#OC: Red Rapid | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dnsbarbie · 2 months

Text

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x Nepo!OC

Summary: here !!!

Next Chapter

Notes: It’s here! Hope you like it. Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comment section. Let me know if you want to be added on the tag list!

In the midst of the bustling crowd, the whispers of the cool wind blew past Sofina’s figure. Her honey brown locks cascades down her back, jostling the perfected curls on her head. She produced a well-mannered smile at the cluster of people beginning to narrow down her walkway as they approached her path. Their collective voices sync achingly in her ears as the volume increased in a rapid pace.

She bowed her head, an attempt to conceal the mischievous smirk plastered on her face. Her fingers adjusted the sunglasses shielding her eyes from the blinding flashes of the cameras pointing at her face.

“See, this is why I don’t particularly like arriving with you.”

Behind her shades, she gave a sidelong glance to her company. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His lips thinned, brows furrowed at the earnest as he scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t see a problem,” She shrugged, a whimsical tone carried in her voice.

Joris looked at her, a scowl decorating his lips. He gave her a once over, deepening the lines on his forehead as he observed the aching differences of their attire.

Sofina graced the paddock in a white oxford button up, cream-colored wool blend high waisted trousers that was secured by a leather belt and a pair of flats and a watch that certainly cost as much as his house. Her whole ensemble mercilessly trampled on the white tee and light washed jeans he’d probably bought in a thrift store.

“We agreed to dress casual,” Joris sighed, shaking his head but the slight simper on his lips betrayed his expression. “You said you’d follow this time.”

“This is casual!” Sofina argued, smirk growing every passing minute of this conversation. She knew it wasn’t.

On Joris’s part, he should’ve known better. Sofina was the daughter of a prominent business magnate. She was a part of a family far beyond their wildest imagination. Exuding the confidence and prestige she naturally had was an aura no common man could possibly learn.

“I look like your driver.” He droned.

“Nonsense, you look dashing!” She assured, nudging his brooding stature. “And besides, my driver is somewhere over . . . there,” Raising her palm, she pointed to their intended destination.

Sofina smiled victoriously as she noticed his quiet relent, hooking her arm around his and proceeding to drag him through the mix of bodies despite his protests. They ignored the media’s shouts for attention as they weaved their way towards the obnoxiously bright red infrastructure that was otherwise known as the Ferrari motorhome.

Upon their arrival in the motorhome, they were immediately greeted by the roaming staff in the lobby.

The first to come near was the French Team Principal of Ferrari, Frederic Vasseur with his usual jolly smile.

“Sofina! What a pleasant surprise!” He gushed, lengthening his hand for her to shake.

The brunette returned his infectious delight, baring a kind smile of her own and taking his hand. “Surely it’s not that much of a shock that I’m here, Fred,” She jokingly tutted.

To which the Frenchman bellowed out a hearty laugh. “Of course not! I just was not expecting you to be so early. Everybody’s just warming up, you see.”

Sofina hummed, looking around the room. It was indeed a latish time for her to be here. In contract to the countless media outlets fussing about outside, Ferrari’s motorhome maintained a tranquil commodious space.

The clank of her shoes echoed through the air as it hit the marbled ground. Strolling further inside, she has yet to spot the one she was looking for.

“Charles is getting ready in his driver’s room,” Fred supplied as if having read her mind. “He will be out shortly. Feel free to have a seat in the lounge.”

Sofina nodded, flashing Fred a grateful smile before he went on to do his job.

She went ahead and sat down on one of the red polyester armchair while Joris settled in a duplicate just across her.

After a several minutes of endlessly replying to company emails and submitting “between life and death” documents to her father, the faint squeaking of sneakers finally broke the cycle.

Sofina instantly glanced up from her torturous tasks to be greeted by a certain emerald eyed, Monegasque.

“Charlie!” She beamed at him, standing up with her arms already reaching for him.

Charles’s dimples pop out from the corners of his mouth at the greeting. He happily granted the excited girl’s request, elongating his arms around her waist.

He chuckled as her antsy limbs encircled his neck, never-minding the constricting grip she has on them. Bending down, he allowed her an easier access that was suppressed by their differences in height.

She gasped as she pulled away, sending Charles into a frenzy at the sudden reaction. He searched her eyes for answers but was only given a cutting glare.

“Have you been eating well?” She interrogated, voice low but filled with nothing but concern. “You look thinner than when I last saw you . . .”

Charles raised an eyebrow, corner of his lips twitching at her exaggerated statement. “We saw each other last week.”

“And?” She asked, genuinely confused by his utterance.

Charles laid his palms on both sides of her face, blaring out her displeasure with the mission to smooth out the distress on her.

“Ow!” She hissed, swatting away his arm as pain seared in her cheek from his the ministrations of his fingertips.

“I’m fine, bébé,” He assured, bitting his lip to prevent the further growth of his smirk. “You know training in the first week is the most crucial. It’s normal to lose weight.”

“By this much?” She scoffed, motioning to his face. His cheeks were hollower, making his cheekbones more prominent and the thinning of his face were generally noticeable.

Charles tried to ward away her worries, placing a soft peck on her cheek before shifting his attention to Joris.

Sofina watched them engage in pleasantries, Joris mentioning how dressed up Sofina was. She merely stifled a laugh at the scandalize look that resurfaced on his features once more at the topic.

“Oh come on,” Charles quipped, eyes traveling from her feet to the top of her head. “She looks fantastic,” He winked, “You look very beautiful,”

Sofina gave him a thumbs up at his specification, amused by his antics.

“What do you need now? More money? A cheque? A car?” She raised a finger up to silence his mirthful face. “My soul?”

His bubbly exterior exploded into a fit of hysterics at the reference she used. Sofina introduced him the hit reality show Keeping Up With The Kardashians when the pandemic started. It was her insistent persuasion that ultimately led them to binge watching every episode until they’ve had to wait for the newest one.

Joris rolled his eyes at the giggling pair, waiting for them to collect themselves. Sofina caught his eyes and began to explain. “It’s Khloe Kardashian.”

Truthfully, he didn’t gain any knowledge from the vague clarification. Nonetheless, he nodded.

“Do you need anything?” Charles faced Sofina.

“Aside from today’s testing results, not really.” She concluded, tapping at her phone to check her duties. “Sorry I wasn’t here for first and second day. I was drowning in paperwork.”

Charles omitted a sound of sympathy. Now that he was paying attention to her face, the dark circles under her eyes were more visible, matching the exhausted sigh that passed her lips.

“Did something happen?” He queried, gliding his fingers through the disarrayed curls from when she was sitting down.

She shook her head. “No, not exactly. But you know— I can handle it.” A buzz blossomed on her chest as the warmth of Charles’s palm radiated on her cheek.

Charles inhaled deeply, adjusting to the shift of the atmosphere. Instead of adding to the heavy pressure, he decided to change the subject.

“The car’s doing great,” He chided, hand falling onto her shoulder. “Ferrari finished on a high on both days. . .”

Sofina managed a smile, bobbing her head at the news she already knew. The information should have brought her more joy than what she was currently feeling but for some reason, a churning sensation struck her in the pit of her stomach.

“. . . Maybe even faster than Redbull?”

The claim got her to look up at Charles. A sheepish simper on his lips. Sofina couldn’t resist the amused huff hold hostage in her throat.

“With all improvements made, it’s a relief you’re more comfortable in the car than last year,” Her affirmation was met with a consensus from Charles and Joris.

Whenever Sofina was consumed by the sudden reminder of her intense duties, this was a place she often ran to. Ran to hide from the ridiculous demands of her supposedly unproblematic life.

With them, the biting tension of having to continuously prove herself didn’t exist in the here. It was without a doubt, easier to be. Especially in the eyes of whom knew her best.

Sofina met Charles’s eye. His emerald spheres dancing with a molten rays of the Bahrain sunlight. She would never tire of staring at them. The absurd amount of beguiling enchantment his eyes hold should be dubbed as illegal. If one were to stop and take a moment to admire he—

“GOOD MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The sonorous voice from the speakers woke Sofina’s consciousness from her trance. She swiftly blinked away the dolly lopsided smile stuck on her face, tearing her gaze away from Charles. She bore the boundless embarrassment in regards the drawn out time she spent gawking at him.

“You— you get out there and uh—” She cleared her throat, avoiding his teasing eyes. “—Do your best—Charles!” She squirmed, a hand shoving at his shoulder as he got into her face, trying to catch her adorably flaming cheeks.

Charles aired out a laugh at the deathly glare she sent his way, admiring the futile attempt to hide her blushing face from him.

“I’ll see you later?” He declared, soft and gentle.

“Of course.” She wheeled her eyes, struggling to keep her smirk in bay as she saw to giddy look in his face.

With one last peck on the cheek and a wave for Joris, he turned and went on his way to the garage.

The tremulous sigh she released nearly collapsed her lung. Another year of Formula One, and owning most of Ferrari’s sponsorship held a great weight on Sofina’s shoulders. The pillars of her chosen empire were bound to fall with one wrong move. Proving her father right was the last thing she wanted and she’d hate for all of this to be blown in a million pieces because of what her father referred to as her incapability to be a firm leader.

Alas, heavy is the head that wears the crown and so is the heart that weighs it down.

Tag-list: @seairsunset @mindflay3r @tangointhequango @bwormie @eugene-emt-roe @herondalism @comfortzonequeen @weekendlusting @nomie-11 @i-ship-bullshit-2020 @cc13723things @charlesgirl16 @namgification @charizznorizz @missenclod @outerudeth

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x oc #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #carlos sainz #lewis hamilton #taylor swift #swifties #charlos #lando norris #f1 #ferrari #f1 fanfic #scuderia ferrari #yoyok

301 notes · View notes

calummss · 8 months

Text

PREY | FLIP ZIMMERMAN

masterlist

summary: never trust a charming man. his charm might turn into your worst nightmare when the man seems too good to be true

pairing: fem! reader x flip zimmerman

words: 2.1k

a/n: this is the weirdest idea i’ve ever had, do not ask how i came up with it…i wrote this for english lit so if there a name or description to the my oc i changed to ‘y/n’ please ignore since i didnt proof read!!

TW! kidnapping, implied cannibalism

"I can hear you, sweetheart," taunting words fell between the rapid rustling and crunching of the autumn leaves, creaking branches, and the smell of wet weeds and newly bloomed wild flowers.

A thin layer of sweat covered the nape of your neck; your hairs stuck to the side of your face as you twisted and turned to see what direction was the way out of the forest maze—quickly and safely. Every second you pondered, you wasted time. Every wrong turn you took, you wasted energy. Every second, you were hopelessly running away from safety.

You felt a surge of adrenaline as the cold air bit into your lungs. You forced your legs to push harder off the muddy ground and slippery roots, anticipating the relief of finding someone who could help. A sudden ringing noise penetrated your ear; a waft of air shot past you. Your heart sank into what seemed like a bottomless pit in your stomach when you saw a shotgun shell embedded in tree bark. A meaningless piece of brass and plastic, the colour of gasoline fuel, but its shape solid; red like blood.

Your screaming burst through your lungs; it was the only weapon you had. Your breath was sharp and frantic, your eyes wide filled with tears. Fear washed over you as you thought of the possibility of your life being cut short just because you had trusted a man who turned out to be the kind of charming until he got what he needed.

"You broke my trust, Y/n." His voice sang through the thick air. "You know, my favourite game as a boy used to be hide-and-seek. Always played with my brother, friends, family,” A short but taunting silence made your heart race. "They always complained because I played unfairly and cheated," he said, to the sound of his gun clocking. "I disagree."

The soft ground blurred below you. You continued running for what seemed like longer than it should have, figuring it was because of the psychopath on your tail. The only things that could hinder you from survival were your physical limits and your doubt. But your exhaustion also came running after you, and your cramping legs gave in, falling into the pile of wet leaves. Your body shook as you pressed your back against the tree trunk, trying to regain some sort of power to keep on running, but it was no use.

His frame edged closer and closer, his black shoulder-length hair blowing in the low wind. His dark gaze fixed on you as his twisted smile sent shivers down your spine.

Your mind went frantic with the thought, ‘weak.’

He looked at you, jaw clenched, inches away from you. Nostrils picked up the scent of his cologne as your lips started to tremble, knowing you had failed to outrun him. What would he do now that you had tried to run away? You didn’t know.

"You look beautiful when you're scared," he crouches down, cocking his head. "But the fun is over now and I get really angry when people try to outsmart me. Will you try to outsmart me again?"

"Please!" Your voice cracks. "Please, you don’t have to do this!" You cry out, hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

"But I do," his voice now soft like it had been before he opened up the door to his cabin. "I have to do this."

Your crying intensified; your chest grew tight as bile rose in your throat. Blood pounded in your ears. Your hands shook. Your feet tingled. Your vision was disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish tank. There was nothing else you could do but give up. His strong arms scooped you off the ground and started carrying you away.

Your heart pounded even harder when you could see a street poking from behind the branches, realising you had given up before the finish line. Darkness was torn from your face, and a matrix of lights blinded you. Groaning, you shifted, attempting to jerk away from the brightness beyond your lids. Your hand hits your face, the drowsiness making you feel like a marionette. But even though your limbs feel heavy, like they had piled on imaginary weight, you tried to pull herself together. Pushing your torso off the ground, you noticed you were back in the living room you had been in moments before you took off running. Your eyes scanned for restraints—none.

But there he was. Tall, broad, muscular, wearing...black? A black blazer buttoned over something white, dark trousers, black shoes, all melting together into one until you blink a few times.

He must have noticed your surprise.

"Don’t worry," he took a swig of beer. "This manor is human proof. Both escaping," he huffed out, placing his hands on his thighs before talking towards the kitchen counter, "I mean like escape proof, soundproof, everything proof." He laughed.

"Why are you doing this?"

You spoke, your heart pounding and your voice cracking. "What the fuck is happening?"

He cackled, like he had one too many drinks, and laughed at a terribly awful joke. "Something very unfortunate for you."

"Let me go. Please. I swear I—I won’t tell anyone."

Silence.

“What happened, Flip?" Your gaze dropped to his frame, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took. His hands engulfed the beer bottle he held. "What did I do wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong, Y/n." Monotone. Dry.

"Then please tell me why you are doing this to me." You couldn’t stop your chin from trembling or your heart from wanting to explode out of your chest. "You treated me so well. We slept together. And now. What is this?"

Flip scrambled out of his seat.

Your eyes darted across the room—the drawing room at the cabin, nothing but miles of land and sheep. It stood close to the sea, just off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, which at this time of year had the strongest and toughest currents.

Flip placed the beer on one of the coffee tables and braced his weight on the gold-encrusted sofa that stood perfectly opposite you.

"I mean don’t get me wrong, dear, the sex was incredible and probably some of the best I ever had but it was part of my scheme."

"What scheme? To lure me to the woods?” You wanted to shout, but every bit of effort you made to speak or move was tripled against the weight of you building fear.

"Look, it’s nothing personal, Y/n," he said, lifting the corner of his lips. "You took my bait and now it's on you. It’s not my fault when you’re so gullible when it comes to love. I mean seriously, falling in love within three dates?"

"Is Flip even your real name?"

"Yes. My full name is Philip Zummerman."

"You give your victims your government name?"

"Well, it’s not like any of them will ever tell the police," he chuckled, his white teeth shining between his black moustache and beard. "You asked me before why I am doing this. I have an answer to that but I don’t think you’ll enjoy it as much."

"What is the answer?"

"I am handsome, well proportioned and insanely wealthy. Those two components work rather marvellously together. I either charm my way out of any trouble or I’ll just pay off what I need to. Humans are leeches by nature, you know," he took another sip of his beer. "Humans crave luxuries and comfort, and what else?"

"I don’t know."

“Yes, you do. C’mon!" He slouched down with the biggest grin he had yet given.

“Ehm,” pause, “Money?"

“Ding Ding Ding…money. How much money do you think it will take to buy an ordinary man’s silence? Say less than a thousand dollars? Maybe even two if he’s desperate enough."

You had no idea how to behave. You felt like you were compelled to listen to him.

Flip stood back up again, beer in his hand, his back facing her as he paced around on the dark ebony floors, the squeaking penetrating your ears.

“And how much do you think you will need to persuade that same man, so dull and simple, to take a life?" His feet stopped moving.

A deafening silence.

What?

"Those dirty old men rummaging around the dirty cities of Colorado would do it for 5.000? Maybe 10. But in their eyes, you are worthless. Not worthy of anything except the price tag above your head that has compelled them to blindly follow any orders given to them. Just like dogs. I think there’s a psychology behind it but then again I am no psychologist,"

“What are you going to do with me?" You asked once more, collecting every ounce of calmness you had left, forcing yourself to make contact with him.

He sighed in response. Like he was... bored, annoyed, rushed? Perhaps all three?

"I’m going to kill and eat you."

His gaze went through you like a blast of ice, his sick smile making your stomach churn. Your muscles stiffened, paralyzed by fear. You could hear the slow, dragging beat of your heart. Fear became a tangible living force that crept over you like some hungry beast, immobilising you and your brain, holding you captive. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to try and escape again, but you remained frozen.

"What…" Bile started to rise again.

"I will kill you, and I will eat you." The clicking of his tongue enunciating his pointed finger on you. "A simple concept really."

Panic started to settle in again. Fear creeping from behind, the hair on the nape of your neck stood up.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no." Nothing but high-pitched whimpers. Shallow breaths made it impossible to think clearly.

Your mind was scattered. How to escape? What had happened? Was your hand numb? Why did it feel like little pinpricks?

"This isn’t happening."

"It’s happening." His dark, monotone voice penetrated past your thoughts.

"It’s not happening. It’s not happening. This is all a bad dream."

You never had a heart attack but if someone had told you this is what it felt like, you wouldn’t doubt them. Your breathing was laboured, and your palms felt wet. You couldn’t think of anything but that your chest might get crushed any minute. "Oh, Lord," you started, "save me just this once."

You were trying to breathe, but you couldn’t. Someone was clutching your throat, stopping you from taking full breaths. But there was no one stopping you. Tears started trickling down your cheeks as panic crept over you again. This time, panic was unavoidable. It felt like forever. You sat there and panicked. He kept trying to say something, but nothing but mumbles made it past your ear. What he tried to tell you was inaudible.

‘Y/N!’

So suddenly his shouting erupted, bringing your mind back to reality as you stared blankly at him. You could feel a tear sitting at your lower lash line.

“There you are," Flip’s voice was half way between a whisper and a shout, deep and rumbling like the earthquake below you but still full of the danger you felt whenever you noticed his eyes on you. "Y/n."

“You’re a cannibal?" You choked back the fear and guilt you felt in your heart, speaking to yourself .

“Don’t insult your own intelligence," he tuts. "I do have a tendency to strongly dislike people who belittle themselves for the sole reason of incompetence or lack of confidence."

“And you just eat people?"

"I have refined tastes," he answers, his expression emotionless, but you could see the coiled tension in his body, the rage ready to spill forth. "You have complimented me on my cooking just earlier this evening. I remember the way your eyes fluttered, enjoying the thigh fillet. I would say your tastes are the same as mine. Why don’t we get you relaxed, dear? Hm? I have a room just for you and we’ll talk about this once you are back to normal."

"Normal. Normal."

You could feel his arms underneath you as he brought you to his chest. Feet dangling in the air as he made his way towards a wooden door that led down a spiral staircase, a red carpet greeting you as he walked past another long hallway until he came to a halt in front of the second-to-last door.

"You know, my dear, normally in these types of situations there would be some revulsion at the revelation that you’ve consumed a person. I see nothing of that in your demeanour. You don’t seem to care about the fact that others have suffered to land on my plate, yet you only seem to panic after you found out that you would meet their same fate... Tell me why? Do you think you are more important?"

216 notes · View notes

prpfs · 19 days

Note

✩ 🍐 ₊.🐚⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

hello!

I’m relatively new to using tumblr as a site to find roleplayers as I was an avid writer for many years on wattpad – I’ve since then taken a break for a few years due to drama and loss of interest ;-; before considering me for anything feel free to check out my AO3 account to see my writing style to see if I suit your writing style and such! 🤗

> https://archiveofourown.org/users/daiysu/profile <

I’m a literate/novella roleplayer on discord that is open to fandom/fandomless prompts and settings. If you have a certain setting that I am not familiar with, I will research it thoroughly and do my best! Also, I can adjust to your paragraph length and reply time if it is helpful! I am fairly quick with responses, but not rapid as I am quite busy with my work and other means – within a day I can deliver five lengthy responses minimum, but I’m a night owl so…we’ll see.

I have my own range of oc’s that I can adjust to your needs and the story setting! I’m looking for partners that are active ooc also, I want to make friends and new connections here; I want to create a positive and safe experience for us! This is meant to be fun! Please communicate your boundaries to me, as well 🤍

I am open to M/M, F/F, M/F, and M/X, F/X pairings: I would love to get into gritty, dark, and unsettling themes as I think it adds spice to the story, and I am also a sucker for fluff and soft themes too! I will do oc x character, and character x character, oc x oc can be discussed depending on the fandom :) Here are some fandoms that I’m interested in:

Stranger Things.

All for the game.

Dark Academia literature.

Peaky Blinders.

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon.

Southpark.

Marvel.

DC.

The Walking Dead.

Pathologic.

The Lord of the Rings.

The Grishaverse.

The Hunger Games.

My Hero Academia.

The Magnus Archives.

Sherlock.

Red Dead Redemption.

Shameless.

And many more!

I’m really into non-fandom roleplays too, of which we could possibly flesh out together! Here are some themes I am interested in:

Bands, Detectives, Witches/Wizards, Vampires, Werewolves, Prisoners, Mystery, Hurt/Comfort, Cowboys, Ancient periods, Cyperpunk, Steampunk, Noir, Pirates, General historical period roleplays, Sexuality, Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Realistic, Highschool settings, 80s/70s/90s/00s, Modern, Supernatural, Horror, Comedy, Smut, Drama, Violence, WW2, WW1, Mafia, Medieval, Anime settings, Graphic content, Angst, Religious themes, Domestic settings, Body horror, Guns/Knives/Torture/Injury/Blood, Trauma, Found family, Tropes, Dead dove, Paranormal, Slice of life, etc!

I’m an 18+ (F) roleplayer so please interact if you are above 18! Adult themes will occur, please no minors!

Please interact if interested! (ps I’m desperate 🥹) 🤍

like or dm

67 notes · View notes

pursuitseternal · 2 months

Text

“Cleansing:” bathing smut and surprises in “Our Blood is Thicker”

Astarion x Named Tav (F!OC) | E | 4.6K of the calm before the storm

Summary: Securing rooms at the Elfsong was the easy part. The harder part, overcoming the wash of memories from their separation before. They both need a good cleansing, one where they will indulge each other.

CW: angst, banter, bathing handjobs, I was told to “let them fuck like rabbits” which is implied, one more memory flashback, and danger.

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 16: Cleansing…

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

“Does it… have to be here?” Cordehlia turned her cute little nose up at the smell in the tavern. To the rest of her party, it just seemed like she didn’t enjoy a stay at a public inn.

To Astarion, now he knew, it was sheer loathing, disgust, and almost a century of pain this place forced her to confront.

The Elfsong.

“Gale said the keeper is giving us the rooms for free, since we…” Shadowheart whispered behind her hand, all sneaky, “know about the murder upstairs…”

“It seems cheap here,” she shrugged beneath her armor. “Seedy, disreputable.”

“Sounds like you’re describing your intended, Cordehlia,” Gale taunted with that friendly smile. Even though it didn’t meet his eyes. Still that lingering jealousy and doubt she knew.

“Please,” Astarion laughed off the slight even as he put his arm around his love’s shoulders. “I was the son of a High Lord once, Gale,” he grimaced at the name on his tongue. “Cordehlia’s right, however, a place for disreputable debauchery and plotting, the Elfsong,” he laughed with a wave of his elegant hand. “We will all fit right in, I’m sure. Besides, we can't beat the price, and I won’t be sleeping on the streets.”

“Well,” Gale grinned again, perhaps a bit forced, “Can’t argue with that. Keeper said up the stairs.”

The party moved ahead, barely noticing that Cordehlia lingered back, rigid in Astarion’s arm. “Why here…” she huffed. “Won’t the keeper recognize his regular?” she hissed with spite.

“Darling, I haven’t hunted here for decades. It’s not even the same innkeeper.” He placed a kiss on her temple, feeling how her jaw clenched. “Maybe it’s time we make some pleasant memories here… together,” he purred right into her pointed ear, tracing up its delicate point with a feathery touch of a single digit.

She giggled at the tickling touch. “Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t expect me to spread my legs so easily. You’ll need to work for it if we stay here, my love. You have many years to make up for, you know.”

“Oh I know,” he smirked, one hand sliding to pull her in for a kiss by gripping the curve of her ass. “I am well aware of that fact, and that you will never let me forget it, my darling.”

He followed her up the tavern stairs, letting her slip from his arm’s hold. Lungs burned as he held his breath, worried and plagued with his old memories of his place. He tried to force them back down in the dank dungeon where he kept all those feelings from his centuries of torment. From all the targets, victims, hazy moments of disgust he had endured. He could swear it made his undead heart rap with dread. Calmly, slowly he stilled his breath, even as it grew more rapid and ragged as he climbed those same fucking stairs as he had a thousand times before.

This time was different, instead of trailing after some miserable wretch, some target, all he could see was the sway of Cordehlia’s hips and the way her ratted, unkempt, fiery red hair matched that rhythm down her back.

That made the panic subside.

As long as he had her, he would survive this.

The hall opened to a massive suite, a grand chamber filled with a dozen beds and every amenity. It was off limits to the likes of him before; he had only ever been here once, fortunately not on Cazador’s business. That night was fuzzy in his mind, a jumble of fear and exhilaration he recalled, slipping in the shadows with his contraband before being compelled back to the palace. A few moments to himself to steal a moment of respite…

Shaking his mess of curls, he followed Cordehlia towards a corner bed, one tucked away at least a bit, a few slatted screens here and there for privacy.

He smirked as she set her pack down, her toned shoulders rolling themselves out finally relieved of its weight. So graceful and lithe, she made quick work of her armor, dropping back a step at last to see him waiting at the foot of the bed.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she gestured to the massive collection of rooms.

But he only slipped his bag from his shoulder, dropping it on the mattress beside her from a great height.

Letting it fall, his claim to her space.

“Oh, my love,” she tugged its great weight over the covers with effort, “this one is mine…”

“But darling,” he grinned, snatching the bag from her hold and letting it rest at their feet, “what’s yours is also… mine.” Growling that last word, he swept her in his arms, pushing her back into the feathered bed. She yelped and giggled as she fell to his attack, his thin elven armor flexible enough for him to cover every inch of her unbound body. He kissed her, there in front of them all, pushing her legs apart even covered in the light metal that clung to his frame. Her hands dug at the bare skin at his nape, lips dancing with his, all in time with the buck of her hips.

“Insatiable minx,” he rasped between her pumping lips. “Why do you pretend?”

“I’m not, my love,” she chuckled, “you can have the neighboring bed…”

He hissed at that, caging her into the bed all the harder. Mouth trailing quickly to her neck, he sucked on the supple flesh, the skin already scarred from his fangs, bringing her blood to pump there all the faster before he…

“Ah,” she moaned, her skin giving way to teeth, sending her right to the edge of her climax in an instant. He sucked loudly, lapping and popping his lips from her flesh just to draw attention.

“For fucks sake, get a room!” Karlach guffawed from across the space.

“We have one,” Astarion laughed, sarcastic and dark as he raised his blood-drenched face to speak. “You just happen to be in it.”

“In all reality…” Cordehlia pushed her palm against his turned cheek, shoving him up with all her might. “You stink, my love.” She laughed, managing to lift him only slightly from her frame. “You need a good cleansing bath.”

“Tch,” he huffed and frowned in indignation. “I would never say such a thing, even if it were true.”

She scowled, “How loving of you…” Teasing, with just that hint of sarcasm behind it, she doubled her effort, a smile on those rosy lips of hers before she braced against his neck and lifted.

Crimson eyes wide, Astarion smiled wickedly in return. Obeying. Relenting as he raised himself from her body, his own muscles ached to return, taught with the need to do what they always had done in this tavern, longing to fuck her until she was incoherent, this time for pleasure and not from coercion.

But instead he huffed, sliding the plates of his armor off, watching her bare feet tread across the wood floorboards. He could smell her, as he said. But it was more than pleasant. That scent of her sweat, the way her arousal’s musk instantly filled his nose the moment he bit into her neck…

But first, he gathered himself, glancing around to ensure a moment of privacy before he adjusted his growing erection at her scent still in his nose. “Fucking hells,” he groaned as he dug out of his pack to get his cleanest clothes, all the way at the bottom of his bag. Finally, he fought with all the trinkets and loot in his sack to pull out a fresh set of trousers, when something heavy landed on the floor with a thud. One delicate hand reached to gather it up next to his feet, the green, leather bound tome right in her pale palm.

Cordehlia narrowed her eyes at the title embossed on the side in gold. “The Curse of the Vampyre?” she scanned the book and then locked those silver eyes with his, questioning, mischievous and suspicious. “Some light reading while I bathe?”

“Just a little research, darling,” he slipped it from her grasp to tuck it in with his clothing.

“How to kill Cazador?” she speculated, turning to head towards the now-steaming tub in the side of the room. That look she threw him from over her shoulder sent an instant shudder of warm desire to his groin.

“I think I’ll follow my instincts on that one, my love,” he chuckled, dark and tickled with the promise of violence. “No, no,” he hummed as they stopped at the side of the tub, watching as she closed the slat-screen separator, just a bit of privacy despite the wash of voices that floated around the suite. “I’m just… preparing for what it might be, between the two of us.”

Cordehlia slipped from her trousers, that hem of her undershirt barely covering that sweet apex of her thighs. Astarion swallowed the huffing moan he could have made. “Hmm,” she tossed him a smirk before turning her back on him. That little cream shift tugged up over her head as she let her voice lilt and flirt, “and what might that be for us? An eternity in love as Mistress Cordhelia Ancunín?”

“Close, my darling,” he set his clothing in a jumbled mess at his feet. The clean ones, too. And Cordehlia rolled her eyes as she watched him. Arms crossed over her bare breasts, she gave him a rueful yet desirous smile. He made no extra show, tugging his ruffled shirt off from over his one head, juggling the book between his grip. “You see, there’s a difference for a Vampire Lord in the creation of their servants or equals, whoever they should choose to make their own… to make them powerful like them…”

“Whatever fits their fickle, half-formed plans?” she taunted, stepping herself into the water, dunking her long, gnarled hair into the water.

Suddenly, tenderly, two hands fished her long hair from the water. Cordehlia turned slightly, his smirking face grinning with total mischief as he used those skilled hands of his to work the snarls from the end of her hair. A little rose scented oil on the tips of his fingers, and he worked them each out. No noise but the rasp of his breath down the back of her neck as he leaned over the tub. Warm water barely heated his touch, the pads of his touch brushed her cheek. Her head leaned into his palm, but a gasp from her lips slipped out as she felt his other hand close around her breast. His teeth scored over the sensitive shell of her ear, a whispering laugh tickling the inside. “Who’s to say I would be fickle… or have half-formed plans, if I were a Lord?”

A fang dragged over the soft curve of her earlobe, making her sigh, half-swallowed as her back arched at the sensation. “So… if you turn… if you can ascend, that’ll make you…?” she whispered, voice thick in that milk white throat of hers as she turned, water splashing in that tub as she swiveled.

“Lord Astarion….” He sighed, an intense and dreamy look in the dark red of his eyes. “Vampire Ascendant.”

“Is that what’s in your book, my dear? Is that what you’ve been researching?”

“No,” he rasped, standing as he slowly brought his hands to the waistband of his leathers. Pale fingers slipped the small buttons barely holding it closed free one at a time. “If you can’t tell… it’s you and your wellbeing that’s on my mind, darling…” Hands tugging that flap apart, his cock sprang free, and he couldn’t help but give a low, rumbling chuckle as she bit her lip at its sight.

Cordehlia slid over a smidge, her own lithe fingers massaging through her damp hair. Silver eyes were locked on his every move, the way he slipped from those leather pants, the way he slowly sank into the waters beside her.

The way his own right fang peeked out as he chewed his lip and wrapped his arms around her body at last. “I’ve never met one before, never even heard aside from rumors of their existence among my kind. They are rarely created, the perfect match for a Vampire Lord, the perfect threat to them too. But they say there is no greater love than a trusting Lord and his loving… Bride.”

She shivered in his arms, shaking her whole body despite the swirling steam that surrounded them.

“That’s what you want… isn’t it?” he purred right into the folds of her ear again, a single hand stealing underwater to run down her belly. “To be mine… forever?”

Her mouth opened, he could hear it, feel it in her jaw, but no noise came out but breath. Not until he slunk two fingers between her thighs, finding the even warmer, wetter slick that gathered there.

Her legs bent under the water, feet braced on the side of the cloth and wood of the tub. But he slowed his hand, dragging a single fingertip, a single nail even, over that hard little clit of hers. “You have to tell me, darling, if you will be mine… no matter what…”

Her hand reached behind her, clawing into the mess of his own damp curls and slotting her body between his own clenching legs. “You know my answer. It’s the same. It’s unchanging. Constantly beating yes when it comes to you, Astarion, for two-hundred years.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it,” he hissed, gratifying the little bucks of her hips by sinking his long fingers deep inside her channel. “Best keep it quiet though, I would hate to offend the rest of our group’s sensibilities…”

“You would love to give them offense,” Cordehlia snarled back, pulling him by his hair to whisper back in his own ear. Giving him just what he gave her. “You would love to make me give little whimpers, make me moan your name just loud enough to have one of them chastise you, hmm?”

“For what?” he growled back, starting to pick up his pace as he stroked her and crooked his touch inside her. “For being the consummate lover I am? For making you, the great warrior, whine for me, my little pet and darling?”

A hand reached behind her, her fist closing firmly around his cock, making a noise not unlike a moan come from his own throat through his gritted teeth.

“So are you going to share your research…” she pumped him, hard in grip and slow in measure, as she rode his fingers. A smile on her face. “Going to tell me more about what you think might happen?”

“Three bites,” he panted, those fingers of his working inside her, determined to make her squeal and come first. “And then… I drink you almost dry…” His voice in her ear is feral, more monster than man, and Cordehlia shivered, rapture taking hold at his touch and words and… all of him.

“Go on…” she murmured, voice thick in her throat, even as he hand gripped tighter and sloshed more water as she tried to keep up with his own fingers fucking inside her.

“I give you my blood, letting it fill you and make you mine. They say it will be far more pleasurable than anything you have ever… ever… experienced.” He panted, her thumb sweeping right over that spot only she knew, beneath the dip of his head. His thighs clenched, his balls tightened. “Gods,” he groaned, too close now to back down.

“And then I would be your Bride?” she replied, trying so hard to sound perfect and calm, hiding her own approaching pleasure with a pressed and quiet tone.

He held his breath, scoring a nail over that patch inside her, the one he knew always pushed her, careening towards her climax. “Yes,” he finally ground the single word out, definitely louder than he had hoped. “You’ll be your own being, your own set of powers linked to mine. We will walk in the sun, share our minds, share every bit of pleasure and … pain.” He whimpered loudly, too loudly, as she tugged and fondled him mercilessly.

A knock sounded on the divider, Shadowheart’s lyric voice only a bit muffled from the other side. “Can you hurry it up? The longer you take, the longer the rest of us poor peasants need to wait until it’s our turn…. And we obviously need to get fresh water now…”

“Shut up,” he growled, that hand on his cock not slowing a second even as their moment was invaded.

“Shh, play nice,” Cordehlia corrected him, hand leaving his shaft for a moment to clutch those smooth, hard balls in her palm, tight and ready to burst any second now. “Two people in one tub deserve twice as long, logically. Give us five more minutes.” She called so politely.

Their cleric huffed and stamped away, but not before her fingers stroked that flushed, fleshy head in their touch. Once, twice more, she pulsed that grip and stars covered his vision. Coils of heat burst inside him, spurts of cum sullying the water, and best of all, her own cunt flared and clenched in time. Her freehand flew to her mouth, covering it tightly to not make a sound. But he had her, the extra oily slick of her arousal shot around his fingers, her thighs shaking in the water as she bucked out her climax on his touch. And just when she neared the supple pleasure after, fangs sliced into her.

Her shoulder was pierced once, twice, three times. Nips in rapid succession until the final one. That, Astarion let his teeth sink fully into the crook of her shoulder, savoring the sweet, almost floral bouquet of her blood on his tongue. Filling his belly.

Her head rested back against his chest, body limp and warm. A comforting weight against where his heart would have beat, a sad smile on his lips as he released from her neck. Tenderly, he didn’t want to disturb her, he nuzzled into her damp red hair. As he breathed in, that rose-scented oil barely masked her own floral scent.

He didn’t want to disturb her, but maybe she needed to know….

“There’s a bit more to the Dark Kiss… umm the way that a Bride is made…” He trailed off as she turned. Her face was lined with confusion as she wrapped her legs around him in the water, looking hopeful, worried, waiting on his every word.

Astarion sighed. “It’s a bit dangerous,” he continued at last. “Once you wake to feed for the first time, you… you won’t be yourself. You will be feral, ravenous,” he paused, realizing the weight of his words, “dangerous. I’ll have to subdue you to make sure we both remain safe…”

“Alive you mean,” Cordehlia nodded, sage and slow as his meaning took hold. She looked over his shoulder, eyes distant as she thought for a moment. “More than anything, Astarion, I trust you.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips tighter, hiding the way tears stung behind his eyelids and the way his jaw wanted to tremble.

“Besides,” she shifted closer to him, running a hand down the ridges of his belly to grip him by the balls again. “You will love the chance to subdue me for once, even if it’s in unfair circumstances.”

Astarion swallowed the grunt at the delicious pressure she put on him, turning it to a laugh. “You're no different you know, not letting me bend the rules so I can win, just like when we were children.”

“Never,” she shook her head, coy smile and flirtatious glints in her eyes. “I’ll never let you off free, not even if you are some exalted Lord.” Those lithe fingers clutched one more time harder around his manhood. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way, my love.”

“Whatever makes you happy, my darling,” he purred, still hiding that lump in his throat. That niggling guilt over what he had done before, now that he knew. Now that he remembered. “I’ll try to be worthy of all that trust you have in me.”

She leaned against his chest, arms wrapping around his neck to bring him closer. A tender smile turning one corner of her lips, she kissed him. “I know you will.”

There was so much to be done… but for this evening, for tonight, they all rested in comfort for once. Every other member in their group gave them a massively wide berth, treating them like newlyweds, letting them hide behind the dividers around their bed, ignoring the little noises that came from behind it. Only once a meal was brought out did Cordehlia leave their little hideaway, just long enough to avoid everyone’s knowing smirks and make a simple plate of cheeses and breads.

Then her bare feet hurried back, for a moment of silence before the subtle and constant rustling resumed from behind those partitions.

A few hours later, silence finally fell. Night in the city was still so loud, too loud. And Cordehlia just couldn’t trance no matter how hard she tried. Even as Astarion fell into easy rest beside her, one arm braced behind her head and the other resting on his belly as it rose and fell. He was comfortable here, his home away from her for almost two centuries. That old pang of bitterness flared in her chest, and she sat aright. All she could hear was soft breathing in the night.

She looked out the window, dawn just starting to break with light. Climbing from the bed, she slipped into her clothing, that fresh cream undershirt, sensible black leathers. She would be quick, that pain from her past pushing her to return one more time to that place where agony had taken root.

One more glance to his beautiful, pale, naked body resting in their bed, she kissed her fingers and pressed it featherlight to his forehead. She’d be right back. One last visit to his grave to close the pain of the past.

Boots on her feet, she reached for her dagger. Just the one, her most favorite, if only to make her feel completely dressed; it would just be a jaunt around the corner to the graveyard, a couple of turns in the safety of the sun before she would return. And after all the ways he’d had her last night, she was sure he’d trance his way through that time.

She stepped silently through the dim room, paying no heed to anything other than that door, than her mission to bid the past farewell for good.

Astarion turned in his trance, his sleep restless and uneasy, the memories of being in the Elfsong mostly inflicting those little cuts and wounds of torture from his past as Cazador’s spawn. Except that one time he had been in this suite of rooms….

His dream swept him back to that time, the way his feet hurried away from the other spawn sent there with him to hunt. That little piece of paper in his hand secreted beneath his arm as he hurried silently up the stairs, picking the lock quickly into this empty set of rooms. It hadn’t been hard to find a dark corner, a loose floorboard…

He didn’t know why it was so important to him, but he had known he wanted to keep it. Even if he couldn’t bring it back to the palace, even if he knew that stealing away from his siblings and coming home empty handed tonight meant a spell in the kennels and a session with Godey. His chest rose and fell with the thrill of insolence. That parchment, that news flier unfolding in his hands made him smile.

Eyes scanned the words too quickly to really take in the story, some account of a battle… some fearsome tale of this warrior goddess… All he could do was stare at the printed likeness of her face on the paper. Black and white, just ink and fading parchment, but he had wanted it. And when Petras had tried to tug it from his fingers, he had snarled and disappeared into the crowd. Now he could savor his treasure, enjoy his stolen goods.

She was alluring, that long hair drawn to tease behind her, that sculpted body covered in dark armor, her face hard and fearsome and yet… something about her lips taunted him. Coy and teasing, beckoning him to look closer.

And closer he did look. His mind had raced over the words, no memory of them now almost a century later… but he remembered clearly what he did with that image in those few stolen moments. How his cock had hardened instantly, how it had been only a few moments of rough and dry handfucking for him to come.

How he had wiped himself clean quickly, breathless from actual pleasure for once in his long, broken memory, before he stashed that flier with the pretty She-elf on it under the floorboard.

Astarion bolted awake at last. Hardly noticing he was alone, he scampered from the bed, tripping as he slipped on his trousers too quickly and scuttled across the suite to the opposite corner.

“What in the hells are you doing, Fangs?” Karlach huffed a laugh, amused and annoyed as she had to hurry out of his way.

He said nothing, fingers pulling the wood up to free that long lost, buried treasure. Flinging himself against the wall, he shook his head. If he didn’t have company, he would have, could have cried.

Victory of the Bone Picker.

Clear as the day that dawned outside the window, he finally took the time to look at the words. To look into the printed eyes of his love.

He knew, somehow all those decades ago, he knew.

“Damn, Fangs, is that Cordehlia?” Karlach peered from the other end. “You knew that was here… you saved it here after all this time, didn’t you?”

“I guess so,” was his honest reply. Those crimson eyes looked up wide and shining wet. “Where is she?”

Karlach shook her head, taken aback. “Isn’t she sleeping her climax marathon off in your bed?”

“No,” he suddenly went rigid. Standing, flying to his feet to peer around the rooms. “Has anyone see Cordehlia?” he couldn’t hide the desperation in his voice now.

Gale looked up from his book at that. “She went for a stroll early this morning, first light. I don’t think she saw me here… not that she pays me much mind at any rate…”

“Shh, shh,” Astarion hushed him right up once he sounded as if he would start another one of his diatribes. “Not now, Gale,” he snipped. “That must have been an hour ago already, so where is she?”

“You could always use our little friends,” Gale suggested, two fingers tapping on the side of his head.

“You mean reach out?” the Vampire frowned.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” the Wizard gave a terse reply. For once.

Astarion closed his eyes, feeling the waves of the tadpole’s power emanating from his mind, searching for the other end.

Something faint returned. A flash of a cemetery, a headstone with his name on it, and a pair of glowing red eyes and stringy black hair staring down at her before… darkness.

Silence.

Nothingness.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

Our Blood will update again in 3 days, so your arms don’t get too tired hanging from that cliff 💞💞

104 notes · View notes

lavendersartistry · 2 months

Text

Devil Nightmares

Space Riders AU - @onyxonline Eve Ewe, Bolt - @lavendersartistry

(CW/TW: nightmares, panic attack)

This is an angst/comfort fic for onyxonline's Space Riders AU! This is mainly centered my OCs Eve Ewe and Bolt! Please check Oynx out, their work is super cool!

Although the skies of the galaxies were forever a sunset to nightfall, it was no later than 9 in the planet of the Lilim.

Its princess, Eve, resigned to her chambers in the west palace, the planet's natural flora greeting her as she entered the room. She took a moment to touch the lotuses in the lily pond close to her balcony, enjoying their fresh and sweet scent.

She looked out to the windows and glanced at the stars and the faraway planets. She took a moment to remember how she and her sister tried counting how many planets there were and how many would soon come to their world in the following years. Now, that time had stopped.

Now, Eve would become a queen and her sister to be general their planet's military.

Eve quickly shook the thought and began to settle for the night. Her favorite book was at the edge of the other side, the portraits of her parents and grandmother looking back at how she had grown. She couldn't help but smile at how proud they could be while they watch over her with their goddess.

With a quick, soft clap of her hands, her lights dimmed as she hurried into bed. Then, to dream.

...........

The unnerving void of nothingness felt like eyes were on Eve that watched her every move. She felt cold, yet she couldn't shiver nor try to exhale the coldness.

Red smoke clouded her view and it felt potent to her senses to even try to breathe in, so she kept her mouth closed. Eve kept walking on, to at least find a exit to this strange place.

Then.

A hand. Then another. Then more. All, so many, grabbed at her as whispers echoed in her ears.

"Join him." "He will bring us salvation." "He is our God."

And Eve ran. Ran far away from whatever was trying to lead her astray. She couldn't look back, not when she could feel those creatures, those voices, right behind her.

It felt like a loop, a never-ending hall to nowhere, no escape. Eve was starting to feel hopeless, like there was no one to come for her. She was vulnerable, easy to take and to indoctrinate. She couldn't even bear to look as the voices captured her and a long, lanky hand reached out for her as the sufferable red smoke corrupted her mind and her soul.

...........

Eve never thought she could scream so loudly. She was in brink of sweat as tears rolled down her face and her hands shook violently.

Her chamber doors opened immediately as the dark wolf critter, her guard Bolt, looked at her with concern.

"Princess? You screamed. Are you-"

Bolt took a moment to realize how she was clutching onto her evening blouse tightly and her breathing rapid. He rushed to her side and kneeled.

"Can you hold my hands?"

Eve turned to him and quickly grabbed his hands as she looked down to her lap.

Bolt didn't clutch her hands nor fully held them. He knew she needed room as he did what he could to get her back calm. He spoke softly, never looking away.

"Good, princesa. Now breathe with me."

The dark wolf critter demonstrated first as his paws rubbed her hands to soothe her shakiness a little. Eve listened to him and started to take deep breaths, the shakiness in her voice slowly soothing away.

"Good, good. Now, tell me what do you see."

Eve's eyes glanced around her chambers before opening her mouth to speak despite her screaming earlier created a painful sensation to her throat.

"I... I see the lotuses.."

"What else do you see?"

"I see you.."

Bolt nodded softly as he sat up and guided her to the lily pond, his eyes on her. The two sat down at the edge, the lotuses gliding in the water.

He kept his eyes on the princess and held her close, his paw and her hand intertwined. With a small exhale, he softly sang a old song.

Seas invite in the evening sun,

To light the somber abyss.

Clouds dance up with the heavens stars,

Chanting an air of joyous bliss.

Water fades back from blue to jade,

Guiding young rainbows high.

Flowers bloom in to reds and whites,

Quenching our hearts as they run dry.

Angels chained,

By a beast locked in slumber.

Sin washed away,

By the swift flow of time.

I may know the answers,

Journey over snow and sand.

What twist of fate has brought us,

To tread upon this land?

Bolt looked down at Eve, noticing how she had gotten calmer after his song. He rest his chin on top of her head as his paws gently went through her hair.

Whatever her dream was, whatever had frightened her like this, was now a priority to discover.

The dark wolf critter looked down at her with a soft, small smile.

"Don't worry, my princess. Nothing will happen to you or our home as long as I am here and our friends."

#pineapple drink | writing #Space Riders AU - onyxonline au #smiling critters #smiling critters au #eve ewe - space riders au #bolt - space riders au #the prototype - space riders au #the voices/followers of the prototype - space riders au #smiling critters - space riders au #aggressively sips tea in angst #woe angst be upon ye #but also comfort #so the dream may have been a vision #who knows #anyways go check out onyx #their au is awesome

52 notes · View notes

cinnamongorll · 4 months

Text

a fragile line - chapter 13

read on ao3 (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 6.3k

Chapter 13: 'First Defeat'

Juliet's POV:

Juliet’s legs were about to give out.

With each shaky step, her body threatened to crumple onto the cracked pavement beneath her. She struggled to support her own weight, let alone the hulking figure of the man draped against the left side of her body, with his arm locked around her neck.

Joel’s remaining consciousness was only visible in the slight shuffle of his feet, helping Juliet as she dragged his body along the street. Sweat soaked her forehead, dampening her hairline. Her breaths were short and rapid, a dizziness creeping into her head, staggering her brutal steps. Juliet risked a quick glance down at the pavement. Vicious red drops of blood followed them, darkening the ground in a trail of horror.

Juliet’s erratic breaths caught at the sight of Joel’s blood.

She tightened her hold on his body, her fingers digging into his side. She urged him, with the press of her torn nails against his flannel, to stay awake, to stay with her.

A bead of sweat dripped from her forehead down her face as Juliet’s mind repeated the same words, anchoring her drifting thoughts back to the burning of her weakening limbs: just a few more steps, just a few more steps, just a few more steps.

Earlier that day:

“So, how’d you end up in Boston anyway?” Juliet queried in a quiet voice.

Joel’s head turned sharply towards her, irritation clear in his tight expression.

“Pass,” he responded.

Juliet sighed in a long, overly dramatic, exhale. Then she turned, glancing up at the man walking beside her. Juliet had a habit of silently inspecting his face when he wasn’t looking, her eyes would trace the stubble along his jaw, glide over the curve of his nose, and follow the fine lines around his eyes which were usually trained on the road ahead of them. This time, though, Joel’s gaze was focused on Juliet, irritation still housed within his hard features, but his eyes…. his eyes were warm, open, amused. Juliet nearly stumbled over her own feet.

She blinked, looking away.

Another week or so had passed since the high school, when Joel had stayed awake all night to make sure Juliet didn’t fall asleep. Her concussion had cleared up a few days ago but Joel was still vigilant about sleeping next to her. Juliet didn’t mind, she found that the soft sounds he made in his sleep were comforting, soothing almost. Juliet liked the reminder that he was close to her.

The road they were walking was long, and the afternoon heat was heavy. Juliet was bored, and sweaty, and as per usual, she needed a distraction. So, for the past hour, she had fired question after question at Joel, praying one would land, prompting him to share some aspect of himself with her. Juliet held every small bit of information she had gathered about him close to her chest. He was cold, lethal, and a constant mystery to her.

But, unsurprisingly, each hopeful question had bounced off of Joel as his mental shields deflected every one of Juliet’s attempts to get to know him.

Juliet decided to chase her distraction in other ways. She tilted her head around to look at the trees enclosing them on an endless road of abandoned cars and decaying houses, her mind drifting to imagine an alternate version of herself sitting on one of the porch swings. What it must have felt like to sit there and watch the daylight fade into soft oranges and pinks. She could have read her books and drifted off into her imaginary worlds with no concern for what the next day would bring, or who the next day might bring her closer to. A cold chill attacked Juliet’s bare arms despite the heavy afternoon heat. She shivered, her eyebrows pinching together.

Every day that passed was another day closer to freeing Ethan from her father. Juliet’s steps involuntarily quickened at the thought. She missed Ethan, her heart ached when the memory his pleading eyes the night she left all those years ago floated through her mind. For Ethan, Juliet would trade her remaining freedom. This was a decision she had made peace with, she always knew her freedom was never secured. Each step was another step closer to Ethan, yes, but it was also another step closer to her father. These slow days travelling with Joel were her last chance to experience life outside of the towering walls of her father’s community, her last chance to explore the ruins of life scattered around America, her last chance to smile and actually mean it.

Juliet snuck another glance at Joel, he was walking with his usual pace, his fingers tapping against his dark jeans. Joel would get her to her father, she trusted that he would, and then he would leave, use his gifted weapons to find his brother and disappear from her life forever. She would return to her prison, never to forget the sound of his irritated sigh, the hard clench of his jaw, or the look in his eyes that day at the gas station.

Joel, on the other hand, would find his brother and forget all about her, as if she never existed. As if he had never held her in his arms or wiped a tear from her cheek.

They weren’t far from Juliet’s old community now, probably another week if Joel had calculated it right. Fear threatened to settle upon her shoulders, weighing Juliet down for the remainder of their journey together. Juliet fought against it, using her familiar tactic of constant distraction to keep the terror at bay, to allow her to enjoy her last days of independence.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice called behind her.

Juliet’s feet staggered to a stop, turning to face him. She hadn’t realised he had slowed, falling behind. He had his map out, his finger tracing the roads. Juliet walked back towards him, shielding her eyes from the blinding sun. It was early autumn now, the trees had begun to turn that shade of russet orange, but the heat still remained in the air, refusing to entirely leave summer behind.

Joel’s jacket was tucked under the strap of his backpack, like her own, and the sleeves of his green flannel were rolled up, revealing his tanned forearms. His veins were bulging in the heat, Juliet kept her eyes focused on the map in his hands, blinking any time her traitorous vision would glide over his strong arms.

“What’s up?” she asked with a cough, clearing her throat.

“Heard a place up here used to be a firefly basecamp, might be worth checkin’ out for some ammo left behind,” Joel explained, using his free hand to point up a road to their right.

Their night at the high school had provided them with plenty cans of semi-edible food for the rest of their journey if they rationed right, which Joel always made sure they did. However, they were running low on ammo, dangerously low. Juliet only had a couple bullets left in her gun. She made sure to sharpen her knife last night before she fell asleep.

Juliet nodded. “Lead the way,” she replied, with a mock salute.

Joel gave her a long look before tucking his map back in his back pocket and moving to turn up the street he had pointed to. Juliet followed behind.

………………………………………………………….

“Wait, another high school?” Juliet asked, amazed. Her eyes widened as she stared at the sprawling campus they had just entered, Juliet struggled to comprehend the amount of people who must have once walked these paths and filled these buildings.

“No, a University,” Joel answered, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

“Oh,” Juliet murmured, still staring at the collection of towering buildings stretching beyond her view.

“So people would go here after high school?” she asked, her curiosity overpowering her.

“Some did,” Joel replied, then started walking again, heading towards the first building. Its red bricks were drowning in moss and vines but it still looked relatively well preserved, the overgrown look actually added to its charm, Juliet thought.

“To do what?” she questioned as she raced to catch up with him.

“They lived here, went to classes and stuff,” Joel explained as they climbed the stairs towards the entrance, avoiding the thick cracks in the concrete.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Think it was just as much about partying and findin’ themselves as anythin’ else.”

“Right,” Juliet replied quickly, as if she knew what he meant.

They reached the top of the stairs and Joel released a relieved sigh as Juliet wiped more sweat off her forehead. Then she turned, looking around them. The surrounding area was eerily quiet, without the twenty years worth of greenery leaking from every brick on every building, the University would look almost normal, Juliet assumed. Well, apart from the firefly symbol spray-painted across the door of the closest building.

Joel looked down at Juliet, then nudged his head in the direction of the door before he started walking again, slower this time after climbing all those steps. Juliet stepped forward, ready to follow Joel towards the building when something darted across the corner of her vision. Juliet didn’t hesitate, she pulled out her gun and whipped it in the direction of the figure.

The safety was off and Juliet had her finger hovered over the trigger when she stopped, her body freezing in a state of shock. It wasn’t a man lurking to her left, it was a strange hairy creature that was now sprinting towards her.

Juliet would have been embarrassed to admit it, but she screamed.

She let out a loud, piercing cry and darted towards Joel. Juliet would face off any man who dared to approach her, but she didn’t fuck with whatever that thing was.

She grabbed hold of Joel’s arm who had already begun to race towards her, genuine terror on his face. Then he noticed what had spooked Juliet.

Juliet hid behind Joel’s back, her fingers bunched in his shirt. She waited for Joel to make his move, would he shoot the thing? Or pull them somewhere safe?

What Juliet didn’t expect was the sound of his laughter. Juliet felt Joel’s shoulders shake as he barked out a stunned chuckle.

“What the hell?” she murmured under her breath as she pulled away from Joel. The creature was still there, just standing staring at them, moving its weird arms. Juliet’s whole body shuddered.

Strangely, she was now more shocked by Joel’s laughter as she turned to look at his face. His features were attempting to reconstruct his usual expression of cool indifference but Juliet could still make out the amusement shining through. The lines around his eyes had crinkled and his lips were pursed, as though he was actively restraining himself from smiling.

Juliet frowned.

“What is that thing?” she demanded in a low voice, scared she’d startle it into running towards her again.

Joel looked down at her, his lip twitching when he caught sight of her shocked face.

“First time seein’ a money?” he asked as he raised his eyebrows,

Juliet smacked his arm. “Of course it’s my first time seeing a monkey, you dick,” she scoffed, stuffing her gun back in her pocket.

Joel raised his hands in mock surrender. “Must be from the old labs,” he explained, his mouth now curved in a clear smile. It made him look younger, his face softened with the hint of joy.

Juliet’s gaze bounced between the monkey and Joel for several seconds before she barked out a laugh of her own, her hands reaching up to cover her mouth as a smile overtook her serious expression. Joel dropped his hands slowly, his eyes not leaving Juliet’s warm gaze. Her laughter was loud and unrestrained. Joel took a step backwards, wiping a hand over his face to erase any remnants of his amusement. Something in her smile had startled him.

“Come on,” he murmured, then turned, striding towards the entrance.

Juliet’s smile dropped. She took one last look at the monkey before she followed Joel into the building, the cold enveloping them as they took out their guns and torches.

………………………………………………………

The door opened with a loud creak as Joel pushed against it, the handle stiff as it turned in his hand. Joel went first, walking into the large room, his head scanning the rows and rows of seats shaped in a tiered circle around half the room. Juliet gasped when she entered, she had never been in a room this big.

They had already sweeped the bottom floor, searching each room for leftover supplies. No luck yet. Joel wasn’t too worried, he told Juliet they would be more likely to find stuff in the labs. This didn’t look like a lab, though.

Joel must have seen Juliet’s confused expression. “It’s a lecture hall,” he explained. “Professors would teach hundreds of students in a room like this.”

“Wow,” Juliet whispered as she moved to stand before the enormous chalkboard at the front of the room. Then she turned, looking back at Joel, who was still scanning the room, searching for any threats.

“This make you all nostalgic?” she asked as she attempted to meet his eyes.

Joel huffed and reached a hand up to scratch the back of his head. “Didn’t go to University,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual.

“No? What did you do?” Juliet pressed, moving away from the chalkboard to hover near him.

Joel took a long minute to answer, busing himself with rifling through the papers on the desk in front of him. Then finally, he replied.

“I just did my job.”

“Which was?”

“We were called contractors”

Juliet was shocked, not by what he said, but by his decision to actually answer her questions. She bit her lip and thought about her response, careful not to spook him. Joel was like a wild animal sometimes, he was always in fight of flight, Juliet had to tiptoe around him, praying that he wouldn’t run at the first sign of her gentle curiosity.

“Contractors?” she finally asked, keeping her tone as casual as possible. She didn’t want him to know that she was hanging onto his every word.

“Built houses, stores, that kinda thing.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, guess it was.”

Before Juliet could ask him another question, he walked towards the door, having decided their tour of this room was over. Juliet sighed, her steps echoing in the silent room as she jogged to catch up with him.

…………………………………………………

“This might be something,” Juliet announced as they stepped into the first lab they came across. Firefly symbols were dotted about the walls. Joel scoffed at the sight. “Hmmm,” he agreed.

Juliet moved over to the windows lining the back wall. The blazing sun had dimmed, fading into the softer light of early evening. Juliet turned the handle and cracked the window open, allowing the hot air from outside to clear away the staleness of the lab. She stepped backwards, gazing out at the University campus, it was so beautiful, Juliet wished they could stay longer. When she turned back around, Joel was bent down at some cabinets, opening and closing doors, searching for anything valuable.

Juliet joined him, taking a seat on the floor to rifle through a low cupboard. Joel didn’t look at her as she sat beside him, but his body visibly tensed. Juliet shifted away from him, she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

They worked together for a while, searching every inch of the room. Every cupboard, every cabinet, every desk. They found nothing of value, only the trash that the fireflies left behind. Joel muttered under his breath a few times, Juliet thought she heard him say “Typical.”

When they decided this room was a bust, Juliet stood up, wiping her hands off her worn trousers. Joel was already heading towards the door, ready to start searching the next room. When he was a couple steps away, he stopped suddenly, his head whipped towards the window as he reached out a hand to still Juliet’s movements.

“What?” Juliet whispered, she hadn’t heard anything strange.

Joel gave her one of his lethal looks, raising a steady finger to his lips.

Then she heard it:

“This way,” a voice called from below the window.

Juliet’s eyes darted to Joel’s, her lips parting in shock.

His finger hadn’t moved from his lips. They stood there frozen for several long seconds before they heard anything more.

“Shut the fuck up,” another voice growled.

Joel moved his finger from his lips and reached down to grab Juliet’s wrist, his large hand enclosing around her. Juliet blinked up at him, watching as he removed his gun from his pocket with his other hand, urging Juliet with a pointed look to do the same. She did as he asked.

Joel’s hand was still around her wrist and he used that position to pull her closer, his face tilted down. “Out the back,” he murmured as his hot breath skimmed over her face. Juliet nodded and swallowed rough, her brain wasn’t working at full capacity due to Joel’s close proximity.

He scanned her face once more then moved, pulling Juliet behind him as they stalked out the room and down the hallway, searching for a stairwell. Juliet stumbled to keep up with his pace. His grip on her wrist was tight, but it didn’t hurt. Joel would never hurt her.

When they reached the end of the hallway, Joel let go of Juliet to push on the double doors into the stairwell. There were no windows, but there wasn’t enough time to get their torches out of their bags again. Juliet bit her lip again as she followed Joel’s blurry figure down the stairs. She was very much aware of the fact that they had little to no ammo left, and they didn’t know how many men there were outside. At the bottom, Juliet could make out a fire exit door lining the wall. Joel reached a hand behind him to brush against her arm, checking she was still there, before he pushed against the doors.

The afternoon sun bled through the dark of the stairwell as the doors popped open. Juliet glanced up at Joel’s face. He nodded, reassuring her that everything would be okay, they just had to get off the campus and back to the main road as quickly as possible. “Ready?” he mouthed.

Juliet adjusted her grip on her gun before she nodded back, she was ready.

They darted around the edge of the building as they tried to get their bearings. Every building and every path looked the same, Juliet’s head was spinning as Joel signalled for them to move more into the open. Her eyes were wide as Joel nodded reassuringly.

The bolted across the grass, heading for the path she now recognised from earlier. Juliet’s heart was banging against her chest but she kept moving, kept following Joel. He would get them out of this, she trusted him with everything she had.

“Got them!” a voice called from behind them.

Juliet’s head swung around but she kept running. They had spotted them, two men were headed in their direction.

Joel stopped suddenly and Juliet ran into him, her whole body shaking as she slammed against his hard chest. He grabbed her and pulled her behind him. Juliet struggled against his hold, attempting to stand beside him but Joel was having none of it. “Stay behind me and stay quiet,” he ground out, only loud enough for her to hear. Juliet grunted as Joel’s arm stretched behind him and held her against his back.

Juliet moved her head slightly so she could see around Joel’s arm. The men were closer now, Juliet felt Joel reach his arms up and fire a shot from his gun. She flinched as the sound rang out in her ears.

She heard a shout as one of the men fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Juliet tried to move around Joel to help take out the next man, but in the same second Joel darted forward, grabbing the other man in a headlock.

A sneer overtook Joel’s face as Juliet watched him strangle the man in his arms. She didn’t blink when she heard the crunch of his neck breaking. Joel let the man fall to the ground. Then he turned, facing Juliet, breathing heavily.

Juliet started to move towards him, her hands twitching to comfort him, to thank him for saving them again. She stopped when she noticed another figure darting towards Joel from behind.

“Joel!” she shouted, pointing behind him.

Joel turned just in time, grabbing the other man’s arm before he fired a shot. They struggled against each other, standing too close so Joel couldn’t shoot. This man was stronger too, Joel wasn’t able to take him out as quickly as the other two.

Juliet started to panic, her hands shook as she positioned her gun and tried to get a clear shot of the guy’s head. They were moving too much, it was impossible.

Juliet moved closer as Joel swung the man around, this was it, this was her chance.

She pulled the trigger.

The man fell backwards, his head smashing off the concrete ground.

Juliet gasped, finally catching her breath after holding it for so long.

Joel stood across from her, his mouth gaped open. His face was a strange colour, almost chalky, verging on pale. He kept his frantic eyes on Juliet as he started to walk towards her. When he took his first step he stumbled, Juliet mindlessly reached a hand out, desperate to stabilise him. But then her gaze slowly dropped downwards…

A knife was lodged in his side.

Joel’s eyes followed hers, instantly spotting the blade impaling his lower torso. He let out a rough breath before he raised his hand and gripped the handle of the knife.

A shot of fear fired through Juliet’s heart. She darted towards Joel, ready to pull his hand back.

“Joel, no!”

She wasn’t quick enough. Joel pulled the knife from his abdomen, leaving behind a fast spreading smudge of dark red on his green flannel.

Juliet caught him before he fell, her hands gripped his broad shoulders, holding him upright. Her face was caught in between his neck and shoulder, his skin was already so hot. Was it supposed to be that hot? Her mind spiralled inwards, trying to remember every medical tip Ethan had taught her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything other than the weight of Joel’s body as she kept him on his feet.

“We have to get out of here,” she groaned into his neck, her voice higher than usual. Panic started to grip her. She didn’t know what to do, where to take him, or how to help him. Juliet strengthened her hold on his shoulders and pushed away from him temporarily, her arms shaking as she turned and positioned his arm to drape over her shoulders as his weight rested on the left side of her body. She nearly screamed as his weight put pressure on her bad shoulder.

Joel’s head rolled off of her, he was gaining consciousness again. Juliet took this opportunity to start moving forward, Joel’s feet stumbling beside her own.

She willed her breathing to slow, she needed some clarity of mind if she was going to get them out of there. If she was going to save Joel.

Joel groaned into Juliet’s ear, his hot breath staining her cheek.

“Leave me,” he coughed out. “Get out of here.”

“Fuck that,” Juliet growled, her voice straining as they struggled across the grass, towards the path back to the road.

Joel coughed again. Juliet had no idea how bad his injury was, she didn’t get a good look at it, just grabbed him and started moving. What if he has internal bleeding? she thought. Juliet had no medical knowledge, she might have listened to Ethan ramble on about his training for hours on end but that didn’t mean she knew the first thing about healing a stab wound.

All Juliet could focus on was getting him off this cursed campus and finding somewhere to hole up, then she would look at his wound and figure out how fucked they really were.

She remembered that house they passed with the porch swing. It wasn’t far, they could make it. Juliet bit her lip, her teeth piercing the delicate skin until she tasted blood. The pain grounded her, dragged her mind away from her anxiety and back to the pressure of Joel’s body against hers.

…………………………………….

Juliet’s legs were about to give out.

With each shaky step, her body threatened to crumple onto the cracked pavement beneath her. Juliet’s legs struggled to support her own weight, let alone the hulking figure of the man draped against the left side of her body, with his arm locked around her neck.

Juliet’s erratic breaths caught at the sight of Joel’s blood.

She tightened her hold on his body, her fingers digging into his side. She urged him, with the press of her torn nails against his flannel, to stay awake, to stay with her.

The house with the porch swing was in her line of sight, they were so close. Juliet couldn’t look behind her but she prayed with everything in her that they had killed all of the men at the University. She had no fight left in her.

When they reached the house, Juliet cursed as she noticed the porch steps. She wanted to stop and catch her breath before she attempted them, but she knew that if she stopped she probably wouldn’t be able to start walking again. Joel must have sensed, with some detached part of his brain, that Juliet was struggling and he managed to strengthen his steps, pulling some of his own weight up the stairs.

When they approached the front door, Juliet was able to offload some of Joel’s weight onto the wall so she could free one of her hands to turn the door handle. Joel’s entire face was coated in a worrying sheen of sweat, his colour still unusually pale. Juliet steeled herself to take his weight again as she dragged him through the front door. There was a living room to their left and they stumbled towards it. With one last push of her strength, Juliet removed Joel’s arm from around her shoulders and positioned his body so it would slowly tip onto the couch in front of them.

That didn’t go to plan.

Joel tripped over his legs and dropped to the ground beside the couch, his head just missing the corner of the coffee table. Juliet gasped, her hands covering her mouth for a brief, stunned moment before she bent down, pushing the coffee table away. She groaned loud as she pulled his upper body up to slip his bag off his back, sitting it beside her own as she contemplated lifting him onto the couch.

That was until her eyes landed on his face and she realised that he had completely passed out, there was no way she could lift him without support. Instead, she bunched up her jacket and slid it under his head, then rocked back on her heels and buried her face in her hands.

She had to think, try to imagine what Ethan would do in this situation.

Juliet removed her hands from her face and watched them tremble as she reached towards Joel’s abdomen. She bent down properly, putting her knees to the floor as she leaned forward and pulled back Joel’s flannel and the grey t-shirt underneath. Her breath hissed through her teeth when she saw the state of his wound.

There was so much blood, the bottom half of his flannel was almost entirely stained red. Juliet instantly pressed her hand on it, finally remembering what Ethan had said about pressure stopping blood flow. It definitely needed stitches, she knew that much.

Juliet looked around her as tears started to blur her vision. Now that she had stopped moving, her mind began to process everything that just happened. She choked on a sob.

She shook her head sharply, not letting her fear take over just yet. She had a job to do, Joel needed her. While keeping one hand firmly latched onto Joel’s wound, she reached behind her to Joel’s backpack, pulling it forward so she could rifle through it. Juliet knew Joel extensive first aid kit in there, he had had got it from Bill and Frank’s and used it on her multiple times over the past few weeks. Now it was Juliet’s turn.

Finally, her fingers felt the corner of it and she dragged it out of his bag. With one hand she rested it on her lap and popped it open. Inside was gauze, plasters, some sort of antiseptic liquid, and a suture kit. Relief flowed through her at the sight. Juliet looked at Joel’s face again, hoping he would stay unconscious while she closed his wound. She squeezed her eyes shut, put more pressure on Joel’s wound, then opened them, blinking away her hesitation and moved to pick up the kit.

………………………………………………….

Twenty minutes later, Juliet sat back against the coffee table and stared at her handiwork. Her fingers had trembled with every stitch but she’d done it. Ethan would have been proud.

Her fingers were stained with Joel’s blood, Juliet couldn’t stand the sight of it. She pulled her water canister from her bag, took a swig, then poured some over her hands, watching as the water and blood mixed together on the wooden floor. The water had cured the dryness in her mouth but she needed something stronger. Juliet dug about in Joel’s bag again, pulling out his whiskey flask.

He had never let her have any, the whole time they had travelled together. She must have asked him at least five times and everytime he would shake his head, end of discussion. Now, though, she needed it.

Juliet welcomed the burn as the liquid slid down her throat, warming her insides. She struggled to take her eyes off Joel, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. Juliet took another sip of his whiskey. Surely he would wake up soon, he had to. Juliet refused to imagine a possibility where he didn’t open his eyes.

Juliet felt a hot tear slide down her face. She reached up to wipe it away and remembered when it was Joel’s fingers that grazed her cheek. “Open your eyes, Joel,” she whispered as another tear dripped onto her lap. She didn’t even wipe it away this time.

“Please,” she choked out. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Her head hit the coffee table again, her eyes squeezed shut, forcing the tears to pour from the corner of her eyelids. Juliet began to feel the warmth of the whiskey approach the pain in her head, dulling it a little.

She didn’t feel his touch at first, not until Joel’s hand circled her wrist, squeezing her blood stained skin. Juliet’s eyes blinked open, instantly meeting Joel’s weary gaze. His stare was piercing as it slid over her face and down her body, to the flask in her hand.

“Gimme some of that,” he croaked out.

A laugh burst from Juliet, her head spinning with how quick she sat up. She leaned forward over his body, her free hand reaching to cup his cheek, a couple tears dripped from her bloodshot eyes to his sweat soaked forehead. “Joel,” she breathed, smiling down at him.

Joel stared back at her with wide eyes, his gaze wandering over her face, hovering over her lips before he met her eyes again. She watched as he swallowed roughly. Then Juliet remembered his request.

“Here,” she said, circling her hand around the back of his neck to raise his head slightly as she tipped the flask to his cracked lips. Joel didn’t take his eyes off of her as he gulped the amber liquid. When he was done, she gently placed his head back on the makeshift pillow and leaned back just enough to rest her hand against his shoulder. Juliet didn’t know what had come over her, but she found that she couldn’t keep her hands off of him. She had to make sure he was really there.

Joel tipped his head forward to stare down at his wound, which was now covered in gauze. His eyes darted back up to Juliet’s, shock filled his features.

“You stayed,” he said roughly.

Juliet swallowed, letting her head drop in confirmation. “Of course I stayed,” she whispered. “I need you.”

Those three words triggered something in Joel, his fingers still latched around her wrist started to move, painting small circles against her skin. That electricity that always danced between them flickered and sparked with each swipe of his fingers. Juliet’s breath caught in her throat as she registered that dark look in his eyes. It must be the whiskey, making her see things. Because Juliet couldn’t possibly see desire shining in Joel’s eyes, it wasn’t possible. Joel was cold, stoic, heartless, he couldn’t look at someone the way he was looking at Juliet in that moment.

Juliet was definitely hallucinating when Joel’s fingers moved from her wrist up to her wet face as his calloused thumb grazed over the cut on her lip. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he stared at the blood now staining the tip of his finger. His gaze hardened. The danger lurking in his eyes didn’t frighten Juliet, it never did, it only made her want to move closer, to see what else hid behind his heated stare. She felt her body begin to lean forward, her hand slid from Joel’s shoulder to his neck then back up to cup his cheek, the rough hair of his beard pricking her fingers.

Blood started pumping in Juliet’s ears, drowning out her mind which screamed at her to sit back, to stay away from the wounded man on the floor, to run scared from the hunger in his eyes.

Juliet was never good at following orders.

She moved those last few inches towards Joel’s face, neither of them blinked as Juliet’s lips hovered over his. Their breaths mingled together as sparks ran across her vision. Then Joel moved, his eyelashes brushing against Juliet’s as he leaned forward to crash his lips onto hers.

Kissing Joel was brutal, hot, and messy. There was so gentleness, no softness, only the hard press of his lips and the savage way they parted for her. His hand moved to the back of her neck, circling her delicate throat with the press of his fingers, pulling her towards him, suffocating her on his lips. Juliet’s mind was blank, the screaming had stopped. She couldn’t remember the last time her mind had been so quiet. The roaring of her blood in her ears and the grunts rumbling in Joel’s throat were the only sounds that she could hear.

Her whole body burned, it felt as though she had swallowed the entire flask of whiskey. Joel’s lips were a drug she had resisted for so long, now that she had a taste she would never forget the feeling. Joel pulled her closer, squeezing the back of her neck. Juliet ran her hand through his hair in response, her fingers tugged on the dark brown strands. She could feel the hunger that his eyes had promised, it stroked the fire raging within her.

Juliet moaned against his lips and moved to press her chest against his, desperate for any sense of friction. She gasped as Joel let out a groan of pain, pulling his lips off of hers. Juliet threw herself backwards, her head almost smacking against the coffee table as her eyes darted to Joel’s wound. She had forgotten herself, forgotten where they were, forgotten what had happened.

The sound of their harsh breaths echoed in the darkening room. Juliet hesitantly reached her fingers up to graze over her swollen lips as she risked a glance at Joel’s face. His eyes were black. His chest moving up and down in rapid movements as he winced in pain.

“Oh god,” Juliet murmured against her fingers. “I’m sorry, I -” she grasped at an apology, searching for any words which would help explain her actions. Juliet couldn’t even make sense of what had just happened, how could she possibly explain herself to Joel? She forced herself to blink, looking away from Joel’s weighted gaze. Her mind was screaming again, embarrassment flooded her body in a dark red flush.

Juliet gripped the coffee table and stood, swaying slightly as her blood rushed to her head. She had to step away for a moment, find any remnants of her sanity to cling onto.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Juliet explained in a low voice as she moved to the living room door, making a very conscious decision not to look back at Joel. She couldn't bring herself to witness the disgust she was sure now linger in his eyes. Instead, she stared straight ahead as she stumbled out the room.

As she reached the front door, Juliet thought she heard Joel call after her. But she was already gone, stepping out into the chill evening air as the door slammed behind her.

___________________________

@amyispxnk @shotgun-shelby

#joel miller x original character #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller hbo #joel miller x female oc #ao3 fanfic #tlou #tlou joel #joel the last of us #the last of us #Spotify #pedro pascal

67 notes · View notes

xalygatorx · 3 months

Text

Unbound | Chapter 15, "Their Jagged Edges"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Astarion tries to comfort Áine through the night and she shares a little of her past with him in good faith. The next morning, Gale sits before the party at large and offers Áine an apology. Astarion expresses his disapproval at Áine’s (in his opinion) swift forgiveness. The group returns to the goblin camp and enters the Underdark. Astarion comes to terms with his feelings.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Comfort/hurt; angst; fluff; trauma; post-traumatic flashbacks; description of feeling triggered and of a panic attack; discussion of the non-con portion of the previous chapter; more of Astarion's internal monologue flashbacks; suggestive content & dialogue; lightly proofread

Word Count: 8.9k

Listening to: Butchered Tongue - Hozier, Daylight (Acoustic) - David Kushner, Jenny of Oldstones - cover by Rachel Hardy

The instant he slid her from his arms onto his bedroll, Astarion’s movements became tightly strung and ever more agitated. He could still feel her rapid heartbeat in his chest even after he no longer carried her, like a song echoed in an endless cavern. The remembered staccato of it spurred him on like a self-inflicted whipping cane as he tore through his wares for something, anything, to help her.

He swore when he knocked over one of his picking kits. Bleeding Hells, Astarion was positively rattled and wasn’t entirely sure how to calm down without going back out to the woods and actually killing Gale, which he still had half a mind to do. No, that would upset her more and possibly blast them all to smithereens. He didn’t have the faintest idea how the damned orb in Gale’s chest worked but he was sorely tempted to test it.

Roughly, he snatched up the tattered blanket at the foot of his bedroll and leaned over Áine to drape it around her shoulders, muttering a curse at himself for having such a bare interior for a tent. For having so little to call his own, so little to offer her. He should’ve just taken her to her own, she would’ve been more comfortable there, but no he’d acted selfishly again at the worst possible time because he didn’t want her out of his sight.

Unsatisfied with just the old brown blanket, he leaned out and snatched the velvety red one that still hung across one of the mirrors outside his tent, bundling her in that too. Astarion had no idea if this would even help, but he was running out of things to try.

His eyes next caught on the old bottle of brandy he’d taken from a chest on a whim weeks ago at this point. Astarion uncapped it and snatched up the empty goblet he still had from Áine’s wine at the tieflings’ party, splashing some of the amber liquid into the vessel. “Bleeding fucking Hells, my left arm for some tea leaves,” he was muttering under his breath, rifling through a nearby bag even though he knew for certain he’d yet to come across any tea in their travels.

Áine watched him, his every movement half-coiled like a predator still aching to pounce, still dangerous despite its retreat. She hugged her knees to her chest, making herself take longer, deeper breaths to slow her tired lungs and racing heart. Her head swam from stress and a shortage of air, but she kept telling herself she was safe now. She’d have to do damage control in the morning, she expected, but for now, she was safe and just needed to calm down.

She heard him remark upon their lack of tea leaves and in his manic state he missed the way her expression softened. He still remembered that? That she’d said she found a warm tea with brandy to be comforting? She let the realization warm her chilled bones, his care as healing as any drink he could have brewed her, as he pressed the goblet of straight, lukewarm brandy into her hands.

Her darkened eyes flickered down to the light golden ripples of the drink. When had she said that again? Surely not the only time she could remember with any clarity—the very first day they’d met. When he’d remarked preferring a dry red as his go-to drink and she’d not yet had the context to understand he was making a joke about his vampirism. It made her smile ever so faintly now. That had been…so long ago. And he remembered. Even back then, when she’d been firmly under the impression that he hated her, he’d been listening.

Áine jolted when she heard him snarl toward the door at the faintest sound of footsteps outside. The footfalls had passed too closely to the tent for his liking and he’d immediately gone on the offensive as his instincts to protect himself and his mate had surged to the surface. “Astarion, it’s okay,” she murmured. “It just sounds like someone going to bed or going off to relieve themselves. Nothing dangerous.”

Astarion rounded on her for saying that, incredulous as he repeated her words. “‘Nothing dangerous?’ I truly don’t understand you sometimes, Áine,” he gritted. “How are you just okay after something like that?”

As soon as his words had left his lips in such upset, Astarion had chastised himself, dropping his head forward to rake a rough hand through his hair. Frustrated as he was, he wasn’t frustrated with her. He was worried for her. She needed to know that, not feel as though he was mad at her for what had happened.

She didn’t begrudge him his stressed response it seemed. He almost wished she would. “I’m not,” she whispered with patience, her fingertips pressing more firmly against the sides of the goblet as she took a tiny sip of the beverage. “But… I don’t think I’m worried anymore. Just…shaken up.”

Astarion looked down at Áine, bundled in his blankets with her barely nursed brandy in her hands. Whether it was how she sat, so curled in on herself, or that he simply wasn’t used to standing over her like this, she looked so heartbreakingly small to him now. So unbearably fragile when there were more times than he could count that “fragile” was the last word he would’ve ever chosen to describe her.

His expression bared without so much as an attempt to hide how helpless he felt, Astarion slowly slumped to his knees in front of her, his head hung in defeat. “I apologize for getting cross with you, I… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t know what you need. Or how to fix this.” He finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, finding the amber windows to his favorite soul glassy with unshed tears. “You can have anything you want. Anything of mine. Of me. Just name it.”

Áine’s expression crumpled. “Astarion—”

It’s all I’m good for, he wanted to reassure her. I know. It’s okay. It’s okay if it’s you. Aloud, he said, “You can have as much or as little of me as you want. If it will help, I’ll do it.”

Áine stared into his eyes, her brows canting upward as a fluttered blink of her lashes made her tears spill over at last. He was set off by all this too and not just because he was worried for her—she could see the pain, the barely staved off dissociation in those gorgeous crimson eyes. Not nearly for the first time since she’d met him, since she’d known him, since she’d loved him—yes, she was tired of lying to herself about her own feelings—she wondered, Gods, what happened to you? How much did she still not know?

The bard set aside the goblet, reaching for Astarion’s hands. He deposited them without question into hers and let her guide him down to lie on his bedroll. Instinctively, his fingers reached for the laces of his shirt, ready to do whatever she asked of him, even if it hurt. He was utterly lost to her and that was finally spiraling into such a maelstrom of fact that he no longer felt an ounce of his former kneejerk denial. Áine could do almost anything to him now and he was convinced he’d forgive her in an instant. Was this trust?

Her warm fingers covered his, firmly stilling them against his collar. Astarion looked up at her and Áine saw that look in his eyes again—half-present, half-slowly slipping out to sea past where she thought she could reach him. She ran her thumbs against his knuckles like the smallest ritual, a tactile prayer. She pressed a kiss against the spot where his hands met before she guided them apart and found her place within the circle of his arms.

Astarion kept his arms hovered just above her while she situated herself, suddenly out of his depth again. His face heated with the palest flush of pink as she fitted herself perfectly against his body, nudging his legs apart just to entangle them with hers. He could feel her face burning against the fabric of his shirt when she finally settled her head against the curve of his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He swallowed against a lump in his throat, finally allowing his arms to come down to rest around her. Timidly at first and then more securely as he grew comfortable holding her. One of her beautifully content sighs graced his ears and, even though it took Astarion a moment to relax, he managed it as his somber eyes traced the starlight crown of her head. “Of course,” he whispered back, trying to make sense of what she could possibly see in him, how she could possibly want him.

Hesitantly, he raised a hand to her brilliant pearlescent halo and followed an instinct he had to stroke her hair. The way her prone body melted further against him rewarded his cautious venture and he marveled at her vulnerability, her warmth, and her trust in him. They were fitted against each other in every curve and he only wanted her closer, impossibly so. Until he could no longer find their separate starts and ends.

Astarion adjusted to rest his chin against the top of her head. “Are you alright, my sweet?” he asked and his voice was so gentle Áine’s eyes burned anew with tears. He felt her tense and, afraid both that he’d upset her and, selfishly once more, that she’d leave, he quickly said, “We needn’t talk if—”

“I’m fine,” she squeaked and he realized that she’d tensed to stifle a sob.

Astarion’s jaw set and he pulled her tightly against him. She molded willingly against him, burying her face into his neck. Her tears dripped like summer rain past his collar. He sighed and mumbled, ��I should’ve killed him.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve,” she asserted with a hiccup. Hidden from Astarion’s view, Áine’s features strained against the tears that came and she forced herself to inhale deeply, even as her breath shuddered. She could feel a headache forming as a dull pain behind her eyes.

“Please?” Astarion asked in a quiet whine and it caught her so off-guard that a small watery giggle escaped Áine’s aching throat. He cast a fond smile down at her, a smile she felt hints of when he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Leaning further into his natural inclinations, Astarion traced gentle patterns against Áine’s back until she was able to calm herself. He let his eyes close, meditating on her heart and her heat.

He was almost sure she’d dozed off when he heard her murmur, “It all brought back some unpleasant memories. That’s why…” She trailed off and he waited for her to collect herself and continue. “That’s why I fell apart so thoroughly, I think.”

Astarion dropped his head forward slightly, pulling her scent into his more or less useless lungs to ground himself and remind himself that she was more important than his anger. “Because I need you more than he does right now.” He skimmed his lips against her temple as he murmured back, “I can relate to that, for whatever it’s worth… Anything you’d like to talk about?”

Áine pursed her lips, bringing one of her hands up to her face to wipe away her tears. Was there anything she wanted to tell him? Anything that had been dredged up that would feel better left to the night air? Would it change anything, or make a difference? She’d never talked to someone about her past in any detail. “I’m not sure,” she admitted plainly. “I…don’t know if any of it’s worth bringing up.”

Astarion’s eyes opened into barely discernable slits to peer down at her. He couldn’t see her face, but he admired the sight of her wrapped up in him all the same. Besides that, he knew her well enough by now to not need a constant read on her expression to know at least somewhat how she felt. “It is up to you. But should you be inclined,” he mumbled, “I’m all pointy ears, my love.”

A small smile tugged at Áine’s lips. She sniffled again, but it was residual, and said, “In the shortest terms I can place it, I was a soldier once. Years ago. And mixed barracks are often not a kind place, especially among other drow.”

Astarion’s arms tightened around her just the slightest bit. His mind flashed back to the “kennels” wedged deep into the bowels of Cazador’s palace. The moldy, scratchy, tattered bunks. The smell of decaying rats and their old excrement amidst an array of other horrible, sour smells. Another deep inhale of her scent helped to center him, but barely.

“Your soldiering doesn’t surprise me from how many times I’ve seen you tear through a battlefield at this point,” he murmured. “Is the…barracks instance why you left?”

He felt her shake her head against his chest before she craned her head back to meet his eyes. Áine smiled softly when he took the opportunity to kiss the tip of her nose. “No,” she replied. “Those sorts of things were normal.”

Astarion scowled at the idea, suddenly wondering if anything he’d done or any of his advances had set something off for her in their time together. Without knowing, he could only be so upset with himself, but he still found himself half-asking, “...when you say ‘those sorts of things’?”

“The, uh, handsiness, I suppose,” she said carefully. More of that red-hot anger lanced through him. “The drunk handsiness specifically. Worse than what Gale did, but never the worst it could’ve been if that makes sense.”

While she spoke, Áine watched Astarion’s features, seeing a mingling of anger on her behalf and discomfort whenever his eyes drifted out of focus, taken by an unpleasant memory. She recognized that cocktail of emotions with ease as she often felt it, herself. With hesitation, he said, “I believe I understand what you mean.”

She was glad she didn’t need to go into further detail. She’d normalized it all to cope over the years, but the longer she’d spent away from her family and former comrades-in-arms, the more she’d realized just how fucked up the first 45 years or so of her life had been. It took getting away from it to see it at all. “It was more violent than anything,” she found herself admitting. “Just constant scraps and drunk fights. And training was no different.”

“It sounds dreadful, darling,” he informed her.

Her gaze shuttered slightly, remembering. “It was.”

“Why do it then?” he wondered. “Surely that sort of life wasn’t what you signed up for when you started, er, soldiering. You could hardly be blamed for—what?”

Áine had looked up at him while he spoke and she had a peculiar twinge to her expression. It took him a moment to realize it was sorrow. The sort with roots so deep they mixed with one’s marrow. “Astarion, I—” Her voice cracked, but she steeled herself. “I like to think I had a choice, but the older I get, the less I think I did.”

“Whatever could you mean?” he asked.

She shrugged, ducking her gaze to fix upon his shirt ties as she murmured, “It’s all I was born for.”

Astarion scoffed a little. “As in you felt it was your destiny?”

“No,” she said. “I mean it’s the only reason I was born.” Her whispering voice hardened. “I was conceived to serve and I did. Until I didn’t.”

“It’s all you’re good for, after all.”

Astarion’s throat constricted, searching the top of her bowed head as if it could provide as much context as the expression she hid from him. He didn’t know what to say to that. It hit too close to home and yet he had to acknowledge that he didn’t know how she felt in some ways at all. He’d had a life before he was nearly killed, before he began his next “life.” He could scarcely remember most of it, but he’d had it. And while it had been criminally short for the expected lifespan of a high elf, he couldn’t imagine being born into, raised into war.

His eyes traced the faint points of her ears, the crease between his brows deepening. A familiar recurring dread sent a wave of nausea through him to think about her mortality. Half-elves could live past 200 years of age, but it was so variable by blood. “It feels particularly wretched to have done that to you,” he murmured, “considering the time allowed to half-elves.”

“That’s why I’m half, too,” she murmured, stifling a yawn against the back of her hand. When she glanced up at him to find his features pinched in confusion, she explained simply, “Faster soldiers.”

So she’d been bred a half-elf because she’d mature faster than a full drow. A quicker workup for another body to be thrust into battle. For what? No reason could suffice, but he had to wonder what could’ve possibly been happening during his cyclical time suffering all means of torture and procuring prey for his master to have warranted such a cruel recruitment.

Bereft of anything else he could think to say, Astarion murmured, “...I’m sorry.”

Áine gave him a gentle goading look that he didn’t understand until she said in her little impression of his voice, “What could you have to be sorry for?”

He snorted and inclined his head. “Touché, my love.” Astarion traced his fingertips against the curve of her cheek, a complicated feeling curled in his chest like a sleeping cat. He realized gradually that it was compassion, only “complicated” for him. “Maybe it’s selfish of me, given what you’ve just told me,” he said slowly, “but I’m glad you are here.”

A tender smile traced her lips. “And I, you,” she murmured. “I suppose we can be selfish together.” More seriously, she added a quiet, “...Thank you. For listening.”

“Anytime,” Astarion said. He hesitated and pointed out to her and himself, “You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me.”

“Happily,” she said, sighing with contentment as she adjusted to settle back in against him and was rewarded by him drawing the blankets more snugly over them both and kissing her forehead. With sleep-bleary eyes, she glanced up at him and cautiously asked, “Are you alright?”

Astarion watched her affectionately as her body started to forcibly wind her down. “Me?” he asked with a teasing lilt to his voice as he gathered the woman lying against him even closer, finding that even that still wasn’t close enough. Would it ever be? “I’m in heaven, darling.”

Áine smiled and laughed a little at his flirting, but her features remained taut with seriousness. “You know what I mean,” she murmured. “Tonight set something off for you, too.”

He gave a noncommittal grumble. “Of course it did,” Astarion snipped, “I was worried for you. I still am.”

“And I appreciate that more than you know,” she reassured him. “But that’s not what I mean either.”

One of Astarion’s reflexive responses began to bubble up, but he contained it and he sighed instead. He sighed an awful lot for someone who had no functional use for breathing apart from a comfortable habit. “Not tonight, darling,” he said instead. “Soon. But not tonight.”

“Okay,” Áine said. “You’re okay though?”

“I am,” he reassured her. “I’ll be all the better if you rest.”

Áine yawned, accidentally emphasizing his point. “Tired of talking to me?” she teased him.

“Exceptionally,” he teased her back, smirking when she pressed a kiss under his jaw and returned her head to rest against his shoulder.

“Is this comfortable or should I move?” she asked, barely able to keep her eyes open at this point.

“I will be personally offended if you try to move,” he warned her, bringing a sleepy smirk to her face. It was a sight he memorized, craving to preserve it for an eternity at minimum.

“If I weren’t so tired, I’d do it just to see what happened,” she mumbled and he believed her. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

Astarion felt her heart slow as she slipped into sleep and he found himself studying her relaxed features for some time after. “Goodnight, sweet girl,” he murmured after she was already gone, simply musing over the turns his night—his existence even—had taken as he let himself bring his guard down just enough to let himself slip into a light meditation.

His first in centuries that was completely free of nightmarish memories and visions.

Their late night became morning with a swiftness that bordered on criminal and the pair were awakened too early for either of their likings.

Áine stirred with a groan, her hand finding purchase against soft cottony fabric and her fingertips feeling the smooth, cold plane of muscle beneath that brought her waking brain the recognition it needed. She ran her hand up until her hand cupped against the side of her bedmate’s neck and she was able to hook her arm back around him. She lifted her head and willed her eyes to open, greeted by a sight she was starting to find more beautiful than most sunrises.

Astarion, already alert, met her eyes and watched her wake with just the faintest line of tension in his otherwise softened expression. “Good morning,” he murmured, ever amused and bewitched by how wild her hair became once tossed by sleep. When she uttered another quieter grumble and tried unsuccessfully to blink the sleep from her eyes, Astarion chuckled. “Or perhaps not?”

“I slept like the dead,” she mumbled after using the arm she’d moved around him to pull herself up to kiss his cheek. “I think it may have killed me.”

He smirked. “Well, if you’ve passed, apparently you took me with you,” he remarked. If he were being honest, he would prefer it that way at the end of things. He couldn’t think of a better way to go than with her. Astarion inwardly balked at the hopelessly romantic thought, wondering who’d injected that into his mind. Worse than a tadpole, truly.

He felt Áine hum her acknowledgment of his statement against his throat between kisses and Astarion used his arm still wrapped beneath her to roll her into lying atop him. Undeterred by being transplanted, Áine nuzzled back into his neck, kissing a trail down to his collarbone and only lifting when her roving hands smoothed his shirt up off his torso. She held the offending fabric out of her way as she continued her winding trail down his stomach, taking her time with every languorous press and suck from her lips.

“And what are you getting up to?” Astarion asked, wincing slightly at how his voice broke a bit at the end, betraying the effect she had on him.

“Getting up to? No,” she murmured, her voice a sleepy, sensual husk that sent an immediate jolt through his body. “Going down…maybe. If you’ll humor me?”

Humor her? Hells, he’d get on his knees and beg her for the privilege. Astarion swallowed hard and nodded when her sleep-softened, hooded amber gaze flicked forward to check in with him. Áine’s mouth formed a faint, smug smile as she dropped it back down to his abdomen, her hands releasing the bunch of his shirt as she skimmed her fingertips down to his thighs, leaving tickling trails of heat in streaks down his stomach. He shivered, his hips instinctively canting upward as she gripped his thighs and settled herself between them.

“Are you always so frisky in the morning, my dear?” Astarion tried to tease her, but the pointed question came out so breathy he just felt a little embarrassed.

As far as Áine was concerned, his attempt to tease her had worked as just the sound of his oft-overcomposed voice trembling at the bare beginnings of her ministrations sent a clench through her inner thighs. She breathed in deep, composing herself as her fingertips moved deftly to make short work of his pants.

At least until they were interrupted by a not-distant-enough voice outside.

Áine’s hands stilled and she cocked her head ever so slightly to see if she’d imagined it. Or perhaps she’d misheard the word that sounded like her name. However, she heard it again and expelled the breath she’d just taken in with a frustrated sigh. Gale was asking after her next door, at her tent.

“Ignore him,” Astarion murmured severely and Áine may have found his ferocity amusing if she weren’t just as upset. Her fingers flexed against his waistband, wanting to keep going and ignore him as Astarion suggested.

And then again from the tent adjacent, “Áine, I’m sorry and I would love to explain in detail just how ashamed I am if you’d permit me to do so.” Gale’s voice was faintly muffled as if running a hand down his face.

Fainter still, closer to the fire, she suspected, Karlach’s voice joined the mix. “Gale, where’d you get the shiner? Drop a book on your face in bed?”

“Nothing so intelligent,” Gale sighed. “Am I being foolish, has she gone out scouting or something?”

Lae’zel’s voice emerged. “Astarion took her to his bed last night.” Something bristled in her tone and Áine couldn’t decide what it was until she heard Lae’zel add, “What is it exactly that you have to apologize for, Gale?”

Oh dear, Lae’zel was putting two and two together, which meant Áine had to brace to save the little rat’s life again.

“I’m going to kill him,” Astarion growled as Áine gave up on her morning misdeed, picked herself up off the tent floor, and straightened her clothes. “I was going to kill him before and now I’m going to kill him more slowly. Perhaps use one of his nasty little scrolls to bring him back so I can kill him a second time as well.”

Of all the bloody times for her to have to play party leader, it’d had to be this morning. This morning after he’d surfaced from a deep, satisfying reverie almost entirely free of the usual torment of painful flashbacks. He still struggled at times in their intimate moments, especially in the moments he felt out of control, regardless of whether or not he slipped into a script to cope. He didn’t feel in control this morning, but it didn’t feel bad either and, gods, he wanted to try at least! Even his usual anxieties about something being too much for him and her seeing him shut down seemed quieter than usual.

“There will be no killing the idiot wizard,” she declared in a whisper as she leaned down and captured his lips in a loving kiss. “As tempting as it may be. This wasn’t a one-time offer, don’t worry.”

“That’s hardly the point, my darling,” he grumbled, attempting to pull her back down with him to little avail. She laughed at his pouting expression. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re so unbearably sexy as you wake in the morning?”

“You could’ve found out for yourself, you know,” Áine pointed out with a smile as she ruffled his curls. She decided to needle him a little as she put her boots on. “Besides, you woke with me after our first night together. Was I not so interesting then?”

Plenty interesting, frighteningly so, he answered internally. “Of course you were,” Astarion assured her, glaring at her boots as if they were singlehandedly responsible for taking her from his tent. “You’re simply even more ‘interesting’ now.”

Áine smirked. “What can I say? I like to snuggle.”

“Duly noted,” Astarion purred. And before she could insinuate it, he added, “And not just for the carnal bonuses… Last night was nice.”

Her features softened. “Apart from what inspired it, yes. It really was,” she agreed. Áine dared to lean in for one more smooch and dodged with only seconds to spare when he meant to snatch her back and tumble her beneath him. “Nice try, my love.”

Astarion dramatically threw his arm across his eyes when she stood up, soon forcing himself up—and the rest of him down—as well to follow her out of his tent and into whatever fray they were soon to step into. No way in the Hells was he going to let her walk out and face Gale alone, even if she didn’t seem concerned about doing so.

The first thing he saw, with satisfaction, was the blackened state of Gale’s left eye.

The wizard looked over when Áine emerged with Astarion directly behind her, his hackles already up. Clearing his throat, Gale looked at Áine, his studious brow creating a deep fissure at its middle. “Far be it from me to ask for a thing from you, but may I have a word?” he asked.

Áine nodded, glancing down the path from their camp and suggesting, “We can step out to chat if you’d prefer,” allowing him to save face, at least for the time being.

To her surprise and slight concern as well, he politely refused her out. “No, I think it’s best that I hang myself out to dry in mixed company,” Gale said, punctuating his words with a small shake of his index finger. “Good for the ego, you see.”

But good for the vitality? Áine wondered despite not arguing. “Very well, if you think so.” She had to give him some measure of props for this, she supposed. It was a bold choice.

Astarion was less impressed, no surprise there. Not only was he quite sure that nothing Gale could say would calm his ire, but he was quietly rooting for the others now to be upset like he was. More than that, he wanted Áine to be properly angry at him for the position he’d put her in.

They gathered near the fire and Áine sat adjacent to where Gale parked himself, feeling Astarion plunk himself down directly beside her. It was comforting, but she was also wary of her lover being only too happy to make Gale’s right eye match his left.

Lae’zel remained nearby, her eyes already severe on Gale’s back, and Shadowheart lingered while she worked on her breakfast. Áine felt the cleric’s gaze scan her for any signs of injury, the other woman’s frame only relaxing faintly when she found none. Karlach and Wyll were already at the fire when the three of them sat down and Halsin sat nearby as well, still portioning out breakfast. Karlach and Wyll’s conversation went quiet as they glanced between Áine, Astarion, and Gale, and the only sounds left in camp save for the crackling of the fire were Scratch and the owlbear cub having a game of tag nearby. Well, Gale had his audience.

“Right, what’s happened?” Shadowheart finally asked, clearly uneasy.

Gale cringed at her tone, his jaw working as he tried to parse together what to say. Áine remained silent, watching him clam up and deciding that she’d leave them in awkward silence until he drummed up the courage he’d had just a moment ago upon suggesting this route.

Astarion wasn’t as patient. Furious ruby eyes shot to meet Shadowheart’s as he said, “Our little Gale decided not to keep his hands—and his mouth, I’d wager—to himself last night, Áine’s consent on the matter be damned.”

Áine paled. Oh dear.

The ladle Halsin was using clacked loudly against the pot where he dropped it, his expression horrified as he looked between Gale and Áine. “Oak Father preserve us,” he murmured, but his expression was tinged with tension as if trying to keep his wild shape in check.

The scrape of steel preceded Lae’zel’s response, a fierce glare twisting her features. “Chk, I knew it,” she muttered, her sword glittering dangerously as she freed it. “I demand clarification.”

Wyll went ashen next to Karlach, who crushed the bowl in her hand, remnants of porridge burning black when they hit her blazing flesh. Through clenched teeth, Karlach ground out, “Please tell me there’s a good explanation for this, Gale.”

Shadowheart’s expression twisted with rage, but her attention went first to Áine instead. “Are you alright?” she asked, her fingertips white with pressure as she clutched her dining implements. When Áine nodded, her gaze burned a hole into Gale. “Your destroyer Mystra help you if she weren’t.”

“Please… I—,” he paused to sigh, leaning down to bury his face in his hands and collect himself before he sat up straight and turned fully to face Áine. “There is no ‘good’ explanation for something like this. And it is no excuse that I was out of my mind with wine, fear, and self-pity.

“However, I cannot properly express how sorry I am, Áine. That it happened at all with anyone, but especially that it was you. You’ve done so much for me—you’ve aided me in my affliction, you’ve been a trusted friend, a trusted ally, and I’ve repaid you with this and a deadly lie.”

He drew in a deep breath and she heard it shudder in his next words. “I do not deserve to carry on with you on this journey. In fact, I deserve little more than to find a barren patch of Faerûn to end my sorry existence on,” he stated, his hands balled in his lap to keep them from shaking. “But if you would allow me, I will take every available opportunity from here on to be a better friend, a better travel companion, and a better ally. And I will endeavor to never again take your kindness and care for granted as I know I have so far.”

Gale gave a weakened sigh as he pushed an anxious hand through his chestnut locks. “And…for whatever it’s worth, nothing about what happened was premeditated,” he added. “Again, it fixes nothing, but I wanted you to know that.”

The silence sat for a long few minutes. All eyes shifted to Áine, awaiting her verdict, while hers stayed fastened on Gale. He felt her measure his worth and the weight of his words as if she, too, were imbued with magic. As if she could see through all that he was.

Slowly, Áine nodded. “So stay. And prove your intentions.”

Gale hastened to nod. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll never a—”

He fell silent when Áine raised a hand. “I require action, not more words,” she said, letting her hand fall back in her lap. “I’d rather not speak of it again.” Astarion could tell in the strain of her voice that she was still upset and just hiding it as flawlessly as ever.

A large hand lowered in front of her and offered her a bowl of porridge and fruit. Áine looked up and accepted the bowl from Halsin as he laid a brief, comforting hand against her hair. She thanked him and he nodded then turned away to reclaim his seat and continue his work by the fire.

Wyll had shifted closer to them from Astarion’s unoccupied side, reaching across him to touch Áine’s arm and ask quietly again if she was okay. When she said she was, he glanced toward Astarion to get confirmation. The vampire gave him a nod of confirmation and only then did Wyll relax, glancing at Karlach as she worked to temper her rage.

Lae’zel scoffed at the outcome, resheathing her blade. “I have killed gleefully and for far less,” she intoned, glaring down at Gale. “Do not test my might with a second misstep.”

Áine felt Astarion’s arm slip around her shoulders as he agreed with the githyanki. “I, too, have killed for much less,” he said. “Legally and otherwise.” She occasionally forgot he’d been a magistrate in another life.

“You know, normally I’d offer a quick fix to alleviate something like a black eye,” Shadowheart mused, inclining her head to get a good look at Gale’s face. “However, I think you could do with a little suffering for your transgressions. If you’re good, I might change my mind further down the road.”

Gale winced at his companions’ threats, nodding in acknowledgment to each as he wrung his hands. “It’s less damage than I deserved surely,” he agreed. “This will be left to fade in its own time.”

“Karlach, did you want a fresh bowl?” Halsin offered the blazing tiefling.

“Maybe here shortly,” Karlach replied, giving her chest a couple of pounds with the side of her fist. The iron chamber echoed in response. “I love you lot to bits, but you give me heartburn.”

Áine and the others broke the tension a few degrees by smiling at her semi-intentional joke. When the group had more or less dispersed to begin packing up camp, Astarion addressed Áine, his arm still draped around her and his fingertips tracing small circles on the back of her arm. “You,” he accused, “were way too soft on him.”

She shrugged, looking tired all over again as she popped the last raspberry from her breakfast bowl into her mouth. “I know,” she said. “I’m still upset, but I do understand where it came from. And nothing…okay, almost nothing, stop looking at me like that…actually happened.” Áine pursed her lips. “I’m just trying to let bygones be bygones, I suppose.”

Astarion glared down at her but still stroked her arm despite his agitation. “Dearest, just because ‘nothing happened’ does not mean you’re not due your rage.”

Áine laughed sharply. “If I ever really unleashed all my pent-up anger at everyone who ever wronged me, I’m not sure I’d be able to stop.”

Astarion gave her a considering look and responded with a shrug of his own. “I would personally pay admission to see it,” he said, his lingering impulse to have a few more swings at the wizard nearby only assuaged by the sweet sound of her laughter.

“Hardly a welcome party,” Wyll remarked as he cast a glance toward the iron portcullis that separated them currently from a raging minotaur.

It roared as it beat its horns against the grated gate while the stone atop the statue of Selûne towering above them in the outpost they were setting up camp within shot the beast with bolts of light. The bolts ceased the moment the creature fell dead to the ground, thin tendrils of smoke rising from its smoldered flesh.

Áine frowned and cast a vague gesture toward the dank yet somehow still beautiful caverns surrounding the manmade lookout they camped inside which looked like a pinprick in comparison to the vast cave system that was truly its own world beneath a world. “Welcome to the Underdark,” she said dispassionately. They’d made good time in getting there, only an extra two days added to their journey to backtrack.

“I don’t mean to make any assumptions, Áine,” Gale said, “but did you grow up down here?”

Astarion stiffened and watched Áine out of the corner of his eye to see how she reacted to the question about her younger years. Now that he knew what he knew, even these casual questions made him want to intervene in some way.

She took it in stride, not looking bothered at all, and he could only assume that she’d had to deal with friendly personal questions often enough that reaching back just far enough into her memories no longer came at much of a cost. “I didn’t,” she said. “This isn’t my first time down here, but I frequented Baldur’s Gate more than I ever frequented the Underdark.” It wasn’t a lie in the slightest, Áine self-congratulated. It just adjusted the conversation away from the natural next question, which would have been, “Oh, then where did you grow up?”

Shadowheart grimaced up at the Selûne statue and the light that shone from its gem. “Just how long are we intending to leave that infernal thing up there?” she asked.

“As long as it’s of use to us,” Áine asserted, nodding toward the felled minotaur. “When we get ready to leave, I’ll shoot it down or something. For now, while we rest, it’s a nice bit of insurance.”

“Already nostalgic for the sun, Astarion?” Lae’zel guessed when she spotted the vampire. Áine followed her gaze and found him frowning up at the pitch-black cavern ceilings.

Astarion sighed without looking at her. “Of course, I am,” he replied, sounding more inconvenienced than nostalgic. “Imagine being deprived of something for 200 years, getting it back, and then ending up in a place you can’t enjoy it for however long your reprieve lasts.”

To his surprise, he heard the gith grumble in agreement. “Understood,” she acquiesced. “It is only a matter of time before we surface again.” Was she trying to reassure him?

“Even then,” Halsin said with a forlorn expression, “it will be some time before the sun can touch us again. The shadow curse is…” He paused, considering his words. “Vicious.”

“What exactly is the shadow curse?” Wyll asked, his voice appropriately wary.

Suffocating, Áine answered silently. Dismal. Horrifying. She’d never grown accustomed to it in her lifetime there. After quick missives to the city or even to the Underdark, the lands surrounding Moonrise had always felt even more macabre. Darker. Hungrier. Because for all its darkness and strangeness, the Underdark wasn’t a cursed region. It was simply different as it was underground. In some ways, it was beautiful. The curse cloaking the lands they were heading toward was unnatural.

Halsin essentially answered with the same feelings she had, if not different words. Her eyes cast down toward the campfire Gale was working over to prepare them some dinner and, across from her a few paces away, Astarion watched the flames lick her amber irises.

He was a bit of a fool, but he wasn’t fool enough to not realize when two puzzle pieces fit together. Her reaction to Halsin’s first mention of this place and then everything she’d told him last night was piecing together. Astarion could be wrong, but he had a feeling that they were walking back into someplace she’d much sooner forget than return to. He knew next to nothing of her past ten years, only that she’d gotten away in that time to find her own path.

The entire idea was a conjecture. It could’ve been something entirely different that had driven her to panic at the idea of going to Moonrise. However, he couldn’t think of an alternative theory, so he let that one sit for now. Instead, despite knowing from the sun’s position just before their descent into this place that it would be nighttime aboveground, he glared toward the caves surrounding them as if he could drill skylights into them through the power of spite.

Astarion glanced over when he sensed someone coming to stand beside him, knowing instinctually that it wasn’t Áine based on the footfalls and presence alone. The last person he’d expected to see was Gale.

Their eyes met and Astarion’s narrowed with wary speculation. The black eye he’d given the wizard was starting to yellow at the edges as it healed. Shadowheart had finally offered to relieve him of it the previous evening, but he’d politely refused. Astarion also knew that Gale was capable of a simple healing spell that would absolve his bruising within seconds. Was he trying to prove something by keeping it?

Gale noticed Astarion scrutinizing his handiwork and gave a self-deprecating smirk. “It was a good punch,” the wizard commented, his pale companion stiffening when spoken to. “And well-deserved.”

“Indeed,” Astarion agreed, his suspicion at the interaction coating his words.

Gale sighed. “Thank you,” he said finally, “for putting me in my place. For helping her.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Astarion snapped.

“I know,” Gale murmured, his tone careful and placating. It did the opposite to Astarion’s mood. The wizard seemed to be thinking better of approaching in the first place, but he squared his shoulders a little instead of changing his mind. “I also want to offer my apologies—”

“You’re apologizing to the wrong person,” Astarion interrupted him, his tone dismissive.

“I’m not,” Gale said with the patience of a saint. “I’ve apologized to Áine almost every time I’ve dared to speak with her. She’s since told me I’m not allowed to say that I’m sorry more than once daily ‘if I absolutely must say it at all’.” A faint smirk crossed Astarion’s lips at the wizard’s recollection of Áine’s direct orders. That’s my girl. “All that to say… I broke your trust, too.”

Astarion scoffed. “Bold of you to assume you had it at all.”

“Indeed,” Gale said, nervously resting his hand against his neck. “Too bold. But if, on the off chance I did in the slightest and it is now broken, I am deeply sorry, Astarion. I wronged her most, but I wronged you as well. I don’t remember much from that night, but your relationship with her has never been a secret, and even blind-drunk it would be an obvious thing.”

The vampire shifted uncomfortably. “You speak as if you moved in on my territory.”

Bewildered, Gale said, “Well, of course. I did.”

“She is not mine,” Astarion murmured. “She is not beholden to me and can bed whomever she wants. That’s hardly the point of my upset.”

“I think I’ve misspoken, so let me try again,” Gale said, weighing his words over again. “I endangered her. Full stop. This is my greatest sin. Separate from that, I caused a shockwave of worry and hurt for everyone who cares about her.”

“Then why apologize specifically to me?” Astarion demanded defensively.

Gale’s pleading demeanor began to dissipate and he raised a brow at Astarion as if to ask if he was seriously asking that question of him. “Because, exclusive or not, you care about each other deeply,” he said.

“That’s too bold,” Astarion declared in a grumble.

To Astarion’s surprise and irritation, Gale just smiled. “It’s a good thing,” he stated in a gentler tone. “It’s not my place to press, so I won’t. Just know that I value you as part of the group and I hope to earn back—to earn your trust someday, despite probably not deserving it.” He glanced toward the portcullis as another minotaur slunk closely enough for the statue of Selûne to rear back to life. “I at least hope to not do anything that will warrant getting punched by you again.”

“Let’s start with that,” Astarion muttered, thrown off by the idea of someone wanting to prove themself to him.

“It’s a deal,” Gale agreed, palpable relief in his voice that simply served to confuse Astarion even more. “Right, well, I’ll cease bothering you. Thank you.”

Astarion gave a noncommittal grunt that sent Gale on his way. He still had an inkling to maim him, but his ire had slowly wound down over the last couple of days. He’d gone from a state of hypervigilance and practically hovering over Áine back to his normal level of watchfulness once it became clear that Gale meant what he’d promised her and seemed to be actively trying at every turn to redeem himself. Unlike the others though, Astarion was at best slow to forgive if he did at all and never to forget.

The sweetly low drone of a flute note drew his attention back to the center of camp, his scarlet stare fastening with a quiet reverence on the bard perched upon the statue’s massive base, a purloined wooden flute held enviably to her puckered lips. The flute was a bit clunkier but more ornate and unique than the one she’d been carrying when he’d met her, an indistinct instrument only special when she’d turned it into an accidental weapon.

A smirk traced his mouth at the memory, unexpectedly tender toward such a gory memory. If he were honest with himself, truly, that was what had started it for him. He absently wondered when it had begun for her as he watched her tease a melody from the unextraordinary hollow tube with little more than her breath and fingers. The purposeful chaining of notes swirled upward, drifting against the obsidian stone surrounding them and returning in gentle form.

Sometime in the “night”—what was night really when it was always so dark?—Astarion ended up near the fire, using its warmth in place of the sun which surely had to be coming up by now on the surface. He was also using a bit of the flickering light to once again mend a fray in his doublet embroidery despite hardly wearing it on their travels anymore, some of the lighter armor they’d found proving a better option as they went further and further into the thick of things. He was among the last awake, which wasn’t unusual, and it was just himself, Halsin, and Áine.

Halsin had been ever more restless the closer they got to another shot at entering the shadow-cursed lands he spoke of, but even he retired after another hour with a quiet “goodnight” bid to each of those remaining awake. Astarion nodded in response, focused on his stitching. He’d completed his fix on his past work and now worked on a new line on the left wrist of the doublet, trying his hand at embroidering a lilac design while he idly listened to Áine toying with her lute behind him.

She’d remained on her perch—he wasn’t completely sure she could get down from that height on her own without it being amusingly clumsy, which he was looking forward to—and forsaken the flute for the night when their party had begun to go off to bed in favor of a quieter instrument. Astarion only lifted his head from his work when he heard her speak.

No… Heard her sing.

He slowly turned his head to look at her, wondering if he even should. Had she forgotten he was still there with her? He had the answer to his question when their eyes met.

Hers were, not unexpectedly, already pooling with tears. A faint smirk played on her mouth as instead of whatever lyric to the song she meant to sing next, she sang in tune to the melody, “Will my performance infringe on your work?” to see if she was bothering him, he supposed. As if she were capable of that.

Astarion chuckled and shook his head in reply, just marveling at her for everything she was. Finding a way to check on him, even make him laugh a little, while she sat there also amused but in such sweet melancholy, he could feel a twinge of it himself by extension.

Her gaze dropped back down to her lute as she adjusted her fingertips and he meant to return to his embroidery, but he just couldn’t look away from her. She was an enchanting sight—long legs half-tucked under her and pressed against the stonework beneath her, starlight-colored tresses that put real constellations to shame, shuttered dark amber eyes that lightened like honey when the firelight caught them just right.

He rose to his feet as she slowly brought her song to a close, her voice ghosting against the walls surrounding them. As she sang through the repetitious last lines—”Never wanted to leave,”—Astarion took measured steps toward her. She watched his progress without faltering as he came close enough to place his hands neatly atop her knee, his chin resting against them as he held her gaze and his silence. He noticed that her skin, even in the faintest reaches of the Underdark’s bioluminescent glow, looked more radiant than ever.

Áine let her final note carry and fade and they simply gazed at each other for a long moment in mutual fascination. She didn’t even think to wipe her eyes until he shifted in their stillness, arranged his doublet over one arm, and then held his arms open for her. The bard smiled, her somber air feathering into obscurity for now, and carefully maneuvered her arms around his shoulders and her lute behind his back.

She let him pluck her off her stage, wrapping her legs around his waist as he supported her with one strong arm firmly slanted across her back, his hand spread to hold the underside of one of her thighs. Astarion kissed her hair as she rested her head against his shoulder and he walked them and their instruments of choice back to her tent tonight.

What they had couldn’t continue to spiral from its noxiously selfish origin point. He’d go mad if it did. He had no idea if he was capable of offering her something real—if he had anything of the sort left to give, if he’d ever had it in him in the first place—but he’d wanted to since that first night they’d spent together. Probably even longer than that if he allowed himself to be sincere.

And he supposed if he wanted an honest chance with her, he had to finally tell her the truth.

Next chapter: Chapter 16, "Full of Surprises"

37 notes · View notes

footprintsinthesxnd · 3 months

Text

USAAF Flight Nurses

So as I’m currently collabing with @major-mads on a fic where our two ocs are flight nurses I thought I do a little post about them as they aren’t well know. I’ve also had a passion for ww2 nurses, including flight nurses and so I’ve really enjoyed sharing my flight nurse knowledge with Mads as we have written our fic. These woman were truly amazing, like many woman during ww2, so I thought I do a little factual post about them.

Before World War II, the U.S. military showed little interest in using aircraft and flight nurses to evacuate wounded soldiers to rear areas. However, the global war forced the US to revolutionise military medical care through the development of air evacuation, which was later known as aeromedical evacuation and flight nurses.

With the rapid expansion of USAAF air transport routes around the world it was made possible to fly wounded and sick servicemen quickly to hospitals far from the front lines. This helped save the lives of many wounded men, and the introduction of flight nurses helped make it possible.

Due to a pressing need for this service, the USAAF created medical air evacuation squadrons and started a rush training program for flight surgeons, medics and flight nurses at Bowman Field, near Louisville, Kentucky.

The increasing need for flight nurses became critical after the Allied invasion of North Africa in November 1942, however many of the nurses at Bowman Field had not finished their training. Nevertheless, the USAAF sent these nurses to North Africa on Christmas Day.

On Feb. 18, 1943, the U.S. Army Nurse Corps' first class of flight nurses formally graduated at Bowman Field.

Due to the C47s used as air evacuation also transported military supplies, they could not display the Red Cross. This meant that without any markings to indicate their non-combat status, these evacuation flights were vulnerable to enemy attacks. For this reason, flight nurses and medical technicians were volunteers.

To prepare for any emergency, flight nurses learned crash procedures, received survival training, and studied the effects of high altitude on various types of patients. They also had to be in top physical condition to care for patients during these rigorous flights.

Eventually, about 500 Army nurses served as members of 31 medical air evacuation transport squadrons operating worldwide. It is a tribute to their skill that of the 1,176,048 patients air evacuated throughout the war, only 46 died en route. Seventeen flight nurses lost their lives during the war.

The Flight Nurses Creed

I will summon every resource to prevent the triumph of death over life. I will stand guard over the medicines and equipment entrusted to my care and ensure their proper use. I will be untiring in the performances of my duties and I will remember that, upon my disposition and spirit, will in large measure depend the morale of my patients. I will be faithful to my training and to the wisdom handed down to me by those who have gone before me.I have taken a nurse's oath, reverent in man's mind because of the spirit and work of its creator, Florence Nightingale. She, I remember, was called the "Lady with the Lamp." It is now my privilege to lift this lamp of hope and faith and courage in my profession to heights not known by her in her time. Together with the help of flight surgeons and surgical technicians, I can set the very skies ablaze with life and promise for the sick, injured, and wounded who are my sacred charges. ...This I will do. I will not falter in war or in peace.

Here are a few of the real flight nurses from ww2 from left upper: Second Lieutenant Elsie S. Ott, upper right: first Lieutenant Suella Bernard.

Elsie S. Ott - As the flight nurse on the first intercontinental air evacuation flight, she demonstrated the potential of air evacuation in January 1943. She was an Army nurse who had never flown in an airplane and had no air evacuation training, she successfully oversaw the movement of five seriously ill patients from India to Washington, D.C. This six-day trip would have normally taken three months by ship and ground transportation. For her actions on this historic flight, Ott received the first Air Medal presented to a woman, and she also received formal flight nurse training.

Suella Bernard - On March 22, 1945, two CG-4A gliders landed in a clearing near the bridgehead at Remagen, Germany, to evacuate 25 severely injured American and German casualties. Once the gliders were loaded, C-47 transports successfully snatched them from their landing site and towed them to a military hospital in France. In the second glider, Suella who had volunteered for the mission, cared for the wounded en route. One of the first two nurses to fly into Normandy after the D-Day invasion, Bernard became the only nurse known to have participated in a glider combat mission during World War II. For this mission, she received the Air Medal.

Upper left: first Lieutenant Aleda E.Lutz Upper right: first Lieutenant Mary L. Hawkins

Aleda E. Lutz - One of the most celebrated flight nurses of World War II, she flew 196 missions and evacuated over 3,500 men. In November 1944, during an evacuation flight from the front lines near Lyon, France, her C-47 crashed killing all aboard. Aleda was awarded the Air Medal with four Oak Leaf Clusters, and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Mary L. Hawkins - On Sept. 24, 1944, she was evacuating 24 patients from the fighting at Palau to Guadalcanal when the C-47 ran low on fuel. The pilot made a forced landing in a small clearing on Bellona Island. During the landing, a propeller tore through the fuselage and severed the trachea of one patient. Hawkins made a suction tube from various items including the inflation tube from a "Mae West." With this, she kept the man's throat clear of blood until aid arrived 19 hours later. All of her patients survived. For her actions, Hawkins received the Distinguished Flying Cross.

I hope you’ve all found this interesting and now have a greater understanding of flight nurses. If you’d like to read a fic on flight nurses please check out my fic ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’ and @major-mads fic ‘A Pair of Silver Wings’ a Masters of the Air collab.

#historical facts #flight nurses #ww2 nurses

43 notes · View notes

bijouxcarys · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 (𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Masterlist

Robert Plant x fem!OC

Description: Sometimes the pain of what should have never been, opens your eyes to what can.

Tags: @celestial-dragoness @whothefuckisanja @callmethehunter @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul @strsmn @firethatgrewsolow @chromations @brownskinsugarplum76 @angrychicksposts (if you'd like to be added, just let me know!)

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

She tred upon a shifting landscape, a maze of shadows untangling beneath her hesitant steps. The air, thick with echoes, whispered secrets unheard of. Moonlight pierced through the twisted silhouettes, revealing a path that beckoned her forward.

As she ventured deeper, a distant murmur bellowed like a fading storm. Shadows clung to the fringes of her consciousness, dancing on the periphery of memory. Yet, with each step, a strength welled within.

The labyrinth crumbled silently behind her, unveiling a boundless expanse of open space. The moon, now a silent witness, cast its glow upon an endless sea. She stood at the edge, the cool breeze caressing her face.

For a fleeting moment, she tasted the sweet allure of freedom.

A groan rumbled in her throat, resisting the rapid movements on her right shoulder. She curled up further into herself with a sharp inhale, her eyes cracking open.

“Elena,” came a soft voice.

With a thick swallow, Elena moved back to see the familiar face of Pat Bonham, leaning over the back of the sofa she had passed out on.

“Morning,” Pat gently greeted once Elena had mustered up the strength to pull herself up. Her eyes were still squinted, adjusting to the daylight.

Elena cleared her throat, bringing her knees up to her chest. “G’morning…” she replied, though it only came out as a hoarse whisper.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea.” Pat set the mug of tea down on the coffee table. “It’s just past 9.” Elena nodded, accepting the courteous gesture that she was used to from her. It even evoked the smallest smile when she noticed the perfect colour of the tea. Pat always knows.

“Thank you,” Elena looked up at Pat, her face still flushed and eyes still red. The former pulled her eyebrows into a sympathetic furrow, followed by a smile of the same candour. “I-I’m sorry for just showing up like I did.”

Pat was quick to shake her head and perched on the edge of the sofa arm, gently rubbing along Elena’s back. “There’s no need to apologise, love. You did what you had to do.”

Elena didn’t have a chance to respond, as any thought of one was abruptly cut short by the small, blonde Bonham boy darting into the room.

“Aunty Ellie!” The boy bound into Elena’s arms, barely giving her the opportunity to open them for him. “When did you get here?!”

“Jason,” Pat sighed, delicately scolding her son, “Mummy and Aunty Ellie were talking. You know it’s not polite to interrupt.”

Jason looked up at his mother with an instantly apologetic expression. “Sowwy, Mummy.”

Jason’s presence never failed to lighten Elena’s mood, and God only knew that she needed it.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, just try not to do it again, okay?” Upon receiving a nod from Jason, she continued. “Why don’t you go wake up Daddy and tell him the coffee’s ready?”

“Okay!” Jason beamed, instantly darting off in the direction of the stairs. Elena watched over her shoulder as the almost-four-year-old used the banisters to help him up each step.

“How do you cope?” Elena asked with a short chuckle.

“Gin.” Pat smirked. “Gin and a lot of patience.”

Elena chuckled, looking down at the mug of tea. She didn’t realise how dry her mouth had gotten from the night of shouting that quickly turned into a night of sobbing. Her thirst was quenched as she took a steady sip from the mug, taking comfort in the warmth of the beverage.

“I better go and make John’s breakfast.” Pat stood up. “Do you want anything, love?” she called over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.

“Um…” Elena was tempted by the offer. To have someone make her breakfast. But no matter how much the prospect of it enticed her, she hastily shook her head. “I’m alright, thanks, Pat.” She smiled at the older woman as she disappeared into the other room.

Apart from the muffled giggles and screams of elation coming from upstairs, the Bonham household was relatively quiet. Serene. A stark contrast from where Elena had fled the night before. The family photos on the walls, the persistent ticking from the grandfather clock by the oak bookcase. Her favourite part? The plants that Pat had strategically placed to bring even more life to her house. Everything in the Bonham house felt like a home, even to Elena.

“Is it okay if I have a cig, Pat?” Elena asked in the direction of the kitchen upon spotting the packet of Marlboros on the table.

“Of course, yeah!”

Taking one from the pack and the box of matches next to it, she rose from the sofa, her knees clicking as she stretched. She knew it would feel good to step outside and get some fresh air, even though it would accompany the intoxication of a cigarette.

“Remember, it’s not a substitute for a meal!” She heard Pat call to her as she stepped out the Bonhams’ back door into their garden, cup of tea in hand. Elena smiled softly to herself at the reminder that she was cared for.

Leaning against the wall, she ran her hand through her dark brown hair, holding it back for a moment. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh air that the Bonham house was surrounded by. There was hope that with her exhale, she could expel the events that led her to this point in time. But she knew it didn’t work like that, much to her own chagrin.

This wasn’t going to go away in the blink of an eye.

As she opened her eyes and dropped her hand, she felt those nervous flutters from within her chest that were all too familiar now. Cigarette between her lips, she lit a match and carefully ignited the end, stealing as much calm as she could with the first inhale.

She sighed and watched the smoke curl and rise into the air. Her mind was racing a thousand miles per second. Wondering where to go from here. Where was she going to stay? What was she going to do? What was the logical next step when her initial decision was spontaneous and without any thought? She had no other clothes than the ones on her back, and no possessions other than the ones in the pocket of her jacket, which mostly consisted of some pitiful change and a receipt from Morrisons.

How does a 20-year-old, unemployed woman move on from sacrificing her life for a relationship that ended sourly?

Sure, John took her in when she showed up at his door, just before midnight, with her face flushed and covered in tears. But what else was he supposed to do? More importantly, how long could Elena impose on a loving household with her fucked-up tragedy?

She ultimately knew that John wouldn’t care how long she stayed, and neither would Pat—Jason, there was no question about it. He always loved whenever his Aunty Ellie stopped by, though those visits had become few and far in between. She was one of the first people outside of the Bonham family to get to hold Jason when he was born. The first non-family member to babysit. Her name was the first Jason learned, even though it came out as a slurred “Ellie.” Mummy, Daddy, and Ellie.

It always triggered fond memories of how badly she butchered John’s name when they met in 1953. Bon-Bon. El and Bon-Bon. The slightly unhinged, chaotic duo that ran rampant in Redditch, from their homely neighbourhood, all the way up to their teen years when they’d work themselves up to complete a pub crawl in Birmingham city centre. But they never made it past the first three.

She almost forgot how… normal life was back then.

“Heard my matches were stolen.”

Elena turned her head towards the back door, a very drowsy and half-asleep John Bonham stepping out into the morning air with the packet of Marlboros in hand. One side of his hair was still stuck up from where he’d been sleeping on his side, and his eyes were half-lidded.

He gave her a little smile, the weight of the circumstances still hanging over them. The best they could do was have a cigarette and morning conversation until they had to confront the issue at hand.

“The sofa alright?” John asked, accepting the matches from Elena. She nodded, taking a drag from her cig. “Good, good…”

There was an easy silence between the two of them as they perched on the picnic table John’s dad had made years ago. She didn’t know what to say to him, or how to say it. The idea of small talk seemed counterproductive in this moment; if Pat was to come outside, she would surely be able to feel the tension between her husband and his best friend.

“How was America?” Elena asked timidly, flicking some ash into the glass tray in the centre of the table. Over the last couple of years, she’d honed her skill in avoiding tension and, more recently, conflict. She had to.

John offered a side-eyed glance, knowing exactly what she was doing, anyway. It was all in the eyes, which was why she made the conscious effort to cast hers downward.

“It was good, yeah,” John finally answered with a nod. “Lot of energy over there.” Pause. “You really should come to a gig, El, you haven’t been in—“

“I know.”

“We’re just gettin’ better and better.”

“I know you are.”

John stared at her. His look was far from playful.

“How would you know?”

Elena’s eyes shut briefly, and she took a deep inhale of her cigarette. He was trying to make her crack. To get her to tell him everything. But she couldn’t. At least, not yet.

“I wouldn’t,” she softly admitted. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. Don’t cry. You’re not allowed to cry.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “No, I’m sorry,” he grumbled, flicking some ash. “Fuck!” He snapped, shoving a rogue football away with his foot in frustration. Elena flinched, looking up at him. He ran his tongue over his teeth, irritated. At himself. For not doing anything when he could.

Elena took the last drag of her cig, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

“Not your fault, John…” she reassured him.

“No, but I could’ve at least said something.” He shook his head.

“Yeah, like what?” She let the question hang in the air for a moment. “Nothing you could’ve said, or done, would have changed the outcome.” In fact, she was sure that if John had intervened, it would have turned out far worse in the long run.

At least for the time being, John seemed to drop the idea that he could have done something to help his best friend get out of a situation that was becoming dangerous. There was no stopping it from settling in the back of his mind, and there was no chance of him dropping the subject altogether. But for now, he wanted Elena safe.

John took his last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, before clearing his throat and standing up. “Right.” He clapped his hands together. “Breakfast!”

Elena let herself smirk as John disappeared inside the house. It was comforting to know that life constantly on the road didn’t change him; he remained the same silly boy who got excited over fry-ups, and she loved him for it.

Maybe breakfast would be a good idea. She chewed at her bottom lip, coming to the realisation that getting over this unfortunate bump in the road of her life would be much harder than she anticipated.

“How is she?” Pat asked her husband as she simultaneously sliced Jason’s jam on toast into small squares.

Placing a kiss on his wife’s cheek, John shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno,” he sighed, heading to the stove, where his eggs, bacon, and tomatoes were sizzling away. “I’m gunna leave it for a bit. Don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“Well, you’re going to have to talk about it at some point, John.”

“I know. And we will. She’s just got here, Pat, she’ll talk eventually.” John was sidetracked by Jason bounding into the kitchen, full of life as usual.

“Mummy, I’m hungry!”

“Yep, it’s all ready for you now, sweetheart. Let’s get you sat down.” Pat smiled at her son and bent down to lift him up, turning to place him on one of the wooden chairs surrounding a circular table.

“You’re almost big enough to get on that chair yourself, son,” John said, smiling brightly at Jason. “Maybe you’ll be big enough to go into the family business soon—“

“John,” Pat warned, sending him a light glare.

“What?” He laughed. “He’s a born drummer, look at that shoulder placement! He’s a beast!”

Jason beamed, looking up at his dad and then at his mother with a confident nod. “I’m a beast, Mummy.”

“God help me if I end up with two drummers in the house.” Pat ran her hand over her face. She often pretended like the idea exhausted her, but inside, she would be proud of Jason if he did grow up to be like his father. Either way, John would take it upon himself to teach him the art of percussion anyway, regardless of what Pat thought about it.

“Does Aunty Ellie live with us now, Daddy?” Jason wriggled in his seat as Pat placed the plate of toast and a plastic cup of orange juice in front of him.

John couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, son, she doesn’t. She might be staying here for a little bit, though. How’s that sound?”

“Good!” Jason answered mid-chew.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” John reminded him, plonking down at the table with his plate of food and a cup of coffee. “If you’re lucky, she might help out with the climbing frame.”

Jason’s face lit up and his attention darted between both of his parents. “Really?!”

Pat chuckled, wiping down the counters before joining the table with a plate of her own toast with marmalade. She found it admirable that John was so committed to family life that he was willing to go above and beyond to build their son a fully functional climbing frame, aiming to complete it by the time he left again for tour in June. That way, it would be finished by Jason’s 4th birthday.

“I’m sure she won’t want to do another project, John,” Pat smiled. “Haven’t you roped her into enough?”

John grinned at his wife. “Since we were kids.” He seemed proud of that, and he was. He loved working on things with Elena, and it was something that had been a constant in their lives…until recently.

As if on cue, Elena had come back inside, mug of tea empty and her mind as refreshed as it could be in that moment. Pat smiled gently at her.

“Was the tea alright, love?”

“Perfect, thanks,” she answered with a nod, heading to the sink to wash the mug.

“Don’t worry about that, Elena.”

“When have I ever not cleaned up after myself, Pat?” she asked with a soft tinge of reassurance. “Me mam raised me this way.”

“I always blamed your mum for it.” John jested, shovelling some bacon into his mouth.

Rinsing off the mug and putting it on the dishrack, Elena turned around, leaning on the counter. “For what?”

“For being a messy little bugger–ow!” He flinched back when Pat swatted his arm. “What was that for?” His question came out mumbled through the bacon in his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, firstly. And secondly, be nice!” Pat scolded somewhat playfully. Jason let out a hearty, warm laugh, his mouth tainted with remnants of jam.

“Don’t talk wiv your mouf full, Daddy,” he repeated through a goofy chuckle. “A-Aunty Ellie?” He turned his attention to her, still giggling away. “Can you say… Can you say it again?”

Elena scrunched her eyebrows up, glancing at Pat and John. “Say what again, love?”

Jason struggled to get the words out, still laughing with the occasional hiccup. “When you… talked about your Mummy.”

She immediately grinned, momentarily forgetting about everything she had to deal with, enjoying the innocence of childhood through Jason yet again. “Who, me mam?” Everyone laughed along with Jason as he leaned forward in his chair, almost face-planting the remaining square of toast on his plate. He wheezed and screamed, the childish joy enough to bring happy flutters to Elena’s stomach.

“Me… Me mam,” he deepened his voice slightly and tried his best to mimic Elena’s thick accent before bursting out with laughter yet again.

“Y’know what, El, forget everythin’ I’ve ever said to you about being from Manchester,” John declared, his face beaming with absolute elation at the jovial state his son was in.

“Told ya!” Elena pointed at John. “Being from Manny isn’t that bad.” She poked her tongue out at him.

“No, you just become a source of entertainment ‘cause of how you speak.”

“Coming from the man who says ‘nottin’’ as opposed to ‘nothing’.” Elena folded her arms.

“Ey, you say ‘nout!’ That’s even worse!”

“Okay, shut up,” Elena playfully rolled her eyes, gently coming down from her laughing fit; she hadn’t laughed like that in a while. It was nice. “Uh, Pat, is it okay if I use the shower real quick?”

“Of course, love, you know you can,” Pat answered, her smirk still present from laughing, but her eyes reading as confusion. Elena knew she never needed to ask to use the shower, or the bathroom, or even get herself a cup of tea–why was she now?

“Thanks,” Elena smiled and headed in the direction of the stairs, before John’s voice calling her back stopped her in her tracks.

“Before I forget,” he took a sip of coffee, “I’ve got to go in for a rehearsal on Friday.”

“A rehearsal?” Elena raised her eyebrow. “Haven’t you just come back?”

“Yeah, but Jim called yesterday, sayin’ he wasn’t happy with the way we have certain songs transitioning into others–I don’t know, I’ve learned to just say yes, show up, and do as I’m told.” He put his hands up in defence.

“If only you could apply that to home life,” Pat mumbled, inconspicuously sipping at her hot beverage. John threw her a light glare, making her giggle, before he continued, looking back at Elena.

“Anyway, you should come with me! You haven’t been to a rehearsal in a while, have you, El?”

Elena’s eyebrows raised, her stomach once again fluttering, though this time it wasn’t due to the childish innocence of Jason Bonham. What it was, she couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps she was just happy to have the chance to see John in action again. So she nodded, her excitement somewhere in the back of her mind, but failing to come to the surface.

“Good. It’ll be fun,” John nodded. “The lads will be chuffed to see you again, actually, they’ve been asking how you’ve been. Should put a stop to the endless nagging.”

Elena offered a light laugh, somewhat giddy at the idea of the others asking about her. “Yeah… Don’t see why I can’t…”

“We’ll talk more later, but you go have a shower, El.”

As his best friend disappeared upstairs, he watched with a steady gaze, trying to decipher what exactly had been going on between Elena and her long-time boyfriend, David. He knew it hadn’t been good, and he knew that for a while, but what on Earth could have led her to his door in the middle of the night, begging to let her stay?

All he could do was count his blessings, and hope that this was the start of something new for Elena. His Elena had been gone for far too long, and bringing her along to rehearsals on Friday was the perfect way to integrate her back into how her life used to be, where she was happy.

Where she enjoyed, since the day she met him, the company of Robert Plant.

43 notes · View notes

lilydoeswrite · 3 months

Text

THE MERCILESS SIREN | CHAPTER TWELVE

wattpad link previous chapter series masterlist next chapter

summary: It is the 66th Hunger Games when Oceana Fontaine is reaped as tribute, and at just thirteen years old, the odds are certainly not in her favour. As much as it is seen as an honour for Oceana to represent her district in the games, it is also practically a death sentence. But Oceana knows she needs to go home and is determined to, no matter how low her chances are and with the help of her mentors, she might just do that. But if she is to win, she will have to learn where her biggest strengths start to turn into her biggest flaws and weigh her options carefully as she starts making choices that pushes her morality and the lengths she will go to for love.

tags: slow burn (finnick x oc), violence, death, canon typical violence the usual stuff when it comes to the hunger games, weapons, not sure what else

The countdown is antagonising as I keep my eyes on the Cornucopia. We’re required to stand on our metal circles for sixty seconds before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before then? The land mines will blow your legs off. Adrenaline is running through my veins as I listen to the countdown as the seconds go down, all I can focus on is getting to the Cornucopia as soon as possible to grab some knives and some food supplies. The Cornucopia is iridescent under the harsh sun, it’s shaped rather oddly with spikes but you can make out the rough shape of it– a cone with a curved tail and a mouth. It’s shaped differently every year but it doesn’t matter to me. There are weapons in the very middle and as I look at them, the more I want to snatch every one of them. They’re all calling out to me. Then, I recall Ms Bronte’s words to me before I left for the Capitol which I magically manage to remember in the intensity of everything. They don’t have tridents, but they have knives, which I’m apparently deadly with. I spot a bow and a dozen arrows in the middle as well. Around the Cornucopia are other supplies and the further out from the horn they are, the less of value they are. I don’t care about those, though, I care more about the weapons although I figure I’d pick up a backpack.

Behind me is a body of water and another island– it’s the same for the other sides. The only place to run to would be the other islands but most of the tributes won’t know how to get there as they have no idea how to swim. This is where I have an advantage. My heart is racing and my nerves have turned into adrenaline as the countdown gets closer to zero.

I hear Finnick’s voice in my head. “Do it scared.” I’m a fast runner, probably a faster runner than most of the tributes, I can grab the knives and bow and arrows before a bag. I know I’m likely to be a target, most of the high-scoring tributes are. I watch as the final ten seconds approach and adjust my stance.

Nine…Eight…Seven…Six…Five…Four

This is it.

Three…Two…One.

I sprint as fast as I can to the middle and I keep my eyes on the dozen knives which I quickly snatch. Everything is a blur as I watch as tributes try to scramble away with bags of supplies. My mind goes blank and I’m not thinking when I start throwing my knives at them. I watch as they fall to the ground one by one. Slinging a backpack on my shoulders, I turn around to look for the bow and arrow which is now gone. There is no time to mourn the loss of it, though. There is a red-headed girl charging towards me but before she can reach me, I’ve thrown a knife at her and she collapses to the ground.

“Oceana, duck!” I hear a shout from not too far away and do as they say, watching as a spear flies over me and hits a tribute square in the chest, causing him to collapse backwards.

My breathing is rapid as I collect all the good things in the Cornucopia with the help of Gill who had just saved my life. By now, everything is a blurry mess but I can make out that all the other tributes are trying to run as fast as they can to the other islands. I’m contemplating if I should pursue them but decide against it. No, I’m not thinking properly. I know I’m not in the right state of mind as of now. My breathing continues to quicken as everything around me now seems more overwhelming than it actually is. Then, I feel someone take hold of me and in instinct, I throw a punch at whoever it is.

“Ouch!” I hear Gill’s voice as he releases me as he stumbles back.

“Oh!” I exclaim as suddenly everything clears up and I’m aware of what’s going on. “I’m so sorry, Gill,” I say as he nods, telling me that it was okay.

“You okay?” He asks and I nod. “Well, good job just now,” he praises and I’m confused until I look down at my hands holding knives and then around me.

The red-headed girl is lying motionless on the ground, a knife plunged into her chest as a pool of blood surrounds her. I feel nauseous as I look at her, had I done that? Then, I look into the distance where four other tributes all lie on the ground, lifeless and limb, all with knives sticking out. Shakily, I approach the girl which is closest to me, pulling the knife out from her chest, thick red liquid coating the metal blade. “Oh my goodness.” I cover my mouth as my eyes widen, looking at her pale face. Scared, I turn to Gill who looks at me rather concerned. “Did I do this?” He stays quiet and I raise my voice. I’m exasperated. “Gill Wade, did I do this! Did I kill her? Did I kill all of them?” He nods slowly and I stare at him in horror.

I had just killed five tributes. Not tributes, kids. I had just killed five kids.

“Oceana, it’s okay, we’re all fighting for our lives here,” he says and helps me retrieve the other four knives, wiping them clean with a piece of paper he had found. I nod, he has a point, we’re all fighting for ourselves here for a chance to head home and killing is inevitable. Although I can’t help but let the guilt eat me slowly, then I remember Finnick’s words, “You have to be fierce, you have to show no mercy, you have to be tough– physically and mentally.”

We gather the remaining bags and weapons and place them in the middle where Briar, Alvise, Chase and Giselle have done the same. We try to smile as we greet one another before splitting up the resources between each other, putting them in our individual backpacks as we organise the weapons we’ve gathered. I take the knives and daggers although I would’ve loved to take the spear, which is the closest thing I can get to a trident, placing the knives and daggers in a holster which I had found. The cannons still have yet to be fired but it’s normal on the opening day. They don’t fire the cannons until the initial bloodbath and fighting’s over because it’s too difficult to keep track of the fatalities. We’re the only ones on the island which means that there must be some kind of fight on the other islands. We sit next to the Cornucopia and plan our next move and soon enough the cannons fire. We sit in silence as we listen to each fire and I count them. One…two…three…on and on until they stop at ten. Ten dead, fourteen left. Then, hovercrafts appear out of thin air to retrieve the bodies. I can tell at least two tributes died of drowning and I know what happened to five of them.

The guilt is killing me although I repeat all the advice I had been given in my head. I have to show no mercy. I shift the sleeve of my jacket so I can see my bracelet. It’s a reminder of home and now, a reminder to stay strong.

“Come on, let’s head to the other islands,” Alvise says, taking off his pants and jacket before stuffing it in his backpack, leaving him in his boots and wetsuit. “The jacket and pants will weigh us down even more, the boots have enough weight already. Keep them in the bag, it’s waterproof, and we’ll put them on later,” he says as he heads into the water, swimming to the island on our left, “most of the tributes went this way!”

We all collectively shout in agreement before doing the same, swimming across to the other island. For some reason, the fact that the other Careers from 1 and 2 can swim surprises me although I know it shouldn’t, but it’s clear that Gill and I are the stronger swimmers which comes as no surprise to anyone. I don’t want to put my pants and jackets on after I’ve reached the island, it’s pointless to me and I’m fine just being in my wetsuit although it feels like a crime to be wearing boots with it but Gill makes me wear them again for whatever reason. We spend a few hours hiking up the dense and hilly forest as we talk to each other, holding our weapons close to us.

“Hey, I think I see someone there,” Giselle whispers as she pulls out her sword. “You guys stay here, I’ll go check it out.”

“I’ll come with,” Chase says with much confidence, following Giselle. Their nonchalance when it comes to killing someone surprises me. I don’t understand it, how can you be so casual when it comes to killing someone? Does guilt not eat them up? Do they not feel bad? We’re all just kids at the end of the day with family and friends we want to get back to. I understand that it’s the Hunger Games and everyone wants to be the lone survivor to head home to their family but that doesn’t equate to being completely ruthless. But then again, it is the Hunger Games. You have to kill, you have to do whatever it takes to win or survive.

In the distance a cannon goes off and not long after Chase and Giselle both come back running with wide smiles. “We finished him off, put him out of his misery, besides he was heavily injured already,” Giselle says

I say nothing as Briar praises them and we continue hiking through the trees. The sun will be setting soon and I’m getting thirsty for water so I pull out my flask to take a sip. We debate amongst each other if we should go back to the Cornucopia or continue hunting through the night but we ultimately decide to set up a temporary camp in the woods after we’ve found a spot. The sun has now started to set and night creatures are coming out and all of us are unsure whether or not we’d be seen as a source of food although we’re prepared to fight back.

I’ve set up a few snares and have caught some rabbits by the time we’re done setting up the tents and Alvise has made a fire for us to sit around. Silence falls upon all of us apart from the occasional hoot or howl and the crackle of the fire. “How about we take turns sleeping?” I ask after I’ve chewed and swallowed the piece of rabbit I’ve chosen over the food in my bag. “I mean, we’ve already set up a camp, why not make the most of it?” I shrug to try to appear carefree although on the inside I’m terrified of what they’d say. I can tell they’re itching to use their weapons.

“Seems like a good idea to me,” Gill says, looking at me before looking at Alvise, “rest is really important, but if you guys want to go hunting we could sleep for half the night and go hunting the next half.”

“Seems like a decent idea,” Chase nods, smiling at Gill and me before turning to Alvise who seems to be in deep thought. “What do you think Alvise?”

“I say why not,” he finally answers, “that way we can spend all of tomorrow covering this island–”

“Or maybe we can make the plan tomorrow, see how things go,” Briar says, patting Alvise on his back as she heads into one of the tents, “not everything has to have a plan, it’ll be easier to do things based on what happens. Anyways, I’m headed to sleep if that’s the plan, I’ll take the last shift.”

Her relaxed nature surprises me although I don’t let it show and silence falls once again. Unlike how it was in the Capitol, talking about home is now the most painful thing so there’s now nothing to talk about except for our strategy for tomorrow. I’m not sure if they’re aware that Gill and I will be leaving after the fifteenth death but I don’t mention it.

Night has just come when the anthem that proceeds the death recap can be heard throughout the arena and I look up to the sky to see the seal of the Capitol which floats in the sky. The anthem fades and the sky goes back to being dark for a second. I wonder if Aurelia, mother and father are watching this right now or if they had all watched the beginning of the games. Would they be proud that I had managed to kill five kids? Because at the end of the day, we’re all kids in this arena, not tributes and that is a hill that I will die on. I also wonder if Cordelia and Pearl are watching this or if it would be too painful for them. How about Ms Bronte? Surely she is watching the games as always. Back home, what would be played would be the full coverage of each and every killing, but that’s not the case in the arena as that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the remaining tributes. Here in the arena, we are shown the same headshots and photographs they showed when they had televised our training scores. But instead of the scores, it is district numbers which they put.

The first to appear is the boy from District 3. Then the red-headed girl from District 5 appears. Her picture is haunting and I try my best to brush away the wave of guilt I feel but don’t exactly manage to. Both tributes from 6. The girl from 7. Both tributes from 8 and 9. The boy from 10. The girl from 11. Eleven deaths in total so there’s now thirteen of us left. Then, the Capitol seal is back with its closing music then the darkness and quietness of the forest resumes.

“Chase and I will take first watch,” Giselle smiles as she sips some water from her flask, looking at Chase who nods. “You two catch some rest, I’ll wake you up when it’s time for you to take your watch.”

Gill and I nod, heading into one of the three tents and open our sleeping bags. At first, I find it rather hard to sleep out of worry but seeing as though Gill and the others, minus Chase and Giselle, have fallen asleep, I allow my muscles to relax and shut my eyes.

I’m awoken by Gill shaking my body gently, telling me it's time for our watch so I slowly climb out of the tent and exchange seats with Giselle. The fire is still cackling which keeps us warm in the coldness of the night. Gill and I don’t exchange any words so I fiddle with my bracelet which I’m still wearing, admiring the pearls and added charms. I had no idea about Finnick’s doing with my bracelet but it came as a pleasant surprise.

“Is that your item from home?” Gill asks, looking down at me and my bracelet.

“Yeah,” I smile, “What’s yours?”

Gill seems happy that I’ve asked and unclasps the golden necklace which hangs from his neck. It’s a locket and he opens it. “This is mine,” he smiles. “My parents and my siblings,” he points to the picture on the right of two adults, a boy which looks older than Gill and a girl who looks around my age. “My girlfriend,” he points to the picture on the left. “I think of them every night,” he sighs, his voice cracks up like he’s about to cry but he doesn’t, instead he asks about my bracelet. “What do your charms stand for?”

“Well, the seashell is one I collected from the beach near my house one day and I found it rather pretty,” I explain, “The sea-star, surfboard and pearls are new additions. Finnick asked Valeria to add them as a surprise and I just saw it today,” I’m grinning from ear to ear as I say that, “I’m guessing the surfboard is because of how much I love surfing and the sea-star…I’m not sure but I think it’s because he calls me that sometimes.”

“So you’re close to him?” Gill asks, “sea-star is a nice nickname, he calls you Oce as well, right?”

I’m surprised Gill has been paying attention to our conversations and I nod, “I’d like to think we’re friends.”

“Just friends?” questions Gill and I look at him confused before he shakes his head, “it’s just, you guys seem really close and that’s a really sweet thing for him to do.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “it’s a nice reminder of home…” As much as I try to steer clear from the subject of District 4, I can’t help but talk about it.

“Yeah,” Gill smiles, he seems relaxed when talking about home. “I remember I used to go on my dad’s boat and fish all day, sometimes I would have fun in his jetski as well,” he laughs as he tilts his head backwards. “Fun days, fun days.”

“No way!” I smile, “I’ve always wanted to go on a jet ski!”

“It’s thrilling, I swear,” he’s grinning, “going as fast as you can on the vast water with the wind blowing in your face, that feeling is one I’ll never forget. I wish I was back home doing it right now but here we are. I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s an honour but…sometimes you can’t help but miss the things you love.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “to think I might not ever experience any of that again–”

“Don’t say that, Oceana,” Gill cuts me off. “Have faith in yourself.”

“I do,” I chuckle, “it’s just that there’s a very real possibility of that which I can’t ignore.”

“Oceana, if there’s one thing I know is that one of us will be getting out of this arena,” he says, his voice suddenly stern, “and I sure as hell won’t let you die under my watch.”

author's note: and the games have begun! thank you so much for reading all the way here, i really appreciate it and i'm so so sorry that i'm so bad at writing violence! as always if you like this, please consider commenting or reblogging, it will mean a lot to me! and constructive criticism is always welcomed!

21 notes · View notes

skiesofrosie · 24 days

Text

Little Sunshine Fires: Chapter 2

Pairing: Benny DeMarco x OC [Marnie Cleven]

ch. before //ch. after

Synopsis: Marnie requests a transfer to the 100th Bomb Group to stay close to her boxed in, reserved pilot of a brother, Buck Cleven. It's the last thing she expects, when she starts to anticipate another man's return to safety from the skies, nearly just as much.

Warnings: historical inaccuracies + this is only based on the MOTA characters, and not the real life veterans!

Ps. the photos do not belong to me. :)

To write a love story in the middle of rapid conflict has always been complicated.

That’s just how the world works–trying to seek small bouts of happiness through torrential rains means sinking your boots deep into wet soil. But Benny is persistent, and he’s willing to climb through the muck because the reign of dawn has always been more than worth it. Daylight, for him, is a soothing balm even through the most turbulent of storms. Although, waking up to thoughts of a certain nurse tends to feel like daylight before he even pulls the curtains open.

He supposes he understands Marnie's qualms with the sun. But still, when this is all over, he’s determined to take her for a swing in his plane, and show her how beautiful the world is when you’re looking at it from the clouds. Perhaps, it may be an agenda more for him, than for her though. To fly with someone as gorgeous a soul as Marnie is as close to heaven as he will probably get, alive.

For now though, that’s thinking too far ahead. Benny realizes quite quickly that it’s near impossible to take a girl out on a date when you're dead stuck in a war.

⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆

He ran into her once at the theater. It seems the rest of the men had the same idea, finding his co-pilot Thayer and Lieutenant Curtis Biddick there as well, no doubt in need of a reprieve after the hell of a mission they had returned from. Five forts lost, more than twenty returning men injured, their bombing scrapped, and efforts wasted. The hospital lights didn’t dim for nearly two days, and though Benny was dying to burst through the doors to see if Marnie was okay, Buck said she’d yell in his face to scamper off before he could even say hello.

“One for the dramatics?” He had asked her, falling into the empty seat by her side. She chuckled then, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes, and he could clearly see the bags that dragged them down. But by God, in the lights of the film, she still glowed like daylight against clear water. “You could say that, but Buck’s the bigger drama queen between us two.” She cracks a teasing smile. “He just knows how to hide it better, yknow?” He didn’t know if he believed her, but she swatted at his shoulder when he had expressed the thought, so he guessed he better have.

They settled comfortably into silence then. The dark room was chilly, only lit with Bette Davis dancing about in colors of gray. Sounds of the soldiers wolf whistling, and chattering, and shushing those who were too rowdy set the tension in their shoulders loose. Benny saw the way the fingers on her right hand fiddled with each other, restless against the arm rest, and he was about to do something reckless, slip his hand into the shape of hers.

But he was so rudely cut off, by the blaring red light signaling a new mission.

⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆

He ran into her again a few days ago, while she searched for Buck in the mess hall at lunch. It was clear she was distressed, claiming she sought her brother to listen to her whine about Doc Stover’s never ending demands, and he decided there, and then, that to dissolve the weight of bricks on her back, he would whisk her away for a simple dinner (perhaps, a dinner date).

“With me? Make it a date?” She points to herself comically, and Benny lets a little smirk curve on his lips. “Yes, you. Dinner with me.” “With you?” “Yes, Christ. With me?” There was a tremble in his bones at that point, because maybe he was taking his chances too far. But, when she opened her mouth to speak–and he thought she'd throw a wrench into his resolve–she crumbled midway into laughter, eyes twinkling with mirth and a smile that made him warm.

“I’m just messin’,” she beamed, and relief fills his lungs, “I would love to have dinner with you, Benny. Tonight, at 5?” He nodded then, shrinking a little at the way Buck, who was seated a few tables away looked upon them in confusion, his utensils paused mid-air. Bucky turned around then, throwing Benny a smirk and a thumbs up before Buck smacked the back of his head. “At five. See ya, sweetheart.”

Come 1600, he was pleasantly surprised to find her knocking on his door an hour early. But as he took in her physical state, hair drooping from its messy bun, and blood stains on her white nurse uniform, he surmises that she was not there out of eagerness, and hides the wilt in his eyes when she informs him that she’ll have to cancel.

“One of the patients went into hysterics. Accidentally sliced one of my nurse’s hands in panic and left a pretty lookin’ gash. Doc Stover thinks it’d be best, that I stay for the night,” Marnie sighed, the guilt pooling in her sagged form. “I’m really sorry Benny.”

“Wait but,” he said, alarmed that she may be alone with in a hazardous situation, “will you be okay, alone? I could stay with you. That’s…it’s concerning, to say the least.”

“It’s all part of the job, I’ve been trained hard for shit like this,” she responded, letting a tired smile grace her lips. “Appreciate the thought though, but he’ll be a fine patient once he settles down.”

He nodded in understanding, but remained still at his door frame as if it’d keep her from turning away. Daylight, today, sent a trickle of sweat down his temples as if to mock the pinch of serenity he was declined of. But instead of turning away, she snatched the sun in her hands and sent heat straight through his blood and into his head when she stood on her tippy toes and planted a soft, sweet kiss on his cheeks. Her hands were gripping lightly at his shoulders, though if she were to let go, he might have been the one to topple over instead. “But I promise, I want that dinner with you.”

⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆

If they couldn’t meet in person, he would have to continue showing his affection through his actions.

It was routine for Benny, either on a Saturday or a Sunday, whichever he wasn’t bogged down on a mission with, to head out to the local florist. Ever since he knew of Marnie's gravitation towards peonies, he’s made a point to leave a new bundle on her desk as a way to say that he’s thinking of her. It’s gotten to the point where he has made friends with Grandma Daisy who runs the shops, a cheery old lady. He kisses the back of her hand in greeting each time he comes. After Benny’s first two visits, when the bell rings of his presence, she’d dash to the back room and return immediately with a bouquet of peonies (sometimes she’ll sneak in a couple extra than what he paid for).

And he starts leaving messages for Marnie on the pink-heart shaped card Grandma Daisy slips in for free. Sometimes it’d be something romantic, like “the morning sun is my favorite time of day, but the golden glow has got nothing on the way you shine.” Other times, he’d leave questions for her to ponder, even though he never expects an answer. Just yesterday, he had snuck in another bouquet on her desk in the hospital, before the night shift nurses clocked out before the sunrise, with a question written on the card. “When I take you for dinner, what would be your choice of food?”

He’s pleasantly surprised to return to his cot, worn out on a dreary Monday after a practice mission, to find a box with his name written widely across, sitting by the door. A box of lemon-drizzled vanilla cupcakes, and a small floral card with no name, but a little note. “Honestly, corn fritters and corn dogs, but perhaps that is not classy of me at all.”

He pays no mind to the gloomy clouds, because he feels like he’s got the wonders of the world sitting right here in his hands.

⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆

Crumple all fate in his grip; he will build a destiny for himself.

They are living on borrowed time, the numbers of the 100th Bomb Group dwindling with each mission they set off to in the day. And perhaps, this should have deterred him. Bucky would say, what is the point of growing seeds when you fly, knowing that the wheels of your plane may never touch the grass again. But that is not how Benny sees it. If anything, the fickleness of it all is the reason he should not hesitate.

So despite entering the pub with Buck, and Bucky, and Kidd and whoever else–he was barely paying attention, ever since Buck mentioned Marnie would be there–he beelines straight for her, seated on a wooden chair by the speckles of the lit fireplace. It seems she’s clocked him beforehand, greeting him as he approaches without even turning her head to meet his eyes, staring aimlessly into the fire. He wonders what constantly plagues her thoughts. Each time he runs into her, it seems he yanks her wandering mind back into her orbs.

“Thought you didn’t like the fire,” he states, and she finally turns to him. With a cute, confused frown, she replies, “when did I say I didn’t like fire?”

He chuckles, pointing to the fireplace, then up. “That big ball in the sky, if you haven’t noticed, is the fire that keeps this earth from turning into a shithole of poop.”

“It’s different,” she remarks as she scrunches her face. He reaches to pinch her nose, but she slaps his hand away, a growing smile betraying one of mock annoyance. “Seeking warmth on a cold, rainy night, then stepping out into glaring daylight.”

Mulling it over in his head, it’s impressive to Benny, the way her simple words are always doused in complex meaning, even when she’s not trying. He quite likes her mind, because it’s as beautiful as the outside. A little thought snaps into his near daze, and he scans the small pub, trying to see if there were other women around. Swiveling his head back to her, he notices the only chair in her periphery has been left unused.

“You’re alone?” He asks, moving to sit down, scuffing the chair forward against the wooden tiles to be closer to her side. “Didn’t come here with your friends?”

She nods, “I did, Shonda and Betsy. But they’re busy with some officers, right about there.”

He pans to where she points her finger, a blonde with short, tamed curls (Betsy, she tells him) and a long-haired brunette (Shonda, that’ll be), the girls talking chipperly to a couple officers by the bar that, to Benny’s dismay, were donning navy blue. A grimace pulls on his lips, and she laughs gingerly, knowing exactly why. The RAF officers never bode well with the Americans flooding in to fight on their behalf.

“Can’t complain though,” Marnie says, “they’re quite charming if you let them try, and they polish up real nice.” It may have been steam, rushing from his ears then, and all he wants to do is smack the smugness off her face, a delightful snicker bubbling from her throat in her easy dig to rile him up. He slips a cigarette out of his pocket, and in seeing him do so, she pulls a lighter from her own. Moving closer to Benny, she flickers a small flame against its bud as it sits between his mouth, and he nods his thanks. “Can I have one?”

“Nope,” he deadpans, sour towards her eye for navy-clad men. She pulls her head back slightly, a tiny pout on her lips. “Ah, ah, ah,” he mocks, pulling his hand back as she throws herself forward, trying to snatch precious cargo from the cardboard box. An idea springs into his mind, drawing a smirk of mischief to his lips. Benny holds the cigarette box further back, out of her reach, and Marnie, ever so the lioness prances even farther against his chair, eager for a puff of nicotine. “Benny–”

But her words die in her throat, eyes flickering up and down between Benny’s eyes and his lips, because oh my, she didn’t realize at all how close their faces were. And Benny, ever so the plotter, raises his brows in mock question, his own eyes trailing down to Marnie’s lips like he had his answer found.

“British men don’t knock into ya with their bike, and use repayment as an excuse to try and see your pretty face everyday, do they?” He teases, the smirk falling off his lips as heat sends her pupils dilating.

“It was my fault though, wasn’t it? If you’re asking for favors, I’d be happy to comply,” she says, and he can feel the flames burn through his lungs, and fume into his hands with the way they yearn to grab her waist. But he flares restraint against his muscles, because one, noisy Curtis Biddick stalks up to them with no shame. Benny can’t judge him though, considering how he was about to kiss his major’s little sister senseless in the middle of a very public pub.

“Damn Benny,” Curt gleams with a teasing lilt to his voice, and slides in between them like a wall to keep them separate, Bucky and Buck trailing closely behind. The latter stared intensely at his little sister, like a quiet reprimand, but she merely shrugs with a clandestine smile. “You stuck a hole in the wheel of your bike so you could trap her through your miserable fall in your big, cozy arms?”

Now that, sends a flush of embarrassment down his neck. He leans back in his chair flustered when his partner in crime simply cackles at his discomfort. The men start gathering around a long, wooden table a few meters away from their spot by the fireplace, but Marnie makes no point to move, so he doesn’t either. Besides, he sees these people everyday, toeing life and death, ‘til their head hits the pillow, should they be lucky. He doesn’t need their company day in, day out. Marnie waves at Betsy and Shonda, her friends (that Benny will forever remember were fraternizing with the enemy) sitting down to join the wolf pack of rowdy men.

“You babble at us for ditching our friends, Mar, and now you’re doing the same,” Betsy says, shaking her head in a joking manner, her voice traversing across the room. “Disappointed at your lack of loyalty.”

“And for a pilot no less,” Shonda adds, “didn’t you say they had their heads too far up their ass, and you weren’t about to be the one to pull ‘em out?” The boys, Bucky and Curt and Veal, play into Betsy and Shonda’s jabs, clawing at their hearts and groaning at her shots. Benny watches as Marnie simply rolls her eyes, clearly used to their form of teasing.

The chatter in the room resembles a fish market as everyone keeps yapping at their highest volume, causing Benny to flinch ever so slightly. It’s not that he can’t throw himself into a bustling bunch, but that is no delight in comparison to the quiet bliss between him and Marnie. Recalling Shonda’s words, he lets out a scoff, beckoning her attention (not that it ever diverted from his healthy, tan skin and cheeky, boyish smile).

“You don’t like the daylight, you don’t like flying, you’re afraid of heights, you don’t like pilots,” he lists, but his words are light, just teasing at her choices. “You think the RAF shits are charming, the next thing you’re gonna tell me is ya don’t know how to ride a bike.”

Her eyes flee to the ceiling, and she nods at nothing in particular. “Would you be adverse to knowing that I don’t know how to bike?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he’s quick to clear up. “It’s just always been my favorite thing to do outside and…” He cuts himself off as realization strikes, and he watches her shrink meekly into her seat. “You actually don’t know how to ride a bike.”

“No,” she mumbles, feeling slightly embarrassed, like a child being graded by her teacher.

Confusion hits her mind as he immediately stands up, and for a second she thinks he’s going to stomp away, and for a fucking bike of all things, but he surprises her with an offer of his hand, and kiddish excitement in his deep, chocolate eyes. “I’ll teach you.”

⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆

Apparently the Clevens are not so capable of doing just anything under the sun, or in this case the moonlight. It’s ridiculously amusing to watch Marnie struggle to keep balance on his bicycle, having to catch herself from falling flat on her side by hastily kicking out her feet. Benny just snickers at her lack of cycling abilities, joking that she’s basically destitute. Of course, that earns a kick to his side that has him hunching over in mild pain. “Jesus woman, I was only kidding!”

“I’ve got two left feet but Benny,” she grumbled, clambering off the bike and shoving it into his hands, “I promise you I’m gonna master this thing so well, I’ll bet that I can beat you in a race.”

“Woah, woah, let unrealistic dreams be dreams” he says, pulling the bike by its handles as they stroll through the townhouses, and he swerves to dodge yet another hard punch to his arm. It is quiet in the village, a few families flicking their lights off to retreat to their beds. “So, I know a lot of things you don’t like, so what do you actually like? What brings a smile to Marianne Cleven’s face?”

A thought immediately springs in her mind, evidently, with the way her face blossoms into a wide grin. “Baking.” “Baking?” “Yes, cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, pudding, you’d name it.”

“Huh,” he questions, recalling all the times the cooks would send looks of spite her way, and the box of cupcakes mysteriously left on his doorstep. “Is that why they’d catch you sometimes at fuckin’ 0300, like a ghost in the mess kitchen? ‘Cause you were baking?” She rejoices with a nod. Benny shakes his head in disbelief, but a fondness tugs at his lips. “Thank you, by the way, for the cupcakes. Your hands are gifted.”

“It’s the only thing that I can do, over and over again and never get tired of. My Ma…she was the best baker in town, and it was one thing we could do together where we didn’t even have to talk to bond and spend quality time,” she reminisces, “when I get outta this place and go back home, I’m gonna open my bakery and Buck’s pretty face is gonna be on the posters so I get all the customers, and it’s gonna be called Pearl’s Bakery–that’s my Ma’s name.”

He remembers Buck briefly mentioning their mother dying when they were only kids, so he tries not to poke too far, at least not right now.

It’s an endearing sight, the way her hand gestures flail wildly when she chatters about something that ignites a passion. In the silence that falls over them as they stroll through the homely countryside, Benny wonders if there’s anything other than flying that lights a flame in his soul. When she asks the question, he finds himself short of a proper answer.

“What do you wanna do when the war is over?” She asks him.

“To be honest, I have no idea,” he murmurs, brows furrowing as he contemplates his purpose. “I’ve always been a jack of all trades, master of none kinda guy. I could play sports like soccer and football well enough, but was never the best to be a captain. I got good grades in Math and English, but I’m not talented enough to be a mathematician or a writer. I can’t draw for shit, and I can’t sing. So, I don’t know.”

He wonders what he’s been doing with his 25 years of life. Besides flying, it feels like he has nothing to show for himself and the thought sours his mood. Before he enlisted, he had graduated with a business degree and started working at his father’s tailoring business. But if he’s being honest, trying to sell suits and dresses is most certainly not his main calling in life, though his father might have some choice words about that.

“You don’t have to know,” she empathized. “The war has taken away everything we’ve ever known, and we will not return as the same people to our homes. We will have to relearn what it means to live a fulfilling life, and in doing so, we will find out what we are made for.”

His steps progressively come to a halt as she speaks, and he revels in the comfort of her words, like the throw of a warm fuzzy blanket against his skin. Though she may not know how to ride a bike, each word that leaves her thoughts has always been indicative of a woman who has lived, someone who has survived through hardship. He thinks he could be happy, following the direction of her voice for the rest of his life. And just maybe, he could finish off his day by catching wafts of vanilla cupcakes when he picks her up from the bakery every evening. But once again, he’s reaching too far. Perhaps, a dinner first would do, but there’s no denying what already lies embedded in his thoughts, and solely from what he feels.

Stretching a leg to sit himself towards the back of the bicycle seat, balancing it to the right with his foot, he gestures at Marnie to settle right in front of him. “Um,” she hesitates, “will that be safe?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, an easy grin spreading on his lips, “but it’ll be fun.” She rolls her eyes but does not hide her smile, agreeing after a few seconds to take the front half of the seat.

“Here,” he whispers in her ear, moving against her figure to offer some steadiness. “I got you.”

When she sits down, both her legs resting on the left of the bike, he kicks his feet up to the pedals, biting back a laugh as he hears her squeak. It’s really fucking hard to cycle when he's got the weight of two people–and Marnie’s back leaning against his chest, her hair brushing against his lips, and her soft fingers slipping over his on the handle–but he’s taking in the way she lets out chesty fits of laughter through the breeze, and he doesn’t think he’s felt anything more glorious than this.

He cycles them away from the townhouses, and into narrow roads masked by thick trees and hearty bushes. They are mostly shortcuts winding back from the pub to the base. Determination keeps him pedaling despite the way he begins to wheeze through his chest after five minutes. They stop short of the gates, about a hundred meters away, when she begins caressing the back of his hands with her thumb, turning her lips to his ears to tell him to slow down if he’s tired. And he does, because he’s not about to fall into another crash and send both him, and Marnie flat on the ground.

When he stops to catch himself, his lungs are knocked out of his chest completely when she turns her body to face him, instead of hopping off. “That was good,” she says in a hushed tone, as if the swaying trees are listening in on this moment. “That really was fun,” she mutters, even quieter than before, the sound of their combined breathing overwhelming the softness in her tone.

At a loss of what to say, feeling the nerves take over his working mind, he decides to just not think. Benny inches his face closer to Marnie as she does the same, and stops just before her lips, feeling the residue of lipgloss against his own. He looks at her fervently, silently asking for confirmation. At her slight nod, he lets his eyes close and presses his lips against hers, moving slowly and languidly, feeling the way she morphs into him as her hands slide up his neck and to his jaw. He moves one of his hands off the handles, and tangles it in her loose hair, trying to get closer, kissing her like a drowned man clutching at straws to seek air.

But that’s not even the best part. Nothing, to Benny, competes with the astounded look on her face as she lets go for a brief moment. She leans her forehead against his and lightly giggles as he breaks out into his own, goofy grin, with matching dusts of red spreading across their cheeks.

He may be lying about the bike ride–this may be the most glorious thing he’s ever felt instead.

a/n: we will delve more into marnie and buck's upbringing and relationship, soon. :) as always, eternally grateful if you have made it this far.

#masters of the air #mota #benny demarco #benny demarco x oc #bernard demarco #benny x marnie <3 #mota oc #marnie cleven #late night post #buck cleven

18 notes · View notes

cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

Text

Hello, Mr. Monster (Three. Shadow)

Summary: Eros and Psyche retelling with soulmate!AU elements. Morpheus x oc/female reader

Master List

Chapter Track: "Dream State (Dark Day)" by Son Lux

18+ (violence, swearing throughout, referenced child murder)

TAGGING: Tag lists break my posts, BUT I reply to comments the day of new chapters, so you'll get a personal update every time you stop to chat. ;)

A/N: Very short chapter this time. Mental health is quietly shitting itself and making writing difficult. Thank you all for your patience.

3: Shadow

The Not Deer smelled blood.

It smelled her blood, sweet with sand, ripe with magic. And this time, unlike all the others before, she had not escaped – and she was alone.

Teeth aching to close on her living flesh, thirsty for the hot blood flecked with its master’s power, it screamed.

She’d fallen too far inside her little moving fortress, and it couldn’t reach her. It could see, though. It could smell. And wasn’t it wonderful? Fresh red bloomed on her face, filling the night with the scent of the hunt.

If it could get through the window or beat down the door, it could have her. Finally. Eat her all up and lick the fluids off the carpet, crunch her bones and chew the soft fat of her pretty brain. Then sleep off a full belly under a pile of last year’s lacy, skeleton leaves, as it did after every good feeding. It caught children who left the path and slipped just beyond their parents’ sight, drunk men daring the dark on a summer’s night, anyone foolish enough to put too much faith in their own skills under the trees when the sun went down. In a hundred years, there had been many.

But she would be the best meal, and the last, because word already spread that the lord was returned, and soon the Not Deer would be missed. Urgency fueled its attack, but its antlers caught on the window frame, and though its legs stretched too long for a deer, its hooves couldn’t strike the valley between the seats.

It rammed the van, furious. Grey foam frothed from its lips, turning the forest floor black with rot where it dripped.

“What are you doing?”

A century was not long enough to forget its master’s voice, and as it heard the whisper of eons at its back, shock froze over delight.

It stalked the dark long enough to recognize prey. It was not a deer, but it froze like one now with fate ringing in its ears. The hunter waited as the Not Deer came to rapid terms with its renewed vulnerability, and the nightmare turned, clicking, to face the Nightmare King.

The Not Deer did not have words. That was not how it had been made. But the king didn’t ask his question in search of an answer.

The Not Deer was meant to hunt in dreams, to threaten and rip at hunters who killed too many, to remind those without caution what they had to fear. But it feasted on living mortals instead. The Corinthian introduced him to the fantasy, made the cut in the nightmare’s mind that festered into fantasy, and when it had the chance, it left the Dreaming to hunt.

It consumed a young dreamer who’d left his bed to catch frogs under the full moon, and the boy had tasted well. So, the Not Deer found new dreamers to eat, glutting itself on muscle and marrow. Until it smelled her. Then it ate others in frustration, because nothing smelled as good as the one with his maker’s name scratched in her heart, glowing gold, drawing him like a new lamb’s bleats or a dying rabbit’s shriek.

The King of Nightmares simply looked at it and understood. He’d already known. He must have. It was in his nature as it was in the Not Deer’s to admire screams.

“You have betrayed your purpose.” The king spoke softly, and the Not Deer bowed, the tattered flesh on its antlers dragging along the dirt. “And you have chosen most dangerous prey.”

Dangerous not because of herself, for all her tricks. Dangerous as the mate of a greater monster, a jealous king with dominion over every night terror and the things night terrors feared.

Eyes darker than any shadow, hard and unforgiving as obsidian, the king stalked nearer. The Not Deer didn’t move. It had witnessed the Endless’s wrath, had seen others of its kind unmade, and knew it was too late to flee.

A low grown and the chime of shifting glass disturbed the dead quiet of the forest, and the Not Deer wondered if the king’s mate would wake. It hoped. She cared for the weaker ones, the creatures of the Dreaming that did not bite into the waking world as the Not Deer had. Even though it hunted her, hurt her, she may show mercy, may ask for it.

But she slept on, disturbed by other nightmares in the Dreaming, and the king’s frown grew deeper. His attention splintered between worlds, and just as her dreaming had led him to the threat in one world, her distress in the other called him home.

Perhaps he would forget. Perhaps the Not Deer may escape to find more dreamers and keep itself as itself.

Even as it began to imagine what it could chase, kill, taste with more days of freedom, the Nightmare King’s eye turned back to it, and he lifted one long arm to spin the Not Deer back to sand.

“I am needed elsewhere. I have not the time to return the tortures you are owed.”

It bucked while it still had legs, roaring and clicking as body, senses, and mind fell grain by grain. If it thought its master would return, it would never have dared. It did not want to disappear. It wanted, it wanted…

“And yet.” The king stooped to take a handful of the witch’s salt from the circle she’d made around her vehicle, and he sifted it between his fingers, thoughtful as the ash stained his fingertips. “Since it was her pain and fear you stole –” he lifted his hand above the half-formed Not Deer and let it rain down “– let her repay it.”

The black salt caught inside the nightmare and burned like it never had before. It wasn’t discomfort. It wasn’t an unpleasant, stinging shock. It was agony without end, and the Not Deer abandoned any idea of survival or escape in an instant.

It needed to be unmade. To stop. To forget.

Its lord did not lift his hand, and the legless, heaving beast of horror whined in desperation.

“Perhaps this taste of her power will satisfy you.”

If it had words, it would beg.

The Nightmare King’s attention had already shifted back to the Dreaming, however, and he paused only long enough for his shadow to swallow the wailing thing before moving on to where his mate’s dreaming mind called for help.

Then all the Not Deer knew was the darkness and its pain within it. Her scent twisted through the sand, and soon it summoned no hunger, no greed, only unbridled terror it could not escape. Not even when it tore itself apart.

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

In the Dreaming, the Nightmare King pulled her from the nightmares and held her in his hands for the first time, negotiating an opportunity to soothe her, to feel the places in their souls where they met, so she might understand…

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

She woke with something damp between her legs and glass studding her palm.

Spears of light poked through the forest canopy, glinting sharp through her eyes, into the sensitive spaces behind them, burning her retinas from the inside out. Rainbows danced in the broken window, reflecting in the shattered diamonds over the floor. The driver’s seat. Her clothes. She decided to wait before trying to move, get her senses together, give her head time to steady before she did anything stupid. Like grating herself like Parmesan cheese on the remains of her window.

She closed her eyes for a minute. Breathed.

Something was off.

Her mouth was dry as cotton, and her tongue did nothing to help her equally dry lips as she pulled it over the broken, peeling skin.

Damn.

She felt…

Confused.

Hurt from her encounter with the Not Deer, but also well rested. Lighter almost. Like she suddenly had more attention, more energy, even though she had glass in her hair and a situation she strongly suspected may lead to a UTI if not immediately addressed. Which of course led to the question of what the hell she and the monster had really done in her sleep, if it was just the wettest dream of her life or if she ought to be running for Plan B. She didn’t think he’d go that far without asking, not after he so carefully sought permission. And wasn’t that a hell of a thing?

Sought permission. Honored it. Soothed her and held in a way her waking mind struggled to grasp. The concepts melted in her thoughts like ice as she woke, dripping away in cool streams of sensation and memory.

He’d been grand, and big, and frightening, but he didn’t use his power to crush her, as she’d expected.

After so many years anticipating the worst, she wasn’t sure what to do with this reality. Where things hadn’t gone tits up. With a creature beyond a god who assumed he had boundaries before she even drew them. Where the worst hadn’t happened.

Her monster had made a riddle of himself for her to solve. She’d need time to come to terms with that. With him. After a lifetime of the darkest expectations… well.

Getting up, though. That came first.

She shifted, wary of the bad, bad glitter threatening an unplanned trip to an urgent care as she picked the best spots to plant her elbows.

Rolling onto her knees, she tried to crawl forward, but something snagged her foot, and she finally noticed the pull of a grip around her ankle. Her heart didn’t skip a beat. Her breathing didn’t stutter. None of the normal, horrified reactions burst from trembling lips and teary eyes.

She knew that hand.

Looking towards the passenger seat, she saw the desiccated arm vanishing into the shadows under the pilot chair. Dead skin flaked away from crusty patches of old blood, and misty black shadows curled within, ready to turn into nightmare claws to terrorize small children.

The fingers squeezed, questioning.

“I’m alright, Jeff.” She reached down to pat him, glad to find something as expected and faithful as the needy nightmare worrying after her wellbeing. “It’s okay. Not Deer still lurking outside?”

Two quick squeezes – No.

“Good.”

The bastard must’ve given up when Jeff arrived. Never did like an audience, and Jeff could be a real pain in the ass if he wanted to be. Pretty literally.

As far as she knew, Jeff was only the arm. Maybe he had a few more inky swaths of darkness he kept tucked under low furniture, but he never manifested anything past a bicep. He didn’t speak with words, only by touch, and they’d learned to communicate by squeeze ages ago.

Once upon a time, he’d been the first nightmare to find her, and on the last night she had a family, he’d clung to her leg like a shackle – warning her, begging her not to follow her curious ears to the raised voices outside her door. Ever since, even though he had terrible timing, she never doubted his intentions.

The touches in her dream with Morpheus told her a lot of other things she wasn’t fully prepared to analyze.

She hadn’t had a fucking cup of coffee yet. She couldn’t be expected to contemplate the single greatest threat to her continued freedom before caffeination. Simply unreasonable. Inhumane.

So, she shoved it out of her mind – again – and climbed out of the mess. Her first aid kit was in the back, under the narrow bunk where she usually slept. She popped the plastic case open with her back to the sliding door, the Not Deer’s dent poking into her peripheral vision as a grim reminder of the previous night.

Another nearly.

She had a strange relationship with death. Dozens of near misses over the years made the sickening adrenaline rush and following crash routine. Some people could schedule their periods in their planners. Some days it felt like mortal peril penciled itself into hers. She was afraid, but too often, and she’d lost the technique of it.

As she plucked a few stubborn bits of glass from her hands, cleaned the tiny holes they left behind, and bandaged everything up, Jeff made himself useful. He swept up the fragments he could reach in long sweeps, pulling it all into the fathomless darkness of his home under the pilot seat. When he’d cleared that side of the van, he withdrew and manifested on the driver’s side. He reached up to pluck shards from the cushions, and his fingers spidered along the carpet, seeking little dangers he could remove from her world. In the time she took cleaning herself up and shaking the glass out of her hair outside, the nightmare cleared the interior of debris.

“Thank you, Jeff,” she said as she hauled herself into the driver’s seat.

She caught her own eye in the rearview mirror. She caught her first look at the bloody goose egg over her left brow, too. Could be worse, though the swelling might get some attention she didn’t want. Rusty red flakes peeled away from the trails leading into her hair, and she tentatively poked the edge of the swelling. Like running her tongue over a canker sore – she just couldn’t help herself, even though she knew how it would end.

Yup.

It hurt.

She groaned, dropping back against the headrest. Fan-fucking-tastic. The scratch needed cleaning and antiseptic, which meant a stop at the nearest convenience store with a bathroom. Nothing like scaring some gas station clerks first thing in the morning.

At least gas stations had coffee.

Fresh air breathed through the broken window, washing the smell of fear and blood out of the van. She took in as much as she could.

She needed to go, but she wasn’t sure where, and going never got her very far without a destination. Her pockets had bottoms, and she’d hit the seams fast if she didn’t budget gas money.

Where should she head? What did she need?

Out of sight, Jeff softly grasped her left ankle. He hadn’t been so clingy in ages, and she wondered what the little nightmare knew that she didn’t. It wasn’t like he was a great conversationalist. Their talks took creative shortcuts – yes/no taps, Morse code, even a Ouija board once or twice – but they still chewed up time she wasn’t sure she had, and even when well-equipped, Jeff wasn’t chatty. He couldn’t help her work through this chaos.

Oh.

And there was her answer.

Help.

People.

She needed people. Folks to talk with, to lend her an ear and a shoulder to cry on. Someone to distract her, friends who knew her and would keep her safe from rogue nightmares like the Not Deer – maybe even help her pick apart her feelings over the star-eyed Endless and his… attention.

People. Friends. Plural.

Checking the date on her phone, she did some quick math and determined where her favorite group of miscreants might be found. Hadn’t they sent her a text? A few weeks ago? She’d been so consumed with the pull across the ocean to the Burgess estate she barely read it. No time or attraction. Now, though – different story.

Destination in mind, she put on her sunglasses to protect her eyes from the inevitable wind through the open window and turned the key. The van grumbled to life. Bouncing over the rough little road she’d called home for a few nights, she smiled to herself. Happy in the moment, alive with a little purpose and a goal to chase, on her way to friendly faces.

Only after speeding an hour down the highway did she realize what felt so off – the pain in her chest had eased.

Next chapter: Link

#Morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #dream of the endless x reader #sandman x reader #hello mr. monster #morpheus x original character

180 notes · View notes