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therealslimshakespeare · 11 months ago

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

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

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

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

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

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

Word count: a monstrous 12k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

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

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

“-I don’t have the authority-“

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

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

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now the texas girl has-“

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

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

“Well, no-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s that?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“To the Poles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only to kiss you.

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

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

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

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’d have only known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

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

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Buck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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1-49 · 4 months ago

Text

burnt orange, #CC5500

╰► A Smoky Night, or an evening that smoulders forever

pairing: jaehyun × f!reader

❝ A burnt orange aura reveals high ambition and a strong desire for change, driven by practicality. Individuals with this shade may display a touch of selfishness, pride, or aggression. Its brown tones introduce a negative energy aspect, indicating potential challenges, lack of energy, or feeling stuck.

tags: this my fav type of angst. tense energy laced with pain with an undercurrent in flirting lol. wc. 10k

jaehyun’s too fine & unreadable. lots of messy signals and an overall fogged atmosphere. think both of them are toxic in their individual style lmao.. pining. implied fevered moments.

Whichever burns brighter ─── the orange flame rising from the evening lamp in the corner , or the view through the windows as the sun sets over the horizon ── you dont know. Each affects your feelings, but primarily it ’s the way it all reflects on him. The warm glow that has accumulated in his harsh eyes from both simply signifies that the journey is coming to an end. The day is almost over, and so are you two.

────── Slanderous comments were made, and accusations were traded. There is now nothing left to cling to. The only truth beneath all of Jaehyun’s painfully continuous smoothing and touching of his baseball cap, which he seems to be pulling in despite the fact that it’s already on his head, is his intense anxiety and uneasiness.

There is no longer any chance to salvage this; everything is in terminal decline, so there is no point in saying you’re sorry or taking back what you both said. Moreover, this should be easy to conclude because if there is anything you have learned from him, it’s how to develop stronger character.

... But the truth is very different from your wish that it is simple.

& you hate the truth! You hate finding yourself in this predicament. You hate that there’s no turning around. But the worst part of it all is that you hate that you lo—

His eternally soft hair, which has grown slightly, peeks out from under the cap, concealing the majority of his nape. An intimate place that was once kissed, bruised, and then kissed again—but now, his hair is just pushing you away from all of that.

Even his neck is contributing to the sand pile of memories because his oversized, washed brown shirt is too loose around the collar. His silver oli ball chain necklace, which you used to roll around your finger and play with endlessly, now sits glumly in the hollows of his collarbones. That this person was once a close person to you, it’s now a fever dream.

“Please—please stop talking! You-you’re only making this worse!”

“So…”

Giving room for the raging argument to subside, Jaehyun rubs his jaw, debating what to say next. “...so that’s it? We-we are really doing this? Cause we’ve been here before, an—”

You let out a groan of frustration at his pathetic attempt to stop him from talking more. Of course, it’s easy for him to say that, you think, holding that forsaken question under your breath once again as though you want this, as though it’s simple. The way he poses it too, while wearing nothing but skepticism on his face as if he didn’t see this coming after so many meaningless arguments, angers you even more. He’s beautiful, but at times like this, all you want to do is slap all of that beauty straight out of his face.

But perhaps that’s exactly what’s bothering you—your obsession with his nonchalanc-y, which you used to find sexy, now seems to be eating away at your feelings. Stoic expression, a face, and a clenched jaw is all that’s meeting you, so maybe, finding him attractive during these fights does make you crazy.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts before answering, realizing that you’re never going to get anywhere by dragging your eyes along every contour on his delicious face anyway. Surely, it has kept you running back to him. A moment of weakness. And for some stupid unknown reason, he has always tasted even better after every fight. How? But also no! Not this time. You promise!

“What do you want from me, Jaehyun!? Since there’s no telling where we’re going, and it’s been like this for months! I think you’ve been under the impression that I’d wait forever, holding on- and on to what you’ve never said and never will. But I’m not trying to do this anymore! I am seriously not! I’m sick of getting only half of you. I’m done playing open cards. I’m done! Whatever this is… it’s-it’s over.”

Jaehyun scowls at you and ceases his pacing in the middle of the room.

There! Finally, a sign of disturbance. Though you two have been together long enough for you to learn through his impassiveness and all those small, tangible details that guard his innate tender, it’s still difficult to shake an emotion out of him—a real, deep-seated emotion that takes your ‘situationship’ into account.

Simultaneously, perhaps that will help explain why he ‘might even have’ a reason to dislike you, given that you were the only one who witnessed him at his most vulnerable. The only person who truly knows him; nevertheless, he has been growing increasingly aloof lately, so maybe that’s not something he’s into anymore. Maybe all he’s doing is just returning to his former self, the one who existed before the shattered shell you met. And maybe at last he has put his every piece back together and realized that sensitivity is the devil’s bitch and that in this ring, he’s a dog on his own.

Right… Too many ‘maybes’, but he doesn’t give you much to go on for you to consider any other options anyway.

Instead, he smoothes the cap over his head for the forty-ninth time, then flips it back so the bill is in front of his eyes and covers them slightly. Like this, his jawline adopts an even more defined shape. His lips...

The aura of mystery he exudes boots right back in. Given the esoteric shadow cast over his cheekbones, he seems even more prepared to walk out of the door at any moment. Or else you can anticipate more of his wicked smiles, lies, and games if he chooses to stay.

Ironically, he really knows how to wear the cap’s logo, which befits his unserious dead humor. ‘Hysteric’ remains blasted on his head in Times New Roman, but there’s not a trace of hysteria in his character at the moment, as much as you’d like him to have.

Though you wish he were, because if he were, it’d mean he still finds significance in this and that he’s prepared to fight. But that’s not the case at all right now; his voice is as calm and collected as ever, lacking any incline.

Bizarrely enough, the thing that, sort of, falls under that statement are, in fact, your nerves. They rave as you watch him. They fry at the edges. You start to sound even more irate as you think he’s not losing anything, while you seem to be the only one.

Though the words are loaded like a gun, you don’t want to come across as foolish or desperate. But as he offers you no other option, you believe that to be the only picture you paint at this point. And you don’t care if it’s an ugly one.

You’re also having a hard time with your thoughts because they seem to go on forever and it takes you a long time to organize them into something to say. So you just take a moment to ignore him and turn your head away from him, giving the fight another breath, but once you’re ready to go again, he’s somehow closer to you. Significantly closer to you, and only you know how dangerous that is.

You go on, continuing to rant, but all you can seem to focus on are his lips and how they shape with each little thing he says. He’s really of little words in deep tones if you must say so, and—

Well-Fuck! You are caught touring his lips again!!

You’ve no idea how he manages to keep them so balmed and dreamy at all times. Tangerine dusk pours through the windows and contrasts with the same shade of the lamp, making his lips look like melted wax, beckoning you. So sticky, sweet icing-coated, enticing you to lick... Oh, he’s making you sick.

You wave your head, shaking the nasties that have accumulated. Jaehyun doesn’t move an inch. If anything, the fucker knows!

He then makes a move toward you, only this time you’re unsure of whether to regard these steps as your victories or defeats.

As you go on, you find yourself stumbling over your words more and more, observing him removing his cap off of his head once again and running his fingers through his hair, just like he has done countless times before, except this time he doesn’t put it back; instead, he throws it down on the sofa.

Needless to say, there’s something innately dangerous, something deeply unbalanced and maniacal in the way he tilts his head to one side and slowly brushes his hair back as his jet strands catch inside the gaps of his knuckles. Their drag… The glare he gives you... Working his eyes out in the most possible way to make a wreak out of you... He has to, how could he not? You’re a delight to enjoy.

A rabid. The charm of his masculinity surges up as he watches you from the tilted angle. Something deep inside of him transfers esoterically inside your soul. You want him to get deeper into your anger, realizing you’re both just as toxic.

You should tell him to walk away! That he has ruined the evening! That—

But then… he’s looking at you like this... with the absolute right amount of fucked up...

and maybe that’s why you can’t escape,

and maybe that’s exactly why he can’t escape either, as he knows how much you love this.

It’s sick. Absolutely. Entirely. As it backfires all over again; as it all burns up and the orange bathes in the dull black of his eyes. No doubt, he’s your top choice trouble.

But-But you’ve had enough of that cup! You’ve had enough of trouble! You don’t want more! You—

You won’t be shaken. He won’t have an effect on you this time.

Step by step, you move away from him in an attempt to create a space that he keeps closing. You’re conscious of the fact that your eyes dart all over the place and are never focused on his, which gives away the fact that you aren’t really serious about ending this, but you manage nonetheless.

“Sure,” There’s poison in your voice as you begin your closing argument, oblivious to the fact that it’d become just another rant and soften from its vicious substance.

“I-I was lonely when I met you, but so were you! I knew you were lonely too. And it worked... Rather somehow…”

Hesitating, you cast a sidelong glance at your feet, as though trying to remember something, but in the end, failing.

“I don’t know. Maybe we talked more?” Posing the questions to yourself, you pout. “Or? Maybe not? I don’t know. I really don’t know!”

Even though you’re feeling extremely tense, rattled, and frail in your own skin, you look up to him as you proceed. What more is he capable of doing? He’s nothing but a pretty face—It’s your preferred perception. What’s currently more believable. The simpler way out. That he’s not at all complex; and is just as blunt and empty as he wants to make the impression. That the few words birthed from his soft, pouty, supple, unkissed sunkissed lips are nothing but futile, meaningless, and devoid.

However, there appears to be a deep crease developing between his eyebrows, so perhaps your impression of him is inaccurate(?) You aren’t sure why, but all of a sudden you get scared at the possibility that it could mean something. Hell! Looking at him drains you immensely. But-but you-you have t—

“Our fights have stripped us of all our beauty… I’m just left watching you drift farther away.”

As his brows knit, so do yours. You’re debating whether or not to acknowledge your emotions, but in the end, you do.

“To be honest, it’s hurting me. But regardless how ugly the experience is, it’s made me realize how much you mean to me. But still… I know that’s not an excuse to stay with you. I tried to play it cool at first because we were never really stable, but— Not anymore!”

“I don’t know... I feel like there’s nothing I can do anymore. And yes! We’ve already had this conversation. It seems that you particularly like bringing up that fact... Except nothing has been fixed since the last time we fought, J. I wouldn’t be so proud to mention it. It’s merely there to serve as a reminder that we are constantly failing. You say it as though there’s some reason we shouldn’t end this right now, and I’m not sure why you’d even bring that up. I really don’t... We’re no fit for each other.”

Your tone rises at ‘That’s the truth!’ implying that you’re still not prepared to think about it and that you don’t want to accept it, for it to only become more painfully sad and subdued in the following affirming, “That’s the truth…”

You hesitate a moment more before saying the next thing, as it feels like daggers are stabbing into your heart, but you do it nonetheless. Breathing also becomes more difficult as your chest begins to feel constricted, but you force yourself to swallow the fear ball stuck in your throat. Feverous, a shiver of cold runs up your spine as you watch him with your final words. “We failed to save each other. I you… you me.”

With his teeth ground down, Jaehyun rolls his eyes. Your words just feel like a smack. It’s like your attitude has just now put him in a bad mood as if you’re trying your best to leave a permanent crease in between his brows.

You know he’d rather be numb than angry, but the feeling boils within him. You feel that he’s on the verge of just snapping, but he won’t do it outright. In a way, you almost kind of admire that ability of his—to be so patient, as he secretly harbors passive-aggressive tendencies.

Catching a glimpse, you notice his nails scrape through layers of palm flesh as his fingers ball into fists. He continues to clench and unclench them as though he’s encouraging blood flow, but there’s more to the action than that.

And as though he’s suddenly transformed into an animal, he moves his jaw a bit before locking it and pressing his teeth into a dense snarl.

Maybe it aches; maybe he’s in excruciating pain, but he doesn’t show it. The skin collapses in his cheeks, leaving them sunken. His face has the power to kill. It’s deadly... Sexy.

You’re expecting to hear some mean words from him too; and they’re possibly waiting on his lips, hanging in the air between you two like a thread waiting to be cut.

And so, he finally speaks up. “You’re so easy to give up,” his voice as deeply warm as it can get—contradictory in and of itself, just like he is.

The word choice?? It catches you off guard. Even shocks you. Suddenly? Abruptly and seriously? Just like that!? Of all the words and expressions conceivable, and after you’ve been berating him for so long, all you get back is that? Really!? You find them so unbelievably funny that you can’t help but smirk miserably and accept their presumed grim sarcasm.

Asking rhetorically, you follow their ironic trajectory, “So easy to give up!?” playing it off cynically at first until you’re no longer able to. Then, as you continue, your voice grows huskier; he actually provides the reason for you to do so, encouraging you to take things seriously when he won’t.

“How am I so easy to give up!? Tell me! Tell me, do I give up easily? Or-uh-do I hold on too long, Jaehyun!? Cause I gave us—This… enough time and realized what I want will never be enough… I need to take care of myself.”

Saying, “You are selfish,” he takes another step. His eyebrow arches subconsciously as he says the word, which is also repulsively beautifully formed by his lips. But what does it mean? What does he mean!??

“Wow,” you’re left sneering and scoffing in disbelief. “And can you blame me!? For wanting to protect myself? For wishing better for myself!? Because you—” In the heat, you even step over a boundary as you take a step towards him too, pointing and pressing your index finger at his chest. “You are so distant! You hardly express what you feel. I can’t get through to you. It’s like I have you but I don’t-really…” Almost as if it had finally drowned in sorrow, your voice becomes faint and gentle. “I’m tired, Jay.”

Your eyes say the same thing, there’s a sudden despair in them. A vision that perpetually sinks. Eyes of ‘the conquered.’ Glossy. Your tears are asking for permission as you say, “You-you are like something I can’t really have... And-and every time we have this conversation, you-you love to-to change it,” you feel your lips quiver. “To-to stop it. To—”

“Stop!” Jaehyun interrupts your delirious thoughts as he takes the last step and closes any gap that may exist between you two.

“Don’t!” You shout back at whatever move, aim, or objective he may have. But remain still, resolute, and maintain your ground. Not yet waving the white, even though he’s so close—so excessively, painfully close—that he’s able to feel the quivering waves coming from your body. So awfully close that his scent is gnawing at your nose. It’s insistent, just like his perpetually clenched jawline. His jawbone might shatter from such thightness.

The stimulation all comes in spasms. Your walls crumble on themselves, gripping, tightening, constricting... Your body begins to prepare for a fit of sobbing. Hot. Quaver. Fever. Literally, you writhe in agony under his intimidating breath that seeps beneath your skin and sinks its daggered claws within. However, you gasp for air as your own breath slips from your fingertips.

Whispery, “I wish I—I could be true…” intimately, “to you, Jeong…” vulnerably, “I really do… But it’s plain to see I’m not the one.”

Silence.

A profound sense of loss spreads through the room and meditates on the lifeless air. Despite the body closeness, there’s a lingering emptiness that feels like the quiet of a hall on a cold winter night.

The sun fades to shadows, chasing the sunset away. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, bluish-dark inks the sky. Duplicates of the two of you on the walls due to the lamp’s remaining orange. The only thing left after such a confession is that the ground appears really lovely and that you ought to concentrate on it till he separates and walks away.

It nearly stops your heart when Jaehyun’s pensive, icy fingers circle around your chin and lift your face to pull you closer.

His slightly black mullet trickles along his earlobes. With a furious look, he rolls his lower lip between his teeth. In thought, though, there’s still resoluteness residing on his face at which you want to scream, ‘SAY SOMETHING TO ME.’

But why? Why would you want more, knowing it’d only prove a disaster and cause more misery?

Thus, you grab his wrist angrily, forcing him to stop controlling your face and eyes so you can only focus on his. You’ve also had the best teacher in him because he has always been so competitive. Two can therefore grit their teeth at each other.

There’s also a lot of resistance initially due to his strength. You both lose a little bit of balance as he counter-grips your wrist, and you briefly rustle as your bodies come into contact. What matters is that his hand does, in the end, get ripped away from your chin.

With his empty hands by his sides, Jaehyun gently blinks multiple times, and all of a sudden, everything changes—the energy, the atmosphere... him… you.

His lips flat into a bread-shaped smile, causing lovley holes to sink at his cheeks. You hear nothing but a cry of help through his tiny, adorable smile, which may indicate that he refuses to offer a piece of his heart because he doesn’t think it’ll be kept unbroken. His almond eyes liquid with anxiety as you expect his voice to soften again and tell you another pretty lie.

Lacking specificity, you ask sharply, “How do you do that?” squinting cynically because you find it incredible. What you’re referring to, though, is the way he transitions between such extreme emotions in such a tranquil, almost graceful, manner. It astounds you. You’d never see him in total distress. He won’t show it.

A little perplexed, Jaehyun asks, “Do what?”

There’s no way that he’s oblivious to it, so you feel compelled to lash out once more, but all you do is shake your head a little and roll your eyes, which is the equivalent of ‘nevermind.’ This way, you restrain yourself from repeating the same things over and over. Besides, what would be their point?

A second moment of silence ensues.

To release some of his tension, Jaehyun lifts his chin and purses his lips, adjusting the loose collar of his shirt, and continues in the same manner, bending his neck side to side while hooking his fingers to his chain necklace and moving it around.

Not knowing so, or rather so, he’s easily creating very frustrating hypnotism, teasing you in with each twist of his finger around his necklace. His veins are throbbing and protruding, and his tense neck cords are drawing the majority of your attention. His bare neck seems to be begging you to desert your lips on the scent of his perfume. At the same time, if your fingers had a chance, they’d also trace the familiar lines of his collars…..

Yikes! You seem to be clinging again, so Jaehyun bites his smile a couple of times and drags his tongue across his teeth before beaming widely. You shake your head but are unable to resist the invitation to smile yourself when his puffy eyes curve up. His flirty dimples seek your thumbs. This motherfucker…

Altering between hotness and sweetness should be considered a crime. Jail time is due for him. No way are you flirting back.

There seems to be an addiction to space, so proximity is key. But if he gets any closer with this newfound, unfair energy, you fear that you won’t be able to let him go.

In fact, Jaehyun does just that. Being quite competitive, he’d not want to finish second in a game where the person who keeps reaching closer wins.

Naturally, time slows down on itself. And yet more is said now—in the space, between the breaths, and after all those mean words. Could it be that you are becoming a fan of the hushness he so preaches?

His brow lifts again, but this time it’s more like a test, with his slightly blown-out, intrigued eye asking, ‘Why is it so hard for you to believe that I like you?’ It’s playful, but it manipulates you by raising doubts in your mind, making you wonder if he really means, ‘Do I like you?’

Feeling a little roused on the inside, you look at him with the same intensity that he does, and really the only thing separating you two at this moment is your willingness to reach out.

In spur, eyes, lips, and notions are all involved in the play. Jaehyun’s sensuality is just accelerating on top of your angsts. And every playful bite of his lips telepathically leads you in soft-spoken: Open your eyes; Open the keys; Open the mind. Just senses pleading with you to open them. Sight and smell are relatively easy to cross off the list, but taste and touch are a tad bit more tricky.

Lingering just at the tip of your nose, the weight of his perfume raptures you even more so now than previously. It feels as though you’re allowing him to reclaim control over you by allowing his magic to work.

And it does, elevating you to an unexplainable height. If perfume can offer a little sense of who somebody is, his attests to the warmth of his character. Pricey but never pretentious, you assume there seems to be a depth behind his tendency to favor musky scents. As they settle into the skin of each person differently, they have a unique, layered appeal. This intricacy speaks to Jaehyun in a way that’s similar to him and the various facets that comprise his identity. He’s the mild heat of spring—subtle but all at once intense.

That, plus the fact that you’re tipping more to your toes, more to his nose. Again, balance becomes a wavy thing as you’re beginning to lose to the chemical waves.

You overheat, and there’s this ecstatic tingling in your toes—this burning sensation!!

Cooling you down, the wooden floor feels surprisingly nice and cold under your feet. Melting. His lips are steering your emotions, making you loathe the remaining distance between you. And finally, finally, losing yourself- as you descend into the depths of his eyes.

Jaehyun is just smoothly succeeding in wrapping himself around you like the night...

Your crazed heart makes your chest dance to such a heavy rhythm. Your breaths are shallow, and your eyes are—

Pretty malicious, Jaehyun reaches out and slowly runs his knuckles down your cheek as to worsen it all.

With an even more seductive tone and a teasing smile, he asks softly. “What’s the deal, baby?”

Oh god...

A long, trembling sigh escapes you.

He knows! He knows he has to do so little... As if the electric vibrations weren’t already enough, he causes more!! Ghoosbumps begin to form houses along your skin. A powerful, uncomfy warmth ascends from your throat and becomes embedded in your cheeks. Well, this is what happens when a person’s voice becomes your favorite auditory hallucination.

A deep, velvety tone, a voice that belongs in a museum. Best when he’s used it to read you. Valentine warm after he’s led you in a song. Carnal, and in shady hues when he whispers. Such a wild thing, how your thoughts won’t stop romanticizing it. It’s all that you want to hear—as if everything ever stemmed from these id-driven impulses—is to ask for only his voice… Only his voice! And you CAN be greedy…

Once he nuzzles your nose and presses his tample against yours, your body sinks. Your closed eyes are a final measure of restrain as his breath mingles with yours. Thoughts race past like speeding cars. How in the world are you supposed to stop them? Your mouth gets clumsy in the end, it betrays you.

“I-I shouldn’t want you.” You blurt.

Jaehyun smiles in front of your lips and confirms in a flirty, “No-pe.” Just steering your comment in the direction of something good... Because yes, you should—

As you lie, your eyes open. “I really shouldn’t shouldn’t want you!”

Which makes his smile widen even more. His whiskers creasing invisible lines in his cheeks. An artist, indeed... On sinister thought, an angel’s grin.

To say you don’t love him is a lie. To say you love him is an understatement. To say you love him, you can’t. To say you love him now, you arn’t allowed to. It’s basically hell.

You’re doomed. You’re screwed with this magical person standing in front of you.

Yes! Exactly! HOW DOES HE DO THAT?

“How can something so wrong feel so right, then?” He tases in a low voice, dragging his nose across your cheek like a scar. It’s irrelevant if he’s referring to ‘this’ thing or himself. The final point is, he does things to you, and he knows it.

You groan a soft “Jaehyun,” with a mixture of protest and pleasure.

Contrarily, Jaehyun puts his hands around your waist and begins climbing. His lips start to brush under your ear and against your neck.

Shit-SHIT-

Are you going to fall all the way into his hands, or what?

What the devil kind of communication are you supposed to give? What does he expect you to answer? He’s the most bitter sweet, sweetness, heaven sent—

“You are... so...bad,” you drag as his lips rediscover the most delicate spots on your neck, and his muffled hums and moans accompany each kiss.

He acts to support the statement that was meant to be the general response to your question, so it gets a little derived and distorted with what he does, and you find yourself tossing your head back.

He ascends back up, rubbing a nasty “Yeah?” in your face and planting a smiley-boyish kiss to the side of your cheek next to your ear. His damp, choked breath on your skin; his whisper filling your ear; his smoky energy... “So are you, babe.”

FUCK. Awful! Foul. But your body listens. Your wants are left twisting up in knots, and you know only one thing will unlace...

But your mouth...

Your mouth can’t stop sabotaging and pointing out the nonexistent problems, which almost always become problems later on. This might get you the ‘big mouth’ rep but there’s a lot of good coming out that just gets interlaced with some bad. So, yes. True. You’re bad. But so are you both.

There’s a fireside of warmth he has aroused inside you and your lips are almost touching, but but—

“That’s… That’s why the outline of this is wrong.”

—you’re a little stubborn... so if he thinks your brain can take a backseat and let you be so easygoing, then he’s got it wrong. It’ll take longer.

Jaehyun’s fingertips, though, continue to trace along the length of your arm, calling you his with every line while his nose lightly rubs against yours, prompting you to—

“Is it?” he asks.

But maybe that’s what gets him. The ‘longer’. The far more difficult route to the goal. The much larger build-up. Love that bites. Love like war... Sometimes necessary quiet like love in a hunt. Love like the end of the world.

They warned you about him…

You breathe out the air you’ve been holding in your lungs and slip away from him. Depressed by his lukewarm replies, you respond coolly, “Of course, that’s how you’d answer.”

Sincerely, you want to stop; you want to be able to raise your chin, extend your chest, lift your shoulders and project strength, but the situation is so sad that all of its burdens fall upon you, causing you to slouch and feel its full weight once more.

For a hot minute, your tongue stays tied around your throat, as if it were forming an unbreakable noose around your neck. You two exist in this quiet, as all that keeps coming to mind is how beautifully his dark hair frames his face.

And after living in it briefly, you ask quietly, “What happened to you? What happened to us, Jaeh—”

He cuts in, “Oh, come on!” pointing a finger at you disapprovingly and raising his voice a bit, if not for the first time. “Don’t minimize us!”

However, as he goes on, his mouth mirrors his anguish, almost taking on a very faint, repulsive, sick look as he blurts out the words. It moves in disgust, but it hardly opens at all. Like he’s repelled by what he’s hearing or because he’s speaking back in a similarly offensive way(?)

“It’s rather insulting and beneath your design... To drive me away... When-when I’m not.”

The comment so easily revolts you back that just—

“I don’t have to drive you away, Jaehyun! You are away by definition... You are so away, you’re unavailable!”

Fuck!

You pause when the bobbling sensation inside of you rips at your throat, burning your eyes and causing tears to well up like water in a den but other than that you try to hold onto whatever crumb of strength you have left and continue. What does it matter if a hot tear rolls down your cheek and bruises it like a sharp diamond edge?

“I wait for you... I-I fucking watch for you, Jaehyun. The look on your face controls every feeling I have. I can’t fucking breathe because I’m waiting for you. It’s sick! It’s making me sick. I’m sick by it! I’m—I’m sick while all you do is cut my wrists so there’s no love for me- to- reac—”

Love???

Struck that the word left your mouth, you shut your eyes. Stupid! But then again, what did you expect? It can only surface in circumstances this excruciating. And no one has ever said the word up until now. It has never existed in the dictionary you share.

And you may blame your fuzzy vision on the tears that have welled up, or you can blame the small space separating you, but neither of these arguments can discount the fact that the word also takes Jaehyun by surprise and is left doing something to him too.

It’s impossible to miss the red that quickly built up in his ears—it’s not been there all evening. It looks so out of place against his ivory skin. Though nuanced, the action is very telling in itself. Something so intense and visceral that even his mind is powerless to stop it. The slightest clue that only you and he understand its significance and how unsettlingly intimate it is.

Or maybe you’re projecting again? Maybe you just want it to mean something(?) Maybeee… May—

You—You shouldn’t have used that word so carelessly! You—

In truth, you feel crushed by its weight. You feel like you’re ripped bare in the middle of the room and you can’t dress up your feelings again. But there’s also this bizarre solace in the fact that you don’t have to anymore. As the tears begin, your voice, cadence, and delivery are all off. As if they haven’t been already... But you can’t stop now; you’re inside the flux.

“Offer me a promise. Some people carry them in their back pockets, Jaehyun, why can’t you? Can’t you just make one?” Imagine how ironic it’s that you look down to the side pockets of his cargo pants, hoping he’ll pull them from there. But zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. As you go, you’re ugly and desperate. “Even-Even if it doesn’t get fulfilled. Even if it’s just a lie. Please, please just-just say something.”

Jaehyun rubs his temple before combing his hair back, at last giving in to this hour-long argument.

“You know I don’t do that. I have never! I’ve never given false promises and I’ve never lied, even though you enjoy using that against me.”

You know it carries a lot when he calls your name, “.........., this victim blaming has become so casual that—that I somehow always become the spectacle.”

With each painful heartbeat, those pitiful butterflies that occupy the pit of your stomach evolve into bees that sting. The room keeps closing on you as you cry one of the hottest tears you have ever cried, which, to put it simply, causes you to lose the plot. Your words begin to drag on and on, as if you’re barely sewing them together.

“See, you-you can’t… You aren’t willing. No, it’s pretending that you care. You don’t! And we’ve promised to fix—and-and we haven—”

Right now, everything is flying over your head, and it’s too much to try and process whether by getting closer to you again he’s trying to tell you that he’s won the argument or.......

but he does. Jaehyun closes your distance from each other.

You keep your eyes at your feet when his tone softens to one of tenderness again, like the aggressive one isn’t his choice and will never be his choice. It’s only you who can’t make the distinction if he’s speaking with pangs just now or just plain—

“You don’t trust me. You’ve never, in fact.”

“I don’t? … I haven’t?”

You suppress a sob, but your body makes it obvious. But you decide to lift your head and confront him; this is what he’s made of you… A mess—from the ‘home’ he’s constructed around himself. What hurts you is every brick he placed there for protection.

You try again, completely torn. Even your voice is defeated. Long-suffering and tender, “How have I not, Jaehyun? How have I not?”

That leaves you staring into the deep brown abyss. His eyes have become very glossy; perhaps he’s tired. Streaks of moonlight gold and fragments of stolen sunsets appear every time the corner light strikes them ‘just right.’ For a moment, you’re grateful that you have a warm place to return to…

However, one minute you’re on fire, the next you’re burned. That’s just how it works. Initially, you believe it to be the dead petals from the dried rose that have fallen onto your candle next to it and caught fire, but it’s actually the entire thing. This entire thing stinks. It stings.

You dab away the tears in your eyes and smother out the flame, which is cutting off the air and the charring stench is making you ill. Whatever, anyway, on a long enough timeline, you’re bound to get burned; everybody is flammable.

You take a deep swallow and then say what’s already been on your mind for most of the evening.

“I won’t say anything more... I-I think… you should walk away. You ruined the evening.”

…Right. Enough playing house with each other’s feelings.

Be that as it may, all of the ‘distance’ between you and him can be summed up in a single word that right now just so happens to be on your tongue. It’d also be easier if one of you could say it, but it’s hard to swallow pride when you’re prideful on both sides.

At first, the way he squints and rolls his tongue suggests that your words have surprised him. But somewhat, gravity shifts quietly, gently. Something heavy, almost out of balance, is in his dark eyes. You think they’re absorbing as they walk from yours down to your lips and back to your eyes again, and perhaps for the last time. Like as if he’s penetrating your doubt with his last seductive stare, the one that touches you without touching.

Breathing in moisture from abstract feelings, love on fire, and mischief well-hung onto his lips, Jaehyun asks softly, “You want me to leave?”

Your gut is in knots as you rip off a breathy, “You don’t want to stay.”

………

He gives you a deeply mistrusting look and then his thumbs dig into your cheeks as he yanks you tight towards him.

Not even time for you to—BLANK—you’re in clutches of uncontrollable desire; your heart lunches into your throat. It feels like a ship crashing as your lips meet.

Your impulsory senses too betray every right you spent the entire night fighting for, as your hands rise to his face, grasping it firmly to do the exact same thing Jaehyun is doing to you: keep him in place for you.

Except for his velvety lips, nothing about the kiss is gentle. Yanking, pulling, and gasping. And the more you hold him in, the more your hands become careless and he makes you bleed as your palms nearly cut at the sharpest, softest edges of his jaw. You’re cut up, down, and in between.

His tongue thrusts its way inside your mouth, savagely sucking away the transparent nectar that has just about begun to mingle. Fervor and tingling sensations shoot from up your spine and into your head and back down your chest as you moan at the heavy, wet sighs that come from his mouth. The spiraling of your energies is causing your noses to crash constantly.

Continuous, continuous crashing. He’s a type you want to fully devour simply because he’s too ambitious to just let you get on top of him. It’s a dog-eat-dog right now. Just this insistent, indecent sound of lipsmacking, him cramming his feelings in through the gaps when they allow, his scorching cheeks under your palms, and him crushing you with energy.

And Jaehyun hardly ever initiates kisses like this on his own. He’s often siding with soft, caressing kisses and daisy touches. So perhaps you do bring out the worst in him? Maybe you do mistake his gentleness for a lack of trust after all. Considering that your attitude during these arguments usually results in this pattern of kissing.

Still, you’d be pleased to learn just how much he likes them too. How much he enjoys a little dominance race for it only to get so disproportionate and borderline that, by the end, surprisingly, somehow both of you come out same. Just... you’d be surprised to know how much, at his worst, he wants to triumph through passive control but secretly needs more of those who confront and challenge this behavior in him. And that’s either soothing each other’s fire or adding more. And while neither of these are evidence of perfection, love also lacks perfection. So it’s why he’s constantly gatekeeping; it’s safer this way and more easier.

But here’s you—who constantly likes to demand these rawest gatekeeps out of him—that are his love, feelings, and vulnerability, and those are things that can be unnervingly frail and fracturable, so no wonder you terrify him.

Things that ought to be handled with care. Which leads you both to the issue of a lack of mutual trust. While your ingrained insecurity makes you not trust him because he’s not cooperating, his ingrained doubt that you can handle those things with care makes him not trust you. Ultimately, the situation stems from a case of miscommunicated love and belief, which allows uncertainty to creep in.

But with the way you fight him in this kiss—in all such kisses, in fact, it’s as if you’re installing faith that you mean to get to the bottom of him,

just as he’s doing the same to you, with the force with which he’s kissing you

But occasionally—sometimes it might be too late. Possibly too late if you don’t—

You moan, “Jaehyun,” hot, dazed, and frenzied, but trying to let him know it’s gotten so much as your hands stray from his stunning face and move to his chest in an attempt to push him. The kiss is but a bruising power struggle between you, with neither emerging victorious. It feels like a struggle for a final touch—your love on a battlefield. And the gore of it engulfs you as you’re drowning and sinking deeper.

It’s a kiss that isn’t like the ones either of you’d eventually forget. It’s a bite, greedy, and all too real. And it seems to he’s forgotten how to stop. It carries on and on until you find yourself submerged in his hands as he sinks you to the sofa with his grip on your waist.

At a sudden, violent fall, the couch gives way to a horrifying screech, and that’s about the only moment he pulls back for you both to catch a breath. In any case, you’re the most you’ve ever been under his possession—in his arms…

Yeah? And what about his waist… being strangled between your knees and in your mercy?

Right... Silence.

Sat-up Jaehyun is pressing up against yours and his hands are pulling you closer still. However, the loss of balance slightly gives you a tad bit of a domineering look since, from this position, you look down at him, which is what both of you are all about—a hot mess of a dynamic. Something unanalysable.

Opening your eyes to confront Jaehyun’s after what just happened is an obvious fright.

Certainly, it’d be yet another serial reminder that you’ve completed a full circle and are back at square one, failing yourself. But, as soon as you open your eyes, and you do open your eyes, all that helps give you the impression that now you two are coming in a full cycle is him and his dumbass dimples. Like, ‘Yes, We are so back!’

Yes… they’re very much sooo back. For someone who indeed makes it hard for you to make out if there’s velvet beneath all of that Rock or all rock under that velvety beauty, the majority of the time his dimples do blow away his cover. Their means is to say that he’s one tender being; more so, not everyone is blessed with dimples; this’s not to say that only special people have them, but it’s a fact of life. And he’s been entrusted to carry this gift, and he’s special, and you know this… and—is just—

That he’s made to contradict; it’s just a side quest of the whole scheme. His eyes seem to shimmer with a fleck of flame, one that feels inextinguishable but all the same kittenish and playful. Of course, you can expect him to get naughtier and act more roguish after a kiss like that. It’s as though someone has finally let him in like a cat through a door.

In case your heart wasn’t in a coma before, it is now.

There’s a faint rose on his cheeks, but what’s of explosive color are again his ears. Needless to say, you can also expect him not to want to address that, as it’s yet another cute, sinister way his body is designed to fail his mysterious self.

In the kiss, you were pretty much the worst enemy he has ever had, and now he’s back to being cute and wagging his tail around you. His angel-filled eyes and sinfully intoxicating, sweet lips effortlessly elicit a smile from you, which means he has overpowered your thirsty lips. Except now you do live along the coast surface of his exploited lips, even past them and inside, and that one fact is doing everything it’s supposed to do, turning you hot and bothered.

The kiss in itself has a strong, lingering aftertaste, just like his scent, and your fingers, nose, waist, and even your knees are the places where you can still feel him. Practically every area of your body has a throbbing pulse—one behind each ear, one on the left side of your neck, one on your right wrist, near veins, inner thighs, arch of your left foot, under your jaw... too many places… You feel like dying. Fuck…

It’s as though the kiss carried his potency, which now floats from neuron to neuron getting lost in your space until it’s drawn you into an empty corner; And you remain there, as sick in the head as you are for him, with your body being hotter than fire for him. You’re losing you again, piece by piece and second by second exactly the way he knew you would.

For a moment his lips slightly part as if he were going to speak, but he stays silent. You too. Even if you were able to form a thought, it’d be buried in your throat, making it impossible for you to say anything. Rather, you allow this corrupted sensuality to speak for itself as it transmits between your tied bodies.

Your hand trembles a little as you let your fingers approach his face. And when they do land, it’s like touching morning dew; he’s as light as a summer mist.

Feeling his skin, your eyes follow your fingers with precision as you take in every detail for the thousandth time, like a first time. His silken hair is in disharmony from the makeout so you go to fix that before moving your thumb along his brow to smooth out the mess there too. A plethora of bristly hairs, give or take, submit to your touch. And you look at them as though under a microscope, like a geek with a slight brow fetish, wishing to lick them. You’re obsessed with his eyebrows; if essence is everywhere, it’s also overwhelmingly there too.

But it’s true that you rather concentrate on anything tiny than give Jaehyun your undivided attention… All while he’s watching you and letting you do as you please. Though a heinous smirk does start to flicker across his lips, shifting from one corner to the other, and as soon as you finish adjusting his brow and perhaps are ready to proceed to something else, Jaehyun grabs your wrist, robbing you of your next action.

Bringing your hand lower, and adopting a much comfier, in truth, arrogant position by tilting his head back and resting it on the sofa, he separates your same ‘so generous thumb’, and slowly takes it inside his mouth.

Heyyyyyyyyyyy—No warning, no fucking not—

You hiss, ready with your “F-” to cuss but bite and swallow the rest of it. Way louder ‘Fuck!Fuck!Fuck!’ stay rippling in your head though, as he takes the finger deeper and deeper and his eyes and lips share the same smile, and

This m—

The man is too motherfucking happy to stop! That’s what it is. Causing you to frown and tie your brows fucking forever...

As he coats your thumb in wet, your mouth feels incredibly parched. With every successive push forward to pull you back again, his cheek muscles contract, tense, relax, and hollow out, sucking you in.

Your vision gradually goes haywire, like sugar that has just begun to boil from clear to burnt. With every sensual fluff of his lashes, your heart caramelizes to a deep, rich brown. Between every pull, spit slides, feeling slimy on your skin and sticking like candy. You’re all soft inside, melted and gooey.

Pleasure mounts, and your body is fighting an awful war to stay strong but really it’s giving in. You swear he can feel every nuance of this self-conflict, down to the smallest tingle with each wrap of his tongue round your thumb. All the way down to your pounding heart and bouncing thoughts; All the way—

If it’s of consequence, you know that there’s a hard mental play going on, but now aren’t even in the right frame of mind to consider how much of one.

Not when his other pair of digits slip beneath your shirt. Not when they trail down your spine like he’s trying to break it, pushing you into an arch. Not when—

You finally manage to drag out your finger from his mouth, sighing and pouting as you say, “J,” ready with something more to say but eventually it gets ripped off your head like anything else.

Is this beautiful aware of the number of heartbreaks he has caused you?

No—No, can’t! Can’t be thinking about th—you shove aside that thought also and start lowering onto his face and feel his arm wrap tightly around you just below your ribcage, arching you even more into him. Your shirt gets caught in the same way as a theater curtain riding up, exposing more of your skin and he’s the only one seated for the show. A private poetry.

His fingers graze each hollow space in your ribs, and the rest of the fabrics in between conceive a roughness that drives your skin into tears. The brain-twister is this: Are you tough and resistant, like the denim you wear?

Hmph, definitely not! That success you scripted, though, is over…

Motion generates friction; friction generates heat... your head is filled with smoke. There’s nothing you could possibly use in your head. All it’s made up there now is of abominable thoughts and smoke.

Clinging to his lips by only a few millimeters, you refuse him or yourself to let them come into contact still. Rather let yourself feel his breath on your face and get bruised up because of it. A pain of pleasuring in the company of pain. Yes, this is your self-inflicting prison. This prolonged, delayed intimacy, this sick turn-on... It’s just his rock falling into your heart again, like an ice cube that scuttles past grasping hands and obnoxiously skates into a whisky glass, making a splash out of you.

Regardless of how crazy or subdued the evening gets, it’s all fucked eventually. It’s fucking messy. However, that’s just the way life is—he’s the only one who has ever told you, ‘It’s okay to be messy, baby… I’m on your side.’

Fucking irony…

Dimly lit, the room is a depressing sight. Little red wine specks cover the couch, appearing to have fallen apart like the holes in some of his shirts. A silver zippo next to an empty ashtray that’s always left with just dust in it. Smudges stain the coffee table, and a pool of melancholy is created at the base of the candle, marking another stain as wax oozes and seeps down the sides. Its honeysuckle scent is so invasive, spreading like a disease in slow motion.

You’re worn down completely and irrevocably. Throwing your head back, a sigh rips from the pit of your stomach. The sound of your ribs snapping in half is like the cozy crackling sound of his record player, taking you back to the vinyl he played for you two weeks ago.

Warm. Pressing at the dip where your collarbones meet, his moist lips feel warm against your skin. And he’s taking his time this time around; his tongue is tamed along your collar line, if not overly lazy. It clings fragilely to your throat, choking you until breathing starts to feel more like a chore than a necessity—until you’re drowning from the carbon dioxide that’s swimming in your veins.

You pull away for a second just to sail back into the black oily sea of his eyes, saving the sight for later in the week when it’s going to get tough. You both secretly tie to stave off the night for as long as possible but time is a human construct and will spill its numbers on the floor.

Petty, his fingernails dig into your waist on each side, and the tiny, pointy scrapes that pierce your flesh, accidentally trigger your inner underdog.

Mad! You’re not just mad, you’re furious. Angry at having to let him go. Selfish to lose him. You been knew… But, dear god, how are you to do you without him? How are you to subsist without measuring the cosmos in his hands every night before going to bed? And how are you to wake up without his warmth next to you every morning? Or rather that was the idea of you two(?) A dream you’ve constructed…

You seem pretty sincere in your uncertainty about what lies ahead for the two of you in the long run. What’s worse, you’re aggressive with it, agressive in your once again glossy eyes and directing them at him to harm him emotionally, physically... psychologically. Then again Jaehyun is repressing his anger internally and handling it as usual. Will deal with it later. He’s so polite with it. Elegant. Or as much as the circumstances permit.

Lightning strikes lightning again, and your entire body starts to tremble as if you’re under a high tide that the ocean has saved for this exact moment. This power he has over you... you call it love. One day, you’ll blink and he’ll be back. And you’ll be sure to wait for that day just like a moon in the sky that waits for nightfall. Is that foolish? It doesn’t concern you because nothing’s fair in love and war anyway. You loved him then, you love him now and you’ll love him forever. But the fact you have to store such lightning in a jar right now is a load of crap.

You dig your finger into his cheeks and lift his jaw in force, causing a slight twitch in your wrist that soon becomes a boiling fit of lust. With a tight jaw and a raised voice, you ask, “What next!!?”

A receipt, please!?

-Double entendres.

A fleet of insinuations.

What’s next for you two? Where are you headed? But truthfully… For rea—

Smiling lazily in your palm, Jaehyun rolls his lower lip in confidence, and then, all of a sudden, you’re holding bread with scrumptious, detailed dips on both sides.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment in advance of what he’s going to say, his eyes remain fixed on you as he hooks his fingers into the black hair tie that’s been lonesomely hanging around your wrist all this time. Your hand is then gradually forced away from his face so he can take it as he yanks sensually and slowly at it. Dark, luscious flirtation loads every agonizing drag. There’s a crazy calm in his eyes.

‘What’s next?’

The timbre in his voice is enough to smoke you.

Smirking, “Anything I want.”

A silencer that makes a whisper of the gunshot. A gun which no hunter has it at all… Yeah, there’s not a gun whose sound sounds kind, but there is—

his voice, he

Your face goes momentarily expressionless, and your nostrils flare at the comment. Not only do you not believe what you’re hearing, but you find him puzzling to the point of offense. You give a mild shake, press your lips to your nose in annoyance, and reach over the left side of the couch to retrieve the ‘Hysteric’ cap he tossed earlier, intending to really smack it of his face.

But when you do swing it, blurting, “Sometimes, I hate both of us,” Jaehyun lets out an adorable laugh and clutching your wrist in time.

Warming your cheeks, the sun shines straight in your face. His laugh is everything good in this world. In his puffy-eyed smile, comfort springs eternally, much like light. This man alone starts spring.

He teasingly remarks, “Sometimes…” meaning… not alw—

His hands reach over your shoulders and he pulls you in again, gathering your hair at the back for ‘no other’ reason than to use that hair tie...

In the newly created intimacy, his eyes dart over every feature of your face as if he’s soaking it all in like the last golden hours of summer, and in gratitude, his smile gently strokes over each of these details with attractive happiness. He’s a generous artist, and you know this too… Is just—

Quickly, your noses start to collide with every failed attempt he makes to deal with the hair because the more he tries, the more he—

Lip-cuts over cheeks and incessant whines of ‘I can do it. No, you— I can!’s muffled behind ears like long-kept secrets.

“Just give up,” you smile.

“Nuh-uh…” he fights as he tries and tries, “I can’t,” and sporting a damped smile in the bends of your neck.

To get you where he wants you, every one of his failed ‘hair tie’ attempts is the most phony innocence ever imagined. His lips leave a trail of light, giggly kisses along the ridge of your shoulder, compelling your own hands to work their way up his shoulders, into his nape, and then into his hair.

Eventually, his hands become less firm and give up, causing his fingers to thread down your hair, yet he still assures you, “Mmmmh… I can do it...

… For real, though.”

It aches the way he does that! His low voice whispers… Marking you for disaster. A feral panic. The urges his voice alone has conjured up in you long to break free.

Tracing his eyes connect the dots between your goosebumps, your eyes, and your brain, strips you of your body. He’s touching every nerve ending, every inch, and every brainwave. Intimacy is a weird state to be in—too much of it and it ruthlessly takes out everything but the moment.

The calmness that follows an anxious fury.

The holy restoration of what remains untainted.

You are connected—you and him. Now. Just now, in the history of time itself...

And if you’re going to kiss him next, it has to unpeel. It needs to undress. It has to lay bare every feeling he fears and strip any hard shell he wears. It has to burn from muscle to bone. A tongue that maps out any doubt, lets it stick to it, and then crushes it under its weight. Exhaust every bad memory. Even so powerful to kill every terrible remembrance. His defenses have to go. They could crawl beneath the sofa and hide there like defeated demons.

Sure, art is hiding behind one pretense or another, but surely it can’t be for all times?

Hidden feelings, like hidden things, can’t stay hidden, for finding them is where all the whole beauty lies.

You know Jaehyun loves watching you watch him. But sometimes, that’s really difficult.

You’re at your last grasp for air but still manage to do that; reaching through your hair to his still-tangled hand, you bring it to your lips and gently plant a long kiss on the veiny outer palm.

The unusualness of it; your eyes on his; your mouth there lingering...

Although Jaehyun’s expression suggests it’s something he didn’t expect, it’d be mild to say he’s shocked. When he doesn’t smile for the first time, you want to smile because you find the confusion in his running, empathetic eyes adorable.

It came with no warning. He had no idea it’d tingle and rush to his center as it does.

Feeling with your other hand on his chest, the ‘silent word of truth’ races his heartbeat.

Let’s stop the complications. Let’s do that...

No more wrong, no more selfish, no more too stubborn to keep it a secret…

Let’s

You’re left stroking the space between his thumb and index finger, and in your eyes, this far into the night, your love is the only act of violence. The way he actually robs you of yourself should be studied. Your ‘whole purpose of earlier’ seems to be being yanked out of you and placed neatly in the ‘For later’ compartment.

Jaehyun’s looking at you, aroused in the right place, your head—The smoke’s not cleared, and guess what—he loves to go there,

… But perhaps you have your own sneaky way of doing the same…

After the hand kiss, his eyes are narrow... wary, like when he can’t read something from a distance. As if he’s in a slump. Spacing out… Comprehending… Perhaps he’s too late to realize...

To help him ‘see’ better, you brush the strands out of his way. Along with the way you subtly rip the corner of your lip, it makes it sound a little shady when you softly ask, “What is it?”

He smiles shyly as he says, “Coome oon,” dragging the word a little and even breaking eye contact, looking downward.

Huh, what is it? Is his shirt print suddenly so interesting!??

Just like he won’t sometimes, you won’t elaborate now either. Not saying anything, the time has come when you get to raise an eyebrow. Getting back his attention, you run a finger down his shirt, feeling the fabric give away to some hard, toned abs. They serve him nothing now...

He’s visibly altered, something you can clearly fucking see.

‘What is it?’ —

The question hangs over him, forcing a deep, deep breath out of him. He then takes hold of your face. His fingertips tap firmly, like an anchor to the sea, landing the skin behind your ear. You can’t be moved by anything other than him. Just-

him.

Flowers sprout from his palm immediately. Their vines snake their way up your legs. And those sweet notes in his voice!?

Nothing quite compares...

“I know you know...”

“Know what… Yun-o?”

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nymphia-tarot · 1 year ago

Text

Who is your future spouse?

pile 1 ----> pile 2

pile 3 ----> pile 4

hello!! this reading will be all about your fs and your future relationship. this might contain slight nsfw in some of the piles! i keep my readings completely gender-neutral! meditate on the pics and choose whichever one calls to you. if you feel drawn to more than one pile you might have messages in them for you! if you don't feel particularly drawn to anyone, this reading might not be for you perhaps. since this is a general reading, take what resonates! 🩷

🐇 ‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹ 🐇

1. Pile 1

Wow pile 1, right off the bat I'm getting that your future spouse is someone who is very abundant-- both in terms of material wealth and emotionally. They're someone who likes to give and may do a lot of charity work too. They might be used to being a provider for their family, or being like the role model. They have a lot of expectations on them and they're the kind who's used to supporting others and they're proud of it. They have a lot to give and they know it themselves. They have a very magnetic presence, very charming, and they have this ability to make people feel like they're special. They're also very passionate when it comes to you! I'm getting Leo and/or Pisces vibes. I'm also getting like, your FS is very good-looking (getting brown or darker shades of colour for hair) and they might have a lot of suitors after them or they might be really experienced when it comes to romance.

They have a lot of passionate feelings towards you 😳 I feel like they're the one who takes the lead in this relationship (mostly in the bedroom). You're like a wish-fulfillment to your FS or vice versa. I feel like you guys will meet at a time where one of you guys is going through a hard time, where it feels like there's no way out and the other is going to be a gentle guiding light. This pile also has a bit of sexual energy but that's probably because your FS is just... really full of feelings lol. Also getting they might have a slight jealous/competitive streak where they want to be the best you've ever had. Not getting anything toxic though so dw! They really love pleasing you though and their love language might be acts of service/gift giving + physical touch. They might be the one to take the initiative when it comes to wooing you and might try a lot to impress you. They like buying you nice stuff a lot and would probably spend a lot on you. I'm getting they just really like pampering people they love.

2. Pile 2

Pile 2's FS feels like someone with a lot of emotional baggage, or like their past is haunting them in a way (maybe a bad past breakup?). Still, they're someone who's more on the logical side and it feels as if they might try to rationalize their feelings a lot. They also come across as an introvert or others view them as a bit detached or loners. They might be an air sign (Aquarius or Libra?) or have air placements even if it's not their sun sign. They feel very sharp, intellectual and cuts through bullshit easily. Very to the point, direct and blunt as well. Their sharp tongue might get them in a bit of trouble in social settings. They might have a super intense-looking face/vibes or like, high cheekbones. I'm getting tall too, or even if not really tall they have "tall vibes" in the sense that they might come across as a bit intense-- just something about them feels very imposing and authoritative. I'm also getting they might be from a foreign country, different state or just a different culture from you guys. Traveling is def involved somehow.

You two might meet at the workplace or at some formal setting. I'm getting this is someone who's into more traditional conventions and relationships and they might even be super loyal and committed. I'm getting earth Venus sign. They might not be overtly romantic because they're bad at expressing themselves since they keep such a tight hold on their feelings. However, I'm getting they might be very reliable during times of need, like a strong guiding force that pushes you onto the right path. They're very mentally strong people as they might have had to deal with a lot of hardships in life. They have a lot of love for you though, and when you get into a relationship, they might want to solidify it through marriage. They're the type who believes in practicality and actions, so marriage might be a way for them to really be sure of your love. Honestly, this relationship might not be the most smooth-sailing but there will be a lot of valuable life lessons involved. I feel like you guys will come out more mature and wise from this. This def feels like a karmic/fated connection in a way.

3. Pile 3

Pile 3 your FS feels like someone who is on the more materialistic side of life. They might be a party animal and they seem super free-spirited and independent. They might have a lot of wealth but they're also kinda possessive over their belongings. They're actually quite emotional and intense too. They're very strong-willed, like hardships and what society thinks rarely phases them. Very unconventional people overall. They might be the type who doesn't like being chained by norms and expectations. I'm getting for some of you, they might be a sex worker too. And for some, they might just have a really successful business which got them a lot of wealth. They might have a tendency to overspend though so there's warnings regarding finances. Overall, they come across as a bit hedonistic and maybe even a bit immature at times.

I feel like you two really balance each other out in this relationship. You guys might even be a bit opposite of each other. For looks, they might have somewhat soft features or look really gentle and elegant. I'm getting that for some of you, your FS might've been in an abusive situation before you guys got together or they might've been the victim of some sort of exploitation. They might also have a very soothing voice. I feel like a big theme or overall lesson in this connection is regarding balance and harmony, and letting go of what doesn't serve you anymore. Your FS will go through or has gone through a major change in life which will make them grow stronger and more abundant (I'm getting cutting ties with a male authority figure?). I'm also getting that they're someone who will sacrifice a lot for the sake of you guys' relationship and they will try their hardest to protect the happiness and balance in it. It's something they really want to fight for and preserve at all costs.

4. Pile 4

Pile 4 might be dealing with a Gemini or Libra (maybe both in charts). I'm getting they might be a bit younger than you in age or even if not younger, less experienced in life. They come across as someone who's very harmonious and agreeable. Overall, they have a very flighty energy about them. They might be someone who daydreams a lot or has difficulty in keeping themselves grounded. They tend to have a lot of ideas but get bored quickly, it's like the mundane and simplicity bores them. They might not be very materialistic though and I'm getting they might find dealing with practical matters a bit difficult due to their tendency to keep their head in the clouds. They might also be a bit reckless. Also probably kinda bad with directions lol and they might get lost a lot. Kinda clumsy?

I'm getting your relationship might be a bit unconventional. Sugar daddy/mommy vibes? For a small percentage of yall at least but it's like you'll be the one who pampers them. For others, it feels like a fling or rebound initially. I'm getting you might actually be the first person they get with or they're a bit inexperienced. One of you might get a bit possessive/obsessed or too attached here (I'm mostly getting it's them). I'm also getting that at one point in this relationship, you might have to make a choice. What that choice is will be revealed to you in time. Your person might view you as someone impactful, or someone who brought a major change in their life.

#pac tarot #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #pac reading #future spouse #tarot #love reading #love tarot reading #love tarot spread #love tarot free #romance tarot #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile #intuitive #spirit guidance

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rayveneyed · 6 months ago

Text

cw: smut / a/b/o dynamics / cisfem!reader

contrary to popular, old-fashioned belief, alphas and omegas can be friends.

long gone are those times of wilful ignorance, the use of nature as an excuse for shitty behaviour —well, i'm an alpha, see, so i really can't help trying to shove my hand up your skirt, so—

most people are chill nowadays, you like to think — like to being the key phrase. sure, you get the occasional tradomega trying to tell you that you need to dive into your divine feminine and serve your alpha as god intended — and you've definitely been on the receiving side of some ticking biological clock rhetoric, for sure, by snot-nosed alphas with not even a single yen to their name — but it is what it is.

all of this to say that: when sero hanta is guts deep in you, it's completely platonic. completely. cute. casual. nowadays, no hair-brained ideas of marriage or monogamy or commitment accompany your coupling — it’s animal instinct, dirty and intense and slick and hot, scratching a biological itch, and that’s it.

you really lucked out on your choice of partner, too. sero’s an alpha, yes, but not in the derogatory sense. he doesn't get pissed when he smells other alphas on you, like a territorial dog; doesn't tell you that you should be settled down, already, with a household of pups to manage at 25 years of age; doesn't push and prod when you work long hours and devote most of your time to your career. he's funny, and goofy, and tall, and lean, and — and, well, his hair is floppy and inky black, and when he's hunched over you, sweat dripping onto your collarbone from his pointed nose, his cheeks flush the cutest shade of pink…

ahem. anyways.

while there are many omegas that are no doubt stronger than you when it comes to heats, forgoing human contact in favour of 700-odd pounds of silicone, you're part of the large majority that would rather shack up with somebody real. you're not knocking it, of course! your sock drawer is testament to the fact that you love your silicone, really, but there's just something about a person. all heat and skin-to-skin, sticky and nasty in a way that leaves you more satisfied than anything else.

and sero — with his kind eyes and goofy smile (and skintight hero suit) — is not only more than willing to help you through your heats, but have you enjoy them. not an easy feat when your insides are tying themselves up in knots between orgasms, but by god does he do it. something about his hips... something about the way he bows his head to your shoulder, grinding long and slow into you, hips pressed flush to hips. his lips brushing against your skin when he groans, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. you're not sure if you should be jealous of his obvious sexual experience, or just grateful that you get to be on the receiving end of it.

there is, of course, the obvious romantic connotations of it all. you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore it; after all, heats are these romanticised, coming-of-age-esque happenings, the plot of most early 2000 rom-coms and bad pornos. cute omega roommate forgets her suppressants and goes into heat! real alpha-omega love-making guaranteed!

but its not like that, because hanta is hanta and you are you. you’re like sharkboy and lavagirl. or fireboy and watergirl. whichever pairing fits the dynamic better — you’ve always been the hothead between you two.

“that’s a really shitty idea,” a friend warns you. she’d caught you with your scarf undone, baring the hickies that hanta had left on you to the world — an embarrassing result of the occasional non-heat trysts you’d find yourself caught up in. you couldn’t even blame the heat hormones for the way you’d almost mauled him, but a girl simply has needs! “i’m telling you, casual heat sex never works. trust me.”

but it works for you and hanta, right? because no matter how much you fight, how much you disagree, how much you chastise him for putting himself directly in the line of fire — on live tv, no less! — it all melts away in a pile of blankets and pillows. no matter how deep his cock drives in you, no matter how his teeth scrape your scent glands and have your toes curling against his back, it all ends up the same — slumped in front of the tv, lazily lounging on your phone while he boots up his nintendo 64 to kick ganondorf’s ass for the billionth time.

(and it doesn’t matter that sero isn’t seeing anyone else — it doesn’t matter that he’s deleted his dating apps, or that you keep the pillow he sleeps on when he comes over so that you can scent it when he’s gone. it doesn’t matter that he reminds you to take your anxiety meds — you know, omegas are 44% more likely to have GAD than the average person? — or that he remembers how you take your tea, coffee, and pho. these are things you’d do with any friend, of course.)

it’s cute. casual. not at all romantic, so surely you shouldn’t think twice about leaving a toothbrush at his place. and what harm could a set of pyjamas do? and you could always do with an extra pair of socks, and your skincare, and perhaps an extra phone charger…?

#sero waiting for u to figure out youve been dating for like 6 months: 🧍#anyways. hes just so boyfriend #the kind of guy that eats u out and has u cummin on his tongue and then asks if u wanna play mario kart #LORDDDD #sero hanta x reader #sero x reader #mha x reader #cw: nsft #cw: a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #abo #sero hanta x you #mha smut #sero hanta smut #anime smut #anime x you #anime x reader

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iliketangerines · 7 months ago

Note

hii it's the anon whom requested the cat!hybrid reader from last time :p

since it was hybrid reader, maybe hybrid Shang Tsung as well? specifically, he's half snake now after a failed potion (or spell, whichever works) and he just breeds his gf reader? maybe also with a little bit of obsessed shang tsung bc I have some thoughts after reading that obsessed shang tsung fic..

take ur time with this, prolly ain't gonna be my last time requesting (and sorry if I'm requesting Shang Tsung a lot it's just that he's lacking fanfics 😞 I have some very inappropriate thoughts abt him that I need to share)

wrapped around him

a/n: writing this, i feel like my writing style has changed since i've come back

pairing: snake hybrid!shang tsung x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), pussy eating, breeding kink, not proofread

Shang Tsung observed the snake tail slithering behind him, a beautiful shade of yellow mottled with some darker parts, and he tilted his head at his newfound appendage

he had drank a botched potion, thinking that it would work, and he was in agonizing pain as he felt his bones rearrange and his flesh meld and stretch

but then the ache had finally faded away, and Shang Tsung could properly admire his newfound addition

it was beautiful, elegant, almost terrifying, and the sorcerer wondered what other changed to his body that the potion had made

he slithered over to the mirror nearby, which had taken an embarrassingly long time with how he had to retrain his muscles to slither rather than walk

but it was worth it as he looked at his body, looking at how his face had changed

his arms had remained unchanged, but on his face…two new slits were now on his face, one on each side of his face that extended from the edge of his mouth to the edge of his face

his eyes were no longer pupils but slitted, like a snakes, and Shang Tsung opened his mouth, finding his fangs much longer than he remembered

but, Shang Tsung opened his mouth even more, and well, his mouth horrifyingly opened even larger, almost like his jaw had come off its hinge

he could see in the periphery how longer fangs popped out from the top of his mouth and sprayed a clear liquid, and then Shang Tsung closed his mouth to a normal amount to observe his tongue

it was forked, but he found he could smell much more if he stuck his tongue out into the air

an odd change, but not an unwelcome one…yet

Shang Tsung crossed his arms, drumming his fingers against his arm as he thought of the cons and pros of the entire situation

he wouldn’t be able to go out in public like this and gather his materials, but he felt stronger, faster, energetic

he supposed he would have to go back to his old ways of finding his materials in the forest, but then again, working with Sindel meant having to appear in court

he would have to transform back soon: he was due for a meeting with the Empress sometime next month

slithering back to the potions table, he’s struck with the thought of you, somewhere upstairs sleeping on the bed or sitting at the table and reading

how would you take his new transformation?

and suddenly Shang Tsung felt nervous

he valued your opinion, one of the few that he did, and he was devoted to you as you were devoted to him

he supposed you would have to his transformed state at some point, and if you would accept his changed body, he was sure

struggling to slither up the stairs, Shang Tsung found you absent from the living room, and so he figured you were still laying in bed, perhaps reading an ancient scroll

he made his way to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, and there you were, sitting on the bed with a cup of something and a scroll he had found for you to translate

you look up at the door with a glare before you realize it’s Shang Tsung, a smile coming over your face as you ask him if he was done for the day

he blinks and not quite, before swinging the door open to show his predicament

your eyes widen in surprise before you start laughing, full on slamming your fist in the sheets and nearly spilling your drink in your other hand

Shang Tsung scowls at your amusement, but it was a bit amusing considering how he was supposed to be a talented sorcerer and still managed to muck up a potion

eventually, your laughs die down into giggle, and you finally step out of the bed, revealing the soft expanse of your legs

you walk over to him, peeking over his shoulder to observe the rest of his tail, and you touch his torso where the skin and the scales blend together, sending a shiver up Shang Tsung’s spine

your observations are slow and deliberate as you walk up and down the length of his tail to observe the length and the pattern and the color

after a while, you stand in front of Shang Tsung, and you tell him the look suits him

the sorcerer chuckles and says for you not to get used to it because he would have to change back soon enough to meet with the court

you pout at him playfully before shrugging your shoulders and crawling back into bed and beckoning him to lay underneath the warm sheets and sun with you

he obliges and curls up around you, his tail wrapping around the two of you as you translated the ancient scroll in your hand and sipped on your morning drink

he would be rid of his tail soon enough, so he might as well enjoy it

well, that’s what Shang Tsung thought except no matter how many times he brewed the potion, it bubbled and fell flat or bubbled over and caused a mess in the labs

even worse, he couldn’t focus on his work, the scent in the air pervading his sense and something raging building up inside of his body

it was hot and heady and something he had ignored for the better part of two weeks, but he really couldn’t manage this building feeling in his body

he slithered out of the lab and up the stairs, hissing in anger, something else that he couldn’t control about his body

he hated this feeling of the loss of control, where he couldn’t even control his damn body

Shang Tsung perks up as his tongue flicks out, tasting you in the air, and he moves as silently as he can toward the door and cracks it open

you’re not doing anything in particular, just catching up on some light reading for you, some books on translations and ancient languages

and yet, you look so enticing, the sun glinting off your hair and shining on all the right parts of your skin and god you smell so tasty right now on his tongue-

you look up from your book, seemingly able to sense his staring, and you close it, placing a bookmark in gently and placing it on the bedside table

he opens the door fully and makes his way over to you, tongue flicking out over and over again because he can’t get enough of your smell

you question if everything was okay, but he can’t seem to hear you over the buzzing in his head and how beautiful you look right now and how you would taste on his heightened senses

Shang Tsung leans down, breathing in your scent from your neck, and his tongue darts out to lick the soft skin

he moans, licking at the slight sheen of sweat you have on your skin, and you tangle your hand in his hair as you laugh and ask if he’s just feeling a little needy

the sorcerer pulls back, and you realize something’s a little off, his pupils are so wide right now and staring right at you and his grip on your shoulders are tightening

he collides his body into yours before you can even think, and he’s tearing off your clothes and ripping off his and his mouth is on yours, nearly devouring you whole

it consumes him, this sudden lust for you, and he needs you, needs to taste you, to fuck you and secure a future

never had he ever thought of something like this, perhaps he had wondered about having a family when young, but almost never again as an adult

right now, his entire body was obsessed with breeding you, seeing you round with his children and to secure his heirs and his future

he presses hurried kisses into your neck, panting like a wild animal, and he can’t stop moaning into your skin as he trails further and further down

it’s an addicting taste, but he wants a slice of your sweetest part

his tail has somehow found time to wrap around your waist, squeezing you tight, and his hands spread your thighs for him, showing off just how soaked you were for him

he can see your slick dripping onto the sheets and dives down, not wanting to waste another drop, tongue lapping furiously at your pussy

it buries in deep, prodding at the deepest parts of you, and you can’t help but let out a cry as he fucks you on his tongue, especially as it bumps against that one spot

Shang Tsung can hear your cries, your whimpers of pleasure, and by the gods, he wants more, needs to hear you crying out his name, that you belong to him

somehow, his hands spread your legs even further, and he shoves his face into your pussy, nose firmly grinding against your sensitive clit

it makes pleasure move up your spine and coil in your head, filling it with a haze, and you whine out his name, moving your hips on his face as you chase your release

you can feel it coming, with the way the pleasure builds higher and higher, and SHang Tsung knows too with the way your hips buck and legs twitch

he wants it too, and his fingers dig bruises into your soft skin as he doubles his efforts, barely breathing as he thrusts his tongue ever further into you

humming against your clit, Shang Tsung is looking for your release, and you let out a cry, pussy clenching down on his tongue and head thrown back as you cum on his face

Shang Tsung’s closes his eyes and moans at the taste of you flooding his tongue, and he laps at you, trying to get every single drop, determined to not let it go to waste

your hips are still grinding on his nose, and you hands are gripping onto the sheets desperately as you ride out the last vestiges of your orgasm

finally, you open your eyes and find Shang Tsung’s face hovering over you, staring at you with those slitted eyes of his and grinding his cock into your wet cunt

his cock, cocks?

Shang Tsung all but purrs as he leans in close to your ear and whispers in his smug voice that his body can now accommodate for two

and with that, he pushes in slowly, and you whine loudly, hands flying up from the sheets to grab onto his shoulders and dig your nails into his muscle

but he doesn’t seem to mind, watching how your chest rises and falls rapidly and how your face scrunches up in both pleasure and pain

his mouth presses against yours, catching every little sound you make for him, and one of his hands go down to rub at your clit

it helps you relax, and Shang Tsung pushes a little further, letting out a breathy groan into your mouth as he finally bottoms out

you’ve never felt so full, so fucked-out and stretched, but it’s pleasureable, the way the sting burns around the edges and mixes with the pleasure

you beg him, please, please move, you need him to fuck you

Shang Tsung gladly does so, moving his hips slowly at first and then quickening his pace until it’s the wet squelch of your pussy in the air

he has to breed you, needs it carnally, has to fuck his cum into you, and it’s all Shang Tsung can think about as his instincts kick in

it’s almost feral how he fucks into you, hand rubbing fast little circles onto your clit as he fucks you on his cocks, and you let out a cry as you cum, still sensitive from your previous one

but he doesn’t slow down, or mock you, or tease you, rather he just continues with his animalistic grunts, teeth gleaming in the sun’s beams and eyes so black you’re not sure if there’s even an iris

all too quickly, another orgasm rises up in you, and Shang Tsung pushes you over the edge over and over again, filling your senses with him and only him

the pleasure and pain stings together, and you start to cry, tears falling down your cheeks

Shang Tsung licks them up, smiling at how you’re crying, and it only spurs him on for his tail to raise up your waist so his cocks hits a different angle inside of you

it makes you see stars and moan out his name as you clench down on him and squirt, the liquid coating his torso and his skin and dripping down onto the sheets

but it’s what Shang Tsung needs as he finally groans deep and cums inside of you, thrusts sloppy and slowing as he fucks his seed into you

his hips never stop, only moving much slow than before as he watches for any singular spilled drop from your pussy

and then finally, he buries himself deep to keep you plugged with his seed, and he loosens his grip on your waist to wrap his entire tail around the two of you as he drifts off to sleep

he has a protective grip on you, head buried into your hair, and you can’t find yourself holding onto consciousness much longer either as you fall asleep as well

Shang Tsung finds the cure a few days later, and then a few months later in the forsaken island as he accrues his powers, he finds that you’re pregnant

he almost hopes that they’re half-snake

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year ago

Note

everytime i see the name v you can be assured that i am going to butt in.

honestly, v is definitely the type to hire a hitman just because he got in an argument with someone. sure, he could deal with it by himself — but he is a lazy bum and has his... "priorities".

v meeting up with the hitman and immediately his jaw falls off. the most he was expecting is a bald man in shades and a suit, not an incarnate of a divine being!

v watching hitman aim their sniper on the victim — he can't help but observe the focus in your eyes and the steadiness and precision of your hand near the trigger. he praises the beauty of your hands, and unfortunately, his mind got to wandering. thinking about how your hands would feel on his cock — would you focus on his cock like you focus the aim on your targets? would you stroke his cock with absolute precision?

he's put out of his state when he hears a 'bang!' and flinches.

"the job is done, mr. vince."

"could you... do me next?"

"..."

This is bullshit.

If he knew he had to go outside to have that bastard killed, he would've just done it himself.

V drums his fingers against the dinner table - eyes scanning the venue for anyone that might fit his imagined description of the person he's looking for. Rugged, shaven head, nice suit and tie - maybe a few visible scars from their line of work. While there a number of suits in a fine establishment, they were just the run of the mill rich assholes he'd grown accusation to through his life.

Sweat beading down his neck, V pulls at his collar. He hadn't even dressed up for his grandmother's funeral a year ago and now here he was in a nice button up and slacks for a complete stranger - and it isn't even for a date. If the waitress came by again to check if he was ready to order his tie would be an easy ticket out of here without the embarrassment of walking out looking like a dateless loser. He can already hear them laughing whichever way this goes. Frustrated, V folds his arms, shutting his eyes as tries to blend with the background of the uncomfortable booth he sat in. Maybe if he keeps them closed long enough when they open he'll be back at home - or dead. Either is an acceptable option at this point.

"Excuse me-"

V shoots up from his seat as warm breath fans his ear. The voice, no louder than a whisper, sends a chill down his spine as it flows from the lips of its speaker like smooth honey. A far cry from the unpleasantly sweet tone that waitress threw on to hide her thinly veiled annoyance at seeing V still hogging an empty table. He looks up at the looming figure at his table side - jaw slack as his eyes adjust to the light that envelopes them.

"I don't mean to interrupt whatever it is you are doing, but would you happen to be a Mr. Vincent Carbone?"

V's mouth opens like the jaws of a dying animal fighting for its final breath. The person before him was dressed in date casual clothing. He stares at their exposed collar from the lower cut of their shirt and toned muscles from their sleeves. He rubs at his eyes. This... couldn't be them. He had to be looking at a model. V's standards were pretty low his own admission, but from the way they carried themselves down to their physical attributes proved they were way out of his league.

"Yes... um, that's me... Just Vince is fine."

They tighten their lips with a small nod. V makes a note of how soft they look compared to his own chapped skin. He follows their every move as they sit down in their seat across from him - wasting no time as they pull a black folder from the brief case brought with them. He watches as their calloused fingertips turn each page - pondering what they might feel like around his-

"So - are you this guys secretary or....."

V flinches as their eyes snap up at him - emotionless face plagued by a hint of annoyance at his query. "I can assure you I do all of my work by myself, Mr. Carbone.... From the information you've given me, it appears you have had a fued with this person for quite some time despite numerous attempts to block and/or have them removed from the group of individuals you play games with, and wish to escalate matters further."

Breathing through their teeth, they shut the folder - placing it flat on the table. "Had I not done my research into your person, I'd consider this whole thing."

V feels tightness in the crotch of his slacks at the use of that word. Mr. Carbone. He's been referred to as such before, but the way it rolls off their tongue- V picks up his glass of water and fits it to his lips, trembling hands spilling the cool liquid all over his white shirt.

"R....research... You... know about me?"

"Yes. It's common for me to look into the backgrounds of all my clients. Make sure they have the funds to pay for my services and take note of what I can take as collateral if anything comes up. I know for certain you've got the cash, but the rest is still up in the air."

V swallows hard. "I already had the records of our conversation scrubbed and it's not like we talked much anyway... I don't trust cops much either."

Amused, the hitman's expression shifts from its blank slate for the first time as they offer him a small smile. "Good boy...."

V slaps a hand over his mouth to stiffle the whimper that almost slips out. The hitman retrieves a small flip phone from their briefcase and slides it across the table.

"From now on you will contact me from this device only. We will discuss how what methods you prefer in due time. Do you remember what else we talked about when we spoke over the phone?"

"Yea.... Half up front, half went it's done." V pulls a crumbled envelope from his pocket and hands it to them - savoring the brief moment of contact between his sweaty hands and the heat of their skin through their gloves. They count the bills briefly before sliding it into their back pocket. What V wouldn't do to be that piece of paper.

"I look forward to working with you, Sir. Something tells me we'll be hearing a lot from each other in the future."

".....you promise?"

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #male yandere #V my oc #yandere drabble

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battlemaiden13 · 2 months ago

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I was wondering how the boys would react to MC eating a popsicle the same color of their magic also I was wondering if for the next pov chapter you could do syrups pov in 173 I really wanna know what he was thinking both at the kiss in the end and when he was talking to her about his dupe

I hope that makes sense. Also, I love the story so far. you're amazing <3

It has been added to my list for the next POV chapter :D

NSFW

Sans -He is trying so hard not to stare or let it bother him but his eyelights keep darting over to your mouth wrapped around the blue popsicle. His words are becoming muddled as he keeps losing his train of thought and he keeps trying to deflect with a joke but his skull is slowly turning the same shade as the sweet treat wrapped around your hands.

Papyrus -It takes him a while to make the connection between the treat and his magic but when he does he’s pretty good at ignoring the wanting feeling growing in the pit of his non-existent stomach. He does stumble over his words when he watches your tongue like the entire length of the treat to catch a melting bead as it runs down but he quickly recovers and distracts the both of you with a new topic of conversation.

Red -starts giving you instructions on how to eat the popsicle as if it was actually his cock. It started out as an excuse to gross you out and prove to himself you are not interested in him. When you start following his instruction he gets a bit too into it before trying to play it off as one huge joke. He’s going to think about it later when he’s alone though, trying to replicate the movements of your mouth with his own hand as he groans out your name.

Edge -Gets super embarrassed as he watches you. When you ask about it he tells you that he just hates the flavor you choose as he tries to deflect. His skull is dusting with red though as he blushes. His hands shaking by his side as he holds himself back. He’ll have to excuse himself, storming off as his soul pulses widely in his ribs.

Blue - He doesn’t let on how much he is enjoying the show you're putting on for him. For all intents and purposes he seems completely unaffected as he goes on with the conversations. It isn’t until you're finished and he reaches over to wipe the blue residue off your cheek, bringing his thumb to his teeth with a hungry expression, he compliments what a good color this is on you before licking it off and returning to his normal bubbly self.

Orange -Points out what it looks like almost immediately. He is definitely trying to get a rise out of you and tease you for it. Watching you get flustered is just as fun as watching you double down to try and get a rise out of him. Either way it’s a win win for him. Watching you become an embarrassed mess or try extra hard to tease him, whichever happens he’ll have something to dream about that night.

Berry - It already happened once (Chapter 117: Berry’s cozy morning) the second time it happens the small skeleton doesn’t fare much better. He freezes and stares just like he did the first time, his tongue unintentionally forming behind his teeth as he imagines how soft your lips would be on different parts of his anatomy.

Syrup -He watches you for a bit as his brain malfunctions. His brain always seems to malfunction when he’s with you. He stares for what feels like eternity before he watching some of the icy pole melt and drip onto your hand. without thinking he gently takes it and cleans it off with his tongue running up the sweet treat until the two of you are staring at each other and he realises what the fuck he just did. He quickly backs away from you berating himself for what he sees as a big mistake.

#Undertale #undertale Imagines #undertale sans #undertale papyrus #underfell #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underswap #underswap sans #underswap papyrus #swapfell #swapfell sans #swapfell papyrus #undertail

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transscribepage · 4 months ago

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"We are ambivalent, then, about beginnings- their 'creation myth' aspect appeals to our sense of narrative imperative, but we sometimes find the 'first it wasn't, then it was' lie-to-children unpalatable. We have even more trouble with becomings. Our minds attach labels to things in the surrounding world, and we interpret those labels as discontinuities. If things have different labels, then we expect there to be a clear line of demarcation between them. The universe, however, runs on processes rather than things, and a process starts as one thing and becomes another without ever crossing a clear boundary. Worse, if there is some apparent boundary, we are likely to point to it and shout 'that's it!' just because we can't see anything else worth getting agitated about.

How many times have you been in a discussion in which somebody says 'We have to decide where to draw the line'? For instance, most people seem to accept that in general terms women should be permitted abortions during the earliest stages of pregnancy but not during the very late stages. 'Where you draw the line' , though, is hotly debated - and of course some people wish to draw it and one extreme or the other. There are similar debates about exactly when a developing embryo becomes a person, with legal and moral rights. Is it at conception? When the brain first forms? At birth? Or was it always a potential person, even when it 'existed' as one egg and one sperm?

The 'draw a line' philosophy offers a substantial political advantage to people with hidden agendas. The method for getting what you want is first to draw the line somewhere that nobody would object to, and then gradually move it to where you really want it, arguing continuity all the way. For example, having agreed that killing a child is murder, the line labelled 'murder' is then slid back to the instant of conception; having agreed that people should be allowed to read whichever newspaper they like, you end up supporting the right to put the recipe for nerve gas on the Internet.

If we were less obsessed with labels and discontinuity, it would b much easier to recognize that the problem here is not where to draw the line: it is that the image of drawing a line is inappropriate. There is no sharp line, only shades of grey that merge unnoticed into one another- - despite which, one end is manifestly white and the other is equally clearly black. An embryo is not a person, but as it develops it gradually becomes one. There is no magic moment at which it switches from non-person to person - instead, it merges continuously from one into the other. Unfortunately our legal system operates in rigid black-and-white terms - legal or illegal, no shades of grey - and this causes a mismatch, reinforced by our use of words as labels. A kind of triage might be better: this end of the spectrum is legal, that end of the spectrum is illegal, and in between is a grey area which we do our best to avoid if we possibly can. if we can't avoid it, we can at least adjust the degree of criminality and the appropriate penalty according to whereabouts in the spectrum the activity seems to lie.

Even such obviously black-and-white- distinctions as alive/dead or male/female turn out, on close examination, to be more like a continuous merging than a sharp discontinuity. Pork sausages from the butcher's contain many live pig cells. With today's techniques you might even clone an adult pig from one. A person's brain can have ceased to function but their body, with medical assistance, can keep going. There are at least a dozen different combinations of sex chromosomes in humans, of which only XX represent the traditional female and XY the traditional male."

-The Science of Discworld, Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart, Jack Cohen

#GNU Terry Pratchett #The Science of Discworld #Discworld #Pterry #Terry Pratchett #Iain Stewart #Jack Cohen

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javiersprincess · 1 year ago

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𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

tags: wc- 984, fem reader, discussion of starting a family, hints of kaeaya's backstory, sfw but mentions of sex, mention of alcohol, established relationship when kaeya is shown being good with kids something happens to me.

synopsis: when a day with klee comes to an end, you find it hard to keep what you want for the future to yourself.

You have known Kaeya for years, and have loved him longer. You enjoy his teasing and wittiness, the way his eyelashes are longer than yours, and his habit of feeding your bites of food from his own hands.

However, the thing you love about Kaeya the most is how well he is with children. He’s playful enough to tag along with their games but responsible enough to reign them back in. Kaeya’s silver tongue is handy too when it’s time to get children to confess to accidents when things go awry. However, it leaves you utterly breathless with how well he is with Klee, the little Spark Knight had woken up with somehow more energy than usual and had run the two of you ragged with all the things she wanted to do. From dawn to dusk, game to game you feel your shoulders sag in relief as she finally falls asleep after you read the third bedtime story to her.

Kaeya nudges you, tucking your hair back, and murmurs to go get dressed for bed. You nod and step out of the room only to look back at how he gently undoes the small girl's pigtails and tucks her in. His hand, calloused from the sword but gentle around Klee’s pure spirit pets her head, and even from here you can see the soft smile on his handsome face as he makes his way to where you stand - lovesickness written all over your face. He makes a small noise of amusement, and you turn away to at least have some sort of dignity left but both you and him both know Kaeya sees through you like a crystal clear stream.

“What’s going through your mind?” He asks, letting his hand find their place on your hips, where the bones have molded themselves to his touch alone. You are quick to wrap your arms around him, tucking your face to his chest and through the small gap on his shirt you can feel the warmth of his skin on your forehead. You shudder as you feel his thumb rub against your hip as he closes the door behind him, letting Klee explore whichever dreamland she will find herself in tonight.

“You’re so good with her.” You mumble and you hear him laugh under his breath.

“She’s a sweet girl, it’s not hard.” He responds, letting the compliment roll over his back like water on a duck’s wing. He stifles a laugh at how you shake your head despite it still being pressed up against him. You are so cute like this - embarrassed by all the things you like about him that you can’t quite say.

“That’s not the point and you know it.” Still muffled he laughs at the ticklish vibrations of your mumbles against his chest.

“Oh? Then what is the point then?” He’s teasing - you know him, and you know he knows what you are thinking about.

“Do you think…do you want a family? With me?” You ask, voice gone hesitant and soft. His hands go from your hips to your lower back to rub in soothing circles. He’s thought about it before, you softened by age and a child with his hair and your face.

He’d want them to look like you, to have eyes that know not of sin and are rounded only by the wind’s embrace.

“Yes, sometimes.” He confesses and there is a fog in his eyes as he daydreams of the life he wants with you. Kaeya thinks of his childhood, of the warmth of Crepus’s hands and the gentle brotherhood that Diluc gave him.

“How many would you like, if we had them?” His answer comes out faster than he’d like to admit.

“Two, a boy and a girl. It’s nice to grow up with siblings.” Kaeya says and you can’t meet his eyes because there is something so deep in the shades of lavender that would drown if you dared to look up. A son and a daughter, you ponder - yes that would be nice, you almost sigh lovingly at the idea.

“Don’t tell me you want to start tonight?” He teases and you pull away to smack his shoulder playfully as he laughs quietly to avoid waking the little girl sleeping behind him. He is quick to catch your hand in his and begins to tug you upstairs, you chiding him quietly along the way.

“That is not appropriate Kaeya - especially with a guest in the house!” You hissed at him and he laughed a little more freely now that you are in the four walls of your bedroom. He looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh? So that one night when Jean stayed over-” He’s cut off again by you slapping his shoulder as to reprimand him. He keeps on laughing and is quick to wrap his arms around you again to love on you after teasing you.

“That’s not funny Kaeya, that was your idea anyways.” You mutter back, face flushed, and he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me my performance was that bad? I know I was a little drunk-”

“We both were drunk, that’s why we even got that far.” He chuckles at your admittance, and there’s love twinkling in the diamond of his eye as he looks at your side profile.

“We’ll get even farther right? Together? Far enough to start a family.” He asks and you lean into him the same way all lovers do. You nod, turning to meet his gaze with something soft like candlelight in the iris of your eyes.

“Yes, someday.” A smile paints his handsome face. He kisses you deeply and you can taste the juice he shared with Klee at dinner.

“Someday.” It is repeated back, and within its finality, there is a promise and Kaeya has chosen his ally for the future.

#lamb.writes #kaeya x reader #kaeya fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff

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taki-yaki · 11 months ago

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The Chains That Bind Us

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader/Tav Word Count:785 Part 2

After refusing the ascendant's gift of immortality, he seeks to keep you bound to him, even if a pact has to be made to do so. (Tw: Minor mention of blood, unwilling one-sided contract?)

As promised here is more in-depth writing about Tav becoming an undead warlock with A!Astarion as the patron.

For the Tav in this, they are already a warlock with an Archfey but you can insert whichever patron you see fit.

After you parted ways from the vampire ascend, after the defeat of the nether-brain, you thought that was the last you'd hear of him. You refused his "gift" of immortality in exchange for keeping your humanity.

Until one day you returned for a reunion party with your companions at Baldur's gate to be hosted by the vampire lord in his palace.

5 years have passed since then, surely he wouldn't have any lingering feelings for you after so long, he said that he already had everything he wanted when you left him.

Upon arriving at the palace, Astarion takes you aside to discuss about some politics with you.

Accepting his offer naively thinking that you were nothing more than old comrades nowadays despite your past.

Entering the small office space, you see a large pile of papers sitting on the centre table, they give off a necrotic aura, and the quick glace makes you think it's a contract with Mephistopheles.

He points towards the papers, an offer, a way to be with him still, staying as a mortal and allowing you to still venture around Faerun. Be finally free from the mischief that your fey patron causes you in day-to-day life. Refuse and it will be the last you ever see of your companions.

A simple offer he's sure that you can't refuse and he knows. Either walk away now and betray your companions or accept being forced to give up your old contract and accept the whims of your new patron.

Frantically flicking through the pages of the contract, looking for any sort of technicality in the binding that can be used to your advantage is useless. Every single possible loophole or trick has been closed off to you.

Devastation fills you, but you shouldn't feel surprised, after all, he was a magistrate over two centuries ago. Such legally binding faults must be accounted for at all costs.

Leaving you with only one choice, you sign the contract, your name written in blood upon the rotting paper.

As you feel the last soft fey giggle in the distance fade away from you, the sudden emptiness is felt before the power of necrotic magic wraps around you, in body and soul, bound to your new patron as the contract demands.

He treats you well within his palace, a whole personal suite to yourself and serves only the finest food that the whole of Faerun has to offer. But why would a vampire ascendant want to make a pact with a mortal in the first place?

A vampire lord can't start a war with another so easily, besides it just gives them a bad publicity image. So why not send the hero of Baldur's gate to kill them, no one would bother to think twice as much.

Most tasks given by him are either to scout on the local gossip of high nobles in the city or to destroy any minor uprisings against the vampire lord, whether it is a few monster hunters to stray vampire spawn, they must be rid of at any cost, in fear of what the punishment would be for disobeying.

The power that a vampire ascend can offer to a warlock is far greater than that of a lord.

Manifesting the ascendant's dreadful power through your form of dread, not only makes you immune to being frightened so easily but changes slight parts of your physical body undergoes temporary transformation. Once dull canines now sharp enough to bite your tongue out, nails that could claw through any foe, sharp and ready to strike. You swear that your eyes glow in a deep shade of red.

Although this transformation makes you wince in pain the first few times, after a while you adjust to it reluctantly.

As your pact grows stronger with him, you start to notice small changes on your body.

The touch of the sun is no longer a gentle glow that rests on your skin, but now carries a light sting on your flesh. It never leaves a mark but the pain lingers.

The slight of blood makes your mouth water, thoughts running wild of what type of flavour each one would bring, but never giving in to the impulsion.

Glances of your reflection in the mirror would never be solid, always dancing between the fine lines of translucently.

You know keep down that you can't kill him yourself, as the contract stated "Should thou harm thou pact owner, shall be made into spawn". As if the bond isn't having that effect on you already. A slow but manageable pain.

All you can hope is that one day someone will rise up and finally free you from these chains.

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

Hope you guys liked this, I still have a few extra ideas that I couldn't put here cause this post would be a lot longer. But if you guys want a part 2, I'll be happy to serve.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #writing #headcanon #ascended astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x durge #warlock #astarion x dark urge #astarion x reader #had fun writing this but trying to think of a good reason for the contract was a bit tough #also am I putting a little bit of bias to archfey warlocks #yes yes I am #also had to re-read a lot of epilogue dialogue for some parts

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isolaradiale · 21 days ago

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Another year can the gentle winds of winter be felt across the island. Snowfall accompanies it soon after, blanketing much of the island in glistening shades of monochrome. Breathes unfurl into wispy puffs of white, steam rising up from the hot cocoa that sits in the cool air that keep your hands and body warm with each sip. Winter has come and, with it, another time for activities that promote holiday cheer…

As a note: these activities are separate from any ongoing or upcoming events and you are free to participate in both! Just keep in mind that WinterFES activities do not count towards ranking up because this is not an event.

WinterFES activities are available until January 31st! We will be adding additional activities at some point during this two month period as well!

FIBONACCI WARD

BUILD-A-GINGERBREAD MAN High-tech meets sweet treats in this customized kitchen. For a price of (dust), citizens of Spirale can use screens to design a gingerbread cookie to their likeness. You can watch machines behind the glass cut, bake, and decorate your cookie as you command. You could make a gift for your friend… or make a cookie that looks like your worst enemy, and bite off their face. There’s something for everyone!

SOUPS UP For the duration of December a giant pot of soup can be found in the center of Fibonacci. The type of soup changes from day to day, and how it replenishes nobody is quite sure! Regardless it is free for the taking and never dries out. Could this be the work of our goddess Ofiuco? Or could it be something more sinister? (It isn’t more sinister, it’s free soup.)

ICE TO MEET YOU A station has been set up in Fibonacci where you can come to view and sculpt ice sculptures. If you destroy any creations that are not your own, expect to have all of the Dust emptied from your account you jerk. All sculptures must be safe for work.

COTES WARD

QUID PRO SNOW Wandering in Cotes, it’s not foreign to see pixies, especially in their playground. However, it seems they’ve invited their frosty little cousins known as frost fairies over to play a few games with them… and you! Making your way into here can land you a pretty sweet reward, given the price you pay. That is, these fairies will be more than happy to make you anything you wish out of the snow and ice were you to give them a small treat or a gift of their liking.

I’M GOING GHOST… INTERACTING! Traveling through the Forest of Airaisal, one can find a passageway that mysteriously opens up on its own, leading to a path less traveled. Whether you choose to take it or not is entirely up to you. Electing to traverse it, you’ll find yourself in a small, private glen where you will encounter the ghost of your past, present, or future self. Whichever appears is up to you, though once it appears you’re welcome to interact with it as you deem fit. Maybe you want to console your past self that everything will be alright? Or perhaps you’d like to reflect on your present self, or at least the one that exists before you arrived here in Spirale. There’s also the option to speak to your future self, on what they think of you now, or maybe guidance on what might come. The possibilities are endless…

NOM RANCHING Visitors to the ward, especially around the Eternal Tree, will come to find magical marshmallow treats that appears to be causing chaos due to magical means! Whether it’s pelting themselves against passing visitors, knocking precious things over, or merely just circling about as a chaotic distraction, it’s clear the only way to keep them in check is to capture them and have a sweet treat so they don’t overwhelm the area. Hopefully you came with an empty stomach and a sweet tooth, to boot!

GOLDEN WARD

SNOWFLAKE SCAVENGER The Mermaid Cove Mall planned on having dancing snowflakes as an attraction, but it seems the snowflakes formed a mind of their own and… danced right off of their displays! Deciding to salvage the situation, the mall is now making a game out of it–find five of them and bring them back to the desk, and you win a gift card! Watch out, though. The snowflakes are notoriously hard to capture, and seem to take your own strengths into account… This won’t be an easy task!

XTREME ICE CHALLENGE The ocean shores of the boardwalk have become completely frozen and boating is no longer possible nearby. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t fun to be had there! An obstacle course has been made for the daring complete with icy ramps, jumps, and obstacles.. Come with skates or without, but the organizers take no responsibility if you slip and break your nose.

SILVER-WHITE WINTERS For the duration of WinterFES, Spirale University is offering a different selection of classes related to the season. There are knitting classes where you can learn to make mittens and scarves, latte art classes to help you decorate your warm drinks for the season, and general classes to help you learn to wrap presents like a pro!

ARCHIMEDES WARD

CAROLS OF THE BELLES On evenings in the Archimedes ward, ringing through the streets from the Calliope Theater courtyard, you’ll hear voices as lovely as the singers using them. A chorus known as the Winter Belles begin their lovely lyrical lineup, and the concerts are free to attend. There are also a few open slots to join them, as long as you attend chorus practice.

CRYSTAL FUNHOUSE This large palace is made entirely of ice, and from the inside, one can hear chimes through its halls. Inside are several attractions: a mirror room, a hall full of beautiful ice sculptures, a complementary shaved ice bar for those crazy enough to eat them in this weather… But follow the chimes, and you’ll enter the ballroom, which is completely dark save for the tile floor. Each step you take makes a note that sounds most like you, and the ballroom lights up to the tune of your very soul as you dance across the floor… …What would happen if two people danced together?

YOU BAKE IT YOU BUY IT Throughout the Star Trail, many stalls have been shifted around in order to make a large area for those who wish to put their skills to the test in what seems a continuous bake off. Not only that, but it seems they require volunteers to be the judges of the savory sweets that are gonna be pumped out throughout the days. Fancy yourself an excellent baker who can blow the socks off of any taster who tries your dish or those who wish to place their palettes to the test? Well, have a seat and be served… quite literally!

MISTWOOD

TERRES-TREE-AL DECORATING Once more, a safe passage has been made into the Mistwood, leading to an area called the Traveler’s Garden. Some might remember the need to plant more trees and won’t be surprised to find that those planted back in Spring have now sprouted rapidly and is ready for decorating! Those who planted them can find them in the same spots with several boxes around them full of holiday decorations to get them decorated and ready to shine bright for the snowy season. Oh, and no worries, even if you weren’t able to plant one back in Spring, you’re still more than welcome to help decorate them!

TIS THE SKI-SON In a clearing that breaks off from the decorating, various large hills of snow have sprung up from out of nowhere. Trekking up to the top or taking a ride on a few snowmobiles manned by some island residents will reveal that it’s a makeshift ski and snowboarding attraction! Once fitted with one of your preference, as well as given a safety helmet and goggles, you’re free to slide down those slippery slopes and show off to your pals. Or maybe you’ll just biff it as you catch sight of that rumored dragon in the distance as you ski on down!

SPINE CHILLING FUN If you find winter season to be too mellow for your tastes or simply miss the thrill of the late autumn festivities, why not visit the Frosty's House of Horror? Fit for brave loners, couples and groups alike, this winter-themed maze is filled with all kinds of horrifying frozen creatures, icy traps and other surprises that will definitely satisfy any adrenaline lover out there! For an extra thrill (and the safety of the scare actors), all powers and weapons are taken away at the entrance. Those who are brave enough to get through the whole experience will be rewarded with a commemorative photo and one of a kind 'I Survived Frosty's House of Horrors' pin!

SWIRLING GULF

SOMETHING SEEMS ICE-FISHY While the Swirling Gulf can still be accessed, it would seem that a large portion of the waters nearby has been magically frozen over in a thick sheet of ice that can be reached with their submarine transportation system, allowing many people to walk with ease across it. Several holes have been drilled into it as well, allowing people to partake in ice fishing! Though a various amount of fish can be caught, there is also the risk of danger that you may be (un?)lucky to find a murderous large fish at the end of your line. But that could just be a rumor, right? No way there’s some large ghost fish or dangerous sea creature that you could reel in, right…

SNOWMANNING THE FORT Deep below, found in various areas of the sunken city such as the Mainland, Coral Bay, and even near the Kelp Forest, snow that never melts has been brought down and packed into areas where many can build snowmen to their liking. Laced with bioluminescent qualities that offer you any type of color, you can make colorful creations come to life with ease. Not only that, but once completed, the snowman will imprint the emotion belonging to its creator, expressing itself in an exaggerated display on how they currently feel. Whether they’re the happiest they’ve ever been or happen to be a little Scrooge-y at the time, these snowmen are ways to express yourself from the bottom of your heart.

THE CITY OF GLASS

ONSEN AND OFFSEN Recently, there’s been some magmatic activity closer to the surface on the back side of the volcano… suspected Nuee Ardente Society activity. Nothing (too) dangerous, though, and in fact, it happens to be below a spring source, turning the small ponds and water pools around the area into hot springs! Despite the snow blanketing most of the rest of the island, the areas immediately surrounding the pools are kept clear, mainly by the hot cocoa vendors who are taking advantage of this sales opportunity. Be careful, though, because the magma flow isn’t constant, and the temperature of the water can fluctuate in either direction, for better or for worse.

JUST THE WAY YOU LIGHT IT Leading up to the natural tunnel that gives access to the renown Garden of Ash, many might take note of a beautiful array of lights and colorful flowers that are laid out like a path into the garden itself. It’s highly encouraged to take this path at night, where many hand strewn designs light up in the dwindling hours, also illuminating the various plants which grow in the ashen soils, all while making the already falling ash even more snow-like to fit the snowy landscape the island has become. Some of the lights can even reflect of any glass in the vicinity, creating an almost kaleidoscope effect that can take the breath away of onlookers.

LOCALIZED ENTIRELY IN THIS ROOM? For those missing the summer fireworks, a similar event was set up in the ward where every night one could watch a customized Aurora Borealis show! Grab a blanket and a warm drink and relax under the beautiful lights, alone or with company! For an extra fee you might even request your own flair to be added to the show!

SUNSET CIRCUIT

RINK AROUND THE CIRCUITS While more daring skaters might take fun in Golden Ward, more casual goers might find a bit more joy in the ice skating rink set up on the shores of Moon Beach where the waters have been frozen over and smoothed out. Even more alluring, the ice beneath seems to have a mesmerizing array of glowing colors that light up and forms into playful patterns beneath the ice to the beat of the current playlist. Whether you bring your own ice skates or have them provided, you’ll be sure to have a blast gliding along the top of the neon colors!

SNOW FUN ALLOWED There’s a designated arena, full to the brim with snow that never seems to run out, dirty, or melt. Events take place not only throughout the day but also well into the night, with the arena being well-illuminated even at the darkest of hours. A good portion of the arena has been set up with barricades and obstacles for the ideal snowball fight zone, with regular switches between free-for-all or team games; the remainder has been sectioned off to protect any poor bystanders from errant deckings in the face, and is much more for making snowmen, snow angels, or any other sorts of snow activities you can think of.

TO WARM A HEART For those who find themselves in need of goodwill to spread this winter season (or are looking for a way to compensate for the disasters they bring to the city), a spot was set up where one can volunteer their services to the citizens of Spirale. Be it assistance in the soup kitchen, help with creating various items for the less fortunate, organizing other people's efforts or just bringing a song and good cheer, all efforts are welcome.

SKY-STREWN ISLES

AN UPLIFTING WINTER FAIR Life has gathered from far and wide to partake in a wintery celebration that spans the entirety of The Uplift. Snow falls from the sky and gathers on the area's many steps, and it would be quite a tumble if you were to slip and fall down them. You can find all manners of stalls, selling things from warm treats to winter clothes and toys. The perfect place to take a partner or friend to in order to enjoy some hot cocoa!

DON'T LOOK OUT BELO(H NO!) Because of the colder, snowy weather, steep slopes and ramps have formed between the isles and have been repurposed for the Ultimate Skiing Experience. Just keep in mind that you are jumping between flying islands, and there is absolutely no service available to save you if you fall. That means it's best you have wings, levitation, or know someone who does to come with you!

THE ECHO

CAROL OF THE (C)OLD ONES Even the Abyssal denizens in the Echo seem to be in the festive spirit. Taking the new crystal elevator in the museum lobby leads visitors down to the depths of Abyss, letting them out in a place that looks like a banquet. In this 360 degree crystal dome, the shadowy monstrosities outside the barrier begin to manifest... except they all seem to form a choir of beautiful, ethereal voices. As guests have dinner in the dome, they may see the shadows put on spectacular light shows in the darkness, like stars in an ever-present void. This is a formal event, dress for the occasion!

THE LAND OF BURNT UMBER

HOWLING ALL NIGHT For avid animal lovers and competitive players, a new opportunity has been introduced: a sleigh race!.. Except the dogs are replaced with coyotes. And snow with sand. But the rest is much the same: get your sand-sleigh loaded with goods at the starting point, follow the track to the finish line and try to be the first there (and not lose any wares on your way!). P.S. Do not worry, the coyotes are vaccinated from all diseases and are cooperating willingly. Usually.

MIRAGE RESORT In the desert, locals often speak of large-scale mirages that appear during certain times of the year and it seems that there happens to be a bit of truth regarding those rumors! A lavish resort, appropriate themed for the holiday season has sprung up overnight! Complete with employees dressed as elves and rooms decorated in the spirit of the holidays, one might think their stay to be a day dream all on it's own. The main draw of the resort happens to be the very large lake that surrounds it that functions as a beach as well. Though we do advise you to be careful as we're not sure ourselves when this resort will fade away just as it came!

#isola winterfes

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ricesinspo · 4 months ago

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☆ — art tips that have helped me. by @ricesinspo

these tips are based on my own experience as an artist who draws as a hobby. i've found that learning art is not as simple as just "practice" and "fundamentals", so here are 7 tips that worked for me!

— ☆ —

[★] when doing art studies, use them immediately in an art piece

this way, the knowledge sticks better rather than just being forgotten.

[★] learn things one at a time

for example, if you want to work on coloring / shading, use a subject you already know how to draw well instead of something completely new. this way, you can focus on the coloring / shading without having to worry about how the subject looks on top of that.

you can only take in so much information at a time, if you try to learn many things at once it's going to be more difficult.

[★] look at other people's art (speedpaints, tutorials, etc.)

pay attention to how they do things. try new techniques and see what sticks.

(disclaimer that should go without saying: referencing / tracing for practice is not the same as posting traced art and claiming it as yours / not crediting.)

[★] be specific when practicing

look at your old art and think about what parts of it you want to change / work on / improve on.

[★] Enjoy it!!!

love what you do!!! dont think too much about improvement!!! set yourself free!!! sometimes you just gotta go for it and do the thing!! love the process!! embrace the mistakes!!

yes, it is really difficult (and i'm still working on it), and improvement might be slower than if you just learn 'fundamentals', but as i learned to enjoy the process i started seeking improvement because i actually wanted to rather than only practicing because everyone else said so!!! this way, it's less boring and less likely to burn you out.

try not to worry about fitting in / standing out / being good / whatever!! your art is YOURS and it's YOU!!! thats whats important!!!

[★] on: art style

'normal / realistic' and 'completely unique' styles are both unrealistic ideals to achieve. if you can achieve it great! if not that's fine!! your style doesn't have to have realistic proportions and 'normal' features. your style doesn't have to be completely indistinguishable from everyone else's either.

(and to the "it's not an art style, it's a mistake" crowd: art mistakes are not unforgivable either!! whether it's an intentional stylistic choice that people think is okay to dunk on for some reason, or actually just a mistake, it's fine!! it's just part of the process, and sometimes also the result, and that's fine!!!!!!

if you want to fix your art mistakes by all means go for it, my point is: when you make a mistake in art (or if it generally doesn't look 'right'), sometimes you're inclined to fix it, sometimes it's a "that's unintentional but it looks cool" kinda situation. whichever one it ends up being is up to you, not internet randos who have nothing better to do with their time.)

[★] take every art tip with a grain of salt (including these ones)

if it doesn't work for you, drop it

— ☆ —

this is a formatted version of these tips that i shared on my main blog. putting these here with some changes so it's easier to read. (i realize these are all 'just practice' but With Depth, but imo the reason why 'just practice' isn't effective in the first place is because it's not specific, and the Depth is what makes it a "good tip")

#art inspiration #art resources #art tips #art help #art advice #art tutorial #resources #tutorial #ricesinspo #bonus tip: try the actual tip first before commenting that it's helpful #that being said id love to know if these tips actually work for people other than me #feel free to rb or comment if youve tried these!

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tesseractrave · 1 year ago

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The Happy Mask Salesman's design makes me wonderfully crazy, and I have to talk about the way my brain processes it because it's a big part of why I love him so much.

[Analysis is under the cut]

——————————————————————–——

The first detail I'd like to point out would be the color theory.

He has the bluer purple on both his tunic and trousers, or the whole piece if you consider it a jumpsuit (I personally don't draw it as a jumpsuit, but I do admit that it might be the most game-accurate interpretation), and it gives him a very direct foundation and center for the outfit's base.

The vest and shoes are a darker magenta, however, which adds hue variation while staying analogous with his tradmeark purple shades, and the light grey is a value used to balance the more saturated purples as an accent.

The golden accessories are a complimentary (opposite) color to purple, which Nintendo seems to be very adept at in general (cough, Splatoon, cough).

Of course, we can't forget his hair. Whichever specific shade you see it, it's always agreed that the color is at least somewhere along the ginger spectrum. The red, orange, auburn, etc. hues are analogous between the contrasting gold and purple, adding a transitional color to link them.

His skin serves the same purpose with the varied addition of having a lowered saturation and a lighter tone to aid the grey in balancing the depth of the color of his clothes and hair.

Though we unfortunately have no canon answer to what his eye color is, Ember Lab's creative decision to make them green may have been the best choice from a design standpoint because it balances out the purple in his clothing and makes his face stand out more.

The distribution of color in this design as a whole is pretty genius to me, as well.

His hair, being the only part of him that's that ginger color, directs the eyes upward to his face, while the main, deep purple is focused on the direct center.

The gold is arranged widthwise across the center, most heavily on the neck once again to direct the eyes upward while also distributing down to both of his wrists for balance on either side, almost like a scale.

The magenta and grey both run lengthwise down (and wrap around) the center and sit in mostly horizontal detailing at the bottom of his legs like the base of a pillar.

It's not something I added to the example image or spoke about before, but his white teeth in his smile are another aspect that is, of course, very eye-catching for his face and important for his design.

There's also the topic of the geometry.

I'm using my own art as an example because this is the way I interpret it, but the first image is just a breakup of how the edges of each section line up with one another in a way that fans out from the center, and the second image is the addition of marks measuring the estimated centers of each section.

Looking closely, you quickly realize how his gorget makes everything line up geometrically, and as a whole, the design is entirely symmetrical apart from the way his hair is parted, which adds all the asymmetry needed to make him feel natural, albeit incredibly well-groomed and organized.

The color of the inner edge of his vest and the the soles of his shoes is the same as the two rows of stitches running down the front of his torso, which gives the otherwise separately-coloured pieces of the outfit a common detail to link them as a set.

(At one point, I think I had an exact estimation for the number of stitches in each row, but I think I started ignoring it in my art to save my sanity. I know it's on my cosplay, though.)

His gorget and bracers also have a matching scallop pattern (though it seems to be debated on whether the scallops of the bracers face up or down), which adds an additional sense of uniformity.

The majority of details follow the lengthwise median, and everything suggests an overall polished feel and a balanced center of gravity. All in all, it's a fantastic design. I've seen so many wonderful takes and artistic adjustments on it, and I've even made my own, but the character designers at Nintendo really popped off with this one.

#happy mask salesman #loz happy mask salesman #the happy mask salesman #legend of zelda #loz #legend of zelda majoras mask #majora's mask #majoras mask #zelda majora's mask #loz majoras mask #the happy mask salesman headcanons #the legend of zelda majora's mask #loz majora's mask #loz ocarina of time #legend of zelda ocarina of time #oot #zelda oot #zelda ocarina of time

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spiralinghours · 5 months ago

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“Shades of Red”

Fandom: Saw franchise

Pairing/Characters: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm

Rating: R/M/18+ (whichever, it’s not for minors)

Content Warnings/Tags: vampirism!, biting and blood sucking, belly kink/fat fetishism, feeding (kind sorta), oral sex… Idk what else, men in their forties being rude to each other… You can assume how they talk…

Summary: Strahm thinks he’s going to finally catch and prove Hoffman is a Jigsaw apprentice… except he instead learns of a different secret.

Author’s notes: This really was just a brief vehicle to get to the plotless idea of Hoffman feeding off Strahm and drinking way too much blood. That’s it. The story doesn’t touch too much on why or how he’s a vampire, why Peter lets him bite him, why they behave as they do. This is strictly just for the kink of it all. So apologies if it’s kinda short, to the point, and maybe not as well-written lol… Just enjoy it for what it is.

Oh, and typical vampire lore is just thrown out the window on this one. Sorry for that too.

The way Peter Strahm discovered Detective Mark Hoffman’s little secret was so far from what he expected that… That he felt like a movie character stepping out of one frame and into a different genre in the next frame.

It was all so bizarre, so chilling, at how Peter’s glance paralyzed him to the spot as the man down the other end of the alley pressed his body hungrily onto another man’s—a victim. The attacking figure’s broad frame and softened features absolutely enveloped his prey, whose voice seemed to strain in a call for attention, but got cut short in a blood-drowned cough. That poor man was already dead despite any sputtering grasp for life.

Even in the heavy darkness, only pinpricked with reflective light from the moon and the puddles of trash water, Peter could make out two things: A) based on the vague outlining of blood against pouting lips and a strong nose, the attacker had to be Mark… and B) there was something perversely noteworthy about the way Mark appeared a little bigger, perhaps, in how he was keeping his victim pinned against the brick wall with his plush belly. (Peter’s intrusive wonderings imagined himself in the person’s position: skin sweating under the friction of their starched shirts… under the heft of Mark’s figure that beckoned a firm squeeze at the sides…)

Peter shook his head like a cartoon, swatting away the intrusion. While this was the man he was anticipating to catch red-handed, he assumed it would be under the guise of a pig mask, or behind some intricate death game.

This was something entirely unfathomable. Something else.

While the “correct and good” move would have been to advance on Mark and apprehend him, Peter couldn’t make himself move. In a flurry of indecision and stark shock, he dashed back from where he came.

Fuck the Jigsaw matter and all he had been pursuing, he had to leave. This wasn’t for his eyes.

——

A week and a half had swirled by all too quickly with the way Peter was burying himself in work, finding ways to become distracted. He was avoiding Detective Hoffman out of a vague mixture of unease and embarrassment. It was unclear if Mark had even spotted him in the alley that night, but Peter wasn’t taking chances. Even in having to work on the same case at the Metropolitan precinct—having to share reports and partake in the same meetings—he would find a way to slip away, or get Lindsey to operate on his behalf before even looking at Mark.

It was all working out.

Until one night, at Strahm’s condo, of all places.

Peter had just retired to his couch for the night, sitting down and stilling himself for what felt like the first time in a 48-hour period. He didn’t bother to shrug off more than his suit jacket and his tie before descending in front of the TV.

Staying in a minimally furnished, government-provided space was eerie and cold enough on most nights. Strahm used the glow and hum of the television to keep him company—buying into a flimsy sense of security and familiarity. But on this night, even that felt disrupted.

The walls behind the TV stand were nothing but window, meant for a scenic view during the daytime hours. In the blackness of night, something seemed to be looming, just beyond the glass, but it was hard to pin down what.

Peter had gotten up to look more closely through the window, noting to himself how he was making a dumb horror movie character choice. He scoffed. This wasn’t a movie.

But then there was a solid knocking at the front door—three heavy bangs punctuated by unnerving draws of silence in between.

Again, Peter chastised himself for even thinking to investigate, but this was reality. There was no monster, no slasher… But there was his gun in his firm grasp.

1, 2, 3…

Staying poised, maintaining control, he swung the front door open and reflexively pointed the gun forward.

“Jesus fucking—What the fuck?” The voice exclaimed from the shadows, somehow remaining unusually lax.

“Detective Hoffman?” Strahm squinted, confused and unnerved. He lowered his gun.

“Wow, it’s after hours. ‘Detective Hoffman’ is a little formal, don’t you think?” Mark started walking forward, not waiting for the other man to extend an invitation.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“You’ve been awfully… avoidant lately.”

“We’re not friends. I’m getting my case work done just fine without having to report my every move to you. Is there anything I’ve been doing—or not doing—that needs your direct attention?”

“Peter, this isn’t about the case.” Mark shook his head with a dismissive smile. Peter withdrew, sneering at the almost childlike way he was addressed. “Cut the horseshit, I know you saw me the other night.”

“I have no idea—”

“Did you like what you saw?” There was a brief flash of something pointed protruding over Mark’s lower lip.

“Excuse me?” Peter’s eyes widened beyond their stressed and crinkled framing.

“I saw the way you were watching…” Mark stepped forward, closer, backing Peter against one of the bare, wood-paneled walls. “Scared, confused… excited…” His lips puckered as he closed around the last word. What were clearly fangs peeked out, gleaming. He began to chuckle heavily at the way Strahm flushed with irritation.

“Eat glass,” Peter spat, mouth contorting into a wrinkled sneer.

“I’d rather eat something else, and I think you’d prefer that too.” There was that dry, smug look, just staring back at Strahm expectantly.

“What exactly do you want?” Peter sighed.

“Well, I haven’t fed in a while and… I dunno…” Mark, for once, seemed genuinely uncertain. He shrugged. “You seemed to have an idea of what I am, like right from the get go. But you also seemed like the type who might… be able to help me. Want to help me, I should say.”

“You really think I’d want to—”

“Peter…” Mark’s glare darkened, staring knowingly. He stepped back a hair, an unspoken implication that he wanted to play nice. “I can hear your heartbeat picking up…”

“Okay. Fine. You won’t kill me or make me… whatever the fuck you are?”

“I can’t make promises,” Mark replied, grin lazy and wicked.

“Maybe I’m changing my mind then!”

“Okay, take a joke. You’ll be fine. Listen, just biting you won’t turn you. Or whatever the scientific term is. I don’t really know all the in’s and out’s. And it’s easy: little bite, I get what I need, and that’s it. Just a little prick. Nothing too painful if you aren’t a pussy.”

“You’re a little prick.” Strahm made a point of casting his glare down at Hoffman, even if the height difference was only a mere few inches. “How do we… Ugh, should we sit on the couch?”

“Let’s go.”

—

They way they positioned themselves on the cushions was like two teenagers on an awkward first date: not sure what distance was appropriate enough, but needing to make sure the space was just close enough for the right angling.

The shock of Mark’s vampirism had diminished, long since spent on that moment in the alley. Now, Peter was treating the experience like a somewhat begrudging task; like Hoffman had asked him of a menial favor, and Strahm was obliging to get something in return. Still, he had to admit, the way Mark was opening himself up, loosing his own tie, spreading his large palms over Peter’s thighs to brace himself wasn’t terrible.

“Ready?” Mark breathed out, voice so smooth and rough and thick all at the same time.

He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so frantic and rushed—they were alone, no one watching, nowhere to necessarily be anytime soon—but Peter fumbled to unknot and yank his own necktie off. His blunt fingers slipped around his shirt buttons, but he managed to recklessly rake the fabric down to his chest, pulling one side of the collar low enough for access. “Okay, do it,” he agreed.

The initial break of skin—and the ensuing discomfort—was overshadowed by the tactile and intimate sense of it all: the humid scent of Drakkar Noir, the hum from Mark’s lips, the squeeze his chubby fingers had on Peter’s thighs, the unexpected crunch from the puncturing of flesh…

They sat quietly, save for the little labored gasps of air and the shuffling of their suit fabrics. Peter was shocked that he wasn’t squirming as much at the pain… though the pleasure, that had him.

Ten? Fifteen? Twenty minutes had passed? It was hard to tell, the moment feeling both excruciatingly long, unfurling, and yet so hurried.

“Ugh, okay… Okay, I think, I think that’s—” Peter began to sputter, feeling a plunge, a sickly twist in his stomach.

But Mark kept lapping, kept sucking with those plush lips suctioned to Peter’s skin. It strangely didn’t feel like much more than getting a hickey from someone with braces in high school… but the draining part of it all was, well, literally being drained. Strahm was starting to feel like he was contracting the flu: body stiffening and locking up, rapidly getting cold to the touch (to the point of freezing numbness at his extremities), spiraling into such a state of dizziness that he could barely keep his eyes open… Everything was fluttering—his heart, his breath, his lashes as he began to lose consciousness.

All the while, Hoffman had long since become overzealous, his chubby lips spreading into a vicious, messy smirk around his fangs. He sunk the points a little deeper, a sort of callous thrust behind it—a beast driven only by instinct and malice. The mix of blood and saliva, tacky against his warm breath, painted the act as an intimate tableau that would leave any voyeur to wonder if the scene was erotic or predatory. Hoffman relished in the filth of both persuasions.

As Peter’s chest rose and fell, shallow and frantic, he could feel more of Hoffman’s gut occupying the space between them. It pushed firmly against Peter’s ribs and slightly-leaner torso, cradling itself against the warmth. Peter could feel the give of Hoffman’s belly, wobbling ever so slightly with even the slightest movement. The pulsing from within Strahm’s straining temples rattled down through his neck, past the vacuum of Hoffman’s lips, and plunged into Mark’s stomach—the fresh blood continuing to pulse within him.

Despite perversely savoring the sight of Hoffman glutting himself like a hopeless animal—absolutely losing control to pleasure—Peter needed it to stop. “Isn’t that enough, big guy?” he tried teasing, though his tone fell flat with lightheaded exhaustion.

Mark snapped away, as if Peter’s faint drifting was what it would take to break the trance. “What’s wrong?” Mark purred, sharp teeth brushing wet against Peter’s ear. “Feeling helpless?”

“Are you sure you’re not the one feeling helpless, Detective?” Peter bit back, despite the nervous static running along his skin.

Mark had submitted to rolling aside, trying his best to prop himself up on his elbows, breathing shallowly.

“Need to lie down after that?” Peter mused, considering reaching out to give Mark’s belly a condescending little pat. He refrained. For the moment. “Was that… good? Was that what you needed?”

Looking satisfied with Peter’s service—but mostly with himself, as if he’d been lapping at something as rich and sugary as milk and honey—Mark responded with a tiny nod and an uncomfortable, suppressed burp. The slight jostle elicited a muffled blorp from his strained stomach.

“Damn, did you really drink that much? Do I even have that much blood in me? Jesus…” Peter muttered, cracking his stiffened neck while observing the way Mark’s gut heaved with each breath. The overfull roundness was emphasized by the way the dribble of blood ran down Mark’s shirt, causing the tight fabric to cling wet against his curves.

“I told you, it had been awhile. I got a little… eager.” Mark tried to play relaxed and disinterested, though his babyish wincing betrayed him. He raked his thick fingers against the sides.

“Yeah, maybe learn to swallow more slowly next time.” Peter’s attempt at a cutting laugh came out weak and raspy.

“Next time?” Mark wondered aloud, sheepishly. “You’d let me do that again?”

“Maybe,” Peter murmured in a blunt, cunning tone. “Maybe I like what it does to you… And maybe I meant something else…”

That familiar, dull half-smile quirked up the corners of Hoffman’s bloodied lips. “Oh, you think I’m gonna do something else?”

“I know you wanna do something else,” Peter shot back, hand making a shaky movement towards his own belt. They both looked pathetic in their differing states of exhaustion on the couch, but they weren’t spent yet. “I assume those lips are good at something other than just sucking necks.”

Peter’s voice seemed to be drifting from somewhere else, somewhere outside of himself. He had to be too delirious to realize his aroused thoughts had taken control, voicing themselves out loud like that. Just the same, he continued unbuckling his belt, undoing his pants, rutting his hips up just for Mark to watch with that lazy grin.

“You do want it, don’t you?” Peter laughed, low and velvety. “I mean, might as well return the favor.”

“You think I’m some kinda slut? That I would just suck you off that easily?”

“By the way you’re looking at me, I know so. What the fuck are we even doing? What is this whole dance, huh?”

It was true, Mark was terrible at hiding his eager blue gaze, cast from under those heavy lids. His ditzy expression was that of constant hunger, lust, and boredom… and it was honing in on the thickening erection under the meager fabric of Peter’s underwear.

Without preamble, Mark carefully shifted to his knees while remaining on the cushion, caging himself over Peter’s hips.

“No teeth,” Peter warned half-sarcastically.

Mark rolled his eyes, sliding his wetted lips over Peter’s tip, lowering all the way to the base, fit like a leather glove.

Peter was already so close, brought to the edge by every little thing: Mark’s dumb but sultry demeanor, his overzealous touch, the animalistic way he devoured whatever he could…

His tongue alternated between long, flat draws and smaller flicks on the underside of Peter’s cock, all while accompanied by some of the most desperate, muffled groaning.

“God, you’re such a desperate, fat slut,” Peter growled, unfiltered, unthinking. He reached his fingertips out for Mark’s shaggy dark strands and clawed at them viciously, no longer holding back to wait for the build up. He came roughly, hips jerking up against Mark, who braced himself in place to take it all and swallow down the thick spurts.

With an obnoxious smack and pop, Mark pulled off, panting and licking his lips, still splattered with remnants of blood but more so coated in spit and Peter’s slick.

“Fuck, Pete,” he huffed, trying to gingerly ease himself into a comfortable position with his back to the cushions. He was fading fast, so worn out, bloated with blood and cum.

“Take it easy, big boy,” Peter practically cooed, slipping into a strange familiarity in how he addressed Hoffman.

“Mind if I crash out here?” Mark seemed hesitant to inquire.

“Wait, don’t you need to be in your coffin by morning or some shit?”

“You think I actually sleep in a fucking coffin? That’s cute. All that Dracula stuff horse pucky. Like, you’ve seen me during the day at work. That’s all fake. So can I crash out here?”

“What? Too tired?” Peter wanted to laugh, but held it in a little, unsure of what instinct was urging him to behave somewhat kindly.

“Yeah,” Mark agreed, tired and minimally annoyed. “I’m tired and way too full. So if I could just sleep a little bit out here—”

Peter stood up fully, unfolding to his full height, despite how shaky his legs still felt. He reached down for Hoffman’s tie, still a bit cold and soaked with blood, and yanked. “Get cleaned up and you can get in the bed.” Peter, showed the slightest smirk, taking in the view of Mark bumbling to get to his feet, still too heavy and wide to move comfortably on his own. He didn’t offer a hand.

#coffinshipping fic #hoffstrahm fic #vampire hoffman #yeah idk what else to tag lol

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