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firapolemos05 · 1 year ago

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No devil hides beneath my bed

Part 1, Part 2

@whumptober | Ao3

No. 3 "Like crying out in an empty room, and no one's there except the moon."

No. 9 "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days."

CW: NSFW (minors dni), noncon, captivity, pet whump, mind control, forced kiss, forced arousal, past whipping, licking wounds, mentioned death of a minor, multiple whumpers, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, object insertion (used to hurt and punish), spanking, bath scene, nudity, forced stripping, disassociation, restraints, future forced prostitution, whumpee injures whumper, begging, non-human whumpee, 'master' as a title, thoughts of self-harm, muzzles

(This fic is a direct sequel to my other story Still your heart, so much to prove so I recommend reading that before this. And of course Please Mind the Content Warnings.)

Tonight was not a fight night, so the Champion was rather alarmed when the silence of the dark cell was broken by the approaching footsteps of several people. Perhaps there was an event he'd forgotten? Did Master have company tonight, someone she wanted to show him off to? Was she angry?

The notion made him shiver as his blood ran cold. He thought he'd been good since the last time he was punished. Memories flooded back from that horrible night at the fighting pit. A too-young body lying cold. The bite of shackles and Master's whip. The wounds on his back were still sore.

It's why he was here, in a cold, dark stone box rather than his more comfortable quarters. His disobedience had cost him that privilege. He scrambles off the pallet serving as his makeshift bed, pushing himself to his knees as the door begins to open. But it was only a couple servants and one of the manor guards.

"You are being summoned to meet the master’s guest. She has ordered that you be presentable."

Most of the tension and anxiety drains out of the Champion’s shoulders. Ah, so it was just some company for the night. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He wasn't in trouble. Master wasn't angry.

He rises to his feet, following them down the familiar corridor to the baths. If he was being displayed to a guest, then he needed to look his best. He may be a fighter who got himself covered with blood and bruises for other's entertainment, but outside the caged arena, all he was was Master Scarlet's pretty little trophy. And pretty little trophies shouldn't be soiled with dirt, or unkempt hair, or the smell of old stone that enclosed his cell.

None of them speak a word, not during the walk, and not when they enter the bright, cold marble room. The servants because it was unnecessary; they knew the procedure. The Champion because he was not permitted to speak to them. Or at all, and he learned long ago what doing so without permission would get him. The guard takes post at the door while the other two strip the tiefling of the sparse fabric adorning his body. The enchanted gilded gold shackles chaining his wrists, along with his golden collar, are left untouched.

The hot water is a rare comfort. It chases away the chill of the stone tiles where he kneels, glittering black streaked with bold white. The servants pour the water and lather various scented oils and lotions into his skin and hair.

There was once chains dangling from the ceiling, forcing him upright as they hosed him down.

He lets his mind drift off. The air smells of roses and apricots.

He'd snap at any hands that drew close, until they forced a muzzle over his head and sedatives into his bloodstream.

Indifferent hands scrub a bit too rough at his still healing back. It hurts, he doesn't dare move.

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It's far from the worst bath the Champion has ever had. He at least now has the privilege of being allowed to clean his lower half on his own.

He buries the memories back down.

One moment the warm steam curls up his skin, and he lets himself get lost in the feeling of being somewhere else. Someplace with no chains, cages, or whips to assault him. Someplace he can finally see the sun as much as he wants.

Then the next moment, he blinks and there's the touch of smooth, cool fabric. The water is gone, and he's standing as the servants dress him. By now he's already accustomed to the disappointment. Pants of sheer black chiffon embroidered with tiny red gemstones secured with laces up his thighs. Opaque black cloth with golden thread hangs from his waist, front and back. And finally a sash of red silk, set across his lower back before looping around to criss-cross his chest. The gold hooks fastened to either end clipping onto his collar.

It's certainly on the more revealing side of outfits Master has made him wear. But if the tiefling's opinions had mattered at all to her, he wouldn't be here.

Then came the jewelry. Dainty gold chains and more red gems. Draped elegantly around his arms, hips, horns, and tail. Tonight's guest must be expensive clientele if Master is decorating him this much. But they're finished with preparing him, so perhaps the Champion can finally get this meeting over with.

A lift brings them up to the main part of the manor, the churning of the mechanisms a pleasant break to the absent voices. Its doors open, and their master is waiting for them. All three kneel upon stepping off the platform.

With the Champion’s head bowed low, he feels his master’s eyes rove over his form, before she gives a pleased hum. "Good work with him, you two," she praises the servants. "You are dismissed. Follow me, my pet."

She leads him down one of many hallways, lined with various artworks and shining sconces. It's unfamiliar, and while he's supposed to keep his eyes cast downward, he can't help but take in the decor. Usually when Master presents him, he's brought to the dining room or the parlor, or some other gathering area for guests.

She stops at a pair of wooden doors, and once opened, gestures for him to enter.

It's one of the guest bedrooms.

A crackling fireplace bathes the space in a warm glow, colluding with the darkness leaking in from the night outside the windows and balcony doors. The glow lights up the rich browns of the wooden furniture, carved with ornate motifs that must be the bane of whomever was tasked with keeping them polished and free of dust. His eyes are immediately drawn to the large four-poster bed. The columns at its corners taper to spire-like points above the canopy frame, from which hang silk drapes of burgundy. A cushioned bench sits at its foot, and a plush rug of intricate patterns ('looks like Muthamian make,' says a far-off point of his mind) spans the area of dark hardwood surrounding the bed.

"Ah there he is." The voice pulls the Champion’s attention back to the opposite end of the room. A figure rises from an armchair in front of the fireplace, and years of training make the tiefling drop to his knees, eyes down. "My my. You have my compliments, Scarlet. This is quite the ravishing introduction."

Something about the man's tone doesn't sit well. It twists a knot in his stomach. He can't pinpoint exactly why, it's not like this was the first time someone made condescending remarks towards him.

"I figured this would be to your liking," Master replies. One of her fingers strokes the spikes on his horns, flicking a dangling gemstone. "You did mention wanting to see him in red."

Footfalls approach, and black leather shoes with gold buckles enter the Champion’s vision. A snap of fingers tells him he should look up. Pale stockings, slate blue pants rising high on the waist, a white dress shirt frilled at the collar and cuffs, and a smiling face framed in brown hair. In his hand was a wooden cane with a curved ivory handle.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, Champion," the man greets, words rolling with a thick Mężnydzik accent. Short, rounded ears speak human and high-quality clothes plus a well-trimmed beard speak high class. "Ivan Mitreski, I am an associate of your master."

"It's nice to meet you, sir." The Champion’s reply is automatic.

"Ivan here is rather new to the business with the fighting ring. He was witness to some of your most recent matches."

"Indeed, I was quite impressed. Though it's a shame you weren't able to handle killing that last dark elf fighter."

The comment feels like a slap to the face. Why did he have to remind him of such a failure, a horrible act he was forced to commit?

"His disobedience did come as a surprise," Master states, the coldness of her words further chilling his nerves. "But he won't be foolish enough to repeat such an offense, isn't that right, pet?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why don't you show Ivan what happens when you disobey." She snaps her fingers again and points down.

The tiefling bites his lip and quiets the part of his mind that bristles with humiliation. He hated this command. Lowering his chest to the floor, he crosses his shackled wrists to rest his head on, then raises his hips with an arch of his back. With nothing but a single sash of silk over his torso, there was barely anything to hide the tender stripes now on full display.

He awaits Ivan to make some sort of remark, relieved that he at least didn't have to see the man's face. But instead he was nearly jolted out of his skin as Ivan touched one of the wounds.

"So sensitive."

He wishes he could bite him. Touch still stings.

"If there’s anything else you find yourself desiring, feel free to ring one of the servants. Though come straight to me if he gives you trouble."

'Wait, what?'

"Of course, Scarlet. Again you have my sincerest gratitude for this."

And without a single regard for her pet's confusion, Master turns and departs the room. The Champion was left breaking position to stare at the closed door in bewilderment.

Master never left him alone with a guest.

'What's going on?'

"Your master has allowed me to spend time with you for a little while." Ivan sits on the bench in front of the bed, cane to the side, and gestures for him to come closer. "Don't be shy now, I'd like to talk with you."

The expression was soft, inviting. A warmth washes over him, easing his nervousness and tension, and he crawls over to kneel in front of the man. Ivan just wants to talk with him, almost no one ever wanted to make conversation with a slave. This would be a nice break from the norm.

"What would you like to talk about, sir?"

"I'd love to hear more about you. Tell me, how did you come to be Scarlet's fighter?"

He usually didn't like to think about this, the memories were often unclear, but with clarity began tragedy. But Ivan wanted to hear what he had to say, so it'd be rude to not answer his questions. "I don't remember everything, sir, but I did something unlawful and got caught. Master says she brought me here as punishment."

"I see, I see," the man nods, no judgment in his tone. "And how long have you been here?"

Another one he didn't know for sure. Prior to the fighting ring, Master had him held under some sort of spell that left him nothing more than a feral animal. Time and language meant nothing. He had no idea how long she kept him like that. "A few years. Sorry I don't know the exact number. But I do know I've been brought to the fights for about four years."

"And from what your master tells me, you became the Champion not too long after joining. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

Simple questions like that Ivan asks him. Back and forth they went. The man asked him his age (Master says he's in his early 20s), if he had any family (not anymore), where he grew up (the outskirts of Altruek Atea). The question if he'd ever been in a relationship before seemed a bit off, but when he answered in the negative, Ivan didn't press further, so it was probably harmless.

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

That catches him off guard. Without thinking, he looks up and Ivan is leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, leveling the tiefling with a strange smile. He doesn't scold the Champion for making eye contact.

It was a compliment, right?

"N-not really. Master sometimes calls me that, but not in a serious way."

"Well that's a shame." His hand reaches over and brushes a lock of black hair behind a pointed ear. "I'm positive you'd be quite popular, little devil."

The touch was gentle, affectionate even. He should’ve detested it. He always did when Master touched him like that, a controlling caress meant to remind him of his place. But somehow this felt different. This stranger . . .no, Ivan's hand and words didn't frighten him. This was the first normal conversation he's had with another person in years.

"Thank you," he replies, as that was the polite thing to say.

Ivan smiles some more, then pats his thigh. "Why don't you come sit with me here?"

He . . .he wanted him to sit on his lap?

"Master says I'm not allowed to sit on the furniture."

"Oh I'm sure she won't mind as long as I'm allowing it, right? Plus she's not here right now, isn't she?"

That did make sense. If Ivan is requesting him to sit with him, it must be okay in this case. And yes, Master had left them alone, with the order to call her only if her pet was being disobedient.

He doesn't want to disobey Ivan.

Rising to his feet, he walks closer. He'd been expecting to simply sit on the man's leg, so he jolts in surprise when Ivan takes hold of his arm and waist and pulls the tiefling onto himself.

"Relax, Champion."

That was a little hard to do now when he was straddling the man. This seemed too close, too . . . intimate. "Is. . .is this what you wanted?"

"Yes, you're being very good, Champion."

Good, Ivan had said. That was reassuring. He wants to be good. So he continues to be good and not move when an arm wraps around his waist. When a hand cups his chin.

When Ivan purses his lips and angles his face towards his. The pressure of the hands holding him told the Champion he should allow himself to-

'What are you DOING?!'

A bubble bursts. A sudden brick shatters the veil that was the charm spell from his mind. Just in time for his wits to scream at him to get away and his body to respond.

It was a trick. A cruel lie.

He shoves at Ivan's chest, pushing the two of them apart. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact as he fell, but that hardly mattered now. Putting distance between them, the tiefling scrambles back, then faces the man with a snarl.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The moment those words leave his mouth, he realizes he'll be made to regret it.

Ivan's face holds no trace of that once kind smile. Only cold disappointment.

"Well then," he begins, standing up and dusting off his shirt, as if the Champion pushing him somehow dirtied it, "I had thought you would've liked to have this the easy way but it appears that isn't the case."

His hand traces a sigil in the air, one all too familiar, and for the second time that week, the Champion feels his mind shut off.

The average charm spell is valued for its subtlety. It falls over the mind like a friendly embrace, the warmth of an inn, a pair of rose tinted glasses. Most people won't even recognize the change until the spell lifts, and certain mages could make it so that their victims won't find out at all.

But a dominate spell holds no such features. It does not need to be subtle. It forces itself onto the mind like a muzzle and cage, locking down the conscious so that the body is a pliant little puppet.

So the Champion can't question it, can't fight back, when Ivan orders him to crawl forward. A hand grasps his jaw and the tiefling is incapable of resisting when Ivan leans in and presses into him with a possessive kiss, devoid of the faux affection. A tongue worms into his mouth, and even through the spell he tenses with revulsion, a small whimper escaping.

Ivan purrs into his ear when he withdraws. "Oh I'm definitely going to enjoy you tonight.” He turns away to drag the bench away from the bed before facing him again. “Be a good boy and kneel right here for me, facing the wall. Arms raised."

His body moves on its own, against his will. He takes his place on the mattress as commanded, lifting his arms over his head without a word. He can only wait in terrible silence as Ivan fixes his shackles to the canopy frame. The man then retrieves several cords of silken rope, tying his ankles to the bed posts. Even his tail was restrained to his leg to keep it out of the way.

The spell goes as easily as it came, allowing the Champion’s awareness of his predicament to set in.

Trapped. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Too similar to the position he found himself in mere days ago. The ache in his back grew into a throb until he could practically feel the stone pillar against him and smell his own blood.

"Wait." At this point, Master Scarlet usually wouldn't allow him to beg. The damage had been done and he needed to be taught a lesson. But Master wasn't here and maybe Ivan would show mercy. "Sir please, I'm sorry I re-. . . I disobeyed you. Not the whip again, please, anything but that. I can't-"

A hand on his horn pulls his head back, and he cuts himself off to bite back a pathetic sounding mewl as Ivan licks a wet stripe up the shell of his ear. "You beg quite nicely, little devil. Rest assured, I don't intend on lashing you."

The Champion’s thoughts are caught between distrust and relief. He wants to believe him. He can't begin to imagine how painful it would be for his wounds to be assaulted so soon after. That punishment had been agony, he can't handle it again. Is Ivan telling the truth or only trying to lure him into a false sense of secur-?

Something touches his thigh.

His gaze shoots downward and Ivan is undoing the laces in the silk.

"What are you-?" he begins to say, fear tainting his voice, but the man presses a finger to the tiefling's lips and orders him to be quiet. The undone threads bare more skin from thigh to hip, and soon the pants are tossed aside.

It's when the black cloth is removed, with the red in quick succession before he can protest, that the pieces fall together into a vile puzzle.

No.

The revealing outfit, Master leaving them alone, the charm spell, the lurid stares and honeyed words on his looks, the kiss, the fact that he is now naked as the day he was born with his legs spread.

No. NO!

"Oh did you figure it out?" The damning chuckle accompanying that question took a sinister tone. A harsh squeeze of his ass shocks the denial right out of him.

The Champion jerks away, body trembling in revulsion and terror. "Don't touch me!" But he can't go far, and the bindings hold tight.

Hands latch onto his hips, and Ivan pressed up against him. To the tiefling's dismay, he can feel the man's hardened member against his thigh. "Let's make something clear, little devil. Your master has given me full permission to use you to my desire. So I have full allowance to touch any part of you I want. Understood? So I have a question for you."

He's prepared to ignore it, or say some lie or refusal depending on what the question is. But then Ivan runs his finger up the length of his tail.

"Is it true tiefling tails are quite sensitive?"

An unfamiliar sensation rushes up his spine. His breath hitches in his chest. A strange heat begins to build up within him.

"Judging by that reaction, I'd say my presumption is correct." And Ivan continues his caresses with a heightened vigor.

What is this?

His tail is sensitive, and each stroke is sending jolts of . . .some feeling throughout his body. It makes him shiver and bite down on his bottom lip, the heat in his face darkening his cheeks and ears. It pools in the region between his legs and he tries to close them to no avail. His toes curl. He can't even thrash his tail to dislodge the offending hand, whose fondling is clouding his mind into fuzz. His brain keeps saying this is wrong, invasive; he doesn't like what this sensation is doing to him.

So why does it feel good?

Each time he tries to pull away, some semblance of his body resists him, tries to lean in for more of this pleasurable touch ('No, this is not pleasurable. You're not enjoying this.') He tries to ignore it. Ignore the touch, ignore the hands and chains. Instead he bites his lips until blood drips down his chin, digs his claws into his palms until they bleed, and focuses on the pain.

And it almost works, if the fingers hadn't been replaced by a tongue.

The Champion's vision floods with blurry stars and the sound he makes is some cross between a gasp and a moan. He would feel ashamed and disgusted with himself if his senses weren't being overwhelmed by his tail being licked and nibbled and dear gods one of you please burn that fucking thing out of Ivan's fucking mouth.

"Oh, you like this don't you? That won't do."

He wishes he could tell the bastard to go fuck himself. This was nothing likable. This was wrong and violating. But unfortunately, he was having a hard time convincing his body of that. He refuses to look down and see how else his body is responding to it. He doesn't even hear the second statement over trying to stop himself from whining and panting like a dog in heat.

When the mouth leaves his tail, it's a breath of relief. Until he lets out a pained yowl as it introduces itself to the wounds on his back.

Saliva stings abused flesh and the Champion writhes in agony. Ivan begins with a stripe across the small of his back and works upward, aiming for all twenty-five. Meanwhile his hands resume their torment of the tiefling's tail, assaulting the poor creature's body and mind with a simultaneous barrage of pleasure and pain.

"S-stop, pl-please!"

"But you taste so good, little devil."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want any of this. But the touch won't stop.

The whip would be preferable to this, and that terrifies him.

Each stinging lick sends him squirming, arching his back desperate to escape. With every movement, the dangling jewels mock him with their chimes. They only entice his assailant on further. Further. A painful stripe running between his shoulder blades. Strokes at the base of his tail that almost make him break. It's maddening.

And then a single digit slips under to edge the rim of his entrance.

NO!

The Champion tosses his head back under a surge of panic, and the tip of his horn catches Ivan right in the face.

The hands release his body with a grunt of pain as the man stumbles back. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Ivan hold a hand to his bloodied cheek and lets himself bask in the satisfaction. Serves the bastard right, he wishes he gouged out an eye.

But that vindication soon melts away as reality comes to slap him in the face with the enormity of his actions.

He hurt one of Master's guests.

Oh gods, he hurt one of Master's guests.

The dread returns in full, and only grew when Ivan composes himself and levels the tiefling with a knowing look.

“I- I didn’t mean-.”

“Save your breath. We both know that’s a lie.” He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the wound. “Now I am going to go fix this little mess you made, and when I return, it will be with your master."

"Wait!"

Ivan exits the room, ignoring the Champion’s protests.

His gut twists into a knot. If he wasn't chained up like this, he would've crawled into the smallest space he could to hide.

It's been years since the last time he lashed out. The last time he'd bitten a woman's hand for yanking on one of his horns. The punishment he received for that kept him from ever repeating that mistake again. Until now.

Master's going to be furious.

Whatever's going to happen next will be horrible.

It's futile to try and break free, but he tries anyway. He yanks at the chains holding up his arms, tries to wriggle his legs free of the ropes. Hopes that something will give.

Nothing.

The dread takes hold, squeezing at his insides like a snake constricting prey. The fireplace continues to crackle, yet soon there's more sounds filling the Champion’s ears. It takes a moment before he realizes what he's hearing is his own hyperventilating breath and the rattling of chains from how violently he's shaking. Terror takes root and his fear and anger feed it.

He doesn't know how long they keep him waiting. It simultaneously feels like both eternity and a brief moment.

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

The Champion’s never been the religious type.

'Dear gods.'

The door opens.

Maybe now's the time to try.

'Please don't let this happen.'

"Did you think that just because I'm absent from the room means you can ignore the rules, pet?"

Ever since Master Scarlet first captured him, her voice always felt like icicles stabbing into him. Sharp and cold. Even her words of praise held an icy undertone he could sense under the mask she placed over her apathy.

Scoldings felt like getting trapped in a blizzard.

"It was an accident-" A force he cannot see slaps him across the face.

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

He snaps his mouth closed, burying the hopeless frustration far down so it wouldn’t show. It was always a gamble with her. Sometimes she would ask the tiefling questions expecting an answer, others were only rhetorical. It was up to him to guess the difference.

"Besides, it doesn't matter if it was an accident or not. You're in no place to strike my guests at all. So you are going to apologize to Ivan, now."

His training egged him to submit. He messed up big time and punishment would be worse if he didn't say he was sorry. But anger clawed up his body like a cornered cat. Why should he have to apologize to the bastard? Ivan stood besides Master, puncture wound nowhere to be found, not even a blemish. That only further boiled his rage. Years have gone by without him managing to lash out, and now that he did, there's nothing to show for it? Ivan's wound is gone without a trace, yet the Champion has scars (from far more painful wounds) that will last the rest of his life.

It's not fair.

Does Master know what Ivan's planning to do? Maybe he should tell her. Perhaps she'll stop Ivan to prevent her pet from getting damaged like-

' "Kill the girl." '

No. She wouldn't care.

She definitely knows already. Ivan no doubt has informed her. She doesn't care. She forced her Champion to kill a little girl, of course she wouldn't have anything against this. She doesn't care.

He forces down the rage. The injustice. Forces it down into the deepest pits of his gut. He can't show it. Getting angry is showing disrespect. Hissing his words is showing disrespect. Giving an apology that doesn't sound genuine is showing disrespect.

He growls with venomous sarcasm, "I'm sorry for hurting your fragile pride, sir."

He's not sure how his grip slipped.

By the way her eyes narrow and fill with disappointment, Master doesn't find it funny. "So easily you forget your lessons. Did we not just have this discussion the night of your recent fight?"

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It doesn't even target him, but the Champion senses her magic take. The shackles above him unhook from the canopy frame and suddenly he's being pulled forward by an unseen force. He falls onto the mattress, arms outstretched, and is helpless as the chains magically meld into the headboard. The position leaves no doubt as to what is meant to transpire.

He won't let himself feel regret. The bastard doesn't deserve it. But the little voice in his head still yells at him. Calls him an idiot for not obeying.

The bed is soft. Far more comfortable than anything he remembers sleeping on in his life. It feels nice against his face. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could lose himself in the rare luxury enough to drown out everything else around him. Like with the bath.

A hand grasps onto his horn and his head is pulled back so he can face his Master standing beside him.

"Let me make this clear, since you're having trouble remembering." Her finger presses into his side and traces a shape. The Champion can't see, but he knows exactly what she's touching. The branded initials of his master’s name seared into his flesh. "What does this mark mean?"

That definitely isn't a rhetorical question. There's an answer that his training won't allow him to forget. "It means I belong to you, Master."

"Good. And given that fact, it should be obvious by now what you are. I own you, pet. You are my slave. You have the title of Champion in the ring because I trained you. You fight for the entertainment of your betters since that's your purpose. To obey your master and entertain however your betters wish you to, whether it be fighting, being a pretty little server, or more private favors. Do you understand?"

His blood runs cold. 'Private favors.' A sugar-coated term for sexual favors.

Did-

Did that mean this would be a regular thing now? Would there be more people than Ivan who would use and violate him? More pain and more punishments if he refused or didn't satisfy? More-

He feels sick.

In his panic, he forgets to answer Master's question. She snaps her fingers. He senses Ivan behind him again but he can't see what-.

A sharp yelp rips from his throat.

Something is pushed inside of him. It's cold and hard and covered in some viscous substance. His body instinctively tenses around the foreign object, that strange heat already beginning to sink in.

"If you continue to defy your purpose, expect to receive this punishment more in the future."

This-.

This heat isn't the same as before with his tail. It lingers in the area it started and intensifies. It festers first into a sting, then a burn.

"Take this, Ivan," Master says as she hands over a flexible metal rod, the correction device she often uses on her pet. Said pet barely notices through the tears filling his eyes. He clutches onto the sheets with a desperate but futile wish for escape.

His insides are on fire.

What the fuck did they put in him?

"Strike him."

The rod cracks across the top of his right thigh, an acute twinge that gets drowned out by the burning spike as he tenses against the fiery intrusion.

It hurts in such an intimate way. He should’ve known; the rod by itself was too easy a punishment.

"First question: what are you?"

The moment he requires to register the question is taken as hesitation, and upon the next strike, the pain only grows worse and worse until it’s an effort to keep his words coherent. “S-stop!"

Smack!

"What are you?"

"Please, I'm sorry!"

Smack!

"Make it stop! Master, please!"

So this must be what the Infernal Hells are like. How ironic that a being of fiendish blood faces his own hell on the mortal plane. Devils did always like to scope out evil, and Master Scarlet had enough of it to last an immortal life. Hellfire would be a measly candle compared to the sear that tears through him.

"What are you?"

He can't even try to turn onto his side, the way his legs are bound won't allow it. The rod strikes an already tender welt and he howls.

"A sl- a slave," he finally chokes out, because this is too much. He'll do whatever Master commands to get this to end.

But the rod falls down on him again and Master repeats her question. So the Champion cries out the horrible word again because that is the right answer, isn't it? It has to be, there's nothing else it could-

Oh.

"I-I'm your sl-slave!"

There's a pause as Master acknowledges the correction, and her frown lifts into a pleased grin. "Again, louder."

Tears streaming down his face, he screams as the agony flares once more. "I'M YOUR SLAVE!" He wants this to end, he can't take it anymore.

Pathetic. Weak.

"Good boy. Second question."

He hates her. There is not a single fiber of his being that doesn't roar with contempt for this woman. He mentally prays to every god he knows to curse her with an excruciating death.

"What is your purpose?"

A far off point of the tiefling's mind hears this and thinks, 'To rid this world of you someday.' It's a wishful thought, wrapped in a fantasy. It barely registers to him through the fire.

"T-to obey a-and entertain!"

Smack!

All he can focus on right now is the pain and doing what his master wants.

"Say it the right way, pet."

"I'M TO OBEY AND ENTERTAIN!"

His face hits the mattress, and it takes several seconds of heavy, uninterrupted breathing and no more strikes of the rod for him to realize Master finally released him. It's over. His breath is short and ragged, throat full of cotton. He tastes salt and iron from his tears and ruined lip. His wrists probably don't look very good either from how much he tugged on the chains. He doesn't want to know what his ass and thighs look like right now. The rod doesn’t usually draw blood, but there’ll definitely be some nasty marks that’ll swell.

Another sudden touch startles him, and he doesn’t have the energy to stifle the whimpers as that awful whatever-it-was is pulled out of him. He nearly cries again in sheer relief as that burning presence fades.

"You have thirty more minutes, Ivan."

That picture of relief is shattered. Ivan is still here. Ivan still hasn’t finished with him. This isn’t over yet, they aren’t done hurting him yet. This man is still going to rape him.

"Oh that should be plenty of time," the man replies, unfazed by the tiefling's broken wail.

"I would hope you have some form of covering, or else that cream will give you a bad night as well."

"Worry not, I've come prepared."

"Good. Have him repeat his rule until he no longer hesitates. Let me know how he performs."

With that final damning note, Master Scarlet made her departure. And Ivan turned to the battered and crying slave before him, cruely brushing his thumb over a welt before unbuttoning his pants. "Well, little devil, it's just you and me. I'm still waiting for that apology."

The Champion buries his sobs into the bedsheets.

----

They chained him up and muzzled him for his second bath.

He didn't want any more hands on him. No more touch.

But since when did the Champion’s desires matter?

The water could wash away tears, blood, and other bodily fluids. It could not wash away bruises and bite marks that were definitely going to scar. Soreness and pain where it shouldn’t be. Nor could it stop making him feel sick, wrong, filthy, disgusting, weak.

He's back in his cell, lying on his palette curled up in a tight ball. Not a scrap of clothing adorns him, only the dainty little jewels that, with his hands bound behind his back, he isn't able to rip off.

He isn't able to rip at his skin either. To tear away soiled flesh and let blood chase away the phantoms that wouldn't cease their tormenting caress.

Master had stopped by minutes ago to tell him the news. She would be hosting a dinner party in a couple nights, and he would be present.

She informed him of its purpose.

The events of tonight weren't going to be a one-time occurrence.

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aelinschild · 9 months ago

Text

Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 4th: Wanderlust

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

SYNOPSIS: Wanderlust; a lust for wandering. WORDCOUNT: 1.1K WARNINGS: Sexual innuendos, Cursing, a little degradation?

Written for @throneofglassmicrofics 2024 March Prompts. Go check out the other works over there!

He had a garden.

Underloved but overgrown. Sat on the southernmost side of the house, curled between fruit trees that dripped abundance. Sagging branches with succulent flesh. She hadn't wanted to overstep – had no chance to establish boundaries before the man had disappeared. But, she loathed to leave anything in wait.

Gluttoning herself on pears and apricots, their sticky residue tracing routes of evidence to her collarbones; down her wrists. Stones sat piled in a facsimile pyramid, cores tossed into the dirt. Laden in her stomach, she felt drunk off the sugar and sunshine.

She was in a new pair of night clothes; a cotton chemise that stopped just before her knees. Proper despite the lecherous staining. It would have to be washed, scrubbed clean of the sensuality. The bottom, her ass, was most likely stained from the dirt beneath her. Rich and moist, fertile in every way.

In the span of a hundred hours, she had shed some sleuthing layer of herself. Skinning off time in exchange of a carcass dripping in currents. Sure, arguably the sun could dictate her comings and goings, but it had yet to cinder unprotected tranquillity.

This coastal paradise, a possibility beyond imagination. If she hadn't been dripping in her testimony of existence, she would have thought this was a dream. It felt hazy like one, under smoke mirrors and pungent cravings; all made earthly. Like some advertised escape, teetering on the edge of delirium but with the promise of rejuvenation. Except, she had no reason to return.

If it would be like this – quiet and lonesome – she would fit in with the pattern. Dust motes passing could barely hold a candle to her effect.

Of course, she did have responsibilities. Had to make money in some way or another, had to pay her tithe to the church of reality. But, Aelin amended, she could find a way to remove that constraint – those chains – while not suffering a desperate loss. Something with no way back.

She would have to speak to Rowan, first, though.

Standing on legs like a fawns, she gathered the seeds and kept them in her grasp. She would drop them in arbitrary places. See her presence in full bloom, eventually.

Making her way down to the shoreline, tossing stones and giggling at the noise of a ricochet. Closer to the water, the sounds were overwhelmed by the maw of oddity. Cool and vast, stones forgotten, Aelin toed her way into the water. The foam by the edge curled around sunkissed ankles and up to bruised knees. Deeper and deeper, cutting off synapses and blinding tactility. It took all of one choked breath before she was submerged, diving into obscurity.

Air was ripped from her lungs.

Currents rolled and crashed, twining together in a dance she had no understanding of the steps to. Pliable, she rolled with the water, eyes shut out. She felt hair and cotton. She felt immemorial gashes of land, their mark interrupted with her presence; her fleeting pressure bruising into lonely sands.

Spun around, lashing out like a shout, the water reigned absolute over her. It was a pounding, a thud thud thud on a door that should have stayed closed. There was a tightness, a burning, deep in viscera and flesh. Life force ripped from marrow. Elbows cracked on rocks, skin split on reef decay. Her body bent to the will of a beast.

Out, her mind chanted. Humming in the back of her skull. Out. Out, out, out!

Eyelids hung with weights and mouth sewn shut in promise, there was no survival instinct. Aelin could have laughed at her lack of care – how dare she challenge what could not be contained? Maybe, maybe, she could swim to the surface, strain worn muscles and atrophied wants. But it felt nicer, calmer, down where that light did not reach. She would let it–

Air came quickly.

“Up! Breathe!” Hacking drowned out shouts; drowned out water; drowned out… the man? “Breathe, woman! Goddammit!”

The world spun, a flashing slideshow of colour. Knees clacking together and hands tightening around linen. Tighter, tighter, tightening–

“Breathe.” Prayer and condemnation wrapped into a weather-worn shore. “In…yeah, there ya go. Good girl. Keep breathing. Right–” Adjusting steel band arms, shifting her around–

“Stop,” Croaking out, her voice came like rusted nails up her throat. She had to cough again, a loud ugly sound. Wrapped up in phlegm and bile. “Let– let go… of me. Ple–”

“No.” Final. Crashing, sinking, ruining.

They were moving. Large legs splashed water in all directions, careless and intentional encased in one. The arm that was a band around her waist hand moved up, up to her shoulders. Casing in rib cages and fluttering heartbeats. Careful placement left his hand North of where she ached. The other tucked under lacerated calves. Body warm, trickling into her head. Fuzzy now, moreso than when she was drowning. A humming and a clicking and a raging. Frame of marble and corded with need, his breaths came out hurried. Tracing over the crown of her head, light ghosting of another human. Her head could roll back, lean into the crevice of his arm, look up at her saviour.

But the hammering of his heart kept her gaze pinned to the horizon.

“I wrote…” Scoffing, a cruel noise, “The currents at night are vicious. Fuck. Why would you do that?”

Through addled thoughts, her mind was back in her bedroom. The novel she had plucked from between couch cushions – currently flattering said note.

“I-”

They were on shore now. She felt the change, the brief unsteadiness before the man readjusted his weight across the sand. Her head spun; from the drowning or the scent of sun-worn skin. He was saying something, rocks falling and skies crashing. Voice honeyed and stabbing, flaying across her nerves.

She landed on her feet with enough force to rock her brain in its encasing; blinding pain. He had dropped her.

Stood like a wet dog, dripping in guilt, melting in shame. Falling apart under some unknown desire. She was facing the man. This invisible figure that ran along capillaries like a scalding kiss. She was so sure her shock poured out in viscous waves – stronger than what had nearly taken her victim.

“Stupid woman,” he growled. Animal and all.

Indignance spilled from blue lips, jumping at opposition. Stopping short as they tumbled from a gaping mouth. Rolling into sand and forgotten in rapture.

She had been so sure that desire could be separated from axons, from cells and neurons. From eyes. Stood in front was what snapped surety, crippling it in its fist like a most fragile cut of crystal. Jagged and fine. Nothing like who she thought she saw, and unlike what she knew. Rowan existed like catastrophe made man; it had only taken the ocean to shape that.

Eyes that held torrential powers wavered, moments ago seeing through her, drifting now to see her.

Cotton chemise and sun-bleached hair.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @goddess-aelin , @leiawritesstories , @renxzs

#throne of glass microfics #rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin x rowan #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #rowaelin au #aelin and rowan #aelin galathynius #aelin ashryver galathynius #aelin fireheart #aelinschild

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butdaddyilovehim99 · 4 months ago

Text

Summer Kisses, Winter Tears

Chapter Two - Out of Thin Air and Averted Gazes

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

18+

Gale Cleven x OC, Winnie Egan

Summary - Winnie and Gale have got a lot to figure out with very little privacy

Warnings - cheating and age gap

Thanks as always for the encouragement and brainstorming with me bbg @brotherwtf

Winnie can hardly sleep through the night—tossing and turning as her mind races. She replays Gale’s lips on hers, his hands on her body, and the pleasure he made her feel. Her mind lands on Marge at one point, and she feels disgusted by herself.

She has to see Father Teska as soon as possible—she must confess and be absolved of her sin. Her blood runs cold the more she thinks about it. Would Father Teska tell John? Confessions are never to be shared with others, but this is one of the seven deadly sins—the most unholy of sins. Winnie concludes that she will be going to hell for this, as she cannot confess to Father Teska.

At the first break of light through the windows, she quietly gets out of her rack. She grabs her toiletries and heads to the showers—showering with the hottest water she can stand and scrubbing her skin raw as if she could just wash the act itself out of existence. Afterward, she begins brushing her teeth at the sink, and her gaze lands on a purple mark on her neck through the mirror. Her eyes widen in shock—she has seen these marks on John before from women he has slept with, but to see this brand of sin on her own skin is scandalous. She spits the toothpaste from her mouth and lightly runs her fingers over the bruise.

Winnie jumps when Helen speaks as she walks in, “Who the hell gave you that?” Helen laughs but stops when she sees Winnie’s terrified expression. Her face goes soft and understanding, “I’ve got some makeup; we can cover it right up.”

Helen makes her way up to Winnie and starts rifling through her bag. They are silent as she dabs makeup on the dark purple mark. Winnie watches through the mirror. “Please don’t tell John,” she whispers when Helen is finished—grabbing her wrist and turning to her, “please.”

Helen shakes her head and smiles supportively. “My lips are sealed, sweetie. This is just between us. If you want to talk about it, we can.” Her eyes search Winnie’s.

“Maybe some other time, Helen,” Winnie murmurs when another woman walks in, sliding her hand from Helen’s wrist to her hand and squeezing it—she plans never to have that conversation with Helen. “Thank you.”

Winnie gathers her toiletries and heads back into the quarters—dressing in a dark grey skirt that goes perfectly to her knees and a white long-sleeve blouse. She leaves her curls down for the day and quickly checks her neck before leaving the barracks—starting the walk to the mess. Her stomach is in knots, but Winnie meets John for breakfast most mornings. She knows she can’t stray from usual because of last night--John would worry and ask too many questions.

She instantly wishes she had deviated from her routine the moment she walks into the officer’s mess and sees Jack and Gale eating together—they both look up at her. Whereas Gale quickly looks back down to his plate, Jack smiles at her and waves her over. Winnie forces a smile and nods, “Be right there, Jack.”

She takes her time as she makes her plate—eggs and toast. She finds a small piece of fruit, an apricot, she believes and gets a glass of orange juice before walking to sit across from the both of them. They are shoveling food into their mouths, and she is grateful for the silence. She puts her napkin over her lap, then uses a knife to slice open the apricot and takes the pit out. Winnie can feel Gale’s eyes on her as she slices the fruit into smaller pieces. She does not look up from the task or when she begins to eat.

She hears the doors to the mess a few times as she eats, but she stiffens when she hears John ask for coffee behind her. Winnie slowly lowers her fork to her plate, nausea rolling in her stomach. She doesn’t think she will make it through this breakfast, not when John plops himself down beside her. She hears them exchange greetings and takes a drink of her juice and a deep breath. She feels John’s hand on her back as he rests his arm on the back of her chair. Winnie looks at him, smiling softly—before returning to her plate.

She forces herself to eat a piece of her apricot and pushes a bit of egg around on her plate. She chokes on her bite when John says, “I got demoted.”

“Excuse me?” Winnie demands, whipping her head to give him a stony look. She didn’t know he was meeting the new CO this morning, but it makes sense. She also didn’t realize that Huglin disliked John so much that he would get him demoted—but that also makes sense.

He pats her back a little as she clears her throat, still trying to recover. “I’m back as CO of the 418th. Sorry, Jack.” John says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry as his gaze turns to Jack. “Harding wants to see you.”

“You son of a bitch,” Jack mutters as the rest of them put together what this means for him. He tosses his napkin onto the table and stands before he huffs, “Air Exec.”

“You’ll be much better than the last guy, Jack.” Winnie offers, and his eyes soften slightly—giving her a little smile. She smiles and nudges John lightly on his side with her elbow when she says, “I guarantee it since I heard the other guy got canned.” John lets out a soft chuff and rolls his eyes.

“Thanks, Winnie,” Jack says appreciatively and nods at her, then the guys before he departs—no doubt to meet the new colonel. Someone brings a cup of coffee to John, and she looks back at her plate. It was easier to ignore Gale with Jack here, but Winnie knows John will turn his attention to his friend. Her heart starts to beat faster, and she takes a sip of juice to calm down.

Winnie tenses when John speaks again to Gale. “You got up early this morning.” Her heart is racing, he knows. John must know; he knows everything. She keeps her head down but sneaks a look at Gale—he pinches his brows together, shoveling more eggs into his mouth as he barely grunts in response.

“To see Colonel Harding before me,” John says, lifting his coffee and sipping. Winnie feels like she can breathe again. John doesn’t know, and this isn’t him confronting them. He’s smiling when he sets his cup down.

Winnie’s relief is almost instantly replaced with irritation—she closes her eyes for a moment. Gale helped John get demoted and helped get him back into the sky above enemy territory with flak and fighter jets shooting at him. She wants to scream.

“Well, thank god for Saint Cleven—getting you right into the action.” She snaps as she stands up from the table, tossing her napkin to her plate and turning to leave.

“Woah, woah.” John grabs her wrist, stopping her. His eyes are soft and concerned when she looks down at him. “What’s going on, Bunny?

Her eyes flick to Gale, who hides his emotions so well as he looks up at her. She can’t tell what he is thinking—his eyes give away nothing. She looks back to John. “Being Air Exec kept you safe.” It comes out quietly as she looks into John’s eyes—his eyes tell her everything. His love and concern for her even the slightest flicker of guilt. His thumb rubs the inside of her wrist, and he nods.

“I’m always coming back to you, Bunny.” He says it like he can guarantee it. She wants to believe him, so she nods and lets him pull her down so he can kiss her forehead. He’s grinning when she pulls away. “Besides, you know I’m the best there is.”

She rolls her eyes but cracks a smile and nods. “I know, Johnny.” She feels tears trying to well up in her eyes, so she slips her wrist from his grip and leaves the mess. She barely has time to get out of the door before she sniffles. She keeps her head down and finds a quiet place in the treeline to hide.

Winnie thinks she hates Gale, but that only lasts for a fraction of a second because she knows she doesn’t hate him—she loves him. It’s why she gave in so easily last night. She looks up when she hears the sound of a fort in a nosedive. She wipes her eyes and hurries out of the trees, watching in horror as a fort crashes into a fireball in the distance.

She watches the billowing smoke as she walks back to base, hoping its crew is okay but knowing they didn’t make it deep down. She bumps into Curt, and he grins at her. “You comin’ out with us tonight?”

Winnie raises an eyebrow. “Out where?

“To the pub in the village. All of us guys are going; you should come!” He grins, throwing his arm around her shoulders before he pouts. “C’mon, you’ll have a blast!”

She can’t fight the smile Curt puts on her face with his dramatic way of asking, and she nods. “Alright, Curt. I’ll come along.”

“Woohoo!” He hollers happily, and she laughs at him. “I swear, Short Stack! You’re going to have fun tonight!” He shoots her a wink before he goes back to his business.

She spends the rest of the day in her quarters with a textbook and only heads back to base to meet up with the fellas. She grins when she spots Curt, and he puts his arm around her shoulders. “You ready, Short Stack?” He grins when she rolls her eyes.

“You’re barely taller than me, Curt!” She laughs.

“Hey now! A half foot!” He defends proudly with a hand over his chest. “Every little bit counts.”

“What do you think you're doing, Bunny?” John’s voice asks from behind as he approaches the group she’s with. Winnie looks towards him, seeing Gale purposefully trail a bit behind.

She smiles up at John. “Curt invited me. Said it would be fun.”

John looks at Curt, and if looks could kill, then Curt would be a man dead. “Did he?” John looks back to Winnie and places a hand on her back. “It’s not really your type of fun, Bunny.”

“I never get to have any sort of fun, Johnny. I’ll take anything at this point.” She says, her eyes are pleading with him to let her come along. He sighs and nods in silent permission. She grins and throws her arms around his neck in a hug. “Thank you.”

She pulls away and keeps close to Curt while the whole group walks to the pub. She listens as Curt talks about something from back home, but she doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about with all the East Coast terms he uses. Winnie just smiles and nods along, happy to be included. She knows Gale is somewhere following behind her; she feels his eyes on her back, but she ignores it.

They head into a pub and claim the large table as theirs. Winnie sits beside John, and Bill sits on her other side. Someone brings her a cola at some point, and she sips it as she takes in the conversations around her.

She loses track of how many whiskeys John and the others have had by the time she sips her second cola. A few RAF officers have sat across from them at some point, and the air has been a little tense ever since. John returns from the bathroom and has left his officer’s jacket unbuttoned; she knows he is drunk now.

“Stop staring,” She murmurs as she leans close to John. He has been staring after a brunette and Major Dye for most of the evening. John relents and looks away as Winnie leans back into her seat and hears “Maths.” Come from one of the British officers.

“Maths…” John sighs, and Winnie tunes out most of the conversation that starts up around the table. She won’t admit it to John, but he was right—this isn’t her type of fun. She would much rather be in her rack, reading any sort of book she could get her hands on. She honestly believes no one at the table is having fun—at least not since the RAF officers parked themselves across from the group.

She picks a bit of fluff on her sleeve before her eyes land on the woman and Major Dye. Winnie feels a little jealous of the couple as they openly flirt and lean into each other’s personal space—and maybe she shouldn’t have chided John for staring. He must’ve had some sort of fling with her; Winnie imagines it didn’t last longer than a night—it’s never longer than one night with John.

Most of the time John leaves the gal wanting more and wishing after him, but this woman has clearly found herself a man who cares for her. Winnie watches how their eyes sparkle as they look at one another—she’s seen John give a dame a look like that, but Dye seems genuinely smitten.

Winnie suppresses a shiver, remembering how Gale looked at her the previous night and that same look in his eyes. She wonders if she imagined it or if he simply used it as a tool like John. Her stomach twists, and Winnie steals a glance at Gale. He’s smiling at Curt and looks handsome in the firelight—she frowns and looks at the bottle of cola she holds.

She chews on her bottom lip and runs a fingernail across the glass ridges. Gale said it was wrong, Winnie reminds herself of how he left her standing there in the aftermath of their actions.

Did I do something wrong? She had asked, and his response was as swift as a fort—no, I did. The words replay in her head, and she feels naive for thinking anything could have come from last night. Her mind veers to Marge, and she digs her nails into her palm—Winnie is going to hell.

Winnie is abruptly pulled from her lamentation when Gale shoves John down by the shoulder as he stands up himself. She is a little confused but understands what’s happening when the other men begin to stand—including John. She doesn’t know how the men have decided that a fight is the best way to settle the tension, but she’s not surprised. It seems as if all of the RAF have an agreement to egg the 100th men on, whether that’s in pubs or when they occasionally stop by the base.

She sets her cola on the table before standing to follow them outside. John will avoid trouble if she’s outside with them, and Winnie uses that to her advantage. She stands a bit away and leans against the wall, still in the pub’s light—so John can see her waiting. She notes that Curt has managed to be the one fighting the Brit and that’s as far as her interest goes. Winnie doesn’t pay attention—she keeps her eyes on her shoes until she hears the sound of a punch and a body hitting the ground before the men celebrate. She fights a small smile when John lifts Curt up, and Curt holds his hands in the air.

Winnie pushes off the wall and follows the men after John. They all praise Curt for his victory, and she can’t help but smile. The guy had it coming. It takes her a short moment to realize Gale is walking beside her and keeping time with her shorter legs. She starts to speed up, trying to move from the back of the group, but his fingers gently wrap around her wrist.

Winnie looks up at him with wide eyes—he is already looking down at her. She wants to be strong—to leave him standing alone in the street. But she is weak—she doesn’t resist when he leads her down a side street as the other men continue celebrating as they walk back to base.

She stops walking when he does, chewing on her bottom lip as she leans back against the cool stone wall. She watches as he runs a hand through his hair before he looks down at her—her heart flutters in her chest, and she wishes it wouldn’t. She wants to be angry but can’t when his eyes finally meet hers. She’s mad at herself when she realizes she wants to kiss him. He ran away from her after she gave him her virginity, and she is still helplessly in love with him.

“I’m sorry, Winnie.” Gale finally says, his eyes are full of sincerity.

Her eyes narrow up at him, this is not what she thought would happen. She feels stupid and naive for the butterflies and excitement she felt a moment ago. Her tone is steely when she asks, “What for?”

He gives her a look that says, ‘You know what for,’ but she wants to hear him say it. He sighs and runs a hand over his jaw. “For last night, I shouldn’t have done what I did. I took advantage of you, and it was wrong. I’m sorry.” He repeats it, and Winnie is filled with rage.

An angry, incredulous smile spreads across her lips, and she chuckles softly, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She looks down the street and shakes her head before looking back into Gale’s eyes.

“This can’t happen again. John would lose his mind if he ever found out.” He talks to her like a petulant child, and she sees red.

“So, I’m still that little girl you met in Texas years ago? Well, obviously not if you were willing to take my virginity in the middle of the airfield last night.” She hisses as she pushes off the wall and shoves a finger into his chest. “Maybe John should know what you did to his baby sister last night.”

“That’s not fair, Winifred.” He knows her full name isn’t something she likes to hear; he uses it purposefully, and her nostrils flare. “I didn’t want to hurt you or Marge. I fucked up, okay? It was a mistake, and I’ve hurt you both.”

“You didn’t hurt me until you ran away from me.” She reminds him and crosses her arms. She can tell he’s losing his patience—he works his jaw while he looks down at her.

“What was I supposed to do, huh?” He demands, his tone is cynical. “I cheated on Marge with you. What do you think John will do when he finds out I’m in love with his little sister?”

Winnie hates the way her stomach flips at his words. “You don’t get to play with my feelings, Gale. You don’t get to make me fall in love with you, knowing I never had a chance. You don’t get to take that special piece of me and then pull me aside to say you’re sorry and tell me to forget it happened.”

She feels the sting of angry tears in her eyes and turns to walk away; she barely makes it two steps before Gale grabs her wrist again—pulling her back. She can’t believe him, his audacity. She’s ready to yell at him some more, but her mind goes blank when Gale crashes his lips to hers; it only takes a second for her body to catch up—her eyes flutter closed, and she kisses him back. His hand cups the back of her neck, tangling into the curls of her nape. The hand on her wrist lets go and moves to her waist—he pulls her body against his. She really is weak, but she doesn’t care—not when he’s kissing her so slow and tender.

She opens her eyes, looking up at Gale through her lashes, and when he pulls his lips away, he doesn’t let her go. His eyes are soft as he gazes down at her.

“It meant everything to me, darling. You have no idea what you do to me, how often I have to remind myself that you’re off limits. After yesterday’s mission,” he shakes his head as if to shake away the memory, “I couldn’t help myself. Life is too short not to take what you want—what you love.” He looks into Winnie’s eyes, and she reaches up—pushing a curl off his forehead.

“John doesn’t have to know everything,” she says quietly—her eyes begging him to give in, “like you said, life is too short.”

She sees the muscle in his jaw jump, and his eyes worry briefly before he gives a slight nod. “He can’t know.” He reiterates, and she nods in agreement. Gale gives in and kisses Winnie gently again, sweet and slow. She’s sad when he reluctantly pulls his body from hers. “We gotta head back, darling.”

Winnie is a nervous wreck when John flies his first bombing mission the following week. She’s wrapped herself in one of her favorite sweaters of his, which she forced him to wear before she took it back this morning. John begins to tease her while returning it, but he stops when he sees the look on her face—a silent plea for him not to say anything. So he doesn’t; he just kisses her head and watches as she pulls the sweater on.

“I’ll see you soon, Bunny.” He calls to her as he makes his way to his fort.

She watches as he pulls himself inside, and she walks away from the hard stand. She watches from the edge of the airfield as his fort takes off. Her mind races as she watches the forts climb into the clouds. But her mind isn’t riddled with worry for too long, not when she spots Gale, and he nods for her to follow him. Winnie follows him through a patch of trees until they reach an open field—no manor houses in sight, the land unused.

She giggles softly as she spots one of the Air Force issued blankets laid out with a few items placed on top. She steps closer to Gale and grins up at him. “Is this for us?” She asks and Winnie all but melts at his sheepish smile and nod.

He slips his fingers through hers and leads her to the blanket. “Thought it might be nice to have some peace and quiet.”He helps her to sit before settling beside her, then hums, “Just the two of us.”

She smiles as she sees a few books on the blanket, one with a bookmark halfway through that she assumes Gale is currently reading. Winnie grabs it and hands it to Gale with a soft kiss on his cheek before she grabs a random book for herself and cracks it open. They eventually settle in a position with Gale lying on his side, propped up with an elbow, while Winnie rests her head against his chest and lies on her back while they read. His fingers absentmindedly twirl one of her curls occasionally, and he randomly leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Winnie finds herself in that beautiful field with Gale every time John flies, and Gale is left on base. She lets Gale talk to her excitedly about the forts, and it makes her heart swell with affection as she listens to him. Gale lets her tell him about her plans to be a nurse or maybe even a doctor when they return home to the States—he watches her speak with such adoration that she can’t help but blush.

Their routine makes it easier to bear the day and forget that John is risking his life when he flies. Winnie can hardly stand the days that Gale flies—she avoids John like the plague. He knows her too well for her to be able to hide the worry without notice, so she busies herself with the Red Cross ladies. Helen and Tatty are always happy when she joins them—Winnie actually manages to laugh and relax while with them.

John and Gale let Winnie know they are flying the following day. John tells her while they eat breakfast, a tradition that John is starting to slip away from—as he’s usually too hungover to eat with her or gearing up for a mission. Gale tells her later in the day in their hut when he momentarily sneaks away from his training duties. She wants to cry when she realizes they both will be gone, but she lets him hug all of her worries away. She basks in the warmth of his body against hers, the way she can hear his steady heartbeat in his chest, and that keeps her from falling apart.

Gale keeps her close for a long time—she knows he has to get back, so she begins to pull away. She is stopped when he cups her neck and pulls her in for a long kiss. Winnie lets herself melt back into his touch and kiss—she decides she will never get tired of feeling his lips on hers. He pulls away just enough to whisper on her lips, “I love you.”

It’s the first time either has said those three little words this way, but it feels like a promise. A promise that he will return, he will always return to her. Winnie grabs his wrist and leans into his hand. She opens her eyes before whispering it back to him. His eyes are soft while he gazes down at her, and she knows he plans to keep this promise. He gently kisses her forehead before leaving the hut—returning to his duties as a major.

Winnie barely sleeps—nightmares drag her into dark places the moment she does doze off. She rises before Helen and Tatty—they always wake early to prepare the coffee for the crews, but she can’t stand being in her rack any longer. She showers and readies for the day, settling on light brown trousers, a cream blouse, and John’s military-issued sweater. This sweater she does recall when she acquired it.

It was the day John bought his ridiculous white sheepskin. She was in the process of lecturing him about how difficult it would be to keep clean—to keep white. Still, he simply unzipped the sweater and handed it to Winnie so fast that she almost dropped it. John had tugged on his new prize with a manic grin. She doesn’t quite remember the ribbing Gale had started giving him as she pushed her arms into the sweater and zipped it up—Winnie decided John could have his crazy jacket as long as she got to keep another sweater.

The memory brings a small smile to her face as she zips the sweater and walks out into the crisp morning air. The sky shows the first signs of brightening from the dark, star-studded night into morning. She can hear the jeeps heading to the men’s barracks to wake them in the distance. Winnie heads in the opposite direction towards the airfield; her stomach swims with nerves. She reminds herself that John and Gale are the best the 100th has, heck, the whole Air Force.

The tarmac is alive by the time she reaches it, and the sky is much brighter with the sunrise. The commotion of preparing the forts and crews arriving settles her nerves in the strangest way. These men all work with confidence and assurance in what they do; it’s comforting. Winnie is at Our Baby’s hard stand and can’t even pretend she wasn’t heading straight there.

She catches Gale’s eye as he hops down off the transport truck, and she can tell he’s fighting a smile. He murmurs something to Benny, and Benny nods before heading to the fort—Gale makes his way to Winnie. To anyone on base, it would appear like two friends talking, John’s little sister saying something to Major Cleven, an innocent conversation. “I’ll see you tonight at the officer’s club,” she tells him as a goodbye. A firm statement, no buts allowed.

His lips twitch again, but he lets the smile happen as he nods. “Yes, ma’am.” It sends butterflies through her body, and she wants to kiss him—kiss him until the end of time, but she doesn’t. She gives him a little smile and stares into his eyes for a moment, barely shy of being too long. Then, she nods and walks away without looking back. Her heart hurts too much to look back and see him staring after her.

She weaves through the crews to Just-A-Snappin’s hard stand, Blakey’s fort. Everett is approaching the hatch when she spots him. “You better bring him back in one piece, Ev!” She calls out to him and grins when he smiles at her.

“I wouldn’t dream of anything less, Short Stack!” He turns to her as she approaches. “Bucky had an extra briefing as commander this morning.” He explains to her before she even asks where John is.

“Thanks, Ev.” She hums with a soft smile—resisting the urge to roll her eyes. These men know her a little too well, and she feels a bit of panic that maybe they also know about her and Gale, but she squashes that idea quickly. These guys can’t keep a secret unless it’s classified military intelligence to save their lives—she would know if someone besides Helen knew what she’s been up to.

Winnie raises an eyebrow when she hears Douglass speak from the hatch, “We gotta problem, Bubbles is sicker than a dog.”

At that, Blakey sighs and lights a cigarette, smoke coming out of his mouth as he says, “Son of a bitch.”

They both turn when a jeep pulls up carrying John; he’s out of it before the orderly driving can come to a complete stop. Winnie fights the urge to reproach him for jumping from a moving vehicle. She reminds herself he’s about to fly over enemy territory in a tin can. She shakes the thought from her head. John’s eyes are on her, always concerned for her before anything else.

“I love you, I will see you when you get back.” She tells him firmly, holding his gaze as she speaks—she tugs him down to her level by his flight harness to kiss his cheek. She hears his soft “I love you too, Bunny.” in her ear when she lets go of the harness. Then, he stands to his full height, and ‘Major Egan’ is written over his whole body.

Winnie walks away from the hard stand as he is filled in on the situation—a sick navigator is never good, especially not the lead nav. She wishes it was a big enough problem to scrub the mission but knows it isn’t. She hears engines starting all along the tarmac—a smile breaks out on her face when she spots Sammy and Billy with Kenny. “What are you boys getting up to today?” She teases, putting a hand on her hip as she watches the boys grow giddy with excitement.

“We’re cleanin’ the hard stands today,” Kenny tells her with his southern drawl and a grin, “aren’t we boys?”

Sammy and Billy are bouncing on their toes, and Winnie hears the first of the forts taking off. She pushes her nerves back down and smiles at the boys. She knows what cleaning the hard stands means—she’s lived on base long enough to know but plays clueless as she asks, “Now, why on earth does cleaning make you boys so excited?”

“Fire!” They both say excitedly before Sammy clarifies, “We’re cleaning with fire!”

Winnie laughs softly and shakes her head, “Well, now I’ve certainly heard it all. Cleaning with fire. You boys have got to show me this.” She hears the final fort taking off—the airfield eerily quiet without the rumble of engines and crews running around. She moves to the side—standing on the grass while she watches the group of boys pour gasoline along the oil stain, watches as they cry out “fire in the hole,” then toss the matches onto the gasoline, watches as the fuel ignites and spreads across the hard stand. She can’t help but laugh again when Sammy says, “That’s one hot bastard.”

She looks to Kenny, knowing that line came from him, and he gives her a sheepish smile and a half-shrug. “Don’t let your mother hear that, Sammy.” She warns him, and he gives her the same sheepish smile Kenny had.

“Behave boys.” She tells them before making her way back to base. Winnie spends most of the day helping out in the infirmary; the nurses are kind and give her tasks—they even let her watch while they clean and then put fresh bandages on a wound. It’s a superficial head laceration; the man doesn’t even wince or flinch as the nurse works, and Winnie is in awe. She asks the poor nurse, Maggie, a million questions—she takes them in stride and answers them all.

Winnie doesn’t leave until she hears the forts flying overhead and knows that’s her cue to leave—Maggie tells her she’s welcome any time. Winnie feels grateful to have found another friend on base. She doesn’t mean to walk by the interrogation hut, but that’s where she finds herself—eyes searching a little frantically for John or Gale. She knows deep down that they are okay; the other men shoot her soft smiles—a bit of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day for them—they wouldn’t do that if something terrible had happened.

A few men are bickering about whether or not Curt’s fort took out a farmhouse during his crash landing in Scotland. Winnie hopes the crew is alright and safe, but her heart aches with more worry for Gale and John that she can’t control.

She spots Benny before Gale and lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Winnie’s eyes land on him finally, and she bites her lip. He doesn’t spot her as his crew makes their way inside, and she’s alright with that—happy to have him back on the ground. Winnie feels like she can finally catch her breath once she spots John’s messy mop of curls in another transport truck that pulls up.

“Which one of ’em? C’mon Winnie, tell a girl.” Helen’s voice coming from right beside Winnie makes her jump and whip her head over to Helen. Winnie’s eyes are wide as she glances around—looking for anyone too close who could have heard Helen. “I wanna know which of these hunks you’ve got your hooks in.”

“Helen, keep your voice down,” she hisses and grips her wrist, tugging her away from the area, “do you want John to murder his best fr—” Winnie stops abruptly when she realizes her huge mistake; Helen’s eyes already the size of saucers as she processes what Winnie said—a grin spreading on her face.

“Gale Cleven?” Helen demands, using a scandalous tone, and Winnie wants to sink into a hole—dragging Helen even farther away.

“Hush, please. Helen, you can’t tell another soul.” She begs desperately; she knows Helen would never gossip about this—she has kept the hickey to herself this whole time. “Especially not John. You can’t!”

Helen shakes her head, still in shock. “I won’t tell a soul,” she swears and leans in close, “he sure is the prettiest fella on base.” She says it with a smirk, and Winnie fights a smile.

“He is, isn’t he?” Winnie lets herself giggle along with Helen, and they bump shoulders together—it feels good to tell someone, to have a woman in her life to talk to about this significant piece of herself. Helen hooks their arms together and walks them back to their barracks, simply deciding that the other Red Cross gals can handle the coffee and whiskey without her. Winnie admires her so much.

Winnie talks happily but quietly about Gale while they are alone in the barracks, getting ready to go to the officer’s club. Helen listens with a gentle smile as she applies a bit of eyeliner, mascara, and red lipstick to Winnie’s face—not too much as she promised. Winnie stops yapping about Gale when the gals return to get ready. Winnie slips into a dark green dress of her mother’s—she had brought the hem up and taken it in at the waist so it would fit adequately a few weeks ago. She smooths out the silky fabric before adjusting her necklace. Helen grins at her—already changed into her Red Cross uniform.

Tatty sidles up to her and grins, “Well, look at you, trying to win some hearts tonight?” Winnie blushes deeply as she makes eye contact with Helen.

“Let’s go,” Winnie laughs softly and heads out of the barracks—they all hook their arms together as they walk into the officer’s club in the cool evening air.

They separate at the club after a bit; Winnie sips on a cola as she listens to the band perform—these are always her favorite nights. Everyone is in the same room, having fun and relaxing. Her eyes catch John and Gale settling in two seats on the other side of the room—she makes her way over.

John spots her first, and his grin falters when he sees her; Gale, on the other hand—fights to keep his eyes from roaming her body. She thinks John must remember their mother wearing the dress—Winnie doesn’t, which makes her heart ache. “I—I thought…” she bites her lip and feels a lump in her throat. “I thought she might be okay with me wearing this.” She sees Gale frown behind John and wants to run into his arms—let him hold her and forget about the way John is staring at her with a look she can’t decipher.

“Be okay with it? Hell, Bunny, she’d be thrilled to see you wearing this, looking so grown up.” John lets out a soft chuckle, and she realizes he’s trying not to tear up. Winnie immediately takes the seat next to him and takes his hand, and he kisses her on the forehead. She lets her eyes flick to Gale, and he is already watching her with soft eyes—she wants to shove John aside to crawl into Gale’s lap. She pulls her eyes away from his and leans into John—he is her safe place, she reminds herself.

Winnie pulls away when she thinks John is ready to let go, and she smiles up at him—he gives her a grin, and her smile grows more prominent. She sips her cola and glances around the room—everyone is enjoying the night as they should.

When the band begins playing a new song, it only takes a few notes before Winnie recognizes it and looks at John. He’s already fidgeting in his seat—so predictable, she can’t help but smile. She grins when he asks the men around them if he should sing, and they all turn him down.

“Seems like nobody wants to hear your howling tonight, Johnny.” She giggles, and he sighs, smoothing out his jacket. She knows him too well and starts counting in her head just as he starts fidgeting again—she makes it to 5 before he’s out of his chair with a loud noise that makes her snort.

“It’s my song!” John grins at them as he walks backward.

Winnie can barely let John get through the first line before jumping up and grinning as she prances over to John at the microphone. She knows the words by heart, thanks to John; it really is his song.

Her voice filters in with John’s by the third line of the verse, delicate and melodic, “Noticing the days hurrying by. When you’re in love, my how they fly…” They grin at each other as they sing; John takes hold of her hand. “Blue days, all of them gone. Nothin’ but blue skies from now on.”

Winnie laughs when he brings her hand up and spins her around—placing a hand on John’s chest to steady herself as he takes her on a nonsensical waltz. She follows his lead and laughs every time he spins her—she’s dizzy by the time the song ends, and her cheeks hurt from grinning, but she doesn’t mind. Gale is watching them with a smile when they part, John heads to the bar to get another whiskey, and Winnie gives him a shy smile before he heads after John.

She smiles when Douglass and another man approach her; he’s tall with blond hair and blue eyes like Gale. “Thanks for making that pleasant, Short Stack,” Dougie laughs, “your brother really can’t sing.” Winnie laughs at that; no one would ever say John has the voice of the angel.

“Sister? Bucky Egan’s got a sister?” The man says, looking her up and down— his face settles on a grin, and she notes the gold grill in his mouth. “Well, alright then, sweetheart, I’m Howard Hamilton, but everyone calls me Hambone.”

Winnie holds her head up high and matches his grin. “I’m Winnie, and you’re not getting my full name out of my mouth. Everyone around here calls me Short Stack, and I’m currently plotting revenge for it.”

Hambone lets out a low whistle, then a chuckle, but Douglass puts a hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, man, you gotta be grandfathered in, like the rest of us. One of the last new guys called her that and put his elbow on her head, and she bit his finger. The guy had to get stitches!”

Winnie smirks proudly. That guy was rude, and he deserved it—she already hadn’t liked the guy, and then he did that. “He really shouldn’t have gotten so close; it’s his fault.”

Both men laugh, and she can tell Hambone is impressed as he nods. “I would expect no less from Miss Winnie Egan. I’m sure you’re just as self-assured as Bucky and can handle yourself.”

She nods, deciding that she has made another friend today. “Sure can, Hammy. But I’m the one with the brains.” Winnie grins, and he laughs softly, shaking his head. They all look up and around the room when someone yells about a bike race in the mess. Dougie is already giddy and trying to talk Hambone into joining the race.

She knows without a doubt John will be taking part in this, so she walks with the crowd to the mess. She’s a little surprised when Gale is with John, elbowing their way to the front of the pack. Winnie doesn’t see the ending well as all of these men are competitive and drunk, except for Gale—Winnie assumes he will win simply because he’s sober. Not because she wants to see him grin and celebrate after winning.

Winnie can’t help but flinch when Graham shoots his pistol into the air—too loud in a too-small building. Still, the men all begin to take off, and she can’t help but giggle, watching them navigate the tight turns before they race off to the connecting mess. She can hear cheering from the other room and smiles softly. It’s not long before Winnie sees the shadows of men racing back into this building—she sees Gale come in first, pedaling hard. John is hot on his heels, but her heart sinks when she hears Gale groan in pain as he falls, followed by John, then everyone else. Winnie is relieved when Gale gets up, dragging his bike, and John grabs him. She rolls her eyes as she watches them grab and pull at each other to keep the other from winning.

The room goes still when an alarm sounds, and Jack tells everyone to be quiet and listen. Jack announces that they need to get to the bomb shelter, sending a different wave of fear down her spine. John has an arm around her before she can think of anything else and ushers her along. Winnie feels like her feet move on autopilot—she doesn’t feel well when they reach the shelter and stand at the brick wall. John cages her against the wall, both hands on either side of her as if he can physically protect her from a bomb.

She stares with wide, scared eyes at the horizon—the destruction happening at a nearby base. It could have been them; her fingers tangle in John’s sleeve as she clings to him—she feels like a little girl again, clinging to John at the funeral. Her stomach rolls at the thought, and she wants to look away, but she can’t until she hears Gale’s voice. Winnie knew they had been talking but didn’t process any of it.

“You sound like my dad, John,” Gale says, and that’s what pulls her from her internal panic. She turns her head just a little to look up at him. He looks pretty in the moonlight, and she feels dirty thinking that thought while hearing artillery fire and bombs exploding just miles away.

Her heart aches as she listens to Gale tell John a piece of his childhood. Winnie can’t look away as he speaks; she aches to reach out and take his hand, curl into his chest, and kiss him. Mainly, she wants to take all of his pain away. The artillery in the distance echoes what he said about his father once he goes quiet again.

“That RAF prick was right. These daylight missions, they’re suicide.” Her fingers tighten in John’s jacket, and he wraps his arm around her to pull her closer—she wishes Gale hadn’t said that as tears prick her eyes.

Winnie can’t hold it together any longer. She turns in John’s hold to bury her face in his chest—his other arm moving around her body as she lets out silent tears. Her fingers curl into his lapels, and she breathes in his familiar scent—letting it calm and reel her in. It feels childish--burying her face in John’s chest--as it’s something she always did as a little girl, but John doesn’t act like it bothers him one bit. Winnie stays like that until the artillery fire stops and after their designated waiting time before they are allowed back to their barracks.

John kisses her forehead before she pulls away, and he starts leading her towards the barracks. She slips from his grasp, not quite meeting his eyes as she says, “Goodnight, Johnny.”

She knows Gale is following her, so she slips between two buildings to give them privacy. Concern is written all over his face when she whips around on him—his hands reaching for her. “Don’t ever say something like that again.” She means for it to be scolding and firm, but it comes out as a choked sob, and her face crumples. “Don’t ever agree that you won’t make it.”

His arms move around her body, pulling her in as her hands cling to him. He says nothing more than, “Shhh, I’ve got you. I’m here, darling.” They both know he can’t promise everything will be okay because every time he goes on a mission, the odds are stacked against him--against John, against all of them.

She takes a breath to steady herself and tilts her head back to look up at him. He presses his lips to hers in a soft kiss, then rests his forehead against hers. They stay quiet for a long moment before she hears a laugh in the distance and begins to pull away.

“I love you.” He says, and it sounds like a promise again: I’ll do my best to get back to you.

“I love you,” Winnie says back to him; his hand squeezes her waist before he lets her go completely—she heads off to her barrack, following a group of women who are somehow still drunk after being at the bomb shelter for who knows how long. Winnie thinks alcohol must make it easier to cope with the world around them and wonders if that’s why John drinks so damn much lately but never seems to be having a good time. She doesn’t know if she can blame him when feeling like she does tonight.

“Hold up, sweetheart!” She hears a voice holler after her and glances over her shoulder as Hambone jogs beside her. He smiles at her, “Someone’s gotta make sure you get home safe and sound. There’s a lotta creeps out there, ya know.”

Winnie lets out an awful snort of a laugh, and she looks up at Hambone as they walk. “I’m not positive there isn’t one following me home right now.”

“I’m simply a gentleman, little lady.” He grins, and he’s true to his word. He walks her back to her barrack.

“Thank you, Hammy,” she murmurs with a smile, “you are, in fact, a gentleman.”

Hambone smiles and tells her goodnight before heading off in the direction they came from—while she heads inside. Helen gives her a soft smirk and leans close to whisper, “Seems like all the men on base want a piece of you.”

Winnie scoffs and shakes her head. “They treat me like a sister.”

“All of them except your Major.” Helen teases with a wink before heading to her rack and leaving Winnie blushing furiously while she readies for bed.

John is barely hungover at breakfast the following morning—sipping his coffee and recounting a fanatical tale of a night out at the pub with Curt to Winnie and Gale as they eat. She squints slightly at John as she tries to keep up. The story is so far-fetched, but Winnie believes most of it because John has always been able to get up to some crazy shenanigans. Gale has a soft smile on his lips, and Winnie thinks this is how she would like to spend the rest of time.

The bliss of the moment is shattered when an orderly with the mail stops by the table and holds out a letter to Gale. “Major Cleven,” he says simply, and Gale takes the letter. The man nods to John and respectfully says, “Major,” before he departs. Gale begins to stuff the letter into his pocket, but John and Winnie see who it’s from: Marge.

Winnie instantly loses her appetite and has to look away from Gale. John takes a different approach. “You’re not gonna open that in front of us? Worried she’s said something naughty, did you say something naughty in your last letter” John teases with a smirk.

Gale’s expression is schooled and unaffected by John’s ribbing when he says, “Shoulda found someone of your own to write to.” John laughs at that, and Winnie puts her napkin on the table.

“That’s my cue.” She leans over to kiss John’s cheek before she stands up and leaves the mess.

Winnie thinks of the letter all day, no matter how she tries to distract herself. She spends some time with Kenny, handing him tools occasionally, and then some time in the infirmary with Maggie.

When John heads to the village to spend another night at the pub at sunset, Winnie walks to the field as she has a feeling that’s where Gale will be. That’s where he is when she gets there; he’s sitting on the blanket that they have begun keeping folded and tucked against a nearby tree so they don’t need to bring a blanket every time. He’s holding the open letter and leaning his elbows on his knees as she approaches. Gale looks up at her as she steps beside him, and he offers her his hand—which she takes as she sits down, smoothing out her skirt.

Her eyes land on the letter again, now up close. It seems like it shouldn’t be considered a letter, but rather a note, really, as it has one little sentence written on the paper.

If this is what makes you happy, Gale.

Yours truly,

Marge

Her fingers squeeze his hand, and she lays her head against his shoulder. They stay in silence as he stares at Marge’s words, and the sun melts away from the sky, leaving them in the soft light of the moon. Gale pulls himself out of his reverie when he places a kiss on the top of her head. She tilts her head to look up at him, his lips curl up into a smile as her eyes meet his. She smiles up at him as he leans in—placing his lips to hers in a long and sweet kiss. His hand cups the back of her neck and pulls her closer.

She places a hand on his chest and moves her mouth with his—savoring the feeling. She resists whining when he pulls his lips away, but he smiles down at her, and it makes up for it. His arm wraps around her shoulders, and he pulls her to lie down with him—their eyes on the sky. Winnie is absolutely thrilled when he starts pointing out and naming all of the visible constellations. She looks over at him and smiles. She watches his face as he speaks happily.

Winnie leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek when he pauses, making him look at her before he places his lips on hers once more. She places a hand on his face, cupping his cheek, and he moves his body—rolling from his back onto his side, then leaning over her body. The kiss becomes deeper, and their mouths part, tongues moving together to taste one another. His hand finds her hip, and she arches her back at the touch. Her hand slides from his face to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck.

Gale groans into her mouth when her nails graze along his scalp, and the noise is enough to drive her mad with need. His pulps are blown wide when he pulls his lips away for a breath. She drags her nails across his scalp again and watches in awe as his eyes roll back, and he lets out a low moan—his hand squeezes her hip. He looks into her eyes, silently asking for permission, when he grabs at her blouse. Winnie doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to tell him no, so she nods her head.

#it’s here and it’s 9k 😬#*posts and runs away*#summer kisses winter tears #my fic #my writing #gale cleven x oc #gale cleven x winnie egan #mota au #mota fanfic

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totowlff · 2 years ago

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chapter thirty-six — a secret place

➝ there is no place in the world where elisabeth felt more at peace. and she was looking forward to sharing it with the man she loved.

➝ word count: 4,2k

➝ warnings: smut

AUGUST, 2017

It was still early when Elisabeth dismounted her horse at the family’s stables after her usual early-morning hack. The bay gelding breathed heavily and snorted a little as Elisabeth led him into his stall to cool down for a while before he’d be turned out into the pasture for the day. They’d taken a long ride, and it was already quite warm outside.

— We're getting better at this, aren't we, boy? I know it’s been a while — Elisabeth said, smiling as she stroked his forelock and patted his muzzle.

She had learned to ride as a young girl, taught by her uncle Tillman, but she hadn’t managed to do it on a regular basis, considering she didn't have access to horses in Vienna. However, every time Elisabeth was in Ibiza, she made a point of taking one of the family’s horses for daily rides around the island, usually in the early hours of the morning, just as the sun was coming up.

Her favorite was Simó, the Arabian she’d taken out that morning. He was calm and easy to ride, with a smooth gait, but didn’t hesitate to go into a gallop when asked. Those moments of peace and quiet, with only the sounds of birdsong and hoofbeats, gave her the kind of peace that she couldn't remember feeling in a long time.

It was a peace she only found in Ibiza.

After closing Simó into his stall and asking Pep, the stableman, to feed and water him after he’d had a chance to cool down, Elisabeth left the barn and walked back up to her parents' house, thinking about the tall glass of ice water she was going to drink as soon as she got inside. Then, she would go upstairs to take a shower to get rid of the layer of sweat that was causing her shirt to cling to her back. She didn’t have any plans beyond that, which was the beauty of being in Ibiza.

Climbing the stairs to the porch, Elisabeth used the boot jack by the front door to pull off her tall riding boots so she didn’t have to hear complaints about tracking dust and straw from the stables inside. She stepped inside in just her socks and padded silently towards the kitchen, smiling when she realized that she could hear the sounds of laughter echoing through the house. “Someone must have woken up by now”, she thought.

— Speaking of Elisabeth — Marlene said, smiling when she saw her daughter rounding the corner into the kitchen — Good morning, Elschen.

Marlene was sitting at the kitchen table with Niki and Lukas. At their feet, Felix and Shivas were accompanied by Lella, Lukas’ new Weimaraner puppy. All three dogs ran over to her as she stood in the doorway, their tails wagging excitedly.

— Good morning — Elisabeth replied, smiling, bending down to pet the dogs as they jockeyed for prime position for pats and scratches.

— Did you go on a ride? — Niki asked.

— Yes, I left early — she said, looking up at her father with a small smile. After giving attention to all the dogs, Elisabeth got up from where she was kneeling, and went to the fridge to get some water. Lukas was saying something about their uncle and the horses.

— Do you want something to eat, dear? — Marlene asked — I made sure Ximena bought that jam you like.

The prospect of enjoying a slice of fresh sourdough bread spread with a thick smear of apricot jam was tempting, but she wasn’t hungry. She never seemed to be very hungry in the mornings, usually only having a cup of coffee before work, but even that was unthinkable at that moment, given how hot she was.

— No, thank you, mom. I'm going upstairs now to take a shower.

Leaving the kitchen behind, Elisabeth went upstairs to the hallway bathroom, where she took a long shower, scrubbing the smell of the stables off of her with the fresh-smelling body wash she’d brought. After drying off and wrapping herself in a yellow towel, she went to her bedroom, carefully pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The room wasn't big, but it was cozy. It had a big dark wood dresser next to a window that overlooked the garden in the house’s backyard. There were several shelves along the walls, with framed photos of her with her family when she was younger, vases filled with seashells she’d collected on the island’s beaches as a child, and a few books she’d read as a teenager. Elisabeth hadn't bothered changing the decor much since she was in high school, preferring to leave it looking like a room in a beachside home. There was one significant difference between now and her teenage years, though, in that there was a shirtless, sleeping man in her bed.

Toto.

The crushing pressure of the F1 season had been wearing on both of them, and they were both desperate for peace and quiet, at least for a few days. Niki's invitation couldn't have come at a better time. Without hesitation, they packed their bags, picked up Benedict and Rosa, and flew to the island a few days later.

The moment they arrived in Ibiza had been special for Elisabeth. None of the Wolffs — neither Toto nor his children — had ever been to the island, so she could show it to them through her eyes, telling stories of her childhood as she pointed out the places on the island that were so familiar and special to her. Hearing their giggles as she told them a story about the time she decided to try and walk across the rocky beach in her smooth-soled riding boots and fell made Elisabeth’s heart warm.

The days so far had gone at an unhurried pace, like all days in Ibiza did. Talking about work was forbidden, so they occupied themselves with other things. Elisabeth had already taken the three of them to visit her uncle and see the paintings that her grandfather had made of the island. She taught Ben and Rosi the basics of riding horses and had Simó trot them around the paddock. They spent an amazing afternoon on a boat on the Balearic Sea, where Elisabeth was brave enough to try out wakeboarding for the first time. She had a blast, even though she took some tumbles in the process.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and gently ran her fingers down Toto’s arm, tracing one of his veins all the way to his chest. Before long, his eyelids fluttered open, and he smiled sleepily at her.

— Good morning, sleepyhead — she said softly as his hand took hers.

— Good morning, Liesl — Toto answered, placing a delicate kiss on her fingers — You got up early today.

— Yes, I took Simó and went for a ride, to see the sunrise. I got back about forty-five minutes ago.

He smiled.

— That's your worst flaw, you know?

— What is? — Elisabeth asked.

— Being such an early bird.

She laughed.

— That's a flaw?

— Yes. Because instead of getting up early and playing with your horse, you could have stayed here in bed with me.

— And what would we do here?

— This — he said, as he pulled her by the waist so she fell on top of him. She laughed as he rolled both of them over so he was on top of her, pressing kisses all over her face and neck as he tickled her sides, making her scream with more laughter.

— Toto!

— What? I'm just showing you what we could do if you’d stayed here — he said, before taking her lips in a delicate kiss, affectionately cupping her face with one of his hands, running his finger along her jawline. After a few seconds, Toto sat up, smiling down at Elisabeth — Isn't that better than riding around on a horse?

— Much better — Elisabeth replied, as Toto bent down to kiss her again.

The two of them cuddled in bed for a bit, and Elisabeth argued that she didn’t want to have sex with her parents and brother downstairs. Finally, Toto agreed to get up and get dressed so they could go downstairs to spend time with Elisabeth’s family and the kids.

The rest of the morning was the kind of slow, leisurely morning that Elisabeth adored but did not get to indulge in very often. After breakfast, she and Toto sat on the porch in the sunshine, sipping coffee and watching Benedict and Rosi play with the dogs. Around lunchtime, Mathias arrived with Claire and his children, who had joined in with Benedict, Rosi, and the dogs.

— Good morning, Elschen — her brother said, as he climbed the porch with his family’s suitcases. He smiled pleasantly at her, and she did not return a greeting.

— Good morning — she murmured, as she stood up from where she had been sitting on the stairs. It seemed like a good time to see if Marlene and Ximena, who had worked for the family in Ibiza for years, needed help in the kitchen.

They prepared a shrimp paella for lunch, and had a traditional post-lunch siesta. Elisabeth woke up in Toto's arms, and smiled. An idea sprang to mind shortly after she woke up, leading to her climbing out of bed to change her clothes.

She roused him from his nap.

— Dear? — she whispered.

Toto let out a sleepy grunt as he rubbed his eyes.

— Get up, I want to take you somewhere.

— Now?

— Yes, now.

He sat up in bed, running a hand through his hair.

— Why?

— You’ll see. Just put on something comfortable and some shoes that are good for walking and meet me downstairs.

After a few minutes of grumbling, Toto got up and dressed, and followed Elisabeth to the car she had rented at the airport, which was parked in front of her parents' house. Then, they took off driving toward the western part of the island. Twenty minutes later, Elisabeth stopped the car in an open area that looked like it was a parking lot for tourists.

— Are we there? — Toto asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

— Not yet — she smiled, taking the key out of the ignition — Come with me.

She took him along a path that ran along the coast of the island, laughing every time Toto complained about how far they had already walked, remarking that he would probably need to see a doctor after their trip, as his knees were hurting so much. However, all that time listening to him complain was worth it when Elisabeth turned and saw the expression on his face when she told him that they had arrived.

She’d brought him to Cala es Portitxol, a beach that was practically a secret kept by the locals, as tourists rarely frequented it. The water was an incredible shade of turquoise that practically begged to be dived into, especially after the almost hour-long walk

— This is…

— Pretty, isn't it? — she completed, looking at Toto, eager for an answer.

— More than pretty. It's beautiful — he replied, smiling at her — How did you know about this place?

— When you spend as much time here as I have, you get to know a few things — Elisabeth said, taking his hand — Come on.

They followed the rest of the trail right to the rocky shore. Just as Elisabeth was hoping, it was completely deserted. It didn’t look like the fishermen's houses that were near the shore were presently occupied. “Perfect”, she thought, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

They stood right on the shoreline, contemplating the landscape and the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks, neither of them saying anything. Toto decided to sit down on the rocks to “catch his breath”, he says. However, Elisabeth had another idea.

She began to undress. First, her sneakers and socks, then her t-shirt and shorts. She put all of her clothes in a pile next to Toto, and noticed that he was watching her intently. She had put a bikini on under her clothes, fully intending to go swimming, but since nobody else was around, another idea came to mind.

— What are you doing? — Toto asked, as soon as he saw her untie the knot at the back of her neck.

— I'm going for a swim — Elisabeth replied, tossing her bikini top toward the pile.

— Naked?

She bent down, sliding her bikini bottoms down her legs. The breeze that came from the sea, along with the butterflies she felt in her stomach when doing something forbidden, made her skin tingle and erupt into goosebumps.

— What’s wrong with that? — Elisabeth said, looking at Toto. His gaze was lost on her body, taking in every detail, his mouth slightly agape. Realizing that he was too shocked to respond, she decided to make one last provocation. Throwing the bikini bottoms she had in her hand in his face, Elisabeth shot towards the water, not noticing the temperature change with the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Diving into the sea, she managed to recapture the same feeling inside her chest that she had every time she was in Ibiza when she was younger. It was as if those waters were capable of washing away all the sadness, fear, and anxiety she was holding onto. It was as if, the moment she set foot in Ibiza, the awkward teenager inside of her that was afraid of being an “ugly duckling” never existed in the first place.

There, she was simply a happy-go-lucky girl like she had been as a child.

She stayed underwater for a few seconds, turning her head towards the shore when she resurfaced. Toto had been sitting on the rocky beach when she dove in, but now, the spot next to where her clothes were piled on the rocks was empty. Her eyes scanned around, fearing the worst for a moment when she saw no trace of Toto, but her dread was dashed when a pair of hands wrapped around her waist and made her squeal.

Emerging from the water, Toto had a wide smile of satisfaction.

— Did I scare you?

— Yes, you idiot — she replied, turning around and patting him on the shoulder — Don't do that again.

He laughed.

— I just wanted to surprise you, since you decided to surprise me.

— Your idea of a surprise is disappearing?

Toto brought his face close to hers.

— My idea of a surprise is joining the crazy adventures my pretty little girl comes up with.

Elisabeth glanced down, holding back a smile. The refractions of the light on the water prevented her from getting a clear view, but as far as she could tell, he had left his clothes behind.

— Are you naked?

Toto shrugged.

— I didn't want to get my clothes wet.

— Even your underwear?

— Even my underwear — he replied, pulling Elisabeth closer, brushing his nose against his. There was a certain sweetness in the way Toto pulled her so close, his dark eyes fixed on hers — I take it you didn't want to get your bikini wet either.

Elisabeth wrapped her arms around his neck.

— I just wanted to do something different, since we’re alone here.

— You mean crazy, right?

— You think this is crazy?

— Well, considering that the first time you slept with me, you woke up in the morning, wrapped yourself in the duvet, leaving me uncovered in the cold to go to the bathroom to get dressed so I wouldn’t see you naked, seeing you jumping naked into the sea is a huge improvement. It even makes me wonder where that shy woman I met at Edvard went.

Elisabeth smiled. The night they had spent together in Sochi had been a memorable one. They had spent so much time teasing each other that they were both desperate to finally get together. Their first kiss had the effect of unleashing their pent-up mutual desire such that it seemed impossible to quell. All of the satisfaction they could provide each other wasn’t enough for them that night.

They wanted more from each other. Always more.

However, the next morning was different. As soon as she woke up, Elisabeth realized what she had done. She'd had sex with Toto. She was completely naked on his bed. She was disheveled and her makeup from the night before was smeared. When she realized the state she was in, a strange feeling filled her chest, like all of her insecurities started nagging at her at once. She felt almost ashamed.

“I need to get dressed”, she thought.

Elisabeth slid silently across the bed wrapped herself in the blanket Toto had thrown over them before passing out the night before, tiptoeing to the bathroom and picking up her discarded clothes and panties on the way.

— Liesl — Toto grunted, tugging at the edge of the duvet — It's cold.

— But I need to get dressed.

— You need to take the blanket for that?

She stared at him. After a few seconds, Toto sat up in bed, running a hand through his hair. He realized why she was covering up.

— Elisabeth, there's nothing there that I haven't already seen. It’s a bit late for modesty.

Something tightened in her throat.

— But, it's just... There are some things I don't like... And you might not like it either...

An incredulous chuckle escaped his mouth.

— Liesl, if you're talking about stretch marks, cellulite, those sorts of things, I don't care. They are what make you you. And I'm crazy about every inch of your body, every bit.

Elisabeth turned to the bed again with a half smile on her lips.

— You are? — she questioned in a low voice — Like, really?

— Of course, Liesl. I like the little blonde hairs on your lower belly, the scar on your thigh, the birthmark on your hip. I like your tattoo on your shoulder and the little hole you have at the top of your navel, even though I wasn’t expecting you to be a woman who has tattoos and piercings.

— Why wouldn't I be?

— Because you don't look like a rebellious girl.

— Well, I had a phase…

— A phase, huh? — he asked, pulling the blanket and consequently Elisabeth towards the bed.

— Yes. As soon as I went to university. Of legal age, living alone — she replied. At that point, Elisabeth was already lying back on the bed, curled up in Toto's arms — Although I think you're bringing out that rebellious side of me again.

— Me? — he asked, chuckling.

— Yes, you.

— Good to know, my rebel girl — Toto replied, and then kissed her.

He definitely brought out Elisabeth's more impulsive side.

Even worse than that was the fact that she loved it.

— You destroyed that shy woman — she whispered — You just destroyed her that night in Sochi.

He smiled.

— Good — Toto replied, inching forward to kiss her. The salty taste of his lips and the delicacy with which he touched her under the water, led Elisabeth to get closer. With her chest pressed against his, she surrendered herself to him, her fingers tightening on his wet skin as they bobbed with the waves.

Pulling his face away, panting, Toto brought a hand to her face.

— Come with me.

They returned to the shore, running to where the clothes were piled up. However, if Toto’s intention was to find a space to accommodate them, Elisabeth completely dismissed it. She threw herself at him, all it took was a whisper to have Toto sit up and she straddled him, her fingers buried in her dark hair and her knees pressed against the pebbles on the beach. As she kissed him, Elisabeth felt her skin grow almost feverish, her pulse roaring in her ears, her desire growing by the second.

As if he knew what she needed, Toto lifted her hips, his lips moving down Elisabeth's sternum, nibbling the skin between her breasts. Then, positioning his own cock at her entrance, he pulled her down on top of him, slowly penetrating her.

— Fuck — she said through clenched teeth, tipping her head back. No matter how many times the two of them had sex, those first few seconds were always maddening.

— Are you okay? — Toto asked softly, his fingers pressing into the curve of her ass.

— Yes — Elisabeth murmured, before kissing him again. She moved her hips slowly and experimentally, seeking out the most pleasurable rhythm. It didn't take long for her to find it, sighing each time she felt him move inside her, her eyes rolling back as Toto tucked his head into the crook of her neck, muffling the growls that escaped his throat.

As she started moving faster, Elisabeth began to feel the bubble of pleasure begin to grow inside her belly, her fingers gripping Toto's shoulders more firmly, seeking support. Suddenly, Toto tightened his grip on Elisabeth’s hips, preventing her from continuing to thrust. Then, he reversed their position, placing her lying on the rocks, supporting her head with one of his hands.

— Let me help you — Toto whispered, before lifting one of her legs and taking over the work.

With her eyes half closed and a fog of pleasure growing thicker in her mind, Elisabeth no longer knew where she ended and where Toto began. In that mess of legs, arms, kisses, and moans, they were one, in search of the same goal, the same mutual pleasure.

Feeling her legs start to shake, one of Elisabeth's hands slid down his back, towards his butt, the nails sinking into the skin as a silent request for him not to stop. And Toto obeyed, speeding up the thrusts even more and bringing his fingers to brush against her clit.

She didn't have to say anything to let him know that she was close. There was such harmony between the two that it only took a gasp for him to know that Elisabeth was almost there.

— Come for me, my love — Toto panted.

Then, the bubble of pleasure burst, the ecstasy spreading through her body like the waves that were crashing into the rocks next to them. Arching her spine, Elisabeth whimpered softly, her lips pressed together in an attempt to keep the moans from escaping. The feeling was always overwhelming, no matter how many times they had sex. And Elisabeth couldn't get enough of it, she just couldn't get enough of it.

As she returned to her senses, Toto finally reached his own orgasm, taking her lips in a way to stifle his own moans as he came inside her. His hips quickly slowed down, until he finally stopped, still inside Elisabeth. Pulling his face away from hers, Elisabeth saw that he was smiling.

— Are you okay?

— Yeah — she said, smiling, bringing a hand to his face — And you?

— I’m good…

Silence hung between them for a few seconds.

— We are crazy — Toto muttered.

— Probably — Elisabeth replied, laughing.

— Very likely.

— Is that a bad thing?

— I think it's too good for our own good, Liesl — he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose before pulling out of her, groaning a bit as he got to his feet. Her gaze soon went to his palms and knees, which were red and scratched.

— You’re hurt — Elisabeth stated, as she sat up.

— You too, my love — Toto replied, pointing to her knees, which were also a bit banged up, the result of the moment she had straddled him. Those wounds, though minor, along with the scratches on her back, made it difficult for Elisabeth to clean herself with the salt water. Putting her clothes back on caused a hiss of pain to escape her lips with every movement.

Once they were both cleaned and dressed, they made their way back to the car hand in hand, being careful not to slip on the rocks. They also took the opportunity to take some photos along the way, taking care to avoid showing their battle wounds.

Night was approaching when Elisabeth and Toto arrived back at the house. On the front lawn, Benedict was playing with Shivas, while Rosi sat with Lenny on the porch, the two of them stroking Felix's soft fur. When they got out of the car, Lenny’s eyes lit up.

— Tante! — he shouted, running towards Elisabeth to hug her. She lifted the toddler into her lap and kissed him on the cheek.

— How are you, Mausi? — she asked — How was your afternoon?

— I’m fine. We walked the dogs on the beach.

— We? Who did you go with?

— With Ben, Rosi, mom and Oma.

Giving the teenagers a knowing look, she smiled at her nephew.

— I'm glad your afternoon was fun, darling — Elisabeth said, as Lenny hugged her.

— Your afternoon wasn't that great, huh? — Benedict asked, approaching them with the ball he was throwing to the dog in his hand.

— Why do you say that?

— Your knees are all scratched up. What happened?

Elisabeth blinked. She didn’t know how to answer. It fell to Toto to answer the question.

— Liesl went to show me a place she knew of, we hiked on this path, and she ended up tripping and falling.

— You mean you two fell, right? — Rosi said, pointing to his knees, also injured by the rocks on the beach.

— Yeah — he answered his daughter, placing his hand on Elisabeth's shoulder — We're both a real disaster on trails, and the rocks were wet.

Bene chuckled, and remarked that dinner was almost ready. After Elisabeth set Lenny back down, she watched the three of them walk into the house, not saying anything before she felt the warmth of a hand at the base of her spine.

— Should we go inside?

Elisabeth smiled.

— Yeah. Let’s go.

#toto wolff #toto wolff smut #f1 x oc #formula 1 x oc #toto wolff x oc #formula one x oc #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fic #formula one fanfic #wlffog #natsversion #scwlff

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doronjosama · 2 years ago

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November/December 2022 Empties! Continuing my quest to use up my huge hoard of beauty supplies and hotel toiletries! Bath & Body Works Wicked Vanilla Woods Ultimate Hydration Cream (smells amazing and really did last all day), good old Kirkland Signature makeup remover wipes, Ecossentials Naturals Lemongrass body lotion (smelled nice, worked fine), St. Ives Fresh Skin Apricot Scrub (I don't care what people say, I love this), Omni Hotels Aloe & Honey conditioner (generic but fine), and Olay Regenerist Micro Sculpting Cream with Sunscreen (I didn't notice any "sculpting", but as a daily sunscreen it worked great). #NovemberEmpties #DecemberEmpties #november2022 #december2022 #empties #DrugstoreBeauty #HotelToiletries #StashBusting #samplesize #travelsize #MakeupHoard #CheapAssChic #bathandbodyworks #wickedvanillawoods #ecossentials #kirkland #saintives #olay #regenerist #sunscreen #apricotscrub #aloeandhoney #conditioner #lotion #makeupremover https://www.instagram.com/p/CmwrL6srAiy/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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fractalkiss · 2 years ago

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could you do a director's commentary on 'who's gonna hold you down'? and/or ⭐ for your deaging fic!

i'm gonna do director's commentary for one of the parts that had me shaking crying throwing up when i was writing 'who's gonna hold you down' AND one from jwds deaging fic because that's fresh in my mind...rip. hope this isn't too much lol thanks for dropping by to ask these!

who's gonna hold you down commentary:

Lucas doesn't like to admit it but he's supposedly (claimed by Dustin) the worst driver out of them. Erica could parallel park better than he can, and she'd just gotten her licence. Even Will—who for some reason, swore he'd suck at driving, could back it out into a busy street with enough calm: whose wasted ass did you steal Jonathan's car for to go pick up? And still? Dustin had asked just a couple months ago in their chatroom, and Will flipped him the bird via text. That's what Lucas told Max anyway. What El tells her on timed phone calls under the phone bill's watchful numbers, was the abridged version but funnier versions, in El's flat unhurried tone. [i just love the idea of erica being able to parallel park better than her older brother and the idea of will taking jonathan's car in the middle of the night to pick up the guy he's been sort of maybe seeing on and off when he's drunk to help bring him home (shoutout to male oc lionel). will deserves so many good things and i want him to be HAPPY. @ duffer bros please dn't kill him off the next season. TERRIFIED for this guy, i want him to live. i'd also like to think that it's maxine and will who doesn't let el pull away from the group too much after her breakup with mike. i almost forgot his name as i was answering this, i was about to say finn wolfhard. my thoughts on el and mike is that there are no thoughts besides el needing to grow as her own person eventually away and separate from mike. me @ el: he's just some guy!!]

The thing is, she's never been impressed by sunsets. Not here, nor the ones that sprawled out over the beaches in California like something alive and hungry. Max imagines instead, a sliced apricot in place of the sun, glowing over the horizon. A side effect of Lucas always reading her to sleep when she was recovering from her broken body, before she got bored with the books she'd chosen herself and couldn't get past the reedy voice he put on for parental figures and asked him to talk about their friends.[max's whiplash in between wanting to die about lucas' impersonations and having to adjust seeing the world by extension via someone else while she's lost some of her vision in this fic, which i think can be pretty debilitating during the recovery phase for someone like her, whose natural inclination is to put up a wall up around herself and hold her own]

It was fine. Lucas didn't have rich or creative descriptions for them sometimes, but she listened. She listened, smiled, jabbed, and choked out laughter at all the good parts, until Lucas didn't have anything to tell her one day.[it's his loneliness upon max's loneliness!! secondhand! he does all this for max but what if it might never be good enough and max knows, so she reacts the way she does--she smiles and laughs and rolls her eyes as long as she listens. one chapter a day and they'll get through it one day at a time!! if she listens and lets him go on then maybe there'd be no need for to give any more of herself back]

"They ask about you," he said.[trying to get through to her via the power of friendship over long distance]

Max is too tired to shrug. "Same old."

"Yeah but, you know," Lucas said, in that voice Max simultaneously hated and loved.[i'd like to think they were 2 years going on strong here and then right after she was released, they took a break lucas knew she needed and then continued on strong again up to the present roadtrip scene] If she hadn't been jacked up on morphine, feeling vaguely disgusting in scrubs she sweat into a lot, she wouldn't have said anything. How unbearable, to still have gotten your feelings hurt by being told you were withdrawing into yourself, again. She thought her shame cortex for displaying basic human vulnerability should have dimmed down after dying once.[this is basically me questioning and navelgazing as i was writing: the power of friends and friendship might have saved someone, but what happens after that? what's life after that when things have to change and people naturally grow apart. in a sense, i meant for it to be max thinking she was gonna live her life every day to the fullest after escaping death, but she's still coming to terms with the life she's left with]

Now, she can smell the ocean, salt and brine after they've found a spot to sit.

They'd brought Lucas' bike, strapped to the top of his dad's car and wheeled it atop a road that stretched on and on, easy to pedal through with speed, almost as fast as being on a skateboard. Lucas mounts it, and Max gets on behind him.

"You wanna tell the others about today?" Lucas asks. Not what he'll think of today, but what Max thinks of, the things she wants to remember.[she remembers that there are people who's stuck with the life they're left with too, and that she can't fault them for wanting to share it with her.]

She can smell his clean shampoo, the dense thick pine along the road, and the taste and ringing of something close to happiness in her teeth.[needed sensory descriptions here especially with scent, i was not going to leave that out to describe familiarity and love] "Of course."

They start moving and set off, the wind rushing past their ears like a song[the kids biking + max going along on her skateboard really has become a staple in ST. i thought of kate bush's love and anger for lumax specifically, i think the lyrics encapsulates the kind of dread and hope for a future]

--------

hold your lost causes commentary:

i'll pick one scene that isn't too depressing (to me)

Dongsik nudges Juwon's leg with his knee hard enough that Juwon bristles and says "Don't," but he's smiling a little. Smiling just enough that Dongsik can push himself closer and crowd him in. Juwon tries to elbow Dongsik away, even though he's got his hands fisted in Dongsik's hoodie, shuddering at the warm contact when Dongsik tries to mouth at his neck, and looking pissed off anyway when he manages to straddle Juwon that way on the floor. It's not exactly roughhousing, with the quick kissing in between; Dongsik wonders very briefly if Juwon had anyone to play rough with, in boarding school maybe, or if that was too much for him.[i think i just loved the idea of dongsik trying to lightly roughhouse with juwon and playing unfair by kissing. i personally don't think juwon liked roughhousing at all growing up lmao, but it's dongsik unconsciously filing this thought away in his head to learn something about juwon for later]

"Ah fuck," Dongsik groans, slightly out of breath when Juwon shifts his weight in an actual clean semi-throw to get Dongsik off of him, and pins his leg. "Easy, my back is killing me, actually—"[i love the size difference. and age difference lol so many opportunities for the push and pull between them]

"Sure," Juwon says, but he lets Dongsik's leg out beneath him, one hand on his stomach tentatively, "I did ask you."

"You have all the advantage in the world. You just liked me doing that," Dongsik says as he runs his fingers through Juwon's hair now, tugs gently. He notes how dark Juwon's eyes seem to go. "Why judo?" he asks.

"Why not?"

"Didn't take you for a close contact kind of guy."[lol judo is a martial art that's about grappling, cornering into place/locking, and taking control over your opponent so like BESIDES the close contact, i think judo really does track for juwon. this is me basically taking advantage of the character outline in the translated parts of the script]

Juwon drops his gaze, pushes himself off and sits cross-legged. "Why taekwondo?"

"Jihwa's father had a dojang and held classes. He taught us."

"Oh Jihwa's father taught you?" Juwon repeats, as if to himself.

"My father encouraged it." Dongsik's father had simply told him when he was a kid that he had to learn how to fight. His brawl streak in middle school and high school became history. "He was always teaching me to fight for yourself as a man. Maybe you wouldn't have liked us at all if we'd known each other then."[i wanted to make sure it was clear in the phrasing that dongsik and his dad were evidently really close back then, besides canon knowledge of it from the drama. it's a reminder every time that dongsik actually had a decent positive relationship with his father in childhood up and juwon is like. acutely aware of this so he listens and tries to push aside his own experiences and understanding of fathers/family as he knows it. at this point after the deaging, it's where he's inclined to want to do this since he thinks dongsik has had a happier childhood--before the tragedy at least--and is thus by far the better person between them just for not lacking this in is early childhood--except dongsik doesn't think this and would never think this of himself.]

"Maybe," Juwon says, subdued. "I suppose it's what fathers do."

"Are you saying that for my sake?" Dongsik asks. There's truth in Juwon's words. The familiar hardness in Juwon's eyes now might have something to do with his father, with whatever Juwon had been doing in Seoul today earlier, but most of the fight inside him had been taught somewhere.

There's a rough, sharp-edged stone that seems to throw itself over in Dongsik's chest each time. He knows what that is, a reminder that's ugly and vindictive, a kind of animal in him that licked at its own wounds when Juwon stood by him years ago against his father.[the kind of animal i envisioned here was meant to be selfish with self-preservation instincts at an all time high ie. not thinking about whether or not juwon gets hurt protecting him, but thinking that it's only right that he can get hurt protecting him because i think, grief and anger is something that people want others to feel with and share and empathize with BUT at the same time, they'll cradle their own grief and anger to themselves and think "no, this is mine to bear and nurse. let me sit with it alone because you would never, and could NEVER understand." like. it's SO conflicting, jwds' relationship is like the ultimate conflict upon conflict LAYERED.] The same brutish, killing animal that imagines the look on Han Kihwan's face if Dongsik visits him just to tell him that his son's a keeper, uses his mouth for something pretty well.[dongsik imagines this, but would never do it because to see any sort of outrage from han kihwan as a father is complicated. would he rather have han kihwan show disinterest and disdain for his own son that he doesn't react? or would being able to hurt him this way actually feel good when that would just mean that he is, still a father most of all? tough choice! conflict upon conflict] But the other curious part of it now, is that maybe Dongsik's feelings are just hurt because Juwon is so careful about putting up a fort around himself. It's terribly ironic; Dongsik is supposed to be the expert here at that.

"Juwon-ah, you don't have to pretend for my sake. Not for me," Dongsik says, barely a whisper. With the rain outside, he's not even sure if Juwon heard it.

But Juwon is close enough that he looks up at him. Just stares at him from the other end of the couch, for what feels like a while, both of them silent like their heads are underwater. "Right. It's just a fighting sport," he says. He says this slowly, like he's really talking about something else.[he's talking about every toxic bad quality that was nurtured and grown in him because of his father]

"It's still you," Dongsik finally says. He'd gotten to know Juwon as a kid and he was always who he was: good. "Maybe I'd want to know. Maybe I don't. And then maybe I'd talk your ear off, would I have that?"[literally the closest to a confession i could write. "will you bear yourself open just a little more for me and listen to me talk your ear off in return??? hmu if yes". essentially, to let someone glimpse you for who you were before and still have them want to stick by you in the present and LEARN about you--that's trust and love baby!!!]

The non-committal phrasing only makes it so much easier to say. That's another thing Juwon learned to understand about Dongsik a long time ago, that he understands now.

"Troublesome," Juwon says, but it's soft. He doesn't make a move to leave. "You have that. You had me long enough."["that was all i've been trying to do with you!!!" (post-canon) "why else would i want to drink an insane amount of tea with u". lord i think i added this line like. a day after posting just because i read it again and thought a more proactive conversation seemed to have better impact, thus adding a line of response from juwon]

#director's commentary #deaging fic #stranger things fic #answered

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