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ladybirdswritings · 3 months

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Pride & Prejudice - Coriolanus {Young} Snow x Reader

Summary: Spending more time with the miserable Mr. Snow, against your will, only proves to you exactly why he is a man you have sworn to loathe for all eternity. Steamy Pride & Prejudice retelling with young snow and you! Alternate universe, au!snow <3

Notes: so happy you all loved the first part — so i guess i’m continuing ahaha. as always, thank u for leaving comments and loves as it keeps me motivated! also, feel free to lmk if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3

two

The mist of September’s end and October’s greeting is a thick, heavy blanket in the air. You only scowl at it as you pick up your tiered skirt from where it drags against emerald moss and dirt. A storm is nearby.

You would melt into this very soil if you could. Become one with the lilacs and peonies if it meant you’d never be prevailed upon to marry again by the force of your mother.

Mama is unwell. As always but, with more fervor now. The dance was most successful for Jane. She and Sejanus have been exchanging kind letters with pomegranate stained kisses garnishing the print. Even so, mama is viciously unhappy.

The cherrywood cabinets slam louder when you pass, and her eyes narrow at any mention of the gathering. Perhaps your behavior was a great embarrassment for her. If only you were as divine as Jane.

The house is lively, far too lively for your liking at this settling hour. Sisters here and sisters there. They busy themselves with the grand piano and awful singing. It isn’t long until one of the twins rushes forward with a sealed envelope clasped tightly in hand.

“Mama! It is for Jane!”

You snatch the paper from her palm, worrisome that she will ruin it with how tightly she squeezes. Beyond this, you are most eager to see the development in your own personal romance novel starring your dearest sister. Mama slaps your hand away in turn, tugging it back into a monstrous grasp that nearly shreds it to minuscule little pieces.

You see the breath halt and dwell comfortably in her throat, unwilling to part or falter. This is most important to her, trivial matter as it is.

So long as Jane is happy…

You gaze on at the girl with petal-pink cheeks and bright eyes — her smile is a thing of beauty and joy at the mere idea that Sejanus Plinth could admire her.

“Mama! What does it say!”

Her hands tremble like hummingbirds now, and your frown stitches itself promptly upon your pretty face. Oh no, he is certain to have changed his mind.

At least he was kind and gentleman enough to inform dear Jane by letter.

That joy, excitement and eagerness once swimming within your mother’s eyes has dissipated to sheer horror.

“When did we receive this?” She whispers, a ghastly and terror laced sound.

“This morning!” One of the twins happily offers, twirling her chocolate ringlet tight enough to knot.

Mama cries out a sound of agony, shoving the paper hard against Jane’s chest — enough so that she stumbles. She is a frantic thing, running round your quaint living space like that of a farm animal who has lost its head.

You are fueled by your own confusion, constricting your mind to only wait upon Jane. She shakily reads the crumbled thing — hesitance becoming her. Her eyes shift then; a look of joy, excitement, fear — then dread.

“What is it?” You whisper, watching as mama mutters nonsense and brushes the collection of scattered breadcrumbs from the countertop — eyes wide as the moon aglow at midnight.

“Mr. Plinth and his sister, alongside Mr. Snow and sir Plinth’s dear — rich uncle, have all planned to meet with us this evening. They’ve taken a carriage, and have made arrangements to arrive by sundown.”

Four pairs of eyes, in perfected unison, glance into the grassy plains where the sun has begun to set.

You do not intend to giggle at the irony, perhaps it is a thing fueled by nerves just as your mother. Yet it floats from your sweet lips like a prayer, slender fingers rushing to suffocate it.

It is undeniably numerous, however. How could it be anything but?

The way your dearest blood all melts at the brim for the gaze of three men whom are only important by cold silver is a thing of great mystery to you, something you do not understand. It is not just mama and Jane and the entirety of your own family however. No, it is all of society. You only wonder what it would be like for a woman to reach beyond the horizon line — to be great. To not be forced upon a man of all creatures to be of true importance.

Mama rushes past, so quickly your hair becomes unruly. She presses her palms firmly against your cheeks — your face piecing together like a swift minnow from the nearby fish pond.

“Oh heavens — if you do even the littlest act so to embarrass me, I am certain to die of great illness. My nerves are far too weak, you must behave for me! Be as sweet Jane is. Sir Plinth’s uncle is of the richest gentleman in Newbury, 5,000 a year! You must converse with him, do it for your dearest mother. Oh! And brush that wild hair from your face, girl. He will think you to be a witch — keep guard at the window.”

Her words are a tangled, knotted mess of all the things you despise. Even whilst tucked away into a place where you do not truly listen, you know well she is asking you to be social for gain of a husband.

You frown, grateful when the headless chicken runs off from you again. Your hand fussses with the wisps rested amongst your forehead — and you obey mama’s orders by sauntering to the creaky old chair that faces the fogged front window.

The fog is a veil, a curtain hiding from you only dread. You are grateful for it now, though it does no good for your locks and tresses. Your eyes dart to the torn book beside you — and you consider disobedience as an alternative to this state. You know well what will happen if you stray, so you do not dare it.

It is an awfully timely and punctual arrival — perhaps ten ticks of the grand, tower clock before the stallion’s snouts peek through the fog. Just as the golden halo sets beyond them.

“Mama!”

You call, but she only waves you away with a busy hand as she continues fussing with the knit table mat. You will not bother it again. You shrink, hiding all but curious eyes behind the lace curtain.

Sejanus is grinning, nervously you think. Then the scowling sister, a small, old creature with a sunken gaze — and the miserable one. They approach, you sink further.

“God Sejanus, smile any more for the poor thing and your pockets will start betraying you.” Grace sneers, voice sewn tightly with disgust at the less fortunate situation your family finds themselves in, glancing around at the quaint, pathetic home. It is as if she believes one breath of hers will cause it to collapse to the soil — to her polished feet.

“Please Grace, she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Oh, uncle, her eldest sister is very agreeable as well. Don’t you agree, Snow?”

Oh, he’s asked the cold thing who’s far too proud and rich for a humble party. You’re curious.

“Perfectly tolerable, I suppose. But not pretty enough to tempt me.”

Oh…

Your mischievous, sneaky grin melts into that of a hard line — ample with annoyance. How arrogant of him to say. As if his blonde locks and blue eyes make him any different than the handsome officers that pass by now and then. As if he is some prize. You scowl, Grace’s laugh an unpleasant sound.

Four hard knocks and you are quickly up to your feet.

Mama rushes to you immediately, slapping your hand enough so that it stings greatly and fades the color crimson.

“You were meant to watch! Places, take your stance girls!”

It takes beyond the greatest force to drag your feet to stand beside Jane. Mama checks each forced position anxiously before she tugs the door open wide — with a horrible, eager grin.

“Welcome!”

They trail the moss and dirt onto your oak floors, not bothering to wipe it away on the torn cloth you call a carpet. No need, they believe. The house is pathetic already as it stands. No dirt shall make it any less worthy than it already is.

In unison, a curtsy of greeting becomes all of you. Prim and proper and perfect just as mother groomed you all to be. For preparation of husbands.

Good god, the blonde looks even more dreadful now. Cold eyes darting to the old, harmless hound that chews on a racket ball. He winces at the sight of dust and chipped oak wood furniture surrounding. He looks down upon this place as if it is beneath him.

He far from belongs here.

“Sit, please sit! I’ve already prepared us supper!” Mama practically pushes Sejanus with most nervous palms, and his shadows follow suite.

Though you dream of running through the open door and fading into the mist to never be found again — you obey; sauntering into the archway with tired eyes and reluctant feet.

“My lady…”

Oh.

The short man with bushy brows and coal colored, untamed locks pulls your seat back enough so that you may sit upon it. To your dismay, the miserable one takes place in front of you. His eyes are cast downward to the far from fine silverware laid before him.

“Thank you sir.” You whisper, the chair feeling as though it is determined to suffocate you the longer you sit upon it.

“Oh, Jane — everybody, please meet my uncle, Mr. Casca Highbottom of Bristol.”

You only nod at the grinning old man, and mama rushes back like a midnight breeze through the archway — setting plates filled to the brim with but all of the food left for the entire month. Even so, it remains poor to a gazing eye. Though it matters not how little garnishes the porcelain, for when you catch gaze of miserable Snow pushing his few peas around in disgust, you cannot help but narrow your sight.

How can he be so proud? Certainly, if a humble gathering invited you in for a warm meal in this awful mist — you’d be most grateful for even a singular pea on your plate. Let alone twelve.

Grace laughs at the sight of Snow displeased — placing a soft palm against his knee beneath the cherrywood table. He spares her laugh a glance, and his lip twitches in what appears to be an amused smile. They talk lowly to each other, you notice it from where you peer behind your glass. She must be fond of him what with the way she touches him and leans closer with each word he speaks. You cannot possibly imagine why. Perhaps they are just alike. Rich, rude things.

“So — I dare ask if any suitors captured your heart at the party then?” Grace, she speaks to you now. You snort, ready to offer words of disdain and disgust toward the lot of men and their sweaty palms. Your mother’s cold glare silences you.

“No… they did not.” You mutter in quick defeat.

“Hmm, how dreadful…” it is mock sympathy, noticeable to both you and Jane.

Tension thins to a mere string lacing the table together. Silence blanketing even more so than the mist as worn silverware and mama’s embarsssing tangents erupt in painful harmony. You are grateful for Jane who manages to pry her eyes from Sejanus for a single moment so to save you from mama’s disapproving glare at your silence. She is selling you to the short man, it seems. She has been for the entirety of this meal.

“It is not as though gentlemen do not flock to my dear sister…” Jane starts. “It is simply that she is far too preoccupied with her books to notice them. She is an avid reader, adores her novels you see. She possesses great talents because of it!”

You hoped Jane would be so kind as to avert the attention. Yet it remains stable upon you, the available wife — as cattle with clipped ears. You feel as though you are livestock being powdered and pressed for the market. If the short man is buying, you’d rather be butchered.

He is awkward and stout and his jokes are uncomfortable as they are just rude. He is far from a gentleman and all the reason you deny each hand bestowed to you in the first place. For reason of men like him.

“You write?” Snow inquires.

Those cold, devoid eyes are locked upon you — and despite wishing to send him away to never return so you may be free of his arrogance, you only peer up at his gaze through fanned lashes to see them commanding an answer of you. Awaiting one.

“Occasionally, sir.”

His gaze doesn’t falter, nor does the gaze of Mr. Highbottom, even as he presses a boiled potato to his tongue.

“What of?”

What a silly question, you think. What else would a woman of your age and lack quill about?

It baffles you to find him curious. Perhaps he does not wish to seem obviously rude any more so than he simply is — perhaps he is only creating small talk.

“What else, sir? My thoughts and desires, my ideas. Romance — dramatics…”

“Oh but she just despises poetry!” Mama interjects, as if to end the conversation and refocus it upon your eligibility. Even when she speaks, Snow does not spare her a single glance. His eyes, they still rest upon you.

“You do? I thought poetry to be the food of love.”

You dare a snort then, suffocating a fit of laughter with a spoonful of food. You take your time chewing it, only offering more words when you realize that the conversation does not seem to be at its end. No. It cannot be. Not when he looks at you in a such an expectant manner.

“A poet writes of women in the gaze of all men, which I do not believe to be a true show of adoration. Perhaps it is the food of love — if you want to suffocate it. Stone it till it remains no longer.”

His next words come quick, immediately almost. As if he is grasping at the first chance to reply, much to Highbottom’s dismay whom snaps his mouth shut after losing the opportunity. Every eye in attendance is on the both of you.

Do they think you to be an enigma? You wonder…

“What do you recommend then? To encourage affection between two people…”

You do not know why he asks you this, but you can only assume it is because he wishes to embarrass you. Grace’s sharp gaze morphs into that of an amused smirk. Why would he ask the only woman seated what encourages affection when she cannot obtain it on her own?

You are certain then of his intentions. To mock you in front of Plinth’s sister, his uncle. In front of your blood. He does it so subtlety that if you were not bright as you are — you would most certainly miss it. He is a fool, a great fool because miraculously — you can reciprocate.

“Dancing… even if one’s partner is only tolerable.” You almost sneer with a tilt of your head and raise of your sharp brow.

If something truly clicks within him, it is most quickly dissipated. Most tricky to see. Sejanus clears his throat, and Highbottom — rude creature, erupts into a fit of laughter with a mouthful of food. Your mother is nervous, she joins him.

Grace only gasps, and Jane’s soft features are laced with confusion at the thing only you five are lucky enough to understand.

You remain stoic, challenging his eyes and his tense, twitching jaw with proudness.

“Shall I fetch dessert mama?”

Your mother nods through fits of forced laughter, and you take the opportunity to lift upon your feet. The chair scrapes against the creaky panels and nearly topples as you rush into the quaint kitchen and away from him.

It brings you joy knowing that he has nothing further to say.

You are smiling, terribly overflowed with pride as you place canned, sugared peaches upon ten porcelain plates. How proud he must have felt to speak lowly of you, a girl he spared little words to at a party he refrained from dancing at for it was too poor for his liking.

You disliked him then — but a chat with miss Lucy-Gray Baird while passing by in town confirmed all of your prejudice. She claims to have been treated most coldly by him whilst he was courting her. He offered his hand, then fled into midnight when he grew bored of her. Only the next morning.

He is as any other man is. A heartless hound. His behavior in your small home only further proves your prejudice is with more than enough reason.

You take longer than you should selfishly, and when you return — your gaze locks upon Sejanus who is entirely enamored by the sapphire gaze of Jane.

Mama aids you in placing down the plates you juggle. It is a poor dessert, but one that is most delectable.

“Oh well, your daughter is most precious. Funny, too! How uncommon for women.”

“Oh please uncle, we all have our wit. She is just peculiar, I daresay.”

Mama laughs at Grace’s words, and you only offer a polite, tense smile before being seated once again. It is you now that pushes your food around your plate, fading into the mist truly as you remain silent.

They speak of things you care the least bit for — all irrelevant matters to your mind. You are grateful when wine is poured, you nearly inhale it and garner a slap on your hand once again from mama.

You need it to get thought this.

Highbottom and mama speak of you, she tells him lies. How much you wish to be wed, how eager you are to find a lover. All contradictions of Jane’s earlier lick of truth. The rich fool believes her, his eyes cast upon you like poisonous darts. Slowly suffocating you.

Sejanus is preoccupied entirely by Jane — and the miserable one chats lowly with the scowling sister.

“Well, how about some music and dance? Lizzie, off to the piano!”

Your youngest sister lifts — eager to press her hands against the keys. It will be a mediocre melody but one that offers enough sound so to dance. You wish to stay glued to the table as they leave you to the living space — but mama tugs at your braid harshly, you have no choice other than obedience.

Sejanus kindly offers Jane a hand — and you feel as though you will just sink entirely into the floor as Highbottom approaches. Your heel turns you swift as you try and find even a small bit of space in this little home.

A navy vest with a crimson rose tucked into its pocket cages your escape. You never thought to see the day you’d be grateful for the cold blonde who cuts in front. You nearly collide with him.

“Dance with me.” He commands.

How baffling…

You do not notice the tension settled within your features until your brows ease in confusion. Your chin is pointed upwards — enough so that he can be equal to your gaze.

“Are you asking this of me — or ordering sir?”

His jaw ticks once more, but he does not follow up with any more words. The cleared throat of the short man behind you is enough reason to pick the far less uncomfortable poison. You’d rather be fueled by annoyance as opposed to discomfort and dread. One dance is all.

“Fine.” You mutter, sealing your fate and betraying your swear to be far away from the man whom you loathe entirely.

He is a pale thing up close. Birth marks kissing silken skin, soft as the moss kissing your shoes. You are grateful that this dance does not require touch — only the occasional closeness.

You follow him to where Sejanus and Jane stand — his head nearly reaches your ceiling. His palm hovers over yours, eyes downcast on your pretty features. Grace is scowling, again.

Your fingers twitch as Lizzie begins the sonnet, and you follow his lead.

It surprises you greatly, how well he dances. Though his mouth is a hard line, and his eyes are like round lumps of charred coal. He is noiseless.

“Are we to dance in dread and silence, Mr. Snow? I dare comment on this awful weather, now you may follow with a remark about the food. How much you despised it.”

You catch a glimpse of him, a suppressed twitch of his lips. As if the words offended him. Maybe amused him. You step forward and then back, frayed skirt floating against the movement. He follows suite.

“I could comment on how you dance. I am happy to inform you it is more tasteful than how you cook. Please do advise me on what more you want me to say to you.”

You stumble by his words — and his eyes dart to your clumsy feet. They are stable soon enough, circling him like a shark in vicious waters. His words upset you.

“Mama and Jane prepared the meal. I only prepared the peaches; but I do believe that if a family was kind enough to welcome an abrupt attendance with a warm meal — I would not be so complacent about its contents. You see — we are not all so fortunate to have garnered inheritance, Mr. Snow.” A cold melody, but one he would be a fool to ignore. It is all true.

Now it is him that halts. He steps forward, dipping his head low. Your eyes wander to his gloved palm — it clenches then flexes outward; all evidence of his annoyance with your words.

There you both stand, Sejanus and Jane alongside the twins, mama and Highbottom swirling around you. You do not know where Grace lurks.

You both are still, he stands a tower above you. His eyes pour heat into your own, admonishing you — offended with your words. It is as if the room is only filled with the two of you, the lace of connection between you just your anger. Even in your short time being familiar, it is strong.

“Do you imply that my inheritance is all the reason for my success?” He forces through clenched — perfect teeth.

“Perhaps I do sir, miss Baird of Newbury certainly agree—”

The hand that lays against your side is snatched into his own. He squeezes it tight now, eyes wide and swimming with disapproval and frustration. It has been resting at the surface, but bound to crack.

“Oh I’m certain she does. I am sure she told you the many tales of her troubles and woes brought upon by her time spent with me. You won’t speak to her again.”

It is you that steps forward now, so laced with upset that you do not notice your poor and worn shoes are stepping upon his tip toes. Up upon the rich and shined leather. Your chin is pointed upward, your stance tense.

“You command me as if I am wed to you sir, but I am not. You have come here, unannounced and unhappy with your humble plate as if we are all but a quaint inn with poor maids. Just because we gather little and obscure and we do not have pockets as generous and full as yours does not make us beneath you, Mr. Snow.”

The music halts, and your eyes shift quickly to find a concerned Jane gazing on — alongside your horrified mother. How crazed you both must look now. Stepping upon his toes with palms clasped — anger and upset becoming you both.

You release his gloved hand and part your soft lips to dismiss yourself — yet a strike of lightning cracking from above the grayed sky is a gift given, a distraction from beyond. Yet alongside it? A curse.

The horses startle, lifting to their hind legs before running far and fast with the carriage. Grace cries out from where she sulked in the shadows, and Sejanus alongside his uncle run after the wild beasts. Your sisters and mama follow.

“What are we to do!?”

“Grace, please be calm. We will fetch them.”

“We cannot travel in these conditions, boy.”

“You may rest here!”

Dread is a serpent that wraps tight round your throat — making the pounding of your heart halt entirely.

It is all a blur, but by the end of the lively conversation it is decided. They will stay. They will all stay. You bow your head, crossing your arms round the beating at your chest so to protect it.

“Excuse me.” You whisper, so low it is taken with the breeze from the open door before rushing up your dilapidated steps; knowing full well that the hospitality offered by mama, selfish reasoning or not, is the last thing a man like Mr. Snow deserves…

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iambilliejeanok · 3 months

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have you already done how Itachi would spend Valentine's day with his s/o, sfw and nsfw plss

Warnings: 18+, equal fluffs and smut🩷 scenario

He’s honestly a very country kind of guy. He loves the peace and serenity that comes with living on a farm. He doesn’t really like the bustle of the inner village, most especially on Valentine’s Day. Everyone is occupying every restaurant, couples are filling the streets, arm in arm and he just feels like it’s way too overrated to take you there. He prefers to plan things out for just the two of you to enjoy alone.

Despite his daily efforts at keeping you smiling and happy, preparation for Valentine’s Day can be a tad bit stressful for him. He needs for things to be perfect just for you. Careful not to wake you up, he’ll sneak out of your shared bed and into the kitchen, where he will whip up the finest breakfast for the finest girl in the world, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he shapes the pancakes into cute little teddy bares and drips some syrup over them with a smile on his face while he imagines your adorable reaction to them.

He already sprinkled some rose and peony petals all over your room while you were still asleep, and even placed some ever so carefully around your sleeping frame and sprinkled some on top of you since he thinks you look like a dream that way. He might go a little overboard with the petals though, since he practically covers the house in them, but please be understanding okay. He’s a sweet boy and a new lover, so he’s pretty imaginative about Valentine’s Day.

There are endless trails of pink, white and red petals leading to every room and you can’t help but giggle at the exaggeration. You love him so much for doing all this for you though, and he sweetly requests to join you in the petal and bubble filled bathtub shortly after the two of you have a nice, peaceful breakfast together in the kitchen with the windows open, allowing the cool morning breeze and fresh smells of nature to wake y’all up.

There’s nothing he loves more than soaking in the bathtub with you, and turns bright red as though this is all new to him, when you litter his pretty face with kisses and verbally communicating how grateful you are to have him in your life. He loves to feel needed and appreciated and when you demonstrate that to him physically, he gives in like a desperate whore, letting you ride him in the bathtub to your hearts content. He feels so special as you kiss and nip his face and neck while you slowly bounce on him, soft whimpers leaving his lips at the feel of your warm walls suctioning him as you lift yourself up, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when you allow gravity to help you sit all the way on him and he’s so lost in the height of pleasure you’re keeping him on, his hands gripping your hips so hard as he desperately tries to meet you with needy thrusts, wishing he could go deeper despite how you already feel him deep in your tummy. He didn’t intend to have you wreck pleasurable havoc on him on your special day of romance and strongly preferred to be the one to take you to these heights, but you look so ethereal with your opal pink bonnet still on, bubbles and petals littered on your shoulders and breasts, your face contorting as you near a climax so powerful that it forces him to cum with you and of course he obeys as he let’s lose, sitting upright to hold you tight, the bathroom filled with soft music and desperate moans of one another’s names. He lays back down against the tub with the his arms still around you, breathing heavy while he plants feather light kisses on your face. The two of you just lay there in one anothers arms, the hot water wrapping the two of you up perfectly as you take in one another’s presence, his dick still buried deep inside of you, slowly growing hard again and when you shift in surprise, he immediately apologizes to you for not giving you what you clearly needed sooner.

He’s so sweet you literally feel like you don’t deserve him, reassuring him that you had a wonderful time and that you enjoyed yourself as much as he did. Despite this, he can’t help shake away his guilt and when the two of you get out of the tub, he dries you off gently, picking you up bridal style to carry you back to bed, tossing you on the soft mattress with a smile on his face over your giddy giggles. He spreads your legs wide open, and hushes you when you begin to protest, reassuring him that he really doesn’t have to do all this and that the bathtub was enough, but he insists; “Sweetheart cmon, I really wanted to this anyway. Please?”, he practically begs, and just how can you say no to him????

He most definitely wants to take a walk with you on the farm or even a nice little stroll in the nearby forest and packs a nice picnic for the two of you to sit down under a tree on a nice patch of grass and eat. He bought you a gorgeous dress of your style and tastes and has you standing under almost every tree so he can take pictures of you, joining you in a few of them. You’re just so stunning to him and he needs to add these to his photo album. He’s very open to suggestion, if it will make your day of course and will even sing to you if you request that. He doesn’t consider himself an amazing singer, but his voice is so incredibly soothing that you just wanna listen to him all day, resting your head onhis lap while you relax to his divine voice. There’s something about listening to him sing that makes you wet and when you sit up to straddle his lap, he already has an idea of what you’re trying to do. Of course he’s happy to give it, but he’s shocked to hearthat you want to be in control. You’re clearly taking advantage of the day, and despite how often he usually denies your requests to too him, he’ll allow you to have things your way today. He has to admit though, he loves having you take care of him like this, it makes him feel special and the thought of you taking him how you want makes his dick twitch and he can’t help but feel like he’s being the receiver here and he worries , thinking you’re the one who actually deserves all this pleasure, especially on Valentine’s Day, but since you really want this, how can the lover boy possibly deny you?!

You love how smooth his skin feels on your tongue as you decorate his neck with more hickies, dragging your tongue up his neck, his jawline and finally, penetrating it into his mouth as you gently have your way with him, kissing him passionately. He quickly grows excited over allowing you to have so much control, but even so, he wants to please you, he needs to please you, it’s Valentines Day after all. Gently rubbing your thighs, he sneaks his hands up your dress, grabbing both your cheeks into his hands and squeezing gently. When he hears you moan excitedly into his mouth, he goes feral for a moment and tries his best to compose himself and behave, hooking your undies with his middle and ring finger to pull the pesky material to the side and expose your woman hood to his curious fingers. You’re wet and you’re dripping on his fingers before he could even touch you with him, the kiss growing aggressive as you try to contain your own neediness. He feels himself growing hot at the thought of you being so aroused over topping him and wonders why he only ever allowed you to dominate him today when he could’ve been experiencing this for the past 8 months. He might tease you for a bit, only so he can take in the many expressions you make on your pretty face as you softly plead for him. “Itachi babe, please”, you beg, grinding your hips down onto his fingers to get him to touch you where you needed it most. Now how the HELL can he say no to that? He’s immediately rubbing circles on your clit, mesmerized by the sweet sounds you’re making on his lap, your hands running over his chest and his arms, greedily feeling him up as you shudder from how good you feel and he can’t resist penetrating your wet cunt with his two fingers, your mouth hanging open as you instantly cum, squirming on his lap as he slowly sinks them in deeper, just past his second knuckle. He immediately starts pumping the digits in and out of you, and you’re already riding wave after wave of pleasure as he stretches out the intense pleasure of your orgasm. “Hey, look at me”, he softly reminds you, and you do just as you’re told, brown eyes looking into black ones as you begin to grind his fingers earnestly, desperate for another orgasm. He meets your hips with fast, controlled pumps and you’re morning his name out in ecstasy, shuddering as you fall against him, wrapping your arms and his neck. He smirks with pride, his face buried between your breasts as you hold him against you but he’s not quite satisfied yet, planning on taking more from you since you’ve forgotten to be the top in this moment, but to his surprise, you let go of him to unbutton his pants, reaching for his thick cock. He wonders when you became so greedy and if you got it from him. Rubbing his thick warm shaft against your moist vulva a few times lubricates him just enough for you to finally line with your dripping wet entrance, slowly sitting down on him, letting him bury himself as deep inside of you as you can handle. You both moan in ecstasy and can’t help but talk softly to one another as you ride him like you did in the morning.

As the evening nears, the weather gets cooler and he purposefully takes his sweet time walking back home with you, knowing you’d immediately be down to have another session in the tub and when the two of you are all done, the sun is beginning to set and he’s ready to finally give you all the gifts he’s bought during the week. He gently ties a blindfold over your eyes and wraps his arm around your waist, while holding your hand in his to guide you into the living room, where’s he’s lined up all your gifts and set up a cozy blanket fort in front of the fire place, where he plans on making love to you all night long after a movie and some snacks.

You’re reeling over the giant teddies, the huge bouquets and many boxes of jelwery and chocolates. He bought each and every single gift with your reaction in mind and it made him grow even more excited for this day. He’s surprised and can’t stop himself from blushing when you show him the gifts you got for him. He genuinely wasn’t expecting it, but also wonders what exactly he was expecting, realising just how much you love him too. He really looks forward to spending every day with you, but Valentines Day has to be on top of the list as one of his favorite holidays.

#naruto imagines #naruto smut #itachi headcanons #itachi scenarios #uchiha itachi x reader #itachi smut #itachi imagines #valentines day

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mxlfoydraco · 1 year

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What are the sweetest, most fluffy, most tender fic recs you have? Hurt/comfort préférable but anything works

I'm a major angst reader so our definitions of fluff may vary! I'm adding on to these lists: Fluff & Hogwarts Era Fluff

Save My Wonders by @unmistakablyoatmeal(21k)

Immediately chocolate assaulted Draco’s senses. Warm melted chocolate mixed with his mother’s roses and… something else. Something new. Freshly scrubbed skin and maybe a faint sheen of sweat. It was so familiar… And it only intensified when Potter came up behind him.

Two of Us by @sorrybutblog (5k)

The gang goes to a gay bar. Or: five times Harry accidentally pretended to be Draco’s boyfriend and one time Draco told him to put out or shut up.

All Things Go by @sorrybutblog (32k)

Draco’s back at Hogwarts by court order. Harry’s back for no particular reason at all. Some things change, some stay the same. Neither expects to spend eighth-year living in close quarters, playing rugby (poorly), staying up late, sneaking around, and finally figuring it all out.

Quick as a Flash of Lightning, Unhurried as Eternity by @onbeinganangel (10k)

Can you fall in love with someone by simply watching them fiercely love another version of yourself?

Knead by @jovialobservationanchor (83k)

This is not a story about Harry renovating Grimmauld Place. This is a story about coffee shops and brewpubs, about Ginny and Luna on a farm with creatures, about magical Oregon, coastal road trips, flying, friendship, and Draco Malfoy's lean arms.

the treehouse near primrose downs by @softlystarstruck (14k)

Draco and Harry have been roommates for years, so buying a magical house in the countryside shouldn’t be a big difference. But in between fresh loaves of bread and beds of wildflowers, things start to fall into place.

you bring me home by @softlystarstruck (35k)

Harry is happy. He has his cat cafe and his hobbies. He has his friends, and Dolly Parton, and a shirt with a cowboy frog on it. It’s all a man needs, really. He doesn’t need to obsess over a magic-less, anxious Draco Malfoy coming into his cafe after disappearing from the wizarding world years ago. He doesn’t. Not even if the cats like Malfoy. Not even if Malfoy is soft, and funny, and a little bit neurotic. No matter how much he wants to obsess.

With Great Yawns and Stretchings by @sugar-screw (22k)

The coffee is very good. Really. And the cats are so cute. That's why Harry goes so often.

I Think I Want to Marry You by @phdmama (6k)

5 times Harry Potter asks Draco Malfoy to marry him and Draco doesn't answer. And then the one time he does.

Meddling, Menswear, and Magic by @writcraft (18k)

Draco Malfoy is working in a job he hates and avoiding the magical world entirely, but he really is fine. When a bequest from Severus Snape brings Draco back to a much-changed magical world, he must find his place within it and navigate his growing attraction to Harry Potter in the process.

Constellations on your skin by @orange-peony (56k)

“I’m going to get my scars removed,” Draco announces on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. “Who are you seeing?” Blaise asks. “The best Healer out there,” Draco replies with a little shrug. “Harry Potter.”

Sweeten to Taste by @saintgarbanzo (51k)

It starts with Draco's buckwheat crepes with honeyed oranges. Or maybe it starts with his porridge with toasted walnuts and homemade apple butter. Or perhaps it starts with the cinnamon buns Draco made from scratch with mascarpone icing. Harry just knows he's hungry for more.

The Little Marauders Nursery and Day Care by @digthewriter (9k)

Harry Potter is the proud owner of The Little Marauders Nursery and Day Care and his favourite student is Scorpius Malfoy. Scorpius’s dad might be okay, too.

Sourdough by @academicdisasterfic (17k)

Draco writes romance novels and doesn't leave his apartment much. Harry bakes bread and sells it to Draco. Draco is quite weird. Harry might like that.

The Courting by the Pureblood Who Only Has Five Milligrams of Romantic Intelligence and Thinks He’s Real Smooth by @cibeewastaken (19k)

Draco could grab Potter and shove him into a stall before proceeding to suck his soul out of his dick, but secretly, deep down, in the part of Draco that he will never admit to anyone, he is (everyone pauses to shudder) a romantic. Potter is not someone Draco wants a one-off with. Potter is — Draco’s beloved! So Draco decides to boldly go where no one has gone before: to put himself through scrutiny; their friends’ teasing and pranks; unsound romantic advice from a house-elf; wearing pretty clothes; all to try and win Potter’s heart through courtship. (An unnamed ginger bastard can be heard yelling from afar: “This is actually a detailed guide on how not to court someone!”) But who cares about the opinions of redheads? Literally no one.

Nice Things by aideomai (22k)

The first thing that happened was Theodore Nott came back from France.

Thermodynamic Equilibrium by @dorthyanndrarry (5k)

Harry's far too hot. Draco's always cold. And somehow against all odds, together they create a perfect equilibrium.

Stay (With Me) by @dorthyanndrarry (6k)

Harry and Draco have been seeing each other casually, whenever they bumped into one another at Galas and Balls and other social events, always keeping one another at a careful distance. But one step forward seems to remove all space between them, sending them crashing together with an almost inevitable gravity.

If It Takes All Night by @tackytigerfic (10k)

It's not the first time Harry's been the victim of a botched curse (that's one of the reasons he doesn't like crowds), but he feels bad that Malfoy had to get caught up in it too. So they're bonded. That's ok, they just have to make sure to be touching at all time. No problem. Because Malfoy smells so nice, and has such lovely shiny hair, and his skin is so very warm. But this isn't going to be a problem for their friendship at all. Is it, Harry?

Espresso Patronum by @tasteofshapes (15k)

When Draco reappears five years after the war and opens a wildly popular coffee shop, Harry’s pretty sure that Draco’s Up to Something. He just has to prove it.

The Charm Conundrum by dysonrules (8k)

Harry misplaces an interesting "self-help" manual. Draco finds it and discovers some fascinating insights into Harry Potter.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by @greaseonmymouth (96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry. Features: Little League Quidditch, an abundance of bath bombs, happy endings, and gay robots in space.

Harry Potter’s biggest fan by @gnarf (9k)

Ever since Scorpius heard about Harry Potter for the first time from one of his friends, one could say that he was his biggest fan. So naturally, it would be the thing he needs to talk about while visiting his grandparents for Sunday dinner. Draco’s father could not hold back the comments on why he had to go through this again, and Scorpius understood just enough to know that his father actually knew Harry Potter in person. That’s when the pestering started. Not much later and Draco found himself face to face with Potter, all thanks to his son.

Sunseeker by @shiftylinguini (15k)

Harry is a struggling writer. Namely, he is struggling with: writing his next book, dealing with his agent, finding a decent tea strainer, fielding his friend's concern over the aforementioned book, and figuring out who the cat loitering in his garden belongs to. He also has a slight liking-Malfoy problem. Okay, he has a massive liking-Malfoy problem.

All Roads Lead Home by dracogotgame (14k)

Draco is strong-armed into spending the first Christmas after the War with the Weasleys. And Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy Absolutely Does Not Need to Be Loved by Harry Bloody Potter by @nv-md (18k)

It’s not easy to be bonded to your childhood rival, turned fuckbuddy, who you also have extremely uncomfortable but repressed feelings for—just ask Draco Malfoy.

Nyctophilia by prolonged_autumn (107k)

Everyone's back for 8th year, and Harry and his friends seem determined to spend their last year in school running around at night, hyped up on coffee and alcohol and Honeydukes candy, doing all the childish things they didn't have the chance to do before. Draco watches as he's always watched: from afar, quiet and bitter and hopelessly in love. That is, until Pansy decides she's had quite enough of it.

#this list got eaten by tumblr halfway done and i re-did it that deserves a medal in my very unbiased opinion #drarry #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #drarry reclist #draco malfoy #drarry fic recs #my recs #fic recs #hpdm #harry potter #fluff #drarry fluff

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fleur-aesthetic · 2 years

Text

instagram | floretflower

#flowers #floral #peonies #farm #country #aesthetic #pink

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elderberries-and-honey · 6 months

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Dear Mother,

It's been awhile since I've written, I know but I must share the most exciting news. Your little girl has gotten married. Can you imagine it? Me, a married woman? I can still hear the girls at the workhouse, 'you'll never be anything but an old spinster, Winifred Monet!', but I've proved them wrong now, haven't I?

Lawrence and I met while he was visiting London browsing for new fabrics to sew himself up new work shirts, which he is quite talented at. He says his Mum insisted he learn to sew and cook for himself.

Anyway, we wrote to each other for several months before he surprised me at my little apartment. He did it real proper, you see, with a ring and on one knee, and I just couldn't help but to say yes.

The ride from London to Wales was quite pleasant; I'd always wanted to see the country-side and it's even more beautiful than I could've imagined. Standing there, Lawrence at my side, safety swelled within my heart. I finally felt it - I finally felt at home.

All those years I'd spent feeling so alone...so different...well, Lawrence makes me feel anything except those things. He makes me feel safe and loved. I think you'd be very pleased to hear this. At least, I truly hope so.

When Lawrence's parents passed, they left him the farm he had grown up on. It's breathtaking, truly, I haven't the words to properly describe it to you. Many animals, both Lawrence's and a few wanderers, reside here and some come and go as they please.

My favorite is a little goose, who was raised by some of the chickens and even thinks of himself as one! Lawrence named him Frank and I'm quite fond of him, but Lawrence likes to tease he's just trying to get extra handfuls of feed.

The pond in front is alright for fishing too and both swans and ducks wander to swim around the water from time to time. Do you remember when we'd travel down to river thames and feed the ducks there on Sundays? How special a memory to reflect on, hm?

My favorite animals by far though are the little sheep - Lawrence has four, Peony, Daisy, Tabby and Poppy. Lawrence taught me how to feed them proper with a little baby's bottle - how spoiled! And you wouldn't believe it, Mother, little Peony jumped right up into my arms after her feeding!

Tomorrow, Lawrence begins planting the fall and winter crops. He says this is necessary because soon, the ground will become too stiff with frost and nothing can get planted.

I must end this letter here; my eyes are far too heavy to keep them open any longer and I fret my hands are getting sore. Of course, nothing like what you experienced with your arthritis. I love you so, Mother. Wish you were here.

𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘼𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙙

next / previous / first

#ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 legacy #ts4 storytelling #decades challenge #generation 01 #the baudelaire legacy #winifred baudelaire #lawrence baudelaire #1890

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adhdslugcrimes · 5 months

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Barley & Lavender (farmer au because damnit my knowledge of the farm has to go somewhere.)

Wally, getting out of his Chevy Silverado: Damn it Grayson, I swear on my sweet auntie Iris sweet cornbread what in the sweet hells are you doing planting your damn Oleander near my fuckin sweet peas!

Dick, glaring at him: I told you after your Billy ate my peonies that I was getting you back for that, keep that goat in it's fences and I won't ruin anymore of your crops!

Wally: you adopted son of a capitalist bastard-

Dick: you son of an actual bitch-

Jason: big bird, this guy bothering you?

Damian, with sword: you want to say that again cowboy.

Tim: how do you piss off everyone you meet when you move away?

Stephanie: nah this is some enemies to lover stuff bestie.

Wally and Dick: LOVERS!?

Wally: aw hell no, you brought your demons here to win now!

Dick: no, they came over because nobody likes Bruce that's why I moved here in the boonies!

Wally: oh shit, he shitty?

Dick: no, he just a hot mess.

Wally: oh. Well still, fuck you and the horse that adopted your ass.

Dick: yeah, yeah.

Wally leaves

Jason: glad to see you making friends out here.

Dick: I'm not friends with that man, he's the most irritating man I've ever known!

Stephanie: lies, Bruce exist.

#dick grayson #wally west #birdflash #jason todd #damian wayne #tim drake #stephanie brown #barley & lavender au #they hate each other but will be besties then hubbies #Dick left Gotham because of Bruce and is not Nightwing anymore #faked his death you know the bat way #wally is a civilian in this while Dick was a hero #i love this au so much it lives rent free in my head

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greenandsorrow · 20 days

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Headcanons for Samwise and Rosie meeting for the first time

I giggled when I saw this. I hope you'll like what I came up with for our sweethearts! 💛

Rosie lived with her family on South Lane, in a farm near Bywater. Her family had always been close to the Gamgees.

Sam was the youngest son of Hamfast Gamgee. He was the gardener of Frodo Baggins.

Everyone knows everybody in a place like Hobbiton. Consequently, Sam and Rosie were familiar with each other's faces long before they exchanged even a simple "good morning".

But that fact didn't make their first encounter any less exciting and nerve wracking.

Sam had always been in pure admiration of Rose Cotton. Her extremely curly hair, her extra puffy dresses... and not to mention the cheerfulness that she emitted while dancing, during the occasional event in the Shire.

He had a huge crash on her and the teasing jokes coming from Merry and Pippin -sometimes even from Mr.Frodo- only fueled his feelings for the young lass.

Unbeknownst to Sam but simultaneously luckily for him, Rosie saw in him a hardworking gentlehobbit. She was always kinder and faster to serve him when he would visit the Green Dragon.

But even with all that in mind, they had never actually met on a personal level.

It happened on a bright spring morning.

Rosie was out to fetch some fresh fish from the market. Sam was on his way to Bilbo's hobbit hole.

Sam's palms began sweating the moment she came in his field of vision.

Rosie's cheeks took a bright pink shade when she laid her eyes on him. One of her hands immediately went to fix her hair a bit.

Sam stuttered a greeting that was thankfully returned.

Rosie knew that the young hobbit was shy, something she found truly adorable, so she decided to take the initiative to ask him about his plans for the day.

Sam took this chance to talk to her with great enthusiasm.

He didn't want to admit it, but he always got jealous when other men talked to her at her work. It would make him feel insecure about his lack of courage to be the one to court her.

Not to insinuate that this was the only reason which made Samwise be so interested in miss Cotton.

Rosie was so lively and she liked flowers... just like he did. She could be a great company, a sun ray to warm up the coldest days of winter. Maybe she was the whole sun, at least in his eyes.

Their small talk wasn't of any importance if you were to view it as an outsider. To them however, it meant the whole world.

They were able to give permission to refer to each other more casually.

Samwise became Sam and Rose became Rosie.

The gardener even mastered up the courage to tell her she dances very gracefully.

Her giggle had made his knees go wobbly.

She returned the compliment in the best way possible...

"I saw how beautiful your peonies have gotten Sam. The whole village is talking about them!"

The goodbye that inevitably followed was awkward, but still sweet. Caution, shyness and eagerness all mixed together in a colourful haze.

A smile so wide it made their cheeks hurt was stuck with them for the rest of that day.

They just had to see each other again...

💛 tips are highly appreciated || masterlist

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skiesofrosie · 21 days

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Little Sunshine Fires: Chapter 1

Pairing: Benny DeMarco x OC [Marnie Cleven]

ch. after

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

Warning: historical inaccuracies, sad stuff to come

Welcome to my first ever fic on Tumblr, and really, everywhere. I have no strong argument as to why you should pay attention to my story, but I do hope that if you have any love for MOTA, MOTA OCs and specifically Benny DeMarco, you would give this long-winded meet cute a chance. It's just a little, fun project I've got going. <3 I fully intend to introduce Marnie individually, but I thought I'd give you a taste of her and Benny first. Enjoy! (and go easy on me T.T)

Disclaimer: none of these photos belong to me. :)

To say it is not ideal that he nearly runs her over with his bike on their first proper interaction, is quite the understatement. In fact, with her petite stature, doing so would have been the equivalent to a man getting squashed by a tank on the field–but let’s not even go there.

It’s a ritual to her everyday, circling the village block for exactly half an hour, enjoying the crispness of her white uniform before it inevitably becomes splotched with red. The stains Marnie returns to her cot with every night is a minuscule droplet in the face of a full-blown war, but despite that, she is only human. If she has the chance to hold onto even just a sliver of normalcy in a place where men dropping like flies all came with the territory, then she did so wrenchingly tight.

And she enjoys strolling through the village of Thorpe Abbots, savoring the slow pace of her breathing with a cigarette between her lips. It resembles one of those folktales her mother theatrically read to her in bed every night as a kid. Townhouses of pastel pinks, yellows and blues, green vines weaving in and out of their windows. Sometimes she would have a set of freshly baked cupcakes at the ready for the farm owner just a few blocks behind base, and count each and every peony she spots on her way back home. Thirty minutes, just thirty minutes basking in this quiet.

Marnie just doesn’t recall having to budget her time for a bicycle crash.

“Shift, fuck, watch out!” the rider yells, face scrunched up in panic. The clock was about to hit 0700, when Marnie was trekking the roads back to the hospital, ready to tackle the day shift. There was no mission in their docket today, but ever since the 100th had landed from their first, soldiers were kicking in and out of those double doors non-stop. Her eyes were locked downwards at nothing in particular; distracted by the thought of Dickie as she rounded the corner, the exposed flesh on his hands that required fresh bandages, and failed to account for the sound of rubber wheels scraping against the gravel.

The officer swerves his bike right–Marnie’s body managing to stall at the perfect moment–his dog only exacerbating the chaos by tugging ferociously on his leash. Rock against flesh, he lands straight on his right side, the clang of his bike ripping through the Sunday morning. One would think that is enough to make the soldiers pause in their ruckus, a group of men practically sunbathing in the weeds, right by his ill fate, but no. She spots Bucky in the crowd, lying with his hands behind his head, now turned to the scene, and he has the audacity to simply cackle at this man’s misfortune. A full-blown cackle. She would absolutely, even in a million years, not admit that she herself was holding back a chuckle.

“Egan,” he groans, pushing himself on his shoulders, and it springs Marnie into action. She runs to his side, about to crouch down. “If you keep shitting your pants over there, I’m gonna fuckin–”

“Oh, forget him and just let me look over you,” she says, cutting him off mid-threat. “God, I’m so sorry.”

His movements freeze, but he angles his head to get a better look at whoever the culprit is. She was expecting him to chew her out for her lack of paying attention, but instead, the second their eyes make contact, there’s an intensity that floods into his gaze. The furrow between his brow softens as a mild surprise–or at least, she thinks it's surprise–washes over his face, his lips falling apart and twitching, ever so slightly. He can hardly keep the red flush at bay. It seeps through his neck and dusts his cheeks, the bustle of the base fading into white noise.

“That good a view, DeMarco?” Bucky, the giant man-child, interrupts. “Got drool coming down your chin.” And suddenly, those eyes no longer reflect a sense of wonder–oh, she should’ve locked that image in her mind and tossed the key into the sea–but a tinge of annoyance sends creases to his forehead, as he scrambles to stand. His dog, one giant, white and silver furry pup, starts to nip at her feet as she begins to rise, and he paws at her knees when her fingers fiddle with his ears. In the corner of her eyes, Marnie catches his owner, she presumes, cracking a fond smile.

“The most beautiful I’ve seen,” she hears him say, only just stopping himself from tugging an obnoxious smirk on his lips, a twinkle of mischief written across his face. It takes everything in her to tamper down a cheeky grin, straining her neck that threatens to inch towards the man she now knows as DeMarco. “But if you will excuse me,” he says, running his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair, and grabbing the handles of his bike and the pup’s leash. “I’m–”

“Not going anywhere.” She finishes his words, the officer’s mouth clamping shut. She’s seen him around before, those chocolate brown eyes and that easygoing charm–he was Buck’s co-pilot when his fort touched down in East Anglia, arms cradling his incessantly howling husky onto tarmac. Our Baby, she remembers his plane being called.

Stalking up to the man ‘til they’re face-to-face, she realizes that with the heels on her shoes, she isn’t too much shorter than him. Her eyes flicker to the way he straightens his shoulders, catches the sharp intake of his breath, and wonders if this man will ever exhale again. Slipping a handkerchief out of her pocket, blood fuses with the yellow of her cloth as she dabs away at minor gash across his temples. He’s about to curse Bucky, and Thayer, and all the soldiers blowing wolf whistles into the air, none bothering to inform him of the distorted skin on his face. “Unless you’re looking for that to get infected,” she says, completely calm, ignoring their audience. “Then come with me, sir.”

A light chuckle bubble in his throat. “Right,” he says, tipping his head, and there it is once again–that unmistakable gaze. “Yes lieutenant. Lead the way.”

She nods, gesturing her fingers to the doors of the hospital, vastly ignoring the way she can feel his eyes trained on her back. She misses the way they’re stiffly glued to the almost black lengths of her hair, keeping them in place from doing a most-likely unacceptable scan up and down.

“Oh, and it’s captain,” she says, turning her head slightly, and his steps come to a halt. “Captain Marianne.”

The man in question happens to be big-hearted Bernard DeMarco.

“But call me Benny,” he’s quick to correct as she sits him down on the edge of a vacant bed. “I’d rather lose my title than answer to that.” She was about to say it suited him, but bites it back.

He’s a pilot from Philadelphia, she learns. An affinity for the outdoors since he was a child, he had longed to take control of the cockpit, and feel the kiss of the sunshine against his skin. There is just something about the golden glow that illuminates his core with a vigor and excitement his body had never felt before. And she admires his zest for a life in the skies. It’s clear, with the way his head perks up like a jittery child on Christmas morning, when he recalls their days flying harmless training missions back in Iowa.

Digging into the metal tray she’s placed beside him, she can tell he’s still watching her movements like a hawk, and it makes her palms a little damp, her brain hyper aware of the way she’s tinkering with the gauze and the antiseptic. It’s as if she's trying to impress Benny. As chief nurse of the 100th Bomb Group, the trust of her abilities should probably not fall into the judgment of a mere man, but she can’t help but feel self-conscious, afraid to make a mess of herself for such a little cause.

“I have yet to find something,” he says, voice quiet as she leaves little space between them to clean his wound, the scent of her lavender lacing with something medicinal faintly clouding over his skin, “that makes me feel more alive.”

When she feels his eyes on her–an act she has been tactfully avoiding for the past 10-minutes–needles seem to prickle along her arms as they remain a little too still. It’s as if the sterile nurse wing has emptied itself out into an abyss where she can let go of her inhibitions and set herself free in front of a man she didn’t know. And all because he stares at her with a tenderness she can’t quite pinpoint.

Benny lets out a cough then, snapping her out of her daze and glances off to the rest of the men in the room. He nods his head at Dickie, who, right now wears the ugliest, knowing smirk that he wishes to slap off, only settles by regulating his breaths before Marnie can see how riled up he feels in his system. He wonders if everyone of them were treated as intimately as this, though he sure as hell hopes not.

“And you?” He looks up curiously, as she stands to clear up the equipment. “I take it you’ve at least been on a plane a couple times. I can’t imagine Buck wouldn’t have flown you about.”

“No, I actually haven’t. Took a ship here with Kenny.” She laughs at the way he reacts in utter disbelief. “Never? You’re kidding. What, you're scared of heights or something? Or, you just don’t like to fly.”

She raises a questioning bow, and he tilts his back down, a tinge of guilt on his face for assuming there is something wrong with such things. “You know, despite popular opinion, not everyone likes being above 30,000 feet in freezing cold air, Ben. And yes, I am afraid of heights. Does that turn you off all a sudden?” He hastily shakes his head no, and mutters a soft, “yeah, my bad.” Facing away, the corners of her lips quirk into a tiny smirk.

She thinks of her older brother, the reticent Gale Cleven, or Buck, who she hadn’t seen in about six months before he arrived in England. Marnie was always the more chipper one out of the two, always offering to do most of the talking when they charmed their town neighbors into letting them couch surf for the night.

His strength, on the other hand, always lay in his actions. It speaks to the way their mutual childhood best friend and the love of Buck’s life, Marge, had fallen for him. It was not about what he could muster the courage to say, or how he squared up his shoulders. It was because he waited every sunrise without fail, for Marge to arrive at the bus stop so they could head to school together. How he was often too timid to really show any verbal affection, but would never stop caressing her shoulders lightly each time they were side-by-side. Her brother was a man of a few words. If there is one thing he could babble on about though, like DeMarco, they were planes.

They breathed life into Buck Cleven, flew him into a sense of purpose. It was a beautiful sight, the way his wings launched him close to the sun where he glimmered into the pilot he was always meant to be. Marnie on the other hand, well, she doesn’t quite know when the seed of despair became rooted so deeply inside, but she started to despise the daylight since the war had reached their doorstep.

“There’s something about the sun, right after the rise of day,” Marnie begins, blue eyes glazed in thought, “it’s just so glaring. The closer you get to it…the more intimidating it becomes. It’s ruthless. Just rises and falls, and rises and falls, exposing each god fucking ugly corner of the world. You wake up to it, and with everything that’s going on, it’s just this blatant reminder that people are out there struggling, crying, and dying. That harsh reality just sinks deep into your gut, each time you gotta step out and work. I don’t hate the idea of flying….but, guess I’m just not interested in the skies. I don’t even like looking outside, and just sitting there, waiting for all of you to land. It kills me inside.”

When the plastic bottle of treatment hits the metal tray, it knocks into her senses just how oddly philosophical she had become. Embarrassment lingers into the silence between them, and she licks her lips as a staple nervous tick. Risking a peak over at him, she fears to see the awkwardness in the way he'd probably avoid her gaze. But relief escapes her conscience when he's looking on, straight at her with curiosity in his expression and a trace of a smile on his own lips. “Daylight’s a pretty big part of the day, if you didn’t notice,” he hears her snort at that, her figure retreating to the closet just a few doors down. “So tell me then, which part do you like the best?”

Medical tape in hand, she rips off a little piece to attach the gauze on his scraped temple. The gash that he had completely forgotten about, it was the reason he was there in the first place.

A younger, junior nurse with short, blonde hair calls out to Marnie, seeking help with some medic equipment. It’s not far too busy this late morning, luckily, the hospital finally settling into a stable rhythm as the airmen recover from their first mission. A luxury to hang onto before the pilots take off for a second. And she knows, having just been informed by Doc Stover yesterday, that it is happening at first daylight tomorrow.

“The sunset,” she replies, ushering Benny to his feet simultaneously. “It's the end of work. There is no mystery, or anxiety through how dark and lonely the night is. But no….terror and anticipation through the day. Just the plain, beautiful sunset.”

Bidding him her well wishes, her attention–regretfully so–begins to slip away from him, turning to assist her fellow nurse when Benny’s voice bounces off the walls, her name on his tongue. She turns towards him with a pinch in her eyebrows, shushing him so as to not disturb the other patients, and he squirms a little at the sterneness in her stare.

“Sorry, again,” he sheepishly says. “I wanted to know, what’s your favorite flower, captain?”

“Peonies. And don’t apologize…I’m sorry about our little mishap this morning.” A fling of curiosity, she masks the beam about to draw on her face by simply rolling her eyes, swallowing the nerves that have been pounding against her ribcage. “Marnie by the way. Chief nurse of the 100th.”

“Pilot with the 350th, and don’t mention it.” He laughs, a light melody that sings through her soul. Benny shakes his head as he makes his way to the doors. The sun is a welcome sight, but it does not make him feel as warm as the lady who apparently despises the way it shines. It’s time to hit the village.

It was 0600, the alarm clock a signal that the 100th would be on their way to their second mission.

Marnie’s shift doesn’t start until much later, when she punches in her timecard at 0800. But she likes to arrive a little early–getting her morning stroll on the agenda, then spending an hour scrubbing the hospital clean. Perhaps, she sees it as a blank canvas. A comforting sight before the planes return–if they even do–to store away the anxiety that pumps through her blood with each wounded man awaiting their savior. It’s the repetition of each action, a mental checklist which she follows from head to toe the second she gets into work, that keeps her mind from bursting at the seams.

Today though, as she smoothes down her knee-length skirt, and places the nurse cap on her head, there’s a speckle of color on her desk that seems completely misplaced to the monotone array. When she walks up to the wooden table, a large pink bouquet of peonies rests like the sunset casting an orange fluorescence against branches and trees of earthy browns and greens. Betraying all professionalism, an untamed, toothy grin crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

Doc Stover finds it odd that she spends all day looking out the window, ‘til the boys come home.

-sal. if you made it this far, thank you <3

#masters of the air #mota #benny demarco #benny demarco x oc #bernard demarco #benny x marnie <3 #mota oc #buck cleven #gale cleven #marnie cleven

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