re some sort of wild animal. It’s degrading; makes you feel less and less like a person and more like a pet the longer time drags on. The guards are quick on their feet too, not giving you time to adjust to your surroundings or the blaring torchlights that make you squeeze your eyes shut as you pass. Cauldron, how long have you been in that cell?

You have just enough presence of mind to ensure your glamor is in place around your chest, before they’re dragging you through the open throne room doors. Another one of Amarantha’s nightly parties is in full swing, dancers in skimpy clothes spinning across the room; servants with pitchers of fae wine weave through the crowd, stopping at tables to refill the cups of several High Fae and someone you think might be the High Lord of Winter. It must be nice to have curied enough favor with the Queen that he was allowed to wander freely, instead of a cell, or, like the High Lord of Spring, chained to her throne. Tamlin’s golden hair is messy, undone around his face. The Mountain has stolen some of the color from his skin, though you suppose you look equally as pale now too. He wears his own, glittering collar, the golden chain draped over the bare expanse of his chest. Amarantha has inked her sigil over his heart, staking her claim over her mate. The High Lord’s eyes are so glassy from what you can only assume is the combination of mirthroot and fae wine that you doubt he’s even aware of where he is. It might be a small mercy, in the end.

The guards drag you through the crowd, where you earn more than a few snickers and stares. You’ve never been more aware of how much dirt clings to your skin until this moment. Gods you were making out with a High Lord looking like this? Could he taste the dirt on you?

You’re led right to the dias, where Amarantha wears a glittering, ruby red crown, her hair unbound and falling in soft waves around her pale face. She might have been pretty once, but the cruelty in her dark gaze was enough to sour it if you looked too long. She watches with amusement as her guards drag you over, eyes glinting with barely restrained glee. Her new little pet here to entertain.

They finally quit dragging you once you’re at the foot of the dias and the crowd goes quiet behind you.

“Have you had enough time to think about what you’ve done?” She croons like you’re a misbehaving child in need of a time out.

Your cheeks flush, but you focus your attention on keeping the damper on your power. You can’t let her rile you up so easily, that’s exactly what she wants. “Yes,” you grind out through your teeth.

She taps a pointed nail against her chin, as if thinking. “And yet you do not bow in my presence, or acknowledge me as your queen?”

A tingling feeling in your upper jaw is the indication that your fangs want to come out and play and you force yourself to take a breath, then another. Still, you have to grit your teeth and stare at the floor to give her a little curtsey, as best you can in your ruined dress anyway. “My apologies.”

“Again,” she says with a grin. “Like you mean it, pet.”

There’s a couple snickers from the crowd behind you.

You’re gritting your teeth so hard you’re sure they might just crack on you, but you take your skirts in hand and curtsey a little deeper this time. The only way you get through it is to picture all the ways you’ll make her pay for this when the time is right.

“No, that’s not right,” she frowns. “You should be lower. In fact, you should be on your knees, thanking me for the mercy I have shown you after you so violently attacked me. Most people don’t live to see the next morning after such things.” The eye on her ring swivels in a motion that makes you think it’s nodding in agreement.

You risk a glance around, searching for any sympathy, and support, but there is none to be found in the leering faces of the crowd.

“Go on,” she orders. “Beg for my forgiveness.”

Mother knows what she’ll do to you, or Rhys if you don’t, and you need to be in one piece to fulfill your bargain. Still, the move is so demeaning, your very nature thrashing against it that it’s an effort not to cry as you lower yourself onto your knees at the foot of her throne.

When you open your mouth to spew whatever bullshit you think will appease her, she cuts you off, “Lower.”

Your whole face is red with shame as you lean forward until your forehead touches the floor.

“Better,” she croons. “Now beg, pet.”

“Please,” the word sticks in your throat like it’s a rock. “Please forgive my violent outburst. It won’t happen again.”

She clears her throat, waiting for you to say it.

“It won’t happen again, Your Highness.”

“Try again.”

The crowd is laughing in earnest now and the tears are flowing down your cheeks. You hate this, you hate her, you want to rip her fucking throat out and make that dreadful, grating voice vanish from the face of the world.

“It won’t happen again, My Queen.”

“Much better,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “I told you I’d get her in line.”

You raise your head off the floor enough to see who she was talking to with that last bit, and your heart lurches into your stomach at the sight of the two figures standing to the side of the dias, staring intently at you. Twins, bearing the same dark hair, swept back out of their faces, their eyes the same slate gray. They both wear armor, finely polished over matching black tunics and pants, a bit of silver lining in the stitches of their well pressed clothes. But it’s the sigil, over the heart on their armor, that marks them as Hybern’s.

The female stalks over to where you’re still kneeling and yanks you up by the hair to have a better look at you. Gloved fingers poke at your lips, trying to get a look at your teeth and you wonder if maybe you really have been turned into some sort of animal.

“No fangs,” she muses, her voice like gravel, nothing pretty or feminine about it. “No claws either,” her hands move from your face to your nail beds, poking like you would at a cat’s paws to get their claws to come out.

You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood.

“You’ve tested to make sure you took all of her powers?” The male asks Amarantha and your blood turns to ice in your veins. If she tries to use your powers now then you’re doomed before you even get started.

“I’d be happy to demonstrate,” Amarantha says flippantly, but there’s an edge under it that makes you think even she is trying not to squirm. “But my formula has never failed me.”

“Yours?” The female sneers. “You’d be wise to remember who taught you how to make those potions, General.”

Hybern made Amarantha, Rhys had said, it only made sense that all these little tricks had been part of her training.

Amarantha takes another swig of wine and waves the disrespect off like a fly. “I’ll happily throw her into the Pit again if you are both so desperate to waste your own time with a demonstration.”

They stare at each other, having some sort of silent conversation. The female finally releases your hair and the ground rises up to meet you as you nearly fall back onto your face.

“No,” the male brushes a gloved hand over a speck of dirt clinging to his otherwise spotless armor. “I suppose that would be a waste of our time. We have other things to attend to while we’re here.”

It’s honestly a relief. Going back down into the Pit to fight more monsters without being able to summon any of your powers sounds like a complete nightmare, you’re honestly not sure you’re strong enough not to slip up and make a mistake.

“But we can still check,” the female purrs and that’s when you feel a mental claw raking across your mind. It is not like Rhys’s, not gentle or even teasing, it’s a slash, like someone is trying to cleave through your shields with a knife, and you instantly reach your hands for your head as if it’ll be any sort of protection at all.

You don’t dare call out to Rhys, or even think about what mental hoops you need to do to hide the bargain mark, the glamor should hold for a bit on its own while you put all your energy into tightening your shields against their onslaught. Rhys had been right about your cousins’ daemati powers, they were nothing like his own.

They keep clawing and poking, taking turns trying to tear your mind to shreds. It’s not gentle either, their presence making you whimper and writhe on the throne room floor, regardless of the embarrassment from the still watching crowd.

“Well there’s been some training here,” the female says.

“Be careful, Brannagh,” Amarantha hisses. “If you turn her mind to soup she’ll be of no use to us.”

You lock every door and throw up every barrier you can muster, even as they throw themselves against each one, testing for weaknesses. They’re an excellent tag team, every time you think Brannagh might give up, her brother steps into her place and tries again. You’re seeing spots by the time they release you.

The male’s boots come into view as he stops in front of your face. “If you’re so beaten, why won’t you show us how powerless you are, hm?”

It feels like someone’s taking a hammer to your skull, you pinch your eyes shut against the wave of nausea that makes the room spin. “Maybe I just don’t like you,” you hiss.

He too grabs you by the hair, twisting you so your neck moves at an awkward angle to be able to see exactly how badly the remark had hit him.

“Dagdan,” his sister warns. “Play nice. Our King wants her alive, remember?”

“They said your mother was this untamed too,” he hisses. “Before they broke her.”

You swallow the rage that rises up in your throat, clamp down on everything threatening to bubble to the surface and overflow, ruining all your plans. You have made it this far, you cannot let their presence get the best of you. There will be time to process all this later, when you’re back in your cell. Strangely, the thought of going back to Rhys soothes you, helps you settle.

“Are you done messing with my things?” Amarantha asks.

“She’s only yours until Hybern arrives to lay claim to Prythian, as is his right,” Brannagh says loud enough for the whole room to hear her. If there was any partying still happening in the corners of the room, it has ceased now, all eyes on the twins.

Amarantha is standing, wine glass clattering to the floor, splattering Tamlin, who doesn’t even look at it. “That’s enough! You will mind your mouths in my Court!”

Dagdan chuckles at that. “Did your Queen not tell you the truth?” Having found a new victim to play with, he finally releases your hair.

“I said enough!” Amarantha booms, both fire and ice flying from her fingertips. The Mountain trembles beneath her as the powers she’s stolen skitter uncontrollably from her. One eye blazes like a forest fire, the other has gone black and empty, a bit of Rhys’s stolen power flaring. “In my Throne Room you answer to me, regardless of who you serve.”

With the way she jerks back you think the twins might have reached for her mind to silence her, but you can’t be sure.

“You answer to Hybern, same as everyone else!” Brannagh challenges. “You were nothing more than an experiment, to test and see if Prythian was once again fertile ground for our empire. Did you really think Hybern would just let you walk in here and steal what is rightfully his?”

The crowd begins to whisper amongst themselves, apparently having not heard the news until now. You risk a glance around looking for the other High Lords, hoping some of them, perhaps the ones who had sides against Hybern in the War would be more inclined to fight. If you could gain allies, perhaps this would be over quicker.

There are many unrecognizable faces in the crowd, some High Fae, some lower, some concealed by the masks of Tamlin’s former court, some fully clothed in their servants’ garb. It is hard to discern between the glittering chandeliers and flickering torches who belongs to what court, and you have only vaguely glimpsed the High Lords themselves. Out of most of the faces, none even look your way, save for one red headed male, off to the side of a group of fire dancers. Golden eyes lock on yours for the briefest of moments before they dart away. If only you had your own daemati powers, perhaps this would be easier. You’ll have to talk to Rhys later about who your potential allies can be here.

“I was promised my part of the land and I will fucking have it,” Amarantha growls, turning your attention away from the crowd.

“You will take what you are given,” Dagdan returns. “And if you cooperate, maybe you will be allowed to keep this dingy little cave of yours.”

Amarantha bristles and sparks fly off her shoulders.

“You will do your part for the new empire,” Brannagh continues. “Lend us the Lord of Spring to lead us to the Wall. We’ll consider it proof of your undying allegiance and let your outburst slide.”

Amarantha glances down at where Tamlin remains staring at the wall, hands tightening into fists. “Absolutely not!”

“We can take him by force,” Dagdan says with a shrug.

She grabs the chain around her mate’s neck and yanks, dragging him to his feet. “I want him back by morning.”

Brannagh steps over you to get to him, gloved hands running appreciatively over the High Lord’s bare chest. “Maybe I’ll keep him.”

The wrong thing to say. Amarantha erupts in a wave of fire that has everyone throwing themselves out of the way. You roll backwards, away from it, slipping into the crowd. You think they might start fighting--they’re definitely screaming you can tell that much--when a set of hands settles on your shoulders, in what would look like to onlookers was a stranger helping you up, but those hands don’t lift, they hold you in place.

“Whatever Rhys is planning with you,” warm breath frames your face as the stranger puts his lips to your ear. “Tell him to move quickly. My father will side with Hybern and surrender up whatever army we have left at the earliest chance. He’ll want to get ahead of this. Summer and Winter do not have the strength to fight. Tell him Hellion is with us.”

Us. You risk a glance at him, at the auburn hair falling into your eyes. Not the High Lord of Autumn, but one of his sons.

“I’ll tell him,” you say softly, praying no one hears.

The male helps you to your feet. “Be careful. We might only get one chance.” And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd as the two females on the dias finally start to calm.

Amarantha is bleeding from a gash across her forehead, but Brannagh is laughing as she lets the blood from her nose drip freely down her face. “Mating bond chafing?”

Dagdan has managed to shield Tamlin, sparing him, of no kindness of his own, he is as inclined to look at the High Lord like he’d be his next meal as his sister.

“Get out,” Amarantha snarls.

Dagdan twirls Tamlin’s chain around his fingers. “We want proof the girl will be loyal when the time comes.”

“If a hair is harmed on my mate’s head,” Amarantha snarls in return. “I’ll pin you to my fucking wall.”

“Scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours. Otherwise, I’ll bring you back his head and I’ll take the girl and her powers back to Hybern, where we train in breaking goddesses.”

A few people in the crowd glance your way.

Shit, that’s what Rhys had been trying to tell you with that book he’d sent in your first couple of days here. Hybern had found a way to breed death gods. Your name would be on that list he’d made in the margins.

A guard finally comes to collect you as the twins drag Tamlin out of the throne room. Amarantha is apparently not done with her tantrum, as she begins throwing anything in reach, stolen powers swirling around her like a whirlwind. The crowd begins to slip away, fearing her wrath if they stay. For now, you’ve managed to keep your bargain and your powers secret, but your cousin’s words hang over you like a ticking clock. It’s only a matter of time before she realizes she has to test you.

-------------------------------------------------------

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#rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #acotar rhysand #acotar x reader #rhysand x reader smut #rhysand x reader angst #UTM!rhys #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #my writings #my fic #acotar series

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 6 months

Text

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors.

Blank, ageless, and suspicious blogs will be blocked.

The party was bustling with several guests as they mingled and enjoyed drinks together.

(Where is Emma now?)

She and I were separately entertaining the guests, but the merchants would notice me whenever I occasionally glanced at her.

Merchant: "You still seem to be getting along well with Lady Emma."

Merchant: "Speaking of which, I have an offer that she might like. Would you be interested?"

(These kinds of talks have been increasing lately.)

Silvio: "Alright, if you're so confident, show me."

The person who approached me was a skilled merchant who had gathered together a group of talented tailors.

He spread out before me the design of a gleaming, gem-studded dress.

Merchant: "This is a masterpiece crafted by a skilled artisan."

Merchant: "We also have matching earrings designed to complement the dress."

Merchant: "I think it would suit her."

(It's quite flashy. Back in the day, I might have considered it, but now that I know her preferences...)

Silvio: "Rejected."

Merchant: "Huh?"

Silvio: "It's not about the design. Emma prefers simple dresses."

Silvio: "Having this many gemstones would make her self-conscious."

Silvio: "If you want me to consider buying it, bring something that appears simple at first glance but has intricate, elegant details."

Silvio: "Gemstones are necessary only in moderation. She's already stunning without any extra accessories."

Knowing her preferences, I naturally get enthusiastic about giving orders to the merchant.

(Still, these people don't really understand her.)

(If they observed her usual behavior, they could come up with better proposals.)

As I thought about it, a bitter feeling welled up within me.

(Thinking about it now, I used to do stupid things like this before.)

Silvio: "Well, no matter what dress it is, Emma will be able to pull it off."

Silvio: "Someone as beautiful as her would outshine even the most glamorous dress."

Silvio: "That's why it's pointless for her to dress extravagantly. I mean, who could possibly outshine Emma?"

Merchants: ".........."

Silvio: "What?"

Merchant: "Nothing, we just thought that you truly loved her."

(.............)

I suddenly realized the inappropriateness of my previous statement.

(What the hell did I just say?)

(She didn't hear me, right!?)

I nonchalantly scanned the room and made eye contact with Emma, who had been accompanying the noble ladies.

It seemed like she had heard the conversation as a mischievous smile played on her lips.

(I've made a fool of myself.)

Overwhelmed by embarrassment, I grabbed a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp.

(Damn it. Now that it comes to this, I'll humiliate her even more than she humiliated me.)

Silvio: "Now that we've talked about it, I might as well finish the story."

Silvio: "Emma is not just elegant and refined."

Silvio: "There's something more important than money to her, and she has a strong spirit that isn't easily swayed."

Silvio: "She's a cheeky woman who, despite her small stature, takes on even the toughest enemies."

Silvio: "But that's the noblest thing about her."

Silvio: "Despite being a rabbit, she has the ferocity of a beast when she bites back."

Emma: "P-Prince Silvio! How about getting some fresh air for a moment!?"

Unable to endure any longer, Emma took my arm and forcefully led me to the balcony.

Emma: "Doing that in front of those people is so embarrassing!"

Silvio: "It's not a big deal. It's only normal to show affection."

Silvio: "What? You were grinning like an idiot a moment ago, and now you're embarrassed?"

(But the one feeling more embarrassed is me, you idiot.)

(Especially since everything I said was the truth.)

Emma: "Of course I'm embarrassed!"

Silvio: "........."

Emma: "My heart is racing so much right now. I don't think I can go back inside."

Her whispered words sounded so fragile that they seemed to melt into the sea.

I looked at her as the light sea breeze blew and ruffled her hair.

(Her face is bright red, even in the dark.)

Unable to resist, I instinctively sealed her lips and put my hand on her blushing cheek.

Emma: "Prince Silvio! Are you trying to make me even more embarrassed!?"

Silvio: "You say that, but deep down, I know you're happy."

Emma: "Well..."

Emma didn't retort, and her expression suggested she wasn't entirely opposed to it.

(Another reason to fall in love with you.)

Silvio: "We're alone now, so let me have another kiss."

(If I keep getting these cute reactions, I guess it's okay to be a bit more romantic sometimes.)

Taking her silence as consent, I leaned in to capture her lips again.

We enjoyed a kiss that tasted a bit of alcohol in the hidden shadows of the curtain.

#ikemen prince #ikepri silvio #silvio ricci #ikepri #ikepri jp #cybird #ikepri translations

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i-cant-sing · 2 years

Note

Speaking of Noaya's misogyny, what would his reaction be if someone else told fushiguro to do their laundry and basically degrade them in front of him. (Like I'm pretty sure I know the general answer but would like your thoughts on it)

Okay okay, imagine a new girl that Naoya had been sleeping with frequently, leading her to becoming an unofficial mistress of the clan. She's respected by the servants and a few of the female members, but she wants to be a part of the clan, which could only happen if Naoya married her. And to do that, she needs to win his heart or something.

She knows that you're important to Naoya, so when Naoya goes away for a mission for two months, she decides to use you to help her cause. She decides to turn you into a "proper lady of Zenin clan".

This time, we're gonna talk about teen reader here. So, teen reader is running around in the garden, bare feet and her clothes all muddy when the mistress calls you over. She gives you a disgusted look as she eyes you up and down before telling you to wash yourself because she needs to talk to you.

Since you'd overheard from the servants about how important she was to your uncle Naoya, you listened to her.

After cleaning up, she sat you down and tie you her plan of your "glamorous makeover" where she'd basically turn you into a lady fit for the misogynistic standard's of the clan. You laughed at her idea first, but when you realised she wasn't joking, you outright refused.

You were walking out of the door when she stopped you with one statement.

"Its what Naoya wants."

What? Your uncle wants this? He ordered her to help you become more "lady like"?

She placed a firm hand on your shoulder. "Your uncle has done so much for you, raised you, clothed you, fed you, sheltered you. And you can't even one thing for him?"

Her words were enough to manipulate you because after all, there was some truth to what she'd said. No matter how annoying you find Naoya, he had indeed raised you. He had given you the best of everything. And most importantly-

He hadn't abandoned you like Toji had.

So, you gave in. To please Naoya.

The mistress took control of everything.

No more runs, after all "it's not very feminine to run like a wild beast "

No more training or fighting, because "it's unattractive for girls to have muscles."

No more this, no more that, no more anything that made you happy.

She made you go to the kitchen and cook super intricate dishes, throwing away the food if it's a a little too salty. The kitchen staff had to hold themselves from wiping away your tears as they watched that vile woman berate your cooking.

She made you sit on your knees for hours until your legs went numb and didn't care for the tears.

And everytime you did something wrong, she made sure you were punished, brutally.

Be it by making you kneel on uncooked rice, or stand in the sun, or take your meals away, or even flogging your hands and calves.

None of the servants were able to help you because they were too afraid of the mistress complaining about them to Naoya. So, they helped her do whatever she wanted to do to you.

Right now, you were learning how to pour tea properly. You don't like tea, don't really drink it unless you're sick and Naoya forces it down your throat, but the mistress says it's an important skill to learn because "it'll make your husband happy".

Anyways, you had to sit a certain way, be completely uncomfortable, hold the heavy ass tea pot a certain way that left your wrists your hurting. You had been doing this for hours and you were now tired.

Well, disaster happened, as the pot slipped out of your hand and spilled hot tea all over your hands and lap.

You screeched at the scalding pain ans the servants rushed to help you, but the mistress? She walked over and slapped you across the face for destroying her carpet. She went on a whole derogatory rant about how stupid and useless you are, how you are an embarrassment for the Zenin clan, how you're a pain in the ass for Naoya, how he should've abandoned you because that's what you deserve-

"What. The. Fuck?" Her rant was cut short by the man standing in the door.

Naoya had returned from his trip.

He rushed towards you, pushing away the servants and his mistress. Naoya took ahold of your hands that had now turned red, and he could only imagine the damage the hot tea had done to your lap. He looked at your teary face, you were trying hard to suppress your whimpers.

"Shh, its okay. I'm here, now. Come along." He pulled you up, before giving a pointed look to the servants. "Get her a fucking doctor right now!" The servants scrambled and gently took you from him, guiding you out of the room.

The mistress stepped forward. "Naoya, I-" But he didn't give her a chance to talk as he slapped her so hard, she fell to the floor.

"HOW DARE YOU?!" He bellowed, and from her position at the floor, she really imagined that this is what a predator must look like before it devours its prey. "How dare you touch her?!"

"Naoya- I- I was doing all of this for you!"

"For me?"

She nodded frantically. "Y-yes! I just- I know she is important to you, so I just tried to make her more lady like! So- so that you aren't embarrassed by her! I- I mean, you're always the one saying how rowdy and unruly she is! How wild she is! I was just taming her- for you!"

"For me? Taming her?" Naoya's eyes widened in disbelief as he grabbed her by the collar and shook her hard. "WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH!" He punched her in the face. "SHES NOT A FUCKING ANIMAL FOR YOU TO TAME! AND WHAT GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TOUCH A SINGLE HAIR ON HER HEAD!? YOURE BENEATH HER, BENEATH ME, BENEATH EVERYONE THAT BELONGS TO THE ZENIN CLAN, EVEN BENEATH OUT FUCKIN DOGS, YOU WHORE!"

Naoya threw her across the room before stalking towards her. "What the fuck were you even teaching her?! To pour tea, put makeup on, please a man like you pathetically attempt to do?! Huh?!" Naoya grabbed her face and yanked her forward. "Well, since you liked giving lessons so much, I'm gonna teach you something you'll never forget." He began pulling the woman by her hair, dragging her towards the table where the tea kettle was set. He grabbed the hot kettle and poured the scalding beverage all over her face, her screams only making him angrier as his treatment turned worse until she passed out from the pain.

Naoya walked inside your room where the doctor had finished bandaging you up. He had already finished interrogating the servants about what that vile woman had done to you (and he'd already dished out punishments to the servants for not helping you or even reporting to him earlier).

"I'm sorry." You said to him as soon as he'd entered.

Naoya narrowed his eyes at you. "Why are you sorry?"

"For troubling you. And I don't mean just today, I mean for all the time." You looked down, ashamed. "I just- I didn't want you to think that I take you for granted. I know and I appreciate everything you've done for me, especially since I wasn't exactly an easy child to raise-"

"Shut up." Naoya scoffed, sitting down on your bed. "I didn't do anything for you. It was all for me. Nobody forced me to take you in, nobody forced me to raise you. I did it all for myself. So don't try to make this into some sappy little thing where you start being grateful and expect me to hug you and console you because I won't. I don't care if you start crying, I'm not risking getting your snot on my clothes-"

You chuckled and Naoya 's lips quirked up briefly as well. He sighed. "Yes, you weren't n easy child. Yes, you're a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass. And I take care of things that are mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes, uncle Naoya."

"Good. Now, I know you're not stupid and you knew you didn't have to go along to her stupid ass orders, so why did you do it?"

You shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I thought that you'd like it if I was more feminine, more demure like the other women in the family."

"Idiot." He clicked his tongue. "The same rules don't apply to you that apply to them."

"Why not?"

"Because you're best when you're yourself. In fact, we are all best when you're happy. So, just focus on that. And stay safe. Also, I'd appreciate it if you'd sing my praises to the ladies of the family when you see them, I'm scared that they might poison me one day. You know what, just tell me what they say about me."

You shrugged. "I don't know, they mostly just say you're a bad influence, Maki says that you're a wannabe Toji, Mai says you had a thing for my dad- wait, did you? Is that why you adopted me? To lure my dad in? You want to be my mom? Should I call you that? Mama? MAMA-!"

"I'm gonna suffocate you with your own pillow tonight."

#yandere naoya zenin #yandere naoya #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #naoya zen'in x reader #naoya zenin #naoya x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu toji #jjk x you

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leonas-herbivore · 11 days

Text

Impressing Vil: A Masquerade Mission

Summary: You have the BIGGEST crush on Vil Schoenheight but you don't know how to tell him. How exactly do you tell the most beautiful guy in school that you like him? Luckily for you, the perfect opportunity arrives: the masquerade ball being hosted by Night Raven College! You decide to work hard to win over the guy of your dreams. But, do dreams... really come true?

Word count: 6,714

Thanks in advance for reading :) I love you all *kisses*

Damn! Only 20 minutes until the store closes! Maybe if I run, I can make it. The setting sun cast a long shadow on your zig-zagging form as you sprinted down the sidewalk. You shouted apologies over your shoulder as people complained about your reckless running. But time was of the essence! The situation at hand was a matter of life or death.

That was a lie. But it was still crucial. Night Raven College had planned a masquerade ball for Saturday night, creating an exciting atmosphere at school. What was even more intriguing was that it was going to be an interschool event. Supposedly, Royal Sword Academy was one of the invited schools, and judging by the groaning and muttering of the NRC students, nobody was thrilled. The posters decorated the walls all over campus about a month ago, and everyone had been talking about it since.

According to the posters, it would be a glamorous event: dressing up in elaborate costumes and masks and engaging in ballroom dancing—a prestigious event for a prestigious college. And to add to the level of prestige, it was going to be held at the castle, Chateau De Chambord. Rumors said that it used to belong to an ugly beast.

You needed one specific herb to complete the vision for your costume. Your legs burned as you stopped to catch your breath. As determined as you were, the realization that you wouldn’t make it to the herbal store started to sink in. A knot formed in your stomach. For a moment, you thought about giving up.

But would he give up? You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. No. He wouldn’t. You took another deep breath and prepared yourself. You had to keep going! Go big or go home! Before you could take a step, a honking stopped you in your tracks. A sleek black car pulled up to the curb. Your heart nearly stopped. Whenever this happened in the movies, somebody got kidnapped and murdered. You steeled yourself for the worst. The window to the back seat rolled down. You gasped as a familiar face appeared.

“Vil?! What are you doing here?” you asked him. His brow furrowed.

“I could very well ask you the same thing. What were you thinking sprinting down the sidewalk like that? You could have injured someone.”

“You saw that? There’s somewhere I need to be. So, I gotta go, but-” a thought popped into your head. “Hey, um. Beautiful Vil, the fairest one of all, heh.” You gave Vil the best smile you could muster. His face was the definition of unimpressed.

“Would you mind… giving me a ride? I’m going to the herbal store, Kingdom of the Sun. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s not far from here. Pretty, pretty, please?”

“Why, what a coincidence. I’m also heading there. The shopkeeper is an acquaintance of mine and was gracious enough to keep it open for me. Get in. I’ll bring you.” Vil said. He opened the door and scooted across the seat to make room for you. You pumped your fist in the air and climbed into the car.

“Villy, you’re the best!”

“How kind of you,” he mused.

As the car pulled away from the curb, you settled into your seat and plopped your bag next to you. You caught the eye of the driver in the rearview mirror and gave him a small wave. Vil had a chauffeur? After thinking about it, it made sense. He was a celebrity AND a supermodel. He totally deserved it.

You couldn’t believe what a lucky coincidence it was to bump into Vil. A few days ago, he told you that he was working on a big project and wouldn’t be able to hang out for a few days. Seeing him on campus became a rare occasion. You made sure to drop off extra fruits for him for his morning smoothies. Anonymously, of course. He couldn’t know it was you.

“Spudling?”

Vil’s clear voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You met his gaze. His perfectly shaped eyebrow was raised. You gulped.

“Huh? What is it?”

“Are you going to get up? We have a bit of a ways to walk to reach the shop. It won’t take long though.” he said.

“Oops! Sorry, I was just spacing out.” You gave an apologetic smile and hopped out of the car. The chauffeur rolled down the passenger window.

“I will wait for you here, Mr. Vil. Please give me a call if you need help,” he spoke. Vil thanked him and gestured to you.

“Walk with me?”

Your footsteps clicked on the sidewalk. You glanced at Vil. Looking at him was like looking at the sun; worth the risk of giving in to tickling temptation, to catch a glance of its heavenly beauty even when it blinds you. His eyelashes were long and perfectly curled. His side profile was truly a sight to behold.

But it was a shame you couldn’t see his eyes. He had such beautiful eyes. They always looked so clear and every time you gazed into them, a wave of calm would wash over you. Maybe in his past life, Vil was an angel. I could stare at him forever. A sigh escaped your lips. Vil’s hair swished around his face as he turned to look at you. Like a princess. You hoped he couldn’t see your flushed cheeks.

“How have you been, my dear?” he asked you. He called me “my dear”! You wished your heart would calm down. “I haven’t seen you in a few days. Working hard, I hope?”

You nodded and answered, “Yes! I’ve been studying really hard, and I’ve even incorporated a skin care routine into my schedule. I took your advice. My face feels like a baby’s butt. And by that, I mean, it feels soft.” Vil chuckled.

“A baby’s butt you say? Let’s see.” Vil stopped walking and turned to you. His thumb caressed your cheek. You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Hmm, yes. Very soft and smooth. I am so glad that you found my advice useful.” He smiled at you, and it was like looking at a sparkling pearl. You did your best not to pout as he lowered his hand from your cheek.

“Please make sure to come to me in the future if you ever need anything. I’ll be there to help you.”

“Aww Villy!” You grinned at him. You playfully bumped his shoulder. “I’ll always be there for you too! Although, I’m not sure how good my advice is. But I’ll do my best to help you.” Vil smiled again and bumped your shoulder back. The rest of your walk was in silence, though not uncomfortable. You were walking so close together, occasionally your fingers would brush his and your heart would sing. Eventually, the shop came into view. “The Kingdom of the Sun” sign glowed as its fluorescent light flooded the sidewalk.

You took a deep breath. Ok, this is it. The final piece! Buying supplies for your costume and mask weren’t cheap. For four weeks, you’d been working your ass off, trying to make enough money to get what you needed. You worked as much as possible after class, before class, and on the weekends. Your friends kept wondering why you were working so hard.

“Hey, what’s this all about anyway?” Grim asked you one evening after you’d returned to the dorm after a night shift. “Just for one party? Sure, it’s gonna be the biggest event of the year, but you never cared about parties. What gives?” You kicked off your shoes and plopped onto the dusty couch. You closed your eyes. A picture-perfect face filled your mind. Your heart skipped a beat. Those violet eyes and silky blonde hair. You thought you were over your blond boy phase. Guess not.

After the events of the SDC, you’d been spending more time with him. He was truly an amazing person. Beautiful inside and out. You don’t remember when your crush on Vil started. But one day, stupid Cupid shot you in the heart and you became a lovesick fool. You weren’t brave enough to approach him, so you started doing little secret things. You left little presents and love letters at his dorm. This went on for some time. Courage was elusive to you and after a while, you thought you’d never get the chance to tell Vil how you felt. But then, the masquerade was announced. It was the perfect opportunity to make your move. Of course, you couldn’t tell Grim that. You shrugged.

“What’s wrong with trying hard every once in a while?” Grim wasn’t satisfied with your answer and kept bugging you until you gave him a can of tuna.

You walked a few steps before a hand landed on your shoulder. You turned to see Vil looking at you. Even in the washed-out fluorescent lights, his beauty still sparkled like a flawless diamond. It was enough to take your breath away. You wondered if you would ever get used to how gorgeous he was. His hands reached up to your hair. Your scalp tingled as Vil ran his fingers through your hair.

“Hey, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Your hair and clothes are an absolute disaster. I assume it’s from all that running you were doing. I can’t in good conscience let you walk around like a disheveled vegetable. Now hush.”

Vil straightened your shirt. His fingertips brushed your neck as he adjusted your collar. It took every ounce of your willpower not to shiver in pleasure. Vil took a step back and gave a satisfied smile.

“There. All better,” he said and gestured towards the shop. “Shall we?”

The bell dinged as the two of you stepped into the shop. A pleasant aroma filled your nose as your eyes scanned the shelves of herbs and flowers. Vil waved to the shop owner and exchanged pleasantries. You followed suit. You left them to their conversation and set on your mission. Primrose, no; Briar Thistle, no. …Chimera breath? Yikes, that thing stinks. There it is! You grinned.

The last thing you needed was the blue star-shaped herb, Starflower. And it was sitting right before you, the very last one. The talisman instructions that you read said that this herb had the effect of courage. Just the thing you needed for the big night. As you reached out to grab it, another hand bumped into yours. There was only one person it could be. Your eyes met Vil’s.

“Oh! Sorry, Villy. Um, did you also need this?” you asked.

“Yes, I need it for one of my potions. I am quite curious as to why you need such an herb. I’m almost certain it’s not for class. What do you need it for?”

You bit your lip under his cool gaze. I need it to win you over on the night of the masquerade! And maybe we’ll kiss at midnight! I’ll leave with a lipstick mark on my cheek, hee hee. Oof, shouldn’t get ahead of myself. You couldn’t tell him the truth. Dying of embarrassment wasn’t on your to-do list. But if you lied to him, he would see right through it.

“It doesn’t really matter, ha ha,” you said. “Why don’t you just take it? I’m sure the things you need it for are more important.”

“You were running down the sidewalk earlier as if you had a lot to lose by not getting here on time. I have also heard some rather interesting rumors.” Vil crossed his arms. Sweat started forming on your forehead.

“Rumors?”

“According to what I’ve heard, you’ve been working a considerable amount for the past month. Strangely enough, it sounds like this all started when the masquerade was announced.” Vil wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you felt like a deer in the headlights. Who even told him that? Who started the rumors? What was happening? You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“Listen. I don’t know anything about those rumors. And what’s wrong with working hard?” you retorted. “You’re the one who’s saying how important it is to work on your inner self or whatever. That’s what I’m doing. Nothing wrong with that, right? Anyway, take the stupid herb. I don’t need it.” You turned on your heels and stormed out.

It took thirty minutes for you to walk back to your dorm. Your cheeks burned the whole walk back, and they still burned as you sat on the couch in the common room. Grim tried to ask you what was going on when you walked in, but your evil eye silenced him. You were impressed with yourself. Grim was not easily silenced. You stared at the ceiling as you munched on your dinner. You shouldn’t have snapped at Vil. Your anger and embarrassment got the better of you.

Didn’t people have anything better to do than talk about you? Since when did people take notice of what you were doing? A million questions ran through your head. You pushed your food away from you, picked the pillow off the couch, and screamed into it. Today was probably the worst day ever. You worked so hard to be able to buy that herb, and it was all for nothing. Not only that, but Vil probably hated you now.

“Hey, henchman!” Grim called out to you. It sounded like his voice was coming from the front of the dorm. You groaned as you lifted yourself off the couch. Your legs ached and burned with every step you took. Skipping leg day was a bad idea.

“What is it, Griiii-” your voice trailed off. Grim was standing in front of the open door, and on the other side of the threshold was the Queen himself. The brightest star took a break from the sky just to visit little old you at your little dorm. We are not worthy!!

“Villy! Um,wha-what are you doing here? Isn’t it late? Like, you should be in bed, getting your beauty sleep. Uh, not that you need it.” You stammered.

“It’s 7pm,” Vil said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Grim, could you give us a minute? I need to speak with your prefect in private.” You gulped. He was going to verbally mince you into a pie. It was the end. Grim’s eyes darted between the two of you. You screamed internally as he nodded to Vil and scampered back into the common room. You glanced at Vil.

“Listen, about what happened earlier-” you began to explain. Your words caught in your throat when Vil held out his hand. He was holding a small bag. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the “Kingdom of the Sun” logo. Did he buy the herb and bring it to you? He is SO sweet!

“Take it,” he said. You shook your head.

“I can’t take it. You bought it! And you said you needed it for a potion.” You pushed the bag away. “Really, it’s not that important,” you added. Vil sighed and grabbed your hands. He put the bag into your palms and closed your fingers around it. His hands were warm and soft; his fingernails were perfectly shaped. You melted under such a simple touch.

“Just take it. Please?” Vil pleaded. Arg! I can’t say no to him.

“W-well ok. But only because you said please.” you stammered. Vil smiled and patted your head.

“I don’t understand what’s going on with you. But this herb seems to be of great importance. I expect great things to come of it.” Vil said. You said good night to each other. You stayed in the doorway until you saw his figure disappear into the night. You looked down at the bag in your hand. Your stomach fluttered with butterflies. He said he had high expectations of you. You grinned. Not bad for a spudling. I can’t let him down! You closed the door and rushed to your room. With renewed vigor, you added the finishing touch to your costume. It had to be perfect. It just had to be!

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The morning fog lingered on the ground as you snuck over to the Pomefiore dorm. It was the day of the final boss: the masquerade ball. You decided to leave an extra special gift for Vil on the doorstep. It was a perfume that you made yourself. Even though anyone could see that an amateur had made it, you were still quite proud of yourself. You wrapped it in brightly colored paper with a big bow so it could easily be seen.

A little card in perfect cursive handwriting that took you a painstakingly long time to do were the words: To the Fairest One of All, Vil Schoenheight. I look forward to your radiant beauty at the masquerade ball tonight. Yours truly, your secret admirer. You would normally leave such a gift outside his bedroom door, but today was different. From afar, you could tell that the dorm was buzzing. People were hanging around the courtyard. Someone would see you and start asking questions. Sneaking into the building was going to be nearly impossible. Your best bet was to leave it by the front door so that when Vil came back from his morning jog, he would see it. You grinned.

Hopefully, Vil would love the present and be so moved by it, that the night of the masquerade, he would give you a kiss. You really wanted a kiss. You imagined looking in the mirror at a red lipstick mark, staining your lips. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you thought about it.

That was your plan. Completely foolproof. At least it would be if Vil wasn’t standing right there at the front gates. And… who were all those people? And more importantly, who was the guy with the balloons? Among the large group of people surrounding Vil, was a guy with balloons in his hands. You hid your gift behind your back as you got closer. The atmosphere was heavy.

The guy got down on one knee and released the balloons into the sky. Bang! Bang! Bang! The balloons erupted into fireworks of purple, blue, and red. With a wave of his magical pen, a bouquet of flowers appeared in his hand and a sparkling rainbow shone above his head. He held the flowers out to Vil, whose eyes were wide.

“Vil! I-I really admire you!” the guy’s voice boomed across the courtyard. “Will you please grant me the great privilege to be your date to the masquerade?” Gasps and low murmurs escaped the crowd's mouths. You could only watch in horror. You couldn't compete with that. The magical spectacle. The drama. The confidence! That guy knew what he wanted and went after it with no fear. You clenched your fists. I hate him. Vil blinked at hummingbird speed.

“My, what a bold proclamation. Well, I-" Vil looked up from where the guy was kneeling. Through the horde of murmuring people, like a magnet, his eyes met yours. A warmth decorated his face that you'd never seen before. Under normal circumstances, this moment would have meant the world to you. But a cold feeling washed over you.

The sound of breaking glass tickled your ears as your gift slipped from your fingers. A tightness gripped your chest. You couldn't stay here. Tears stung your eyes as you slipped away from the crowd. I was too late. How stupid am I? How could I think that Vil would choose me? Your steps felt heavy with every stride you took. I’m just a magic-less nobody. A stupid potato. You didn't spare Vil a second glance, even though you could hear him calling you.

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How annoying. Despite your grumbling and protests, Grim dragged you out to the masquerade. You didn't want to go. What was the point? But Grim was insistent. “C'mon! I heard there was gonna be free food! And I need my henchman to assist me. Better than sittin' here and moping. Get your costume, and let's go!”

So, there you were. In the castle, Chateau De Chambord. The magnitude of the castle was enough to take your breath away. Everywhere you looked, there were the fanciest decorations you'd ever seen in your life. You would never be able to afford such things. Grim trotted beside you as you made your way to the ballroom. Guests in fine costumes were all around you.

Someone was a leopard, and another person was dressed up as a chameleon. You marveled at the intricacy of their outfit. Their costume changed colors to match the surroundings. You figured they used magic. Man, magic is SO cool! Your grouchiness slowly disappeared with every new marvel and outfit that you laid your eyes on.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a full-length mirror in a small alcove. You pulled a grumbling Grim over to the mirror to get a look at yourself. You held out your arms and did a twirl. A cultivation of a month's worth of work on full display. You chose your costume to resemble a rosy maple moth. Pink and yellow striped the long jacket of your dress suit, which was a body of yellow. You used fleece to give yourself the fuzzy look of a moth. Your mask covered your whole face, the same color as your suit.

Large antennae crowned your head and fluffy tufts decorated your face. It wasn't the most elaborate costume, but your chest still swelled with pride as you admired yourself. The talisman you put together hung around your neck in clear view. You picked out a large silver pendant with a hollow glass container, so you could put your starflower herb concoction into the container. The glass looked like a sapphire stone. So far, you hadn’t noticed much change in your sense of confidence, but you hoped it would work soon.

Lively music was playing as you and Grim entered the ballroom. The dance floor was littered with people who were drinking and dancing. You wondered if you would recognize any of your friends. You wondered if Vil had arrived yet. Your heart squeezed at the thought of him. Maybe he had a date, maybe it was the guy who asked him to the dance earlier. They could be dancing together right now, holding each other close and gazing into each other's eyes. At midnight, they would share the best kiss of all time. You felt sick to your stomach. Suddenly, the party seemed dull.

Grim pulled on your sleeves and pointed to one of the buffet tables. Food was no longer enticing but nonetheless, your furry companion tugged on your sleeve with the eagerness of a small child. You sighed. The two of you waded through the crowd. Once you reached the buffet table, your eyes grew wide. You’d never seen so much food in your life. Everything looked and smelled so delicious. Grim was practically drooling looking over everything.

“Henchman!” he exclaimed. “Give me one of everything! It all looks so amazing!” He hopped up and down with excitement. You sighed heavily. Despite the delicious aromas invading your nose, your stomach was in knots. The whole reason you wanted to go to the masquerade was because of Vil. It was your one big chance to finally make your move.

But it was all for nothing. You should’ve seen it coming. Of course, someone was going to ask Vil to the ball. He was a popular guy. It was stupid of you to think that no one would ask him out or even worse, that he would wait for you. He didn’t even know how you felt, why would he wait for you? You weren’t even sure if he felt the same way. In hindsight, it all seemed so foolish. But you wanted to follow your heart.

“Hey! What are you sulkin’ for? Is this about Vil?” Grim’s question made your stomach flip. I think I’m going to puke.

“What are you talking about?” You demanded.

“You like him, don’t you?”

“WHAAT?! How did you- I mean I don’t- It’s just that- Ugh!” You nearly shouted. If Grim figured it out, then everyone else must have too. That is so embarrassing. Grim huffed.

“It was kind of obvious. You look at him like he’s the best thing since canned tuna. Your eyes get all sparkly and your face lights up like a Christmas tree whenever someone mentions his name.” Heat rose to your cheeks. Luckily, the mask covering your face hid your embarrassment.

“This is... bad. REALLY bad. I thought I was being subtle!” You exclaimed.

“You’re about as subtle as a brick to the face,” Grim said. “Well, did you ask him to the dance? Is he meeting you here?”

“Uh...no. Someone else asked him earlier. I-I missed my chance.”

“So that’s why you were all droopy earlier.” Grim paused for a moment. “Do you... want to talk about it?” You shook your head.

“No thanks. But I appreciate your offer. For now, I’ll get your food for you, and we can just chill out for the rest of the night. Ok? So, go find us a table. I’ll find you after I make your plate.” Grim hesitated for a moment before nodding and scurrying off. You sighed again. It was going to be a rough night. You reached out your hand to grab a plate and bumped into someone else’s hand.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” You exclaimed. The hand belonged to a peacock. Or rather, a person dressed as a peacock. The iridescent blues and greens complimented each other so beautifully. A long train of plume trailed behind them by their waist. A blue mask covered their whole face with bejeweled stones. Your jaw dropped. “Wow! Your costume is so gorgeous. You look like royalty. Really. You should totally have a crown.” A thought suddenly crossed your mind. How long have they been standing there? Did they hear me and Grim talk about Vil?

“Thank you.” The person behind the mask chuckled and you could've sworn you recognized it from somewhere. “Your costume looks wonderful too. Is it handmade?”

“I can't tell if it's a compliment or a curse that you could see that. But yeah. I made this myself. I worked really hard on it! It took like a month to get it together.” You answered and puffed out your chest.

“Of course it's a compliment. I can tell how hard you worked on it. You should be proud of yourself.” The peacock's voice was so kind. You blushed at their compliments.

“Ah, please pardon me from before. For bumping your hand.” The peacock handed you a plate. “For you.” You thanked them and began to pile Grim’s plate with everything on the table. One of everything, as requested. After filling the plate to the brim, you waddled over to where Grim was sitting. He was easy to find with his flaming ears. It made him look like a glow stick in the dim light.

“Thanks.” Grim chirped cheerfully as you placed his plate in front of him. Nothing made Grim happier than a big plate of food.

“Yeah, sure. You’re welcome.” You said. You huffed and slumped into your chair. Beside you, you heard the scraping of a chair. The person from earlier, in the peacock costume, sat beside you. A meager meal sat on their plate as opposed to Grim's tower of food.

“Would you mind if I sat next to you?” The person asked.

“I don't see why not. Uh, I didn't catch your name before?”

“My name is Vi-Vincent. A pleasure to meet you.” Vincent extended his hand to you, and you shook it.

“Nice to meet you too! The ravenous raccoon over there-" You jabbed a finger in Grim's direction.

“I am NOT a raccoon!” He complained. You were surprised you could understand him with all that food in his mouth.

“Ha ha, right. My bad. That's Grim. Maybe he's a cat?” You shrugged. Vincent inclined his head to Grim before turning back to you.

“I was wondering if you would tell me more about your costume. I'm so intrigued. How long did it take to you to finish it?” Vincent asked.

“Oh, it took about a month. I've been working at several part-time jobs to buy all the pieces I needed. It's supposed to look like a... look like a...” You trailed. A nagging feeling was tugging at your mind. There was something about Vincent that felt so familiar. His posture, how he talked. His presence comforted you which was odd considering you’d never met him before. Or had you?

“Like a what?” Vincent asked.

“Oh, um. Like a moth. It was my inspiration.” You answered. You squinted your eyes trying to get a better look at the eye holes in Vincent’s mask. The shadows across his face and the dim atmosphere made it impossible to see his eyes. Still, that sense of familiarity didn’t leave you.

“Well, your hard work most certainly paid off. And I must say,” Vincent pointed at your talisman. “That is such a lovely blue color. Is that sapphire?” You shook your head.

“It does look like one but no. It's a little potion I mixed together. I used an herb called Starflower. That's what's making it look so blue. It's supposed to increase confidence.”

“How impressive. But, if you don't mind me asking, why would you need such a thing? Was it for the masquerade?” Vincent asked. That’s a weird question, right? Why would he need to know?

“Uh, well…I guess. Actually, I was hoping to ask out my crush tonight. I chose this herb to help give me the courage to do so.” You shook your head. “But I don't think I'll be able to ask him. He came here with someone else.” Tears stung your eyes. You still couldn’t believe that you missed your chance. Vincent tilted his head.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Huh?”

Before Vincent could continue, the music changed to a slow song. Couples gathered on the dance floor, swaying and holding each other close. Your shoulders slumped. One of those couples out there could've been me and Vil but…

Vincent stood up and extended a gloved hand towards you.

“May I have this dance?”

You gazed at his outstretched hand. You weren’t sure what was going on, but your heart was pounding in your chest as the wheels in your mind were turning at lightning speed. A normal person would take that as a sign that something was wrong, and it would be best to go home. But only one person made your heart soar the way it was soaring now.

Vil? You had to know. And you would only know if you took his hand. You reached out. Your palm slid into his and his fingers curled around your hand as he helped you rise to your feet. Through gloved hands, warmth seeped from his to yours like sunlight pouring through the blinds in the early morning. And it was then that you knew.

Together you made your way to the dance floor, walking hand in hand, maneuvering between swaying couples. Under the light of a beautiful chandelier, Vincent turned to you. You gasped as his hand held your waist and he pulled you closer. The music couldn’t be heard over the desperate drumming in your chest but luckily, Vincent was taking the lead. You only had to worry about was following his movements and trying not to stare at him too much.

“Are you alright?” Vincent’s voice murmured over the pounding in your ears.

“Y-yes. I’m ok.” You paused for a moment. “What did you mean before?”

“What?”

“When I told you my crush came here with someone else. You asked me if I was sure about that. What did you mean?”

“Ah, well. What I meant was-” Vincent went silent for a moment. “Well, did you see him say yes? To the other person who asked him.”

“Well, not exactly but, it was a really impressive proposal. There were balloons, flowers, and fireworks! I can’t compete with that. I’m just a potato...”

“A potato, you say?” Vincent mused.

Hmm, he didn’t take the bait. Let’s try something else. You wracked your brain. Something about Vil. There were so many things that ran through your mind about him. His eyes, his lips, his hair, and his beautiful smile. How hardworking and smart he was; he was so gifted and talented. It still shocked you that he wanted to be friends with someone like you. He was a swan, and you were a crow.

But honestly, Vil wasn’t the kind of guy who cared about status. He cared about people for who they were and who they could be through hard work and dedication. Maybe that’s why he wanted to be your friend. Because he saw something beautiful within you just like you saw the beauty in him. And that the beautiful thing inside you, maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for him to feel the same way you did about him.

“Your talisman!” Vincent gasped. You looked down. A bright blue light shone from your talisman, illuminating the two of you. Calmness washed over you like spring rain and a warmth radiated in your chest. Your morning slump was no longer important. It didn't matter that someone else asked Vil to the dance. The only thing that mattered was right here, right now. You could do anything. You could take on the world. You could get the guy. You had an idea. It was time to show off what you were made of.

“Check this out!” You proclaimed.

You pulled Vincent (aka Vil) even closer to you and took over the lead. You weaved your way across the dancefloor, twirling and stepping. The other dancers, the room, everything faded away as you danced with the most beautiful person in the world. This was it, now or never. You had to win him over! You gazed into Vil's eyes. The mask made it difficult to see him but you thought you caught a glimmer in his eye. As the song came to a resounding close, you did one last elegant spin before delicately dipping Vil. You heard him gasp as your hand held his back. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath.

Between heavy breaths, you spoke. “I know it’s you under there.” You smiled with triumph. “Beautiful Vil.” You felt him tense under your touch. You helped him stand upright and clasped his hands.

“Heh. Did I give myself away?” he asked tentatively. You smiled even wider.

“Vil, you are the sun. I would recognize you anywhere.” You squeezed Vil’s hands. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

“Please tell me.”

“Villy,” You took a deep breath. You’ve been waiting for this. “You're an amazing person. I've never met someone as dedicated and hardworking as you are. Every time I look at you, you take my breath away. I’m crazy about you and I want to be with you. I know I may not be worthy of you but I promise to become someone who is! I'll work really hard and-" Vil cut you off.

“Darling... Take the mask off.”

Without hesitation, you took your mask off. Vil did the same. Under the dim lights, there he was. His smile lit up your heart. He cupped your cheek with his hand and looked deep into your eyes. Finally. You could see his beautiful violet eyes, sparkling like stars.

“You're an idiot.”

“Huh?! Hey! What's that supposed to-"

“How could you possibly think you aren't worthy of me?” Vil smiled. “You want to know what my favorite thing about you is? How you remain so kind and unapologetically yourself. So many things have happened to you since you ended up in Twisted Wonderland. Don't you remember when I overblotted? You were my greatest supporter, offering your shoulder to cry on and a listening ear when I needed one. You are so, so wonderful. And I am so thankful to have you in my life.” Heat rushed to your cheeks. Vil had never complimented you like that before. You almost didn't know what to say.

“So… even though I'm a potato, you feel the same way? You like me too?” You asked. Vil smiled again and you sighed.

“Well, they say actions speak louder than words. May I kiss you?”

You nodded so fast, you thought your head was going to fall off. As your faces moved closer and closer, you closed your eyes. His lips met yours. Warmth spread from your lips all the way to your toes like a flower blooming in spring. You wrapped your arms around Vil's waist as his fingers tangled in your hair. Your mind went blank as the kiss deepened, the feeling of his soft lips moving against yours was enough to make you see stars behind your eyes.

All too soon, Vil pulled away. He chuckled as he saw your pouting face. He planted a kiss on your nose but there was no way that was enough for you. You wanted more. Vil slipped your mask onto your face before putting his back on. He took your hand and led you away from the dancefloor. The music was nothing but a muffled booming in your ears as the warmth from Vil's hand enveloped yours. You followed him to the door leading to the gardens. The fairy lights decorating the tables and walkways hardly held a candle to the billions of burning stars that twinkled in the sky.

Vil made his way down winding paths until he found a secluded area with a bench and topiaries. He turned to face you and took off his mask. The stars paled in comparison to this beautiful man standing in front of you. You took off your mask and threw your arms around him and kissed his sweet lips. Euphoria overcame you as he wrapped his arms around your waist and returned your kiss. A thought struck your mind and you pulled away.

“A mirror! I need a mirror!” You exclaimed. You whipped your head around looking for one but there were none to be found. Vil cleared his throat. You squealed in glee as he handed you a compact mirror. Leave it to Vil to always be prepared! You flipped it open and gazed at your lips. You grinned. Blue stained your mouth from Vil's lipstick, proof that he was yours and you were his. It was perfect.

“Wow! Dreams really do come true.” You said. Vil raised an eyebrow at you but you only smiled at him in response. “So... what now, Villy?” He tapped his chin deep in thought.

“Well, there is one thing I was curious about. I wonder if you wouldn't mind humoring me?”

“Of course! What is it?” You asked.

“Was it you who left all those gifts outside of my bedroom door? And the broken perfume bottle and the written note were also from you, right?”

“Uhhh...” Your voice trailed off. “What if I did?”

“You are such a silly thing.” Vil laughed. “Did you really do all of that for me?”

“I wanted to make you happy and I’m glad it worked.” You sighed. “I love your laugh.”

“You know, there are other ways to make me happy,” Vil said and winked at you. You closed the space between you and kissed him. You pulled away and cupped his face in your hands. Your heart soared as Vil's face softened and his lips curved into a small smile. He took your hands in his and twirled you around. Together, you danced under the starry sky, the echo of the music in the ballroom, leading your steps. A whole month. You waited for this moment for a whole month. It was worth every single second, and you would gladly do it all over again just to live in this moment once more.

#vil shoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #twisted wonderland #vil twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland fanfic #fluff #this took a month to write #but i'm pretty happy with it

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