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deepestnightcolor · 5 months ago

Note

First of all, I love the way you write it always helps me picture in my brain the scene so thanks for that~

I'll stop being mushy now hehe

I've been having thoughts about the fem!farmer having a profile on a site to look for hookups before moving to Pelican Town and forgetting about how she used to have spicy texts with Sam just to accidentally meeting him on the streets of her new town while going on a stroll 😏 hehe

Anyways! Have an amazing day!!!

ᴀ/ɴ: IT MIGHT BE FINALS SEASON FOR ME (please, end me) BUT THAT DOESN'T STOP ME FROM KEEPING YOU ALL FED IN ADDITION TO THE OTHER GLORIOUS MEALS YOU MAY CONSUME HERE. Thank you so much for the praise, lovely, it means THE WORLD. I hope you forgive me that I gave this story a little twist, and that you enjoy nonetheless!

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 3789 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sexting, dirty talk, praising, unprotected sex, slobber, pierced dick (I said it and I will say it again, fight me), mutual pining, you are being pounded~, cream pie.

☾ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ ☽

Sometimes you still read them. Read them when you were touching yourself beneath the sheets of your bed, read them when you wanted to get in the mood. Sometimes you still read them when you needed a little inspiration, but it was a fact that you still read them.

Normally, you deleted every conversation you had had on that website. But the ones with him had been so… entirely different. It wasn’t like you had been looking for something when you signed up on a site that promised quick, anonymous chats. Chats that could be easily discarded and forgotten. Messages that had one purpose; to still the one’s lust and then move on. To put it simply, a website that promised horny people to meet other horny people, whether it stayed digital or became real was none of their business.

You had never wanted any of this to become real – you were happy to play around with someone and be played around with when you laid in bed, all bored and horny. You were satisfied by being told how good you would be railed, happy with empty promises of being treated like a goddess. Comfortable with sharing some pictures – of course well-placed pictures, hiding details that would enable being recognized, never showing your face. At least you had been happy with building castles in the air until you had met him.

You had stumbled across him in one of the forums, a man showing off his upper body with a sense of pride radiating from his posture alone. He had accompanied the image with a simple line of text: “I am missing my muse.” Usually, you would have rolled your eyes and scrolled past in search of something spicier, dirtier. But something about him had made you click faster on that username than you would have ever liked to admit, sliding into the chat with him with a sense of despair in your chest: >If you treat me well, I could be your next muse.<

Your text had started a message of the sexiest texts you had ever received, and you didn’t even fucking know why. “SkAterdreaM” just seemed to know how to press your buttons. Guiding you to touch yourself with such a sense of precision, praising you just right. >That’s a pretty girl…Are those thighs twitching just for me? Yoba, Id love to kiss them, fuck you right until they are shaking because that’s what you deserve. Deserve to cum over and over again. Come on pretty baby, lemme hear those moans< >You make me so hard, fuck. I am drooling for you< But not only that – he added those videos. Fuck, those videos. You were pretty sure he had always put on a show for you with how he squeezed his cock, milked the pre-cum right out of himself. With how he let out these quivering, shaky gasps, moaning praise right into the microphone. “Look at what you are doing to me, princess- ah, fuck~ I wish you were here with me, gorgeous... I’d let you ride me right now, bounce on my cock… Are you touchin’ yourself for me, sweet girl? Rub that clit for me, yeah? Slooowly, I want you to go slow, just like this- you are going to be good for me, aren’t you?” Reacting perfectly to the videos you were sending him, picking up on little details not even you had been aware of. >Look at those pretty lips, all bitten-up... Feelin so good, baby? You make me wanna kiss em all better, gorgeous< Making you feel seen, heard, and appreciated. And the worst of it all? He wasn’t even there with you.

In all honesty, you had rarely ever come as hard as you had that night, and you hadn’t been able to find anything like that chat on that website since that night. And you had really tried. Texting men and women alike, talking to them, desperate to replicate what you had had with SkAterdreaM, but you always ended up disappointed, always ended up in that chat again and you always ended up disappointed when that last message smiled at you. >You were the prettiest muse I could ever possibly find.<

And damn how you wanted to find SkAterdreaM. Even now that you lived in Pelican Town did you sometimes read that chat, in hopes that the green button next to his name would indicate him being online, would allow you the chance to talk to him again, but you were always denied. It felt like Yoba had given you a gift, just to take it away from you again, leaving you in the bliss of it all and grieving the loss of it. How could life be so cruel?

You had tried to coax him back online, too. Sending pictures, all too pretty pictures. Of you in lingerie, which, you had to shamefully admit, were bought with him in the back of your mind. Of you cupping those pretty tits he had praised the whole night. Of you posing for him. But nothing. SkAterdreaM stayed offline.

But then, one day, you heard it. That voice. It immediately sent your body into a state of tingling sensations, skin burning up, heart pounding. You knew that voice. It sounded a lot less shaky and a lot less raunchy, but you knew that voice. Fuck. Were you going crazy? Had your insatiable need to meet that random-ass man again manifested into a psychosis? Maybe you should visit the town’s doctor, but what would you say? “Hey, I had a really great online sexting session, and now I hear the dude’s voice in real life, please help”? Maybe someone just had a- “Stop it, Seb, or I will kick you in the fucking nuts,” the voice laughed, sending a shudder rippling down your spine. You couldn’t believe it, yet there he was. The source of the voice was making his way toward you – well, more likely toward the saloon behind you, but fuck it – laughing with a man walking next to him.

“Oh! Hi, you must be the new farmer,” he smiled once he noticed you, and you were pretty sure you were just about to topple over, lip quivering. Could this really be? Could you have moved into the same town this online phantom was living in by accident? Was someone playing a cruel joke on you? Nevertheless, you were staring. Staring hard. What were words again, and how did you use them?

“Hi, I-“ -met you on a website for sex and fuck, I missed you. Before your tongue could release the word vomit onto the poor blond you snapped shut your jaw, trying to cover your tracks with an awkward smile. However, something in his face had shifted. A hint of recognition in those blue eyes – Yoba, he was handsome -, but they were definitely flooded with disbelief. A knock in his ribs coming from the man next to him made him stutter back into motion.

“Sam,” he choked out, mirroring that awkward smile on your lips. You gripped his offered hand, your breath hitching into your throat, making it near impossible to breathe out your own name.

“You remind me of someone,” he suddenly started out, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, “a muse I met a while ago.” “What the fuck, Sam? Leave the poor girl alone,” the dark-haired man – Seb? – laughed, clearing his throat awkwardly. Little did he know that Sam had said just the right thing. “No worries, you remind me of a dream I had,” you shot back, making a small grin appear on his pink lips. “I will see you around then? I have made a few promises.” “Definitely.”

The way your lips crashed together could only be described as heavenly. Sam hadn’t even really taken the time to close the door behind himself before he had already wrapped you up in an embrace, fingers running through your hair before gently cradling your head. You couldn’t help yourself but moan into the gentle suckle of his lips, your body melting into him like it knew where it belonged. “Fuck, I thought I would never find you again,” he breathed, leaving your lips only for a second to gently nip at your jaw before going right back to your lips. His tongue lapped at the fat of your lower lip, greedily pushing past your teeth to lick over yours, his hands now wandering down your back. The feeling of being desired cursed through you just as much as the feeling of desiring him, your own hands wandering beneath the white shirt he was wearing to feel the smooth skin of his toned stomach. “Same,” you gasped out as he pulled away just enough to let you breathe, “I kept texting you,” you stammered, your lips kissing along his neck, savouring that breathless groan that left his already swelling lips, “but you never replied.” “I lost all access to that account,” he breathed back, his own hands now slipping beneath your shirt, small moan escaping him as they engulfed your tits, “fuck, baby. They feel just as pretty as they looked.” Yoba, he loved that giggle that left you. He had loved everything about your encounters. The way you had reacted to him, the way that you had moaned for him. The way you had begged for more, even though he just couldn’t give you what he had wanted – which had been everything. He had absolutely loved your voice cracking, the way you bit your lip as your hips bucked. The way your thighs quivered. It had been burnt into his mind, lending him a hand whenever he fucked his fist. It should have embarrassed him – an online encounter absolutely possessing his mind, but it didn’t. He had cursed heaven and hell when he had realized that he had lost access to that fucking account, and thus to you. “Believe me, I tried to get back into it,” he sighed, big hands squeezing the flesh in his hand, pierced tongue licking along your throat, just to ease the following blow of his teeth sinking into your pretty skin, “but I couldn’t for the life of me.” And really – he had tried. Even asked Sebastian if he could regain the access he had lost, even though it had set him up for a lifetime of mockery. Your answer was a mere whimper, one that made his pants way too fucking tight. He had never been this hard ever since that night, but now- now he could touch you.

“Pretty princess,” he sighed, hips rutting into you almost automatically. Yoba, feeling you after dreaming about you for so long – it made him feel like he could come right now, like he could cream his pants just because he felt your hands wander down his back, nails scratching along him ever so slightly. Yoba, he needed you.

Even though it physically pained him to pull his hands away from your nipples, he did. Just in favour of pulling down the fabric of your pants. He needed to see you. All bare, just for him. His breath hitched when he saw your panties, adorning your pubic mound in a way not even the most skilled artist could have painted. His whole body quivered as his long fingers reached out for you, brushing the calloused pad along the still clothed skin. He could hear the slight thump of your head falling against the wall behind you as you took in a shaky breath, and he wanted to cry tears of joy. He could have you now, all for himself. The realization made every ounce of patience he had promised himself to have evaporate, instead his fingers curled into the fabric, giving the thin layer of clothing a good tug. “So wet for me already, princess?” he all but cooed, holding your underwear up to your face, a wet spot beaming right at you. “Shut up,” you laughed, albeit a lot more breathless than you had been at the beginning of this, running your hands down his body. “You are not much better, SkaterDream.” Sam’s hips almost involuntarily bucked forward when your fingers brushed along the outline of his erection, eyes rolled back in his skull. Why did your fingers feel so much better than his whole fucking fist? Shit, you had ruined masturbation for him – but he just couldn’t be mad at you. No way, not when you looked up at him like this, doe eyes glazed over with lust, lips puffy from the rough, hungry kisses the two of you had shared.

Just looking at you made his balls pull tight, red tip of his dick drooling pre-cum into the black of his boxers. You were right, he wasn’t much better. His eyes drifted shut as you fisted at his poor dick now, making it cry for release from its restraints. “You are so beautiful; you know that darling? So damn beautiful,” he sighed, allowing your hands to unbuckle his belt with a clinking noise, his own working to slide your shirt above your head. Normally, he would have brought you upstairs, laid you on the bed before he would have taken his sweet times, but right now, he felt like he was starving right in front of a meal. He struggled out of his pants while he pushed up your bra, lips latching on your sweet nipple, letting the moan that left your sinful lips go through his whole system, savouring the way his dick twitched. “That’s right, baby, moan for me,” he coaxed, flicking a finger against your clit. Just lightly, to gauge your reaction. And oh, did you deliver. Your hips bucked forward almost immediately, back arched in in an attempt to get closer, to get more, more, more. Your eyes were half-lidded now, your cleavage flushed, as your lips mouthed wordless begs. How could Sam resist?

He couldn’t. His boxers pooled around his ankles just to be kicked away, pierced dick meeting his stomach with a wet smack. The moan that came from you upon revealing his girth almost sent him toppling over, legs shaking slightly as he slid it between your folds. “What is it, baby? Do you like my dick? Is it good enough for your pretty pussy?” His hips rocked back and forward now, coating his perverted shaft in your slick, eyes never leaving your face as he awaited your response. The nod you gave was small, but the look in your eyes was enough to make him drool. Tears welled in them, just about to slip down those flushed cheeks, so full of desire and despair that he felt like they were mirroring his soul. When the pierced tip caught your twitchy hole, both of you gasped out loud, making Sam’s hips work faster, bumping against your entrance over and over. He adored the wet sounds the two of you created, the way you moaned in his ear, and oh Yoba, how you bit those pretty lips again. He just had to – had to kiss them better, had to aim for your clit, had to please you. “Sam,” you suddenly gasped, making his head snap up, taking his focus away from how pretty your pussy looked with his dick teasing it. “Yes, baby? What do you want? Tell me, princess.” “Fuck- Sam, please- fuck me,” you mewled, head again bumping into the wall. Another fat glob of pre-cum leaked out of him, and he was pretty sure he had sold his soul to the devil – how else could this be true? But you were his muse, his pretty, pretty princess, that made his balls hurt so good, so if he had actually sold his soul, he would have done it all over again.

“Do you need me, baby? Want my dick to ruin your sweet little cunt? Yeah? That’s what you want?” Another bump against your clit, another tease at your hole, and yet another glob of pre-cum coating your folds. “Yes, Sam! Fuck, PLEASE.”

That had definitely done it for him. Greedy tip lining up with your drooling hole, his eyes searched your face once more before he pushed forward. Feeling your drenched walls wrap around him, Yoba, he wanted to weep. His dick surely did. You were so beautifully wet around him, greeting him with a squelching sound as your walls stretched around him. If his brain had been working until now, it most definitely had short-circuited at right this moment and had left his mouth hanging open, spit dribbling down his tongue and on your gorgeous tits. You weren’t in much better shape – Sam was big. Girth stretching you absolutely thin, making you feel like you were going to rip in half, but fuck, did it feel good. His pierced tip bumped against your walls, and you could feel him pulse inside of you with each push forward.

“Y..you..you okay?” he whispered as he was about halfway in, nodding at the small nod you gave him. “Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good. Fuck, you feel so good. Better than I could have ever imagined, babe,” he babbled, strings of spit landing on your skin with almost every word. “Sweet, sweet girl. Taking in my dick like a perfect little slut, I am gonna move again now, ‘kay? Gonna take all of me, princess?”

You didn’t have any other option than nod – it felt like with Sam’s dick entering you, all the words you had ever learned had left you. Not that you minded, what he gave you was so much better. He fucked his dick further into you, moaning your name in the most strained, beautiful way as he bottomed out. “Good fucking- Good girl, so good for me. Don’t deserve you, darling,” he yapped, beginning with a slow and steady pace. That didn’t last long, though. Your moans were just so beautiful, you see? Sam really did try, though! Really tried to keep slow and go easy on you, but there was just no way to do so when you sounded like this, when you scratched your fingers down his back like this. When you whimpered and bucked into him like this – no, he just couldn’t.

He fucked into you like you deserved, like you had always dreamed of. Giving you quick and hard thrusts that reached deep, tip bullying into you mercilessly. Sam wasn’t able to get enough from seeing you like this, with your mouth either hanging open or closed as you bit your lip, seeing you being ruined by his dick while your tits bounced for him – it just was so delicious. “Fuck, baby. You are suckin’ me off, does it feel good? Do ya like my dick pounding that cunt? Do ya like how I make you mine? Tell me, love. Use your words.” His fingers wrapped around your chin, making you look at him as he thrusted at a rough pace, keeping eye contact as your pussy squelched for his throbbing dick. You smacked your lips together, once, then twice, trying to answer these simple questions, but it was just so hard when it felt like the ability to speak was hogtied by the feeling of your building orgasm. “Can’t hear you, sweets. But look at you, bitin’ your lip again, ya love this, dontcha?” He cooed, licking along your throat, down your cleavage, just to lap and nip at your nipple while his thumb rolled over the other. “Still, I wanna hear you, let me hear those words, c’mon. I know you can do it.” Just to underline his words, he gave you an especially hard thrust, making you gasp out his name, followed by a babbled string of “yes”’s. “That’s it, love. That’s it. Knew you could do it,” he cooed, eyes watching how greedily your cunt sucked in his dick. Yoba, he was close. So, so close. The thought of filling you up made his balls pull again, aching for that sweet, sweet release. He needed you to cum, drench him, cream his cock – he just needed you to.

His tongue lulled out of his mouth, spittle landing on your already damp skin as he pounded into you. His thumb found its spot on your clit again, flicking and rubbing it in circles that matched the pace of his thrusts. “Sa-Sahaaam!” You sobbed, voice edging in a high pitch as your stomach swirled around that approaching high. “What is it, baby? Gonna cum for me? Please, cum for me. Drench me, I want it all, make a mess of me.” His words only added to the building pressure within you, the room suddenly seeming to spin, the only thing that stayed in frame being the blond that fucked into you as if his life depended on it. Your moans no longer consisted of anything cohesive, only the high-pitched edge announced your nearing orgasm. Sam picked up on it, fell right in love with it and obeyed, keeping his pace a steady, hard fuck, thumb massaging your aching clit in a way that made your thighs twitch. You tried to tell him that you were going to cum, you certainly did, but all that left your mouth was a sob, followed by a small whine before your back arched in, legs full-on shaking as your orgasm wrecked through you.

Your hole spasmed around Sam’s already pulsing dick, gush of juices creating a creamy ring around the base of his shaft. He wanted this image of you to be forever etched into his brain, wanted it to be one of his core memories.

The look you gave him was enough to send him over the edge himself, red tip spitting ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up with each thrust. Sam just couldn’t stop, the need to fuck it deep inside of you possessing him as he pounded away, wanted to mark you as his and only his.

Only when his balls felt so incredibly empty did he slow to a stop, panting for hair like a dog in heat. Looking down at you, you weren’t in much better shape. You looked wrecked. Body flushed still, covered in his drools and lovebites he had left while he had been fucking into you. You were still shaking lightly against him, your eyes holding a fucked-out gaze that made his knees weak. For a while, the two of you just looked at one another as you panted, Sam’s hand carefully trading through your hair, the other working on holding up your tired body.

After a while, Sam dared to speak again. “So…I know we met on a website for sex, but…could I maybe take you on a date?”

#sdv #stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley farmer #sdv fanfic #fanfic #sdv sam #stardew valley smut #sdv sam x reader

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hpowellsmith · 5 months ago

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Honor Bound Chapter 7 Update!

I’m delighted to share Honor Bound Chapter 7 on Dashingdon and itch! You can skip any number of chapters to start at the chapter of your choice, or you can play through the whole thing. You can try loading a save you made before this update, but you will probably need to start a fresh one. If you encounter a bug when using a loaded save, please try replaying through the whole thing or using the chapter-skip to replay the chapter in which you found the problem - in some cases this will fix it!

If you have a minute, I’d love to hear your feedback! As before, there is some feedback that I’m waiting until later to implement, and a minor character who hasn’t been added in yet, but I always pay attention to all feedback being sent in.

This new demo is around 306,000 words, with Chapter 7 and various edits adding around 43,000 words to the whole thing!

This is going to be the last chapter that I put up publicly before the beta testing begins. I may put up edits to Chapters 1-7 before then, and will implement bugfixes, but we’re getting towards the home stretch now and I’d like playtesters to have the experience of playing all the later chapters so they can have a big-picture perspective on how the branches can go.

In this chapter you will encounter:

a lot of bad things (more detailed content notes below)

As well as the new chapter, I’ve made some significant edits to earlier chapters in response to player feedback - more about that below too.

Many thanks to everyone for their feedback - it’s been so helpful! Thanks especially to an anonymous Patreon subscriber who gave some really useful comments about some Chapter 7 one-on-one scenes which inspired me to expand on them and include some extra characterful moments.

Read more about Honor Bound on the forum thread

Play the Honor Bound demo on dashingdon and itch

Give feedback

Wishlist on Steam

Revisions:

Overall:

More references to trauma responses when PC’s health is low, more reference to cane use, a bit more flavour text about the injury, more flavour text referring to health improvements to reflect the PC looking after themself

Chapters 5 and 6: added talk with Denario about the PC being trans if it didn’t happen in Chapter 3

General typo fixes

Chapter 4

expanded a branch of the late-chapter Korzha scene for more breathing room

Chapter 5

added option to medically assess Korzha when they look sick

minor expansion of conversation with Catarina about what she thinks about the trip

minor expansion of letter-writing with Fiore

Chapter 6

tweaked Alva’s assignment offer, with clearer information and potential disadvantages of taking it

expanded end of Savarel’s one-on-one scene

fixed an error making end of Korzha’s goodnight scene shorter than intended

added a choice to enable an amorous PC and Raffi to hide what’s going on from Simone

added optional one-on-one Denario scene, including optional sex scene

Chapter 7 content notes: earthquake, quicksand, fire, building collapse, potential severe injuries to the PC and others

#choice of games #interactive fiction #honor bound #creme de la creme series #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript game #choicescript wip #text games #indie games #interactive novel

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ironunderstands · 5 months ago

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I’m having some Aventio thoughts.. :3

Possessive Aventurine urghhh Aventurine who won’t let Ratio out of his sight for more than 10 minutes when they are out together out of fear, Aventurine who is terrified he will lose someone else he loves and will hold Ratio’s hand at any opportunity he gets, Aventurine who mildly and vaguely threatens anyone who so much as looks at Ratio badly…. AAAAAAAAA

Like usually I don’t enjoy the “you’re mine” kinda trope/mindset, but Aventurine has lost practically everything and everyone close to him so I can see him being extremely, well, possessive, of Ratio. However he would still obviously respect the others boundaries (especially due to his trauma), it’s just I can see him keeping Ratio as close as he possibly can.

I think that’s why I like writing fics where Aventurine is rescuing/saving/protecting/etc Ratio because he needs the ability to care for someone like that just as much as Ratio needs the ability to just let go and be vulnerable

Like Ratio already spends all his time trying to help others so having someone else do it for him is a welcome change, and Aventurine constantly has all eyes on him, so not having to be the center of attention for once is freeing..

..which is also why I probably prefer dom aven/sub ratio when it comes to nsfw/suggestive content of them. It’s more interesting than the alternatives to me because it’s a dynamic that would benefit both of them and help work out their issues in canon. Not saying it’s some magic fix it or something but yeah I think Ratio needs to give up his control sometimes and Aventurine needs to gain some. I feel like people downplay how sex can be used to explore character dynamics and I know this is kinda off course for what I usually write/talk about but I just haven’t seen anyone discuss it so I thought it was worth mentioning.

Moving onwards, I really love writing Ratio when he’s not in a normal state of mind. Drunk, injured, sleepy, a fucking owl (IM WORKING ON THE FIC THANK YOU @aurae-rori FOR HELPING ME BETA ITS AT 6.3/~10k WORDS IM GONNA TRY AND FINISH IT SOON I PROMISE), etc.

Whatever one of these you decide to inflict upon Ratio allows for some really interesting characterization to be enabled, because well, the man’s a tsundere, and it’s kinda hard for him to keep that up when he doesn’t have the capacity to. Honestly I view his tsundere-ness as being half voluntary/a choice and half just the way he is because he’s not very good at expressing his emotions or dealing with other people’s emotions.

However if I were to say, make him drunk, a good portion of that barrier breaks and Ratio’s true self gets exposed, and he nor Aventurine nor anyone really know how to deal with that. It’s so much fun to just put a character out of their element and see what they do next, and I think messing with Ratio’s mental state is the epitome of that, because now he has to confront the fact that he IS hiding parts of himself, and that’s scary (in a good way).

I also think Aventurine dealing with the fact that someone just genuinely lives him but is too afraid to really show it would be compelling. Would he blame himself? Would he dig into it and accidentally cross Ratio’s boundaries, then feel horrible about it? Would he doubt that it’s really real until it becomes transparently clear that Ratio does love him? Oh the possibilities..

Would he see Ratio being kind to someone in a similar way that Ratio is to him and get jealous? Would he worry that maybe he isn’t special to him and is just selfishly imagining everything?

They make me insane.

#honkai star rail #hsr #dr ratio #aventurine #aventio #ratiorine #raturine #suggestive #only a lil tho #the brainrot is real #one day ill write a fic where ratio temporarily relinquishes all his control to aven and lets him do whatever he wants #One day #someone write it for me 🙏#it would be good for both of them I promise

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roxasagainst · 4 months ago

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jujutsu kaisen one-shot masterlist!

WE AINT GOIN NOWHERE!! (update 8 • 26, adding my fav excerpts under the links :3)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅「 ✦ Satoru Gojo ✦ 」.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

⊹₊⋆ sour, then sweet (college AU) wc - 1.5k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ — “What if I told you I bought everything at your bake sale, left a check on the living room table…and we have all the time in the world right now…would your answer still be the same?”

⊹₊⋆ sick for me (ex!boyfriend AU) wc - 4.6k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “Yeah, princess? You like that? Like when I pick up the pace and Make. You. Take. It.”

⊹₊⋆ losing all sense (arranged marriage AU) wc - 7.3k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ And just like the cake cutting, when he comes up from between your legs he wipes the corners of his mouth with his fingers and puts them in his mouth.

⊹₊⋆ limitless [draft one], [draft two] (roommates AU) wc (all) - 9.5k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ I. “Say something”, he pleads, his voice soft with an edge of desperation, “Please.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ II. “If you don't want this”, he mutters into your skin, “just say so, baby…”

go fuck yourself (enemies to parents AU LMAOOO) wc - ???

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅「 ✦ Suguru Geto ✦ 」.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

⊹₊⋆ confession (priest AU) wc - 2k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ Through his robe and the stupid dress your friend picked out, the Lord wasn't the only thing that was rising, and your heartbeat picked up all over again.

⊹₊⋆ you snooze, you lose (bartender AU) wc - 3.5k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “Mhmm…that’s it, sweetheart, make a mess on my fingers like that…you’re doing so good.”

⊹₊⋆ tear you apart (teacher AU) wc - 4.1k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “Well, you're wrong. I could hear you perfectly fine. Moaning my name like that…what were you even thinking about?”

⊹₊⋆ happy birthday, mrs. president (husband/wife AU) wc - 2.1k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “G-Gonna make you a mommy, sweetheart…”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅「 ✦ Choso Kamo ✦ 」.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

⊹₊⋆ intrusive thoughts (toxic bf AU) wc - 2.8k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “More, baby? C’mon, we talked about this, use your words.”

⊹₊⋆ perfect (rockstar AU) wc - 2.3k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ “‘M glad, babe. But next time, let's not forget to eat dinner before fucking.”

⊹₊⋆ full moons and mouths (vampire hunter AU) wc - 5.5k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ His hands grip your hips harder, his movements rough and demanding. Wanting more. Needing more.

⊹₊⋆ hey, emo boy! (tattoo artist AU) wc - ???

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅「 ✦ Ryomen Sukuna ✦ 」.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚.

⊹₊⋆ cherry waves I, II , III and IV (heian era AU) wc (all) - 9.9k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ I. “You like that? Yeah you do, fuckin’ slut, takin’ me so well…f-fuck…’n so tight too…”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ II. “And I'd be in a much better mood if you gave me a kiss, my love.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ III. “Letting me fuck this pretty face of yours…shit…I love you…”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ IV. “Kuna…we've ruined four perfectly good kids by spoiling them all the time.”

beware (mafia AU) wc. - ???

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅「 ✦ Toji Fushiguro ✦ 」.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

⊹₊⋆ sweet nothin' (neighbor AU) wc - 3.7k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─“Name sounds good comin’ out of that pretty mouth – mhmm – wanna hear it again…”

⊹₊⋆ serpent's kiss (obsessive AU) wc - 2.5k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ You're the prettiest when he's in control also and especially when you moan and scream his name like it's the only thing in your vocabulary.

⊹₊⋆ don't tell mom! (stepdad AU) wc - 3.1k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ...‘M givin’ you one more chance to call me ‘daddy’ and behave, or I'm gonna take care of it my way.”

⊹₊⋆ killshot (bodyguard AU) wc - 1.8k

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ‘Might just have to fuck this pretty cunt every day until you get knocked up…’

⊹₊⋆ companion playlist here!

⊹₊⋆ enable my shitty writing by sending a ko-fi!

⊹₊⋆ uploads might be a little slower considering I'm writing a book!

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skufdaddyswansea · 2 months ago

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Okay, I have a few more scattered thoughts in regards to Curly that either didnt fit or I just think are kinda weaker points. (and also there were a couple things i had to go back and get more screenshots for. ...again....)

Also I feel like I should add a disclaimer: I feel like I'm starting to sound like Curly's #1 Hater but I'm really not. I like him a lot! I honestly like all the characters, even if it's in.... different ways. Sometimes you like a character because they're likeable and fun, sometimes you like a character because they're interesting and deep.

(And sometimes you like a character because you want to put them in the microwave.)

Moving on.

At some point this scene really got stuck in my head. It seems pretty innocuous at first, but it actually says a lot.

Technically Daisuke is the one who screwed up here, but the fact that he was even able to mess with the vent long enough to set off the foam is on Swansea. This is his area, Daisuke's his intern (like it or not), he needs to be keeping an eye on him.

Curly can see that! And firmly but respectfully bring attention to it! He can in fact be a good leader, when he chooses to be.

So it's also interesting that this scene is followed by Jimmy's psych eval. While dealing with Jimmy so Anya doesn't have to may have been a good move, his method subtly enables Jimmy's dismissal of Anya and her work's value.

Now I want to pivot and talk about the code scanner a bit.

During Curly sections, it's always in our inventory, and as Jimmy we pick it up in the cockpit where he's... extracted from, so I feel like it's safe to say that Curly is usually carrying it on his person.

And yet.

This is another one of those things that doesnt really seem like a big deal. The Pony Express is pretty buckwild about the kinds of shit it keeps locked up with the code scanner.

But there is one glaring problem here.

Granted, this one is more of a stretch. I can't say confidently that anyone else on the crew had easy access to the code scanner. In fact, given their annoyance with everything being locked up I'd say it's pretty unlikely. It's just something that's been buzzing around in my head, but after writing it out it feels pretty weak.

But it does feel worth mentioning that if anyone other than Curly would have access to both the code scanner and the Pony Express Protection Kit (TM), it would have been Jimmy. Not to mention that if anything were to, say, incapacitate Curly, Jimmy takes over and gains control of the code scanner. Which is exactly what Anya was afraid of.

And he is pretty quick to grab it, isn't he.

Which leads me to my next point.

I touched on this a bit in my last post, but I want to elaborate on this exchange specifically. I think it's pretty revealing.

At this point, Curly thinks Anya is suicidal. He tells her she could have come to him. That he would have done anything to help her. That he should have considered that she doesn't undergo the psych evaluations, he should have thought of that, so that way he could have known.

But he did know. She told him.

Even still, when he saw Anya in this state, the only reason he could imagine for her distress was the company going under.

As long as Anya kept quiet and carried on as normal, he really didn't think it was that big of a deal.

You can see this again when he finally talks to Jimmy about it. It's simply a "difficult situation." But nothing they can't get through together.

Not to mention, Curly twice glosses over Anya's fear that Jimmy will try to kill her. Her second attempt to communicate this is followed quickly by the scene in which Jimmy attempts to kill the entire crew.

Okay, one last thing I want to touch on here. It's about the way Curly (and by extension Jimmy) use the phrase, "We can fix this." And its variations. Again, I brought it up pretty briefly before, but there's always more to say about it.

Now, Jimmy uses this phrase (or more frequently, "I can fix this.") to an almost comical degree ("Almost the entire crew is dead, but I'm going to fix this. With my gun! :)"). But they both use it it in pretty much the same way.

For others, it's an empty promise. "I'm on your side." "I'm looking out for you." "I'll protect you."

For themselves, it's a denial of reality, a self-soothing mantra they use to desperately clutch at the reins of a situation that has long since spiralled out of their control. Everything will be back to normal soon. I just have to fix it.

thanks KC Green

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing spoilers #curly mouthwashing #cw rape mention #very vaguely but still #long post

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davidtennantgenderenvy · 24 days ago

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A Letter From An Ex-Conservative To Her Parents On November 6th, 2024

Mom and Dad,

When Trump got shot this summer, I remember you saying that this was all because the Left wouldn’t stop calling him Hitler. How we needed to “turn down the temperature” and stop “inciting violence.” I don’t think you understand that when people compare Trump to Hitler, it is not, in fact, just because they do not like him, but because he uses Hitlerian rhetoric on a regular basis. Obsessing over an imagined past version of a country that never truly existed. Saying that (insert frequently dehumanized other) is “poisoning the blood of the nation.” Before Hitler began the Final Solution against Jews, what did he say he planned to do? Deport them, until he realized it was too costly. I don’t think you understand that Hitler did not start putting people in death camps the second he came to power. Trump is currently in about the same position Hitler was in in the 1930s. Is it going to take him putting undocumented people in gas chambers for you to believe me?

You might think that I’ve only come to my current conclusions about Trump because of the lies of “the mainstream media”, which, as I’ve said numerous times, I don’t even watch. But it’s actually been largely due to the things Trump himself has said. I understand that you don’t like Biden calling Trump’s voters “garbage”, but the language Trump uses to describe his political opponents is at least as disturbing. He’s disparaged fallen soldiers as “suckers and losers.” He’s proudly boasted about being the president who got Roe V Wade appealed, regardless of the estimated thousands of women who are dying because the medical treatments they need fall too close to the legal definition of abortion. A massive portion of his campaign advertisements are explicitly anti-trans. He thinks Palestinians should be moved off their land because it would make “great beachfront property.” He regularly speaks positively of and rubs elbows with the most disturbing members of the alt-right, such as Laura Loomer and Nick Fuentes. He’s a bully. (you voted for a bully. Remember when I was bullied?) And if Kamala’s plans are incoherent, which admittedly some of them are, Trump’s are even more so. He doesn't have a plan. America is just another failed business to him.

I don’t think you’re bad people. But I do think your party is bad. This is far more than just one guy. My journey has been less one of changing any of my beliefs than realizing that the Republican Party never represented those beliefs to begin with. It is the party of the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, of stripping the oppressed of their means to succeed and then asking them to “pull themselves up by the bootstraps.” Your precious Reagan was a racist. There’s recorded evidence. His policies were racist. He enabled denial and misinformation about AIDS until it was too little too late and millions had died. And you proudly display his book on your shelf, right next to Rush Limbaugh and Pat fucking Buchanan. Your son is a gay man. How could you.

Being a conservative, whether you think so or not, is inherently about preserving the status quo, about making sure things stay the way they are, that the people who are down stay down, and crushing anyone who tries to make things better. I didn’t vote Democrat because I am one. I voted Democrat because it would be easier under one such administration to push this country in the direction of equity and liberty. Project 2025 was intended for the next conservative administration. Trump may deny involvement, but the foreword of one of the sections was written by none other than his own vice president. And with the House, Senate and Supreme Court all red now, it’s going to be easier than ever for him to pass any portions of it he likes.

I’m writing you this letter so that you know that if a nationwide abortion ban gets put in place, if schools and parents who support their children’s gender affirming care (which does NOT mean surgery) start getting investigated (which some already are), if Israel continues bombing Gaza until there’s nothing left, if billionaires continue to take up larger and larger percentages of the nation’s wealth, if immigrants who’ve lived and worked in this country for years start getting deported in droves because they couldn’t get the right paperwork, that it’s on you and people like you, even as you continue deny the very real damage done in Trump’s first presidency, the awful, awful people who felt empowered because of him. I tried for a while this summer to see if I could change your minds, but all it did was screw up my mental health and make me realize something truly painful: that you aren’t the people I thought you were. Not when your reaction to police shooting students the same age as your own daughter with rubber bullets because they don’t want their university to be complicit in a genocide is “well, what are they supposed to do? They’re the police.” Not when a man can say immigrants are poisoning the blood of the nation and you still vote for him.

It breaks my heart that you and so many people I love have been so deeply conditioned to vote against their own best interests, to think that a government that actually helps its people without actively harming others is a childish, fanciful expectation. I think I truly believed to the depths of my soul until last night that this wouldn’t happen. That we were better than this. That we wouldn’t reelect someone who objectively ran a terrible campaign, who conducts himself with boorishness and indignity, who genuinely, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, represents everything that made me scream "Fuck America" out Laura’s car window this summer. But why should I be surprised America likes fascists? My own parents certainly seem to.

But I hope you’re happy with your lower grocery prices, I guess. Which we probably won’t be getting anyway, because that’s not actually what Trump’s policies are going to do.

You sold out my friends, and entire marginalized communities, for cheaper groceries. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for that.

Lauren

#2024 election #us politics #personal #Donald trump #kamala harris #leftist #conservatives #ex conservative

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darlingofdots · 2 months ago

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What is a romance novel, really?

So far, the response to this post has mostly shown me that a lot of people don't actually know what a romance novel is, and that's okay! I don't expect everyone to know! However, for my own peace of mind, I am going to do my best to explain what we mean when we talk about romance novels, where the genre comes from, and why you should not dismiss the pastel cartoon covers that are taking over the display tables at your nearest chain bookshop. Two disclaimers up front: I've been reading romance novels since I was a teenager, and have dedicated the majority of my academic career to them. I'm currently working on my PhD and have presented/published several papers about the genre; I know what I'm talking about! Secondly, all genres are fake. They're made up. But we use these terms and definitions in order to describe what we see and that's a very important part of science, including literary studies!

The most widely used definition of "romance novel" to this day is from Pamela Regis' 2003 A Natural History of the Romance Novel, in which she states that "A romance novel is a work of prose fiction that tells the story of the courtship and betrothal of one or more [protagonists]."* People also refer to the Romance Writers of America's "a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending" and another term you will see a lot is "Happily Ever After/Happy For Now," which posits that the protagonists must be in a committed and happy relationship at the end of the novel in order to count as a romance novel. That's it. That's what a romance novel is.

Of course it's a bit more complex than that; Regis also posited the Eight Essential Elements which describe the progression of the love plot over the course of the book, and there's a similar breakdown from Gwen Hayes in Romancing the Beat that is intended more as writing advice, but both of these are really useful for breaking down how this narrative structure works. My personal favourite part of the Eight Elements is that the romance opens with a definition of the society in which the protagonists exist, which is flawed in a way that oppresses them, and then the protagonists either overcome or fix it in a way that enables them to achieve their HEA. A lot of social commentary can happen this way!

It can also be a bit difficult to pin down what exactly counts as a "central love story" because who decides? A lot of stories have romance arcs in them, including dudebro action movies and noir mystery novels, but you would never argue that the romance is the central plot. A lot of romance novels have external plots like solving a mystery or saving the bakery. A useful question to ask in this case is whether the external plot exists for its own sake or to facilitate the romance: when Lydia runs off with Wickham in Pride & Prejudice, it's so that Lizzie can find out how much Darcy contributed to saving her family from scandal and realise her own feelings for him. The alien abduction in Ice Planet Barbarians happens specifically so the abducted human women can meet and fall in love with the hunky aliens. There are definitely grey areas here! Romance scholars argue about this all the time!

I have a suspicion that a lot of people who responded to the post I linked above are not actually romance readers, which is fine, but it really shows the lack of understanding of what a romance novel is. I have a secondary suspicion that the way we have been talking about books has contributed to this miscategorisation in a lot of people's minds, because especially with queer books we will often specifically point out that this fantasy book is f/f! This dystopian novel has a gay love story! This puts an emphasis on the romance elements that are present in a book when a lot of the time, the romance arc is just flavouring for the adventure/uprising/heist and we are pointing it out only because its queerness makes it stand out against other non-queer titles. It makes sense why we do this, but there is SUCH a difference between "a sci-fi book with an f/f romance arc" and "an f/f sci-fi romance." I could talk for hours about how the romance genre has evolved alongside and often in the same way as fanfiction and how there are codes and tropes that come up again and again that are immediately recognisable to romance readers, even down to phrases and cover design, and how romance is an incredibly versatile and diverse genre that functions in a very specific way because of that evolutionary process. The same way that dedicated fantasy readers can trace the genealogy of a given text's influences ("this writer definitely plays a lot of DnD which has its roots in the popularity of Tolkien, but they're deliberately subverting these tropes to critique the gender essentialism"), romance readers are often very aware of the building blocks and components of their books. These building blocks (that's what tropes are, lego pieces you put together to create a story!) often show up in other genres as well, especially as part of romantic arcs, but that doesn't make every book that features Only One Bed a romance novel, you know?

Romance is an incredibly versatile and diverse genre and I really highly recommend exploring it for yourself if you haven't. I personally read mostly Regency/Victorian historicals and I've been branching out into specifically f/f contemporaries, and there are so many authors who are using the romance framework to tell beautiful, hard-hitting stories about love and family while grappling with issues of discrimination, disability, mental health, capitalism, you name it. The genre has a very specific image in a lot of people's minds which makes them resistant to it and it's not entirely unjustified, but there is so much more to it than Bridgerton and repackaged Star Wars fanfiction!**

*the original text said "heroines" but Regis later revised this. There is a very good reason for the focus on the heroine in the first couple waves of romance scholarship, but that's a different post!

**neither of these are a bad thing and part of that genealogy that I mentioned earlier.

#dottie rambles #romance on main #romance novels #dottie academes

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ii)

My friend, I am writing this to you from the depths of the forest behind the castle. A thrush builds a nest far over my head while a violet beetle strums a tune, and nearby, a brown hart crosses a brook with her doe. It rains more often, and I stroll in it, wet to my bones. I alone bear witness to the marvels of my home. I cannot sit idle in my chambers anymore when no one seems to care about my whereabouts. Write soon, I eagerly await your tales of voyages on Vhagar. Yours, Aemma.

You should've seen him, the way Aemond Targaryen appeared when he unfurled the little scroll. It was a habit now. He would read and read it, for hours, a single wistful eye going back and forth on the page, mulling over each painstaking word, tracing her name, inhaling the scent of the soil on Dragonstone, before rolling the paper and depositing it with the others in his wooden chest for safekeeping. This letter found him over three moons ago. He had written back, twice, all to be met with nothing. He took to heart the gloom that seeped through the paper, unlike the bewitching girl he had heard from ages ago. She used to speak of collecting dragon eggs, running off with a boat into the sea, and exploring the caves beneath the courts. What was she up to now? What did she look like now? What were they doing to her?

Far away, on Dragonstone, Aemma's days evolved into boredom, a mere observer of the storms that raged. She grew further apart from her still-devoted mother, biding in heartbreak and loss while the princess enabled the household with Prince Daemon. Aemma couldn't help but see her father, Ser Laenor, everywhere. In the salt of the sea, in the misty eyes of his dragon, Seasmoke, in the boats that were docked at the bay, and in the sea glass that washed ashore. She became more disturbed, more evasive, and similarly, more accustomed to her smarting headaches. You could tell the days of her girlhood and absurd adventures were behind her.

There were times when her dear brothers would find a way to shed some light in her life by taking her to the watchpoint to have her see them glide above the ocean, mounted upon Vermax and Arrax. She had once ached for a dragon of her own, but she had given up as the years rolled into others. It didn't seem to matter, nothing changed in the way her family saw her.

Other times, she'd think of her dearest friend, Aemond, across the reach, training hard, fighting battles, riding Vhagar—he felt like a distant dream. A wish that would never quite be. Writing to Aemond brought back serenity to the young princess' mind. The quieter times were behind her. Her getaways were discounted now, but she'd continue to search the island for new excitement just for him. He was a gentle reminder that it was never too late to take action on what she had once dreamed herself to be.

On the morning of her father's observance, Aemma was informed that the princess would like to break bread with her. She didn't know what to expect. So she dressed in her best silks and joined her mother at the overflowing table. Aemma engaged in silence, scraping her fork against the plate, unable to hold her mother's expectant eyes. She wanted to share her troubles, talk about the past, and remember him the right way. Nothing came out except—

"I've missed you," Aemma managed to speak. It was the truth, she'd missed her mother's presence around her dearly.

"Then why have you been shying away from me?" her mother returned, her voice gentle. "Tell me, Aemma. What have I done to receive your silence?"

She met her mother's gaze, stronger now. "Nothing."

Her mother breathed a sigh. "I have not forced it upon you to wed a strange lord. Daemon often prompts me on this, but I refuse it because I know your heart. It belongs to no one but you." She reached across to warm her daughter's cold fingers. "Your brothers worry that your woes have become too deep these days. I share this concern with them, my love. I know you ache for Laenor—"

And the whisper-thin weir broke loose. Aemma's face crumpled into distress, using a hand to muffle a soft cry. She hasn't heard that name around here. No one would dare speak it. This has been a long time coming.

"No, mother," Aemma wept.

"Oh, Em. Even after all these years." Rhaenyra stood up to bound to her side, pressing her daughter into a tight embrace against her chest. "I'm here. Unburden yourself."

"Why doesn't it hurt as much for anyone else?" she asked through her tears, her shoulders shuddering. "Not you, Jace or Lord Corlys. Why me?"

"You loved your father more fiercely than any of us." Her mother stroked her fingers through Aemma's braids softly. "In time, you'll learn to make peace with the memories. Just as we have."

Aemma nodded, eventually finding it in herself to take solace in her mother's careful words. She felt a soft nudge against her stomach, moving out of her mother's arms to touch her swollen belly. Another addition to the family.

"I still want you to take a husband in marriage, Aemma, at your own will and time," her mother said to her, more serious now. She brushed a finger over her tear tracks.

"It does not interest me, mother," Aemma confessed with a sigh. "I've said this plenty."

"Yes, I know."

"Spare me the argument then."

"At the very least a kind, respecting companion who will support you in upholding your duties and protect your ideals, just as your father did for me," she insisted.

"If I were to wed, you would make me a pillar in a dismal court at King's Landing," she tried to explain, but her anxieties piled up to rush out in a mess. "Name me heir to the throne, face all those vile aspersions with a stone heart, and have me mindlessly plough out babes which I don't think I'm capable of for the life of me. I will not be made into a husk of my—"

Rhaenyra caught her chin to interrupt and glared her daughter straight in the eye. "You will not be heir."

She blinked once. "Mother."

"You should be, as my firstborn. I don't deny it. I've fought the very Gods for this privilege my entire life." Her mother palmed her cheek, her expression softening. "But it does not outweigh my oath to you and myself when I first held you in my arms. That I would never subject you to what my father had me brook, a mere political headache until I couldn't see past myself on the throne. I see my misplaced youth in you, daughter, and I want you to prevail for the both of us. Live as you please, captain a ship, voyage as an explorer, and not a tongue will raise against you. I will see to it."

Aemma stared at her mother, her words dripping into her mind one by one. She hoped she heard all of it right.

"For that, Jacaerys will be named my heir," the princess affirmed. "Although, as your brother's kin, you have to take to husband. I cannot have Jace's claim questioned any further. I can only grant you so much latitude on this, not freedom. I am sorry, it's all I—"

Aemma leapt at her mother to swallow her in a delighted embrace. It felt like a warm sunrise after a cold, unclear night, and it carried all before anyone. She pushed her face into her mother's neck, squeezing her as close as to pour her graciousness into her. She would never forgive herself if she were to do wrong by the princess, someone who trusted their years of deprivation and defeat to her.

"Thank you, my princess," Aemma whispered.

Her mother exhaled a laugh, smoothing many kisses against her cheek. "I am all but worthy of you."

"But, mother," she drawled and pulled away to show her the confusion. "How am I to move forward with this?"

"We can do this slowly. I will soon send word to a few great houses in Westeros. Essos, too, if you'd like," her mother divulged, smiling. "You will treat with them until you find someone who agrees with you. I won't bestow you upon them as a broodmare, they will value you as a princess and a lady. Take all the time you need, and satisfy your discretion."

"You make it sound so effortless," Aemma muttered.

"It will be, Em. Don't think too much, speak your mind, if you must. Someone who does not squinch at your wishes is most suited for your hand."

She shook her head. "I am not confident about that."

Her mother kissed her cheek again. "Simply let it happen, my love. Good things will follow."

As it turned out, the word of mouth of insurgency and challenges of Prince Lucerys' claim to the Driftwood throne brought the Dragonstone Targaryens back to their home on King's Landing. The young princes and princess were to stay with the rest of their kin after a long period of separation. A union for the ages.

Soon enough, that word grew old and what delighted the realm was the pleasing news that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen of Dragonstone was arranging matters with a select few houses to place suitable marriage prospects for her eldest daughter, Aemma Velaryon. At sixteen years of age, her flowering into maidenhood had made her more beautiful. She would eventually draw the eyes of many young lords in the kingdom. Hightower, Blackwood, Arryn and Stark were among the favoured handful.

This matter did not escape Prince Aemond's ears, but he remained impassive to it. It shouldn't bother him, why would it? He knew it was only a matter of time before Aemma would be within these castle walls and he would heed her words before all else. This must be foul play from his sordid half-sister Rhaenyra. The Aemma Aemond knew would never stand for this plight. She would stand before him and remind him of his promise all those years back, they would mount Vhagar together and take to the open seas. Of course, he remembered. He always knew this day would come.

The morning Aemma arrived at the Red Keep, Aemond stood atop the verandah past the courtyard with his brother and sister, his head held high to show his duty and not his deference. But his eye searched and hungrily awaited the sight of her again. What did she look like? Was she as nimble and reserved as they said? That she was the epitome of a true Targaryen princess? Or perhaps—

"Whose eyes does Aemond One-Eye seek?" Halaena droned quietly, taking his attention for a moment. That title irked him.

The carriage was emptied and already making for the gates. Had he missed her arrival? No, she was too hard to miss.

Halaena took his arm, leading him back into the entrance doors. Aemond wavered, his sights still on the courtyard. Why hadn't she come? Where had she gone?

"Come, brother. She'll join us later, I'm sure of it."

He was having none of it. People expected Aemond to simply go about his day as if Aemma's disappearance from the occasion was irrelevant. He was ushered to break bread with his family in a rather torrid affair and train with Ser Criston in the undern when all of his thoughts were linearly on the young princess. Where, where, where.

He sweated out his anguish, battling hard, swinging his sword in lithe twists until Cole's sword was knocked out of his fingers with Aemond's simple outmanoeuvre. While the sparse crowd clapped for him, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two of Aemma's brothers. The bastards of Dragonstone. The ones who cost him his eyesight. He'd been through a world of pain since that night. He would not let that slide, not so soon.

"Nephews! Have you come to train?" Aemond called out, hoping to get something out of them. Any one of them would know where Aemma had run off to.

Jace's gaze sharpened with a black stare as Aemond approached them in fleeting steps. Jace put himself protectively in front of Luke. Aemond scoffed through his nose and dropped his sword on the table nearby.

As if he'd venture to cut the throats of the princes of the realm. In front of all these witnesses. How unseemly.

"Aemma," he declared. Her name left his lips like a plea.

"What about her?" Jace sneered.

Oh, he was not making this easy. "The princess was missing this morning."

"Why would I ever—"

"She went to the stables to see her direwolf," Luke said instead, catching his eye. Aemond wanted to carve out his skin every moment the boy lingered unpunished. "She didn't arrive with us because... she didn't want the attention."

This piqued him. "Why not?"

"Seven hells, Luke," Jace hissed.

"You know how much sister cares for him," Luke mentioned.

Jace sighed, sensing his fairness, and spared Aemond an apprehensive look. "Aemma's not in the mood to speak to anyone. In fact, she should've stayed back. My poor sister had an unfortunate incident attempting to claim the Bronze Fury not long ago."

Aemond wasted no time in tracking down her chambers from her brother's directions. With bated breath, he burst through the doors—"Aemma?"

His dread intensified when he noticed her belongings still stacked in spotless trunks in the corner by the vanity as if she were planning to leave as soon as she came. No, he simply would not allow it.

He carelessly pushed the curtains of the bed aside to find it untouched. The room was freshly scented of lavender oil; she had recently taken a bath. Her cloak hung off the edge of her dining chair. Her gold jewellery was left scattered on the table. She had been here.

"Aemma!" he called aloud again.

"Aemond?" Aemma's delicate dulcet reached his ears.

From the short balcony, she finally presented herself before him, coming between the sunlight and him. Indeed, the rumours were true. Gone was the tempestuous little girl from his treasured memories and instead, in her place, stood a lady so impressive he couldn't believe it was Aemma. She had come into her own beautifully, in the graceful slopes of her breast, waist, nose and lips. There were still traces of that young girl which refused to give way, blessed in her doe eyes, sun-kissed skin and—her hair.

This was what her brothers had vaguely mentioned to him.

Her silvery-blonde hair, that usually flaunted intricate braids or hung in pretty ringlets around her waist, had been completely singed off by dragon fire, all the length and volume lost to a limp mess of curls around her neck. Her mother must have attempted to cheer her up by fashioning a delicate crown of braids around her head.

Aemond didn't care for any of it. She could've stood there with a third eye or a cock in her hands—this was his Aemma, in the flesh. Six years he had gone without her. Nothing could stop him now.

He couldn't contain himself any longer, he strode across the floor to bear her in his arms. As tightly, closely, and intimately as his strength allowed. This had not changed at all, she was as warm as the day she'd parted him.

"It's really you," Aemond exhaled with a faint, incredulous laugh. He spun her around in just as much elation as when he had first dismounted Vhagar and taken to her celebrations.

When he set her on her feet, Aemma had laughed in delight and taken his face into her palms, her dark eyes observing every tick of muscle in his features with a disbelieving smile. Even if his ghastly scar had startled her, she didn't show it.

"I've missed you every day, my friend," Aemma murmured. Gods, you could see his chest swell with satisfaction. It was exactly what he wanted to hear from her.

"How you've grown," he commended, warmly stroking her waist. "So tall and elegant... no wonder all the realm is vying for your hand."

Even the words tasted like poison in his mouth. His expression soured a little.

"And you! I never thought I'd live to see the day your hair was longer than mine own," she exclaimed back, overlooking his mood shift. She held his broad shoulders, measuring the distance between her hands. "You've come to be with the power of a true dragon-rider. I am proud. How goes Vhagar?"

"Insatiable." Much like him right now. "Come with me. I'll fly you over the bay for as long as you'd like."

He'd like to get the word out to the smallfolk, that the princess has been taken to another prince more deserving of her.

"Oh, no. I don't think I can even see another dragon without pissing myself," she told him, her eyes set on their feet. Discomfiture was evident on her face. "I tried to mount... Vermithor upon Daemon's guidance and my hair—" she sadly touched the soft trims around her neck "—I lost it in doing so. If it weren't for him, I would've lost my life, too."

Aemond's arms tensed under her touch. The thought of it was excruciating. What was his uncle thinking, putting such a hysterical little girl in front of a beast as large as Vhagar? And what was Aemma thinking, that such a ferocious beast would bow to someone with her merciful attitude?

She looked up at him, heavyhearted. "Do I look dreadful?"

Aemma could not begin to question that when he had been stricken by her fortitude all those years ago. No burned braids, dirtied skirts, or lost dragons could make up for that.

"I'm certain it'll alarm the lords but not me. You were always glorious to me, princess," he appreciated her, not-so-subtly.

She threw her head back to laugh freely. "Then I must tell my mother to cease this weary pursuit to find me a husband. At least until my hair has grown to an adequate length."

That sounded like a great strategy. It gave him enough time to plot a controlled plan to relieve Aemma of this pressure.

"Have you met with anyone?" he asked, his voice calculating.

She made a face. "Not yet. Lord Blackwood has written to my mother. But..." A lightness overtook her features. "After my stay has ended, I'll be heading north to treat with the Lord of Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" He made the word sound like filth on his tongue. "Those vulgar cunts will cut you up and stuff you in a pie before you can wish them good morrow."

She snickered. "Lord Cregan Stark, my mother tells me, is a gentle giant. No older than I am. I hear from my grandsire that he is an honourable king to his people." She twiddled her thumbs to hide a smile. "Lord Stark wrote to me a while ago. He is rather charming."

Aemond couldn't stand her growing fondness for that filthy northerner. "You write to each other?"

"It was only one letter," she denied. "To pursue familiarity? In any case, my family are thrilled. House Stark is an invincible, age-old power."

Aemond sneered under his breath. A mere word of mouth had swayed her affections to the cold deadness of the north. As if Aemma would last a single winter up there. Warm and beaming in that Stark's arms... he wanted to gouge his one remaining eye out and douse it in acid.

His vindictive thoughts faltered to the Aemma in front of him, who was lulling him to immodest thoughts at the way she stroked her finger down the long scar on his cheek. His eyes almost shut at the bittersweet sensation.

"Jace told me what happened that night with you and Luke," she professed, sadness enveloping her expression. "I never got to tell you how sorry I am, my friend. You must've been in great pain."

He gulped down the bile that rose to his throat at the mention, but he maintained his calm demeanour. Instead, he brought her fingers on his cheek to his mouth and, without thinking, lay a delicate kiss.

"Long forgotten," he lied.

He didn't miss the way Aemma's lips fluttered with a sharp inhale and slipped her hand to her side. She massaged the wrist with a flustered chuckle.

"The eyepatch is... different," she said breathlessly.

Aemond was affecting her, quite obviously. Just not enough. He glanced from the corner of his eye, smug, as she walked around him and toward the bed.

"You might not like what lies under it," he said. "Besides, I'd say we match for life now."

If only she read into what he truly meant. She knowingly touched the noticeable scar that cut through her eyebrow with an absentminded smile. "Yes, we do."

He couldn't wait on this any longer. The words were bursting at the seams, coming undone. "I must talk to you at once."

Aemond took her hand to hasten her to sit beside him on the bed. He entwined his fingers between hers and held it to his chest as he asked her, enunciating his words carefully. She watched him with all her focus.

"Do you truly want to be wed? Have they imposed this on you? You can tell me, Aemma, I will do anything in my power to stop this insanity. I will burn down that damned Sept for you if that's what it takes."

She smiled at him. "Don't fret for me. I am content."

"Surely you lie. 'Tis not good for you." They're not good for you, he wanted to say.

"My mother is right, my dear friend. If I can find someone who can understand what I want out of the marriage, I certainly couldn't ask for more. An honest relationship," she whispered intently. "It's all I want."

Her words burned him more intensely than any inferno in the world. Because she never saw him as a prospect. He would make her see him.

"Whatever fucking happened to fighting for your liberties? To not run in the face of adversity?" he snapped, dropping her hand from between his. "You said it to me, did you not?"

"I have done my part. I've deferred it fairly," she stated, slightly staggered at his tone. "This is a resolution."

"You've given up."

"I have not."

"They've turned you against me," he muttered.

"Oh, spare me the theatrics. Am I to remain a maiden all my life?" she asked, laughing.

He reached out to clasp her chin, but he made sure to be gentle how much ever he raged on the inside. Her smile fell to confusion, her gaze flickering to his fingers and then his eyes.

"You said we'd travel the world together. That we'd ride together on Vhagar, feast all we liked, row boats, build tents, see the world's wonders—am I to consign those ideals to nought? Have you filled my head with meaningless fiction?"

She breathed out a short gasp of incredulity before relieving his grip on her in sharp movement. She stood up to slant by a pillar, pushing her head into her hand. She was a picture of perfection toiled in a peculiar sort of misery. Beauty became her.

"We were children," she mumbled. "Priorities shift over time. I am a princess, a Targaryen no less, sans a dragon. I am without worth if not for my mother, and so are my ambitions."

He scoffed. "Maybe to you. I have counted on every letter, every fucking word, you've penned to me like a madman. You've grown a hunger in my heart and now you mean to crush it with your unfeeling hands."

"I don't understand what you want from me," she spoke, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I want you!" he growled, pushing to his feet.

She turned to stone before him. Perhaps she had not heard him properly. Aemond took a calm breath inward. No turning back from this anymore.

"Wed me, Aemma," he said, surer of himself. It felt right to say those words aloud, in that exact order. He had never imagined saying it to any other lady except her.

Aemma eventually thawed and lifted her head to stare at him. As if she was waiting for something. He couldn't get a read on her. Her immense, dark eyes softened and smouldered and ravaged his mind.

"Wed me and make me yours," he persuaded softly. "I will protect your honour, our dreams, and our future together better than any foul-mouthed, fat swine lordling this realm has to offer. May the Gods help anyone who stands in my way."

"Aemond," she whispered with an edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Aemma," he murmured.

He sauntered closer to her, leisurely dragging his knuckles down her forearm all the way to her wrist. She had the softest of skin, unblemished, kissed by daylight. He elicited a shiver from her, an abrupt action pressing her closer to his chest.

"I've waited a lifetime for this. For us," he confessed. "I have known no other hope that was not you. Now that I have you, my hope is not misplaced."

The little vestige of control he had on his self-restraint began to splinter and then it would be damaging for him to be around her. It was only right to give her some leeway to consider his transparent proposal.

Aemond deliberately stepped away, tucking his hands together behind his back. "But I am a man of virtue. I will never push you to do something you disfavour."

Her lips parted as air shuddered back into her, a hand supporting herself over the stone pillar. She kneaded at her forehead, soothing away a headache.

"I... need to think."

He beamed brightly. "Yes, good. 'Tis a lot to fathom. A night's rest should do nicely. On the morrow, I shall revisit you, and we shall break our fast together."

Her brows furrowed when she understood. "You mean to court me."

"Apparently so."

"You will cause indecent speculation," she warned.

He pursed his lips, unable to contain his amusement. "Hmm. Why can't a prince and his dear niece dine together after all these years apart?"

Aemma uneasily bit her lip.

"We disregard their baseless whispers as we always have."

The hearsay of Prince Aemond and Princess Aemma breaking bread together and alone swept like wildfire around the Red Keep. It was said that among those the news had stunned, it was Prince Jacaerys who had taken this as a slight. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, Prince Daemon, weren't certain of the positive response on this matter. One night, a thoughtful conversation in High Valyrian was heard from their shared chambers.

"Laenor had always sworn that Aemma was for Aemond," she pondered out loud to Daemon. "They've been following each other around since they could walk. We all saw this coming."

"She has hardly met with any other men," he said. "Offer her other options. Taste the local flavours. I hear Lord Stark has been quite pleased. He wrote to her personally, didn't he?"

"Aemond is what she wants," she sighed.

"She takes after her mother," the prince teased. "Seeking out her uncle."

"Daemon."

"Then make her see that the boy is not what he seems. Our girl has purposes that do not conform to his own. She intends to be like me," he chuckled, "and he is loyal to his sword."

"I will not twist my daughter's mind into submission," she grumbled.

"Gently dissuade."

The princess laughed quietly, stroking her pregnant belly. "Or it would do good for us to form an alliance with Alicent and the king. Protect our lineage from within. And with it, strengthen my claim to the throne."

Daemon hummed, mulling it in his mind. "He is only the second son after all. It is that drunken cunt who will be a threat."

"Precisely. I intend to hit two birds with one stone."

you can continue to read part iii here! and here's my masterlist!

hope you like the way this is progressing! do let me know what you'd like to see ~*

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freakshowtwopointoh · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!! Can I request jealous Jordan li where reader is spending a lot of time with someone else, maybe for a school project or something and Jordan notices and is like, nope, not happening, this one's mine bc they're so in love with reader and want all of the attention

Whew, that was a lot, haha,

Thank you!!!!

*not sure if u want established partners or situationship w feelings or something else, but i think imma go with situationship bc thats always the vibe for jordan lol if u want more established relationship lmk*

Debate club was a sensible extracurricular, and you had been doing it since your school stopped having model UN in 9th grade. It wasn't your favorite thing in the world, but you liked to argue, so it worked out. This week, you were arguing the "for" case with your teammate for the semester, Blake Mathers. He's a grating sophomore with floppy hair, and telekinesis powers you've only seen him use to enable his own laziness. The head of the club was nice enough, but he was insistent on "teamwork" when you'd much rather write alone. It was exhausting, trying to filter your thoughts and opinions, and allowing others to shine was not your style.

You try to pay attention to what Blake was saying about the topic, but all you were thinking about was Jordan Li. Ever since you made out at one of Dusty's infamous parties, they had invaded your senses and your thoughts. They'd catch you staring during class, or you'd wear a tiny skirt to a party, and you'd end up in a closet, or a car, or a bedroom, all limbs and heavy breathing.

"Um, hello? Did you hear me?" You shake your head.

"Sorry. Say that again?"

"The argument we wrote yesterday. It's gone - my computer got fucked." Ah, crap. This is the second time Blake's stupidity has made you re-do work. You'd done some research at the start of the week, and he'd forgotten to mention the topic had been changed. You sigh.

"Well, fuck. Alright, let's go back to the library then." You turn around and start walking, trying not to show your disappointment. You'd been hoping to "run into" Jordan at the JitterBean - hence the tight-ass skinny jeans.

Waste of an outfit, you think bitterly, pushing open the glass doors and setting up at the table that you and Blake had been using to do your assignments. Thankfully you'd saved your notes from yesterday, so you began reconstructing your argument while Blake screwed off.

You weren't paying much attention to what he was doing until you saw him fucking with Justine. Now there's some bullying you can get behind. You giggle, and watch as he makes another paper airplane fly around her head. She glares over at him and storms out, which makes you laugh out loud. The librarian glares, and you exchange a guilty look with Blake before getting back into writing.

The afternoon goes by easily after that. You were vaguely aware of other students milling about or studying nearby, but you were in the zone. Finally, at almost 8, the argument was done, and you saved it in multiple places just in case.

You wave goodbye to Blake, happy that the session went reasonably ok and the work was done. Saturday's debate was going to be a blast.

"Have fun on your little date with Mathers?" Jordan was leaning against the outside wall of the library, expression unreadable.

"Is the infamous Jordan Li jealous?" Their eyes harden slightly.

"Not jealous, just lookin out for you. He's a moron." They begin walking beside you, not acknowledging how unhinged they were behaving. Just looking out for you? If they weren't so damn hot, you might slap them. But the fact that they were asking meant.... something, right? You ignored how that made your heart swoop and just kept walking.

"We have debate club together, and he keeps fucking shit up, that's all." You say, in spite of yourself. If you were smarter, you'd let them wonder what you were doing with him. But you couldn't keep from looking at them, and feeling disappointed you can't make out any relief in their eyes. But then, their arm is snaked around your waist and their lips are at your ear.

"You wear those skin fucking tight jeans to just study with him?" You grit your teeth, forcing your mouth to not say what you wanted so desperately to say: 'No, I wore them for you, and you're clearly the idiot if you can't tell that I am so wrapped around your finger that I will dress up just in case I see you.' and just roll your eyes instead. They let their hand slide from your waist to your back pocket, daring you to stop them. And of course you don't. With every inch their hand travels, your heart skips another beat. When they squeeze your ass ever so slightly, a whimper sneaks out before you can stop it.

And with that, you're being pressed against a tree and their lips are on your neck.

"Fuck, J." You curse as their teeth sink into your skin.

"You're mine, baby. Only mine." They murmur in your ear.

"Always have been." You say back, almost moaning as they continue their assault on your neck. They pull away at this.

"Yeah? That why you're spending all your time with Mathers and co instead of me, in such," They pause to run their hands on your hips, pulling you tight against them. "delicious clothes."

"I thought you weren't jealous." You murmur, sliding your hand up their back. "But I wore these, and what's underneath, for you and you alone. He's just a moron who's forced me to re-do my work twice this week alone."

"Oh, you poor baby. Let me take you up and make everyone hear who really owns you." You barely hold back a moan as they drag you up to your dorm to fulfill their promise.

#jordan li #gen v #gen v prime #jordan li x reader #gen v smut #gen v fic #jordan li imagine #request #reqs open

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therealslimshakespeare · 9 months ago

Text

Friends in the Crucible

MOTA PACIFIC THEATRE || FLIGHT SURGERY AU

1: Welcome to Hell Island

Requested by the sweet @forsythiagalt

AU NOTE: due to a long-standing crush on real life heroine Ensign Jane Kendeigh and her work on Iwo Jima, the current ongoing anniversary of the battle and a hope to not step on the toes of any existing Nurse!xBuck pairings -I’ve gone with what excited my imagination the most and created an entire Pacific AU with our MOTA boys. If this AU ends up being as interesting and stimulating to y’all as it was for me in writing it, I’d be terribly down for exploring more scenarios with everyone in their new and varied roles.

Main paring: Gale Cleven and OC Flight Nurse Ensign Maureen Kendeigh…cameos by “Doc” Egan, John Brady, Ken Lemmons, Harry Crosby and Benny Demarco…and maybe a nod to a certain Marine Captain named “Andy” who I refused to let die, even though he was never on this island. You neither need to have seen HBO’s Pacific or know about the history for this to make sense, in fact it might help my ignorant writing go down better without it 😏

Warnings: WAR?! Graphic descriptions of wounds, battlefields, gore, foul language, period typical language: use of the word “Jap” and a joking insult of “fish eater” for a Catholic. Hints that John Egan is a terror to his nurses, Cleven having to take his pants off for a wound to be examined, brief mentions and emphasis on his never having been touched by a woman intimately, a nurse positioning a man’s member out of the way to his surprise, strictly professional tho. No joke, really. But they’re having a bit of a moment.

Only proof read once. So many thanks to Bee, Christi and Ashley who all enabled me into going this rogue with a simple request and for giving edits and assurances. Hope y’all enjoy!

There were a whole lotta jolts in the descent. Of course there were. Why, there were jolts and bumps even coming down to the runway at Pearl or San Diego, and there had been far more than jolts on the training tarmacs in Kentucky. She had been in enough planes, experienced enough banging about, and had enough wheels up landings that Maureen felt somewhat entitled to her opinion on the necessity of jolts or none.

So far, Major Gale Cleven had piloted this monstrous tin can like a limo, smooth, steady and with full warning for each bank and turn. Maureen had not even had to catch a single falling bottle so far and the rows of empty bunks lining each side of the plane had hardly rattled except in the same low humming frequency of the ever thrumming engine.

But now there were jolts. And of course there were, they were flying straight into a warzone. Cleven had gotten them to Iwo Jima two hours ago, and since that time he’d been circling the island in a wide arc, casually waiting for a pesky air battle between fighters to calm down enough for him to land. Sure, the beaches had been wiped clean and a landing strip had been carved out of volcanic ash and marine corps blood -cleared for their use. But still, there were Jap bunkers, Jap planes, Japs themselves and Jap equipment in that smoldering mountain and so far, no word had come down definitely as to when the island might be considered secure.

It was all very historic, Maureen has been assured -allowing a woman into a combat zone. First time ever, so they kept erroneously insisting. That’s why there was a man armed with a camera and not plasma sitting a few lines down from her on the cold metal bench. Maureen had once had plenty of time to ponder the historicity of her mission and that of her fellow nurses back in Guam, right now she wished she could focus solely on her training and ignore the ominous crack-pop of something hazardous in the air and the resulting wobble of Major Cleven’s steering.

Stupidly she wished the Major’s low voice would come back on through the near radio system and soothe them all back down like frightened livestock. Gale Cleven had a way of managing that even with his face obscured, and while it made Maureen blush to admit she needed any calming, the facts were she was 24 years old, practically untried and desperate to be brave enough to be of use. Rattling on the bench seat between equally nervous girls and a hawk-eyed journalist was no match for the cuticle picking anxiety.

Maureen chose to forcefully look up from said bloody cuticles and was met by Major Egan’s gum smacking grin across from her. How many carriers had he been on when they went down? Kamikaze planes jutting out the side of them, ocean water pouring in, sharks abounding and hundreds of patients under his care, in his charge to tow to shore?

Mild, scattered, poor-man’s flack wasn’t remotely disturbing to their flight surgeon. “He’s great, isn’t he?” Egan yelled to her cheerfully, the jerk of his head suggested his praise was directed towards someone in the cockpit.

Maureen knew well enough that much as Egan respected the co-pilot Demarco, it was no match for the love affair between him and Cleven, an appreciation that had Egan’s special request yanking his friend from Air Force to Navy to Transit. Such a series of bounces in a man’s otherwise distinguished career, all to chauffeur one charmingly entitled flight surgeon, was enough to put anyone into a bad mood -it would explain Major Cleven’s initial coolness on meeting them all at the departure tarmac.

Or maybe he was just businesslike. Maureen couldn’t fault anyone for that. He had been prepped, perhaps not as much as she had, but he didn’t act entitled in any way, and he kept the plane steady. Except for this mounting series of jolts.

“Yes,” she had chosen to holler back to Doctor -Lieutenant Commander? Bucky No Shits? Johnny? Doc “Smirky”?- Egan, knowing he’d want a favorable report on his friend, “it’s been remarkably smooth.”

Maureen was glad truth aligned with diplomacy in this instant. Although if any man could handle the outright truth it was John Egan, no matter what they all said. And “they” said a lot, he had once had two marine squadrons under his care and to them he was a Marine, simultaneously he’d had three navy squadrons to take care of and to them he was a Navy man. He’d even switched uniforms thrice in a day before. And now he was being flown about by his best friend to tend carcasses on a foreign strand, oddly suited to terrible conditions and bad scenarios, offering medical aviation expertise and poorly timed jokes wherever he went.

He’d trained her group of specialized Evacuation Flight Nurses the last three weeks of aquatic conditioning in the states, and he’d culled eighteen out of the group for getting winded after towing full grown men seven laps in the San Diego surf -all while puffing on a cigarette himself, seated with sunglasses on in an motorized dinghy. Maureen had come to hate him that day, and every day after she’d come to want to be like him. Kathleen Martin got her wings pinned first and Maureen right after, “well done, Candy!” Egan had praised while his fist drove in the tack.

“It’s Kendeigh, sir.” Maureen had dared correct for the hundredth time that training week, “Pronounced like: Ken-Day.”

“Cand-ay. Got it!” he repeated with jovial affirmation and that was that.

Major Cleven had given her the respect of calling her ‘Ensign’ as he shook her hand, a quick and firm squeeze and on to her next companion, she’d have judged him as too pristine in everything from mannerisms to features were his war record not ample justification for his bearing. The low cadence of his voice over the coms came in as a slight pitch to the plane and a swoop of decline in altitude became apparent under her—

“All personnel prepare for landing.”

Cleven was nothing like those pilots during training, barking orders laced with frantic warning in their voices. It was a cow pasture back in Kentucky and there they’d had no good reason for alarm. Here where there was real reason, Gale Cleven crooned to them and John Egan smiled opposite her as he took in the effect his chosen pilot had on his nurses.

“Like soothin’ a baby,” Egan sighed as he lounged a little deeper on his bench, long legs deceptively braced for impact, Maureen had long ago learned the man was nothing but smoke and mirrors of his actual intentions, “isn’t he great? In danger of fallin’ asleep with that guy at the wheel.”

To emphasize his point -or more likely to distract “his girls” from the imminent prospect of landing on a battleground, Egan leaned back all the way and tipped his cover over his eyes, pretending to fall asleep. Maureen caught him as he cocked one sharp eye open to see if she was still watching. She gave him a hopeless smile of recognition of his disguised kindness before forcefully suppressing a gasp of shock as the plane hit Amtrak smoothed gravel and ground its way down the beach. Egan hadn't budged by the time the momentum ceased and the plane became bizarrely still after hours of vibrating travel.

“Right. That’s us.” He straightened up, his cover and his posture, rising up in his seat and slapping at the metal ceiling of the plane, “Good job Buck.” he hollered and got no reply. “He’s still crabby about flying a C-47.” he divulged to no one in particular as they all rose and prepared to disembark, drilled for ages in this routine and finally let loose to practice it. Egan’s nonchalance was almost disorienting for such a momentous occasion.

The large cargo door was opened and a irreverently pleasant tropical breeze funneled through the plane, bearing with it the sounds of crashing waves and popping, far off gunnery. There was also a smell that came with it, sulfur and sweet. It was sickening from the first, and Maureen dreadedly wondered if it was from volcanic fumes and rotting vegetation or something more heartbreaking. With her kit on her back she followed her companions out the cargo door, finding Major Cleven blank faced and unphased on the tarmac beside it. Nothing but a smidge of sweat around his hairline to suggest the hours of flight he’d just clocked and the wacky landing he’d managed so well.

“Welcome to hell island, ladies.” he greeted in a droll monotone and Maureen’s gait stiffened without her permission.

There was no true tarmac, as they had been warned, just a strip of cleared back sand churned up by Cleven’s wheels. Lapping waves were on the left side and then a field of sheets to the right. It was the oddest sight. Rows and rows of camo tarp and white sheets blotted pink, hardly a spot of sand to be seen between. They’d been warned it was havoc here, the situation so bad that they’d finally allowed for this exception, allowed the sending in of specialized units to evacuate by air as the boats could hardly ferry enough of the wounded out in time to save them. But this -this beach of corpses was so daunting a task it seemed impossible to choose where to start.

“John,” she heard Major Cleven address Lieutenant Commander Egan as he dropped down beside her, “you’ve only got so many births, do what ya need to do to fill them, but I’ve got my orders. You’re not settin’ up a hospital. When we get the supplies off, get this plane full -we’re takin’ off. Full stop. I’m not gonna have us here like sittin’ ducks for the mortars while you fuss.”

“I hear ya.” Egan assured him in that remarkably unassuring way of his and lit a cigarette. “Alright nurses, gather round.”

Triage was crucial for such a mission, the prioritizing of wounds and necessary services essential for prolonging the lives of those in imminent peril, versus those with the likelihood of surviving on only the essentials found in a corpsman or medic’s arsenal. They’d be back tomorrow with another flight, and the day after that. Cleven was right that they weren’t here to establish a hospital, yet still the idea of how many would perish from being left behind, even by this first flight, was a sickening probability Maureen has been trained to ignore.

“Where are all the corpsmen?” Egan asked one pharmacist's mate who came to greet them, picking his way through the rows of groaning men. The boy couldn’t have been a day over seventeen.

“Up there,” the kid had nodded up to Mount Suribachi and its ominous veil of smoke, “or dead. Lost so many in the first week they started sending us in to substitute. We’ve done what we can. Sure glad to see you guys.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Lemons, sir.”

“Hell I can’t call someone a lemon, now can I?” Egan’s grin was infectious and the boy grinned back like he was seeing his first friend in ages.

“Then it’s Kenny. Sir.”

“Yeah alright Kenny, let’s get to it.” Egan had drilled you all so thoroughly you could have performed even without the aid of the grounded pharmacists and their mates, yet still it was odd to see such a mass of wounded and so few to tend them. The desperation and chaos was tangible.

Maureen had barely set off out from under the plane wing when Gale Cleven’s brusque reprimand arrested her steps as forcefully as a tug to her flight suit would have, “That bunch don’t need your help.”

The terse judgment in his tone gave her sharper eyes to notice that the particular section she was headed towards all had sheets pulled over their faces. Her own face blanched at both the misstep and the sensory overload of so much sorting to do. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself, not here, not when faced with the easy part of all this, and she wasn’t going to be crippled by criticism while enduring her first trial by fire. “Right, thank you, Major.” she agreed with him as stoically as possible and ground her heel back around on the sand and tromped off towards the direction of sheets that were visibly alive and writhing in misery.

That changed as soon as they saw her girlish form walking amongst them. Sounds of dying anguish changed to cheerful wolf whistles and happy greetings. It made Maureen’s heart swell with pride at the unbreakable spirit in each of them.

She spent the next hour and a half amongst those men.

Gruesome was a word that Maureen swore to herself that she would never use lightly again. She wasn’t one given to hyperbole anyway, and her years apprenticing in the hospital in Manilla and her most recent training for exactly such wounds as these, understandably led her to believe she knew the mettle of such a word.

But no.

Gruesome, she decided as she began her task again and again, applied only to this: the way the tiniest slip of her hand on any part of this poor boy took skin with it, charred and soupy flesh squishing off meat and sinew like the flaky crust on a prime bit of brisket. It was the only comparison fitting. His own flamethrower had bitten him as he tried to take a countless next pillbox. He’d said it like a joke even as his teeth chattered too hard from pain to deliver the punchline.

Maureen wasn’t here to contemplate ironies, or the unfairness of war, she was here to find some intact vein through which to stab her needle and begin giving him back the blood that was slowly leaching into the black sand beneath him. Ensign Smith was holding up the bottle, throwing a shadow over his charred form that helped Maureen discern a bit better, giving the boy a kind word or ten of reassurance about home and pain relief. Maureen bit through her own tongue when she finally slid the needle home, deep and pulpy, she could only pray it would hold the blood they gave back.

“Alright, bandages, Smith.” Maureen decided and did her best not to jump as a mortar thumped on the sand, hundreds of yards away, but still, they were getting ever closer, proving Major Cleven’s grim prognostication to not be unfounded. He was confirmed that the Japanese didn’t give two shits about red crosses, much less cargo planes carrying in supplies and taking away wounded. Maureen tried not to dwell on it as she and Smith began cutting away filthy uniforms and wrapping their patients' flesh in the Vaseline soaked bandages. It was a terrible business for the first few minutes before the interlaced numbing agents in the gauze took affect and made their care something less like torture for the poor men.

Some of them could walk, a missing leg being a mild injury comparatively, they just needed the helpful shoulder of a technician and off they went to amble into Cleven’s plane. There the Major met them despite it being beyond his purview, handing out cigarettes even though he himself abstained and kept an eye on the Navy mechanic refueling his plane from a bullet riddled jeep. When he wasn’t doing that he was scanning the sky, aviators turned up and reflecting a cloudless sky. Maureen’s mouth grew chalky at the thought of what he was looking out for.

Once wrapped and tended, the men were ready to be hoisted on stretchers and taken to the plane. But those men were select ones, ones that Egan had decided upon. He had a particularly odd way of triaging, one that upon initial observation appeared rather callous and aloof to his nurses who had been trained as much in medical practice as in solicitous decorum.

Doc Egan moseyed through the ranks of wounded, keenly aware he was not as popular as his pretty faced nurses, but making up for it with such easy-going banter that chuckles followed him wherever he went, making the men forget that he was deciding who got relief and who did not. Who were to be permitted the cooling sheets of Elysium by nightfall and who were to be left burning on the sand. Puffing a cigarette and making small talk, he clocked each injury and each likelihood of recovery without giving a bit of it away.

Nearing Maureen’s own patient of the moment, she felt him crouch down beside her and take in the hopeless gut wound she was ineffectually trying to stuff with bandages. A sturner superior would tell her not to bother, to move on, save such determination for someone with a longer life expectancy than five minutes. Maureen found it hard to make that call herself when met with the pleading eyes of someone’s dying son.

“C’mon Candy, move over, lemme try.” Egan murmured and his hip knocked hers gently as he crouched over the boy, perfectly aware of the futility. “Hey bud, breathe for me, breathe. You wanna smoke?”

Egan’s now bloody fingers reached up to his own lips and plucked his fresh and third cigarette of the hour and brought it down to the boy’s chapped mouth, shifting until he was fully seated on the sand, arms around the kid’s shoulders, gently taking the refreshment away when he puffed out, then replacing it for another inhale.

Maureen knew better than to linger. Beside this scene of brotherly last rites was another dying man and a hundred more beside him, so she moved on, seeing only vaguely the way the kid coughed blood as he laughed at Egan’s conversation. The topic seemed to be on the boy’s dog back home. The Sergeant she was tending added in a bit of teasing over the name -who names their dog “puppy”?!

Maureen had barely managed a tourniquet on the sergeant's arm before she could suddenly hear Egan’s gentle chatter turn to low shushing.

The sergeant looked away to the other side.

Maureen noticed the discarded cigarette laying on the sand, it had been smoked to a stub.

The heaving rattle of panicked breath beside them stopped.

Egan shifted onto his knees again and his long, bloody fingers dragged those sightless eyes closed. There was the brittle clink of dog tags being checked.

The sheet was tugged up all the way.

That triage was over.

Maureen politely ignored Doc Egan’s harsh sniff beside her -it was dusty here- but clocked the way he rose to his feet, a rough brushing off of his flight suit and his brusque inquiry regarding her morphine distribution in sector 2.

“All tended-“ she had begun when a shout from the far off plane rang out-

“-JOHN!” That was Cleven’s unmistakable bellow and Egan, despite being in a human sea of potential Johns- responded like he’d been made to hear that one voice alone. “Incoming, west!”

“Shit.” Egan spun westward and sure enough there were fighters with a blazing red sun, rushing straight down at them.

They were such a distance away still, Maureen doubted Cleven’s sight for all of fifteen seconds before horror set in. “They wouldn’t-?” she looked up at Egan whose bitten lip suggested that they would indeed strafe these poor men given the chance.

“Stretchers!” Cleven yelled again, “Get ‘em under the wings!”

There was a callous logic to it. Those men already prepped to be saved might as well be prioritized this much more. Fairness wasn’t something promised in war and Maureen chose to hate Gale Cleven instead of some ephemeral “war” for verbalizing the awfulness of that necessary.

“Do it.” came Egan’s agreeing order and Maureen and Smith took their respective sergeant down near the waterline at a run, fifteen other nurses and the various techs mimicking them. They deposited their men under the relative safety of the flimsy wings and dashed back out for more, leaving two techs behind to hoist the poor fellas into the cargo hold and deposit them in their respective bunks.

“Come onnnnn.” Cleven’s warning yell was drowned by the commencement of allied anti aircraft higher up the beach, trying to pick off the fighters before they reached the landing strip.

Maureen hardly noticed the closing drone of the fighter’s approach, nothing but her heart beat and memorized lines of her training on repeat in her ears. She’d been trained to fight hand to hand if necessary, her folks knew the risks of their daughter volunteering for such service but there was a sour dampening of resolve at the idea of being picked off from the air, not even allowed a bit of struggle to go out with.

All she could do was lift, hoist, run, deposit, do it all again.

They were getting near to full. On one pass through she saw Cleven counting berths and scolding poor Ensign Courter for her rushed method of securing her charge- “five feet drop to the floor on my first bank, oughta be just what that chest wound needs. For God’s sake, I’ll do it!”

He had a cold sort of fury to him Maureen found obnoxiously potent, and she felt a judgment rise in her for his obvious haste in wanting to get out of there. To his credit, when the planes did go by and everyone hit the ground, he was still standing yanking on the straps to secure the top bunk. Bullets punctured the side of the plane and riddled it, tiny specks of light flooding into the dark hold. One man was grazed as he lay in there.

“John!” Cleven warned again after they’d gone by.

“I know, I know damnit.” Egan snapped back from yards away, “There’s just not enough corpsmen -let me finish my damn job.”

“By the time you finish yours I won’t be able to finish mine.” Cleven retorted and the obvious finally occurred to Maureen -perhaps it was not his own safety that preoccupied him but the fragile capability of his riddled plane being able to evacuate once full. That, was indeed, his job. Still, such sentiments expressed as they were from the shelter of the cockpit and from a man who favored a silk blue neck scarf identical to the shade of his eyes, rankled Maureen.

The returning buzz of the Japanese fighters coming back around only cemented her futile rage. Her arms were aching and the sand caught at her boots and her mouth was dry with dust and there were so many, so, so many more left to help. Ensign Smith had been called away to assist with lifting another, and Maureen was knelt beside the man they’d managed onto a stretcher, doing her damndest to find how many bullets were embedded in his left leg and how deep the shrapnel was on his right. There was so much blood and filth it was impossible to tell and Andy, as his name was, couldn’t give her much help besides informing her it hurt like hell and she sure was a sight for sore eyes.

“Egan! At your three o’clock!” There was Cleven again.

Maureen grinned back at Andy and forced it to stay on her face as the buzz of the approaching fighters grew imminent and the dreadful thwump of machine gun fire thudded into the earth yards up the beach. It hit the section of the dead first, a further injury and dishonor. Maureen felt a lump in her throat at the realization she had no one near to help her lift this stretcher and that Andy himself hadn’t a usable leg to spare.

“Go.” her patient told her with a clear look of realization on his face as the leaden spatter of strafing began to elicit responses from those wounded men still alive enough to react.

“No.” The refusal came out of her mouth about as naturally as taking the next breath.

A shadow threw over them for a second and Andy’s facial expression grew surprised, but, stubbornly focused on her patient’s face, Maureen assumed it was the plane passing by at last and chose not to spend her last seconds watching what was going to kill her. “Ensign Kendeigh, lift.” Major Cleven’s voice was so close so suddenly it spooked her flat on her backside until she saw him, squatting down and casting a shadow at the head of the stretcher, poles gripped in both hands, ready to hoist. She scrambled to the foot and took the wood in hand, lifting for the twentieth time that day and running towards the plane.

Time was slow and fast all at once. Cleven’s shadow had come before even the first fighter. But as they ran it zipped by, bullets flinging up sand into their eyes, a near miss. The second one was close behind and as they ran near to the wings, they saw no room was left under them, as crowded as an awning at Coney Island during the height of summer.

Maureen squatted fast and lowered the foot of the stretcher, feeling Cleven mimick her movements behind her. Before she could turn ‘round and enact her training, there their pilot was, body draped over the battered Marine captain, his back as stalwart and protective as the wings of his plane. Maureen threw herself to the ground as well, propping herself over Andy’s battered legs. Together they made a turtle shell of sorts and, damned to be caught cringing when death took her, Maureen kept her eyes open and stared back at Gale Cleven’s gentle face as the -thud-thud-thud- passed them, a micro expression of assurance twitching his mouth and eyes as death passed over.

Who needed to look at the sky when you could find God in those eyes his mother gave him?

For as long as she lived, Maureen would never forget the gust of his spearmint scented breath on her face, the first sensation she registered as soon as the planes were past and they yet remained, alive, locked together above a man they’d both risked dying for.

“Major, you shouldn’t’ve.” Andy’s rough voice spoke Maureen’s own dazed sentiments as they straightened up, Cleven picking up his fallen aviators from the sand, “You gotta fly us outta here, you die an’we’re all sitting ducks.”

“Eh, that’s why we have co-pilots, Skipper.” Cleven grinned before glancing back at the sky, his face morphing into anything but carefree.

“Is that how Lt. DeMarco feels?” Maureen teased wearily.

“I’d never presume to know how Benny Demarco feels.” Cleven replied levelly but the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement, “Ensign Kendeigh, give me a task.” he demanded.

“Sir-“

“I want us outta here in ten.” His tone held no room for argument, “What’s somethin’ even a dumb pilot can manage? Egan!” He yelled as the Lieutenant Commander approached them at a jog, his dark face the picture of rage for the men in his care being further hurt. “Out in ten.”

“Not gonna happen, still got supplies to distribute-“ Egan was visibly inscenced.

“-one more pass on my plane and we’re not gettin’ up. Look at that back wheel” Cleven replied, nodding at the deflating tire. “Hand me your shit, what’re we supplyin?”

“Aren’t you queasy for needles?” Egan balked, finding time for teasing despite himself.

“Hand me the damn syrettes.” Cleven stuck his hand out.

“You're under Candy’s orders.” Egan stipulated, pointing to Maureen and Cleven nodded.

“Yup, and we leave in ten.”

“Okey Buck, go, go, go.”

The nurses that had gone before them had tagged and labeled each, making it easy for Maureen and Major Cleven to squat along the rows and complete what help could be given. Her other companions were doing the same, each staggered at a few yards and assisted by Corpsmen and pharmacists. And despite the tension from the strafing and the dismal prospect of having to leave so many behind, the hum of chatter soon picked up again on the beach.

“Shit, shit, shit, no-I hate needles!” Marty, eighteen years old but with eyes that had seen a little too much, bore his dressing with tired stoicism until Cleven pulled out the morphine syrette.

“Son,” Gale murmured with barely concealed amusement, “your side looks like a bear cub teethed on it, you’ll be fine. And this’ll help.”

“Don’t ‘son me’ you baby faced glamor boy.” Marty spat back, marine corps superiority coursing through his admittedly impressive veins.

Gale was midway through a good natured snicker at Marty’s venom when the heavy shock of lobbed mortars began to thud the beach again. “Jesus.” the Major sounded more annoyed than surprised and had the wherewithal to place a restraining hand on Marty’s chest as the kid began to scramble up in panic, displacing Maureen’s dressing on his ribs.

“Cleven, they’re chewin’ up our strip!” Demarco yelled to them from the cockpit and sure enough, craters were beginning to form at the end of their taxi-able stretch of beach.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave Major!” Marty suddenly clutched at Cleven and the Major had to wrench his arm free. “Calm down, private, you’re on a stretcher.” he then ducked his head as he moved round to seize the poles, “And if there’s one thing you should know,” he went on in a low murmur just for Marty’s benefit, “it’s that Doc Egan doesn’t waste his stretchers on dead men.”

Carrying Marty’s stretcher to the plane was Maureen’s last jog down the beach. She ran up the cargo ramp and Cleven was after her, handing over the task of racking the private into a bunk to one of the nurses before sternly ordering a path for himself through the crowded belly up to his cockpit. Demarco had the full radio system on, the better to communicate with the nursing personnel as they prepared for take off, and everyone aboard could hear his exasperated greeting as his reckless officer took his seat.

“You really game enough to try to get this Goony off the ground with less than a thousand feet of strip?” Benny’s broadcasted doubt made most nurses pause in their work and Maureen met Andy’s eye from the third bunk halfway along the plane wall.

“I thought he said that’s why they have co-pilots.” Andy joked to her quietly.

“Mm,” she agreed mischievously, “I guess co-pilots are one thing, co-Clevens are another.”

“Should find a way to mass produce.” Andy sighed, “War would be over in five seconds.”

Gale Cleven hadn’t even refuted Demarco’s concern verbally and already the crew shrugged it off, if Major Cleven couldn’t get them off Hell Island then no one could, and that was that.

“John Egan, get your ass onboard, it’s wheels up.” Cleven’s yell out the window blasted through the radio, too, and the girls grinned at each other -Major Egan wasn’t one to get bossed about. But, as if to challenge everything they knew about life and their own superior, mere seconds later, John Egan was hopping up into the belly of Cleven’s plane with his empty sack dangling and sweaty hair in disarray. “We’ll be back Kenny!” he yelled to the young pharmacist’s mate left on the sand as the cargo door was hastily wrenched shut by Brady.

“Honey I’m home.” Egan yelled up to the front and Demarco’s snicker echoed along the walls of the tin belly.

“Everybody stow your gear,” Cleven’s order came through, the pounding vibration of nearby mortars shuddering the plane even more than the engine’s revving, “we’re gettin’ outta here now. S’gonna be bumpy.”

“That’ll be one word for it.” Demarco snarked, “Death by bumps.”

The human cargo in the plane, those not groaning or insensible, let up a unanimous chuckle. It helped to have been to hell and back, a quick death as a plane failed to get air and plowed instead into a sand bank was hardly the worst prospect these men had faced.

“Believe, Benny, believe.” Maureen could hear Cleven’s soft smile in his voice as the wheels began to roll.

Brady, their engineer, navigator and the lone crewman besides the pilots aboard this transport, kindly manhandled Maureen to a seat between his legs on the rattling floor beside Egan’s built-in desk, his hand fisted in the back of her jumpsuit collar like she was a kitten. They kicked their legs out together and braced as they gained speed and the plane began to jostle into the milder craters at an ever more intense pace.

Shell fragments made a series of charming bangs off the side of the wing nearest her and Maureen could hear Brady whispering behind her in repetition “God spare the oxygen, God spare the oxygen, God spare-“

“50-“ Demarco’s countdown was unfortunately broadcasting like some morbid game announcer and Maureen could see Egan’s jaw ticking in stress under the harsh overhead lights.

There was a terrible blast in front, the sound of shattering glass or metal and a jarring shudder went through the plane, “Damnnit.” Cleven hissed but the acceleration remained.

“You hit?”

“No. Read me, Benny-“

“80-“ Demarco obligingly resumed counting.

“C’mon Buck.” breath gusting on Maureen’s neck behind her, as Brady had begun to direct his prayers to the Major now and as if in answer, the stomach swooping feeling of flight took over them seconds later as the cargo plane let out a mighty roar of strained endurance and lifted with a wobble that had more than a few bunks puking their guts out. There’d be over five hours to clean the plane floor and attend to housekeeping if they could just level out and stay up long enough to get out of range.

Down the way from them Egan was still seated, one hand holding aloft a not yet hung plasma bottle and the other gripping a support bar. But his head was starting to nod like a dancer keeping pace with the band’s ever growing tempo. The engines had a beat, if you’d been personal with a plane long enough to pick it up, and Maureen paid attention to Egan’s stippling fingers on the cross bar as they mounted and mounted, little bursts of enemy gunnery causing a comparatively mild wobble to the plane body every few seconds. She figured a veteran like Brady would know when it was safe to let her go; judging by the grip on her collar he was still highly dubious of their lasting success.

“Fighters, -everyone brace.” Cleven’s voice warned about as cooly as if he was pointing out the drip of ice cream slipping down a cone.

“Ice man.” Andy praised from his bunk to the agreement of his companions as the fighter zipped by without so much as a shudder from Cleven’s steering.

Plenty of the passing bullets had punctured the belly and one man got a direct hit. “Candy!” Egan commanded from his place checking the unfortunate man’s pulse, “Go remind Buck that we haven’t got the oxygen to go full bomber, he’s gotta keep low and -Candy! When ya come back, time to start throwin’ on blankets. Brady, get our pumps going. This is as steady as it’ll get.”

“You got it, commander.”

More than a little sure her mission was more provoking than necessary, Maureen still obeyed and followed Brady up the length of the plane and towards his electrical station, then past it to poke her head between the pilot’s seats.

“Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise, getting car sick, kiddo?” Demarco joked, “Hey, I get it, I’d find it hell back there with no windows to look out.”

Their front window was partially shattered and the metal on Cleven’s side was gnarled.

“Those mortars obligingly made a few.” Maureen joked back.

“Anybody hurt?” Cleven asked, and to her surprise, he turned from his panel to look at her with unmasked concern.

A joke was ready made there about everyone quite literally being shot to hell but she sensed he’d not appreciate it and following some uninterpreted impulse of desiring his good opinion, she hardly wished to repay his earnestness with flippancy. “Only one.”

“How bad?”

“He looked -dead.” Maureen admitted. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man moving past him but she’d seen Egan’s treatment of the body and it wasn’t promising.

Cleven’s jaw worked overtime at the news and something snapped in his mouth, followed by a soft curse from lips too full and soft to always be so stern. Maureen thought he may have broken a tooth with all that tension but he spit out two halves of a blooded toothpick instead. It fell to his pant leg.

“Major Cleven, sir, you’re bleeding.” It had drawn Maureen’s attention to his wet lap.

“That’s what I said.” Demarco agreed.

“It’s somebody else’s.” Cleven shook his head.

“You know if you pass out on me-“ Demarco warned, completely ignoring Cleven’s denial.

“-that’s why we’ve got co-pilots.” Cleven finished for him with a maddening smirk that made Benny Demarco throw his hands up.

“Can you check him?” he asked, “I mean -you are a nurse!”

“What? Hell no!” Major Cleven spooked for the first time all day at the suggestion, glancing quickly from his reddened trousers, behind him to Maureen Kendeigh, and back again. “I’m fine.” he declared in a firm tone that dettered her almost as much as the challenge of getting over the instruments and a steering column to pull down his pants and look. “Ensign Kendeigh, was there a purpose to your visit?” He redirected, resolutely ignoring Demarco’s unabated concerns.

“Yes sir,” she replied, meekly as she could, “Doc Egan asked me to remind you that you’re not flying a bomber. To mind the oxygen, sir. And that it’s cold.”

Cleven let out a mirthless little laugh. “We’re full of holes Ensign, of course it’s cold.”

“I know sir.”

“Yeah, ‘course you know,” his eyes lightened for a moment and Maureen almost deluded herself he was being chummy when he murmured next, “you’re smart like that. Tell the Lieutenant Commander I’ll keep her nice and low, so low the Jap navy gunners can blow the floor out without a sweat.”

“Much obliged, Major.” Maureen chirped, pleased to have been trusted with a bit of morbid humor -it was the truest test of being taken seriously a woman could hope for in the service.

“Thank you, Ensign.” And with that she was dismissed.

By the time she got to the belly again her assigned job of doling out blankets had long been accomplished by her fellows. Brady had the place lit up like an operating theater and there was the added drone of medical equipment added to Cleven’s engines. She liked to think of them as his now, Maureen realized, a tiredness seeping in now that the rush was over, now there was just six hours of the same until they touched down again in safety. His engines stayed with them, consistent, steady, dependable yet a little absent, just like the man himself.

“Major Cleven said he’ll keep her low, Doc.” Maureen reported dutifully but whatever humor Egan once held when sending her to the cockpit was now gone, a bloody mess on his hands as he and Ensign Dormer worked over a head wound.

“Good.” Egan gritted out, “I need a monitor on vitals and I need new gloves, c’mon Candy, c’mon!”

The hours passed like this, no way of telling time in the artificially lit tube of metal. Some men needed a cup of water and a kind smile, others required every bit of grit and intelligence to keep even the faintest pulse discernible above the hum. When one of them passed away in the anonymity of the top bunk, Egan didn’t bother to cover his face, the man looked to be sleeping and it suited the morale better if his fellows were not disillusioned on that score.

It was impossible not to think for a split second on the unfairness of it all -live to be finally evacuated and only die before getting safe. To think how someone else less tore up might’ve been given that bunk and survived the trip.

“Can’t dwell on it.” Ida Brady, their headmistress back in Manila, had said -and she had been right. But seeing her brother Lt. Brady cross himself now in recognition of a soul passed did something to Maureen’s own spirit, a grieving sort of fury possessed her which matched Egan’s own as they worked on the next unsalvageable man until he became a likely contender for seeing his wife and kids again.

She had been up for nineteen hours, flying for ten of those, nursing for four. She was bone tired and yet there was always someone to be tended and the thought of leaving one of these poor men without even the slightest of their needs met felt impossible. Maureen didn’t even think to pause or lag in her expertise, neither did the nurses around her and up there at the front somewhere, Cleven’s eyes were sharp and focused as ever, she knew it, and knowing it brought a calm over her that made her sympathize with Egan’s own superstitious preference for the man.

Brady came through with coffee, an abnormal duty he picked up as a result of trusting no one else with the process or the electrical requirements to make it. “Figured our pilots could use it.” he explained before passing out a passel of paper cups to the girls filled with the peppy stuff, belying his practical excuse, before taking two to the cockpit.

He came back out with a funny look on his face- “Benny says he needs a pan.”

“What the hell for?” Egan balked.

“Or a condom.” Brady dutifully amended the petition.

“I repeat -what the hell for?”

“They’ve drank a lotta coffee sir.”

“Any of you fellas got condoms?” Egan asked his patients with a laugh and got a series of predictable replies. “Gale Cleven sure as hell don’t.”

There were light hearted moments like that, many of them in fact, but six hours of flying with wounds as bad as the ones they were tending was no joke, there were bits of laughter and there were times of quiet and there were restless sleepers whose terrors not even morphine could dim.

“Forty minutes out.” Major Cleven had gone quiet over the coms for so long it was like hearing from God again when he came on, gentle and steady.

Those they couldn’t get comfortable were at the height of their groaning as the cold and the endless buzz got to them. Helplessly the nurses offered pillows and water and irrigated the burns with saline and checked needle positioning. Maureen had taken to charting, something too often neglected in high stress environments but something that proved terribly crucial as soon as they landed and handed over their charges to a new set of professionals. On the left side of the plane she held one man’s wrist after another and noted their pulse. On the right side she did the same, one man’s left hand after another, wedding band or sans wedding band, in her notes it was only ever:

“94, 57, 88, 91, 63, 82”

The lights had been dimmed, hopes were some rest could be gotten by those in any shape to manage sleep. It made for a drowsy atmosphere, only the flashlight in her teeth illuminating the veins under her fingers and her co-workers faces, Egan’s face was a shiny mess of freckles in the torch light despite the chill, exhaustion seeping out of him but not a hint shown in his workmanship. It made the dull chorus of groans in the dark all the more ominous and Brady remarked to Smith on one pass that maybe they should have brought a record player.

“Twenty minutes out.” Maureen and every other soul on board was living for those little updates from Cleven.

Men told to hang in there and not die before they could be gotten to surgery suddenly had a goal in mind and the suspense was growing brutal. Stashed and stowed, secured and checked, landing preparations were already done and it was last minute tending before taking seats. Maureen found herself nearly piddling by one young private, trying to soothe him with a washcloth as sepsis fever wracked him when over the intercom came the oddest lulling hum, like a far off jazz intro.

It was too soft initially to be recognized but the surety picked up, something about the tone unmistakably belonging to their pilot, his hums about as characteristic of him as his laconic speech.

“Is that whadda friend we have in Jesus?” Demarco’s voice overtopped the gentle melody.

John Egan was wheezing in a chuckle beside her as Maureen shook her own head in disbelief.

“No,” Gale murmured, humming paused only briefly, “it’s ‘Leaning on the everlasting arms’ -you fish eater.”

“You gotta be jokin’.” Benny was wheezing too but Cleven was back to his gentle humming, words actually forming this time and filling the tired plane with a timbre that could put Bing Crosby out of a job.

“What have I to dread, what have I to fear

Leaning on the everlasting arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

It worked, the sickening drop in elevation was -if not noticed- bravely pushed aside for a hymn sing, Brady leading from the back and Cleven from the front. And for a brief moment, men from Kansas to Florida, Oregan to Rhode Island, strapped in a flying coffin of flickering souls, were seated back in the pews of their childhood, trusting something larger than themselves. Even if that something was Gale Cleven’s steady hands or the justness of a cause worth dying for or God Almighty, it was something big and above the pain of right now.

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

The Navy station at Gaum had a runway, in fact there were five Cleven could have picked at whim, and there was no feeling so beautifully civilized and sure as the smooth roll of plane tires on asphalt after what they’d just left. “Flaps at quarter!” and they were slowing, the deflated back wheel only causing some slight disturbance, and then they were stopped.

That bizarre stillness settled again as the engines were cut. Egan gave Maureen a smile so soft and telling that her heart about seized in realization -they’d managed it. “Well that’s us.” he repeated for the second time that day, voice gone raspy with cigarettes and fatigue. “Welcome to American soil, boys.”

There were so many lights outside the cargo door, searing white flashes in the nighttime, jeeps and ambulances and all manner of medical personnel at the ready, it was overwhelming in the exact opposite way the beach at Iwo had been. Maureen hopped down onto the tarmac with Ensign Mann, ready and prepared to stay with her charges until the transition could be made. Clipboard in hand and kit on her back, she’d go in with her select five until they’d been admitted and charted meticulously in the various wards.

“How’s it feel to make history, Miss?!” -some of those lights, Maureen realized with a dull throb behind her eyes, were flashbulbs. Journalists were thick as thieves, snapping and hollering, others respectfully keeping a distance, “You're the first woman to step foot in a combat zone-“ Maureen kept her hand on her stretcher even as she watched Cleven limping over to a jeep and piling in after Demarco. Her mouth set in a sour line of suspicion regarding his claims of being unscathed. He’d be in interrogation and she in the wards for the next hour, she’d have to find out later.

A couple of hours later John Egan was sat with Captain Crosby in the administration office, nothing but a small alcove at the front of the ward, his legs spread wide in his chair and good scotch whisky being slurped from a cleverly injected orange while reviewing the charts. Croz was a whizz at this, meticulous and careful to a fault and John adored him for it because men who gave a damn were scarce after this many years of grueling loss and, also, because it allowed himself to wind down sooner than he was technically free to do so.

“Two men lost, that’s -that’s still good odds.” Crosby couldn’t manage an upbeat tone, he felt those two lives as deeply as Egan did, but facts were facts and over all, this experimental mission had proven beyond successful. Now to tell that to the families of the two men now being carted to the morgue instead of surgery and salt baths.

“Yeah, my girls were Trojans out there.” Bucky sucked his teeth, the squint in his eyes beginning to relax with a boozy sort of calmness. “Speakin’ of Trojans! —Candy!”

Maureen approached the little alcove at a tired gait, not above reprimanding Egan for his loud voice with all those occupied beds just feet away. “It’s late, Commander.” she reminded with hinting softness that only made him crane his head back and grin sloppily at her.

“It is, it is.” he agreed, reaching up to pat her arm and she squinted at the smell of whiskey, Crosby’s sudden and transparent busyness with the charts confirmed her suspicions. “You should get some shut eye, Candy! Back at it tomorrow.”

“So should you.” she hinted kindly.

“Mm,” he hummed in negative, “apparently my ‘specialty’ is needed elsewhere before then.”

“And so the booze?” she struck back and Crosby’s pen briefly dragged along his tidy line in shock at her daring.

“Steady hands, Candy darlin.” Egan responded, lifting two sticky palms up and showing, indeed, not a tremor. “I’ve got a surgery in less than an hour -working with Brady’s old sister, of all people, the one who snuck out of Manila after?- anyways, she’s 90 pounds of spit and vinegar. Starved for two years, but she takes three weeks off and a round of anti-parasitics and she’s all ‘let me back at ‘em.’ Hell of a dame. Anyway, surgery with her. I need this.”

“Well,” Maureen Kendeigh knew when to let go of a fight with a man who’d as yet never failed her or anyone else, despite his habits, “I can confirm it does nothing for your eyes bags.”

“Kiss ‘em better?”

“Not in my purview, sir.” she couldn’t help but smile, “Perhaps lieutenant Brady will be obliging?”

“She scares me.” he objected.

“And I don’t?”

“Only in the ways I like, Candy Darlin’.” he insited.

“Ah Major!” Crosby’s strained greeting drew their attention away from this over rehearsed banter and Egan straightened up fast upon sight of his friend.

“Buck!”

“John.” Gale Cleven was in the same uniform he’d been in for hours, flight jacket undone and scarf hanging loose. He must have come straight from interrogation and standing in front of the administrator's desk he was turning his cover over and over in his hands. Maureen was certain that were she to devote two hours a day to brushing her hair she could never bernish it to the golden brilliance that twelve hours of flight-sweat gave his. On a more concerning note, his was pale as death except for those lips. “I came to check in on everybody. Load of journalists out there.” He thumbed back behind him at the public area, “Mostly curious about you, Ensign.”

“Historical.” Egan affirmed and sent Maureen a sly look as she sighed over the fuss being made of her mission.

“I’m one of twenty.” she reminded.

“I hope you were nice about her.” Egan goaded his buddy and to her confusion, Gale flinched as if that were a remarkably successful mode of attack.

“O-of course.” he frowned severely and Maureen had a desperate urge to thumb those lines away. “I told them the truth.” he defended, mildly heated.

“Which is?” Egan was enjoying this and neither Maureen nor Harry Crosby could seem to puzzle out why.

“They did remarkably.” Cleven didn’t budge.

“Better than you thought.” Egan prodded.

“Yeah. Admittedly, far better than I thought. Jeeze, John.”

“But were you nice about her?” Egan insisted.

“What?”

“You said they were particular about Candy.” Egan said, “So what did you say?”

Maureen grew concerned that with such a level of fluster in the Major’s face not a stitch of blood seemed able to raise a blush.

“How ‘bout you read it in the paper.” Gale replied, coolly mean before clearing his throat and straightening up, back in possession of himself. “I came to see how many -how’d we do?”

“Twenty eight.” Egan confirmed.

“Outta thirty?” Cleven asked for confirmation.

“Yes sir.” Crosby answered him.

“Alright.” The Major accepted that, hat still whirling in his hands, a strange contrast to his perfectly contained posture. It drew Maureen’s eye to his hips and that deep red stain running down his pant leg.

“How’s your hip Major?” she asked, seeking to break the silence before Egan did so with some new and regrettable subject.

That did bring a flush and a sheen of sweat broke out on a face Maureen knew would be feverishly hot were she to touch it. He looked peeky, truth be told. “It’s fine, ma’am.”

“Hold up,” Egan stood from his chair and leaned over the desk to glare blearily at Gale’s trousers. “You're hit.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t keep bleedin’ like that.“

“Well, mine do.”

“Hey, I don’t go tellin’ you how to fly your planes-“

“-you do though.”

“-so you don’t go tellin’ me what’s a scratch and what’s a wound. It’s still drippin’, that makes it a wound.”

Cleven moved his boot to the side impatiently and only succeeded in proving his friend’s point as a line of fresh blood smeared the white tile. “I was gonna just -“

“-What?”

“-Clean it in the shower.” Cleven sighed, defeated but with an edge that suggested he might yet do it .

“Oh, just gonna rinse mortar fragments outta of your thigh, yeah?”

“It’s not that bad. Dunno if it really got hit.” He protested, “Might be scratched.”

“Or you might have a piece of your instrument panel snuggled up to an artery.” John affirmed sarcastically. “We’re goin’ up again tomorrow. I need you fit, I need you good.”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna get checked.” Egan commanded and Gale looked back at the double doors leading to freedom and a pack of journalists and sighed. “You’re on the ground now, flyboy, I call the shots.”

“Ok.” Cleven mumbled, “If you’re so goddamn eager to pants me, do it.”

“I am, I am but I’ve got even better things to do.” Egan rounded the desk and flung an arm around Gale in parting, bringing him in close despite Cleven’s stiff necked antipathy that hid only the deepest seated endearment, “Like putting a left lung back where it should be and trying to get Lt. Brady to smile at me.” Egan expounded, letting go and beginning to actually leave, much to Cleven's sudden concern, “Which is, naturally, on the left -the left lung, that’s where it goes.” Egan went on.

“Wait, aren’t you gonna-?” Cleven called after him.

“Pantsing is more of Ensign Kendeigh’s purview.” John replied cheerfully. “Don’t look so appalled, I'm sure she’s seen smaller.”

“John!” Major Cleven and Maureen both inflected his name like twin, scandalized parrots.

“You deserve each other.” John laughed, “Ensign, do your duty.”

“This is the kinda behavior that has you gettin’ write ups for bein’ a terror to your nurses!” Gale growled after him in remonstrance but it did nothing to slow Egan’s tactical withdrawal.

“Bulshit, everybody on this ward loves me!” John dared to claim even as he was berated on his way out by more than a few wounded marines for being a little too jovial at two in the morning.

Cleven didn’t wait for the doors to fully close on Egan or for Maureen to collect her professional demeanor and clipboard before he was leaning over Captain Crosby at his desk, large hands splayed on the fresh paperwork, assuming the pose of a supplicant before a lawyer. “Harry, Captain, do me a favor this once and take a look fo-“

“-Major Cleven sir,” Harry Crosby interjected levelly and with the utmost respect, “I’m an administrator.”

Maureen composed herself, the sight of this stoic man losing a grip on himself due to the prospect of lost modesty was surprising, it was also motivating to find her own professionalism and put him at ease. “Major, if you’d follow me?” she nodded her head towards the ward and started clopping down the dim aisle toward one of the last empty beds. He didn’t need to lay down for it but she needed her instrument tray, an isolated light and, if his shyness was so severe, drawing the sectioned curtains would hardly be amiss.

When she arrived and turned round to instruct him, he was obediently there to obey. Something about that dogged respect for authority he possessed and his compliance with her own profession filled her with an odd protectiveness and she motioned him into the space gently, tugging the curtain closed behind him. He was taller than she realized, made more apparent as he took the initiative and tugged off the bulky weight of his flight jacket, methodically laying it out in a half fold on the bed, nothing but a lean line of him left in olive green.

Lanky, her mother would call him, a long drink of water. He looked all of twenty four, suddenly, soft and in need of a meal. “Your leg, yes?” she reaffirmed, jotting it down in the chart. She had found that men found it easier to talk of injuries when she wasn’t making eye contact.

“Yes.” His voice was low as the grave and hushed too, “And -I think maybe my hip.”

Maureen’s eyes flicked to the place in question, recalling how she had suspected his lap in general on the plane. “Right.” she made the customary jot down of the detail and then an arguably unnecessary note beside it, the longer to give him a chance to cool himself. “Your pants Major, if you would.” she filled in the date and the time, cursory information so as not to be idle while he undid his belt, the clank of the flat uniform clasp deafening in the space where he seemed to hold his breath.

She was used to discerning the moment when it was safe to look up. Often there was a brief period after the sound of pants hitting the floor where one might have the misfortune of catching a man adjusting himself to a preferred side. She was prepared to give him that moment in peace but his voice called her to attention.

“Is this?-“ he didn’t finish his sentence and she looked up to see his vague gesture as he stood in briefs and boots, jacket hung open, too.

“Yes I think we can manage with those on.” she smiled reassuringly, discerning his query. His skivvies were blood stained on the right and clinging to him but the wounds appeared to be above and below their coverage, “I’ve always got scissors if need be.”

“Scissors.” He repeated with a nod, teeth savagely dug into his lip.

“Jacket off, this could get messy.” She ordered and something about her decisiveness seemed to soothe him like she knew it would, he shrugged it off gracefully and laid it beside the sheepskin, and yanked at his tie to relive his bobbing throat. “Please, sit Major.”

He sat down on the bed, a little stiffly, and she reached above her to turn on the large overhead lamp, shining it down on them both and in the harsh glow of it she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen something so beautiful as Gale Cleven’s blushing face fixed upturned towards her own.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, looks like.” she attempted to make conversation and got a mere nod instead, once she stepped nearer, his eyes devoutly focused themselves somewhere to the right of them, on the floor.

She rinsed the area first, wiping away the crusted blood until his smooth, lightly haired skin came into view, little jagged tears visible in it with small fragments embedded. It wasn’t bad at all, but deep enough to keep it bleeding.

The touch of cool water made him jolt in surprise. What it didn’t do was make him shrink. She saw his hands curl, white knuckled around the mattress pad beside him as she gently dug out the metal, and she had a suspicion it wasn’t from the pain.

As unabashedly as her profession had taught her, Maureen tugged up his boxer leg until she was satisfied she’d uncovered the last little shard and did what was necessary, reaching atop the wet fabric and moving his heavy member up and away. He about bucked off the table at that mere touch of positioning and Maureen backed away out of pure animal instinct to avoid getting reflexively kneed.

“I'm sorry!“ he rushed out, his chest suddenly tight like an elephant were sat on it and his blood thudded in his ears, “Ensign, I apologize, I don’t know why-“

“It’s fine.” she insisted, stunned and pitying at the realization she probably was the first woman to touch him this way. To touch him at all. “I’m sorry this requires it.” she admitted.

“Please don’t -“ he took a large breath and began again, actually managing to meet her eyes out of sheer willpower, “-I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re doing your job, i don’t know why I get- it’s unprofessional of me, I'm sorry.” he repeated firmly and straightened his spine as if he could discipline a most human reaction away.

“It’s not at all uncommon.” She whispered, feeling compelled to be unprofessional herself if only to make him stop berating himself, “We nurses deal with this all the time, quite normal after combat, particularly.” Maureen paused for a moment and weighed the joke on the tip of her tongue as she dabbed iodine on a cotton ball and prepared to go back into the dreaded zone of his thigh crease, “It’s to be expected, the manual says; your blood is quite literally UP.”

Stood there in suspense between his legs with the iodine swab waiting mid air, Maureen waited until she saw a flicker of amusement twinkle his sad expression and a snicker escape that sober mouth. “Tell me about it.” he rasped, exasperated at his own body. “Every damn time.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she teased, bringing the swab down and ignoring the sizable jolt his whole body and appendage gave at this dab to his thigh or the way his belly caved in with his deep intake of breath, “I’m telling you it’s normal.”

“Damn, you are sweet.” He declared suddenly with gut wrenching emphaticism that finally broke Mauren’s own precarious composure. “Not just to me,” he hastened to add in response to her melting expression so close to him, “to everybody out there. You were incredible today.” He paused and Maureen swallowed hard and tried with great difficulty to find the capability to thank him for the compliment. Before she could, he added with youthful honesty, “But you are -sweet to me.”

“Right back at you. Major.” she insisted, daring to stay that close and look back into those eyes she thought would be her last sight on earth for a second there on the beach earlier. His shuddering breath suggested he was recalling it, too.

“It’s nice to have friends in the crucible with ya.” he explained and Maureen felt her heart glow.

“Your poor hands.” she whispered, dropping her swab to gather his shaky hands in hers, the large palms engulfed her own even as she tried to cradle them. Never a hint of this anxiety while flying them, yet here he was shivering with it afterwards. “Probably blood loss.” she gave him an out, some men weren’t ready for talk of flight exhaustion or strained nerves.

“Then why’s it wasting all I’ve got to spare on…that?” He actually managed to joke back and Maureen actually allowed herself to laugh -god help her, she laughed at a man’s joke about an ill timed erection.

“John would say something about hope springing eternal, right about now.” she wheezed even as he groaned, his hands still placidly jittering in her grip, “I enjoyed your singing, by the way.”

“Mm, yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “you didn’t see the hole in the wing or the busted flaps all the way home. That landing didn’t promise to be as pretty as it was.”

“But it was pretty.”

“Yeah. Not too bad.”

“A gorgeous landing.” she insisted and his eyes started to water under the harsh light. Impulsively, and in an act of unprofessionalism she would have never recognized before today, Maureen Kendeigh drew his hands close to her chest and pressed a kiss to his lined forehead. The way he sagged against her in a shuddering lunge suggested her impulse was a good one. “Doc Egan insists whiskey is good for this.” she whispered into hair that smelled so strongly of his musk and the wool of his cap she about buckled from it.

“Mm, but is it g—good for him?” he responded rhetorically, a gust of moist breath against the open throat of her flight jacket, his usual irony still remained with only a hiccup of nerves interrupting his speech. Maureen wasn’t sure anymore, what saved a life, well, it had saved a life, so why demonize it? She was here to force things to keep living in environments so hostile wildflowers gave up. Some men needed their booze and some men needed to be held in the hospital ward at two in the morning until their shakes calmed. As if he could read her mind, she felt Gale turn his head to the side a little for breath, face still pressed to her chest as he uttered quietly, “This is working. For me.”

“Good.” Nose buried in his hair she took a few measured breaths herself, feeling that odd calm still radiating off him, even as his body was shot to hell and giving off the overtaxed jitters. “You bring people calm, you know that, Major? It’s why Egan picked you for this, deep down, you make a plane load of dying men hang in there. That’s a gift. But when you’ve got a cup you keep pouring out of, it’s bound to go empty. Gotta refill yourself, sometimes, yes?”

“I thought this was blood loss.” Gale replied softly and it took Maureen a beat to recognize the sad mischief in his blue eyes.

“Alright. I’ll speak for myself.”She conceded with a huff.

“You must be exhausted.” he noted, suddenly as sober as they come.

“A little tired.” she admitted, questioning the way she instinctively tightened her hold on the back of his neck as he stiffened to pull away. Entirely unprofessional, she wasn’t a medicine spoon or a needle, he had every right to pull away.

“So what would fill your cup back up?” he asked in that low voice that sent a million varied undertones crashing through her, whether he intended it or not.

Too tired to be much more than plainly honest, or as honest as a woman should be with a half undressed patient cradled to her chest, Maureen admitted the half of it, which in many ways was the whole, “This is working for me.”she repeated his own words to him and watched them take effect.

Like a sudden reanimation had occurred, Gale Cleven untangled their hands with emphatic surety and then, in an act of kindness Maureen never expected, brought them to her shoulders and tugged her down for a solid embrace. “A hug and a nap then.” He prescribed, his solid shoulder beneath her cheek and his legs parted for her to step between. Only the bandages kept him from bleeding further on her.

“Not a nap,” she smiled, an inexplicable warmth and calmness flooding through her in his hold, his back was broad and lean under her hands, “we should go to sleep.”

“No such thing as going to sleep in the military, Ensign.” Gale murmured, “Sleep -that’s what happens when your mama tucks you in and you’ve got a whole night to waste. Naps. That’s what we take.”

“Alright, a nap, and a hug.”

“Alright.”

“You know,” Maureen dared with a little smile as some part of her slotted back in place and gave her the boldness to be a little too much, “there’s this thing people came up with ages ago where you hug and take naps at the same time.”

Pink cheeked but with a jaw clench that had defeated warzones, Gale Cleven pulled his head away and gave her a heavy look of admonishment, “Marriage.” he stated unamused.

Well, she had meant sex, and she wanted it, always had after danger -but Cleven had a point too.

“Uh, yes, that’s the most common-“

“-If I were to marry you, Maureen Kendeigh,” his voice took on a teasing lilt that was somehow more devastating than all his commanding earnestness, “there’d be no nap taking.”

“Oh.” A single utterance was about all she could articulate in the face of that smirk and gentle refusal. Both flattering and painful all at once. “Well, that’s not for us then.”

“No.” he pondered, full lips twitching downwards in disappointment, “At least, sounds like a decidedly post-war endeavor. No naps.” he clarified.

“Oh -yes.” she caught on, well used to the code of superstition all around her that didn’t allow men to spell out any sort of lasting, long term hope. “A postwar endeavor.” she agreed, never having heard marriage so smartly categorized.

“Uhuh,” his hands trailed up from her ribs to squeeze the sore muscles of her deltoid, “for now -naps. Back up tomorrow.”

“Alright.” she agreed, stepping a small distance back and looking him over, this time his presence didn’t shrink, in fact if anything he expended in the small room and it made her chest ache, “You're alright?” she made sure one last time.

He held his palms flat up and Maureen could attest they were indeed steady, terribly large, too, and his watch on his wrist was careening towards three o’clock. “Looks like it.” he rasped. “But you’re in charge here. Can I go, Ensign?”

Regretfully Maureen nodded, “You’re dismissed, Major.”

When he stood up from the bed he was by necessity in her space, looking down at her rather fearlessly as he yanked up the waist of his trousers and gathered the belt closed around his lean waist. Maureen felt her cheeks burn but couldn’t look away, if she were to glance away from those eyes she might see something even more tempting before he’d secured the fabric.

“Got any more duties after this?” he asked, breaking the moment as he bent to arrange his trouser hems over his boots.

“No.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your billet.”

“For naps.” she clarified cheekily.

“For naps.” he agreed with mirthful vehemence, finger pointed at her with almost paternal caution to not push his patience.

“Do you want your shell fragments?” she rattled them in their dish, the pieces she'd pried from the shallow muscle of his hip.

Cleven paused with his hand on the dividing curtain, shaking his head in amusement, “Give ‘em to Egan,” he suggested with a wicked little smirk, “knowing him he’ll make a talisman out of them or something equally useful.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s life blood, lemme head your thots or screams! Xoxo

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#mota fanfiction #mine #archive #friends in the crucible #Gale Cleven x OC #Buck Cleven x OC #Buck Cleven #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler imagine #masters of the air #Bucky Egan #doc Egan #Maureen Kendeigh #iwo jima #hbo war #john egan #callum turner #Callum Turner fanfiction

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