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system-of-avalon · 2 months

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(gn! pronouns for reader. student/teacher romance implied, but not official. satoru being sleepy. mostly fluff. angst if you squint. satoru being a lightweight with alcohol asfasdsa silly baby. satoru slowly falling for reader graahh)

Satoru knew from the moment he saw you how special you were.

Not because you were particularly strong, or had a super complicated technique, or had a particularly jarring past and circumstances that made you this way.

Many great minds have said that, to survive and to thrive in a world of sorcerers, you have to be selfish and self-centered.

It's like you entirely missed that memo, though.

You cared so much.

You cared so much Satoru even wondered how much you cared about yourself. You were always working hard, and protecting your teammates harder. You always wanted to be strong and show everyone they mattered. You lived everyday thinking on how to make this bleak world a tiny bit better, he guessed.

Satoru knew, from that moment on, that he had to have an eye on you constantly.

See, people don't give him credit for his people-reading skills. They think he is so full of himself, so used to seeing everyone from above, that he's uncapable of truly feeling attachment, or respect, or appreciation.

And sure, he is an ass sometimes. He enjoys, or straight up doesn't care, when he's being rude or annoying or disrespectful. Try as others might, that is a part of Satoru that would remain forever young.

But, in a month or so, he had you figured out. He had you figured out good.

Satoru had dealt with your type before, very closely after all.

He knew you little tics when you were lying. He knew how you looked when you were exhausted. He knew when you were putting your own health and well-being for later for the people you loved, he knew how you looked when you bottled your feelings too much. He was your teacher, after all, and he'd rather die than see the consequences of your own sadness spitting you on the face.

―You can tell me anything, you know?― Satoru spoke softly, reassuringly, in a deeper, more mature tone devoid of his usual mocking; though his usual teasing grin didn't disappear from his face. A hand ruffled your hair in fraternity before he stood up, stretching long legs with a quiet grunt. ―I'm your reliable, strong teacher Satoru Gojo, I can handle my favorite student's problems when they have one!―

He wasn't lying. Inadvertently, you had become his favorite.

If he went abroad, he would bring you the best souvenir out of all his students'. If he didn't bring the others any, he'd sneak some foreign sweets when you two were alone and share them with you, cackling as he made you promise not to tell anyone, "so his other students don't get jealous".

Speaking of being alone, that had, also, inadvertently become a thing.

Always the one to put effort until you couldn't physically fight anymore, you would approach Satoru with questions and seeking advice at least twice a week.

Also because of this, he had to be more present during your training and your missions to make sure you don't injure yourself from overworking.

―I want you to train, silly, but I don't want you to die on me while doing it!― He'd say, before sending you with a firm pat on the back to the showers, and to get a very well deserved rest in your bedroom.

He saw you grow. He saw you blossom into a capable, strong-willed, kind student. And sooner than later he found the stupidest reasons to be with you, just because he enjoyed your presence on its own.

When you went out to celebrate a successful mission, and Satoru offered to take you and the other students out to eat, he'd always sit beside you. He'd spend the night throwing jokes in your ear only you two would understand, talking about your shared interests and just having a good time in general.

Satoru was always one to enjoy the little pleasures in life, but when he was with you, he often forgot how easy it felt to just be himself.

Not the strongest man, not the Gojo clan's star child, not the future of sorcery. Just Satoru Gojo, and his silly love for Digimon and his extremely sensitive taste for alcohol.

―Oh c'mon~! I di'n't drink that much, f'real real...― Satoru rubbed the tip of his slender nose, which had become a slightly flushed, adorable baby pink from the wine he ordered at the restaurant. ―I'm a grown man, don't ya have more faith 'n me?―

He was scared. He was truly scared when he realized how comfortable he's grown around you.

Satoru was scared of loving anyone and anything because he couldn't stand to lose someone important to him again. But on top of that you were his student, for fuck's sake.

Sure he hadn't done anything inappropriate, or wanted to do anything inappropriate, but...

He couldn't deny how he'd melt when you laughed at his jokes a bit too hard. Or when you frowned and defended him, him, when someone bad-mouthed him.

You spoke nothing but praise about the man, as if you'd met him his entire life.

It seemed Satoru Gojo wasn't the only one with people-reading skills, and had spent quite some time looking into each other.

He remembers how one time, you failed to show up on time for your usual "extracurricular CE training sessions".

Satoru was exhausted from a few trips and missions and weeks of not sleeping more than a couple, sparse naps. Even he and his RCT had a limit, and despite not showing it, your teacher could get stressed out of his mind too.

He waited for you, for around ten minutes. Then decided to sit down for a bit, rest his legs and all that. Then, he crossed his arms over the desk. Then, lied his head down. Then, closed his eyes for a second.

Satoru was out cold before he himself could realize it.

Only to wake up with a blanket over his shoulders, a cup of mocha coffee still steaming, waiting for him; and you: Sitting on the back of the empty classroom, with the warm orange sunrays coming through the windows and lighting your silhouette in pretty colors, reading in silence.

And he remembers how you smiled as you looked up, and greeted him by saying his name in that sweet voice of yours, and just asked about his trip and scolded him for not giving you a call to say he was too tired for the lesson.

Satoru laughed it off then. But in reality, he was melting from the inside.

―Hah. I guess you're right. Though if you are going to take care of me this way, I might fall asleep in class more often,― the man laughed, peering at you from over his sunglasses with a tired smirk. ―Thank you for the coffee, by the way, angel~―

Satoru never felt comfortable sleeping around people. It was just that sort of habit that, despite knowing his CT will protect him even in his sleep, he couldn't break out of. Rarely did he shut his technique off these days since his teenager years.

You, as with many things, changed that for him.

Because you were such a sweetheart you couldn't trust him until you were sure he'd slept.

So when he was abroad, he'd call you before going to bed. If he didn't, you would assume he didn't plan to sleep, and you were allowed to call Satoru to chew his ear off until he did.

When he was at school, though, it was different.

He hated himself the first time you did it, but he hated himself more because he didn't do anything to stop you.

That one time you were lying down on the grass under the summer sun after a sparring session, and Satoru started to feel drowsy again.

You gently nudged him to lie his head on your lap, played with his hair, and God have mercy because he was a man gone.

―You're gonna get me in trouble―. Satoru's voice was no more than a quiet, raspy chuckle; something like the purr of a cat. He even kneaded the fabric of your blue uniform: Maybe to ground himself in the reality that this wasn't supposed to happen, maybe to force himself to like it less. ―Hmm... I didn't say stop, did I...?

He was so, so far gone...

🩷: My need to take care of Satoru just overwhelms me sometimes, my bbg I love him so bad sIR I LOVE HIM!!

🩷! EDIT: I'm most likely going to make this a series! Or at least put this all under one single plotline haha. Gotta think of an aesthetic name and probably an aesthetic of its own but I'll post about this dynamic often!

#with love - a 🩷#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #teacher x student #tw teacher x student #satoru gojo headcanons #satoru gojo hcs #gojo headcanons #gojo hcs #a🩷 archive #long post

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b33zlebubz · 3 months

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RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER SIX - run, hide, fight

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

Arriving at this new base brings many changes. Some good, others frustrating. The best of which being a new phone, wiped clean of anything that could track you, and a new room.

It's a bit bigger, this time. The bed is less of a cot and more like something you would be given at the residencies you used to find yourself in and out of; and it's quite the relief for your sore back. There’s enough space to wander and even a desk with a window, overlooking more concrete buildings and bleak snow. This time, though, you don't let yourself rot between your sheets. After you get about ten hours of sleep, you get up, get dressed, and become acquainted with the new base.

It's different. Much, much bigger. Soldiers of all kinds dart around from several different countries you can't quite pinpoint, and you feel very out of place in hoodies and jeans while everyone else seems to be in some important uniform. You see Soap in the hallway and briefly come across Laswell just as she arrives to meet Price, but other than that you don't see any of the others often. They seem content to leave you to your own devices—let you linger with them in the dining hall, squished between Price and Gaz as the others talk. Occasionally they’d leave the base, leaving you continuously more restless and bored as the days pass and nothing new happens.

This leads you to where you stand now, aimlessly wandering down the barren hallways of the base, late at night. You had intended to go find something to snack on if the D-fac was still open, but instead you find your curiosity leading you down a dark, liminal hallway you haven’t yet familiarized yourself with. A few people eye you as you pass, others turning to get a second glance—but you barely pay them any mind.

Eventually, you find yourself in some kind of training room.

It's empty; save for mirrors across the walls and a cushioned floor that sinks below your shoes. There's a worn punching bag pressed off in the corner and someone's gym bag laying abandoned next to it. The lights are off, though, and you find yourself staring back at your reflection in the mirror. The bruises on your eye are beginning to yellow.

Fists clench and unclench; a buzzing, restless energy in your veins.

You glance around and listen back down the hallway, waiting to be seen and reprimanded for being somewhere without clearance. Footsteps don’t echo down the hall, or talking, or anything of the sort…so, you approach the bag tentatively.

You push it, first, and your brow furrows as you realize it's heavier than you thought. The recoil nearly sends you flat on your ass and you stumble back a few steps, surprised. Your hands ball into fists and you land an experimental punch to the object, and you feel the impact down your arm and into your elbow. A curse leaves your mouth as you shake the ache out of your fist, and the sound echoes slightly in the silent room.

How did they do it? How did that kid punch you hard enough to leave a bruise, but walk away uninjured? Was it muscle? The element of surprise? What did he have over you that you didn’t?

“Fix your thumb.”

You jump and whip around to face the door. Ghost is there.

He’s leaning against the side of the doorway, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. There is a towel over his shoulder and in the light you can see the dark marks of sweat staining the black t-shirt he wears. You think it's safe to assume he's at least a little bit psychotic, because he's exercising this late at night and still wearing the balaclava. This time, however, it's hiked up over his nose—revealing where faint scars jut through the blond stubble on his chin. His expression is neutral, if maybe a little bit annoyed that you’re in the room he was previously using.

His eyes narrow at you and your shoulders straighten. Your fists lower slightly with surprise and initial panic, but it fades a little as you process the command he gives you.

"What?” You breathe, trying to keep your voice level.

“Fix your thumb,” he says again, cocking his head slightly and gesturing towards you with a gloved hand. You notice, with slight amusement, that his gloves have a skeletal pattern on them. “You punch like that, you’ll break it. Keep it over your other fingers and try again.”

You give him a strange look, confused. You had expected him to shoo you out, maybe snap at you a little—not give you advice on how to fix yourself. Nevertheless, you do as he says. You situate your thumbs over your other fingers and punch the bag again. This time, it doesn’t ache as bad. You throw a few more punches, and still the punching bag barely moves.

“You’re barely bloody hitting it, kid.”

“Trying,” you huff between hits, frustrated. “Not exactly buff like you guys.”

“You don’t need to be strong; you just need to be smart.”

You launch your fist again with a grunt, but suddenly he’s got a hand on your arm, stopping you. Your face whips around to snap at him and he stares back at you with a look of calm resolve. His eyes are dark behind the smudge of sweat and eye black, and you can almost picture how his face looks, this close. His hold on your arm tightens and you grimace, flashes of a facial scar and a southern accent cutting through your mind.

“I’m not meant for this,” you argue.

“Maybe not,” he hums in response. “But you’re not helpless. Where’s the kid who put up a fight last week? Who took a chunk out of Soap’s arm?”

“That kid was panicking.”

“That kid was angry,” he presses, nearly interrupting. “And tired of being pushed around, yeah?”

You’re biting your cheek so hard it hurts, but his words strike a chord within you. You tilt your head in a nod of agreement, and your fists clench again. You swallow thickly.

“So tell me how you did it the first time.”

You close your eyes tight, digging deep into your memory of last week. You barely remember doing it—biting Soap’s arm and kicking free, distracting him long enough to stumble down the steps. You remember the coppery taste of blood in your mouth, the split second where you nearly gagged from it, how you still taste it in your nightmares and wake up retching from the memory.

“I bit him,” you strain. “Then I kicked him.”

“Where?”

“In the dick.”

“Always a good option,” Ghost shifts his stance behind you. “What else could you have done?”

You wrack your thoughts, and it's then you notice his head is above yours, his neck exposed. You jut your elbow into it and he shifts to stop it. You gasp, surprised by the sudden movement, and the dog tags around your neck swing in front of your face.

“Good,” he grunts. “If it were anyone else that hit would’ve landed.”

You let out a breath. Your heart slows its incessant thumping as you roll your shoulders and right yourself again, rubbing the sore spot on your collar where he had you restrained. "Even on Soap?"

"On an off day, maybe." He responds with a nod, before turning to saunter over to his gym bag. "Soap's strong---but he's smarter. To win a fight against him you'd have to catch him off guard."

You scoff, "You're making it sound like he actually plans to fight me."

"Just…hypothetically. Doesn't have to be Soap. Him and Graves are a lot alike."

"So I've heard," you mumble, rubbing your sore neck as Ghost throws the gym bag over his shoulder. He turns to face you one last time with one last word of advice.

"Keep your head on and you'll be fine if anything comes up," he says. "Run first, hide second, fight as a last resort."

You run a thumb across your red knuckles in thought, your brow furrowed as Ghost gathers his things and leaves without another word.

Run first, hide second, fight third.

His words repeat in your head as you leave the gym to go back to bed, and they continue to echo in your brain throughout the rest of the week.

The strange routine continues. You find yourself walking to the training room often, finding him there, and letting off some steam for a few hours before returning to bed. He doesn't ask why you keep coming, and you don't ask why he keeps agreeing to spar with you; you just appear and jump into it. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don't, but it isn't really anything substance other than his clipped version of small talk and fighting advice.

You're up in time to meet the others for breakfast in the mornings, so other than a raised eyebrow from Price at the bruises on your knuckles, he doesn't question it.

"Maybe I punch the walls in my sleep," you say with a shrug whenever Soap is the first one to point it out, earning a chuckle from Gaz who sits to your right. You glance up at Ghost to see his eyes crinkle a little, but he doesn't usually regard you much at the table on a good day, anyway.

"Definitely wouldn't be the weirdest thing," Gaz juts a fork in Soap's direction. "Pretty sure this bloke's a sleep-wanker."

Soap smacks Gaz's arm and the British soldier chuckles.

“Nah,” Ghost pipes in. “But I did catch 'em sleeping with an AR-15 underneath his pillow like he was gonna kill the fuckin' tooth fairy.”

Soap begins to defend himself, his mouth full of cold military food. "I was piss drunk. And it was right after Macarov. Gimme a break."

"You're piss drunk now, Sergeant." Price comments.

"M’not drunk. Hungover."

Gaz leans over slightly to explain, holding a hand to his face as if it was a secret; "he tried out-drinking Ghost last night."

"Really?" You smile a little over a glass of orange juice. "And how'd that go over?"

"Bloody hilarious," Ghost interjects, earning a smack to the shoulder from Soap.

You were seeing more and more of what they were like outside the battlefield, now—slowly grasping a hold on their personalities. They were quite the group whenever they weren’t actively terrifying and you figure, despite how they didn’t seem to agree with your presence at the start, they were starting to warm up to you.

Maybe that was Price's intention, inviting you to meals with the others when you started leaving your room more.

"'Should take the kid, next time," Gaz suggests suddenly, causing your head to perk up again at the same time Soap's does. "Get 'em off base for a bit."

Price sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know, Gaz…"

"I'm seventeen," you argue. "That's technically almost an adult, here."

"Still not old enough to drink."

"Alright, then I won't drink." You shrug. "Or start any wars. Promise."

You think, maybe, they all can read each other's thoughts from the amount of time they spend together—because Price's eyes sweep from Soap, to Ghost, then back to you and Gaz as he takes account of everyone's opinions on the matter.

Then, he lets out a breath, shaking his head.

"Fuckin' hell," he chuckles. "Alright. Don't see why not…next time we're out, we'll take you with."

You crack a grateful smile, happy to have something to look forward to after all this chaos is over. It's short-lived, though, because Soap scoffs—lifting himself from his crossed arms to lean back in the seat.

"Price," he speculates. "Aren’t they supposed t'be hidin'?”

Something thuds under the table, and by the heated look Soap and Ghost immediately shoot each other, you think it's safe to say Ghost kicked him. Before you can open your mouth to retort, however, Price beats you to it.

"They've done a damn good enough job of hiding so far, Sergeant."

"They're a kid. What could they possibly know about anything?"

Your brow furrows. This time, though, you find your voice.

"The hell did I ever do to you?" You ask, fists tightening under the table. "I didn't ask to be here."

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly go to bootcamp so that I could babysit some orphan, either."

"MacTavish," Price's tone is thick with the closest thing to anger you've heard from him so far. "Come off it."

The table is silent. Ghost sits up straighter in his seat and Gaz clears his throat awkwardly. You narrow your eyes at Soap, your heart rate beginning to pick up in your chest.

"Do you have a problem with my dad or something?" You press. "Because I'm not him."

"Aye, you’re not him, and that’s exactly the fuckin’ problem,” he retorts quickly, jutting his finger into the wood of the table. “You’re just his deadbeat, spoiled kid who he left behind after he brough a whole fuckin’ mission.”

Your chair launches backwards when you stand forcefully to your seat, rage running hot in your veins. Soap seems a little surprised at your sudden outburst—eyebrows raised as he watches you stand.

“You don’t fucking talk about him,” you all but snarl, hands on the table. “This isn’t about him. You didn’t know him, and you don’t know me.”

"Tell 'em, kid," Ghost murmurs, unfazed by your temper.

"Ghost, you're not helping."

"Good."

"You’re right. We don’t know you. Which is why we shouldn’t give you special treatment just because you’re some bigwig’s kid," Soap stands as well, looming over you. You hold his gaze as he talks. "You were bound to get roped into this shit sooner or later, and y'knew that. S'not the time for you to play the scared-little-kid card.”

“I am not fucking scared.”

“Then why did you run? Bite me? Why won’t you hand over the fucking codes?”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest. Your mouth opens, but you don’t have an answer. You never had the answers—and you don't have a response. Instead, you scowl and avert your gaze.

“That’s right. You’re just some fucking charity case,” He points a finger into your chest. "Just the fucking delinquent mutt the C.I.A. dragged in that’s better off back in the system that made you this way.”

Something boils over, then. Two weeks of fear and uncertainty melting into something like molten lava. It's wicked and hot and sharp as it floods your chest and moves your muscles before you even have a chance to think clearly. Before you realize it—your knuckles collide with the side of Soap's cheek with a pain that burns so good it's invigorating.

The table erupts in shouts and curses, and Price grabs your arm. You try to wretch free, but it's no use, and you're dragged around the corner and out of earshot. When you finally pull your arm away, he grabs it again, pulling you close so he can whisper.

“The fuck has gotten into you?”

“Did you not hear any of that?” You retort. “You aren’t gonna fucking back me up?!”

“You make it a little hard to when you’re knocking my sergeant’s teeth out, mate.”

You grit your teeth. “It was long fucking overdue, and you know that.”

Price sighs. Aggravated, he squeezes the bridge of his nose between his fingers, shaking his head. “This was a bad idea…”

“Then let me help!” You grab his sleeve as he pulls away, desperate. Now that the words have started, you found it hard to stop them. “He’s right. I’m a fucking burden. I don’t know shit about anything. Not the fucking codes, not how to fight, how to make bombs or shoot a gun—I’m terrified and I’m useless and I’m fucking tired of it!”

“No.” Price breathes, meeting your gaze again. “I made a promise I’d keep you safe. Keep you out of this.”

“To who? My dead dad you never met?” You laugh bitterly through the tears that prick your eyes. “I have nothing, Price. I haven’t for years. And now you guys show up and give me an opportunity to make something of myself and you think I’m just going to be okay with hiding?”

He scowls. Seeming conflicted, or just trying not to lose his patience and yell at you, he turns away. You turn to hold his gaze, preventing it.

"Look, you've done a lot for me and I appreciate it. I do. But this is the only thing I'm gonna ask of you."

You squeeze the sleeve of his fatigues.

“Let me avenge my dad, Price,” you’re begging now, looking up at him. “Please.”

You hold his stare for a while. Blue eyes soften, just slightly, as he considers your words. Considers you. You think, maybe, he might actually look unsure of himself and his next words as he stares at you, and his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something.

Then, the room is engulfed in a red light.

You yelp at the alarms that sound—latching onto his arm. John’s head whips around, confused, to the light above the door that flashes red across the room. You hear footsteps and yelling before Gaz appears in the doorway, eyes wide and out of breath.

“Captain,” he pants. “We gotta move. Graves found us.”

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai @karurururu @pertinentpostmortem @kaoyamamegami @hayleybarnesx @nostalgialeech @scuftryo @0alk0msan @synthe4u @stunkbiggu @bebobeboben

#kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty reader insert #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

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morallyinept · 3 months

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 5

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 6.7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude team up to prolong their survival, and find something unexpected.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 4

Day 3 on the island…

Being deprived of sleep practically for the last forty-eight hours, Frankie nodded off, eventually succumbing to that alluring pull into the murky depths of the unconscious dark.

A light snort of his breath being caught in the back of his raw throat jolts him awake some hours later; that and the nightmare of reliving the plane’s crash over and over again, like on some twisted replay just to torment him, even in his bleak dreams.

Being adrift on that piece of wing debris, and the suffocating loneliness and panic, replaced his usual black dreams and twisted them into something sharp with talons, which was biding its time in devouring him whole.

When he comes to, he’s lying down on the hard, uncomfortable ground inside the cave mouth; his arm numb from supporting his head whilst he slept like he was dead, and a small part of him wishes he was already when he remembers the reality as it all comes crashing back.

Jude’s absence is noted as his sight comes back into focus and the stark memory of another survivor pulls at the threads of his surly unconsciousness.

Frankie sits up slowly, but still feels dizzy and as though something heavy has sat on his head all night crushing it.

He turns and stares down into the deep pit of the cave and wonders if something is watching him back with rabid, hungry eyes, and it makes him shudder.

He then spies the bottle of water, almost full and waiting for him.

He knocks it over in his haste to reach for it with shaky hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as some of it sloshes over the ground.

The temptation to down it all in a few glugs is strong and he really has to stop himself from finishing it off as he begins to drink the warm, yet refreshing, liquid that coats his stagnant tasting mouth.

But then something in his brain tells him it's best to save it; slow sips and keep dehydration at bay for as long as they both can. Just a few days, right?

He puts the bottle down, squeezing his fists together with a silent resolve to will them to stop trembling.

Nausea gnaws at his empty stomach, waves of tremors wrack his exhausted body, and a clammy sweat drenches his skin under the layers of his clothes.

The physical torment, though excruciating, pales in comparison to the mental anguish that threatens to consume him, even faced with this dire situation of being stranded. Memories of past mistakes and the weight of unspoken regrets haunt his restless mind despite flicking between trying to remember his training and how the fuck he’s supposed to get off this damned island.

¡Vamos, piensa! Tú puedes hacerlo. No puede ser tan malo. (Come on, think! You can do it. It can’t be so bad.)

He squints up at the sky outside the cave and it’s still a little grey, but who knows when it’ll rain again?

“Fuck.” He grits.

On the rocky shoreline, a few metres from the cave mouth, Jude is sitting on some rocks with her jeans off and inspecting the laceration on the back of her right calf as best as she can.

Convincing herself it’s not infected, even though it’s obviously sore and hot to the touch, clearly signs of a brewing infection. It’s crusting over with that yellowish plasma sap and itches like a bitch with an inflamed red tinge around the edges, but at least it isn’t bleeding anymore.

Her clothes finally feel dry enough, but they smell of the damp, salty brine. She rinsed her jeans in the seawater to clear as much blood off as she could, and they were now spread out on the rocks drying in the faint sunlight trying to break through the grey clouds.

Despite the dark sky hovering above her, the swampy heat lingers harshly. Tropical weather holds that heaviness in the air; sweltering heat in the heights of summer, but typhoons and rainy seasons accompany it, along with possible snow and harsh winters, depending on what side of the equator they’re on.

Who knows what the weather could do out here and how quickly it could change?

Looking up at the sky, Jude is unsure what season exactly it is that she’s stuck in on this island, but thankful for the rain nonetheless - at least she can drink something, for now.

She’s mulling over in her mind the long term solution to water and how to collect more, just in case the rain does indeed stop.

It’s a terrifying thought and she keeps coming up with undesirable outcomes each time she pulls it apart, making her skin prick up and shiver.

What are the odds of surviving on a desert island in the middle of the ocean? Is it mere days? Months? Is it even possible to survive at all?

Her doom filled thoughts are interrupted by Frankie approaching in her peripherals; his desert boots crunching languidly over the rocks.

She grabs her jeans, slipping them on quickly before he can see; they still feel damp in patches around her butt.

“I’m sorry-” He mutters, fearing he’s interrupted her peeing or something as he notices her zipping up her flies, and he looks away quickly.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Jude reassures.

He clocks the tear in the calf of her jeans flapping about as she reaches for her Converse, and the red faded patch from the blood that’s embedded deeply into the fabric. Staining it like a flower has bloomed; it’s a stain that won’t wash away fully.

“That looks bad.” Frankie observes.

“It’s healing, but I’m keeping an eye on it. How’s your neck feeling?” Jude asks, noticing the pink, angry blisters on his skin that seem worse this morning.

“Sore.” He winces, reaching out the water bottle to her.

She declines him, shaking her head. “It’s yours. It filled up twice in the night whilst you were asleep with the rain. I’ve had my fill.”

Frankie smiles appreciatively and drinks slowly from it again. “How long was I out?”

“A while; I don’t have a watch so I can’t be precise,” she shrugs. “Guess you needed it.”

He glances down at his wrist at his own watch, and it isn’t ticking anymore. It’s stopped at twenty-five past one. Is that morning or afternoon?

He ponders it for a few moments with a stumped look on his weathered face and zones out for a second. “Did you get much sleep?” He then asks her, dropping his wrist.

“A little,” Jude replies nonchalantly, although truth be told she’d hardly slept a wink.

Each time she closed her eyes harrowing images filled them, and when it was too quiet she could hear those engines roaring again as the plane fell out the sky.

“How do you feel?” She asks him, resting her chin on her shoulder and regarding him carefully as he hovers awkwardly, yet so tall and broad.

“I’ve had some sleep at least. My body feels like it’s been fuckin’ crushed.” Frankie looks out at the horizon; the clouds seem meaner out there, perhaps another storm is brewing, or maybe it’s rolling away from the island - it’s hard to tell with this heavy, hazy head. “Any sign of any boats or anything?”

Jude shakes her head glumly and sits back on the rocks resting on her palms. “Nothing.”

They both stay in a subdued silence for a while, until he perches on the rocks next to her, with a gap, and offers her the water bottle once more.

“I insist.” Frankie presses, and she eventually takes the bottle, has a couple of swigs and hands it back to him.

After some more time of them both scanning the horizon intently, looking for any flash of a rescue, he speaks again. “Why were you on the plane?” He drinks from the bottle with chapped pink lips.

Jude sighs heavily and folds her legs. “I needed a break from life.”

Frankie baulks with surprise and drinks again. “I hear that.”

“You too, huh?” She snorts.

He swallows, nodding, and offers her the bottle again and she takes it tentatively. “Work contract. But also the same; kind of a time out.”

“You said you were in the forces?” Jude asks curiously, as the breeze whips around her scraggly, salt-stinking hair.

He looks at her and smiles a little shyly under long eyelashes, the snap of his cap shielding them in the shadows of his face.

“Used to be. I work in aviation now. I was going out to Madagascar on contract to fix some helicopters. I used to fly them on duty.”

“Really? You’re a pilot?” Jude smiles.

“I was. Not anymore. Retired. But, I uh... I just don't fly right now.” He confirms as he watches her eyebrows rise in surprise.

“I see,” she shrugs. “Your business is yours, Frankie. You don’t have to explain.” She says, and he’s thankful that she doesn’t probe any further, leaving them to ruminate in a contemplative silence for a few minutes.

“What do you do?” Frankie asks her in return.

“I’m a photographer. Landscapes mostly.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Living the dream. Or at least, I was. I do all sorts of media and advertising for vacation companies and travel blogs, that kind of thing. Freelance mostly. It keeps me away from home a lot, and well...” she trails off “hence why I needed to get away, because in the end my love of travel caused more problems than it was probably worth.”

The bitter memories of Nate in bed with other women sting the back of her throat, and heart in turn, until she swallows through it. But bitterness always tastes vile.

Perhaps if I wasn’t away a lot he wouldn’t have cheated...

Frankie listens carefully with a small nod.

“I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all that.” She says, as he turns his gaze away from her and back out to scan the sea.

“No, it’s alright. I mean, what else are we gonna do?” He shrugs, trying to make light of their plight. “I get you about working away a lot. I do too. Sometimes for weeks.”

“What’s that like?” Jude enquires.

Frankie thinks for a moment. “Lonely.” He says as he turns back to her, and she notices his eyes are tired and dull, despite the brilliance of the hazel and gold colours that are spun inside his dark irises, glimmering in the dappling sunlight.

“Do you not have a partner or something to go home to? A forces sweetheart?”

“I did.” He takes the water bottle back from her when she offers it to him and drinks it again. It’s almost empty. “How about you, will there be anybody special missing you back home?”

Jude shakes your head and snorts. “Not anymore.”

“Ouch.”

“I mean, family sure, but like you I did have someone. Turned out he was a grade A jerk.” She tries not to sound so bitter about it, but it’s hard not to when that betrayal is still incredibly raw.

Frankie nods with a smirk. “Hence the getaway?”

“Hence the getaway,” Jude confirms. “There’s just something so comforting in running away from your problems, right?”

“Yeah. That’s going incredibly fuckin’ well for us, ain’t it?” Frankie remarks, and Jude can’t help but laugh a little.

Then he laughs; his shoulders heaving up and down, making the pain across his skin pull tighter still, and they both find they can’t stop for a while.

Just guffawing merrily over the dire circumstances, because it’s either that or cry hysterically and wade into the sea possessed by the crazed delirium of suicide until they sink to the bottom.

They both guess that the other has already considered that unsettling scenario, because after a few moments their laughter dies out and they both go back to a solemn, bubonic silence.

The only sound to accompany their physical bodies is the sound of the ocean waves rolling in and out, a gentle taciturn.

“We need to work out a way to collect more water for the long term,” Jude begins, eyeing the water bottle through her peripherals inside Frankie’s hand.

She notices a small, round tattoo inked between his thumb and forefinger. He has stubby thumbs on large hands, and the skin on his knuckles seems dry and flaky in places from the salt.

Working hands, she deduces. And notes a subtle tremble in his fingers as he squeezes the bottle whilst they talk.

Frankie nods. “You think we’ll be here that long?” He’s trying not to think of the bleak answer himself.

“I hope not. But I think we need to plan for it, just in case?”

“You’re probably right. We can collect sea water, boil it somehow.” He suggests spitting out ideas.

“You know how to distil water? They teach you that in the Army?” Jude questions.

“No...” He replies glumly and she instantly frowns. “Kinda. But we don’t have anything other than this bottle to collect water in. It would melt if we tried to boil it.”

“Yeah. That would suck.” Jude says, feeling mightily protective of the crinkled bottle inside his grip.

“I was in Delta Force.” Frankie mutters.

“What’s that, like the Marines?”

“Kinda. More specialist.”

“Huh.” Jude says, and glances back at the horizon seemingly unfazed. Either that or Frankie assumes she doesn’t give a shit.

“What about that place you said you found?” Frankie enquires.

Jude shrugs. “There wasn’t much there, but I suppose it’s worth another look, I guess.”

“What about a tarp? We can use plastic to collect water.” Frankie explains, searching back through his turbulent mind for the schematic details.

“There was some plastic in there, I saw a bag?”

“Perfect.”

“How does that work exactly?”

Frankie bites at the skin on his lip and she’s instantly reminded of Nate doing the same thing, and shudders.

“It’s called a solar still. We dig a hole in the ground. It condensates. We should build a fire too. Keep it burning. Someone could see the smoke.” Frankie elaborates.

“Good idea.” Jude agrees; her levels of optimism climbing slightly, but even they’re suffering from chronic exhaustion too.

“We have shelter in the cave, for now. We need to find food. There might be fish in the water."

"Have you ever fished before?” She asks.

“Most weekends with Will before...”

Frankie trails off struggling to remember the last time he went fishing with Will. Those memories seem so far away now.

Far away in a simpler time where fighting for your life was a reality he’d never encounter. Just sitting in Will’s father’s boat enjoying the peaceful silence and the lush surroundings of the lake. Catching tiddlers and tossing them back and occasionally reeling in some pike. Yeah, they were good times. Before Frankie shit all over them.

He looks at Jude studying him curiously when he doesn’t answer. “Yeah. I can fish.”

“Perhaps you can teach me, pass the time a little?” She suggests. “Stop us from going insane and eating each other.”

“Sure,” he chuckles nervously.

The clouds have dispersed and the pair of them stand sweating and out of breath on the same ridge Jude had climbed when she’d first explored the island.

From up here, the whole of the island is in perfect view, and it’s a good lookout point as they both plan their route of exploration to gather food, water and anything else they can scavenge that will prolong their mutual survival in this hellhole until they’re rescued.

Frankie’s puffing heavily and scanning with his hand, shielding his eyes despite his cap visor, taking in the view of the dark wooded area.

“Those aren’t palms.” He says, scrutinising the tree species. “Shit.”

“What does shit mean?” Jude questioms warily.

He sighs, taking off his cap, shaking out and sweeping back chocolate curls, before placing it back on his head.

“It means it could get cold here. Really cold. We were on our way to Madagascar, which is in the southern hemisphere tropics.”

“Yeah, but it’s warm in the tropics, right?”

“Not always. Look at the vegetation, it's dense, but sparse. The island gets rain. Could also get snow.”

“Great.” Jude sighs.

From up here the trees seem thick, and he’s convinced there has to be some form of wildlife habiting on the island, or some edible vegetation at least.

“Where there’s vegetation, there’s gotta be animal life,” Frankie explains to Jude. There isn’t any sign of birds however, he notes.

“I hope you’re right about that.” Jude can feel her stomach rumbling, those gas bubbles fluttering under the muscles and sinew, and she hopes he can’t hear it.

“The water seems shallower and clearer over there, maybe an ideal place to fish?” He points a long, thick index finger to the north-west of the island on the other side of the wooded area. There are several rocks in the shallows, indicating rock pools.

“That’s where I washed up,” Jude says, remembering the welcoming sight of the sandy beach there and then remembering to her horror that the island was completely deserted.

Frankie drops his hand and looks down at her. “How long were you out there?”

“Same as you, I guess. The minute the plane sank, it felt like days I was on the water, but I think it was only one. I was here for another day alone before I saw you, I think.”

Frankie nods. “I passed out on the shore and I think I was out for the whole day.”

She squints in the sun looking up at him, he’s so tall. He looks back down at her through tired, yet kind eyes and messy curled hair that spills behind his ears under the cap, and smiles sympathetically.

Evidently the pair of them had some fight; they’d made it this far and Jude welcomes that they both have that in common at least.

“Perhaps we should split up? You look for tarp or anything to collect water. I’ll look for something to fish with and whatever else I can find that we can eat.” Frankie suggests after a while of more scanning across the island below them.

He steps forward and the drop from the ridge seems steep from up here. Bushes and boulders litter the bottom in clumsy zigzags.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jude agrees.

“We can cover more ground. But don’t over exert yourself. It’s hot and we need more water from the rain.” Frankie looks up above at the sky and not a cloud is in sight, the sun melting away any cloud cover that lingered from the morning. “Whenever that’ll be...”

“Meet back at the cave?” Jude suggests.

Frankie nods at her as they both begin the descent down the ridge before going opposite ways.

Jude gathers the rusted tins from the former shack, and the plastic bag that is in there will do as some kind of tarp.

Rummaging through the fallen planks, picking them up and moving them out the way, she makes a mental note to tell Frankie about them, because perhaps he can find use for the wood.

He’s a pilot, not a damn carpenter... She thinks, but then again, who knows what hidden talents he could have?

Who knows what anyone is capable of thrust into disaster and given desperate circumstances, right?

He could well be the one to get her through this whole awful ordeal, maybe even save her life. Or he could end up being a complete weirdo with a deadly fascination for wearing her skin and making her not want to spend a single moment more than necessary on this damned island with him.

Who is he really? He’s a complete stranger.

Nah. She didn’t get any cannibalistic creep vibes from him. But Frankie is still a mystery; a man of seemingly few words and not revealing too much about himself.

She’d established in her brief conversation on the rocks that morning that he was going on a work vacation because he needed a break from life. Seems genuine and plausible enough; she had that in common with him.

Jude ponders all this and more whilst she fingers through the dirt and broken body of the shack, careful not to get splinters from the wood.

There’s more plastic further under the leafy brush, and she pulls at it before falling backwards when it gets stuck on something and won’t give.

Hundreds of hairy spiders dash out, skittering across its surface and she cries out, scrambling up on her feet and brushing herself down quickly; panic stricken that spiders are crawling over her skin, face and in her hair.

“Eww no!” She squeals out and stamps her feet around in a weird, freaked out dance desperate to crush any that will dare venture towards her.

Once composed, she reaches for the plastic again; shaking it out and it’s all discoloured and opaque with filth. She shudders as she flick off a renegade spider and rolls the plastic up, shoving it in the bag.

Something that shines at her catches her eye, and reaching down, she sees a switchblade amongst the leaves.

“Well, shit.”

She flicks it open and although the blade looks a little dull and rusted on the tip, it’s still pointed enough at the end that it will most definitely be useful.

But she thinks about it for a moment, a creeping sense of unease prickling over her skin; this is proof enough that at some point, someone else had definitely been on this God forsaken island.

The only question is, what happened to them?

Frankie collects a few long and sturdy sticks as he walks the perimeter of the sandy beach outside of the wooded area along the shoreline of the island.

He figures he can probably find something to sharpen the ends to spear fish if there isn’t anything here that he can find for a makeshift fishing line.

His concentration is occasionally pulled towards the ocean where he’ll see something glimmer out the corner of his eye thinking it’s a boat, but then realising, disappointingly, it’s just the sun sparkling on the water like diamonds, taunting him.

He kicks at a few stones and pebbles along the grassy knolls as he traipses over them and notices how scuffed and dull his boots are.

An intense rush is felt, coursing through the veins in his arms and up into his shoulders.

He grits his teeth and stops for a second, breathing in and out slowly. He licks around the inside of his gums that are tight and dry and tries not to think about the desire prickling at the back of his brain for a line to sniff up.

“Ya no lo necesitas.” (You don’t need it anymore.) He tells himself in short, ragged whispers.

To distract himself, he contemplates the long term outcome for them both on the island, as his crazy mind does on autopilot when faced with a dire situation.

Although that path of thinking probably isn’t wise to venture down either. Historically, it's not really served him well.

He feels some relief that he’s found Jude; at least the loneliness won’t overcome him and drive him insane.

Isn’t that what happened to that guy on Castaway?

Jude appears friendly enough; full of determined grit it seems, especially if she made it overnight floating in the barren and dangerous ocean like he had.

Perhaps she’s a strong swimmer and the fact she’d allowed him to drink the water suggested she was kind and thought of others first. But what does he really know about her?

What does she know about him, really?

He tells himself that Jude probably wouldn’t look favourably upon him if she knew what he had done. He certainly doesn’t.

But something inside convinces Frankie that he’ll be able to count on her if shit hits the fan. More so than it already has.

Although he hopes it won’t - he hopes this fucking nightmare will all be over soon and he can go home and just forget about this disaster without any long term effects on his already fragile mental health.

Or, making it worse than it already is, at least.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Frank.

He can hear Eddie’s voice, even all the way out here. He thinks about the amount of missed calls he probably has from him on his iPhone at the bottom of the ocean.

He wonders if anyone will be missing him yet, if anyone has realised he’s not returning their calls or messages. Did Benny ever text him back?

He wonders if they’ll assume he's in the gutter again, strung out on the white stuff and barely clinging on through the manic highs.

He hopes that someone will question his disappearance. Although it’s getting harder to believe that these days. He's practically pushed everyone away.

Dustin. He’ll know I never landed. They’ll call in, reporting that I never showed up for the job.

Yeah, his employer will be his saviour. Make a few calls and soon a rescue team will be here looking for them.

Frankie looks about the ground for anything that can be of use, but it’s just littered with stones and more grass.

He looks up ahead of him and then stops dead in his tracks, dropping the sticks he’s collected in a heap at his feet.

"Fuck!"

Without hesitating, he makes a hasty run towards it.

Jude’s rinsing the tin cans down at the shore by the cave; crouched down with her jeans rolled up and bare footed, discarding her Chucks that seem like they’ll never dry out again.

She’s cleaning out the cans that aren’t rusted over completely that is. There are four that they can use for either water or food, and the remaining cans that are too rusty to risk eating or drinking from, she separates and tries to think of what other use they could have.

Perhaps Frankie will know.

She stands up when she can hear Frankie yelling, his voice ebbing in on the breeze, and turns to see him pulling along two small suitcases and a backpack slung over his back.

“Where did they come from?!” Jude exclaims, running up to him and taking a case from his hands. It’s a Samsonite brand with a clamshell outer casing and feels heavy.

“A part of the fuselage has washed up,” he puffs “it’s fuckin’ stuck in the sand on the other side of the bay."

"What?!" Jude gasps, hearing the words, but they have trouble going in.

"There might be more stuff in there. Come on!”

Jude follows after him as they make a brisk run through the trees and out the other side, following the walk along the shoreline he’d made earlier, before Frankie had looked up and spotted the wreckage of the plane embedded into the sand bank.

He couldn’t believe his eyes and suspected he was probably seeing things at first; a teasing mirage perhaps? His brain playing tricks on him - it wouldn’t be the first time.

But as he’d run closer to it, it dawned on him that it was really there.

They approach it, slowing down their pace and sweating profusely already in the scorching heat, and Jude’s overwhelmed by the sight of it.

“How the fuck did we not see this from the ridge?” She questions, befuddled, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand.

She approaches it circumspectly as Frankie touches the sides of it.

“The trees cover this whole side of the bay,” Frankie says, glancing behind him and he can’t see the ridge either from this side. “It could’ve been here since…”

He trails off as they both realise that it could have been here from the very moment they'd both washed up on the island. Maybe even before.

“Be careful,” Jude warns as she watches him step forward with a long, thick leg, and hoist himself up into the cabin.

He reaches down and holds his hand out for her, pulling her up to meet him.

She clasps a hold of a seat that’s on a steep incline for support as he climbs further in and upwards into the eerie cabin shell, crawling on his arms and legs like a sinister arachnid.

The plane fuselage is empty of any living soul, and stinks of the damp; a briny waft of salt that’s just as isolating as it is pungent.

Jude notes the remaining seats that are intact on the plane are void of any bodies, and Frankie catches her worrisome gaze.

“Do you think anyone survived this, apart from us?” She asks, almost whispering.

He shakes his head bleakly, noting that the seatbelts are unbuckled. Visions of the people who were originally sitting in them, struggling to get out as they drown, make him shiver.

Essentially they’re both walking through a graveyard. One of the seats is faded with blood and there’s a lot of it dried into the fabric.

Frankie steadies himself against the slant and reaches up, pushing open the overhead and braces himself; covering his head with his arm for anything that might topple out.

Another case barrages out and he grabs a hold of it and slides it down to Jude. She picks it up and tosses it out on the sand. He repeats the process with some purses that he finds.

Frankie carries on further up towards the back of the fuselage and yells out for her when he disappears around the remainder of what appears to be the galley.

Jude scrambles forwards, crawling, and slipping somewhat up the slope, meeting him where he’s crouched down in front of a silver trolley, and inside he’s leafing through stacks of food.

Bags of sweets, chocolates, small bottles of liquor and bread rolls, all intact and water free due to the tight vacuum seal on the trolley.

“Holy fuck!” Jude gasps as Frankie tosses her a bread roll.

She scrambles with the package and bites into it. It tastes a little stale but is still damn good.

He pulls out two cans of soda and they chink them together; the bubbles fizzing over the rim of the can and over his hand.

“Salud!” He says, grinning.

Jude toasts to him and smiles approvingly.

“This is a fuckin’ treasure trove!” Frankie marvels, belching through a gassy burp after drinking his soda too quickly. “Sorry,” he laughs through pale pink lips that feel moist again.

Jude giggles and belches back, making the skin around his eyes crease as his smile drags wider across his face, laughing.

“I’ll see your burp and raise you a belch.” Jude howls in embarrassment.

Frankie rummages around further in the trolley and there are several bottles of water and more tasty goodies to be found.

“We should bag this all up and take this with us. I don’t think I can get the trolley out.” Frankie announces, standing up and reaching for the overheads.

Jude glances at the trolley and it’s on a diagonal tilt, wedged tightly between the galley walls.

They both set about opening more metal doors in the galley and find more food; several vacuum packed meals that seem uncooked and protected from the water by their plastic wrap.

“Jackpot!” Jude coos and Frankie turns as she pulls them out.

He reaches out a large palm and high fives her enthusiastically, a giant paw slapping against her own.

“Nice one, hermosa.”

Frankie and Jude make three round trips back and forth to the fuselage in total and by the end of it, they count a mixture of three carry-ons, one backpack and a couple of purses.

“I can’t believe this; this is like some kind of miracle.” Jude says, staring at the wonderful sight, completely floored and not really knowing where to start with it all.

They’d both stripped the fuselage clean of everything they could physically take during the remainder of the day, and stood there watching the outer shell, part of their doomed flight resting contentedly on the sand as the sun began its descent in the sky.

“Maybe we can take it apart somehow... Take the seats out, use it to build some shelter or something?” Jude suggested

Frankie contemplated it, eyeing it carefully and examining the areas where he felt he would be able to muster the strength to rip things out with his bare hands.

Without tools it would be a near impossible task though, and he hissed through his teeth at the thought of his tools slung in his Pickup back home.

"I don't know. The angle it's on isn't practical. It's too heavy for us to move. The cave is better for shelter. Warmer too."

“Maybe someone will see it from the sky if they fly overhead?” Jude had said, and Frankie seemed hopeful; it’ll be hard to miss it on a search and rescue mission.

“We can take the seat cushions out; make some sort of bedding to sleep on. It’ll be better than the ground in the cave.” Jude reached under the seats and pulled out all the lifejackets she could find too. “These might be useful?”

Frankie nodded as he had watched her gather them under her arms and tossed them out of the fuselage onto the sand with the ever growing pile of everything they could take from it.

Frankie reaches into the bag of food and pulls out two water bottles and tosses one at her.

She watches as he drinks from his own greedily and gasps out after swallowing; the bottle crumpling in his hand as he sucks the air out of it too.

“Let’s have a look at the cases.” Frankie suggests as Jude stares at it all taking it in.

She bends down and starts unzipping them eagerly. They both find an abundance of travel-size toiletries and clothing in different styles and sizes.

She pulls out some garish, floral shirts and holds them up for him, to which he smirks.

“These might fit you,” Jude replies and he laughs with mirth at them.

Frankie opens a case that seems stuffed with more clothes and a toiletry bag; there are some razors in there and some shower gel.

Frankie pulls out the razors and holds them up astonished.

“How the fuck did they get them in their hand luggage?” Jude questions, utterly perplexed.

“That’s the fuckin’ TSA for you.” Frankie rolls his eyes. “We can use ‘em.”

Jude then remembers the switchblade she’d found and fishes it out of her back pocket and tosses it at him. He catches it one-handed and examines it.

“Figured you could use it for fishing or something,” she shrugs.

“So there was someone here, before us?”

Jude nods. “I think so, yeah.”

“What happened to ‘em?” He asks.

“Perhaps they were rescued?”

Frankie nods, a fleeting sense of hope skimming across his frontal lobe. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t want to think of the other outcome.

He tosses the razors back in the case and finds some sun lotion. He spots a small tube of moisturiser and wastes no time in squeezing some into his palm and rubbing it gently into his scorched neck.

He winces and hisses through his teeth as the moisturiser stings his skin instead of soothing it. “Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I was hoping that would soothe it.”

Jude finds the tube and discovers it’s actually antiseptic cream.

“It’ll sting, but it’ll help for sure.” She says, examining his neck. It’s welted and the blisters look angry and swollen with yellow fluid. It’s too tempting to poke the little skin bubbles.

“Here, let me help?” She offers, as he nods and turns his head so she can apply the cream all over the burns. He hisses as she carefully dabs it on.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

“It’s okay.” His eyes flick towards hers as she gently runs the cream over the welts.

She glances back up at his deep chocolate eyes, brooding and set in skin with lines around the socket.

“Where are you from?” Jude queries.

“El Paso.” Frankie says. “I moved out to the west coast though. Florida.”

“You speak Spanish.”

“My family is originally from Colombia. I was born in the US.”

She nods, smiling as she spreads the cream further over the burns.

“What about you?”

“The Big Apple. City girl.”

“Nice.” He says.

“It is in the summer. The winter, not so much. Better?”

He nods. “Thanks.”

Frankie touches his skin gently a few times with his fingertips after she steps away.

“You should put some on your leg too,” he encourages.

“I’ll do it later. Now we have some soap we can freshen up in the water. Take turns to clean up. God, I stink.”

“I don’t think you smell too bad. Me on the other hand…”

“Yeah, you smell pretty ripe.” Jude giggles.

Smirking, he comes across a make-up bag and tosses it to her. When she catches it, she finds a cosmetics mirror in there amongst some lipstick and eye shadows that have crumbled into a metallic sludge from being waterlogged.

There’s a pair of tweezers too.

She glances at her face in the mirror briefly and can see the large, purple bruising above her temple and examines it carefully, wincing when she touches it.

Frankie finds another baseball cap and offers it to her and she places it on her head; it’s still damp and cools her for a bit.

He finds a notebook with a pen. The pages of the notebook are crispy from being wet and he flicks through them to see the notebook is blank.

“Santa mierda!” (Holy shit!) Frankie exclaims suddenly, and pulls out a mobile phone and holds it up at her.

It’s an iPhone model and the screen is cracked.

“Fuck! Does it work?!” Jude rushes over to him.

They both stare at the screen, waiting for it to power up with severe anticipation, but it doesn’t.

Frankie glances down at Jude with a frown as she peers at it, seeming tiny inside his giant palm; willing it to come alive.

Please, come on!

He fiddles with the case, taking the battery out and it’s wet inside the phone’s internal chipboard.

“We could dry it out in the sun and then maybe it’ll work?” Jude asks him, hope swills around her eyes at him.

He nods with a thin smile. “Worth a shot, although I doubt we’ll get any signal out here.”

Frankie lays the phone in the sand next to the notebook and wipes the battery down with the hem of his salmon pink shirt.

Jude nods glumly. Probably best not to get her hopes up.

They sort through the cases, filling one up with the toiletries and separating the clothes between the remaining two.

“We should ration as much of this stuff as we can; make it last. Who knows how long we’ll be here, right?” Jude suggests to Frankie as she finally stands up, sweating and aching from being bent over in the sand sorting and organising for the last few hours of fading sunlight.

“Yeah, I think we have a few months’ worth of stuff here if we ration carefully. Although let’s hope we’re not here that fuckin' long. They’ll be coming for us real soon.”

Jude nods. “Yeah. We won’t be here long. They’ll be looking for us right now.” She agrees aloud and Frankies nods for a little longer, like one of those nodding dogs on a car dashboard.

He hands the sun lotion to her with a sympathetic crooked smile that is soft.

“Here. You’ve been exposed to the sun all day.”

“Thanks.” Jude says, unscrewing the cap and slathering it on the skin of her arms that feel tight.

Dusk approaches, and they both retreat into the cave mouth with the cases and the food in tow, clearing the beach in case it rains again and placing the empty water bottles into the sand to collect any rain water.

Frankie looks at the phone and battery lying on the ground near him. “I’ll try it again in the morning.” He yawns.

“Fingers crossed it works.” Jude says.

She reaches into the case with the food and pulls out a bag of Peanut M&M’s, which are a little squishy due to the heat, but still taste good nonetheless.

She watches as his hand barely fits inside the packet as he scoops out a handful of the coloured chocolates.

Jude murmurs out in sweet relief at the feel and taste of the chocolate melting on her tongue.

Frankie smiles in a pleasant response too, and as the fading light dies away, encasing them both in the blinding dark; his satisfied smile is the last thing Jude remembers before falling asleep.

To be continued...

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plutowon · 6 months

Text

enhypen as mythical / supernatural

creatures ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

pairing: enhypen x gn!reader

genre: fantasy, fluff

warnings: blood mention, fantasy violence, reader is somewhat described as short ?

happy halloween!!

🍰 ೄ🩰ྀ࿐ 🧸ˊˎ-

heeseung- banshee

heeseung was always emotional.

that’s how you met him.

sitting atop of the old hill in the town park he cried and wailed with flowers clutched in his hands. you being the kind and gentle spirit you were, went up to ask him what was wrong, to which he responded “i don’t know”. usually when people see heeseung they don’t mistake him for human. your approach startled him a bit, even more so when you grabbed his cold dead hands and drew him into a hug.

you run your fingers through his hair and tell him everything is gonna be okay. then, you took him out to eat. of course you two got a few stares—holding hands with a banshee tends to draw in attention—but you seemed not to notice. you hold his hand and listen to his sorrows. you caress his cheek and you don’t flinch at the lack of body heat, paying no mind to the coldness that surely makes your hands freeze slightly.

mourning death all his life, he finds your kindness and comfort refreshing.

your boyfriend is a bit pessimistic. he looks at the glass half empty rather than half full. like when you watched coraline for the first time and he cried for half the movie believing there was no way she’d make it out of the beldam‘s hands alive. or when he sulked for half a day because he felt the sad lady from next door would never find love, resulting in the death of her love life. you told him to keep his head up and a week later, she comes into your home, bringing cookies and talking about a handsome man she met two nights prior. heeseung supposes there are some happy endings. but even so, he’s sweet and sings you songs all the time. his favorite thing to do is sing you lullabies and watch your sleep consume you. you look so beautiful while you dream, he wishes he could be in your dreams with you. he wonders what you dream about. he wonders if your dreams are as beautiful as you are. you like to take him on happy adventures and show him the world is not as bleak and depressing as it seems. you did make the mistake of taking him to a theme park, more specifically the rollercoaster, where he cried and called it a big death and torture machine. even if you left him outside he refused to let you ride it by yourself, certain that you’d fly out and die (he saw it on the news). needless to say that was the last time you went to six flags…disney world was fun though! you try to make him try new things as much as possible. heeseung finds it exciting. he looks forward to your little rendezvous.

he still cries and wails, mourns death every sunday at the top of the old hill, but after all his pain and anguish has been tossed into the atmosphere, he comes home to your warm and loving arms, where you hold him with love.

jay- ghost

you knew your house was haunted. you knew the moment you walked in with the realtor. would that stop most people from renting a house? absolutely. did it stop you? no.

the house was dirt cheap and you really needed a place to stay after your ex boyfriend kicked you out of the house. your parents are 900 miles away and you’ll be damned if a little ghost made you sleep in boxes on the street until you could get a plane ticket.

jay’s first attempt to scare you ended in a scoff. you laughed at him. how insulting. but it doesn’t get any better when he ramps up the scare factor. he’ll get you to jump, maybe a tiny shriek, only for you to come back and be like “wow that one was really good you’re getting better” with a smile etched into your face. seriously, what the hell was wrong with you? why was it so hard to scare you out of his house? he tried everything from making your dishes fly to making the lights flicker to making you see visions of dead people but nothing worked. he even flinged your knives into the wall (not that he would ever physically hurt you but perhaps if you thought he would you’d finally leave…you did not).

one night though, he shows you his face through the bathroom mirror. instead of a scream, you swoon, clasping your hands together across your chest. you call him handsome and beg to see him again. you beg for days and days. it tires him out, so he appears again. he’s much taller than you, which has you giggling and twirling your hair before you offer him a shy “hi”. he thinks you’re insane.

your ghost boyfriend has now devoted his already dead life to protecting you from other supernatural entities. once, a goblin came into your house unannounced and…well jay didn’t take too kindly to that. he gets jealous when you have friends over. perhaps it’s the fact that your friends have physical bodies to touch you. not that you can’t feel his touch, but it’s not the same. he also just doesn’t like mortals entering his property, and he’s now extended that possessiveness to you. he’s still sweet though. watches over you while you sleep to make sure no demons come by. most creatures that come by don’t expect jay to be so tough and intimidating–he’s just a ghost–but they always end up leaving the house in fear, trembling. he has a habit of sneaking up on you to tickle you, the sound of your laughter that once filled him with rage now fills him with glee. he wishes he could feel you better, but still, he loves the touch of your skin. his favorite time to see you is in your dreams, where you are both on equal planes. he can feel your soft hands, kiss your pretty lips, and have normal dates with you. it’s also great that he can defy laws of reality.

jay has been dead for years and years now, but having you in his home makes him feel alive once more.

jake- angel

you meet jake while he’s on a thrilling adventure exploring the mortal world. he bumps into you at the mall, knocking you over. of course, being the literal angel that he is, he helps you up. you’re just a small fragile human—he could’ve killed you for goodness sake! (he couldn’t have but he still believes he could’ve)— he calls you gorgeous, as he failed to realize that most humans tend to restrain from saying every thought that comes to their mind, no matter how good the thought may be. but to his luck, you blush and say thank you and he thinks you’re the cutest flower he’s ever seen. you give him your number on the back of a receipt and jake is too ecstatic to realize…ah…he doesn’t have a phone.

he buys one just for you though! and after that you two are inseparable. jake being the literal angel that he is, takes care of you like his life depends on it. your sick? jake’s here. hard time with school? jake’s here. your friend’s being a bitch? jake will be there to listen intently to allll your drama, and not just because he’s a little nosy.

of course, he’s begged god to make him your guardian angel, to which god reluctantly agreed, so long as he does not take his guardian duties too far or too lightly. there’s also monthly check-ins with the head guardian angels to make sure jake doesn’t go too far. you ask him if it’s too much of a burden, to which he smiles and tells you he couldn’t be happier.

he’s still a bit naive when it comes to humans. he doesn’t often think that human beings can be so cruel and evil, but when he witnesses this firsthand, he’s worried about you! what if you fall victim to these cruel and heinous creatures! his fragile little flower…he’d never forgive himself. he protects you with his life. he asks you a great many questions about human beings and their history, what they’re like and such. you think it’s cute. jake is so sweet it makes your teeth ache.

the first time he shows you his wings you’re in awe of the way they span across his back. they’re big enough to be a makeshift shield. his beautiful pure white feathers are soft to the touch. you run your fingers along the point in which his wings sprout from his back only for jake to laugh and fall to the floor. ah, he’s ticklish. he loves to hold you with his wings and shield you from the world. just the two of you together. per his guiding duties, he’s a little bossy. he tries to steer you away from bad decisions and protect your pure innocent eyes from seeing horrendous things, which you appreciate, but you also wish he would let you go crazy and stupid. you know, for the plot.

your cute angel boyfriend may think you to be the most delicate dove in the whole world, but you also can’t help but hold him close to prevent him from flying away. he holds you against him with his wings covering over you so you can rest easy. he’s not going anywhere.

sunghoon- siren

sunghoon has no intention of drawing anybody into his waters, but when he sees you on the sand he can’t help but stare. when you lock eyes with him, he knows it’s wrong to tempt and tease you, but he’s selfish by nature and he wants you all to himself. you must forgive him for this.

you are his most valuable treasure.

when you’ve submerged yourself into the water and make it to his arms, he sings to you. he holds you tightly and carries you across the waves and you both fall in love together in the deep, salty waters that you don’t even realize you’re in right now. he brings you back to the sand, kisses your legs and hands all the way up to you forehead, but your lips are left lonely. he makes you a promise. till death do you part and you shall see him again.

surprisingly enough, the next time you see sunghoon is on land with two legs. of course, you question him and he laughs at your innocence, “yes, my love, i can walk”. the shocked expression on your face is too cute. he kisses your nose and you shyly hide yourself in his chest. he finds the way your cheeks heat up magical. sunghoon is a siren that hides upon humans before he makes his way back to his home sweet home, the chilling sea.

dating sunghoon obviously entails walks on the beach while the sun sets. he loves watching the moon rise with you, loves the way you look when the light hits your pretty face. he always sings you songs. karaoke at least twice a week is definitely a must. he loves hearing your voice too, whether you’ve been singing for 15 years or 5 months, he loves it. he loves to tease you. loves the way he can fluster you just by staring at you for a bit too long. it gives him a huge ego boost. the way you melt into his touch makes him sore, he feels like he’s become a creature of the land, sea, and sky. when he does go back into his waters, he misses you. longs for the hours in which he can see you again. he loves when you visit him so he can swim with you and hold you for just a bit longer. you find that sunghoon likes to be up at night. you find that usually he comes to you in the late afternoon or at night. he brings you beautiful jewelry and treasures. pearl necklaces and pearl embroidered dresses. gorgeous hand held mirrors and diamond earrings. how he obtained the items is something you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about. he loves to spoil you rotten. when you do see him during the day, he just wants to cuddle up against you and rest.

being lovers of different domains is hard, but to sunghoon, loving you is the easiest thing he’s ever done. to him, you’re more valuable than all the jewels in the world combined.

sunoo- dragon

you should not be in this cavern alone all by yourself. this you know, but cannot bring yourself to care. you’re far too curious to stop now. but when you’re deep into the cavern, you see something glow in the distance. you walk closer, too close, and you hear a loud growl. which makes you jump back. there that stares as you is a fierce dragon. he inches closer and closer to you as you tremble in fear. he asks what you’re after, to which you panicked and told him you were just nosy and thought this was where your peers were meeting to share their secrets.

he looks at you quizzically and sighs before he turns into a much smaller man.

although he’s still bigger than you, almost towers over you and his shoulder span is twice as big as yours, it’s still much less anxiety-inducing than a big fire breathing dragon.

especially because he’s gorgeous.

he gives you a death glare that has your knees weak. he rolls his eyes at your shameless display of attraction before he takes your hand and pulls you, guiding you out of the cavern. to sunoo’s surprise, you keep talking. you ask him questions, ask him about what he does, tell him about your life, and sunoo would like to say he doesn’t care, but he does. a lot. when he leads you out, you promise him you’ll be back. he gives no visible reaction, but inside he smiles a little bit. your warm his heart.

your boyfriend would describe human beings as incompetent and selfish beings—minus you, of course—and you tell him he should be more open minded, but sunoo has dealt with (and severely injured) a great many humans that don’t know their place. you think it’s cute. you call him your hot emo boyfriend, something sunoo thinks is annoying and corny but he endures it for you. he’s snappy, takes no shit. he’s more patient with you, but the average worthless human being that tried it with him? it takes everything in him not to burn their eyebrows off. thank god he has you. if not, he’d probably burn your city to the ground. he’s also grateful, but concerned that you find his temper attractive. perhaps he should send you to a therapist.

his favorite thing is when you think you’re being sneaky and you creep in his cavern while he’s sleeping and slip yourself between his body and his tail and cuddle up against him, falling asleep until he wakes you up. he finds it adorable. he loves to guard you with his tail. loves how safe and secure you feel around him. despite what others might think, sunoo is incredibly caring. before you leave the house he makes sure you’ve got yourself together. tidies up and smooths out your clothes, tucks your hair behind you ear if it’s down and makes sure it’s out of your face. he cooks for you, cleans with you, and makes sure you’re safe and happy.

although sunoo usually hates being disturbed, he’s glad you woke him up that day. because of you, he always has something to look forward to. and if he can help it, for the rest of your day’s you’ll always have someone to protect you…and someone to burn the hair off your enemies.

jungwon- fairy

the leaves and sticks crunch beneath your feet and you find a place in the forest where the sun’s light seems to beam down brighter than the rest of the forest. the sun feels nice on your skin. you take in the smooth air and breath out, content.

when you turn around, you see a man with beautiful translucent wings that glitter yellow, but the tips of his wings are pink. he looks at you wide eyed. his smiles before he runs up to you, taking you in his arms and spinning you around, “oh my god, a human! you’re sososososososo cute~~”, he goes on and on excitedly. he sits you on his lap, inspecting every aspect of you from your cute little nose to your pretty eyes to how ticklish you are. you truly are the most adorable thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. unfortunately–or fortunately, i should say–because of fairies interest in humans, he’s decided that you are his human and his only, like a little kitten he gets to love and take care of! it’s a dream come true.

he takes you deeper into his side of the forest, where jungwon’s fairy friends come up to you both and ask about you in awe. when they try to touch you though, he swats them away and hisses at them…you had no idea fairies had fangs… .when you tell him you must go home, his face falls for a second before he smiles again and says you may go, so long as he get to go with you. and when his wings flutter happily and he’s bouncing, how could you say no?

although jungwon has declared that you are his cute little human that he shall protect and care for, outside of the forest, you find yourself being the one watching over him. you no longer allow candy in the house because if it’s in a 10 mile radius jungwon will eat it all, resulting in a very sugar high fairy bouncing off your walls. before jungwon had a concept of human society, he went inside of a candy store and ransacked the place…never had you imagined yourself in a police station like this. it didn’t help that jungwon kept asking the cops about scary criminal stories and why and what a taser was for. they ended up letting him go on a warning. being around a lot of humans is also very exciting for jungwon…but he had no concept of personal space. he used to go up to random people and inspect them, pointing out his observations to you. he did this especially when he saw pretty humans, which made you a little jealous but he assured you that you were the prettiest, most adorable human in the world.

in the forest, he is much more protective and possessive. no other fairy is allowed within 10 feet of you and touching you is a crime punishable by death. though, he doesn’t like other humans touching you either, he’s more lenient with them. one unlucky human tried to kiss your cheek and almost got his face bitten off…never happened again. and of course, he takes you flying across the sky.

to jungwon, you are the most precious thing in the world, his most prized possession from the moment he met you. and although he believes your his little baby, you know he’s just as much your baby as you are his.

niki- vampire

niki is very clumsy for a vampire, if he’s being honest.

he’s trying hard to beat the edward allegations, but perhaps he should learn how to prioritize because while he’s growling and tearing up in the woods, ripping bark off trees to chew on to dull the ache in his teeth he makes eye contact with a very pretty person, watching him in awe. awkwardly, he spits the bark out of his mouth, his glowing red eyes still looking at you. he tries to think of anything to ease the tension, so he asks you if you come here often. to his surprise, you say yes. you ask why he’s chewing tree bark to which he, embarrassed, says “i’m teething..”

you coo.

you come up to him and ask to see his fangs. you ask him if it hurts. he kicks the dirt under his shoes and nods. he licks them and takes a blood substitute for kids box out of his pocket.

you think he’s so cute. he thinks it’s annoying how you’re cooing at him when you’re a foot shorter than him but he loves the positive attention. you drag him to a target. he notes how small your hand is in his and squeezes it a little harder. you take him to the wooden spoons. you give him one to chew on and take him back to the checkout, where you scan it out and pay. now he shouldn’t have to rip the bark off trees. niki promises to repay you, writing his phone number in your phone before he takes off because his mom was gonna kill him for being out at 1 in the morning.

niki loves to visit you at your window at night. he’ll tap on it lightly and wait for you to answer. he asks how you are, if you’re safe and if any other vampires have tried to mess with you, to which you giggle and tell him no. he loves to sit and cuddle with you, of course he prefers to be big spoon, but if you pout and say please he’ll give you anything you ask, even if little spoon is embarrassing for him. you spend a good amount of time teasing him, but when he teases you back, suddenly, you’re quiet and he loves it. he loves to pinch your cheeks and carry you on his back. he loves knowing you can depend on him. niki’s very soft with you so you often forget he possesses superhuman strength. a man made the mistake of putting his arm around you and ended up in the hospital with broken ribs once… .he gets shy asking if he can feed off you. he feels bad about it even when you assure him it’s fine. after he’s done, he makes sure you’re taken care of. licks your wounds to the speed up the healing process and gives you a little snack with juice before he cuddles you and soothes you to sleep.

niki’s very clumsy for a vampire, but his love and devotion to you comes to him as naturally as breathing does. he will love you till the end of time.

250 notes · View notes

writella · 9 months

Note

just read ‘working it out’ and to say the least it was amazinggg. a pt 2 where they get to finish what they started without the interruption of officer cockblock would be equally amazinggg ! keep up the good work, can’t wait to read more ! ❤️

Hi again, lovely reader! ♡ You’re so sweet and I appreciate you so much!! You and @murdadixon with the sheriff/officer cockblock is still sooo silly and funny, you made me laugh!! Anyway here’s what I got for you, let me know if you like it!

For any new readers, even though I use a line from the previous work and reference it a few times, this can still be read on its own I think, but if you’d like to read that one (Working It Out) there it is!

This includes smut of course— a bit softer than the first part, a relationship confirmation, and Daryl and the reader being totally in love with each other even if they don’t say it; such cuties.

Two weeks have passed. Another fourteen days of walking, and walking, and walking. Eating plants and berries deemed as safe, and those where few and far between. Not to mention, the amount that each of you shared evenly when you found something could be counted on your fingers— it was practically nothing.

You guys needed to find a cabin again, or get back to the towns, maybe find a house or supermarket or drugstore. You were so deep in the wilderness.

That car Rick and Michonne found didn’t take you any far. All of you couldn’t fit in it, anyway. Each of you took turns riding and sitting in it, trying to find a new place to camp in. You did this for six days until the car gave out.

Despite the lush greenery that surrounded you, it was needless to say that this had been a more than bleak half of a month.

Daryl brought the color back to you, just a little at least. He would always opt to stand and walk closer to you and the group as you all continued your trek; and he’d even offer you a little of his food sometimes, although you always refused— “we all need to stay alive right now,” you’d whisper, “but you’re sweet.” You couldn’t tell if it made him smile or blush or not, but part part of you wondered; he didn’t look you in the eye, and that usually meant there was something there he didn’t want you to see. And there was always the way you would feel his hand on your back at times, pushing you forward when the endless walking slowed you down to exhaustion. He always gently guided you to keep moving.

His silent kindness was so tender, so needed.

But he was still quiet, and in some ways, you couldn’t even blame him. It’s just who he is; and it’s sort of who you all were becoming right now. There was nothing to talk about unless it had to do with food, a plan to find shelter, or killing walkers that got in the way. And with all of you together all the time, there really wasn’t a moment to talk about the state of your relationship, but your mind kept rewinding and turning over with his previous words, I’ll kiss you like this anywhere… Any way you want. You longed for the day that this would be true. If these words were food, they were the only thing sustaining you; it was the only thing good to think about at all.

A few more days had past until you finally caught a break. You saw Rick starting to run as he shouted Carl’s name. He was running ahead of him, “I think I see something!” Carl told the group.

It was a barn. Completely desolate, the wooden walls almost looked unstable, but there was a roof. It was a place to sleep. At least for the night.

“Thank God.” Gabriel’s exhale matched the whirling wind as he said it, it was a true release; a relief. Some may not have had the same beliefs as him or thought the barn was anything that special, but no one disagreed. The barn door had a latch and a couple of blankets someone must had left. As little as it was, it was something to be just the littlest bit thankful for after sleeping on the dirt with nothing for what felt like ages.

As night rolled in, you were lucky enough to get a corner spot. It was one of the ones that was closest to the door. You had taken care of Judith during the day, so you had sat there most of the time trying to keep her quiet and entertaining her. You even got to take a nap when she did. She was so warm, it was nice. You almost felt sad when Rick relieved you of her, but because of it you offered to take first watch, knowing you were more rested than the others.

Your stuff was still in place, but you moved closer to the door, using the slit between the door and the rest of the wall as a peephole to look through when you remembered or when you heard any strange.

Daryl moved himself to your spot. The barn was dark, but you could tell it was him based on how he walked. He took his steps with the sway of his hips, his feet heavy as they tapped on the ground when he didn’t care if he was seen or not, different from when he hunts.

He put his stuff down in the corner with yours and right when you thought he was probably going to lay down himself, he comes up to you.

“Daryl, sleep.” It was a soft demand.

“Can’t.” He said simply, moving closer to the door to sit with you. He was so close that your arms and knees touched. You took the opportunity to rest your head on his shoulder even if it wasn’t an invitation. He doesn’t protest. His head lightly rests on yours actually.

“It’s so cold,” you whisper, taking the sheet off your legs, it was so thin, it did nothing, and the cracks between the old barn’s wooden panels didn’t help either, the wind seeping through much stronger as the night went on.

Daryl rubbed his hands on your lower leg— the calf, heating it up until one of his hands rests on your knee, the action made you laugh lightly. It was a kind attempt. Then, his hand started lowering to your inner thigh. It was just to the middle of it. It didn’t have to be anything more if you didn’t want it to be, it could have just been a gentle hand, trying to warm you up, though you couldn’t help but to let yourself close the gap between your legs; allowing him to heat you in a different way. Slowly, he pushed his hand further down.

Once he reached your center he turned his palm inward, his fingers pressing into you over your jeans. You rocked up to him, closing your eyes, turning you head away from him as your breathed in sharply. You were quiet, other than your exhales that came out of your nose, but you tried for them to sound as small and short as you could.

One of your knees caved inward to build upon the pressure, trying to lock his hand in further. He dipped his hand into your pants without even unbuttoning them, stretching the denim to fit his thick fingers beneath. He started to slide his middle finger through your wetness until it found your hole and he slide right in, circling while his palm rubbed against you on top. It made you reach out for his shoulder tightly.

“Daryl,” your whisper was piercing as you gasped. “Can we go outside?”

He nodded to you, though you could only see it slightly through the darkness of the barn. You eyes widened as he unexpectedly picked you up, it was a wordless and soundless motion. He opened the latch of the barn, taking you to the outer back side, then gently placing you on feet.

Your eyes matched the stars of the sky. Was this finally going to happen? Everyone was asleep, or so it seemed. No one else was around…

The realization made you notice how big he was in that moment: his broad shoulders and arms, his hands, his bulge… it makes you look back up at his face again right when you reach it. You stand there for a moment, you eyes fixed on him, the limitless sensation of right now overwhelming you until— instinct kicks in, your actions, almost animalistic. You were so used to respecting this blurred-line-friendship you didn’t know what he would think to see you so eager, so desperate again, but your shirt and bra and pants come off immediately. You wanted him. So bad.

If you all died tonight it was your fault. You were doing a horrible job at keeping watch, but your mind was absolutely elsewhere that you didn’t even think of it.

You look up at him as you continue and notice he is repeating your actions at the same force, it makes you smile excitedly, it was comforting as much as it was so, so dirty. Here you were, starting to have sex outside… again. Was this you? Maybe for Daryl. No, definitely for Daryl.

You instantly put your hands on his chest and abdomen when he was done undressing and you kiss him, it’s just in the way you’ve always wanted to, the way you’ve dreamed about.

His hands goes to your waist as you do so and one of them travels farther to your ass, pressing on it as he pushes you up to his height. Your hands go over his shoulder and you’re on your toes to help.

He gently pushes you toward the wall and you slide down on it, you could get splinters but you’re not thinking, you don’t care. There is only him right now, there is only finally getting to touch him right now.

You lay yourself on the ground and he goes above you. Neither of you even think about him touching you more to get you more wet as you see him hardened, as you see him throbbing. It makes you throb. It makes you whine.

His actions say don’t worry, as he kisses your chest between your breast once before he slowly pushes into you, watching himself go in. Enjoying the way it looks as he bottoms out until he’s hovering over you, closer now. He kisses you quickly on the lips before starting to thrust and moving in, and out, and in, in, in. “Mmmm.”

Then he exhales, a breathy sigh, and you do to. So good, you think, “So good” you sigh out. “Thank you.” You stroke his hair.

“It feels really good,” he agrees. You’ve never seen him be so soft, it makes you giggle. You like this side of him.

You hand travels from his hair, to his neck and down to his back. Your other hand comes to his back to match and your knees move forward around him as well. You are light with your touches, you’ve yet to touch his back almost at all before, especially not like this.

“I want to make you come,” he says lowly, it’s almost comical how genuine and sincere he means it, but he does. His voice soft despite its rasp.

“You can,” you reassure; you’re so sure, in fact. You’ve wanted this forever.

He starts to speed up, but it’s more of a deep and full explosion of movements than it is a hard and fast one. You feel it everywhere, it feels like this perfect balance between sex for lust and sex for showing his love. Your moan sounds beautiful, it sounds like finally. He loves it.

His head goes into your neck and both your mouths are open, you’re both panting, you’re both smiling, you’re both happy. So happy and feelings so good that you want it to last forever.

Your eyes open and you see the stars again. They match the stars in your eyes, you can’t tell which are real and which are fake or if you’re seeing anything that’s real at all right now. You don’t even know if this is a hunger ridden hallucination as you see a star shoot across the sky and feel it right at the bottom of your stomach as you both come undone. It’s the first time you’ve felt complete.

He colapses onto you now, you feel all his weight and you don’t care. His forehead is on yours and you hold the sides of his face. It feels infinite.

You don’t know how much or how little time passes until you hear, “So, that’s you keepin’ watch, kid?” The sound make Daryl’s head go up and your hands go straight to your head. Why is it always the leader of your group to find you like this?

“Why you always watching?” Daryl finds your shirt and puts it over your head again before he tries to cover himself up.

“Just came out to use the bathroom, Daryl.”

As Rick started walking to a tree, his smirk is still firmly placed he says, “I’m sure you two tired yourselves out, I’ll take watch for now.” He looked back, knowing you were clothed now, smiling directly at you, “Goodnight.” The look was almost actually sincere. If he did see anything, maybe he knows it wasn’t what he saw last time… at least not entirely.

As you see his body move out of sight, Daryl turns to you, “You need to stop gettin’ embarrassed by him.” He finishes putting on the rest of his clothes, leaving his vest on the ground, and he brings you closer to him, leaning you two against the barn wall. You nod you head, acknowledging his words and his arms go around your shoulder and you melted into it. The cold air finally getting to you again as the heat of the moment passes and your flushed face starts to fade.

You look up at him from his shoulder, “Daryl?”

“Yeah,” he saw your mouth slightly open, the words were on your tongue and he knew it, but you weren’t speaking. “Say it.”

“Are we… are we an us?” You were still too scared to use the words you truly wanted, you opted for being as vaguely specific or specifically vague as possible, “Am I… Am I- your- person.”

He looked at your eyes that were below his head, “I think you have been. All this time.” You noticed his lips twitching into a smile, but trying to keep them down, to keep them neutral. It’s hard, you make him happy even when he doesn’t want to show it. Even though it’s hard for him to show it to other people. Even though he’s terrified of how vulnerable you make him.

“I just don’t want to have to guess.”

“Well then you don’t gotta anymore… I’ll make sure you don’t have to. We’re together,” he shrugs, “We’ve always been.”

He kisses you now, fully this time, holding your cheek as he does so. It’s the light and soft way, but also the deep way; it was both the ‘anywhere’ and ‘any way you want’ way. You hold his face in return, accepting his words, accepting it all. If anyone else where to come out they would see that truly your lips weren’t the ones in action, but your two hearts drumming into each other, wordlessly saying everything: I’m yours and you’re mine. It’s always been like this.

that unconfirmed possible voyager!rick(???) surprise SHAWTYY jfdjfj anyway, thank you for reading!!!!! ♡ ♡ ♡

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader smut #daryl dixon #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x fem!reader #the walking dead smut #the walking dead fanfiction #twd smut #twd fanfiction #wonders with writella #wonderings with daryl #💌 ask answered 💌

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hunn1e-bunn1e · 10 months

Text

Baizhu - Hawks-like Geo User Reader

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

I always put in a screenshot of the ask first before I actually start writing and this on is huge so it may look a bit disproportionate, sorry about that. I made it so reader's wings are there but when they're not being used they disappear like weapons do when their not fighting. They really only come into play when the reader is flying or when the use their ult or e skill.

🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿

🐍 Firstly; Dr. Baizhu here loves your laid back, devil may care attitude, it helps distract him from his rather bleak seeming fate. You always know how to show him the bright side of every minuscule thing throughout the day, it seems.

🐍 That confidence of yours is also quite contagious; sometimes, you can catch him strutting around Bubu Pharmacy like some sort of runway model. It's quite the entertaining display, I assure you.

🐍 You're quite the charmer as well, it seems. You're always able to get Baizhu flustered out of his wits with that lazy smirk of yours. You make his knees turn to jelly and his stomach feel all gooey and warm inside.

🐍 He loves how clingy you are, even if he blue screens for a couple seconds after first contact. He's just not used to this kind of thing. Qiqi gives him hugs, of course, but your touch is just... different somehow.

🐍 You love kids, you say? That's great! Baizhu would just absolutely adore it if you get along with little Qiqi. He definitely leaves her to you when he needs to go out and about to run various errands or pick up things for the pharmacy.

🐍 Your bird-like traits intrigue him to no end. Are you an adeptus perhaps, like The Conquerer of Demons or Rex Lapis? Or maybe you're a yokai from Inazuma or something. He has no idea, you should definitely let him conduct a full-body examination.

🐍 As a person who needs glasses, Baizhu is kind of jealous of how great your eyesight is. Though, he has to admit that your eyes are helpful to him in a way; you've somehow been able to identify a new species of Violetgrass... somehow...

🐍 You've made this poor man have to go and buy a whole storage chest with all the little nick-nacks you bring him. Not that he minds of course, the more the merrier. Weirdly shaped rocks, small chunks of ore, loose buttons, jewelry, flowers, etc.; he'll happily accept it all.

🐍 He loves to put on upbeat music to see you bob your head to it, it makes him laugh every time. Sometimes he'll even see Qiqi do it with you and can't help but join in too, it's actually really fun in his opinion.

🐍 Baizhu never actually knew you had wings until they suddenly materialized out of thin air. He thought they were beautiful; similar to a bird of prey's wings, like the Brownwing Falcons of Wuwang Hill.

🐍 When you took him out to Mt. Tianheng and let him watch you fly around it's cliffs and peaks, he was absolutely enthralled. Just how fast could those beautiful wings even take you? To him, you looked like an angel.

🐍 And when you showed him how you incorporate your wings and your Geo vision? By golly, Baizhu was over the moon with wonder!

🐍 You almost looked like you were preforming one of Yun-Han Troupe's feather fan operas. You're wings encased in amber as you spun and dove; taking out those evil slimes that threatened to harm your Princess Baizhu. Oh! It was like a fairytale.

🐍 Though, out of all of your wings' features, he enjoys how you express yourself through them the most. Drooping when you're sad or disappointed, quick little flaps when you're excited or happy. And of course his most favorite is when they puff up when you're showing off. He thinks it's cute.

🐍 All in all, Baizhu is deeply in love with you and wouldn't trade you for anything in the world. You're the person he wishes to spend his remaining years with, however many he's got left.

🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿•♡•🌿

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year

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Pinnie - or, if you're truly fine with it, Mommy cause you radiate that energy tbf - does Zizz like getting spanked?? Cause one thing that sounds really fantastic is tying a big monster boy up, head down ass up and spanking him until he's begging me to fuck him stupid X)

[I thought it'd be a little obvious I enjoy that title. FUCK YES THOUGH, I love the sound of that for Zizz. Fem reader.]

TW: Spanking (reader has to use a flogger this man is huge).

Being the wife of an Icon of Hell isn't always as bleak as you thought it'd be.

Sure, you didn't come into this willingly, and the first months you spent with Zizz certainly can't be called a walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination, but you count your lucky stars that it wasn't worse. That your initial expectations weren't met.

That he doesn't hurt you. That the demonlord actually made, and continues to make, efforts to turn this into an acceptable arrangement for you. You're not excusing any of his actions, but you've allowed yourself to feel glad for the way things have turned out, with a more or less loving dynamic established. You're not sure you'll ever match his frankly intimidating intensity, but... You're fond of Zizz.

And he's been happy with that so far, which means you've been steadily introduced to a lot of Zizz's duties as King of Sloth. It's actually quite surprising, the amount of work he gets done during the brief episodes wherein he's fully awake. Zizz is a bright demon, in spite of initial appearances. He's organized Sloth in a way where his trusted servants can pick up work perfectly when he inevitably falls onto a dead sleep at his desk. He's got alarms set up for very specific hours and manages to schedule things in a way where, almost magically, Sloth still functions. It's impressive.

He says having you around has been very helpful as well, since you apparently prove to be a very effective source of motivation for the demonlord to remain awake and complete tasks, so he can spend more time with you. You recall the way he purrs whenever you bring him a cup of coffee. Not that it does anything to him physically, you're sure it must be nothing more than a placebo effect paired with joy that you bother to do such for him in the first place.

Nonetheless, one of the facets of Zizz's professional life you've been involved in occasionally are the so-fabled "Icon meetings". It's... Well, they're shitshows more often than not, you kind of understand why Zizz dozes off early on. Usually, there's bickering going on, and it hardly ever involves the Sloth lord himself, so being awake is a waste of time as far as he's concerned. Clever thinking. Though it does make you feel slightly unsafe that he's willingly going unconscious while you're surrounded by other huge demons, who sometimes give you strange looks.

You're sure the gigantic snake woman is going to eat you one of these days, Livius is constantly glaring at you two, Cero has a disgusted look on his face whenever you meet his eyes and Rinx glances over everytime some gold trinket in your outfit jingles. You won't even get started on the Wrath lord's dreadful volume. Vesper is apparently one of the friendlier ones, it seems. He still gives you and Zizz lecherous glances, having blatantly propositioned the demonlord to let him sleep with you two at several points. While it scandalized you at first, you soon realized it was just in his nature to behave that way. Still, when he's not actively trying to get you horny, he's not bad company, and you've had quite a few pleasant conversations so far.

One such is what planted an idea in your mind.

If you recall correctly, it was at a meeting a couple of days ago, nothing too eventful was taking place, the Pride lord and the Greed lord were arguing heatedly about the state of cross-ring resource importation and some manner of "unreasonable inflation", it didn't matter. Vesper was sitting next to Zizz, who was predictably in a dead sleep in spite of the commotion. He had you trapped in his arms, which were crossed over his chest. You had been about ready to take a nap yourself when someone tapped your shoulder.

" Don't snooze just yet, darling, I'm terribly bored. " It was the Lust King, of course, flicking his lashes and pouting.

" Mmn, whaddya want? "

Vesper snickers. " Oh, humor me just this once? "

" 'M not going to have sex with you. " A muscle memory response by then.

" Yes, a shame. " He paused. " But, I actually want to know about your sex life with Zizz. "

You had popped an eye open there, not exactly amused.

" See, I spoke with Zizz when he was still single, and I know for a fact he's into a number of things... " Those sharpened teeth took on a perverted, pleased grin. " Have you two been exploring that? "

Had you? It was odd, aside from somnophilia and lazy sex, maybe a couple of slightly risky escapades, things hadn't really gotten spiced up. But then, you had only recently began getting sexually comfortable with Zizz, maybe he didn't want to jeopardize everything by introducing something hard into the bedroom. Vesper took that silence as an answer by itself, tutting softly.

" W- Why do you care?! " Why wouldn't he care? He's a huge whore, it's what he does.

" I just hate seeing potential go to waste, dear. " The Icon then murmured. " I can give you some hints, hm? "

The suggestion had given you pause. Indulging in Zizz's kinks... In your captor turned oddly-lovable demon's kinks. What had your life come to... But then, it'd be a lie to say you disliked the idea. The morality of it is frivolous, you're here now. There's no way out, you thought maybe you should lean into what amount of happiness you could reap from this situation. And maybe, just maybe, getting Zizz hot and bothered made you happy.

" U- Uhm. Okay... "

Vesper perked up, head tendril curling. " Perfect! I'll send you a little something something. You're a smart girl, you'll get the idea. " And he winked, letting the conversation die there.

A day later, one of the head imp servants approached you specifically with a delivery from Lust. A mysterious black box with a stupidly fancy bow on top. You opened it in your shared bedroom, coming face to face with a long silicone... Flogger? Paddle? One end featuring a pretty pastel pink heart shape while the other had feathers of the same hue. It clicked then. Spanking. Zizz was into spanking. How innocuous, you expected something a little more menacing. Included in the box was also a pair of handcuffs. The symbols on its sleek padded purple design made it obvious that it was enchanted with something. Though it was the size of the item that gave you pause. It was far too big for a human. For you. These cuffs were made for demons the size of Zizz.

Meaning you will not be the one getting spanked. The Icon of Sloth is.

That alone had taken you by surprise, though a knowing smirk quickly crawled up your cheeks while you pondered. It made sense. Zizz is a lazy demon, for sure. Sex with him usually has you doing most of the work, though he has proved to be an efficient pleaser when challenged before. Point being, Zizz's lack of energy makes him come off as submissive... It was no wonder that he'd enjoy taking the role of a spankee.

You liked that idea. A whole lot actually. A plan began formulating in your mind...

Which leads you to today!

Tonight actually.

You can't sleep. How could you?! You're going to spank your big goof of a boyfriend. King, actually. You're going to spank a King. Oh ho ho, if this isn't some power trip.

The room is dark, aptly dark for someone as light-sensitive as your partner, only some dim LED lights scattered around. You're once more trapped between a mountain of plushies and the demon's annoyingly tight grip as he lays on his side, chin plopped on top of your head. Zizz has recently taken to sleeping without his veil, perhaps because he trusts you not to peel the curtains open in the morning and blind him. Eitherway, that leaves the big lad in nothing but plain black underwear, overly hot body glued to yours. It's unpleasant to always wake up vaguely sweaty, but you've resigned yourself to it by now, it's part of this new life.

Alright. Step one is wiggling out of your prison.

Kicking and shoving stuffed animals aside sounds easy, and it really is, unless you're drowning in them, in which case you might as well be doing jack shit. Because everytime you push a shape out of the way, another fluffy thing will take its place, like quicksand. Eventually, with enough effort, you manage to create some vacant space in the bed. Good. Now comes the hard part.

Getting Zizz to let go of you.

You've been practicing. After all, he's done this since day one, and many were the times where you woke up in the middle of the night on emergency mode with a full bladder. Calling his name is fruitless, the demon will grunt or mumble at most, maybe whine. Taps and straight up slaps to his bare skin won't do anything either, he just shakes like jelly and snores. You've learned, through experience, that gentle attention is usually what gets Zizz to move.

Squirming to at least face the huge demon, you look up and frame his dark face. Soft, so weirdly soft. This part of him is as odd as it gets. He's like... A matchstick, featuring this charred-black head bleeding darkness into his neck. You'd figure such a part of him would be rough, but it's almost like a cloud. Grabbing those smooth cheeks, you place gentle kisses all over his face and exposed teeth, making sure to nuzzle your nose on him. Zizz faintly starts purring and readjusts his neck to be closer to you, but his arms remain firmly locked around your torso and waist, not even twitching. Tsk.

With a huff, you resort to more insistent tricks, tickling at his neck and trying to do the same to the parts of his tummy you can reach. That gets him to groan something nonsensical out, limbs jerking and tail swatting at the sheets. Yet still not enough. Fine then. Far from deterred, not only do you hasten the pace of your digits, you blow air onto his face periodically.

Finally, that appears to bother Zizz enough to slacken his hold, one arm raising to rub his features.

Knowing a golden opportunity when you see one, it's a matter wiggling insistently and tapping at his loose arm to finally, finally- Break free! Victory. Aha!

The demonlord very clearly notices the lack of heat and pressure on him, growing distressed ad grumbling amidst a deep slumber. It's almost cute, the way his tail thrashes in indignation.

That's step one. Step 2 is breaking out the nice stuff, conveniently hidden inside the closet you share with your King. It's not like he looks at it anyway, his servants basically do everything for him. And you. But it's okay to be a little pampered, right? The contents of the box are removed and tossed onto the bed after you clear it of excess pillows and plushies.

Step 3, the most difficult of them all. Rolling this fucker onto his stomach.

But how?

Hm...

Impact. You need to throw yourself. Though it could backfire and make him fall on you. Here goes nothing! With some momentum, you roll onto the bed and slam against a hard grayish body, mostly not achieving much beyond stunting yourself. But hey, you did wake him up slightly.

" Mmmr, whas' dat? "

Zizz rumbles out, a deep, slurred sleepy tone that always makes you shiver. " Hey... Roll onto your stomach? " Worth a try.

He sighs, and after a couple of seconds, basically flops onto his front like dead weight. Hah! You're not sure how awake the demonlord is right now, but it won't stop you.

" Zizz? " You try after getting back up, receiving no response from the static monster. Yep, he's out again. Truly remarkable.

No time to waste! Grabbing the cuffs, and securing the key somewhere of course, you drag his hands together, looping the toy around one of the top columns of this ridiculously large bed. The cuffs glow a slightly pink hue once locked. He didn't twitch a muscle through this... Sometimes you worry for Zizz's safety.

There! Now, onto the good part.

Having the large demon rolled over, you giggle to yourself in pure satisfaction and eye his plain boxers. It's funny, you have more than confirmed he doesn't use underwear with his typical garbs, but he puts it on to sleep. How odd. Climbing behind the large monster, you take a moment to appreciate his behind. Zizz is huge, and what's more, he's also on the curvier side, you're sure he's the softest demon out there. By virtue of the former, he also has a pretty fat ass, if you do say so yourself.

A cute, round, perfect ass.

Lips curled up, you drag bare palms up the Icon's legs, making sure to cup the fat of his heavy thighs before resting them on those fine globes. For someone who likes to call you "pillow" so much, you sure as Hell just found a perfect headrest right here. Your attention is caught by a periodically swaying tail, that pretty thin thing with a tip very similar to his horns. It looks like a half-moon. Your arm extends, grabbing the length of it much like a cat after a thread of yarn. It bats aimlessly in your grasp, until you peel it out of that special band in his boxers.

You're no angel, you're purposely giving yourself a titillating show when you grasp the hem of his underwear, dragging the fabric down slowly and biting your lip the moment it rests on his thighs. Perfect ass indeed. You could just bite him.

Instead, you pick up the long flogger Vesper generously gifted to you, choosing the feathered end to start your torture. Sitting cross-legged between the massive demon's legs, you start feathering at his limbs.

" Ziiizz... "

Nothing, predictably. The ministrations move higher, zigzagging playfully, resting over the crux between those thighs. " Zizzy. " No response.

Your notions become insistent, tickling at the expanse of skin between pucker and slit, occasionally rising to tease the root of his tail before dipping back down. Laughter rings out when the demonlord does move, shifting his ass and twitching his legs. The most you get out of him is another caveman grunt.

Tut tut.

Alright. No more playing around then.

Readjusting the toy, you quickly swat it against the meat of his left cheek.

Finally, the Sloth King jolts, making a much more sober sound. You can hear the rustling of those fancy cuffs against the bed post while Zizz gradually processes the situation.

" Mmn did... Did you just hit me? " He slurs, bright white eyes staring back at you from the relative darkness.

" Me? " You start innocently. " With these little hands? " As if to emphasize the point, you splay said feelers against his rump, groping to your heart's content, drumming on his rump a bit. He shudders when you lean in to plant a kiss on the spot you just swatted. " You wouldn't even feel it, right? "

Before the demon can answer, you grasp the cute flogger again and swipe it across his right cheek. Zizz instantly shudders, muscles tensing. Hm, Vesper wasn't kidding, this does work. Good.

" M-Marshmallow? What is that? " His tone is breathy, that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.

" Don't worry about it too much. " And just because you like seeing his buffer jiggle, you lash it again, a little lower, a more tender spot if your research is correct.

Zizz chuffs something incomprehensible. The sleepiness apparently leaving him steadily at this turn of events. " Am... 'M I being punished? " He murmurs, legs spreading ever so slightly.

You take the time to think about it while you remove his underwear fully. Are you punishing your King? You could, by all means, you're still essentially a captive, even if you've decided to make the most out of it. Why not spin this in a different direction?

" I don't know Zizz, do you want to be punished? " The question hangs thick in the air while you play with the rubber tip of the toy, waiting.

His brain might not be fully back online, because the demonlord makes a confused sort of "Hhrn?" noise. The next swat has some heft behind it, actually making him arch!

" Words. "

" No... " He finally squeezes out.

You laugh. Yeah right, like he hasn't been pushing his ass up this entire time. You're willing to bet his slit is already wet. " Then what do you want? "

Zizz makes a drawn-out purr, trying to look back at you from his awkward position while his tail dances. " Mm, I want you to suck me off- "

CRACK

" Selfish! Mutt! " Each word punctuated with much harder swats. " Unbelievable... " Zizz pants now, actually pants. " Get on your knees. "

When he takes too long to obey, he's rewarded with yet another lash smack dab on the same side. " We don't have all day! "

" Owww f-fuck- " Doing as told, a clear string of viscous precum connects his slit to the silken sheets beneath him, making you just about steam alive. " You're so mean. "

Rolling your eyes yet smiling wide, you point the feathered side to his dripping entrance and tease it thoroughly, laughing when Zizz squirms in frustration, never getting decent stimulation no matter which way he leans. It only succeeds in making him wetter. " And you're hopeless, my lord. " Switching ends, you allow him direct contact with the pink silicone heart, something the horny monster greedily accepts, rocking against it like an animal, trying to hump the thing.

It's a lecherous show, a sight that just about has you salivating, your pussy seeming to jolt awake as you consider getting beneath the cuffed demon and letting him rut at you. No, not so fast, not this time. The more he huffs and rolls his hips, the less mental fortitude you retain, so you cut the scene short by harshly and suddenly slapping the tip against his slit. A bit cruel, admittedly.

Zizz jerks forward, a loud pained whimper followed by horny little gasps as he buries his whining face in pillows and instinctively bucks against nothing, tingles of pain and pleasure working their way through his body. In a matter of seconds, that gorgeous purple cock is slipping out to play, more than teased and ready. You lick your lips, considering doing just what he wanted for a sliver of a second.

Instead, you snicker and brush his length with the same fluffy feathers. Zizz actually tugs at the cuffs this time, head rising. " Please! "

" Already? " Your brows rise, but it's not much of a surprise at all. It's not hard to make the demonlord beg, he gives in easily, because it takes less effort. You suspect a part of him enjoys feeling powerless anyway. " Tsk, come on, at least try. "

Zizz groans. " Mmh please please please please- "

Figures. Slut.

Your response is to crack that flogger several times across both sides of his ass, hard enough that it does start leaving heart-shaped imprints. And... Aw, it's adorable! You just have to see more of those pretty deep blue hearts on his ass. So pretty...

In a lustful stupor, enamored by those lovely hearts, you keep lashing the thing on several spots, ignoring the way the demonlord howls and trembles, even going for his thighs. He's a big boy, and strong at that. He can deal with a bit of thigh flogging. By the time you've calmed down, breathing heavily, his lower half is peppered in cute little hearts, sore, some spots starting to bruise in even prettier colors. But most importantly, Zizz is sobbing.

You hadn't even heard him.

Whimpering and moaning softly like some sort of overwhelmed animal. You wonder if maybe you've gone too far until you see his cock throbbing repeatedly. Then again, if he really wanted to stop this, he could have by now, you don't believe the cuffs would be an issue given what you've seen Zizz do before.

" Do you think you can come just from this? I think you can. " You half-mock.

The King of Sloth makes a pathetic little noise betraying some great exasperation. " No! No no nn- Please- Please, I'll take anything jus' make me come please- " You wonder what it says about yourself that his sobbing voice makes you heat up like a furnace, shuddering.

The next thing that connects to Zizz's ass is neither the paddle nor the feathers, but your small human hands. He twitches regardless, more than sensitive enough to wince from something as simple as a gust of wind. " Alright, but only because you took it all like a champ. "

Gentle lips peck and smooch around the places you thoroughly abused, a spare hand snaking to his front so you can grab his weeping girth and treat him to generous strokes, not enough to let him orgasm yet. No, you want to take your sweet time, swiping your tongue from the bottom of his slit, all the way up and over his hole. The other moans out, audibly splintering something in the bed post so he can press harder against your flat tongue.

Your chuckle vibrates against his skin, and as fun as eating him out could be, your goal is that appendage thrashing and thumping around. A brilliantly devious idea has you catching the thing with your teeth, nipping at it at the same time your pumps increase in pressure.

Zizz somehow manages to melt more into the sheets, trembling like a leaf. " Hhrn- Don't stop don't stop donn- Ah! " And you don't. Offering the massive monster one last, thunderous clap to his ass the very moment he starts coming.

It's a spectacular show. He comes hard, whining out like a needy harlot, grinding deep into your hand, shooting thick ropes all across it and the bed. Enough in quantity to make you titer. Cooing and swooning, you make sure to milk everything out of Zizz, hearing him huff out in complete euphoria. You only stop when his trembling becomes pained hissing, quickly moving to remove those cuffs while he sags onto the mattress like an emptying balloon. Atop a small pool of his own seed, ew... It's funny, he didn't even pull that hard at the cuffs. Sure, the bed post is visibly damaged, but he behaved fairly well, all things considered!

This was a great test run.

It's not too long before you hop into bed, on top of Zizz's spent body and blowing raspberries on his back. The Icon chuckles tiredly.

" You should see your ass right now. " You smirk.

" You ruined it. " He laments, sighing.

Laughing, you give him a soft kiss and massage his sore wrists. " You did very well, my King. Maybe you should tell me more about your tastes in the future, hm? "

Zizz snorts after a couple of puzzled seconds. " It was Vesper, wasn't it? "

" We're gonna thank him tomorrow. "

Although Zizz makes a disgruntled noise, you catch the very same tail you bit on wagging.

#Zizz oc #terato #monsterfucker #yandere teratophilia #yandere monster #minors dni

347 notes · View notes

samasmith23 · 1 year

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Why do some people think that stories portraying darker subject matter is always an inherently bad thing?

I’ve recently encountered this weird mindset in regards to certain online fandom spaces, wherein people will argue that fictional characters experiencing intense trauma and pain is somehow inherently problematic and negatively reflects on the creator’s skills or ethics. This feels like such a narrow-minded and shallow understanding of a piece of media, since characters undergoing hardships is often a necessary element for them to grow and develop as the narrative progresses. Plus, while some stories can indeed be more intense and graphic in what types of trauma is depicted, it’s mere inclusion doesn’t automatically make the story or it’s author inherently bad. For instance, even though I personally haven’t read the manga series Berserk by the late Kentaro Miura (May he Rest In Peace…), based on what I’ve heard from others while the series does include graphic depictions of sexual assault which the main protagonist Guts suffered from in his past, said-assaults are NOT framed in a gross or exploitative way, but are instead utilized to analyze and discuss the character’s feelings of physical and psychological trauma derived from said-horrible events, and heavily factors into Guts' overall backstory and development as a character as he tries to heal from the violent trauma of his past and discover some sense of happiness in a bleak world.

And yet despite this I’ve encountered a few people accuse Berserk of being “pro-rape” or even outright stating that Miura “deserved to die” (which is an absolutely disrespectful and disgusting thing to say!) simply because he included these darker elements in his manga. Like... that's as stupid as someone claiming that Quentin Tarantino is automatically "pro-murder" simply because his movies include lots of scenes of characters killing each other.

I’ve also encountered far less overtly toxic examples of this kind bad faith media criticism in comic circles. Awhile I was incredibly confused when I saw some people on Twitter arguing that Saladin Ahmed was “ill-suited to writing teenage characters” simply because of two scenes in his Miles Morales: Spider-Man & Magnificent Ms. Marvel runs respectively, which involved Miles being tortured by the new supervillain, The Assessor (who would later make clones of Miles as a result), as well as the final battle between Ms. Marvel and her evil robot-duplicate Stormranger getting quite brutal at times (you could see blood from the impact Stormranger’s punch).

In regards to the Miles’ torture scene, I've seen a small number of people argue that the scene's existence was inherently inappropriate due to Miles' status as a Black minor, going as far as to label it as "dehumanizing" and "really insensitive to the real trauma of black boys." I'm not sure how I feel about this as those labels feel a tad extreme due to the fantastical nature of Miles' stories. Like, as brutal as the scene with the Assessor is, it’s at least given a more ficitional sci-fi vibe due to the high-tech laboratory, the Frankenstein operating table, and the fact that this whole ordeal leads directly into Miles' own version of Spider-Man: Clone Saga after The Assessor acquires Miles’ DNA in the process. So it feels less grounded and not as reflective of those real-life traumatic experiences Black men and boys unfortunately go through in the U.S. like I saw a few critics of Ahmed’s run claiming. Plus, Ahmed had Miles be rescued by both his father Jefferson Morales and Uncle Aaron Davis teaming-up together. So the narrative frames the Assessor’s torture of Miles as a bad thing whilst depicting two older Black men actively putting aside their personal differences in order to save their son/nephew as a major narrative focus as well. How exactly is it "dehumanizing" or "inappropriate" then?

And it seems like this bizarre criticism isn’t just limited to Twitter comic fandoms, since a certain Lily Orchard recently made an AWFUL video which outright accused animation fandoms and creators of “fetishizing the torture and abuse of POC women” in cartoons like The Legend of Korra, The Owl House, and She-Ra and the Princesses of Power. As soon as I saw the thumbnail for that video I knew it was going to be an absolute dumpster fire.

In it, not only does Lily engage in those similar types of arguments like the ones I mentioned earlier about Saladin Ahmed’s portrayal of Miles & Kamala, but Lily went multiple steps further by outright accusing various scenes from The Legend of Korra, The Owl House & She-Ra of being “literal torture p*rn” and “fetishized abuse against POC women.” With Korra, Lily accused the scenes of Korra brutally poisoned with the Red Lotus’ liquid metalic venom, Korra still being significantly weakened by the poison during her final battle with Zaheer (causing her to fall and tumble down cliff-sides) and Zaheer trying to use his air-bending to suck the oxygen right out of Korra’s lungs (the same technique he previously used to assassinate the Earth Queen), plus the Unalaq fight from the Season 2 finale where extracts the Avatar spirit from Korra and kills all her past lives one by one with a water-whip as “white centrist writers being turned on by the trauma and torture of a woman of color.”

And in regards to She-Ra, Lily accused Catradora shippers of being an example of fandom going “full mask-off” simply because she found 2 or 3 random comments defending Catra’s abusive behavior prior to her gradual redemption arc in the final season simply because they found the Adora & Catra fights “hot” (which I know for a fact does NOT represent the entirety or even majority of the She-Ra fandom & Catradora shippers).

It’s just… I honestly don’t understand why Lily is describing these scenes as “torture p*rn” or “abuse fetishizing.” Like, it’s not unexpected for characters to undergo traumatic crap during their story arcs, and most often it’s for the purposes of raising the dramatic stakes of the conflict or to have said-characters eventually undergo some sort of positive change arc (which is what happens in both Korra and She-Ra btw). While the abuse Korra suffers at Zander’s hands is indeed violent, it’s intentionally disturbing and off-putting in order to increase the viewer’s suspense and fear over whether or not the main character will get out of this alive. Personally, when I first watched the Season finale of “Book 3,” I was on the edge of my seat and constantly worried for Korra’s survival, and while she is left physically and psychologically scarred by the whole ordeal I’ve heard that the entirety of “Book 4” (which I still haven’t seen BTW) focuses on Korra healing from her trauma and becoming more spiritually enlightened in the process. YouTuber and MarySue author, Princess Weekes, though had some interesting analyses about Korra’s portrayal of overcoming trauma and how its heavily rooted in East Asian philosophy, despite Weekes' overall mixed feelings about the series in general:

And while I can’t comment on The Owl House (again, haven’t watched any of it), I can say that Lily’s characterization of Catradora as “torture p*rn/abuse fetishization” is 100% wrong since the show frames Catra’s behavior towards Adora and others throughout Seasons 1-4 as toxic and unhealthy, and Season 5 is all about her fixing herself on her own volition after realizing the harm she’s caused, and it’s only AFTER all of that when Adora & Catra become lovers. But the way Lily describes the scenes in Korra & She-Ra (which are honestly pretty PG in their levels of brutality despite being fairly dark for family-friendly animation) you’d think she was talking about some over-the-top violently explicit tentacle hentai or something, as she even goes as far as to compare the Korra & Zaheer fight to FREAKING The Passion of the Christ (seriously… Lily actually compared Korra to Mel Gibson's antisemitic guilt-tripping exploitation film which unnecessarily stretches out Jesus' torture and crucifixion; which in the Bible occurred in just a few brief passages instead of 2-and-a-half hours like in the movie).

Geez… given how Lily so inaccurately mischaracterizes these scenes from Korra and She-Ra, I’d honestly hate to see she’d react to Neon Genesis Evangelion, which is heavily centered around the characters suffering from intense depressive episodes and experiencing emotional breakdowns, whilst also including lots of psychoanalytical and disturbing imagery. Knowing Lily, she’d probably ignore the fact that NGE’s director Hideaki Anno was suffering from severe depression while creating the series (which heavily influenced the show’s overall production and themes), and instead accuse all the depictions of depression and trauma in EVA of being “unrealistic” and “inaccurate” since according to her all fictional depictions of trauma are inherently inaccurate since there’s no one universal depiction of trauma (Lily actually said that in her terrible video), and accuse all of the series’ violent and sexual imagery of being “torture p*rn” whilst calling Anno a “perverted abuse-fetishizing creep who is turned on by torture” (which feels incredibly SWERFy on Lily’s part, as well as needlessly hostile towards people who are into BDSM or sado-masachism and practice it safely and consensually) just like she did to the creators of Korra, Owl House, and She-Ra (even though NGE and especially the movie The End of Evangelion is highly critical of exactly that kind of gross and toxic behavior within Japanese Otaku subcultures).

So my overall question is this: why do Lily and some other people think that including intense trauma or brutal torture scenes in comics or animation, even when said-scenes they're framed in the story as bad things are inherently “problematic,” “dehumanizing,” “fetishistic,” or “torture/trauma p*rn”? It's like... I can understand not wanting to stomach intensely violent or depressing scenes if they can't handle them, or being critical if they feel unnecessarily mean-spirited or exploitative, but often times having darker elements is an unavoidable aspect of giving a story a sense of conflict. Conflict is necessary in order to have a plot or to develop characters, except it feels like a lot of people on social media believe that the mere inclusion of any type of darker conflict or subject matter is inherently ethically dubious regardless of how its framed within the overall narrative.

I just don't get this kind of mentality and why it's become so prevalent online these days... I really don't...

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romanoffsbish · 1 year

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How to Mend What’s Broken

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Prompt

"I feel your absence in everything that I do alone, in every place I go without you."

Warnings: Angst; Breakup, Jealous Nat.

This is the first of many ghost posts, I’m queuing up my requested blurbs/fics as I finish them, but I won’t really be here.

She'd thought you were bluffing, that this year long mission would be like any of the others, and that when she came home with flowers and chocolates that you'd just happily embrace her. That wasn't the case though, she came back to find you'd not only moved out of your shared apartment, but that you apparently moved on. Hearing it through her family, the one you now shared after half a decade together was hard, but actually seeing it was truly devastating.

—————-

"Nat, if you go on the mission, then I'm gone.," the words replay in her fractured mind, on a continuous loop as she's forced to watch you dancing with another at Tony's New Year's party—it wasn't right, she felt nauseous seeing the way her hands sat on your hips, pulling you in for a kiss, and the worst part being the way you beamed back at her, pushing her fallen hair behind her ear, the same way you did hers.

Natasha could feel the bile rising up her throat, she couldn't stomach the sight of you two so happy together. Shifting on her feet she faced the bar again, chasing the obnoxious burning in her throat down with a different kind. She could hear you giggle from across the room, and in turn the next shot was thrown back. Every time she saw her hands on you flash in her mind another shot was taken, her high tolerance aside, the woman smelled like a distillery, and truly needed to be stopped.

"Sestra, slow down.," Yelena hissed, yanking the shot glass from her sister's hand, sending her a warning glare as she tried to grab it back., "Natasha, you made your choice, live with it.," The redheads shoulders deflated instantly at her words, because they were the ugly truth.

Months—you gave her so many of them to get it together, to finally put you first for once, but she continuously failed to do so, leaving you behind for those fleeting rushes of adrenaline, but that high she so desperately craved wasn't the same when she didn't have your arms to crash into after she finally returned home.

No, instead of welcome home cuddles, and whispers of 'I love you' between steamy kisses she's met with cold sheets, and nightmares. The kind that shows her how bleak her future is going to be without the love you two had fostered, she shakes her head as the aforementioned images began to flood her inebriated mind again., "It wasn't worth it."

Yelena clapped her sister on the shoulder, a smile riddled with pity sent her way., "Da, tupitsa, nakonets ty ponyal, teper' ispravlyay.," the redhead glared at her unbothered sister., "Good luck Natasha, you better succeed. I want my future sister in law back like yesterday."

(Yes dumbass, finally you understand, now fix it.)

Natasha didn't know how, or when, but she knew she'd get you back, because in the grand scheme of it all, you're definitely her soulmate. Part of her wondered if tonight might be the time, since she could feel your intense stare from a mile away, her heart even fluttered a bit at the premature hope it was filling up with.

It wasn't fair to your girlfriend, Clara, but you couldn't remove your gaze from your first love. The clueless girl was clinging to you, her head laying over your chest, and you hoped she didn't hear the skip in your heartbeat every time you got to see the other woman's face.

Natasha looked stunning in the black dress that clung to her every curve, the swell of her breasts visible to the naked eye due to the surprisingly low cut of the fabric. Part of you wondered if she did it on purpose, she had to have known you'd RSVP'd to the party, and as exciting as it is to know it might've been for you, you know she's no longer yours to gawk at.

Still, your eyes managed to linger on her all throughout the night, wandering her body in its entirety. Eventually catching the necklace that you got her for your second anniversary. Your fingers ghosted over the imprint of yours through your dress, causing your heart to ache, and for you to run off the dance floor as if you were Cinderella herself and the dreaded clock was about to strike midnight—which it was.

Natasha watched you run off the floor and onto the balcony, your hand clutching at your chest, and the other covering your mouth. To most you looked like you were going to be sick, but she knew you were trying to hold back the tears to keep your tough front up. She wasted no time running after you either, the door had barely shut before she was bursting through it, and catching the way your body shook with sobs, an ache consumed her as she watched all the pain she'd caused you come flooding right on out of you. It was painfully humbling...

"Natasha...," you went to tell her to leave, even if that's the opposite of what you wanted, you knew you needed her to go, because just one smile would be enough for you to crumble, and you didn't want that again. To be putty in her deceitful little hands, the ones that loved you so well on the sparingly good days, and left you craving so much more on the bulk of the rest., "I need you to...," the redhead however had other plans, ignoring you, and desperately blurting out a truth of her very own.

"I feel your absence in everything that I do alone, in every place I go without you.," her voice was not but a whisper as she moved to cage your trembling body in between hers, and the balconies metal rail., "I love you so much Y/N—my precious little dove."

"Natasha, please.," your hands gripped the rail even tighter as you pleaded for her to stop, to walk away like she always does; to let you go., "Tell me to stop, to go," she pressed her lips to the nape of your neck., "I- I can't.," a tear left your eye as you shamefully crumbled at the simplest of affections. How could you not? Natasha's touch had the power to set your body alight with need, no one else could compare, and deep down you were content with that.

Without giving you room to slip away she was able to turn you to face her, a soft smile on her face., "But God, Nat, I desperately want to.," you shakily admitted, causing her face to fall., "because I deserve so much better.," though your voice cracked, the conviction in your eyes was strong, and a ghost of a smirk befell her face as she filled with pride at seeing you fight for yourself so very well., "I'll do better!"

She could see you already registered her words as empty., "Fuck, detka please, I'll do anything you want or need if it means you'll just be mine again.," your brows furrowed at the sight of her being so vulnerable, it wasn't foreign for her to be like this with you, but this public display of it by her surely was. It honestly made you more willing to listen, and maybe take her seriously.

"I-I can't sleep another night without you Y/N, that damn apartment could never be a home without your laughter filling it, and my heart.," she paused, frantically grabbing at your hand so that you could feel the organ's steady thumping beneath your fingertips., "It will never be whole again without yours beating beside it, do you feel that? How hard it's beating against my ribcage? That's all you. Without you it's forever been out of sync."

Silence followed up the Russian's monologue. It consumed the air around the both of you, but it wasn't suffocating, the party was thankfully silenced by the compound's thick panes of glass, and the streets below were just quiet. The world continued to fade away as you stared into her gorgeous, viridescent eyes, and felt her heart beating in sync with your very own. If not for Natasha leaning in you're certain you could've been lost in her gaze for an eternity.

Natasha bit back a sob as the hand on her chest lightly pushed her back, fear of your incoming rejection rising steadily, but then she watched you smile as your hand slid over to the charm. A golden chain with her trademark spider dangling from it, your initials engraved in the bottom of the piece, and the color of your eyes matched the color of the jewel adorning it., "You kept it?," she frowned immediately., "I'd never dream of taking it off, it's a part of me as much as you are Y/N; a testament to our love."

To prove her point she gently tugged on your own chain, pulling the nearly identical charm from where it was hidden beneath your clothes. She smirked at your nervous fiddling while also admiring the piece that mirrored hers, the gem was an emerald, and her thumb ran over the markings that were her own on the bottom., “You kept it?,” she teasingly threw your words back at you causing you to pout., “Well yeah, it was really expensive.,” you groaned playfully, but she saw the way you clutched onto it as she dropped it, safely returning it to beneath your clothing., “Plus, it was all I had left of you.”

“Y/N, you have all of me.,” her thumb lovingly stroked over the apple of your cheek, you melted into the affection with so much ease that the former assassin nearly broke down. You’ve always put your unwavering faith in her, and that’s one of the many reasons she fell for you—hard and fast. The Avengers title, and culmination of her past meant nothing to you. To you she was Natty, with the strong arms, hot smirk, with horrible cooking abilities, and to her you were the definition of everything. Your soft voice pulled her out of her reverie., “Are your sure Nat? Because I can’t go back to being your second choice, I won’t do it.”

“You never were Y/N/N.,” she quietly admits, and before she could try to kiss you again you moved to whisper in her ear., “I’m no cheat Natalia, give me a few minutes, maybe let the Winter chill calm the ants in your pants, hm?,” she rolled her eyes, then smirked as you stared back at her skeptically., “Ants aren’t all I have in these pants by the way.,” she winked, then cackled as you subtly flipped her off before venturing off to find your unfortunate date.

Natasha watched over the city of New York, every second you were gone a spike of panic shot through her. What if the woman isn’t all that understanding? What if she hurts you? Before her mind could make her travel to rescue you the door slid open, she turned on instinct, but also she was feeling a bit hopeful., “Catch me!,” you squealed, running full force at the slightly sobered redhead, she mirrors your excitement as she spins you around though, then she tries to kiss you again in the thrill of the moment, but your finger slips in between your lips and she groans., “What is it now?”

“The countdown.,” you huffed, and she listened closely to hear all the shouting from indoors., “10,9,8…,” she tapped your dangling legs, and you got the message to wrap them around her., “3,2,1… Happy New Year!!!,” your cheers were abruptly brought to a close as Natasha’s lips met yours in a needy way, but you certainly weren’t going to complain, especially not when your ability to have done so was sullied by the tongue that was pretty much down your throat.

The kiss was messy, it’d been 387 days since she’d last been able to kiss you like this, and if you were aware at all you’d better be preparing for a long night, her roaming hands a sign that she isn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. Not that you’d want her to, your body was a squirming mess beneath hers as she’d laid you on a lounging chair, then quickly mounted you. Her lungs burned, but it wasn’t until you had tapped at her shoulder that she retracted with a displeased growl, reluctantly allowing you to breathe while she admired the dishevelment.

“To new beginnings.,” she whispered against your lips with a smirk as you panted wildly. Your eyes squinted as her bright phone screen was brought up to your face, the words slowly coming together as your cognition returned with each gasp of oxygen you inhaled., “Nat?,” your lip wobbled as you read it, and she leaned down to kiss you again, but far more tenderly like your quivering voice told her you needed., “Effective immediately detka; I’m all yours.,”

“No more missions?,” you sought out clarity with a bright smile and nervous stomach, and your beautiful woman beamed down to you, nodding her head while cupping your cheeks. The soft look she gave you warmed your heart, but you were a bit more focused on the way your entire body warmed at her great news., “Please, take me home Natasha.,” her eyes widened when your breathy plea came out, surveying your eyes she could see the lust at the forefront, so she scooped you up, and ran., “Whatever my detka wants, she fucking gets.”

——————————

2,264 Words.

❤️🤖

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anachilles · 17 days

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drive the dark clouds far away ☁

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. Throughout the years they’d known each other, he had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was. Or: Winter falls in Stalag Luft III, Gale's sick, and John has feelings about it all. -> read here on AO3 <-

A Nazi prisoner of war camp was hardly a place one would ever want to be, at any time or for any reason.

If Bucky had the choice, however, he sure as hell wouldn’t particularly choose to be in a Nazi prisoner of war camp in the middle of what was turning out to be a brutal Germanic winter.

It came on so suddenly, too, or at least that’s what it felt like. One day, the entire camp had been bathed in incandescent autumn sunshine. The kind that illuminated every leaf on every tree, lit the sky up so bright you could barely look at it, and sparkled off the surface of the puddles left behind from the early morning rain. The next day, and the next, and the next after that, it was like someone had gone and thrown a blanket over the sun itself. Everything was grey. Everything was dark. Everything around them started to wilt, to shed, to die.

For every degree the temperature dropped, for every shiver that raced up their spines in the dead of night, and for every dull, drizzly day that inched them through November and closer to Christmas, morale had started to plummet. It crept up on them and burrowed in like a degenerative disease, infiltrating their ranks one by one and slowly, gradually, started to break them down. Tired minds began to conjure bittersweet memories of good food, good music and the encompassing warmth of their families thousands of miles away, such imaginings only making their reality even starker. Anywhere at all outside the perimeter of the compound was beginning to feel like a whole other plane of existence.

At this point in the season, even the hours of daylight they were afforded were seemingly war-rationed. Dark moods, irritability and the icy tendrils of hopelessness had started to permeate the stalag as the sunsets came altogether too quick, and the daytimes were overwhelmingly bleak.

That night, Bucky shifted awkwardly in his bunk, trying to get comfortable in spite of the threadbare cushioning underneath him. It would have been pitch dark save for the slightest crack someone had left in the black-out curtains, letting moonlight spill in and make vague silhouettes out of the sleeping men around him. Several of them were snoring to various degrees of severity (God help them when Demarco properly got going), bed frames periodically creaking, someone even seemed to be humming slightly in their sleep.

The incessant background noise wasn’t the problem, though; the opposite, actually. From basic training, through flight school, then all the way to the war, Bucky had spent far too long now in shared quarters through every point in his military career to be able to sleep surrounded by absolute silence. In fact, if he closed his eyes and concentrated real hard he could probably have imagined himself being back in the barracks at Thorpe Abbotts right then, far, far away from this Kraut hell hole. Okay, the food wasn’t much better there, he’ll admit, but at least there was a stocked bar, actual showers, and no Nazi goons on a hairpin trigger when it came to pointing rifles at them for doing the sum total of jack shit too hard for their liking.

Bucky’s foot bounced in place as he stared a hole into the wooden slats of the bunk above him. Tension pulsed behind his eyes. When he exhaled, his breath materialised as a humid cloud, before dissipating again into the dark. Rain hammered against the window that was definitely draughty. His fingers were so cold they were starting to go white at the tips.

A sharp gasp suddenly pierced through the din, and in the same beat Bucky instinctively snapped towards it, the whirlpool in his brain suddenly stilling, sharpening down to a single point; like someone had ripped the plughole out of a bathtub. In the middle bunk directly across the way, in the shadows of the darkened cabin, the outline of Buck’s body jerked forward with a strangled little click… a pause… and then another. It was an oddly vulnerable sound, the action was chased by a heavy sniffle, and Bucky let out another long, visible breath.

With the insidious chill of deep winter now catching at their heels, illness was quickly becoming another looming problem with their fucked up sleep-away camp experience in the Glorious Third Reich. The often sub-zero temperatures, paired with a widespread lack of proper food, sleep, and provisions, as well as with them living on top of each other in such poorly built cabins (Bucky’d seen more insulation built into the damn backyard chicken coops he’d been roped into helping his neighbours build back home as a kid), meant that it was rife. Take a walk from one side of the camp to the other, and every third guy was coughing and spluttering with something.

It wasn’t even stuff that would necessarily be anything to worry about in any other time or place. Anywhere else in the modern age they lived in, it would be the usual winter crud that went around every year. Stuff that’d have them downing cough syrup, maybe a bit of hot whiskey, and being fussed over a bit by wives, girlfriends, or moms. Here, though? Despite how the men may joke about it to try and outrun the worry, lurking in a darkened corner of the room was an unavoidable reality that if the cold managed to sneak down into your chest and take root, lay you up with a fever you just can’t shake, in these conditions… well. Who knew what could happen?

There were some guys with a decent amount of medical training who acted as makeshift ‘doctors’ in a makeshift ‘hospital’ on site. Although, naturally as airmen, that leant more towards snapping back in dislocated shoulders, setting broken bones, and patching up bullet and/or shrapnel wounds well enough to get the victim to solid ground alive. There was little, if any, actual medicine to go around.

Before, it had been an abstract, underlying kind of concern, one he’d glance at every now and again before turning away, putting it out of his head again. Let himself be distracted by something else, not that there was much else to distract yourself with in here.

But then it was Buck.

Now, John’s body thrummed with a twitchy, nervous beat underneath his skin, some sort of momentum growing within him as his heart rate picked up and an internal debate played out in his head; one he’d been having with himself for several nights now. After only a handful of seconds from when he’d turned around in the first place though, there was another noise, something delicate and unplaceable. Whether it was the sound of teeth chattering or a stone rattling against the wall of the cabin, or whatever else it could be, it had John dropping down on his feet and gathering up his blanket, wincing as the chill of the room enveloped him all at once.

Crossing to Gale’s bedside, John wordlessly and unceremoniously chucked the blanket over the other man’s body, before leaning a hand against the wooden frame of the upper bunk above Gale’s own. He was curled up tight in on himself, arms stiff as they crossed over his chest, as if he was trying to gather any heat to be had around himself and keep it there by force.

John watched, and waited, as Gale sluggishly unfurled himself a little and turned around to face him, expression sleepy. His face caught the moonlight, something jarring in John’s chest at how pale he looked.

“Bucky?” he asked softly, his already rumbling voice now gravelly and shot to pieces. “Did I wake you?”

Unable to help himself, John heaved out a disbelieving huff of laughter, his voice dropping into a murmur “What, with your bizarre, near-perfectly silent sneezing? Yeah, you did, actually.” Gale rolled his eyes.

“Please, just try to be a bit more considerate to the other guests at this fine establishment.” Success curled fleeting warmth within John when he got a hint of a smile out of the other man. It was the first he’d seen from him in nearly two days, and the twitch of his mouth alleviated an increment of pressure in John’s chest he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. “God bless you, by the way.”

It would’ve sounded like a taunt if it wasn’t so fond.

“What do you want then, Bucky?”

In pursuit of cutting to the damn chase, because this was all fun and games but now John really was freezing his balls off, he replied “It’s too cold now for any of us to be sleeping by ourselves.”

At that, Gale’s rheumy gaze sharpened, his eyes scanning the room. John briefly followed them as they took in nearly every other man in the cabin having broken off into a pair to bunk down with for the winter.

“It’s okay, Buck,” John supplied, loosening the valve and letting sincerity bleed into his tone even as he lowered it. This is probably the most ‘okay’ we’ve ever been or ever will be to do this where people can see it.

Memories rise unbidden then; awkward, inexperienced fumbles and a hurried kiss in the barely-lit supply closet off an aircraft hangar in Texas while all the other cadets were asleep. Hidden away in Bucky’s short-lived Air Exec office while he still had it, a rare moment of stolen solitude behind a blessedly locked door with frosted windows. The one time they’d dared risk venturing into the woods at Thorpe Abbotts in the dead of night. They were more experienced by then, but somehow only more repressed and desperate for having now known the other’s touch, but having had to go without it for so long.

“Those RAF pricks were right about one thing for certain.”

“What’s that?”

“You were getting too handsy” Gale had said, voice edged in grit, grabbing John’s wrists and yanking them away behind his back.

In the next breath however, John shrugged, adding “And, well, you have my blanket now. So you either scoot over, or I go back to my bunk and freeze to death. Your choice.”

Gale levelled him with a withering look that only made John want to smile in return, but after a brief contemplative moment, a pregnant pause and a steely gaze edged in wary scrutiny, the caginess seemed to melt out of him, like he physically couldn’t hold onto it any longer. He acquiesced with no more fuss about it, shifting closer towards the wall and pulling up the blankets to invite John in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, these bunks barely made to fit one fully grown man, never mind two, but suppose that was kind of the point of this, wasn’t it?

John hopped up onto the bunk, the wood groaning slightly under their combined weight, and took the liberty of adjusting Gale a little further onto his side so that he could bracket right in tightly to his back. The length of Gale’s body seemed to slot perfectly against the curve of his own. Back to chest, thigh to thigh, shin to calf. As if by muscle memory, underneath the blankets John’s hand traced a reverent trail down the length of his side, the feeling warm and honey-sweet with familiarity. As was the way he felt Gale relax into his touch, his head turning a tantalising fraction of an inch back towards his face. John’s next exhale came more comfortably than any had in weeks, despite how his heartbeat kicked a little bit harder against his ribcage. Tracing upwards from where his hand had wandered to Gale’s thigh, because he’s nothing if not a goddamn hedonist, John indulged himself with another handful of stolen seconds to touch, to rub and knead affectionately at the curve of Gale’s waist.

This place was hell. A labyrinth of endless days filled with grey, bleak, monotonous nothingness on top of a vague, torturous hope that one day will be the right one; that that day they’ll escape. Or be liberated. They’d been keeping up to date with the state of the war on their homemade contraband radio, listened to and dutifully recited by Gale every night as they forced down boiled garden scraps swimming in dishwater broth. They couldn’t be long now from the invasion of Europe, they tried to reassure each other. It proved enough to get the men out of bed every day and keep them going through the drudgery.

John, though; if he had this. If he had Buck solid and tangible and living and breathing before his eyes and underneath his fingertips, he’d find his way out. The embers that sparked to life in his chest with the feeling of just being near him would light his way out.

A shallow cough sounded from somewhere across the room, and John’s hand froze, even under the shroud of the blankets. Despite arguing the logic of this himself only minutes ago, of why it was ‘okay’, the sudden reminder of the ambient presence of the other men in the room amplified then. John couldn’t help but be aware of it, a shred of unease fluttering to life in his chest.

Swallowing it down, and simply unable to truly pull himself away anyway, he retired his wandering touch and looped his arm around Gale’s middle. His broad hand splayed wide across his chest as he brought the other man impossibly closer. John could feel just how cold he was, even through the fabric of his clothes. That was worrying enough in and of itself, but shock jolted through him like lightning as Gale’s hand brushed his own.

“Jesus, Buck! You’re like ice,” John ground out, reaching to grab it before Gale could move it away again. He knew he likely wasn’t much better, all-too-aware of the pervasive and unshakable chill infecting his own fingers. Whatever last vestiges of warmth he may have had remaining within himself though, hidden away in some forgotten or unreachable nook or cranny, he’d give to Gale in a heartbeat if he could. Even if he couldn’t, he’d try regardless.

Gale’s fingers flexed around his own, joining them, before bringing them up to his mouth and huffing a breath of hot air over John’s hand. The breath caught a little in his throat though, triggering a bubbling of thick, stilted coughs. “You are too.”

John laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah, no shit. We all are…” he said, his tone softening then, even as he prodded the back of Gale’s knee with his own “...but you’re sick. So I’d argue it’s definitely more important to make you not so.”

He felt Gale’s body squirm a little uncomfortably in place against him, shaking his head a little, tilting it down. “It’s just a cold, John.”

“Yeah, for now. But you don’t…” The whispered words fall between them with a heavy clang, echoes of meaning slipping through where maybe they hadn’t been intended. John’s eyes were trained on the back of Gale’s head in the dark, his forehead resting on the other man’s golden crown. Even then, John felt more than saw him stiffen, then pull away as much as he physically could from John’s vice-like hold. He pitched forward with two more clumsily pinched back sneezes, grumbling in annoyance as he then groped underneath the pillow, eyes teary and nose dripping, for the now-worn handkerchief he’d been holding there.

Yeah, it wasn’t exactly convenient, particularly at a time such as this, that they all tended to only have the one on them that they’d had when they went down.

Oh, it was so uncharacteristically inelegant it was actually endearing. A peek behind the curtain at Gale Cleven, the mere mortal. Happy to let himself be sidetracked from his worry for a moment, John dipped into one of the inner pockets of his long coat and pulled out his own handkerchief, gallantly offering it over.

Gale’s head swivelled back, his gaze questioning, and John shrugged. “It’s clean, I promise,” he said, though his eyebrows drew together in sudden contemplation. “Well… mostly. I might’ve washed up with it earlier today…” He made a show of trailing off, pulling the collar of his sweater up over his face and taking an experimental sniff down into it. “Ah, no, definitely not, actually. You’re all good.”

Thoroughly used to his antics, Gale didn’t even blink, though his chapped lips did pull up into a fleetingly small, slow, reluctant sort of smile, before eventually taking it from him. He let the fabric linger in his fingers for a mysterious extra beat, his thumb swiping once over it, before putting it to use. When he did speak, his voice was completely mangled with congestion. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Probably would have taken it anyway.”

John winced, the levity leaking back out of his countenance like a faulty fuel line. “You sound awful, Buck,” he mumbled seriously, “C’mon, lie back down.”

Though he dismissed the concern with a telling look, Gale complied and they fell into an easy sort of silence. Their breaths, underlined by the tangible rise and fall of John’s chest against the other man’s back, fell into the slow, steady rhythm held by the rest of the room. Even after a handful of minutes he could tell Gale wasn’t sleeping, though. Neither was he, evidently, feeling like a live wire despite how exhausted and perpetually bone-weary his body had become. He was tired, probably needed to sleep, but at the same time didn’t want to miss a second of their contact now that they had established it. He didn’t want to close his eyes, open them again, and it be morning time again so damn soon, that chasm of emptiness in the space between them returning all too quickly.

If only to give himself something to do, have somewhere to put that gnawing awareness, John gave into temptation. Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to the nape of Gale’s neck. Just once, at first. Experimental; his eyes flitting up briefly to catch Gale’s reaction. With the sight of his lips dropping further open around a sudden inhale he tried to conceal, John took the silent approval and continued in his work. One kiss here, another one there, he marked a languid trail down the column of Gale’s neck and back up again, an answering shiver racing up the length of his spine when John’s mouth teased that one little spot under the hinge of his jaw. It was addictive; and what was Bucky Egan if not an addict?

Having thoroughly surveyed all that he could reach, John’s hand slipped down and palmed at Gale’s hip, urging him to turn back over and face him. When he did, his cheeks were flushed. His eyes still heavy, but now with pupils blown and trained right on him. They pinned John in place, made the cabin, and the camp, and all of Germany, all of Europe itself disappear around him. As if pulled by magnets and with the weight of the last couple of months bearing down on him, John moved to kiss him properly. His eyes snapped open when his mouth met the soft pressure of cold, unyielding fingertips, mere centimetres from the IP.

There was something brittle now in Gale’s gaze when John looked again, that feeling scooped back up and the lid put back on the jar. It still shone through though, muted but simmering away under the surface. Behind the shield of darkness and John’s broad body, Gale’s hand twisted, cupping John’s jaw as his thumb delicately swiped across the seam of his lips. “You’re gonna end up getting sick with me lying here breathing in your face all night.”

John let out a huff of annoyance, exaggerated maybe just a little bit in the hopes of making Gale smile again. “No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

Despite his amusement at the childish back and forth, John relented, changing course. “Okay, well, if it’s doomed to happen anyway I’d rather it was from you than any of the rest of these clowns, so…” He peeled Gale’s hand from his jaw, his phantom touch lingering in a way he hoped remained corporeal right through until the morning at the very least. In the same fluid movement he turned it around and mouthed his knuckles, then with a heart so full it could’ve burst right out of him, leaned in, slowly, carefully, kissed him anyway.

Oh, he could feign all the long-suffering exasperation he wanted to, but John knew the truth of the matter in how the tense lines of the other man’s body loosened under his hold then, how he nudged himself closer in the new position to close out any hint of a gap and the biting chill that could and would find its way through.

God knew he needed it, too. John wasn’t sure if it was just him that noticed the trail of signs left in Gale’s wake wherever he went throughout the day, subtle or not, that gave away just how crappy he was feeling. Sitting in the same room as the rest of them but far enough away at any given point. The way he’d pinch the bridge of his nose, presumably against the pressure there and the ache behind his eyes. How his chest sometimes seized with the need to cough that had been swallowed back. How he’d been keeping it all held back behind a tight jaw and clenched teeth, a brave face on for the sake of their men and the general morale. Whether he’d choose it or not, Gale knew he was a symbol, much like John, much like any other group’s commanding officers. He had a responsibility.

Now, though, in whatever new strange semi-privacy they’d stumbled upon and could seemingly kid themselves for a few hours they were alone within, it started to crumble.

In the extended silence, with sleep still out of reach, John couldn’t help but reflect on all of that. Right down to the very position he’d found him in when he gathered the nerve to approach his bunk, Gale was so damn protective of himself. Fiercely so, at times, that stoic, guarded veneer serving as a concrete wall between himself and the sometimes inexplicable chaos of the world. When they first met, oh so many moons ago now, John had been tempted to simply assume he lived with a stick up his ass and leave it at that.

Maybe it was because he was pretty in a way that his teenage self didn’t quite have the vernacular to understand yet, maybe it was the quiet echo of his mom’s voice in the back of his head scolding him about not judging a book by its cover, maybe it was divine intuition. But whatever it was, Bucky would thank whatever may have been out there in the sky looking down on them that, for whatever reason, he’d chosen instead to throw all of his chips in on Gale Cleven and insist on knowing him anyway. To push and prod and tease and question and irritate and somehow charm his way into the other boy’s life, into the most genuine, heartfelt friendship he’d ever had, and then further into, well, this. One that allowed him to pull on the thread of the image of himself that Gale presented to the world, bit by bit, without reprisal.

Throughout the years they’d known each other, Gale had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’ and how he wished he could’ve been there for him, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was.

If he was stubborn and headstrong and fiercely protective of himself, fine. He had every right to be; had made himself that way out of necessity. Thinking about the circumstances of how and why made John’s heart ache something stupid just to think about, so he made a point to try not to.

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. For having taken the shitty hand life had dealt him and still come out the other side so kind and compassionate, to have taken all the hurt and the loneliness, bottled it up, and somehow turned it into white-knuckled determination to do better with himself. For having made his life something, even if his ambition was originally rooted in defiance against what had been laid out for him. For having the hordes of men in the squadron he presides over look upon him with deferential reverence, for giving them hope by making himself look invincible. Truly uncatchable, even despite having been caught.

If it ever got to be too much, though, especially in here, where home seemed so far away, and the idea of safety such an abstract, unreachable concept, Bucky would shoulder it. Without a second thought, every time. Gale Cleven deserved tenderness, and by hell was John Egan going to do everything he could to give it to him.

John had his moments when he let the darkness in; indulged in thoughts of disillusionment, found himself questioning any number of aspects of what they were doing, how they were doing it, and for what. One thought always ended up shing through the murky din though, a guiding light that pretty much always managed to pull John back in its direction. Back on path.

So long as he and Gale Cleven were on the same side, he knew he was in the right spot.

“Bucky?” His voice reached out, barely there and so soft John could’ve denied even hearing it at all. “You still awake?”

John’s eyes fluttered open, readjusting to the dark again as he blinked away the cobwebs from the sort of half-sleep he’d drifted off into. He hummed in affirmation. “What d’ya want then, Buck?” he echoed from earlier, chucking the other man’s own words back at him with a teasing, heavy-lidded smirk.

The question hung still and charged in the air between them as Gale hesitated, teetering on the brink of losing the nerve to ask whatever it was he wanted. Surely he should know by now, with John being the blatant and irredeemable sucker that he is, could ask quite literally anything of him and he’d find a way to grant him it?

Gale looked like his mind was half somewhere else, eyes unable to fully meet John’s own, and still seemingly debating whether to continue or not right up until the moment the words left his lips. “Y’know what, um… what this needs right now?”

John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

When it came, it came small and vulnerable. “...vocals,” he said, before catching himself, the word ghosting across John’s chin. “Very, very quiet vocals.” Gale’s hand wound around John’s back, before slipping up the back of his shirt to flatten against John’s freckled back.

John couldn’t help the smile unwinding across his face, eyes sparkling in the dark with sudden mirth. “From me?” he questioned, infused with faux-disbelief. He made a show of pressing the back of his hand up under his dirty blond bangs to Gale’s forehead, half-teasing about checking for fever, but breathing a very real sigh of relief when he found little evidence of one yet.

“I mean, I did always say you would all eventually come around and see me for the true musical talent that I am. I’m just glad it’s finally being acknowledged, so I won’t hold the delay against you.”

Gale rolled his eyes, though it drew a smile out of him at the same time, even so.

He may have had no hope of being privy to all that went on inside Gale’s head, despite knowing all the important coordinates and the routes to get there. But he could see the sickbed request for what it was, the reminder of where they’d come from. A tether to an old life that felt sickeningly distant now, lost in the soupy abyss of the camp. A yearning for something familiar; anything. He sees just a hint of Gale’s impatience, his growing frustration at their situation and the longing for home, and it fractionally lightens the loads bearing down on John’s own chest. That for all his calm, careful control on the surface, it was confirmation that he felt it too.

Catching them both by surprise, and with grumbled curse, Gale twisted away with another desperate sneeze, newly acquired handkerchief hastily raised. Newly, and sort of relievingly, unrestrained, the harsh sound echoing off the walls of the small cabin.

Uncharacteristically flustered and with an apology quick on his tongue, Gale immediately moved his entire body so they were chest to back again, and he was facing the wall. “Right, that’s it. I’m turning back around.”

“You do whatever you need to get comfortable, and I’ll ahem, warm up,” he replied through a smile, the dismissal of the apology silent but palpable.

Gale fell asleep that night to the soft, dulcet tones of Blue Skies butchered in his ear. Despite the cold, despite the illness, it was the easiest sleep since he’d arrived.

The next morning, Douglass and Hambone were the first to reluctantly extricate themselves out of bed, it being their turn to do the first water run of the day and collect the cabin’s assigned jugs. Once they were outside, confident in being completely out of earshot, the gossip flowed freely.

“Jesus, you’d think Cleven and Egan gab enough to each other during the day, now they’re going to be at it at night too?!”

#masters of the air #clegan #buck x bucky #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #HOOOOO BOY #first fic for this fandom/pairing #we're really in it now boys x #my writing

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anonymityisfunwriter · 1 month

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Timeless - Part 4: "In The 1500's, Off In A Foreign Land"

"If I first saw your face in the 1500's off in a foreign land, and I was forced to marry another man, you still would've been mine..."

Summary: It's the kind of love you find once in a lifetime, the kind of love you don't put down, and somehow, you know you would've found each other in every life.

'Timeless' Chapter List | The Grumpy Sunshine Series

Your eyes flutter shut as the summer breeze fills your lungs. You grip the stone balcony with all the strength you can muster.

"Your highness," Bucky announces himself.

"James, please, spare the formalities," you halfheartedly beg of him. You both knew what was coming. You couldn't bear the cold formality in his voice reminding you. "We're alone out here."

Spare the formalities, he does not.

He softly inhales, holding his head high and his jaw tight, "Your highness, the guests will be arriving shortly."

You pay him no mind, instead, you stare out into the garden. The one that held all those stolen moments, lingering touches, and longing glances. "The garden looks particularly beautiful this time of night, doesn't it?"

"Your betrothed," he pointedly remarks as though to remind you that you were never his to begin with, "...will be here shortly."

"James... please."

He can't stop himself from taking his place by your side when he hears the plea in your voice. He knows he'd be killed if someone caught him here in this moment with you. Still, he takes your hand, grazing over your fingers in tender strokes.

It's the last time he'll ever have you like this. He may as well make the most of it.

He glances over to you, his gaze soft and swimming with despair, "We've always known this would happen."

You shake your head so softly, Bucky can't be sure that it isn't just the warm summer breeze playing tricks on his mind. You hold your head high, but your voice wavers, betraying the regal facade, "Please, don't."

It breaks him. It tears him apart that he's hurt you because he wasn't strong enough to resist falling in love.

He took the most sacred of oaths. He was supposed to protect you.

Mind, body, soul.

Mind, body, soul, and heart.

He broke that. It was his turn to be strong, to walk away so you didn't have to. He tears his own hand away, "I'll let your ladies know you're ready for your evening gown."

"James," you call after him. "James!"

Your only response is the door snapping shut followed by a loud resounding silence. And then, there's just nothing. A nothingness that sweeps over everything, your world becoming a shade of bleak you've never known.

You stand so still on the balcony, silent tears streaming down your cheek. You hardly notice your ladies entering your room. You don't move from your spot on the balcony, the spot where he left you for the very last time.

One of your ladies taps on your shoulder, she curtsies before you, "Your highness, are you quite alright?"

"I suppose I'm anxious," you halfheartedly chuckle, wiping away the tears. "I don't - I don't truly know what will become of me tonight."

"He's a good man from what I've heard. The servants say that he treats them well, he has a good heart. He will be a good ruler and a good husband."

You look over your shoulder, offering a soft smile, "Thank you."

"We should get you dressed. They'll be expecting you shortly."

You nod, allowing them to slip the off white gown on you. It's a beautiful gown, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't select it specifically for Bucky's eyes.

There was a time not long ago, a time when you were young and naive, full of hopeless love and a head full of fantasies of a triumphant, timeless love, that you would dream together.

Hand in hand, you would lie in your private meadow and dream. Dreams of one day walking down the aisle to Bucky. Dreams of wearing a gown that would take his breath away. Dreams whispered for only him to hear. Dreams carried away in the night.

Going through the motions off getting prepared make your chest feel more hollow than you thought ever possible. If you listen closely, you swear you can hear the summer breeze whistling through the hole torn through your heart.

By the end of the hour, you stare at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And yet, you feel more empty than ever before.

It feels like a death march, walking from your bedroom chamber to the ballroom. You've never met the man you were promised to before. You don't know anything about him except what your ladies in waiting knew.

You know it wouldn't matter anyway. You could know everything about him. You could know him from head to toe. You could know his heart, his mind, his soul, and he would never compare. He couldn't compete with the man that held your heart.

Your guards trail you behind with one notable absence. Bucky. The head of your security. Your most trusted protector. One of the most senior members of the Royal Guard.

Long before either of you knew civility, you knew him as that bright eyed little boy. Once a little boy wandering the grand halls of the palace, he followed in his father's steps, becoming an invaluable knight. It was somewhere in that time he became your own knight in shining armor.

He held your heart long before he commanded soldiers, long before your father appointed him to your security detail. He was the person you trusted most. Your confidante. The one person who spoke freely to you.

You walk past the garden. It was always your favorite place in the palace. The place where you first saw those blue eyes. Even at such a young age, your heart knew. He would always be yours. Even if fate would not allow it, even if destiny tore you apart, your soul would always belong to him. All those nights, sneaking out to the garden. You would be dead if anyone knew. He would be dead if anyone knew.

You don't even realize you're being presented to your betrothed until your name is bellowed through the ballroom. Gilded from top to bottom, you can the ballroom from the very top of the grand staircase, Bucky is nowhere to be found.

You walk down the staircase alone. Your heels click against the smooth marble. You hold your head high, face unflinching and stoic. The face of a future queen. The face of a woman that just lost the great love of her life.

There is nothing remarkable about the man you're to marry. Nothing but the crown resting atop his head - a crown you weren't the least bit interested in. His words sound like a dull buzz in your ear. His eyes flat and dull. Even his kind smile is but a spark to the flame you shared with Bucky. Perhaps, in another life you could learn to love him. It's a lie, you realize. In those other lives, your heart belongs to Bucky too.

You can't do this, you decide in the moment the dinner is finished. You can't promise yourself to another man knowing that you'd lose the love of your life. You could do without the crowns, without the jewels, without any of it, you would give it all away if it meant you could have him. You can't go about your life without Bucky.

You wait until the cloak of night. And then you go after what you can't live without.

You stand in his room all alone. He's not here. Nowhere to be found. You curl your hands into fists, determined to wait for him all night. Consequences be damned. You're not but a few moments into your rumination when you hear footsteps in the corridor.

The moment his lantern illuminates the room, he gasps, his hand flinching towards his sword. He sighs, sheathing his sword when he sees it's you. His face is cold and distant as he speaks to you, "You shouldn't be here, your highness."

"I do not love him."

"You will learn to love him," Bucky dryly insists. "We must get you back before-"

"No," you forcefully interject. "I will not. My heart belongs to another. My heart belongs to you."

"We can never be," he speaks through gritted teeth, his trembling hands tightly clenched. "You are the princess. You will one day be queen. I am sworn to protect the crown that will rest on your head. That is our duty."

"Tell me," you softly exhale. "Tell me you do not feel the same."

"I -" He can't bring himself to say the words.

"Please, so that we may fulfill our duties," you beg. "Tell me."

"You know I cannot."

"Then tell me why you run."

"You know why."

You furiously shake your head, "I do not."

"I cannot give you the life you deserve. Even if I could, your future does not lie with me, a mere commoner. I am but a man sworn to protect you. My place is not and will never be by your side."

You bitterly chuckle, "You truly think so lowly of yourself?"

"No." He shakes his head. His eyes flash over to you, finally his gaze softens, "Perhaps I think of you only in the highest regard, in the highest esteem, far higher than I could ever reach."

"You do not see yourself clearly. You are what I cannot live without. You are what I cannot bear to lose."

Bucky takes your hand, squeezing it tightly, "You love your people. You love this land."

"I love you."

"As I love you..." He cups your face, tenderly stroking your cheek, "There is no other heir. With your mother passed on, what will become of our people if we leave them defenseless and without a ruler?"

"I've read our constitution, there is nothing proclaiming I must marry of royal bloodline."

"Your father would never allow it. I would lose my head for even thinking of such impropriety."

"I am the sole heir. I will be queen."

"Yes."

"I will not allow myself to be torn between my love for my people and my love for you."

"We all have our cross to bear."

"Then let me bear mine. I will speak to my father. I will make him see. I will rule with you at my side or I will rule alone and our bloodline will die with me."

"You cannot -"

"I can."

"Am I truly worth risking the wrath of your father, the wrath of our king?"

"You are worth everything to me."

You find your father first thing the next morning. He sits surrounded by his advisors, the same advisors that convinced your father to promise you to the neighboring country.

You knew you were not unique in this situation. You were not alone when your heart and duties were pulling you apart at the seams. You knew few loves ever triumphed. Few could overcome such pressure. And even fewer survived with two intact.

You shudder at the thought of Bucky paying the price for falling in love with you. You were both so young when you first saw him. So young and so naive.

Regardless, you stand tall. This was a love worth the fight. A love that would endure. A love that would be timeless.

"Father," you curtsy before him. "I must speak with you at once."

"Leave us." He raises a hand in dismissal. As gentle and benevolent as your father could be, he could also be stern and unflinching in his mind. People don't question your father. People don't question the king. The advisors scurry out of the throne room without another word."Is something troubling you, my dear?"

You nod, swallowing your fear for Bucky's sake. "There is something I must discuss with you."

Wonder burns in your father's eyes. "Go on."

"I am afraid I cannot proceed with the betrothal," you firmly state, your voice as cool and unwavering as steel.

He quirks an eyebrow, his eyes blown wide, "I beg your pardon?"

"I cannot marry him. I do not love him."

"You will learn to love him."

You can't count how many people have told you something similar. Hundreds since your betrothal over a decade ago. Even then, you were hopelessly in love with Bucky. "My heart belongs to another."

"An infatuation is not - "

"It is no infatuation," you explode. "I spent life loving this man. I love him with all my heart. I will not lose him. Allow him to rule beside me when the day arrives."

Your father leans forward, his gaze bearing down on you, "And what of our alliance? Your betrothal? Imagine the scandal!"

"We can ally ourselves without my hand in marriage," you reply, speaking each syllable as calmly and carefully as your most revered diplomats. "Our land is bountiful. Our people are strong."

"You love this gentleman?"

"I do."

"And who, pray tell, is this man?"

You lower your head. This was the part you feared most. Risking the life of the one you love with every fiber of your being. You reminded yourself that there was a plan. One you spent all night constructing. He was waiting on the outskirts of your meadow, if it didn't go well, you'd run away and leave it all behind. For him. "James. James Barnes."

"The head of your personal guard?"

You don't allow your voice to waver. "Yes."

"And what if I had him executed for this treason?"

"This was no treason, Father!" you speak with an intensity that you've never dared to before. Your chest heaves with panic. This was it. The moment where you lost or gained everything. "I have loved him from the moment I saw him when we were children. I would never forgive you. You would lose your sole heir."

"You would forsake your land, your people, for him?"

Without a breath of hesitation, you nod, "Yes."

Your father sucks in a breath. It was unlike you. You were the perfect portrait of an heir. With the death of your mother, people looked to you to see a steady hand and a reasonable mind. He almost forgot that somewhere buried in your sense of responsibility, was a heart that was entirely your own. "I see."

You reach for your father's hand, holding it tightly, "He is a good man. A good man who has devoted his life to the Crown."

"You cannot marry an untitled man."

"Father, please -"

"Let me finish," he stops you. "You cannot marry an untitled man, but I cannot lose my only daughter."

"Thank you, Father." You don't bow to him this time. This time, you rush towards him, throwing your arms around him. "Thank you."

"I loved your mother the way you love him," he whispers for you to hear. "I would have given it all away for her. Everything except you."

Tears well in your eyes. You squeeze his hand one last time. "Thank you."

You don't waste another moment before you run to Bucky. You find him anxiously pacing the meadow, the sunlight making his blue eyes look more brilliant than any flower you've ever seen.

His breath catches the moment he sees you running towards him. Down the cobblestone path he's spent years watching you from. He run towards you, meeting you in the center of the meadow you turned into his haven.

The moment you're close enough to touch, his hands grip your waist. His wild eyes rake over you, "Your highness..."

You throw your arms around him, "I love you."

"Your father?"

You nod into the crook of his neck. "He understands."

He breaths a sigh of relief. And for the first time since your betrothal was announced, he feels hope bloom in his heart. He pulls back, his hand pushing away the stray hair from your face. His chest heaves, his heart overwhelmed with the one dream he never dared to believe would come true. His eyes bore into yours gleaming and twinkling, so inviting you have no choice but to jump in. "Our love will be timeless, I swear it."

And it was.

On the dreaded day your father's long reign ended, and you became the queen you were born to be. He was there, holding your hand, holding you steady, by your side where he belonged.

Yours was a story of triumph, a story of hope, a love story turned into folklore, destined to be passed down from generation to generation.

Your love would last forever. A tale as timeless one could be.

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Inspired By Taylor Swift Masterlist Bucky Barnes Masterlist

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