#i pray that this war ends very soon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

Text

Masters of the Air Fanfic

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

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

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

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

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

Word count: a monstrous 12k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

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

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

“-I don’t have the authority-“

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

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

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now the texas girl has-“

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

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

“Well, no-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s that?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“To the Poles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only to kiss you.

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

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

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

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’d have only known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

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

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Buck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

723 notes · View notes

starsxblazing · 2 months

Text

Die Of A Broken Heart

Ask and you shall receive. Here is some pure heartbreaking angst to feed us masochists.

Summary: Azriel goes on a mission that should have been simple only for it to end in one of the worst ways possible.

Azriel x Reader

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You just got back last night and you’re exhausted.”

You watched your husband as he continued to get ready for his mission. It wasn’t really a mission at all unless one thought of the Hewn City that way. There were many that would call it such but to each their own. Azriel stopped his task of lacing his buckles together to give you a smile but when that didn’t seem to satisfy you, he pulled you into his arms in a tight embrace.

“As soon as Cassian and I return, you will have me all to yourself,” he assured gently, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Try not to worry so much, love.”

You both admired and hated his work ethic. He was so loving, loyal, and devoted that he spread himself so thin but he was slowly making progress. Very, very slow progress but progress, nonetheless. The two of you had only been married for a few decades and it was as blissful as it could possibly be.

There had been an internal war within you when he had first started courting you. It was no secret that he wanted a mate, that all of the males wanted a mate. You had been hesitant in giving your heart to him because you knew that he had someone wonderful out there that the Mother had made just for him.

What you hadn’t expected was a one sided mating bond. You had known since the night of your wedding but hadn’t been able to bring yourself to tell him. Azriel was always so loving and devoted to you that you didn’t have to question him. He assured you more times than you could count that even if his mate did miraculously appear, that he would still choose you. Since you knew that he was your mate, all of those worries had left your mind.

“But you still have to train your new spy for Spring Court,” you huffed, earning a quiet chuckle from him as he continued preparing.

“I have already told Rhys that it will have to wait.” He shot you a playful grin. “You are my priority. The female will still be there in another two weeks.”

“You, the amazing spymaster, are going to take an entire two weeks off?” you asked skeptically. “You are going to go insane with that much time off of work.”

“Actually,” he began, his voice dropping into that delicious seductiveness while he pushed you back into the wall. “I had every intention of keeping myself occupied in much more pleasurable ways.”

The hard length of him pressed into you, earning him a playful giggle. He simply pulled you into a deep kiss that left you both breathless only to do it again before he finally left with one last ‘I love you.’ You always hated to watch him go but knowing that he would be back later that night made it better. It also helped that you had a day planned with Nesta at the bookstore.

“Did Cassian let anything slip about what they’re supposed to be doing?” you asked the female as you walked down the street.

“He was able to withstand my questioning, surprisingly,” Nesta huffed. “I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

“Probably not,” you agreed.

You simply followed your friend throughout the stores, grabbing a few items for yourself before making your way to a nearby cafe. Nesta was relentless in getting you back into training so to appease her, you agreed. It was mostly because you missed the three females that you had made friends with but also because it would keep your mind busy once Azriel left again to train his new spy.

It was hours past time when your husband had promised that he would be home and it had you pacing a hole in the floor of your sitting room. This was the absolute worst part of being committed to someone with such an important job. Each time he was away from you, you prayed for his safety. That was exactly why you fell into a panicked frenzy when Rhys entered your mind to let you know that you were needed at Madja’s.

“What happened?” you demanded breathlessly, bursting into one of the healing rooms only to see a grumbling Azriel sitting up in the bed and holding his head.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Cassian waved it off dismissively despite the serious worry in his eyes. “He just took a hit to the head.”

“The culprit will have a fitting punishment,” Rhys assured when you went to open your mouth. “Take him home and watch over him.”

And so you did. It didn’t help that your husband was grumpier than usual, fussing and ensuring you that he could take care of himself. You weren’t convinced due to his slight stumble and how he continued to hold his bandage wrapped head. He all but fell face first into the bed and there was no way that you could leave him alone.

You awoke the next morning only to find Azriel’s side of the bed cold. It caused a deep frown to form on your face because he should be there. He was injured on top of promising to stay home. The very least that you had expected was for him to still be cuddled up to you since the sun could barely be seen in the sky. Even after searching the entire house, he was nowhere to be seen and not even his scent lingered in the air.

In a sigh of defeat, you made your way to the House of Wind in hopes to find some answers. It was also empty up until you made it up to the training ring. Cassian, Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn were already there and beginning their warmups for the session.

“Finally come back to join us?” Cassian asked in a teasing voice but his eyes were wary.

“I was actually hoping to find my husband.” You almost tripped over the last word, almost revealing the secret that nobody else knew. “He promised that he would be home for the next two weeks.”

“He said something came up and training that new female was extremely important.”

You eyed Cassian skeptically, noting that the general appeared uneasy with the topic of conversation. Something wasn’t right and your hand instinctively rubbed against your heart as if the bond was trying to tell you something. It was always there, always lingering and glowing brightly within you but it was dim today. Nesta, who seemed extremely in tune with you, pulled you into the ring with them, insisting that training would help but that dim light wouldn’t change your worry. There was something wrong if the strange new tug was any indication of it.

With nothing better to do, you relented and after warmups, you had a sword in hand. All three females had been training hard and it was a task to keep up with the high spirited Gwyn. You had always loved the priestess and the upbeat, determined energy that always buzzed around her.

You felt it just as soon as you blocked Gwyn’s attack. There was pain that tugged at your heart that caused you to stumble, earning a nice cut on your arm as you hit your knees. You were certain that a scream of pain, one that didn’t come from the new physical injury, left you but you were unaware of anything but the pain in your chest. It was sharp, as if a thousand daggers were piercing you all at once.

A blinding heat then enveloped that same pain that had your head swimming. The bond that was there slowly dimmed further and you could almost see it. You could almost see the cord rip and shred, the feeling going straight into your chest. The burning paired with the sharpness continued until you could feel it through every fibre of your being where it settled into your very soul. It raged with an intensity that you knew had never been experienced by the world before.

Your heart stopped just as the last pieces of the bond shredded and broke before the blissful darkness took you.

Even in unconsciousness the pain didn’t stop. It felt like being tied to a spit and being turned over an open, blazing fire. The extreme heat didn’t stop and even after your mind began to clear, you were unable to open your eyes. It felt like you were dying from the inside out but muffled voices hit your ears, thankfully giving you something else to focus on.

“So you are telling me that your new spy is your mate?”

Rhys. That voice that was unmistakable and laced with frustration.

“It just happened, Rhys.”

Your husband. The one that was your mate that somehow had another mate. You searched inside of you and all that was left of the one sided bond were shredding sharp threads blowing in an openness of an unfamiliar void. Your mind couldn’t wrap around what was happening. You couldn’t understand.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Those three whispered words felt like another knife to the heart, continuing to slice into your already shredded soul.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You have a wife that loves you! A wife that you have been happily in love with for decades!”

The quiet words of the High Lord were nearly a growl, obviously angry with his spymaster.

“She’s my mate, Rhys!”

Your husband was attempting to defend himself as if the mating bond had finally taken over him completely.

“You just met this female. She is supposed to be your apprentice. Your student. Nothing more.”

Azriel truly had left you, while he was injured, only to find his mate. You wanted to cry but the pain, the heat, kept you from doing anything.

“Well that’s not what happened.”

“What is more, your wife fell in training and has been unconscious for days while in a pain that none of us can figure out while you have refused to come back because you have been with your mate!”

It was all that you needed to hear. Your worst fears that had been present before the bond had happened. He had been spending time with his mate all while you had been unconscious and in immense pain and hadn’t bothered to answer his High Lord’s attempts to reach him. You must have finally been able to move because you heard quick footsteps just before a familiar set of hands were wrapped around yours.

“Y/n.” Azriel’s pleading voice barely registered in your mind. “Please look at me.”

It felt wrong to do so but you did. You loved him with all that you were and it was now your downfall. There was such worry on his face and his eyes went wide at whatever he found or didn’t find on your face. Even through the blazing haze, you barely registered the deep concern and made you wondered why he cared all of a sudden.

“Are you alright?” It was Rhysand’s voice this time as he pushed the shadowsinger away from you. “How can I help?”

“I’ll be fine,” you rasped, your throat raw as if you had been screaming.

“You have been screaming,” Rhys confirmed in a gentle but quiet voice. “Let me help you.”

A growl came from behind you but you focused on those violet eyes that made you feel just the tiniest bit better.

“I just need my bed and some time.”

He nodded, seemingly determined to give you whatever you wanted.

It took two weeks for you to pull yourself together enough to present yourself somewhat normally. Azriel had stayed with you for a week before leaving for his next mission, leaving you at the House with Nesta and Cassian. You knew that it wasn’t a mission. They didn’t know that you had overheard the conversation and knew that your husband had a mate that wasn’t you.

By the time that the third week had passed, Azriel came into your room and watched you cautiously. It had taken you that long since the bond broke to act like your normal self but the pain, the burning of your soul never stopped. The broken threads cut into you over and over with no way to stop it. You were sure that you were going mad and you only allowed yourself to succumb to it whenever you knew that you would be alone for a while.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He sat on the edge of the bed but didn’t move closer. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” you asked as casually as you could even though a piece of you knew what was coming.

“I found my mate,” he whispered.

“Oh.”

This time it came out as a broken whisper, your fear only fueling the flame inside of you. Your heart picked up a rapid pace in your chest and you were sure that it was going to explode if it didn’t stop.

“I need-” He swallowed hard, his eyes lining with tears. “I need to at least get to know her.”

“You promised me, Azriel,” you croaked. “Please.”

“Just give me three weeks, y/n. Please.”

“Az…” Your voice trailed off and you realized that there was no point in arguing. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

Despite his voice sounding thick and desperate, he simply brushed a light kiss against your lips. Your heart continued to race in panic and that pain raged blindingly until it was dark once again.

Azriel felt horrible for leaving you because he had promised you for decades that he would never leave you. He promised that he would love you and only you for the rest of eternity and even though that would always be true, he had to be sure. No sooner than he was in the sky after leaping off of the balcony on the House of Wind, a pair of hands were around him and he was suddenly in his dungeon.

“What the hell, Rhysand?” he growled, frustrated and annoyed and Cassian and the two fae in the chairs barely caught his eye.

“I came back here with Cassian to continue the work that you should have done after being attacked and learned a great deal of information.”

“Like what?” he snapped, his feet shifting while he debated on winnowing away.

“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” the High Lord growled. “As it turns out, that blast of power that sent you flying into the wall and causing your concussion cursed you.”

That caused him a pause and he eyed the two males that he had met with.

“Your ‘mating bond’ is fake.”

“But-”

“Tell him,” Rhysand ordered the males, refusing to let him speak.

“The female- your wife- is your mate,” one bit out. “You are holding us back in this horrid place so we cursed you to be chained to another female so that you would move courts.”

Because he would. If his mate didn’t want to live in Night Court, he would follow her. He looked between his brothers who didn’t appear to have the first bit of sympathy for him. Rhysand obviously knew that he had just left you for his mate and didn’t care about his wishes any longer.

In his desperation to get back to you, to right his wrong and beg for your forgiveness, he began his methods. It didn’t take much to get them to break and the curse cured. In an instant, he no longer felt that fake mating bond but when he looked to his High Lord, he was pale and frozen in place.

“Let’s go.”

Rhysand grabbed both him and Cassian, winnowing them back into the House. They sprinted towards your room only to find Madja hovering over you, her face pale and grave when she looked at them.

“What’s happening?” he asked in a panic, running to your side and pulling your freezing cold hand into his.

“She’s dying.” Madja’s voice was just as grave as her face. “Her body is shutting down.”

“Y/n!” Azriel yelled, shaking you as much as he dared to try to get you to open your eyes.

Madja’s hand was over your heart, looking as if she was focusing extra hard on it.

“Her heart is beating too fast,” the female murmured. “I have no way to slow it.”

Panic overtook him entirely and he continued to shake you in desperation. Your lips had turned blue and there was no color to your face even though your chest rose and fell in an unhealthy rhythm. Finally, finally, you opened your eyes. There was no life there and the quick flicker of recognition was all that it took. A dim light simmered within him, a light wrapped around a simple thread that should have been tied to you.

He followed it to the end only to find an endless void. That quick flicker of remembering him only lasted a second before your eyes closed again.

Just as you closed your eyes and your chest came to a stop, the thin thread within him shredded apart.

He thought he heard himself scream, a scream of desperation and pain, as he felt like he had been set on fire. It was a heat that far surpassed the flames that had ruined the hands that you loved so much and he didn’t know if he could handle it. His wife, his mate, his true mate was gone and left shattered threads blowing in a new void in its wake. He couldn’t breathe as it felt like his heart was being shredded into pieces and it picked up its pace in his chest. It felt like he was about to implode.

And as the darkness pulled him closer, he realized what had been your fate and what would now be his. He realized what it was like to die of a broken heart.

Tag List:

@amara-moonlight @allygrace74 @sidthedollface2 @historygeekqueen @hnyclover @kalulakunundrum @historygeekqueen @bubybubsters @thisblogisaboutabook @mybestfriendmademe @caroline-books @justvibbinghere @wisdomofthebrain @nighttimemoonlover

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

460 notes · View notes

fan-goddess · 1 year

Note

Helloooo love! I'm a fan lurking in the dark with a request idea for Aemond x Reader. Would love to see your take on Aemond trying to win Reader back (his wife) after she found out about Alys. Maybe this happens after the "Dance" , Aemond survives and they have to deal with the aftermath of Alys. Reader loved him with everything she had so she feels betrayed and turns cold to him and maybe because of Alys, something also happened to her (idk lost pregnancy perhaps but PLEASE exclude this if you don't feel comfortable writing it). Basically take everything you find interesting from this request and work your magic - I trust you like no other!!! Thank you I send you all the love there is - you are very very talented and please know there are many like me that think you are truly brilliant, I know it!!! :*:*

Authors Note: Oh my god thank you this is so freakin sweet! 🥺 I’m happy to take the request and spin my take on this, hope you enjoy it! :)

Also, some of the stuff Is made up like the time between Daemons death and end of the war. I don’t know it so I made it up. If you don’t like it take it up with my dms

Word count: 2.6K

Warnings: Cheating, miscarriage though it’s not explicit, she’s kinda depressed? Not sure how to describe it,

Taglist: @blue-serendipity

The Sequels: The Depressive one, The happy One

—————

If Aemond ever regretting not killing anyone throughout the war he technically started, most would’ve immediately assumed that he wished he never killed his nephew. Though they were wrong. Yes, Lucerys’ death became one of the many causes of the war and in turn deaths of so many people, but his death didn’t result in the loss of you and your child.

Alys’ death could’ve though.

When he first met Alys, he had been nearly immediately enraptured and enamoured by had. She was quite different to you. While you had always been headstrong and never afraid to tell Aemond what he needed to do or to be, Alys had been more docile and had no issue in telling Aemond all the things he wanted to hear.

He regretted the first time he laid with Alys in his bed. Though that regret went away the more time he spent with her and the more times he laid with her. He begun to think of possibly taking after Aegon the conqueror, thinking he’d have both you and Alys by his side when Aegon most likely drank himself to death.

That fantasy was soon ruined when he got that letter.

Dear Aemond,

Do you think of me as a fool? I know about that fucking woman Aemond. I know about Alys. I don’t know why you have decided to betray our marriage and honestly, I don’t think care I can bring myself to think about it nor care anymore. This letter was originally going to be happy. A letter letting you know what we prayed near everyday from the seven had finally come true and been answered. I was with child. Our child made purely of what I had thought was love. Though that changed when I was informed of what you had done. I mourned for what we could’ve had. I cried and refused to believe it at first, though soon I came to my senses. Yet it was too late. Our child is dead Aemond. I woke up a few days ago to heavy blood staining our bedsheets. The child was barely two months according to the maester. I wish for you to know it is your fault Aemond. I do not wish to ever see you again. I wish to never hear from you so if you attempt to reconcile or send a letter I will pay for our child’s blood with your own. You have dug your grave Aemond. Don’t try and dig it deeper. If you are to die in battle, I hope it is painful. I hope you suffer like I have.

From, your wife

From your former wife

Aemond had felt his heart plummet to the floor when he read that letter. He could not stop the tears that fell to the floor and stained the letter he still was holding. The ink blotting and staining the page so much the words were becoming near illegible.

He attempted to head into battle with the faint hope that you’d forgive him if he killed his uncle. Though even he knew deep down that no amount of deaths could fix anything. Yet even still he tried. He defeated Daemon, with blood of which Targaryen man he did not know staining and pooling on his ripped armour.

Aemond came home where he was met with his mother and brother, who both congratulated him on his victory. Though even with their congrats he could see the disgust that lingered in his mothers gaze as she looked at him. It made his shame all that more prominent.

He would’ve gone to see you, but Aegon stopped him before he could, claiming he was holding a feast in his name for the defeat of Daemon. He tried to look for you in the amount of people that came, yet he couldn’t. And he didn’t dare ask his mother if you would be coming in fear of her glare and disappointment.

That night he wonders something. Maybe it would’ve been better if he did die by the hand of his uncle? Then it would’ve saved him from all this torture. Though he can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Aemond can only wallow in his drinks that he keeps being given and his own sorrow.

Aemond was back home. The words the maids said echoed in your head. He’s here, and no doubt going to attempt to reconcile. If there was one thing you ever learnt about your husband, was that he never quit at anything he started.

You already made bets with yourself on how he’d attempt to do it.

Maybe he’ll try flowers? No that’s too much of a common move for Aemond to pull… Maybe he’ll bring you some jewellery? No that’d make him feel like he was buying for your forgiveness. Like he was buying something for a mistress. Well… he’s been there and done that…

There is always the chance Aemond will not even attempt to reconcile. Hopefully becoming too overcome by the grief and pain of the loss of his and your child that he’d respect your wishes after reading your own pain on paper. The maids still look at you worriedly, especially when they find you sitting near the window. You know why they worry, you mourned Helaena and Jahaerys and you know you will not become like her.

Aegon was also the one who told you about Alys, and when you lost your child and screamed for the whole of the castle to hear, it was Aegon who ran to you to mourn with you and hold you while you cried for a life you may have been able to have. He held you in the way a brother would hold a sister. He even cried with you and helped clean you of the blood. Oh the blood…

———

It’s been a few long months, but the war between the greens and the blacks is finally over. Aegon is celebrating by holding a massive banquet and all the lord and ladies who supported him are invited. Even though Aemond knows it will not happen, he secretly hopes you will come to celebrate.

Though as he keeps sneaking glances at the door all night he eventually comes to term with the fact you’re not coming. He can only swallow more bitter wine and ignore the fact he’s drinking it like a fish in water now.

He’s attempted to reconcile from a distance ever since the incident but everything he has sent to your chambers has come back in shreds. The flowers from the garden you loved to look after, heads torn from their stems and cut into a thousand pieces. The books he sent on your favourite topic, you had more restraint on them and simply chucked them from your window onto unsuspecting bystanders bellow.

Aegon told him delightfully how after he delivered the books to you, they were seen immediately thrown from the window and one had supposedly managed to hit one knight straight on the head, effectively knocking him out cold.

Though if anything those small acts of defiance made Aemond wish to reunite and return to you even more. It reminded him just why he fell in love with you in the first place. Your wit and your wisdom made him fall head over heals for you, literally.

He had tripped in front of you and some other ladies of the court due to the load of books he was carrying. He had not yet gotten used to the visual impairments the loss of his eye provided and did not see the thrown goblet in his path. Aemond had effectively turned scarlet when the ladies began to mockingly giggle at him, it nearly made his heart beat straight from his chest when he saw you come to his help. “You need to get some help with those. It’s not that bad to ask for help you know? Means you aren’t a stubborn twat.” You grin.

He wished he could go back to those days. They were simpler. They held no knowledge of the war they would face. It held no knowledge of the bastard from Harrenhal.

Aemond had not tried to reunite with you in person. He knew you’d most definitely follow through with your threat and spill his blood. It’s why he attempted to send you items instead through the maids. Though it’s very obvious those weren’t working either. That’s when he got the idea to write you letters. There was easily a chance that you would burn them or tear them the moment you saw the writing. Yet even then Aemond knew he had to try…

———

“Princess. I have another item sent from the prince for you.” One of the maids said as she carefully approached your bed. The sun had already hit its peak that day, though you could not bring yourself to get out of bed. The only time you could bring yourself too was either with the help of your maids, or when Aemond sent a supposed gift to you which you’d immediately destroy.

“What is it this time?” You sigh. “Is it something that I am supposed to eat? Because if it is i’d like it if you took to the servants quarters and give it to them and not-“

“It’s not food related my princess. It’s a letter.” When you look towards the maid you can see the sad expression clear on her face. This maid has brought you many of Aemonds attempts at reconciliation.

“What is your name?” It does not give you any sort of pleasure when the maid looks shocked at the fact a princess is asking for the name of a maid. “Its not a trick question I want to know your name.”

“Klarisa my princess. My name is Klarissa.”

“Klarisa do you think I should read the letter my bastard of a husband as written to me?” You look carefully at Klarisas face, the decision of your lifetime hanging in a mere maids hands.

“To be honest with you my lady…” Klarisa takes a deep breath and puts on a sympathetic face. You appreciate that she wishes to give you honesty, though that sympathetic face makes you want to punch her. “What the prince did was inexcusable after the way the two of you acted before… her. You got to have a husband who loves you and cared for you, that itself is much more than most of the women who are forced into a marriage can hope for. The prince is trying to make up for it and is also respective your boundaries. Not many could say that they got to have a husband who did even one of those things. So yes my princess, I believe you should read the letter.” You take a deep breathe and loosen your hands, which seemed to have clenched so tightly your nails all but pierce into your palms.

“Give me the letter then leave. If you see the prince, do not tell him that you for once got me to think about even looking at his weak apologies. Just put your head down, and walk away. Do you understand Klarisa?”

“Yes my princess.” Klarisa moves swiftly to the doors to your chambers, opening it and moving forward, only to stop for a moment and turn on her heels towards to. “I hope you get what it is you seek my princess. For your own sake.” She turns back to the door and closes it behind her, leaving you alone with the letter in your hand which already feels like it’s burning you. Yet you prevail, and slowly open the letter to read it.

Dear ñuha jorrāelagon,

I will not waste my breath in attempting to gain your forgiveness. I know better than anyone that when you stick your mind to something you keep it that way. Though what I will say is the truth, which I know will hurt you and anger you more than anything but i know it’s what you wish to hear.

Alys was a woman I believed to be falling in love with. She was something what I believed I needed in my life. A woman to be docile and to whisper all the things I needed to hear in my ear. Though after your letter, it became my wake up. I cut off all contact with Alys after realising how much I hurt you. I regret that woman everyday I have not been with you. You are the only woman I need to be with. I love that you are not docile and will not take any man’s shit (as you so clearly and often tended to put it). I love that you challenge me and encourage the debates we so often hold. I love you Rhaella, more than any woman before in my life. I’m sorry it took another woman and the life of our child for me to realise it. I understand wholeheartedly if you wish to never speak to me again. But I hope with this letter, if you ever do decide to read this, which after all my other attempts seem unlikely, you at least know that there will not be a single day that I do not wish that I did not kill that woman when I killed all the other strongs. You are my life. My world. And I hope you know that.

From, Aemond Targaryen

You’ve never felt like you wanted to cry this much since you lost your sweet baby. You can feel the tears leaking down your face the entire time you read Aemonds words. Some of your tears drip onto the page, leaving some of the words to blur together into illegible blobs of black ink.

You feel the urge to destroy the letter. The same urge and desire you felt when you got into contact with all of Aemonds other gifts. Though you resist this time, and instead of destroying the letter, you smooth it out and place it delicately under the mass amounts of pillows that seem to always near take over your bed. That night, for the first night of the many you’d stayed in your room during your isolation period, you slept the whole night in your bed with no nightmares to wake you screaming.

———

When Aemond was standing in the corridor in the shadows and hadn’t picked up on any whispers from the maids passing him of any destruction or damage coming from your chambers, he assumed you must have kept the letter.

He does not hold though any hope that you read it. For all he knows you’ve simply just ignored it or ripped it and used it to keep your fire alight.

When he is waiting for the maid to come out of your room though, he could not help but feel hopeful when the maid takes longer than usual to come out of your room. “Well?” He asks as he steps from the shadows when the maid eventually comes out and nearly passes him. He does not dare to actually ask whether or not you took it. Even though he so selfishly wish to help hold her down and demand for

It surprises him and angers him when the maid looks at him and yet does not acknowledge him. What did you tell her? What does she know?

Aemond grabs the arm of the maid as she attempts to pass him without any real acknowledgment. “Your prince asked you a question.” He growls. He nearly felt sympathy for the woman when she looked at him with fear in her eyes. But he is not Aegon. He can control his desires towards the maids.

“The princess asked that I not speak to you. Please let go of my arm, my prince…” The maid half begs. Aemond lets go of her arm reluctantly after a moment of thinking. Why would you tell the maid to not talk to him? Maybe you really read the letter and do not wish to appear weak to him? Though only if you knew that you could never be weak in his eyes, his strong independent wife.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fic #prince aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond x you #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen #the death of a life au

2K notes · View notes

targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year

Note

Hey I’m not sure if you’re doing requests right now (if not then please just ignore😭) if you are doing requests I was wondering if you could write and Aemond x Wife Reader where she’s with child, in where the dinner scene takes place but when Jace goes to hit Aemond the reader tries to stop him and jace blond in anger pushes her and she falls to the floor and starts to bleed (the child is okay in the end) and it the whole table goes quite! Please and thank you!! I love your writing sm💕💕

'If looks could kill'

A/N: I got this request ages ago so sorryyyyyy~ I was unsure how to approach this one as there is a very similar fic by the wonderful @aemonds-war-crime and I was really weary and making it not too similar, hopefully I did it? lol

Go read theirs cos honestly it's better anyway

Warnings: mention of miscarriages, hurt reader, protective aemond, childbirth / Ao3 link

You raised your arms out in a silent plea, feeling too heavy and weak to be able to pull yourself up. Smiling up to him, you wiggle your fingers.

“A little help?” you say in a half-mischievous tone.

“Hm” Aemond responded with that half-smile before bending at the knees to take your hands to pull you up.

You feigned a groan of pain as you came to your feet, one hand stationed under the large bump as if for protection. It took no effort from Aemond at all to pull you up and he smoothed his large hands down your side. He stood before you in silence, but you could feel his eye over your form, beaming with pride at the bump that touched against him. So much so, he placed his palm to it and closed his eye. His expression was so peaceful you would think he is falling asleep, but with a soft laugh you lay your own palm on his face, softly stroking your thumb against it.

When he looks down at you, there is a flash of worry.

“Are you sure you are well enough to do this?” he asks.

Without a beat, you nod, hand still finding its home on his face.

It was only natural that Aemond was worried for you throughout this long and tortuous pregnancy. He had concerned himself with your wellbeing the entire time, making sure the right foods and the right care was provided, lest the servants feel the wrath of a Targaryen soon-to-be father.

It made you regard him with love and trust the way he took care of you. But a tug of sadness was always there.

Before this pregnancy, your marriage had been plagued with a few miscarriages, some later than others, but still painful nonetheless. The first had been the most painful to your emotions and every one after had chipped a little piece of you away with it. But what worried you the most was the extent at which Aemond seemed to hide his own feelings from you. He was always there for comfort when it happened and you desperately wanted him to at least tell you what was on his mind. If he was grief-stricken, would he tell you?

When this pregnancy came around, there was a deep, dark and hurt part of you that thought it would not last. You thought to not get any hopes of passing a particular milestone and many nights you were crying in Aemond’s arms just praying for the Gods to end it if it was not to result in a baby. To spare you the sadness and grief at another lost child.

But days, weeks and months passed and you only swelled more. You would pull the dress under your bump in the mirror to see how big you had gotten and a motherly pride would overwhelm you at the feeling of growing Aemond’s child and heir inside you.

You meet Aemond’s gaze, half-worried, “Are you going to be alright?”

He sighs deeply, “I shall have to be”

You send him a sad smile, resting your hand on top of his, “And you will not antagonise them?”

I raise my eyebrow when Aemond doesn’t respond, a smirk appears on his face.

“I am not sure if that’s a promise I can make”

You huff a laugh and press a quick kiss to his lips, closing your eyes to savour the feeling of him alone with you before you were to share the evening with Rhaenyra and her children.

“Just try and be good”

You smile, knowing that he most certainly will not.

Between waddling to the table and feeling the kicks of the baby against your insides, the evening wasn’t so bad. There was a bit of squabbling for certain and some glares exchanged, namely by Aemond and Luke, but you supposed it was to be expected. Nobody had expected them to be the best of friends after all.

You pushed the food around your place, feeling your appetite dwindle as the night went on. Even the comfort of wine didn’t seem to touch the discomfort you felt at the baby resting on your pelvis. But nothing seemed to cause more discomfort than when Viserys was escorted from the table back to his chambers. The atmosphere changed entirely and there was a thick layer of tension to the room, threatening to snap at any moment.

You watched as Jace invited Helaena for a dance. It would have been nice to see had Aegon not adopted a sour frown at the sight of the brunet’s hands on his sister-wife. Perhaps he felt embarrassed, you were not sure, but it was certainly of no bother to you as you closed your eyes, one hand rested at the bump. A habit adopted only in the last month or two.

You jumped slightly and opened your eyes when Aemond squeezed his hand over yours, looking at you with concern.

“Are you alright, my love” he asked.

You nodded slowly, “Just tired. I may retire soon”

Aemond tapped your hand before pulling back, passing a scathing look to the younger brunet at the other side of the table. Your eyes watch your husband as a roasted pig is brought to the table, and to your discomfort, is placed right before your husband. You close your eyes, hoping Luke isn’t stupid enough to retort to it, but when Aemond turns to see Luke and a hateful smirk makes its way to his face, you know it was too late for the kind words of a wife to bring him back.

Luke immediately ceases his laughter when Aemond’s fist makes contact with the table, standing with his cup. You open your mouth to ask Aemond to calm down, but the words tumble from your husband’s mouth before you get the chance. Everyone in the room has their eyes trained on Aemond.

The tension in the room is as tight as a bowstring.

“Final tribute” he finally says. His deep voice resonates throughout the room, authoritative and well-meaning in his eyes.

“To the health of my nephews”

His eye meets Jace, who is sending daggers at him from across the room, “Jace” Aemond says.

“Luke”

The younger brunet pretends to feign indifference, but he must know as well as everyone else, he is afraid of what his Uncle might do or say, given the circumstances of their relationship.

“And Joffrey”

The table braces themself for more. You look up to your husband on the off chance he is looking down at you to ask him to stop, but he is far too deep now.

“Each of them handsome, wise…”

Alicent looks as if she might throw up anticipating what Aemond then says.

“...strong”

“Aemond” Alicent scolds in a soothing voice, her panicked eyes meet yours. Both the women in Aemond’s life give one another a silent plea that all this end, but powerless to do anything to stop him. And in some strange truth, perhaps Aemond deserves to have this word in some way.

“Come, let us drain our cups to these three strong boys”

Jace’s return sounds angrier even though he is to your back and you cannot see his face, “I dare you to say that again”

“Why?” Aemond barks back, “T’was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

You had enough and you rise from your chair as Aemond rounds the table to approach Jace.

“That is enough, Aemond” you scold quietly, placing yourself before him.

Aemond attempts to go around you, but Jace is already advancing and before you know it he is almost right before you. He looks blind with rage, almost unrecognisably so and there is something in his eye which seems unhinged, as if not thinking clearly.

Instinctively, you step in front of Aemond, arm reaching across as if you could offer any protection despite Aemond’s clearly larger frame. But Jace’s eyes only land on his Uncle and without thinking he places his palm flat on your shoulder to shove you out of the way to land a punch to the side of Aemond’s face.

You gasp out as your hand reaches out for the table as you tumble, your weight off balance due to the bump before you. But your eyes widen when your hands miss the table and you topple over the chair to land square on your front on the cold, hard stone floor, landing with a groan of pain.

Hands flat on the stone floor, it takes you a moment to really realise what has happened. Everyone in the room takes a breath and is completely silent while they watch you come to the realisation of what had just happened. Pushing yourself from the floor shakily, you realise you have landed on your bump and a sound halfway between a cry and a choke escapes you as you feel the familiar ache in your womb.

You look up to Aemond with glassy eyes and his form is entirely still, his face stoic and you see his eye flit from you to Jace. His whole body is charged with something and you realise exactly what it is when in just a second he had Jace pressed against the wall, his dagger pressed against the older brunet’s throat. His expression is not crazed or angry and you are surprised just how calm Aemond looks as he threatens Jace’s life.

Jace blabbers incoherently, making half-apologies. All on deaf ears.

Alicent rounds the table in a jog to kneel by you and she goes from helping you to a more comfortable position, to wiping away the tears on your face.

“You dare harm my wife, bastard” Aemond spits, pinning the smaller boy to the wall with ease.

You grip Alicent’s forearm, a new wave of pain crashing through you, taking every ounce of strength with it. She looks down at you with furrowed eyes and out-of-breath you say,

“What’s happening…?” you ask, feeling a warm sensation between your legs.

Rhaenyra and Daemon only watch from the other side of the table as the scene unfolds. Daemon has one hand resting on his sword’s handle, just in case anything goes too far, a sickening smirk on his face.

You look up to Aemond to find he is already staring down at you. The previous anger now turned to complete shock and concern at the situation that has befallen the evening. With a soft sheen of sweat on your face and the lines of tears that had run down your face, you meet his gaze with concern and fear. This feeling you knew and you shook your head, it could not be another, could it? Could the gods truly be this cruel?

Alicent is jittering with anxiety and pulls Aemond off of Jace, having spaced out with the blade still at the brunet’s throat.

“Aemond…” you let out a quiet sob as he kneels to you, “...something is wrong…”

Without thinking, Aemond brings your body into his arms, rushing you with an entourage of people to your chambers. Before he has a chance to question, the family are pushed to the other side of the door, various maesters and midwives all filing in to fill their stations. It was like preparing for battle.

Concealed on the outside, Aemond was entirely inconsolable and paced for hours, flinching whenever you made a sound that evoked pain. He felt his fist clench so hard he thought the bones may give out, and he imagined bashing Jace’s head through for merely laying a hand on you in your delicate condition. Oh the things he would like to do to that boy.

But the sheer anxiety of your situation had him obediently outside your chambers. The family could only wait for those fated doors to open. Alicent grasped her son’s arm in comfort, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

Aemond had been sitting outside the doors for hours now and to put it bluntly, he had made himself sick with worry for your wellbeing. He had heard very little through the thick doors, and this seemed to concern him even more. His eye looked up to find Alicent pacing the hallway before him, seemingly attempting to soothe herself.

One side of the door opened and the maester poked his head out and almost immediately Aemond stood to attention, lending his ear to the maester to whisper. It was the dead of night and in fact may have been very early the next morning, and the Keep was completely silent, even the whispers of the maester seemed to echo.

Face blanched with worry, Aemond was allowed into the room. His gaze scanned the room in a panic, eventually landing on your form, sitting upright in the bed you shared together. Your tired eyes met him and gave him a soft, but exhausted smile, one hand underneath a bundle held tightly to your chest. Your husband’s ghostly white expression never faltered once, fully expectant for all this to be some cruel dream.

You extended a hand out to him and swallowing heavily, Aemond dragged his feet over to you and shakily reached out to touch you. You pulled him to sit next to you, but his gaze was stuck on you the entire time to observe you. Your shift had been abandoned and a silk robe had been tied around you as you laid in bed, multiple cushions and blankets stacked upon one another to create the soft mound to rest your body against.

Your face was flushed and a thin layer of sweat was still evident on your brow, but all the same, your smile warmed him. You huff a laugh as you lay a hand against his face,

“My love” you say, bringing him out of a trance-like state, “this is our daughter”

His eyeline follows yours down to your chest, where a small bundle of a baby was suckling against your chest. A warmth that was not previously there spreads through Aemond’s heart almost painfully and some semblance of colour is once again painted at his cheeks.

His index finger reaches out to stroke the infant’s head. Halfway between a choked sob and a laugh rattles through Aemond’s chest. The infant was small, but flushed with a pink flush, looking healthy. You leaned forward to stroke his hair and he leaned against you, placing his forehead with yours. A silent act of love.

He grasped your hand tightly, not wanting to let go.

“Well done, my love” he said quietly, “I thought the worst”

You look back down at your daughter, who made a content sound, “I did as well” you admit.

After a few minutes, Aemond stood and straightened his clothing, turning towards the door.

“Aemond” you call after him.

His purple eye lands on you once more, softening instantly.

“Don’t hurt him too badly” you smile.

2K notes · View notes

itsmebytch001 · 3 months

Text

My Hazbin Hotel Critiques:

Note: These are my personal opinions, I'm not looking for conflict.

Not enough eps, I think with this kind of escalation in plot it should of had 12, at the very least, it would have left far more time to develop Angel Dusts character.

It had a three season story squeezed into 8 eps it was mad, if the battle had taken place three seasons in, the reveal of Vaggie being an angel, the fear of war with Heaven and the death of Sir Pentious would have meant so much more to the audience.

To ethicise Angel's deeply ingrained hyper sexual behaviour, it should, in my mind have been shown more so how uncomfortable he makes the other staff especially Husk.

Charlie got over Vaggie being an angel far to soon, imagine the emotional conflict if they had actually broken up, or atleast separated, If Charlie have had an episode or two of her going through the motions of forgiveness, Vaggie being cast out the hotel in shame Alastor using it as a means of emotional manipulation to grow closer to her, praying on her vulnerability and THEN he swoops in and makes the deal, showing again Alasor is a grifter and will take advantage of someone if he feel's he can benefit.

The Friendship between Lute and Adam should have had atleast three scenes dedicated to it, they are bad people but to make then good characters in the sense that they have depth would have been great for the audience, for atleast some emotional reaction for Lute, yes Adam is a twat who deserved to die, but just a pang of sadness for Lute would have been great.

too much swearing, it's excessive and cheesy, instead of Alastor saying ''Im about to end your fucking life'' he could have just said ''I am about to end your LIFE" with a deep growling kinda thing on 'life' of instead of Vaggie saying ''Shitass'' (A terrible sweat word) she could have just not said that it didn't add any enthesis on her conversation with Alasor.

#hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #alastor #vaggie #vivziepop #hazbin hotel spoilers #alastor x reader #angel dust #radio demon

220 notes · View notes

roseofdarknessblog · 6 months

Text

Uncertain tomorrows (Postwar!Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Word count: 2 410

Disclaimer: english is not my first language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes

Summary: You and Levi slowly start to realize that the war is finally over.

This story can be read on its own or as a part of my little post-war series: Learn to live again

Uncertain tomorrows

Suddenly, the whole world around you got so eerily quiet. As night came over Fort Salta it felt as if time had stopped. Those fortunate enough fell asleep, others were sitting or laying around, while a couple of people were still wandering outside, thinking about what happened just a couple of hours ago.

This was it.

The end.

The end you all fought so hard for.

„Stop staring at the ceiling and get some sleep,“ said a hushed male voice right next to you.

Levi was right, closing your eyes and sleeping for at least a couple of hours was the best possible thing you could do. But how were you supposed to do that? With everything that happened, your eyes were filled with tears every other moment. And even though you never let them roll down your cheeks, it felt as if you had cried your whole soul out at least a hundred million times.

„Not that you should be doing anything else...“ you mumbled quietly and rolled onto your left side to look at him.

All the airship hangars were empty now. Well, not entirely. They served as a good place for all of you, the Marleyans, and all the refugees from Liberio to spend the night in. Nobody knew what would follow and many people didn’t even dare to ask. They were happy with the fact that they survived the end of the world. For many, that was more than enough for the next couple of hours and maybe even days.

To be honest, it was enough for you as well. All that mattered, was that you and Levi were still together. With so many memories running through your mind, the fact that he was still alive was the most important one.

„Are you still in pain?“ you asked and reached your hand over to him, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. His right eye was still bandaged and the left one was closed. He was trying his best to get some much-needed rest. Even though he fought just like during old times, shortly after it was over the pain caught up to him. When all the adrenaline was gone, he wasn’t even able to stand up on his own or talk through the pain his whole body was in. „I could go find that Marleyan medic and ask for more painkillers.“ He shook his head and slowly turned it to the side to look at you in the darkness.

You were more than grateful when the man, your enemy not too long ago, took care of Levi’s injuries. He did his best with the little he had on hand and you were sure that you would never forget that. It was better than nothing, even though you still worried about Levi a great deal.

Getting him to a proper doctor or even to a hospital was something you knew that needed to be done soon. But how? How would you do that? Where would you go? There was... simply nothing. Just deserted rocky terrains or scorched empty fields of land. The only civilization was the people around you – the Scouts, the Eldians from Liberio, and the members of the Marleyan military.

„How’s your leg doing?“ you dared to ask in a whisper, not wanting other people in the hangar to hear you.

„Cutting it off would hurt less,“ he hissed through gritted teeth, closing his only healthy eye once again.

You knew that he was coughing up blood earlier during the fight. And when you asked him about it, he scoffed and said that it was only because he accidentally bit into his lower lip and tongue during the fight, so he had to spit out the blood from his mouth. You didn’t believe him even a little bit and kept a very close eye on him but... that was truly the only thing you could do. Besides praying to every possible god in the universe that he would pull through like every time.

„You sure you don’t want those painkillers?“

When he didn’t respond, you were left alone with your torturous thoughts once again. And slowly, it was more than you were able to take.

All of you killed Eren and saved the little that was left of the world and its population, you lost people along the way and you were also turned into a Titan. You fought against the Rumbling, against all the previous nine titans... against the boy, who years ago came into the Scouting legion with a dream of eradicating all titans.

And even if that dream of his was fulfilled in a very gruesome and twisted kind of way... well... it did happen in the end. All the titan powers were gone once and for all. Or at least that was what you were hoping for.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Levi spoke again. „Aren’t you going to ask that question?“

„What question?“ you asked a little confused and found Levi’s hand in the darkness under the blanket. Only then you realized that his hand, and probably the other one too, was tightly curled into a fist.

„About what’s going to happen now. Tomorrow, in a week, month...“

„No, I’m not. I don’t have the strength or brain capacity to think about that. Not now, maybe later.“

Maybe after the realization, that everything really came to an end will set in. But until then, you felt like you’d stay stuck in some kind of bubble, where the past, present, and future were mixed together, creating a portrait full of sorrow and uncertainty.

A shiver, that ran down your back, made you move a little closer to Levi and hold his hand a little tighter. You very gently interlocked your fingers and moved your head, so your forehead was resting against his shoulder.

„Are you worried about cuddling up to me properly?“ he asked, the remaining fingers of his injured hand running through your messy hair.

„I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all. You’re hurting all over.“

„That doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel you as close as possible,“ he whispered and rolled onto his side with a painful sigh you’ve never heard from him before.

All everybody had were a couple of blankets or coats from the military or the Eldian refugees, but it had to be enough. It was still better than lying on the ground itself. Another positive thing was, that the night wasn’t too cold. So laying there, in a dark corner of one of the hangars was more than bearable. The only truly important thing was the man lying there beside you, whose warmth was reassuring and calming. Just like during old times, when you were still living in the Underground together.

„It doesn’t seem real,“ you whispered and wrapped your arm around Levi carefully, resting your foreheads together. When the tips of your noses touched gently, you smiled a little and kissed his lips lightly. „We were fighting for so long and it’s done now. We don’t need to do it anymore, there’s no war to win now, we did it. All of us... together.“

„Almost all of us...“ Levi corrected you almost inaudibly and brushed his lips against yours again. It was such a gentle movement but so full of love.

„I still remember the day you, Isabel, and Furlan left the Underground and the day you came back for me. I remember my first days spent in the sunlight, how it pained my eyes, and how sunburnt I got all over my face during the very first training.“

„Shitty glasses gave you that awfully smelling cream.“

You chuckled and gently caressed the back of his neck, letting your fingers slide into his hair. It had grown a fair bit over the month he spent in the forest with Zeke. „But it did help a whole lot, don’t forget. My skin was okay in two days.“

„Yeah...“

Losing Hange was something that scarred both of your hearts. They were with you since day one and suddenly... suddenly they were not. It wasn’t easy to process, even after everything that happened since then. You still saw them right there before your eyes when you closed them and you couldn’t believe you’ll never hear their cheerful voice again.

But then again, the same feelings tortured you when it came to many other people. Your heart hurt for Sasha, Erwin, Moblit, Miche, Nanaba, Isabel, Furlan, Petra, members of your own squad, and many more. It hurt just as much, as Eren’s death. Because until the very end, you believed that there was a way to bring him back from the path he chose to walk down. You believed Armin and Mikasa, Jean and Connie, who never wanted to give up on their friend, would talk sense into him. You hoped... so damnd much... that it wasn’t late for him to turn back.

But eventually... you simply had to face the fact, that not all things can be undone and not all people can be saved.

Thinking about all of your fallen friends and comrades made you stay quiet again. While Levi was absentmindedly playing with a strand of your hair, you were running your hand up and down his back comfortingly. He never felt this fragile in your arms and that put tears in your eyes again.

With your foreheads still pressed together, you could feel his warm breath on your face when he talked. „You’ll finally have the chance to wear those pretty flower dresses you always liked so much.“ His lips met yours in a loving kiss.

You nodded with a smile, stroking his cheek. „That will be nice for a change. No more uniforms or ODM gears, no more training...“

Eventually, you would miss all of that, you were sure. After all, military life was all you knew for almost fifteen years. But a little change sounded more than welcoming. Having the chance to finally live a different life. A happy and safe one. A life where you and live could be just... well, Y/N and Levi. Two ordinary people – best friends and lovers, not soldiers.

„Years back, when I was badly injured after the encounter with the Female titan... you promised me that if I pull through, we’ll get married,“ you whispered into his ear, brushing your lips over his cheek. „And then things got crazy with Eren and... we haven’t really had the time ever since.“

„Maybe now...“ he said, trying to pull you even closer to his body. He never had a problem doing it until now. So it had to be you, who scooted closer and found a way to lay comfortable again, while your own body was hurting and bruised from all the fighting. „We can finally do whatever the hell we want.“

„All the stupid things we never got to try,“ you chuckled, wrapping him in a loving hug.

„We can mourn all we want and then just move on.“ His voice was getting quieter, while you could finally feel his body relaxing against yours.

„Get lost in all the grief and pain, all the heartbreak and then... we’ll wake up one morning and not feel it ever again. Or at least not that much.“ Your fingers once again found their way into his silky black hair, stroking and massaging his scalp very gently. „We’ll have the life all of them dreamed about. And we’ll live. For them and for us.“

Both of you could hear your voice breaking, while tears eventually rolled down your cheeks. And it felt so damn good to finally let yourself cry and grieve. It was a way to ease the pain that was pounding through your entire body.

„We’ll figure something out, we have the rest of our lives to do that,“ you added in a reassuring tone, kissing the top of Levi’s head.

He really wasn’t in the mood for talking or dreaming about the future. And that was perfectly fine. Even you weren’t in the mood, to be honest. You tried to do it only to keep your mind occupied and not to let it wander to the worst places.

Hours were slowly passing you by in complete silence. Levi was resting in your arms, avoiding even the slightest movement to not feel any more pain. Even with your eyes closed, you couldn’t even think about falling asleep. Fear didn’t let you do it. So instead, you kept a watch over Levi. In the silence of the night, you focused on his calm breathing until morning came around. He finally fell asleep just a few minutes before sunrise.

Soon after, Jean came to check up on the two of you. He looked just as exhausted as you were feeling, so he probably didn’t get any sleep either. You assured him that everything was okay and that if anything came up, you would come and find him or the others.

„Was it all just a dream?“ Levi asked in a whisper maybe an hour later, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You could hear voices from outside, people were starting to wake up and move around once again.

„No, it wasn’t. It’s over and we made it out alive.“

Levi nodded slightly, pressing his lips to your neck and tightening his grip around you. When you closed your eyes at that moment, all the events of the past years seemed unreal. Suddenly, you felt like a kid once again. A small girl growing up under the Capital, who was only dreaming about living up on the surface in the sunlight.

„We came so far, Levi, and made all of them proud, I’m sure about that. Today, we got the chance to wake up into a world they all helped to create... for us.“

„And we’ll honor them by living the best life we possibly can,“ he added and looked up at you. With tears in the corners of your eyes, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and hugged him even tighter so as to never let him go anywhere without you.

Yesterday, you all left your past lives behind and today all of you woke up to a brand new beginning. With so much pain and sadness in your hearts, you got the chance to look into the future and be present for a fresh new start humanity needed so much.

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #aot x reader #aot x you #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin

277 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months

Text

Amazon Alexa is a graduate of the Darth Vader MBA

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

If you own an Alexa, you might enjoy its integration with IFTTT, an easy scripting environment that lets you create your own little voice-controlled apps, like "start my Roomba" or "close the garage door." If so, tough shit, Amazon just nuked IFTTT for Alexa:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/10/25/23931463/ifttt-amazon-alexa-applets-ending-support-integration-automation

Amazon can do this because the Alexa's operating system sits behind a cryptographic lock, and any tool that bypasses that lock is a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA, punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. That means that it's literally a crime to provide a rival OS that lets users retain functionality that Amazon no longer supports.

This is the proverbial gun on the mantelpiece, a moral hazard and invitation to mischief that tempts Amazon executives to run a bait-and-switch con where they sell you a gadget with five features and then remotely kill-switch two of them. This is prime directive of the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

So many companies got their business-plan at the Darth Vader MBA. The ability to revoke features after the fact means that companies can fuck around, but never find out. Apple sold millions of tracks via iTunes with the promise of letting you stream them to any other device you owned. After a couple years of this, the company caught some heat from the record labels, so they just pushed an update that killed the feature:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/10/30/apple-to-ipod-owners-eat-shit-and-die-updated/

That gun on the mantelpiece went off all the way back in 2004 and it turns out it was a starter-pistol. Pretty soon, everyone was getting in on the act. If you find an alert on your printer screen demanding that you install a "security update" there's a damned good chance that the "update" is designed to block you from using third-party ink cartridges in a printer that you (sorta) own:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Selling your Tesla? Have fun being poor. The upgrades you spent thousands of dollars on go up in a puff of smoke the minute you trade the car into the dealer, annihilating the resale value of your car at the speed of light:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/23/how-to-fix-cars-by-breaking-felony-contempt-of-business-model/

Telsa has to detect the ownership transfer first. But once a product is sufficiently cloud-based, they can destroy your property from a distance without any warning or intervention on your part. That's what Adobe did last year, when it literally stole the colors from your Photoshop files, in history's SaaSiest heist caper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

And yet, when we hear about remote killswitches in the news, it's most often as part of a PR blitz for their virtues. Russia's invasion of Ukraine kicked off a new genre of these PR pieces, celebrating the fact that a John Deere dealership was able to remotely brick looted tractors that had been removed to Chechnya:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

Today, Deere's PR minions are pitching search-and-replace versions of this story about Israeli tractors that Hamas is said to have looted, which were also remotely bricked.

But the main use of this remote killswitch isn't confounding war-looters: it's preventing farmers from fixing their own tractors without paying rent to John Deere. An even bigger omission from this narrative is the fact that John Deere is objectively Very Bad At Security, which means that the world's fleet of critical agricultural equipment is one breach away from being rendered permanently inert:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

There are plenty of good and honorable people working at big companies, from Adobe to Apple to Deere to Tesla to Amazon. But those people have to convince their colleagues that they should do the right thing. Those debates weigh the expected gains from scammy, immoral behavior against the expected costs.

Without DMCA 1201, Amazon would have to worry that their decision to revoke IFTTT functionality would motivate customers to seek out alternative software for their Alexas. This is a big deal: once a customer learns how to de-Amazon their Alexa, Amazon might never recapture that customer. Such a switch wouldn't have to come from a scrappy startup or a hacker's DIY solution, either. Take away DMCA 1201 and Walmart could step up, offering an alternative Alexa software stack that let you switch your purchases away from Amazon.

Money talks, bullshit walks. In any boardroom argument about whether to shift value away from customers to the company, a credible argument about how the company will suffer a net loss as a result has a better chance of prevailing than an argument that's just about the ethics of such a course of action:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

Inevitably, these killswitches are pitched as a paternalistic tool for protecting customers. An HP rep once told me that they push deceptive security updates to brick third-party ink cartridges so that printer owners aren't tricked into printing out cherished family photos with ink that fades over time. Apple insists that its ability to push iOS updates that revoke functionality is about keeping mobile users safe – not monopolizing repair:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

John Deere's killswitches protect you from looters. Adobe's killswitches let them add valuable functionality to their products. Tesla? Well, Tesla at least is refreshingly honest: "We have a killswitch because fuck you, that's why."

These excuses ring hollow because they conspicuously omit the possibility that you could have the benefits without the harms. Like, your tractor could come with a killswitch that you could bypass, meaning you could brick it at a distance, and still fix it yourself. Same with your phone. Software updates that take away functionality you want can be mitigated with the ability to roll back those updates – and by giving users the ability to apply part of a patch, but not the whole patch.

Cloud computing and software as a service are a choice. "Local first" computing is possible, and desirable:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

The cheapest rhetorical trick of the tech sector is the "indivisibility gambit" – the idea that these prix-fixe menus could never be served a la carte. Wanna talk to your friends online? Sorry there's just no way to help you do that without spying on you:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/08/divisibility/#technognosticism

One important argument over smart-speakers was poisoned by this false dichotomy: the debate about accessibility and IoT gadgets. Every IoT privacy or revocation scandal would provoke blanket statements from technically savvy people like, "No one should ever use one of these." The replies would then swiftly follow: "That's an ableist statement: I rely on my automation because I have a disability and I would otherwise be reliant on a caregiver or have to go without."

But the excluded middle here is: "No one should use one of these because they are killswitched. This is especially bad when a smart speaker is an assistive technology, because those applications are too important to leave up to the whims of giant companies that might brick them or revoke their features due to their own commercial imperatives, callousness, or financial straits."

Like the problem with the "bionic eyes" that Second Sight bricked wasn't that they helped visually impaired people see – it was that they couldn't be operated without the company's ongoing support and consent:

https://spectrum.ieee.org/bionic-eye-obsolete

It's perfectly possible to imagine a bionic eye whose software can be maintained by third parties, whose parts and schematics are widely available. The challenge of making this assistive technology fail gracefully isn't technical – it's commercial.

We're meant to believe that no bionic eye company could survive unless they devise their assistive technology such that it fails catastrophically if the business goes under. But it turns out that a bionic eye company can't survive even if they are allowed to do this.

Even if you believe Milton Friedman's Big Lie that a company is legally obligated to "maximize shareholder value," not even Friedman says that you are legally obligated to maximize companies' shareholder value. The fact that a company can make more money by defrauding you by revoking or bricking the things you buy from them doesn't oblige you to stand up for their right to do this.

Indeed, all of this conduct is arguably illegal, under Section 5 of the FTC Act, which prohibits "unfair and deceptive business practices":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

"No one should ever use a smart speaker" lacks nuance. "Anyone who uses a smart speaker should be insulated from unilateral revocations by the manufacturer, both through legal restrictions that bind the manufacturer, and legal rights that empower others to modify our devices to help us," is a much better formulation.

It's only in the land of the Darth Vader MBA that the deal is "take it or leave it." In a good world, we should be able to take the parts that work, and throw away the parts that don't.

(Image: Stock Catalog/https://www.quotecatalog.com, Sam Howzit; CC BY 2.0; modified)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

#pluralistic #alexa #ifttt #criptech #disability #drm #revocation #nothing about us without us #futureproofing #graceful failure #darth vader MBA #enshittification

286 notes · View notes

storiesoflilies · 3 months

Text

Of Angels and Curses

Synopsis - In a world where Angels and Curses are locked in a never ending war, an unsuspecting seraph becomes entangled with the very thing she is fated to eradicate.

Pairings - Curse!Toji Fushiguro x f!Angel!Reader. Curse!Ryomen Sukuna x Reader. Angel!Satoru Gojo x Reader.

Warnings - General descriptions of violence and injuries, eventual smut.

A/N: I will be editing Chapter 1 as I’m not really happy with the format of it. I will let you guys know when I finish doing that, but there won’t be any major changes, just some more details here and there. I’m still getting back into the swing of writing again! Anyways, enjoy this chapter and let me know your thoughts :) Ko-Fi.

Next part — Chapter 3

-•-

Chapter 2

From that moment onwards, Y/N’s life was almost never her own.

Gojo dove straight into his duties as her soon-to-be husband; he ate with her, fought alongside her, and prayed with her every night before she slept. If customs didn’t dictate otherwise, he probably would have bathed with and slept beside her too. It was obviously to bond with her, to know her and create more intimacy outside the ties of marriage, but Y/N would have preferred them to continue the way they had before; right up until their vows were promised, and their names written together in between a cluster of stars to form a new constellation.

Was that delaying the inevitable? Perhaps.

He also started sparring with her, which Y/N had otherwise done with Nanami ever since Geto was promoted, and was intensely invested in training her himself. Gojo was desperate, it was obvious from how his eyes gleamed dangerously every time she misstepped, every time she fumbled into him; and Y/N didn’t know how, or why, but she knew it had everything to do with Geto.

“You need to be stronger than before because of who you are now,” Gojo said, looking far too calm and collected, a tense facade, as he looked down at her heaving with exertion. “Even if you’ll never fight without me.”

That particular morning, after yet another gruelling session, Y/N had been too exhausted and in agony to even descend and fight. Gojo had taken it upon himself to cover her duties for her, and so she stood there on the grassy plains of the training grounds after he had disappeared; using up all of her mental willpower for her knees not to buckle to the ground in front of the other seraphim. There was immediate pressure on Y/N following her engagement, Angels she’d known her whole life now avoided looking at her directly, their voices shaking with reverence if they so happened to speak to her. Her new role gave her power, but expected it returned tenfold; she was expected to be an apparition, an untouchable deity that was always composed and poised. Y/N felt their heavy gazes upon her all the time, daring her to give in and fall, and felt a flash of rage course through her that settled into its usual constant underlying discontent.

Why did she feel so much anger? Was it her soul protesting its dismay over her choice to marry Gojo, it’s grief manifesting as constant rage?

How could she feel a loss so deeply for someone she’d never even met?

“He is pushing you too hard,” Nanami’s familiar voice commented from behind her, snapping Y/N out of her inner turmoil.

A sour look was plastered on his face, but there was genuine concern in his hazel eyes; a warmth in them that he never cared to admit he had, but it was there, like a candle flickering determinedly as a reminder it was still there. Nanami had still stuck to his same routine, sparring with other Angels during her sessions with Gojo, which meant he had clearly been observing every part of her new regime. It wasn’t that Gojo was cruel to her, there was just simply no way Y/N could keep up with or even reach an equal level to his power, but she understood why the Nanami thought he was. She had no special powers of her own; her wings were just large enough to fly herself, and she barely controlled any divine power – but just enough to smite her enemies. However, her physical strength and weapon proficiency were her strong suits, which was why her and Nanami were a powerful duo that often worked together on the battlefield; they were nearly equal in terms of raw talent, two becaming one when they drew swords together.

“I’m getting stronger,” Y/N answered back, her face slightly scrunched up with pain as she started to take small steps forward. “And I have to be, I’m going to be his wife.”

Nanami said nothing at this, and walked alongside her in silence as they headed back to Gojo’s tower. She was grateful for his solid presence, it was reassuring in case she stumbled; they’d already seen each other at their worst, it didn’t matter what she did now. They passed through the grand doorway of the tower, and Y/N immediately hurried towards a padded chair in the main common room as the last of her resolve crumbled away into dust. Nanami closed the entrance doors behind them, shielding them from the outside, and since there was nobody in the immediate vicinity, Y/N could safely let out a large sigh of relief as she melted into the chair. She heard the clink of glass and a pouring noise, and her eyes drifted over to see Nanami offering her a clear glass of water.

Y/N murmured a thank you as she cradled the glass. He turned away from her, looking out of one of the windowed marble archways at the passing seraphim, with his hands held pensively behind his back. Like the rest of Gojo’s tower, the common room dripped with obnoxious opulence; intricate tapestries and paintings decorating the walls, all of them depicting ancient great battles between Angels and Curses. The numerous seating arrangements were made of oakwood, with velvet padding for comfort, enabling many to sit throughout the room. Warm sunlight filtered through the marble archways, basking the room in the light of the midday sun, and a slight breeze tenderly kissed Nanami’s golden hair.

“Always so deep in thought,” Y/N teased as she slowly sipped her water. “Don’t you have other places to be?”

“It can wait, I just wanted to stay and make sure you’re alright,” he replied, still not looking at her. “As I said, he is pushing you too hard.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Besides, you’ve wasted enough time accompanying me home when you need to be out.”

“You’re obviously in pain, you think I was going to risk you falling and crawling back undignified? Absolutely not, I have respect for you that has been there even before Satoru proposed.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. Nanami respected and acknowledged Gojo’s supreme strength and value to the Angels, but he was never fond of his character. He believed the Six Eyes was obnoxious; completely unaware of the wide effects of his influence and power, and lacked true empathy for anybody outside his inner circle. She had hoped her engagement would make Nanami more partial, seeing as how it was her own choice to become tied to Gojo, but it obviously wasn’t working – and maybe it never would.

The pair settled into a tranquil silence as they watched the day go by; her own time, a rare moment without Gojo infiltrating it, or anybody else coming to her for decisions on wedding preparations – not that Y/N was actually in charge of anything, it was more a courtesy to let her know what was to be done. She was aware how harsh she sounded, as if she couldn’t stand Gojo just like Nanami couldn’t, but that was far from the truth. She just wanted to stay in silence, peace and quiet, with someone choosing to share her space with as an equal rather than consume it; perhaps Nanami understood that without ever having to hear it directly from her lips, she always did underestimate his compassion and intuition for others emotions.

It didn’t last long.

“Ah Nanami, so good to see you!” Gojo’s voice called out from the entrance, announcing his return with a great clap of his hands as he joyfully traipsed into the tower. A number of his followers filtered in behind him, like honey bees following the scent of their queen.

Satoru Gojo carried no weapons during battle, as his divine power was wielded through his hands, and they had to remain as free as possible. His silver and gold armour gleamed in the sun, not a single drop of Curse blood offending its cleanliness, his hair tousled and wild from battle; and he walked with a swagger, his entire being oozing confidence, completely untroubled by the weight of the world. Y/N felt a spark of pride, a sense of awe that crept up on her suddenly when she lay awake in the dead of night unable to sleep.

Of all Angels, Gojo is going to be my husband.

“I’ll take my leave now Gojo, I was just ensuring your future wife is well,” Nanami quipped, but still respectfully bowing his head at Gojo, while sparing a glance at Y/N with a much softer look.

Gojo’s smile never faltered, “You have my thanks, I’ll take care of her now.”

Nanami nodded to her as he left, and she smiled at him. She hoped he knew just how much she appreciated his unwavering solidarity for her, and how much she missed him; fighting alongside him was like singing a song only the two of them knew the words to, safe and familiar. Gojo sat beside her, holding his hands together as if he was anxious, and his smile dropped completely.

“I’m sorry, are you alright? I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” Gojo asked, worry evidently lacing his words. It was strange, like he didn’t know how to handle her anymore, and she realized this new dynamic was as foreign to her as it was to him.

“It’s ok Gojo,” Y/N said as reassuringly as she could, squeezing his hand in a comforting gesture. “I know I need to do this.”

He immediately perked up at her touch, ethereal eyes twinkling with just a hint of mischief. This was something she had learned during their time bonding together; Satoru Gojo instantly responded to physical affection, and returned it intensely. It had taken sometime to adjust to, because it was something she never thought to expect from him, but Y/N felt that wide crack in her soul grow smaller with every one of his embraces; as her doubts drifted away, his cooling aura drawing her into him like a prayer.

“You’re already far better than you were a month ago, you’ve been working hard,” he praised, leaning back into the chair as he tenderly swung his arm around her. “I think I might be a good teacher you know?”

She giggled, a delicate tinkling noise, “Of course, shall we go and eat something so we can do it all over again?”

“Ah good idea! You stay here, I’ll bring some food for us,” Gojo chuckled, brushing his temple into hers, stray hairs tickling her forehead, before getting up and sauntering towards the food hall.

Y/N sighed when he had passed out of earshot, her weariness and frustration returning at the thought of having to exert her limits once more. How much did Gojo had to have pushed himself to become limitless? Or was the Six Eyes born limitless, unable to comprehend how much a single Angel could be stretched before snapping? Would he ever come to understand when he became her husband, and would she ever uncover the sheer magnitude of his power when she became his wife?

She was overwhelmed, but marrying Satoru Gojo was never going to be easy.

You have to get through this. You made your choice.

Y/N heard his familiar footfall approaching and quickly composed herself.

“Here we are!” Gojo exclaimed as he carried two plates laden with food, plopping down beside her again and handing her a plate.

They dug into their meal whilst discussing their wedding, the newly appointed Sky Sentries, as well as their mutual concerns about the increasing number of deeper layer Curses emerging. More of Gojo’s followers entered the tower, relieved from their duties as the sun sank further down the sky; casting shy glances towards them despite their obvious exhaustion. At the start of their engagement, Gojo had thrown menacing glares towards anybody lingering within earshot of them conversing, and the seraphim had quickly learned to leave the couple alone. Y/N discerned that it was part of his unwillingness to let any Angel be privy to a even a slightly deeper side of him, as if it angered him to give a piece of himself to anybody he didn’t deem worthy enough.

“Don’t you think it’s strange, that this is finally happening to us?” she asked after some time, their meals long since finished and lighter conversations passed.

“What, us getting married? It took me long enough to ask,” Gojo replied, an easygoing aura to him that seemed to only seemed to come out the longer they spent time together.

Y/N smiled nervously, twisting her fingers as mustered up the courage to ask, “Well, what made you decide then?”

Gojo’s eyes darkened, his ease falling dramatically like a heavy cloak, and he looked away. He didn’t seem inclined to answer, and she internally scolded herself for asking when she probably wasn’t ready to hear the answer, or never really needed to know.

“I don’t want to just be the strongest,” he finally said, looking at her but not directly into her eyes; like she was playing the part of the benevolent apparition. “Geto thinks that’s all I am, and that’s all I’ll ever be, he said so the last time I saw him. I want to end this war, but I don’t want our entire existence to be about it. I want to build a legacy that’s not just about my power, and you’re the only one left I care about that I want to build that legacy with.”

She froze.

So… I’m just a means to an end?

“It wouldn’t matter if my soulmate was here right now either,” Gojo continued, looking at her intensely. “I never planned to marry anybody else but you, I only trust you now.”

“You wouldn’t trust your own soulmate?”

“No, I don’t know them. How can I have any trust?”

Y/N nodded silently, mulling his words over in her head. She was unsure of how to respond, and Gojo didn’t seem to want to converse anymore; he was all taut, his muscles pulled tight and ready to lash out if he didn’t find a release soon. And so they sat together watching the day turn into night, until he was summoned to fight once more.

-•-

She woke gasping for air, her body fighting back from returning to land of the living as the warm tendrils of her dreams begrudgingly released her from their grasp; still whispering to her of delightful vengeance, promises of pleasure and freedom, and pain. So much pain. Y/N frowned, her fingers splayed across her bare stomach, a familiar shard of loss tearing through her.

Why is it so cold?

She felt like she’d experienced this a thousand times before, her heart aching from an age old ailment that could never be healed. Her soul was floating downwards and out of her body, just like the Angels fleeing from their punishment of sinning, but forever doomed to remain experiencing it over and over.

A prompt rapping at her door pulled her from her state of limbo, snapping her soul back into place.

”I hope you slept well,” Gojo greeted, the door only slightly ajar to preserve her privacy. “Nanami and I are waiting outside for you, come join us when you’re ready.”

Y/N composed herself, the coldness dissipating almost as quickly as it came, and hastily donned her armour and sheathed her katanas. Gojo’s urgency was unnerving, as well as the fact that Nanami would be there as well. She huffed, shaking off the remnants of her dreams from her shoulders, displeased from her lack of knowledge. The street outside was shaded in the shadow of the towers; the sun still not yet high enough over the city to cast the light of the dawn over Heaven. Gojo was lazily stretching his thick arms over his head, not a care in the world, and Nanami stood looking away from him – not looking particularly pleased.

“Good, you’re here!” Gojo exclaimed as he noticed her, instantly interlinking his hands with hers.

“What’s all this about?”

Gojo looked at Nanami expectantly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Nanami sighed, already tired of having to repeat his tale like a mysterious storyteller. “I picked up the start of an odd trail yesterday just before nightfall, and so I couldn’t pursue it. I requested that you and I track the Curse that left it.”

“Naturally, I have to accompany you both on this,” Gojo interjected, earning a scowl from Nanami. “I swore to protect Y/N from any harm. Besides, this is a good opportunity to see you both fight, I’ve heard you’re a formidable pair.”

Without skipping a beat, he placed a hand on her and Nanami’s shoulders, and Y/N sucked in a breath as her psyche was stretched across the Unlimited Void. She wondered if Nanami was fighting to keep his mind closed from the Six Eyes prying, or if he even cared to shield himself; Nanami was simply incapable of sin, he was too in control of himself. On the other hand, Gojo handled her soul with more care in the Void; still overwhelming as before, but his essence didn’t control her so much – she had some freedom to take in the infinite space around her.

Within seconds, they were standing at the edge of a charred forest; the air thick with smoke and dust, leaves of the trees long since been burned away, and only their remains stood bent and broken like the bones of spindly skeleton. A lone mountain loomed overhead, spewing ash as if it was preparing to spit down on them. Y/N hated that initial breath on Earth, it reeked of death and sulphur – the smell of Curses and Hell that could never be washed away.

“Ahhh, isn’t this so much nicer than descending through all the gates?” Gojo remarked, his nose turned up as if he too was offended by the smell and ugliness of the burnt forest.

“Descending through the gates is a mark of respect for those guarding it,” Nanami murmured, taking in his surroundings. “I heard you spent much of your power during last night’s battle, this seems like an unnecessary expense of your energy.”

”Bahh, nothing I can’t handle.”

Y/N ignored them and crouched down, concentrating hard to visualize the lingering energy imprinted in the soil. Viridescent wisps flickered in and out of sight, settling into a singular writhing root that seemed to extend from deep within her core. She knew this energy; it was like rediscovering long lost ancient knowledge from eons past, only to find that she’d never really forgotten it in the first place.

She pointed a finger towards the forest.

”There, do you see it Nanami?”

He nodded, and Gojo towered over her from behind as he studied the trace too.

”This energy… have either of you ever felt anything like this?” He questioned, his excitement palpable like a child unwrapping a gift.

Gojo didn’t skip a beat before answering anyways, “The only kind of Curse that leaves energy traces like this are their Kings. I’m guessing maybe a Third or even Second Layer King has left these.”

He was unnaturally giddy, nearly bursting with glee at the prospect of unbridled violence; the outlet for him to finally unleash himself upon. Y/N sprang up and stepped back from him. A Curse King hadn’t been killed in centuries, they rarely emerged from the depths to fight at night, much less during the daylight; surely Gojo didn’t think there was one running rampant on the Earth at this very moment?

“Gojo, you can’t be serious.”

“I am, let’s see if we can hunt it down. There’s a chance it mightn’t have descended yet.”

Gojo motioned with his head for them to follow, and he set out at a brisk run through the forest. Y/N understood why Nanami didn’t waste time yesterday trying to follow its tracks; the energy followed no clear pattern, as if the Curse had sprung up from the Hells just to jump around for the fun of it. Nanami and her kept a similar pace beside each other, while the Six Eyes forged on ahead like he was on a warpath. Perhaps it was Nanami’s previous comment, but Y/N noted Gojo seemed… erratic. When was the last time he properly slept, or even ate? That wild look in his eyes promised savage violence against his prey and anything else standing in his way, and she pursed her lips with worry; was he really in the right mindset to fight a Curse King?

The landscape barely changed as they traversed the forest, burnt trees were all that was left from the destruction of Curses. It would have once been a mighty forest lush with life, but now there was only death to be seen for leagues and leagues as far as Y/N could see. Sadly, most of the Earth was scorched, and almost nowhere safe from Sukuna’s reign of fire and terror. What little life that grew were in various Angel strongholds scattered leagues and leagues from each other, and even then it wasn’t more than a pitiful bunches of daisies destined to be crushed underneath a soldiers boot. The strongholds were placed as closely as possible to areas of high Cursed activity, known points from which a large volume of Curses ascended from Hell; places the Angels could launch their attacks on emerging threats. They finally reached a clearing in the forest, a tombstone of burnt earth over what should have been vibrant grass, as the sun climbed to its midway point in the sky. Gojo stopped abruptly, his knuckles cracking loudly.

“Nanami, can you detect any traces?” He inquired, his evident frustration complimented with an irritated expression on his face. It was a last ditch effort, almost useless – if the Six Eyes himself couldn’t trace it, nobody else could.

Nanami said nothing as he sidestepped Gojo’s wings, blue eyes flashing wildly upon his white feathers, and observed the ground as he tread farther on ahead, disappearing from view. Y/N moved to stand in front of him, peering up at him with worry.

“Satoru,” she whispered, tilting her head to encourage him to look at her.

His eyes flitted down to her, uncaring. “Hmm?”

”I don’t think it’s here anymore, the Curse must have descended.”

”Tsk, maybe you’re right. It doesn’t matter, that thing won’t live through the night. I’ll hunt it when the sun sets.”

Y/N smiled, knowing well enough that he would keep his promise.

A black flash sliced through the air.

Their blood spilled from a sword buried to the hilt through both their midriffs.

White hot pain coursed through her.

And then, a tidal wave of raw energy crashed over her as she stared at their assailant behind Gojo.

And stared.

And he stared right back at her.

It was a Curse, but he looked much more like an Angel would. He was tall and handsome and made of rippling muscle, like the waves of the sea during a storm; radiating just as much powerful energy, charging the air with a brutal force that demanded attention unlike anything Y/N had ever felt before. His black hair fell over deep forest green eyes that pierced right through to her soul, forcing another shockwave of his energy into her; and she took it gladly, maybe even eagerly, greedily. He glanced from her to Gojo then back to her, as if trying to figure out who they were to each other, and his eyes widened a fraction at her as he loosened the grip on his weapon ever so slightly.

She knew who he was.

She’d seen him a thousand times before this moment.

That dangerous gleam deep within his irises were so familiar to her, promising her violent delights full of sin that only he could deliver.

Y/N knew him from dreams buried deep within her soul; she’d walked with him through the ages, through time and space itself.

She was so deep in their trance she barely felt Gojo’s hands on her shoulders, and before Y/N could register anything he was pushing her away from him. His blade passed through her once more, her blood bursting forth from her mouth and gushing wound, and she collapsed to the ground as there was a blast of blue energy. Y/N weakly raised her head, her vision clouded with black spots, and her ears rang loud and true like the bells in Heaven. Still, she could make out Gojo standing defensively in front of her, and the Curse crouched some distance ahead, his head bowed and raven hair obscuring his facial features.

Her heart beat faster; the weaves of fate had finally been tied together, and there was no escaping it now.

”You’re fast, but something’s off with you, King,” Gojo sneered, his palms poised and ready to unleash his power once more.

He rushed forward at the Curse, and Y/N screamed as she was carelessly flung back through the air from the backlash of energy as both Angel and Curse clashed together in a flurry of slashes; the sky sporadically lighting up with hues of red and blue. Her head smacked into a tree trunk, vision nearly completely blackened now, and more blood trickled down her face as Y/N sensed her wing bones were crushed from the collision; making sickening crunching noises as she hacked up more blood.

What is happening?

Y/N felt his confusion, overwhelming rage that could have set fire to her soul, and perplexing elation that disoriented her.

Their bond had set, her soul was complete; and she knew what it was he wanted.

Oh God help me, he’s in me.

Run. Now.

Gojo’s voice reverberated painfully through her head, and Y/N grunted and gritted her teeth as she willed her vision to return, but was barely able to move herself. She screamed in agony and anger, trying again, her wound threatening to tear her in two as her legs managed, albeit shakily, to keep her upright. Her head swam as Nanami’s face engulfed her field of vision, sharply inhaling in pain as he pressed his hand onto her stomach while shouting something to her. His words were muffled, she couldn’t make out any clear words, and her eyes drifted behind him. Y/N couldn’t see neither Gojo nor him. She felt Nanami sling her arm around his neck, hoisting her from the ground as her head rolled forward and panic gripped her like a vice.

“Nanami, no,” she heaved, shaking her head wildly, her vision and hearing clearing only just slightly. “Nanami.”

“We need to ascend, you can’t fly can you?”

She shook her head again. Nanami’s wings were just like hers, large enough to fly himself but not enough to support another beings weight, and Gojo was too distracted fighting to send them back to Heaven through the Void.

They were both stuck until the Six Eyes won his battle.

“Nanami,” Y/N sobbed, her words a blubbery mess, “That Curse, I can’t-.”

“Don’t worry, Gojo can handle it. We need to get to safety, otherwise we’ll be killed in their crossfire.”

“No no no Nanami, no. The Curse, it’s - he’s - my soulmate. I can’t leave.”

Nanami halted, “Are you quite certain?”

Y/N could only nod, and Nanami paused to look back over his shoulder, “You’re too injured, we have to go.”

“Nanami, please. Please!” She begged, gasping as she tried to dig her heels into the earth, flailing against his strong hold on her.

Nanami looked torn as he gazed down at her with such pity, as if he shared her heartbreak and pain, and murmured, “Y/N, I can’t help you. I can’t fight the Six Eyes. He’s too strong for either of us.”

Y/N shuddered as her limbs gave out, her head rolling forward. Would she feel it when Gojo ended his life, her soul ripping from his like tearing flesh from bone? Nanami hoisted her up again, apologies falling from his lips like prayers as he carried her farther away from him.

“Well well, seems like you Angels come in threes! How unbelievably lucky!” Both of them looked up sharply at the figure chuckling in front of them; undoubtedly a Curse, its energy rhythmically pulsating from it, enveloping them in a mist of negativity and hopelessness. It had a strange shade of long silver hair, even stranger haphazard stitches all across its body, and mismatched coloured eyes that glinted with fake sympathy that masked a malicious intent.

Nanami set Y/N down gently as he unsheathed his blade.

”Hmm, I wonder if killing three Angels is considered lucky too?” It pondered, almost childishly considering an answer to its own question.

Nanami didn’t hesitate after that.

He launched towards the Curse, swinging his blade in a great swooping arc. The Curse giggled and crossed its arms to block the attack; lilac energy sparking off from where the blade hit it.

”You’re strong!” The Curse exclaimed cheerfully, wonderfully naive. “This is going to be such fun.”

Its unsettling gaze fixated on her, and Y/N tensed in fear; she was far too vulnerable, unable to defend herself if it decided to come at her. Nonetheless, her bloodied hands reached for her katanas.

A flash of anger, his anger.

The silver haired Curse tore its gaze from her as Nanami took another swing at it, and they danced together in a deadly whirl of his blade and lilac fists of cursed energy; neither of them able to land a proper blow on the other. Y/N staggered backwards as it reached out to her, gripping her katanas defensively as Nanami grabbed it by the leg and, with a great display of strength, flung it backwards and away from her. Y/N frowned as three small oddly shaped clods flew through the air, and thudded at her feet.

Instantaneously, they all erupted into life.

She barely had time to react as they metamorphosed into grotesque Curses, snarling and spitting unintelligible words, and she slashed at the closest one to her. Another barrelled into the right side of her, knocking the wind out of her, and she stabbed her blade into it as she was pushed into the dirt. The last one seemed to be waiting for her to make a move, swaying back and forth on its hind legs like a disfigured frog, babbling yes yes yes! over and over again. Y/N sliced its clawed hands, the severed limbs flying through the air, and brought down both her katanas through its head. Her heart hammered in her chest, life force rapidly draining as her blades slipped from the hilts sullied with her spent blood.

Perhaps they were both meant to die today. Maybe they were meant to lock eyes upon each other for the first and only time, and then shut them forever as their souls passed on to the next world. But was there any version of the afterlife where they could be together? He was a Curse, she was an Angel, and God hadn’t made a paradise for them to co-exist.

What was the point of it all?

Her pain was dulled now, her heart slowing. Her legs finally failed her and sent her to the ground, her blood pooling around her.

“Y/N I’m here, don’t give up.”

Nanami was pressing a hand down on her stomach, and Y/N’s broke for him. Half his body was severely burned, pale pink flesh rippling in the sunlight; his armour and wings in tatters, as his blood dripped from an empty eye socket onto her face. He looked haunted, desperately fighting a lonely losing battle of holding onto both their lives, the inevitable mercilessly creeping forward like hungry rats ready to devour them.

”Nanami, go,” she mumbled, pushing against him weakly.

She didn’t notice the crown of silver behind him until it was too late; the Curse placed a hand delicately on Nanami’s exposed flesh, as if caressing a blossom that threatened to fall apart.

Still, Nanami smiled at her like he was seeing her again after a long time.

No no no.

”Y/N, I’ll see you again. You take it from here.”

And then her golden haired guardian burst into nothingness right in front of her eyes; showering her in a cooling mist of his blood, an almost soothing farewell.

Time stopped.

Y/N took a deep breath in, her weak body rattling in shock as tears rolled down her cheeks, and the Curse kneeled in front of her.

“There there,” it cooed, and she closed her eyes, shuddering in disgust as she felt it stroke the feathers of her wings.

“Just end me already,” she rasped, a last cough sputtering out as she spoke, her final display of whatever strength she had left.

Defiance… and his desperation.

The Curse cocked its head at her, as if it was the most bizarre thing she could have said.

”Why? Your soul has the strength of more than one, it would be a waste.”

It wrapped its hands around her neck, smiling softly at her as Y/N’s eyes fluttered open and searing heat spread across her back. The sky started to seem farther away, like it was shrinking. No, the Earth was crumbling away underneath her, like she was sinking into her own grave that kept on extending further and further. The Curse stayed put on top of her, a hue of bright red appearing behind it as the last glimpse of the Earth faded away into nothingness.

She succumbed into darkness after that.

-•-

191 notes · View notes

unmarlou · 2 months

Text

i know the end.

pairings. mattheo riddle x fem!reader.

summary. the end is here.

lacy says. if there’s one thing i love it’s the tragic wizarding war trope.

WARNING. !!!readers discretion is advised!!!

· · ౨ৎ · ·

today you would discover if there was a god in heaven. if he was merciful. and what he had in store for you.

each step you took rattled up the core of your bones. starting at your shins and ending at your ears.

time seemed so slow you wondered if you were already dead. kids ran past, disregarding you. these were faces you’d known well, you’d grown up with. they looked so determined, so sure of themselves and those around them, suddenly feeling like a spectator, you were almost proud - your friends, dare you say family, people you’d lived alongside for the last six years were rushing the front of the castle to fight.

reality didn’t let you feel for long. you knew your look didn’t resemble theirs.

the stairs stretched for forever. just stone after stone. the litters of people became scarce, just a few stranglers who couldn’t be bothered to look anywhere but ahead.

you took in the architecture. every few steps looking up to capture a new angle you’d never previously thought to admire. you wondered what it would look like tomorrow- what would remain and what would perish?

eventually you met your destination. the quad battlements greeted you with desertion, as you’d hoped. though your wand was in a tight grip, you didn’t wish to fight anybody. not if you didn’t have to.

the long wood platform stopped the ricocheting up your legs, replacing it with squeaking underneath your feet. the sweat on the back of your neck and the pit in the depth of your stomach was for some reason plaguing your mind, as if your brain was actively trying to distract you from the external world.

approaching one of many full length arches in the row, wood turned to stone. the lack of railing or glass had always spooked you, you thought back to your second year when you’d discovered this part of the castle - lorenzo had jokingly nudged you close enough for you to almost lose your balance. now, it was the least of your worries. maybe falling from this height would be a simpler fate.

looking above, the pit grew denser. violet light encompassed your being. you felt sick, and your body almost betrayed you. you watched as hundreds, maybe thousands, of shots were fired at the protective dome of the castle. time was no longer slow and you were very much alive - such a harsh truth.

spark after spark hit and you prayed it was a trick of the light but very clearly the forcefield began to falter. it almost looked like lightning bolts, you foolishly wished it was just a storm going to pass. soon those tiny, seemingly insignificant lights would become wounds to ground, wounds to your peers, and wounds to your home.

unable to look away despite the devastation building in your chest, your mind took over. thoughts of leaving - finding a new place to call home, far away from here, somewhere so different from this. your many discussions with mattheo about this very prospect played over and over in your mindseye. you saw his closed eyes, as if he needed to shut out the images what he was saying, you heard his whispering voice, and could almost feel his rough albeit lovely fingertips. no one wanted out more than him.

the creaking of wood behind you stopped your heart. you were quick to turn and raise your wand. inevitable. such a small word for such a big thing, you thought.

but once you set eyes on the reason for the sound, your wand was lowered just as fast. his hands were lazily up in surrender, as if he knew you were here, what your reaction would be, and how much he really didn’t need to be doing this.

“you wouldn’t crucio me, would you?” his voice was hoarse, unlike anything you’d ever heard from him which made you certain it was against his will he sounded this way.

without a second thought, you ran to him. wrapping your arms around his cortex and engulfing yourself in the only place that could possibly feel the slightest bit safe. his arms were immediately around you, like he’d waited his entire life for this moment. cradling your head close to his chest, he heaved a sigh that seemed to come from deep within himself.

his hand in your hair maneuvered to your cheek, bringing your face up to look at him. his darling eyes flicked back and forth between yours. unable to help yourself, you kissed him. it was filled with longing but still so innocent. his lips were soft just as you remembered and his hand held your face firmer than he had been, maybe to continue, maybe to keep you close.

you brought a hand to his. his knuckles were scabbed though you didn’t dwell on why. you’d learned not to. breaking away from him, his forehead rested against yours.

he began muttering, “i’m- i’m sorry, i would’ve come sooner but he made it damn near impossible to leave and-” you shook your head to cut him off. it was all unimportant now. he was here and that’s all you needed.

the loud distant explosion startled you. you’d forgotten that you and mattheo weren’t the only people in the world - a blissful moment gone. screams erupted from the same direction.

you stepped to the arch once again, though mattheo didn’t move. his arms dropped to his sides at the absence of your presence and you could feel him staring at you, even with your back turned.

your heart sunk. the barrier was disintegrating right in front of your eyes. without noticing, your breathing quickened. you watched the wooden bridge you’d walked across, lounged on, gazed out of for years, crumble. cloaked figures came in droves, shouting in the victory of passing the threshold, while simultaneously massacring those on the opposing side. your side.

your home was now haunted.

“mattheo,” you turned to look at him again. his face softened at your saying of his name, like it always did.

his voice was small and still strained, “we can’t stop it.” it was like he’d read your mind. he’d solved every other problem you’d ever had so why couldn’t he solve this one?

“if i could, i would.”

you cursed him for knowing you so well. and chided yourself for childish thoughts.

sounds of terror now came from everywhere. you couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must’ve looked like, and you suddenly felt stupidly selfish for standing here instead of helping. but mattheo words reverberated in your mind, we can’t stop it.

you searched his face. his beautifully scarred face that owned all your love. you saw past lovers that came together over millenniums to make that face.

“did i ever tell you i love you?”

you cracked a smile as a single tear fell down your cheek, “you didn’t have to.”

he watched you intensely. somewhere in time there was a version of yourself that couldn’t stand to hold his gaze for very long, with how nervous it made you. but here you were, staring right back at him.

his hand crept to his pocket, his eyes never leaving you, waiting for your disapproval. he pulled his wand out and had such a grip his scabbed knuckles turned white.

the end is near.

all those stories he’d read to you flooded your mind; tragedies about lovers who were never meant for greatness.

“i’m not afraid.” were you trying to convince him or yourself?

he nodded slowly, as if regarding a temperamental child, “i know you’re not.”

your heart pounded in your chest. everything you’d ever experienced in knowing mattheo had led up to this. he was waiting for you. it was all on your count, because whatever you wanted he’d do. that word made home in your mind again, inevitable.

you took fast and shallow breaths, feeling your lip quiver but refusing to let any more tears slip as you raised your wand hand. the sight of it pointed at mattheo was so foreign you had to tunnel vision on him.

he was slow to raise his, once again waiting for any sign of objection. when his arm was level with yours, the corner of his eye twitched, and you knew he could no longer hide from those images he tried so hard to all those times ago.

suddenly the sound of the large entrance door of the quad battlements being unlatched echoed off the floors. banging footsteps of many emitted. your eyes immediately shot to it, though you couldn’t see anything behind the stone wall. voices of familiar foe made your stomach churn.

“look at me.” it wasn’t a command, it was a plea.

coming back to him, his eyes were brimming with tears. in distraction your arm lowered, but you quickly replaced it. searching him a final time, you wondered what beautiful faces the two of you could’ve contributed to in the millenniums to come.

you gave a single nod.

the end is here.

· · ౨ৎ · ·

132 notes · View notes

finethingswellworn · 3 months

Text

I just keep repeating, “and we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t…” Over and over and over in my head.

Because they know! They both know! Both of them! They have known for decades at the very least. I would honestly argue Millenia now.

Of course one grand sweeping movie kiss was never going to work, never going to fix it. The love was there all along. There was nothing for the kiss to reveal to either of them, other than the fact that they liked doing it. And to show what they can’t have now and What was never safe for them to have before.

But you guys, you guys, you guys they are not oblivious!!! That’s not what’s been going on here!

Nope. It’s more tragic than that. It’s mutual quiet yearning. Mutual quiet yearning that both of them know the other is doing, too. And finding workarounds and loopholes and convenient excuses just too see each other…And praying no one ever finds you out. It’s constantly worrying if the other is safe… And knowing it can’t last… Because nothing lasts forever, not when you’re on opposite sides of a war that will end the universe as you know it someday all too soon.

I don’t know if this is making me feel better or a million times worse…

#ineffable husbands #Aziraphale #Crowley #good omens

113 notes · View notes

wonik1ss · 2 months

Text

౨ৎ Work Adversaries ! — minji kim

pairing — non idol!minji x reader song rec : my problem - jordi + passion fruit - nmixx ( 1.3k ) warnings ! none ᯤ ^ ㅇ ^ happy reading ! ⸝⸝・ᘏᘏ

synopsis : on a fateful Wednesday afternoon 2 people cut ties with you. but with cupid on your side you have 2 different paths to take to hopefully get back together with these 2 people by Valentine’s Day end! val event !

“Y/n! Please come into my office!”

As you walked over to your boss's office, you quietly prayed for the best. Because you were easily swayable, he always overworked you.

“Yes boss..?”

“It looks like Sewon’s out sick. Can you do her work as well as yours?"

You hated when people said, ‘Can you’. It's not like you had an actual option to say no. You never did. No more the three days after you joined the company were you getting tossed around like a hot potato.

"Y/nie, can you turn on the computer for me?”

“Y/N, can you grab coffee for the whole floor?”

“Y/N, can you bend backwards to make sure this gets done before the due date?"

No, please, no presents, no thank yous. Your best friend Hanni always told you to say no, but it was so hard. One time someone ran away after attempting to ask for a favor!

"Yes, boss, I’m on it!”

You took the papers, bowed, and hung your head low. Not even five minutes later, you heard a commotion. You looked up from your cubicle to see your boss with a stone-faced girl.

“Everyone welcome Kim Minji! She will be working with us from now on"

You all clapped, and then you turned back to your computer.

“Y/n-shi..”. That was Niri; she always knew you always had piles of work but still asked for help. Meaning you did half her work every day.

"Hmm, Niri, what’s wrong?”

“Can you show Minji-shi around for me? I have to pick up my kid". In which she meant her snotty little puddle named Princess.

“Ok, just come back quickly" Niri nodded and then proceeded to clock out.

"Hi, Mrs. Kim" As you turned to face Minji, she just stared at you blankly.

“Ok, um, do you know where your cubicle is?”. Minji pointed to the one next to you.

"Ok, do you want me to help you with a few of your assignments?”

“No thanks. Can you just show me how everything works on that? I don’t have one at home"

As Minji pointed to the computer, you nodded as she sat down in her seat. Throughly surprised that she could actually talk. You walked over to the girl and hovered over her to instruct her on how the computer worked. Once you were done, she bowed, and you did too. Gosh, did you need some coffee?

You walked over, noticing Kaito and Somi near the water cooler. Shit. They always need-

"Babes, can you take out the trash for us? It would be a great favor." Kaito smirked at you as she tilted your chin up to him.

“Sure Kai..”. The boy dramatically bowed, and his friend laughed while they both left. You sighed and walked over to the coffee machine. What dicks. After you made your coffee, you straightened your tie for war.

As you approached your cubicle, you titled your head. Half your stack of Sewon’s work was done. Maybe you did it in the five minutes before Minji was introduced.

Just as you sat down, Minji peeked out of her cubicle.

“You can just call me Minji Y/nie"

You nodded, and the girl tried to crack a smile. very broken at that. In the next few days, more and more of your work was miraculously done before you even thought about touching it. This day, you decided to catch the person. Yu Xi rarely asked you for anything, so as soon as she entered the office, you offered to do half of her work. She begged you not to, but you fought hard for it. The girl gave you her work and a big hug with it.

This time, you left it at your desk and ran to the break room. You peeled them through the window, waiting. Five minutes later, you saw Minji peek over your desk. Maybe she was looking for you. Two seconds later, she took half your work. In the few days you knew Minji, you only said hi and bye to her. Why was she doing this for you?

“Lunch is on me, guys! The project was successful, so I’ll treat you all." Your eyes darted to Kaito, standing at his desk. Everyone clapped, and the boss laughed, taking Kaito off the desk and giving him a big hug. It's not like you did all of his work for the last week, right?

Hours later, you were drinking tiny sips of alcohol with a piece of cake in a bag next to you. Unlike the others, Yu Xi always got you a sweet when she asked for something. So now you were sandwiched at the end of the booth, between Yu Xi and Minji. Kaito was wasted and told some stories about his dead ghost aunt.

So you took this time to turn to Minji. The girl poured and turned to face you.

“Minji”

“Mm?”

“Why are you doing my work for me?”. The girl's eyes furrowed, and she rolled her eyes. Did you hurt her in a past life?

“Yeah, none of it is your work.”

“But-“

“It’s the work of your lazy coworkers". You knew it was true, so you just nodded.

“Thanks Minji.. I’ll try to say no". Then, for the first time ever, you saw Minji genuinely smile.

“It’s ok.. I enjoy your reaction when you see it’s already done"

You laughed, and just like that, you had made your second actual work friend. You slowly started to say no to some of your coworkers, and as a result, Minji treated you every other day. It even got to the point that Hanni even met her.

“Minji!”.Your face dropped. Minji wasn’t in her cubicle. You pouted and sent her a quick text: ‘U ok, Minji?’. You check two hours later and there is no response. Two days later, Minji showed up. Bags under her eyes, her hair tied up. You ran over to her, engulfing her in a hug.

"Minji, are you okay?" As you pulled away, all the taller girl did was blink twice and go to her cubicle. That’s how you ended up crying in the office bathroom stall. Until you heard a knock.

“Someone’s in here!”

“I know! Can you come out?" Weirdo

When you walked out, a tall girl dressed in all pink greeted you. Pink glasses, pink bag, pink suit, skirt, and heart eyes?

“Hear my card." You grabbed the card out of the girl's hand and laughed. It said ‘cupid 101’.

“Is this some kind of joke because Valentine’s Day is next week?”

“No.. I’m cupid.. the 101st actually." The girl pushed up her glasses. Just then, two girls walked into the bathroom. The taller girl cracked her knuckles and shot an invisible arrow at them. The girls turned to each other and started to make out. One pushing the other into a stall.

“See!”. Your eyes grew big.

“Why, why are you talking to me then?”

“You messed up! Minji’s your soulmate! Not platonically, and I’m here to help you fix your mess!”. Seeing as you were stunned, the pink girl spoke again.

“I’m Wonyoung, aka Cupid 101, and I’m going to make you go back in time with the knowledge you have now and fix the mistake you made with Minji.”

“I didn’t make a mistake!”

"Ya, but you made someone else.. butterfly effect, you know." The girl turned around in the mirrors and applied lipstick to her lips.

“What if I say no?”

“You’re alone for ever, duh." The girl said she was looking at you through the mirror.

“So what are you choosing? I got three other clients, girl." Wonyoung tapped on her pink watch.

“Yes?”. Wonyoung smiled.

“Good luck”. Suddenly, you heard a stall open, and you turned to see the two girls leaving the stall. Then Wonyoung was gone. Wonder when the traveling back will

“Y/n-shi! Please go to the cafe and get us lunch, please." Then you were suddenly five days back in time. The devil works hard, but Wonyoung works harder.

#kpop fanfic #kpop #kpop idol x reader #kpop imagines #kpopidol #kpop gg #kpop smau #kpop girls #reader x idol #reader insert #onwednesdaywewearpinkevent

71 notes · View notes

squirmhoney · 1 year

Text

A/N: I really liked this idea but it stopped flowing because it took me over a few days to write it because of time. I felt like I lost my memento so I really don’t feel like it’s as great as it could have been. Sorry for any errors in the Valyrian translations I just did it online. Warnings: Incest. Blood kink? Gory depictions (decapitated head) oral (f) receiving. Abuse. smut. 18+ Begging. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader (sister) Word count: 2K+

Master List

For You

It had taken everything in Aemond not to rip the head off your husband when he had caught sight of you. The blood in his veins boiled, hands clasping behind him to keep him from drawing his sword.

You knew that look on your brothers face when he saw you that morning. A cold glare as you told him who had bruised your delicate face. For years Aemond's depraved nature had frightened you growing up, fearing he might attack an innocent soul that meant no harm. But in the days of war there was something pleasurable in the thought of him attacking another man for you.

Though you both still needed Lord Bursberry's men in this ongoing war and as much as your husband abused you, there was really nothing more that could be done about it.

"Sister," Aemond called, striding over to you. Your hands rested on his chest while one of his hands trailed down your skin. "Vala bona dīnagon iā ondos va ao, iksis vala bona kessa rhaenagon se mōris hen ñuha egros" 'A man that places a hand on you, is a man that will meet the end of my sword'

You shook your head, frowning at him in disapproval. "Īlon jorrāelagon zirȳla, lēkia. Kostā daor," you replied. 'We need him, brother. You can not.'

Then you felt it, a man glaring in your direction. Your head turned, noticing your Lord husband's eyes looking back at you.

Aemond's gaze followed yours, a scowl forming on his lips as his whole body tensed. "Nyke mīsagon ñuha lentor." 'I protect my family."

"Aemond," you warned, removing yourself from him slightly. "It cannot be."

His gaze turned to you, softening instantly at the sight of your face.

"I will pray for your safety today," you told him, reaching out for his hand for a second. You placed it between yours, wishing you could never let go. "And I will not rest until you return to me."

Aemond didn't reply, only gave your hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it down. You watched as he walked off towards the men, knowing that they'd be off for battle very soon.

You trudged through the mud, walking past all the tents till you reached Lord Bursberry. He barely looked at you when you got towards him and you made sure to keep enough distance.

"I wish you the best, Lord husband," you said, face not matching your words as you kept your lips in a tight line.

"Your lucky your brother is so close right now," he spat in your direction, looking down at you as if you were the scum on the bottom of his boot. "Otherwise you'd be on the receiving end of my boot for so openly disgracing me."

"What ever could you mean, husband?" You questioned, moving to walk past him.

He grabbed you by your hair, yanking you close to his face so you could feel his repulsive breath. "Don't play the fool with me." You grinded your teeth together to hide the pain. "Everyone can see your open affection for your brother and everyone knows Targaryen's perverse nature."

"You never know lord husband, today might be the day that you die," you hissed, feeling a smirk grow on your lips.

He shoved you off of him, throwing you on the floor and into the mud. "I will deal with you properly when I return."

There was a slash of a sword being drawn, your eyes looked up to see Ser Criston striding over to you.

"Ser Cole, don't," you pleaded, holding out your hand.

He stopped, hesitating as he seethed with anger. But then he placed out his hand, pulling you up from the ground.

"Please walk me back to my tents, Ser Cole." You looked up at him, a small smile sitting on your lips.

Criston nodded, placing out his arm for you take as you walked away. "My Princess, you do not have to be dishonoured by that pig."

You gazed up at him, smirking at his words. "I have a duty as a wife and to my King. Without the loyalty of my Lord Husband the king would lose a lot of men in this war."

"The men would bend the knee to King Aegon with or without Lord Bursberry's head on his shoulders." His eyes softened as they looked down at you.

You stopped outside your tents, your servants already holding the door open for you. You turned to look up at him once more. "I will pray for your safe return as I pray for my brother's."

"My Princess." He nodded once again before turning and leaving.

Hours went by, the sun had set and a cloud of darkness now covered your camp. You had spent most of your day praying with a few other women, begging The Warrior to protect your brother in battle.

But when the hours drew later, a dreaded feeling clawed at your chest, thinking the worst might of happened. You sat on your bed, the light of a few candles keeping the room dim as you waited in deep silence.

"My Princess," a voice spoke, a servant entering your tent with others behind her. "We have come to change you."

"Of course." You nodded, standing up as you stared distantly into the corner. An uneasy breath escaped your lips as you allowed them to strip you out of your dress and then pull your night gown over you.

A sudden gust of wind touched your skin, making you shiver from the coldness as goosebumps covered your skin. You knew who had just stepped in, the metal clank of their armour being distinctly different from others. You also knew their presence, the soft breath that escaped their lips and the sound of their footsteps against the floor.

"My prince," one of the servants bowed their head, looking behind you.

"I need my armour taken off," Aemond directed and the servants followed leaving you be as they moved to him.

You didn't turn around instead you carried on facing the wall as you arms wrapped around you.

"Dōna mandia, nyke maghatan ao iā irudy," Aemond spoke, a hint of laughter in his tone. 'Sweet sister, I brought you a gift.'

Your body twisted round, finally looking at Aemond. The servants were untying his armour, placing it on the table behind him. He was still covered in the blood from the battle field, a splatter of red dried on his face. There was a brown sack he held, with red oozing out from the bottom of it.

"Leave us," you demanded, shooing the servants away as they scattered out of the tent. You made your way over to Aemond, yanking the chest plate from his body as you threw it to the ground.

"Did you pray for me?" Aemond asked, placing two fingers under your chin as he pulled your gaze to his. He leaned into you, faces mere inch apart. "Did you beg The Warrior for my safe return?"

There was a heat that radiated off of him that made your skin crawl with desire that you tried to hide.

"My husband might be back any moment," you told him, cupping the side of his with your hand. "You should leave before he gets here." You stepped back from him.

"He's already here," Aemond chuckled, pulling something out of the sack.

You gasped at the sight, unable to turn away as you noticed your husband's decapitated head being held up by Aemond's hand. He smiled wickedly at you, his chest puffed out with a deep pride. He dropped the head, letting it role behind him.

"I told you I'd protect you." Aemond held your face, smearing your husbands blood across your cheeks. "I should never allowed the marriage but it's okay now. I won't let anyone else have you."

You were frozen, unable to speak as you gazed up at your brother. You didn't move as Aemond kissed you, hands guiding you towards him. One of his hands slid down your back as he pulled you in, groping your ass to hold you flush against him.

You mewled into his mouth, feeling how hard he was through his breeches as he rubbed himself against you. Your hands moved on their own accord ripping the material of his tunic off. Aemond assisted you, throwing the clothes to the floor.

"We are meant to be together, you and I," Aemond insisted, peppering kisses across your neck. He nibbled and sucked on your skin, hands grabbing at your thighs through the material of your night gown.

"Aemond," you pleaded, your cunt throbbing at this point from the anticipation. "I need you." You words came out as a desperate whimper, feeling the pure slick between your thighs.

"Patience." Aemond's hand slipped your gown off your shoulders, letting it pool to the ground around your feet. "I've waited this long to have you, I think we both can wait a bit longer." His head moved down, pulling one of your legs over his shoulder.

Your breathing became unsteady as he softly kissed your stomach, trailing down inbetween your legs. You moaned, bucking your hips when his lips touched your folds. Your hand clasped around the frame behind you, leaning up against one of the wooden poles.

His tongue dived to your clit, lapping at the bud in quick strokes that made your toes curl. He moved one of his hands, placing his fingers against your entrance before shoving them in forcefully. You cried out, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the feeling.

"Gods," you screached, grinding on his face ever so slightly to increase the friction.

Aemond delved in deeper, fingers curling inside of you as he brought you close to the edge. Your thighs started to tremble around his head, struggling to hold yourself up as you were overcome by pleasure. He pushed you to edge, drinking your juices as you came on his face.

When he removed himself from your thighs, you were breathless, not just from your orgasm but from the sight of him. His mouth covered in your juices as he smirked up at you, wearing them proudly.

"My love," he whispered, pulling you in for a searing kiss.

You pushed your body flush against him, feeling how hard he was through his breeches as you whimpered into his mouth. "Aemond, I need you now."

He pushed you on the bed, shoving his breeches down so he could climb on top of you. You felt his cock brush against your thigh, the tip leaking on your skin. You reached your hand down, growing impatient as you grabbed a hold of his cock placing against your entrance. He chuckled at this, hissing slightly when the tip nudged against your wet folds before he shoved himself in.

"Fuck, sister," he groaned as his cock bottomed out in your spongy walls. There was no way he could last long inside of you, not with how wet you were and how tight you were squeezing him. "I should of done this years ago. Filled you with my child so that filthy pig couldn't have you."

"Aemond, please," you whimpered, needing him to go faster as you rutted your hips upwards to him. "I need you to go faster, please."

He held your thighs tightly, as he smacked his hips into yours roughly. The feeling was sending you over the edge as you begun to hiccup on your own pleas. Aemond like you like this, a complete mess for him as you started to come undone on the bed. The only thing you knew in that moment was Aemond, your brother, the man that had made you brain dead on the end of his cock.

Without warning, Aemond moved his hand to your cunt as his fingers rubbed against your sensitive nub. He moved in quick circles sending you over the edge as you climaxed on his cock. You cried his name, walls squeezing around him practically milking him of his own cum. He didn't last after that, your cunt draining him of his seed as he painted your walls with it. His pace slowed, making sure you both fully came down before he collapsed on top of you.

He moved slightly, adjusting himself to be able to look at you as he did, his cock slipped out of you making you whine at the empty sensation.

"Did you like me being inside you, sweet sister?" Aemond teased, fingers sliding down to the top of your cunt.

You nodded, lips grazing his as you begged, "I want you inside me always."

He pushed his fingers inside you, chuckling as you gasped at the suddenness. "Anything for you."

Tag List: (Currently closed)

@ophelialaufey @cl-0-vr @julianaaleticia @azzir11 @auratiqs @targaryenmoony @brb-readingurfic @aegonsgf @poppyflower-22 @ietss @lilostif16 @candypurplebutterfly @mandiiblanche @much-adoo-about-smut @valsandoval @jamespotterismydaddy @floswife @yearninginpages @dragonslutsblog @coriellesmarya @schniiipsel @esmeralda-tupi @alexxavicry @itsapurrfectstorm @singular-itae @f4ll-for-you @jallen0126 @piceous21 @witchy-jadda @hb8301 @ebaylee422 @sallyscigarettes @clairacassidy @sachafirebringer @tssf-imagines @aleemendoza2425-blog @savagemickey03 @readsalot73 @midnightrqin @spinachtz @watercolorskyy @magnificantmermaid @janelongxox @multitargaryen @eddiepicker @sahanna @smayhem @bebeos @joliettes @jimins15thhair

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut

661 notes · View notes

sanctus-ingenium · 11 months

Note

Do the saints in the mez setting have ye olde fanclubs. Are there folk saints of mechs. Do people sell those like sainted tokens of like scraps of paint from the mechs or something

Not so much fanclubs in a fandom sense, that's a bit of a modern invention. They would have taken their worship very seriously and one of the most common pilgrimages of the time is a tour of all the stables, where you can get iron pilgrim badges made out of old armour plates. I have drawn Mercury and Mars wearing them before ⤵️

The badges are worn as a sign of devotion but also to prove that you've visited those stables, because as the stables increase in importance, they don't just let anyone wander in to see the relics and beasts. You have to prove that you've been to other stables before, the more the better, otherwise you may not be worthy of checking out the good stuff. It is expected that every member of the laity go on a pilgrimage at least once in their lives.

Craftspeople do capitalise on this by selling small devotional items that you can take home and set up in your own shrine. I've drawn one of these, a mass produced woodcut print of Leun, but these are super common and usually not of high quality, fudging details so that they might resemble any given beast if you just squint a little. This one is on the upper end, quality wise

But the most central part of how one is expected to 'commune' with a holy beast is in their breath. huffing fumes is right there in the scripture - I mean, they are practicing engine worship, so of course they're placing huge significance on the smoky part. Grifters often sell what are essentially empty bottles, claiming that they have captured some smoke or some of the beast's breath, making it, essentially, holy air. Fun fact, when an important member of the Church is dying, he has the option to request a death by engine fumes instead of a natural death, and in a severely hypoxic state they share their final wisdom with the congregation, often in the form of a prophesy.

So, onto folk saints! They do exist - assuming you mean large mechanical creatures which have not been built by the Church. in which case yep those exist, the theocracy has sole control of the fuel supply within its own borders but there are plenty of other parts of the world. But there are also beasts that straight up don't exist but are worshipped by the laity within the theocracy. Rumours of odd sightings spread into stories of some new beast who can help you fix your gout if you pray to him. The Church considers it heresy but just like in the real world, that doesn't really stop people. Except in the case of the annexed Midean region, where people practicing "idol worship" are executed.

Oh they were having one hell of a golden age before those damn Mideans decided they wanted independence about 300 years ago, and before the dragons stopped appearing with such frequency.

The slow fall of the theocracy began with the Midean civil war/war of independence, which was a narrow win for Mez but has been a burden on them ever since. The Mezian theocracy grew by annexing surrounding nations and cementing its chokehold on fuel supply, and its colonisation of Midea was what brought it to power in the first place, long before that, especially given that Midea was the world capital of of enginesmithing at the time and an exporter of fantastic technology. So that was all great, for the Church, until the war of independence which lasted almost a century. Midea lost and did not become an independent state, but it marked a significant shift in how the population believed & behaved. That's partially why Saint Lycaon was taken from Midea, he is essentially a hostage under threat of destruction if his people don't fall in line. The constant struggle to police those areas taxes the Church of its resources and civil unrest doesn't seem to be dying down any time soon.

Before the war, the theocracy's power was absolute within its own borders. After, it has retreated to its strongholds of Salvius and Forza (where the biggest stables are) and all but abandoned the more remote regions to fall to ruin. Not so much a spoiler, but a major plot point of the story, set at the end of this age, is that the final death-prophesy of a cardinal was: unless taxes were paid by the laity [dying of plague], the Church is under no obligation to send the beasts to aid them in times of peril. During the 'golden age', this would have been an unthinkable act of miserliness, and the Church would have sent those beasts out whenever and wherever, often to random villages not being attacked, just to give people a chance to see them. The massive waste of fuel was not a big deal because there was always sooo much more waiting, and the sky was full of dragons. Now, every drop must be preserved.

#setting: mez #thanks for the fun asks!

271 notes · View notes

spoops-screams · 2 years

Note

Hi I’m not sure if your taking request for the arcana but if you are can you do the main six reacting to me being kidnapped and they get sent one of the mc fingers ( they can tell it’s mc’s because it has tier wedding ring on it)

| Reacting to the MC getting kidnapped

Character(s): Nadia Satrinava, Julian Devorak and Muriel

TW: Kidnapping, murder, threats of murder/injury, gore, injury

Notes: Gender neutral MC || I am taking requests so don't worry! If you're ever not sure, you can always check my bio or pinned post because my current requests status will usually be updated there 💕 || I love how I accidentally made this blog where I write about characters breaking down while you guys agree with me and help me do that more 😌 💕 || I think it might become a habit for me not to be able to do all 6 for the Arcana specifically in one headcanon without taking 12 years 😭

Nadia

No one thinks they've ever seen Nadia break composure so quickly as when she opened the box that she was sent, seeing a single finger lying in it

She doesn't register the ring at first, her expression only changing to disgust and horror until she does catch the sight of the band on the finger

Her entire expression crumbles and she can't even bring herself to keep her composure while on the middle of a meeting

She's silent for a moment as if she can't believe what she's seeing and snaps the second that someone asks her what's wrong

Rarely do people ever get to see Nadia so angry, barking out orders that make very little sense in her panicked state, many are almost convinced that she's preparing them to go to an abrupt war

It takes her a time to calm down as she realises that she won't get anywhere acting irrationally and employs everyone that she can to find you, no matter the price

She knows she needs to but she doesn't sleep until you've been found, taking out her frustrations and fears whenever no one is around because she doesn't want to further concern anyone after her initial outburst though Portia is a great source of comfort throughout the day because she's almost as worried as Nadia herself

She immediately locks you away with her once you've been found, genuinely terrified to let you go for fear that you'll get hurt again and doesn't bother to oversee the criminal's punishment, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they got to her when they get executed

All of your guards get replaced for their folly and you'll struggle to go anywhere alone for quite some time

Julian

Julian genuinely feels sick

He's seen things like severed fingers before, he really shouldn't be so disgusted by the sight of the blood soaked appendage

Despite this, the ring has him paling so quickly that he becomes light headed, stomach flipping and he really does feel like he's lost every one of his senses

His vision is going dotty and he can barely stand, not bothering to keep down the contents of his stomach

He can barely think, mind in a panic as he rushes off to whoever he can come up with, ending up at Asra's shop and praying with everything he can that he isn't out like he usually is

He isn't a detective nor does he use magic. He knows somewhere in his mind that his best shot is to go to someone he knows would be able to find you

All he wants is to see you, to check up on you. It would kill him if he wasn't physically there with you but even if he could just check that you weren't harmed as badly as his mind was making him believe in his panic

He knows from the severed finger that whoever had taken you was cruel, cruel enough to hurt you without reason and hurt you badly

He stumbles over his words so badly that Asra can tell without asking that something is very wrong

When it comes down to it, Julian doesn't want revenge in whoever hurt you. He just wants you safe. He wants whoever it was as far away from you as possible and he will see it through as soon as he finds you

Muriel

The despair Muriel feels is truly like nothing he has ever experienced

He'd put off opening the parcel, knowing that it wasn't from you nor Asra and so didn't trust to open anything as such but when you don't return, and on the day that he receives the parcel at that, he makes some form of link and opens it

He's never been so distraught as he practically fumbles with himself to stand. He's usually composed and stoic but now he really couldn't be as normal even if he wanted to be

Muriel is typically against violence and this still holds true but he doesn't think he's ever felt so much rage as he had after the initial shock and despair had lessened enough for his overwhelming anger to take to the forefront of his mind

He has to take a moment to compose himself despite his panic, Inanna responding to his mood and already itching to go out and find you because you mean just as much to her as you do to Muriel and she too is all too willing to tear apart whoever had hurt you

He only just about manages to remember to ask Asra for support, his dislike for going into the city long forgotten in his concern and urgency, as a just in case before Inanna is off to find you

The perpetrators have no chance on e she finds them and she finds them quickly. Muriel is right behind her as she seeks you out and neither one of them is ready to talk or compromise

Muriel initially intends to take you and then leave but, seeing the state that you were in, he couldn't

It's brutal and he wishes that you wouldn't have to see it but for once he doesn't regret such an act. He doesn't think he could if he wanted to

Do not repost or claim. Only reblog 💕

#the arcana x reader #arcana x reader #the arcana muriel #arcana muriel #the arcana #the arcana headcanon #arcana headcanon #the arcana hc #the arcana headcanons #arcana headcanons #the arcana nadia #the arcana julian #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #arcana game #the arcana game #arcana

1K notes · View notes

amica-aenigmata-naboo · 6 months

Text

COLLISION

Astarion x Y/N - Chapter 2 - 2.5K WC

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 (you are here!)

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 NSFW 18+

Chapter 6 NSFW 18+

Chapter 7 NSFW 18+

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

Magic was tougher than it looked. It felt like the most grueling full body workout. “Well, you’ve got enough to get you through a very short… heavily aided battle.” Shadowheart said, it sounded like the best backhanded compliment.

“Can we be done for the day?” You asked, cracking your neck and stretching your back. “Please?”

Gale smiled and waved you off, “Just for today, we’ll need you in battle soon enough. Best you have a few tricks up your sleeve to survive… A word of advice, seek out Lae’zel, have her show you combat training. The Githyanke are -”

“Excellent warriors, I know.” you stated without thinking.

Gale’s face faltered for a moment before relaxing “Precisely, she’s the best to learn from.” he clapped his hand on your shoulder before walking back to his tent.

Shadowheart was walking back to her tent but gave you a smile and mouthed “good luck” towards you.

You took a deep breath and walked to Lae’zel’s tent. Feet practically made of lead the way the anxiety made them drag. You stopped in front of her not looking up.

“Speak” was all she said.

“I’d like to spar with you… have you teach me how to fight… so I’m not just a useless cleric.” Your lip twitched up at the end of your sentence. Finally raising your gaze, Lae’zel looked at you and crossed her arms.

“Fine. I suppose you can use this.” She said handing you what you recognized as “The Cruel Sting” sword from the drider, Kar’niss.

You clutched the sword and followed Lae’zel to the center of the camp where she unceremoniously body checked you, knocking you onto your back with a groan.

“The Hell was that for?!” you yelled at her.

“Your enemy will not fight fair, you need to know brutality if you wish to fight.” she said as she unsheathed her sword.

You stood and held your sword. Nothing had ever felt more out of place. This wasn't a Renaissance Festival, this was real and you had to learn this to survive. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes and praying a collective prayer to any deity listening. You opened your eyes, the first strike of many clanged against your sword.

Shit.

________________________

Metal collides well past sundown. Lae’zel had run you ragged. You were currently trying to shove her back. She put her foot behind yours and shoved, sending you crashing onto your back.

“Have you learned nothing?!” she yelled so loudly everyone else in the camp was watching now. “Your enemy will not hesitate to kill you. You shall offer them no such mercy either!” she continued to yell.

That's it. That’s what broke the camel's back. Rage consumes you after being beaten down for hours. Your hand reached slowly for the small blade tucked into your breast pocket. Lae’zel put her sword to your neck to demand your surrender. You raised your hands. Lae’zel began putting her sword away and that's when you struck. You kicked her closest ankle and sent her falling. Dagger in your hand, you rolled on top of Lae’zel, straddling her hips and pressing the blade to her throat. She gawked at you, she was speechless.

“Never assume the war is over because the battle was lost.” you said with hate in your voice but a proud smile on your face.

Lae’zel gave the faintest smirk before taping the handle of the blade, signifying she surrendered. Both of you got up slowly. Lae’zel extended her arm. You stared at it in disbelief but your arm went to hers. Holding each other's forearms she shook it once firmly before saying, “Cleric, you may survive us yet.” she let go of your arm, walking to the bonfire as the meat roasting smelled as if it was almost done.

Karlach walked over to you, “That’s as close as you’ll ever get to her saying you’re friends now.” she laughed. “You’ve improved a lot in one day. It’s going to be nice having you around soldier.” she patted your back before she herself walked to the campfire.

You smiled watching her walk away. Glancing at Gale and Wyll they both gave you smiles, Gale giving a soft clap and Wyll a thumbs up. You walked back to your new tent that Karlach had set up for you while you were in the weave. It wrapped around the tree you slept on last night. A bedroll, some candles, and a small table with a lamp softly flickering. The flamed danced shadows across your tent, you laid on your bedroll momentarily, watching the shadows. Quickly, before you got too comfortable, you stood and began your walk to the stream. Your body ached but in a satisfactory way. Maybe you could be an adventurer. At least until you got back home. You shed your camp clothes at the shore, looking back and making sure everyone was at camp. You could hear them eating and telling stories around the fire. You waded into the stream until it reached your ribs. You sat against a boulder in the stream. The water rushing around you felt calming, as if the water was trying to massage the ache out of you. You brushed water over your face and hair before leaning your head back and closing your eyes. Trying to connect to the earth around you, searching for a blissful escape in the elements even if only for a moment.

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

Astarion watched you from behind a tree near the shore and his tent. He didn’t mean to spy on you. He honestly thought he saw a fae or siren wade into the water, your body enchanting him. He watched you wade to the boulder finding some sort of solace in it. You leaned there unmoving for what felt like hours.

Sad

That's what rang out in Astarion’s mind. The tadpole saying what your mind must have been screaming. He felt that unfamiliar pang in his chest again. He wanted to… comfort you? He didn’t even know what that would look like. Was it like seduction just… less? He both wanted to know and despised the thought of knowing.

Without realizing it, he had drifted off and he refocused on your form trudging back to the shore. He knew what he had to do to get rid of the pang in his chest. Crush it. Crush you. The very thought hurt him somehow but he knew it had to be done. He walked out from behind the tree heading towards the shore. Your back was facing him, your shirt and underwear on but nothing else. He adored the way the moonlight made your shirt cast a shadow of your body. He noticed every curve, dimple, freckle… he noticed them all.

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

“Oh! Astarion…” you jumped when you heard the rocks behind you shift. Your hands flew all over your body trying to cover up but not sure what exactly to cover. He grabbed your hip when you started to move backwards. You glanced at his hand before looking at his face, your eyebrows scrunched together. Astarion hadn’t exactly been the most welcoming in the camp so what was this? Hand still on your hip he possessively pulled you to his chest, his opposite hand tilting your chin up so your lips were a breath away from each other. Your whole body felt like cement and lava at the same time. Your eyes watched his every move.

“A bath with no invite? Darling, you wound me.” he whispered onto your lips. You sucked in an unintentionally sharp breath when he leaned forwards and smashed his lips to yours. He was rough despite his gentle grasp on your chin. He continued to kiss you, nipping at your lower lip.

“Ouch!” you yipped, pushing his chest away.

“Come now darling you cannot be so delicate…” he said seductively.

You backed up and held your arm out in front of you to put a physical barrier between you. “Astarion, stop.” You said as your finger smoothed over the nip on your lip that had drawn the smallest bit of blood.

Now it was his turn to freeze, “What? Why? Is something wrong?” He asked. He almost sounded… annoyed? Instead of concern which you would expect from a lover.

You knew enough about Astarion from your progress in Baldur's Gate III that he was trying to manipulate you by sleeping with you. It saddened you. He might not like you much in reality but you would still protect him like everyone else in your party. Your face gave a painful squeeze before you swallowed it all down. You put your arm down, picking up your pants, boots, and vest. “Astarion… you don’t truly want this. I’ll umm… I’ll see you at camp.” You whispered out.

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

The world seemed to be so still and quiet down by the stream. Astarion heard every syllable. He watched you leave quickly and did he detect… a quiver in your voice? Why would you be upset about him trying to fuck you? Why did you say “you don’t truly want this”? He didn’t want it, but how did you know that? He walked back to his tent glumly. After seeing you take down Lae’zel he thought you might not be so bad to have under his thumb. Why would you reject him? He saw himself for the first time in 200 years that morning so he knew for a fact he was still beautiful, fangs and all. He wracked his brain but couldn’t come up with an answer to why his plan didn’t work on you. It works on everyone else.

A bitter seed was planted inside him. He watched your form move around camp for the rest of the night. Eyes never meeting his. He watched you talk with the others. Sing with Wyll. attempt to dance with Karlach. Everyone wore soft smiles, even Lae’zel which was rare. A warmth was spread around the camp. As if the air was made of warm honey. Suffocating you in the best way possible. Rested and comfortable is what it was.

He wanted so desperately to be a part of it. And yet, that bitter seed took root and every thought of you suddenly felt like rot and decay. Finding the bad and none of the good. Making you the cause of such ire. He wanted to be rid of you. He thought of the item you had, the “mirror” he used. Had you told the others about that? What would they think of it? He could twist it to make you look like the villain, he was sure of it.

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

“”Y/N darling…”

Your head snapped to Astarion who had silently managed to sit across from you at the bonfire. Your head swirled a bit, whatever Karlach was drinking had some twang to it that's for sure. You were drunk and the warm glow of the fire made you feel like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Astarion darling…” you giggled back.

“Have you told our dear friends about your powerful little tool?” he batted his eyelashes at you but a devious smirk laid across his lips.

Everyone's eyes slowly drifted to you and lord did you feel them on you.

“I… I showed Gale.” you rushed out. You weren’t hiding it. Not truly. You just didn’t know how to tell them what a phone was without having to tell them about your… well… life? And how to you, they were a mere video game. That they didn’t actually exist. That's a little tough to deliver. Especially while drunk.

“Yes! She had me repower it.” Gale chimed in.

“Oh it needs magic to power itself? Sounds dangerous if you ask me…”

Now everyone's eyes were not only looking at you but focused on you, scanning you over for any potential danger. You slowly reached into your bedroll. Your phone lit up and everyone kept a strong hold on their weapons.

“I… it is a power source… but it only powers itself. It’s not dangerous I swear…. It’s used to communicate where I’m from.” you quickly defended yourself.

“And where is that exactly?” Astarion hummed.

Your skin was crawling, you felt how unsteady your stomach was, a cold sweat coating your back, your hands shaking, and dear god you were fighting the urge to spill tears. All out of sheer anxiety. You didn’t want to lie, but you didn’t know how to tell the truth either.

“I… I’m… not from here. Or Baldur’s Gate. Or Faerûn. I’m… I’m from somewhere far away. I’m not sure how to explain it.” you choked out. The tears slipped out but you quickly wiped them away and looked at your new friends, hoping they’d believe you but not push for more answers either.

“How mysterious.” Astarion jested. “Care to show up what it does so we know it isn’t dangerous?”

You looked down at the phone before looking at everyone around you. You had no idea if this would have some sort of butterfly effect or alter reality but you didn’t really care. These people were your best hope, you needed them and were in no position to test their patience. You looked down, defeated. You agreed, turning the phone on you opened the camera app.

“I can use it to see people… and take portraits of them instantly.” you softly explained before taking a picture of yourself and then showing them all the picture. They looked impressed, borderline shocked.

“Anything else?” Astarion asked, sounding unamused.

You opened your music app and clicked on classical music, thinking that would be somewhat close to the music they know. Playing strauss II - voices of spring you turned the volume up and watched them become entranced. Karlach started swaying and humming with the melody. Everyone’s tense appearance faded and they all seemed pleased with the music.

“Portrait machine and a music box, how delightful!” Gale spoke before drinking more wine.

“If you all don’t mind I will retire early this evening.” you spoke softly as you got up and walked away leaving your phone as it began the classical music playlist you had saved for when you would study. Some of the group gave you nods, some were too deep in drink or conversation to notice. But Astarion did.

He saw how tightly you clasped your hands as you walked away. How your eyes were so big and full of fright. How your heartbeat sounded. Terrified.

Shit.

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

He watched you from his tent as you threw rocks from the river bank into the riverbed. He could still hear your heartbeat. How strained it sounded. Like it was fighting itself. He felt wretched. He was doing what he needed to. Right? Then why did it hurt so damn bad? Why did the way the tears skimmed down your face feel like a wound to his heart? Why did he want nothing more than to go to you and whisper sweet apologies. He hates you. He has to because it is the only control he can feel at this moment. So why does the final sob he hears escaping you on the shore bring him right back to where he doesn’t want to be. He digs in his supply pack before pulling out the vile of angelic slumber. If he couldn’t meditate this away he was not above drugging himself to sleep for the night. Anything to not feel what he felt when it came to you.

Hello angels! You all were so sweet leaving me comments, likes, and reblogs. Thank you soooooo much! All that support went into overdrive so here is chapter 2! I'll be working on other chapters this week. Thank you again for all the love, I love interacting with ya'll! <3

145 notes · View notes