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tarjapearce · 25 days

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Heathens (Pt. 2)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun! Reader

Art by @mar_mar0u in X

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Religious topics, Corruption Kink, Oral in holy places (Male receiving) Fingering, implicit Breeding kink, Angst, violence (Whipping, and other physical injuries) Character background, sexual and mutual pining, power dynamics, not proofread.

Summary: Father Miguel is growing tired of his beatific life.

A|N : reblogs and feedback fuel me :'). Thanks in advance.

Previous Spanish Version

Miguel tried, tried with all his might to fool himself. It was one of those things he excelled at like no other.

The war won't reach us.

He'd always mumble to his coworkers back at the machinery factory. A place he was designated after failing thr recruitment's medical tests. On purpose.

He faked his eye sight terrible and a slurred speech enough for the doctors to deem him a failing specimen that wouldn't last for more than days, in a war that had brought nothing but calamit to everyone involved.

People barely spoke to him at the factory, which played off perfect. He did his job, none bothered him except for reaching things too far of reach, and he got home safe.

A lanky man that slowly but surely developed his brawns within the heavy duty line. His job was to fix and assemble motors that would end up in cars, planes, ships and whatever medium used to destroy the enemy.

Part of Nueva York was already destroyed. The echelons in society blurred to the point of subduing everyone under the same category in the neighbor states. Refugees.

The church played an important part as they took as many as they could under their beatific walls.

Miguel wasn't a devote believer, but respected the business enough to help whenever they required it in his little town. Anyone who helped others in need had his respect.

If the church needed a new roof to harbor in more refugees, he and other men would make it. The innate feeling of helping and guiding others was something the Church's Father always complimented.

He explained Miguel what would he do in case he turned himself to God and follow a path of holy life. But no matter how much the Father spoke, his ties to the world and it's pleasures were too much to give up.

Miguel had all the qualities of being the perfect Father, but how could he consider such thing when the woman underneath him, writhed while clawing at his back, and begged the heavens above for him to not stop? Begged him to plow harder within her drenched and spasming walls over and over?

A Father would never do that. He didn't care if he was called basic for wanting sex. He didn't care if he was called greedy for wanting a nice car and a little property in a secluded area in the outskirts of Roeville.

And he definitely didn't care if he was called thoughtless for wanting a little family in the admist of chaos. Someone to get home to. Cause again, a Church's father would never. They could never do such things. If anything, he'd fulfill the lord's command of multiplying one day.

He was more than happy as he was, living a relatively innocuous life.

The war won't reach us.

A lie he fed himself to the point of turning it into his personal mantra. And when none else that those three words came into the town, in the shape of armored rebels, destroying everything he had worked for so hard, Miguel knew a decision needed to be done.

He took the remaining survivors out and guided them away from cruel eyes that wouldn't doubt into recruiting them into their madness.

He might have escaped the elite pass to a major scale war, but he often forgot about the opposition. The opportunists that would gain power in the right hands of ignorant and bloodthirsty people.

The rebels had gone town to town, forcefully recruiting men to join their barracks, to fight against a new order that promised nothing but their rights removed.

Miguel didn't want to know shit about it. He didn't want to partake in a war he didn't start. He didn't want to leave the commodities life had served him so far. In fact, as he guided the people through the frozen river, he begged his neglected friend above to allow him to keep a rather easy life.

But rebels caught up to him, killing those that dared to run away, gaining the immediate end for treason to a cause they've never pledged for. A bullet ricocheted on the six year old boy propped on his shoulders, falling immediately to the glacial waters.

Miguel didn't doubt and pulled the kid out, despite feeling his bones freezing and numbing, and hauled him to the ground. If blood loss didn't kill him, hypothermia would. There was little he could do but offer the child a few words of consolation as he held his feeble and trembling form, drowning in tears; feeling the short life escaping warmly through his fingers.

Shouting, screaming and a couple of shots was all he could discern before an armored man pulled him by the collar, making him drop the boy's body to the ground and kneel. The tip of the man's weapon rested a bit too intimate on his head.

"P-Por favor!" (Please)

Miguel mumbled in between nervous pants snd clattering teeth as his hands rose in defense.

The man interrogated him, in spanish. Where was he from, where were the rest and what did he do. And like an epiphany, his mouth spilled the words not even in his wildest dreams he thought pronouncing.

"Soy... Soy un Padre, de la Parroquia San Buenaventura. Sólo vine a ayudar." (I'm a Father, from San Buenaventura's Parish. I came here to help.)

Said parish had been visited during his childhood and possibly long forgotten and non-existant by now, everything he knew about holy endeavours was thanks to his reluctant catholic upbringing. And it was enough to prolonging his stay in this realm.

"Porqué huiste entonces?" (Why did you run away then?)

"No quiero morir." (I don't wanna die.)

The man scrutinized his soul, but the words had came out his plump mouth with such conviction, it left no room for doubtsto those that wouldn't hesitate in shooting at the minimum sign of lying.

Miguel could be one of those people that could say undoubtedly God has a dark sense of humor. Cause none other than the leader asked him to bless him and his weapons to then take the reduced and mourning group to the nearest church.

And now, almost a decade and holy studies later, he preached the mass to people in town. Donned with the holy robes that would screech with condemning words if people ever knew what crossed his mind every time he laid his eyes on you.

His little lamb. His ever delicious little lamb, awaiting to be corrupted by none other than the wolf himself.

Cause that night, back at his den, corruption had ruled over both of your minds. Not only he had shown you what pleasure was and how you could achieve it on your own, but promised more.

More of him exploring places of your body none had the blessing of doing so before. More of him tasting those areas you only though of a single purpose, but his tongue had proven multi-task. More of that debauchery ritual where you'd finally be his.

With a heavy heart and little words beyond see you soon, you left to your duties, back to the reality. Leaving him alone with a painful and raging boner. Screaming for him to not neglect it that way ever again.

And he tried. By God he was trying to not pull you to a nearby storage room and taste you again. His whole body turned into this needy mass of nerves whenever you stared his way a second too long.

The remaining innocence in you, edged him into fisting his hand around himself and pump into oblivion at night before sleeping. His mind took a recent knack for torturing him.

It reminded him of the first months into his chastity vows, and how close he was into breaking them with a woman that was beyond willing to satisfy her own curiosity regarding priests, but war, his cruel friend; acted as the main motivator to remain within line, since it still waged outside and men were still needed outside to die.

And no matter how many gorgeous women paraded under his radar, his vows remained intact.

Until you showed up, drenched in his door, in dire need of help. Not only had you shaken every promise he was trained to believe, to their very core. But ebbed him to his old sinful ways.

The wolf's pelt was growing too large within the sheep's robe he had disguised himself with, in order to run from a fate that was nothing more than a premature death.

The parishioner's voice snapped him out of his darkening thoughts, he dictated a penance and an absolution prayer, not really caring for the man's sins, cause he was worse. He closed the confessional window and stood to open the door.

Only to find the reason of his impure thoughts before him, sitting on the floor, polishing the altar's candle-snuffer.

His dark pupils were blown wide as your hands stroked with gentle moves the handle. How such mundane task turned his gears for the wrong turn was the proof of your power over him.

His groin twitched when your hand circled around the brass bar and moved up and down the rag to remove as much dust as possible, pumping softly.

"Sister."

His voice came out in a husky mumble he tried to keep in his usual deep tinge. But his composure cracked as soon as you turned around and stared back with those beautiful doe eyes of yours.

He gulped.

"What are you doing, pequeña?"

"Sister Leanne sent me to polish the altar's tool as a punishment for the missing vegetables in the inventory."

You mumbled between nervous laughs. And he chuckled. Of course Sister Leanne would do that. As gentle as the woman was, she didn't hesitate into applying discipline the way she saw fit.

She needed to set an example, even more when she was about to be ascended to Mother Superior or Abess.

"I apologize."

"Whatever for, Father?

"I can't deny part of it it's my fault. As I lead you astray from your original tasks."

A flush crept on your cheeks as soon as your mind flooded with the remnants of that night.

"It was the rain, Father. Not you."

"I thought I told you to not call me that when alone."

"I'm sorry. Some habits are hard to kill."

"And remove."

You swallowed a thick lump. His eyes were already undressing you with his red-ish gleam.

"I... started to wear less layers."

May God have mercy on his soul, cause his need gnawing at his flesh certainly wasn't having it. His chest puffed with a deep inhale

"You were right about them. They're... They're heavy to wear. Makes it impractical for almost everything."

He nodded knowingly as an idea popped in his already tainted and corrupted mind.

"That's true. Robes makes it heavier and slows you down."

"I thought the cassock was lightweight? "

He shook his head and offered you his hand for you to stand up. A hidden invitation to his wicked game. You took it.

"It is when done with the proper materials. Otherwise is heavy." He led you inside the confessional. And closed the door as soon as you were in. Cornering you against the hefty oak doors.

Your breath hitched as soon as his hands placed yours on his chest. A pleased purr rumbled through upon the contact.

"Heavy isn't it?" You nodded while feeling the smooth and thick fibers of cotton, stretching all over his chest underneath your fingertips.

"That's why I don't use layers underneath."

Heat begun pooling in the pit of your stomach, "You don't?

He didn't have to instruct you verbally to confirm such thing. His eyes guided your hands through the map of his body to finally stop inches above his tightened crotch.

His heart crinkled with utter delight upon seeing your eyes widen and blink while admiring him. Hardening even further at every second you weren't touching him.

"It's alright. Don't be ashamed. Knowing one's body is crucial to identify where some sins come from."

He sat at the chair, his throne, with his legs sprawled, the cassock tightened around his well sculpted and worked legs, tightening enough to outline the silhouette of his awakening cock.

The confessional was custom built, and given his height, two people could fit in. And what better use for it than having you inside with him. Trapped between his neverending legs.

"Would you know what to name a man's anatomy, pequeña?"

He removed the fabric belt around his waist to then unbutton the lower part of the cassock. Revealing a set of lighter pants, trapping his erection underneath.

Your eyes shamelessly remained on the happy trail leading to the growing bulge between his legs. Curiosity was definitely taking a choke hold on your brain. Although built big enough for two people average sized, you had to crawl closer between him.

"I believe it's called a... c-cock."

"A cock, yes." He nodded proudly, "And how would you know such thing, Hm?"

He beckoned you closer, holding your chin gently while at it.

"T-There's an anatomy book well hidden in the library. I don't wish to remain completely ignorant to my surroundings, Father."

"Ah, I see." He let the father calling go for this time, cause the surprise in your face was everything a man could get when about to perform one of the most lascivious of acts.

He took himself out, letting his erection to sprung in it's full glory before you.

"Does it looks like the one in the book?"

You shook your head softly. His flushed and engorged tip, twitched upon feeling your breath oh so close to his velvet skin.

"At all."

The rich fragrance of clean soap and woody incense remained in his skin.

"You're allowed to touch."

With a new gulp on your throat and hesitating hands, your fingertips grazed his tip. Earning a little hiss from him. Finally feeling other textures that wasn't his calloused hands.

Curiosity made you take him firmer around the base, his hands enveloped yours and guided you to stroke him, up and down.

Your cheeks flushed even deeper while watching his face contorting in pure bliss. It reminded you the way he looked at you as he was devouring your now tingling flesh.

"Does it feels good?"

He nodded through hazed eyes, urging you to move your hand faster with his own, setting a tortuous tempo.

"Oh, very. Very good." he nodded and panted breathlessly, nails clawing at the cushioned part of his seat.

"Then... why is a sin?"

As much as he wanted to quench your learning thirst and instruct you through it, he couldn't care less about what was a sin and what not. But he could satisfy said interest with a more practical example.

"Open your mouth." He talked as he took his hefty cock and beckoned impossibly closer.

Your clothed chest rested inches away from his inner thighs. Lips parted open and when his tip rubbed between your lips, your tongue moved on its own and swirled on his slit. Earning a shaky whimper from him.

"Dios..." His head was thrown back as you took his whole tip inside. The warmth your lush mouth offered couldn't be compared. His hips bucked and you groaned when another inch was pushed in.

"Keep going, pequeña." He husked as he slid a hand underneath your headdress and took a gentle hold of your nape. With enough pressure he guided you up and down pushing as much cock as he could into your mouth, withdrawing carefully whenever you gagged.

The soft saltine taste bursted all over your taste buds, singing in delight. You were tasting a man. The proper way. You hummed approvingly.

Once more he took himself by the base and slapped your awaiting tongue a couple of times with his tip before pushing in again.

His shaky groans turned into deep and raged pants the more your cheeks hollowed around him, licking and sucking in a pace that had him thrusting his hips softly and melting. His hands didn't know whether to claw or hold on whatever surface they had underneath.

The wet and sloshing noises from your mouth made him dizzy, and your hand squeezing his balls gently wasn't helping. Seeing your eyes filled with the same unmarred lust as his, corroded any rational and holy thought our of his frying brain.

You were dangerous. Oh, so dangerous he could mistake you for the very snake that temped Eve back in Eden, cause your tongue swirled and tasted in the right places like no other, despite being your first time.

And by God, he knew you weren't made for a holy life. You couldn't. He refused to believe you were made for such simple and boring life when you were sucking his demons out with such artistry, he couldn't feel but jealous at the sudden thought of someone else teaching you such things.

No woman had achieved such feat on him before by using solely her mouth.

"Sigue, por favor-" He gulped and bit his lip before a loud moan could escape him. His eyes tried to keep on front watching you, bobbing your head up and down. (Keep it going)

If your mouth was delicious, he couldn't help but wonder, how your insides felt.

Would you be drenched? Would you be tight for him? Would you take him as well as your mouth did? Of course you would. You were using your mouth only and left him yearning for more than that.

His teeth bared as his pants turned even more raged and blown. The soft kisses alternated between kitten kicks and unabashed lapping, bending not only his will, but the urge to hold you in place and have fun with your mouth.

The sight of you being bold and taking him in a go completely, made him explode with an acute, shaking and broken whimper.

"Mnnfuck-" He held you in place while he squeezed the very last drop of his hot cum down your throat. All while you looked at him with drunk, pleasurable eyes as you swallowed him.

His chest heaved and his hand rubbed over his face, awash with raw need. But you didn't stop there.

A low humming rumbled through, reverberating through his skin. Sending another wave of jolts down his spine. His head was spinning a second per hour

"W-Wait..." but you didn't listen, you kept tasting and his teeth clenched, "E-Esperate-" He blabbed and choked, his trembling hand took a firm hold of your headdress and pulled his limping cock out your mouth with a squelching pop.

But your tongue sought him, hungry and hypnotised by his taste.

"Stop- Oh Dios... S... Stop-" you whined as he hunched and rested his forehead against yours, putting his throbbing cock back to it's confinements. His breath fanned over your mouth and kissed you deeply. Drowning any furtive and remaining moans.

His tongue swirled over yours, luring it only for a mischievous suck to be delivered, tasting himself in the process.

"Please" You clung to him, body doused with fire, and his nose heaved deeply, still recovering from what you provoked within. His eyes remained shut for a second, to then seizing you with a tender look.

"Not yet, pequeña."

"Not yet. Then, when?!" You whined impatiently, "If you don't want me anymore just say it!"

He understood your frustration, he really did. With gentle hands he cupped your face.

"I do want you." He pecked your lips, "More than this pretty head of yours refuses to believe. But we must wait."

"I don't want to!" You sniffed and he kissed your head once again, soothing your frustration with feathery kisses. Then he stood and picked you up easily in his arms to finally sit you on his chair.

"If I am to claim you, is cause I'm taking my time to destroy every bit of your mind, understand?"

His hands immediately stirred up the skirt of your habit up to your waist, proving your words true of you wearing less layers, leaving your thighs and cunt bare to him as they were parted and placed on each side of the chair's arms.

With a serpent-like motion, he swept his tongue over his lips, awash with prurience when his gaze remained in your drenched entrance. Drooling and glistening, begging to be taken.

There was something he couldn't truly explain when he had you like that. It played too many good tricks in his dazed mind.

As much as he wanted to bury himself to the hilt, he couldn't. He didn't want you to be marked by a whip and shunned before the whole church as a heathen.

He didn't want you to bear with Cain's mark and be despised by the whole community just cause you gave into a natural need.

Two of his fingers coated in your slick, to then rub ever gently at your needy and throbbing nub of nerves. Gaining him a soft coo.

"I need to take my time to posses every bit of you, dear."

Your mouth gaped and whimpered as he slid inside with a sloshing fwop. Walls immediately etched to his fingers, squeezing him and urging to go deeper.

"You think I don't want to take you right here? " He kissed your lips and then your jaw

His thumb rubbed in slow but firm strokes, applying enough pressure to have you a blabbing mess and tidal waves of pleasure quenching your body's primal need.

His fingers hooking and wriggling inside only earned him a renewed groan. Your hands clutched at the surface behind you, as his fingers delved deeper, meaner and faster. Your frame shook with every stroke he delivered in your weeping walls.

He had to cover your mouth at the lewdness spilling out nonstop of it, to focus on the increasing wetness he provoked in your slurping hole.

A shaky whimper was muffled the more he pumped his fingers into you, grazing that sweet and exquisite spot that got your body trembling and your walls contracting around him in a wicked and debauched symphony. Your head was thrown back, too heavy with lascivious thoughts to function properly.

Mouth parted to whine and eyes remained shut, unable to digest the obscene display of prowess by his fingers. Your tightness increased by every second, signaling your need for release.

"Come"

An order. Disobeying was out of the question. A specific thrust had your spine arching and your soaked hole exploding with something so devastatingly delicious, it had you panting and mewling in heat as you drenched Miguel's hand and forearm completely, he kept prodding and poking at that gummy spot within you. Your nails clawed at the seat, trying to anchor your floating soul to your body.

"Oh my God!" You hiccuped in a garbled moan.

His palm kept your stuttering hips under control, his eyes remained at the spasming muscles within you, trying to keep his fingers inside, sucking, squeezing and milking him.

"Tan perfecta." He crooned while pulling out gently to lick and slurp his fingers clean and kiss you with all his might . (So perfect)

Too enraptured in your taste to hear the approaching steps until too late.

"Father O'Hara?"

The voice from the other side of the wall made both to freeze in place. Your eyes went wide and his grip on your panting mouth tightened.

"Are you there?"

Miguel placed a drenched finger in his lips.

Closing your eyes shut, you both awaited for whoever that had arrived to leave, and once the steps could no longer be heard, he released you.

And you gasped and panted for air and he smirked. Admiring with wickedness at his creation. He could already taste your little cries and whimpers for more of him. And damn him if he was lying if his mind didn't come up with the vilest of fantasies, like defiling you in the altar, at everyone's sight, so they could know the real him and show everyone he had claimed you and what they were missing.

He helped you on your feet and wipe away the thin layer of sweat covering your face with utmost care.

But that side was reserved to none else but you. His beloved lamb.

"Soon, I promise. Okay?"

He kissed your lips deeply, sealing his words with a promise. He was a man of word.

You'd have to wait a bit longer.

----

The dull ache in your lower belly announced your period's arrival. Asking the head of the medical supplies and writing your name in a book was a subtle way to keep the youngsters and women in fertile age in check.

Given the few past experiences with nuns suddenly getting pregnant, security when it came to outings increased. Same for the Parish. Another guard was hired to keep the morning shift in case men came to lurk around.

The parish had a reputation to have beautiful nuns under the roof, even if older.

But since you had your period, no harm approached. You could see a little proud smile in Sister Danielle as you fetched your supplies for the week. Teas, pads, some painkillers and a brand new addition, moist towelettes from the city.

"If you run out of them, come again, alright?"

With a nod, you went to the bathroom and changed. You washed your hands and walked back to where Sister Leanne was, to tell her about your condition.

Cause in truth, you felt tired, pained and exhausted. Your face lit up upon seeing her.

"May we speak?"

"Not now. Discipline calls me."

Quirking a brow you looked at her while watching a trail of nuns behind her. One with a slender guava stick, another with a bucket in water, and the other with a rope.

"W-What's going on?"

"Come and see."

You weren't the only one that followed them. A group of nuns giggled, as they whispered hushed secrets to eachother.

Your fingers wrapped around your cross while following the rest, like a dutiful sheep.

To your surprise another nun was held as her sleeve was slit open, on both arms. The woman cried for mercy and soon she was pushed forward before the circle of nuns and Miguel that showed up alarmed.

"You have sinned!"

Sister Leanne begun with a commanding voice. even though Miguel was the Father, he had little to do with the nun's management.

Your mother figure pulled the crying woman's arm, showing a bruising a couple of inches away from her elbow.

"This woman has corrupted her body, the temple of Jesus Christ! With contraceptives!"

A collective round of gasps were heard through the nuns. Contraceptives, same as sex were the highest forms of faults within the Parish. Specially within the convent.

"Not only you poison your body with mundane pieces, but break your vows, just to obey your flesh's whims." Leanne spat with venom.

The poor woman was tied up against a post. Her habit was torn in the back, to expose her temporary unmarred, milky white skin. She begged for forgiveness as water was doused over her.

The first hit made you look away and cover your mouth, a sudden fear rose in the back of your throat.

His need of waiting was more than reasonable now.

This was one the motives why Miguel hadn't taken you yet. And seeing the poor woman writhe in pain and beg for her life, made you remind him of his words.

You had been so neck deep in wanting him that had forgotten completely about the consequences of your forbidden meetings.

The women's cries and pleas were muffled by the aggressive whistle the stick did everytime it swung to strike down and mark her over and over.

Your gaze locked with Miguel's briefly. His eyes said it all.

Now you understand?

As quickly as your eyes met him, you tore your gaze away. Too afraid of the possible lash out for simply looking at him.

A surge of cramps and the newly reached levels of stress had you folding over. His face fell upon the pain in yours. The supplies in your hands were self explanatory. Periods weren't something new to him, after all he took care of the women under his unit in the factory cause the rest was too stupid and scared to do something.

And as much as he wanted to approach and see if you were alright, he didn't want the situation to be mistaken for something else and draw unnecessary attention towards you both.

He felt a coward, but it also fueled his hate for the life he chose in order to save himself.

Once the punishment was finished, the woman was untied and taken to the infirmary. Sister Leanne looked at you

"What is you wanted to talk to me about?"

"My period."

"What about it?" Her voice accused with a frown, still on edge.

"I just asked Sister Danielle for my supplies." She heaved, relieved.

"Good. Good." She sighed and rubbed her face, "I want you to know that I'm not proud of the things I must do. But someone has to."

"I know."

"Please don't ever dare to betray me that way, okay?"

The stung in your chest just bloomed deeper with guiltiness.

What if I'm already doing it?

You nodded, gaining a hug from the woman that raised you, in order to ground herself from the sudden rage that took over her emotional panel of control.

Would you whip me too? Would you make me bleed?

"Go rest. I'll get you some food, alright?"

---

It had been days since either of you approached each other. The raw display of consequences of a failed secret affair was the culprit of the distance that grew wider and wider between the both.

It was a forceful reminder of what laid ahead if you ever got caught. Miguel knew how much the new Mother Superior loved you.

He always heard at dinner with the higher ranks the endless stories about you as a teenager. Precocious and daring. Nothing alike to the tame and demure woman he had already tasted twice.

Would she hate him for corrupting her little and perfect sheep? Absolutely. Maybe would whip him too if she could.

The thought alone made him chuckle.

The silence on both ends made him reflect in so many things he thought long forgotten.

A child's random laugh during a baptizing had brought to life that buried yearn. The way the little human stared at him with a toothless grin on their face sent his heart into a frenzy.

In fact, he always reminisced in the many families that paraded proudly on church. Displaying their affection, laughs and others that only echoed in the solitude of his residence outside the Parish.

There was none waiting for him, no little human screeching in happiness upon hid arrival, and no partner to share his daily adventures on his modest job. There wasn't nothing like that for him.

Just endless hours of praying, visiting the sick, bible studies, hypocritical speeches on how people act and behave with those around him and how to not succumb into the temptation, like he did.

He was the biggest hypocrite under the heavenly roof and everyone adored him. Congratulated and asked for tips on how to be more like him.

If he could, he'd say drink a beer every day and fuck a lovely woman whenever time allowed. But instead his mouth spilled the most ridiculous things such as keep your mind focused and away from trouble.

But he wanted trouble. He wanted that trouble to mewl and writhe underneath. He wanted that trouble to squeeze him to death as he came inside. And definitely he wanted that trouble to swell with his child.

Ten years in this lie had been more than enough for him. War had been long gone, everyone had moved on in the city. Mostly had families. But he...

His hand pinched the bridge of his nose.

Secularisation wasn't an option, since his name was already in many churches and abbeys and running away would imply to spend most of the savings he had done so far. Priest life paid shit, but if this neverending lie had taught him something, was to be more financially wise. And thanks to that, he could afford a home somewhere in the rural areas, away from prying eyes and judging glares.

He had enough of the white rectangle around his neck and the stupid golden ring on his finger dictating how to live his life. Even though God had granted him his wish of having a simple life, he didn't want it anymore.

He wanted it his way. And as entitled and selfish as the thought was, he deserved a forever break from his duties. He knew what he wanted.

He knew what he needed. And he needed you. He missed you. He wanted you to be his problem.

At first he thought it was the lack of contact and other people to talk to, but seeing you so scared back at the public whipping and your need to know more about the world, only reinforced his decision into making you his.

He could take you see places and explain things if you wanted. He could take you anywhere you wanted to. He could please you the times he saw fit without the fear of someone spying or you getting hurt by those that pledged a servitude oath.

Miguel knew what the nuns did to those that ended up pregnant and he wanted you safe. He had seen the underlying longing of knowledge in your eyes and see what was beyond those sacred walls.

Her period

His brain soared alive with the idea.

How many days had gone since you got it? Twelve days?

And if there was something he knew by heart is a woman's cycle. Ironically he used that knowledge to avoid getting his hookups pregnant, even if he used a condom. And now, he was using it for the opposite.

In two days you'd be ovulating. And you had returned early from a sudden trip due to sickness.

He didn't know if to thank God or his luck for such delicious coincidence.

But what if she decides to stay?

No. You wouldn't. You couldn't be so blind to do such thing. His plan was foolproof.

With the gears turning, he set his plan into motion.

----

Taglist:

@tango-juice @miaasmf @migueloharastruelove @slight-darkness @zombiesurf @oharasfilipinawife @thedevax @eepiebeepie @vsplanet @smartyren @m4dyy @keenspeachy @deputy-videogamer @the-colourfull-bean @killjoy-nightshadow @whos-writing-stuff @tomalymme @x0tw0d57 @huniedeux @ange-grayson @cubecube555 @riuichiii @plumplum2099

#t writes✨#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Heathens #priest au #priest miguel #Spotify

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precious-little-scoundrel · 4 months

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

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

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

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

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

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

Word count: a monstrous 12k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

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

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

“-I don’t have the authority-“

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

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

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now the texas girl has-“

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

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

“Well, no-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s that?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“To the Poles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only to kiss you.

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

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

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

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’d have only known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

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

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Buck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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martinsorbit · 2 months

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First meeting

Bases on a scene from treasure planet where Jim is in the ships machinery basement

( idk what happened to the darker parts that made them so saturated but whateve)

#also sorry for me just going missing for days on end and only posting late #college is kicking my ass hard #i only have so much energy to do sketches #dca #mars artz #dca moon #dca y/n #y/n #moon #dca au #dca fandom

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sleepingelvhen · 4 months

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Sleeping Spider Lily Pt. 2

Blade/Reader NSFW Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- [🌹Part 4🌹] Minors DO NOT interact MASTERLIST Your world was turned upside down when you discovered the love of your life was alive and a completely different person. Now, you need answers, even if it was risky.

Nighttime on the Luofu was the most peaceful. For you, at least. Not many enjoyed strolling the less patrolled streets as you did, the mara-struck a blight upon the planet-ship that kept most everyone away. It made things easier for you; the further you strayed from civilization, the fewer guards there were, and the less likely you were to get reported to Jing Yuan for completely going against his request.

Maybe your logic was slightly skewed from the complete lack of sleep that muddled your logical thinking. Possibly also combined with the questions that consumed your mind. Questions only Blade would be able to answer if he was willing. If this reckless plan went wrong however…well, it’s been a while since you’ve sparred with someone.

Slipping through the shadows, you avoided another group of guards within Stargazer Navalia. Hood up to cloak your face, a deep breath to calm your nerves, and a moment to take control of a docked starskiff, soon you were flying through the Luofu, guiding your way to the only place you believed Blade would hide out.

The one place you haven’t been to in a few hundred years now.

Complicated machinery was quickly replaced by sand and the ripples of waves. A reminder of where the races of the Luofu came from before their home developed to soaring through space.

It was a familiar sensation when your feet sunk into the thin beach sand, a wave of nostalgia in your heart making you feel so lightweight it felt for a moment you were floating.

He was here, he had to be. It was like a second sense, something you once believed was a supernatural connection you had had with him. A bond that connected the two of you so that you would always know he was near. Part of you wanted to believe it to be true, but if you had gone this long not knowing he was even alive…well love makes you delusional.

Scalegorge Waterscape was beautiful enough to cause your eyes to water a bit as you approached the main entrance. Memories of friends…family…a love you had lost…they all appeared as ghosts in your mind now drowned by the now risen sea levels. Only a part of it still really existed, a platform with a statue depicting the Imbibitor Lunae, another friend you had lost all those years ago.

Eyes fixated on the statue, it took you a moment to really notice that you weren’t alone. You felt his presence, knew he was there. But a part of you didn’t want to look, scared to really face the reality of the situation.

“He must face his betrayal,” his darkened voice pulled you from your mind. A bit of a reminiscent tone within words that he attempted to make sound completely careless. “No one can run from a price to be paid.”

You finally turned to look at him. Surprisingly, he looked quite peaceful here, eyes staring up into the statue of Dan Feng. You thought you saw a flash of sadness in his eyes, maybe a bit of hope that he could return to the past. Or maybe that was just a bit of your own hope peaking through.

“Why have you come here?” Red eyes met your own then, you hadn’t even noticed he had turned to acknowledge your presence. Just like before, eyes filled with disdain and a desire to kill. But it was just what he was, it seemed. There was no desire in him to attack you, there was no intent to kill you. He was simply filled with bloodlust and it caused a shiver to climb up your spine.

“I…” your voice caught in your mouth. “I need answers.”

“Don’t we all?” He looked away from you again, eyes fixated upon the stretching ocean. You followed his gaze there, reminded of how this place used to look. Once filled with life, now beneath languid waves. Just a reminder of what you both had lost.

“Do you…remember me?” It was the only thing you could really think to ask. While it sounded so simple coming from you, it was just…the only thing that left the fog of your chaos-filled brain.

Blade huffed, almost a laugh. Aeons have you missed that. Blade never had a loud laugh like many, it was always cocky and short. One thing you had loved about him. Something that made your heart pang when you heard it again.

“I remember you…” His voice softened, eyes closed, refusing to turn to face you. “You seem to have changed.”

You gritted your teeth then and clenched your fists. With a deep breath, you walked forward, joining him where he stood. The silence was louder than the waves, louder than the crunching sand beneath your feet.

“We both have.”

Blade dipped his head in agreement, no reaction to you moving next to him. He didn’t move away, didn’t step closer, just stood there, staring out at the sea. You closed your eyes, trying to enjoy this for a moment, pretending it was like old times. The man beside you was Yingxing, and you were his lover. Standing upon Scalegorge Waterscape, simply reveling in the silence and one another’s company.

Back then, you would gently take his hand in yours and he would squeeze it to tell you he was there and would always be there. Back then, he would tell you about his day and about the ways he was improving in his craft. Or maybe he would show you a sword he was proud of. You thought fondly of the day he showed you Shard Sword, proud upon its flawless creation. The smile upon his face was one you had tucked away into your memories, so vivid you could look at it whenever you pleased.

“You came here seeking answers,” the growl in his voice pulled you away from your thoughts, your eyes opening, your head turning to see him staring down at you intensely. “Ask your questions.”

He had blue eyes once, you remembered. But the red, it was entrancing and almost suited him better than the blue. Despite all the changes he still looked like himself, still looked so gorgeous. It was always so easy to get lost in his eyes, so easy to search for the feelings he kept hidden. You saw it there, a subtle flash of vulnerability. Eyes awash with affection.

“How are you alive?” You watched as his mood fell a bit, his brows lowering, a sharp intake of breath hinting at something painful inside.

“The mara,” he simply said, unsheathing his sword, Shard Sword, and gliding his fingers against the golden marbling of its perfection. He hummed in consideration, nicking the pads of his index and middle finger, blood dripping down onto the blade, then onto the ground beneath him. Then, you watched wide-eyed as the deep cuts glowed and healed in simply a few seconds. Blade closed his eyes and sighed. “I pay my price in blood…and endless life.”

“Yingxing—Blade…” You stumbled over your words, correcting the name when you saw him turn his head away from you upon hearing his old name. He sheathed his sword, clenching the fist that he had previously cut.

“I left as I was cursed. Determined to die. Instead I became this. Immortal. Mara-struck. A blade to be used." His explanation made you understand truly what had happened. His allegiance with Dan Feng, his betrayal of the Luofu. Yes, they had found immortality in their search to revive their friend, but he was living proof of what that did to a short-life species.

“You have your answers.”

But you didn’t leave, you just stared at him, tears in your eyes. You were exhausted, heart-broken, and…still absolutely in love with this man despite who he had become. A criminal, betrayer of the Luofu, ally to the Stellaron Hunters, and the love of your life.

He took a sharp breath when he saw you staring, eyes darkening as he looked down at you. He cocked his head to the side, watching you carefully.

“Your general would not be pleased if he discovered you here,” his voice was low and breathy, as if he was whispering.

“Jing Yuan would understand,” you simply said, unable to take your eyes away from him.

“Hm,” Blade turned his head, gaze still fixated upon your face. The noise he made sounded like a growl, or a huff of irritation. He used to do that when Jing Yuan would get too close to you, too friendly. A dusting of pink colored your cheeks as you looked down at your feet.

“I missed you…you know. Every day.”

Blade didn’t answer you. Instead, two fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes, flickering with something that looked all too familiar. Intrigue, affection, and hesitance.

“Every day?” He asked, his voice husky.

“Every day,” you answered, your own voice growing warm and soft.

You swore you saw a ghost of a smirk grace his face, a glimmer of his arrogance.

“Hm…you are tired,” Blade pulled his fingers away slowly, the feeling of his touch lingering on your jaw. A soft gasp left your lips when he leaned in close, his lips against the shell of your ear, his whisper breathing a warm breath against your skin. “Go sleep, little dove. You will see me soon.”

He took your hand in his, his fingers slipping a piece of paper into your now weakened grip. As soon as he had been so close to you, he was walking away, hands behind his back as he regarded his environment.

You wanted to stay, taking a step forward to reach for Blade before you stopped and bit your lip. He was right, you were on the verge of falling asleep right here right now. And nighttime was almost over. You fought the urge to stay, and left the Waterscape, gliding back home on the stolen starskiff.

Once back in your room, you slipped into your sleeping clothes, sitting on the edge of your bed with the paper in hand. It was soft against your fingers, making your mind reel as you wondered what was within. Hesitance didn’t stop you as you opened the small slip of paper, revealing the message Blade had given you.

An address and a meeting time. He was hiding within a small building. Right here in the Divination Commission.

#blade x reader #blade hsr #blade smut #reader insert #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail smut #yingxing #yingxing x reader

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meroif · 7 months

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A Hundred Years of Sleep

Far, far away from home, you awake to a world changed. Everyone had their time to grief, with the exception of you. Then I ask, what would you give to fix what is broken?

DEMO ; PATREON

A Hundred Years of Sleep is an interactive fiction novel taking place in a universe of magic and machinery. It aims to guide you through a journey through the stars, one that begins and ends with your very home.

The Story

You come from Vaeravel, a small and peaceful planet orbiting around an even smaller star in a corner of the universe. You live with your aunts in your quaint neighborhood until you're considered a young adult by the standards of your long-lived species.

Then without fanfare, everything ends.

The Collapse is a terrible accident that completely destroys your planet and most of its inhabitants. You manage to survive, taken to one of the few emergency vessels fleeing disaster, but slip away into a deep sleep.

You wake up again, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar galaxy, alone. Everywhere you look, life has gone on without you.

So when you hear rumors of a ship departing for what is now called The Collapsed you can't help but embark on the journey home, so that maybe by the end of it you'd be granted peace, or at least instructed on what to do with all your loss.

Features

Character customization. Choose name, pronouns, appearance, personality and ambitions of your character.

Moral compass. Be bad, play nice, decide how you want to interact with the world at large and see for yourself where your actions take you.

Romance. Meet and fall in love with four different characters, all gender selectable, or don't, if you prefer to the take the romanceless path.

Flirt options with various NPCs, with future extra side-stories to give them the space they deserve.

Multiple endings, good and bad, once you reach the end of your journey.

Romantic Options

Riel Rosenquartz (he/him, or she/her, or they/them), the heir of the Rosen Crown, lost monarchy of Vaeravel. Elegant, kind and diplomatic, they're overjoyed to meet another survivor of the disaster. Although you're not sure why they'd wait for so long before making the journey back home.

Khael (he/him, or she/her), the Captain of the Chrysa, the ship travelling to reach The Collapsed. Highly perceptive and infuriatingly charming, Khael is undoubtedly the person in charge. But what could they possibly stand to gain in embarking on such a dangerous journey?

Nathaniel (he/him, or she/her), allegedly a researcher hailing from afar, they seem to be unfamiliar with how the entire galaxy works. Mysterious, reserved and stubborn to a fault, it's undeniable they're hiding something big. Yet as complete strangers, you have no idea why they'd be so opposed to your presence onboard.

Aelinor (he/him or she/her), your old neighbor and childhood friend, miraculously found again in the mists of the ship's crew. Although they're just as sweet as you remember them, you can't help but wonder...where were they as you slept?

Portraits (1, 2); Aesthetics (1, 2, 3, 4); Playlists ; ROs Introductions (1, 2)

A Hundred Years of Sleep is currently in development and will be released episodically, the current build includes the Prologue and the entirety of Chapter One.

If you've enjoyed the story so far, please consider supporting me on Patreon, it really does make a difference in the time I'm able to dedicate to the project.

Patrons receive access to the alpha demo, which currently adds the first part of Chapter Two to the public build, as well as side and themed stories, polls, and other exclusive benefits.

Thank you for your support, and for playing A Hundred Years of Sleep. 🌙

#ahundredyearsofsleepif #AHYSif #interactive fiction #interactive novel #itch.io #twine game #choice of games #romance #adventure #twine if #if game #if wip #twine wip #interactive game

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drakulana · 4 months

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all it was // law x reader

this is the part two to the first spark. i definitely recommend reading that one first. read part one here!

part 3

content: fem! reader, more sloooooow burn

wc: 4.2k

༺☆༻

The crew had been preparing for departure all day. A day full of running checks and tests on all the engines and reactors within the ship. A day spent in a small boiler room with crewmates, having no choice but to shove past one another in the narrow halls, mumbling quick apologies to one another. It took five long hours to run all the tests, and they still weren’t done. They still had to start up all the generators along with actually turning on the reactors. They hadn’t even started warming up the engine room yet. Normally, they wouldn’t take this long to depart, but when given the opportunity their captain made it mandatory to run all of the checks and tests to the furthest extent. Trafalgar Law was not one to cut corners, and for once, they were not pressed for time.

The boiler room was humid and stuffy. (Y/n) was standing shoulder to shoulder, sandwiched in between Penguin and Shachi as they worked on the turbine's connection to the nuclear reactor, an assembly line formed between them. One soldering wires, one tightening bolts, and one looking over everyone’s work to make sure no mistakes were made. There was no room for error when working on machinery that was heavily relied upon. Once they were done with one part of the turbine, they’d move onto another while a fourth person would come in to look over to make sure nothing was missed. This went on for about an hour and a half, until they were finally done. However, (Y/n) still had lots of work to do.

She had spent a week and a half on the pestilent Bronze Island gathering up all the information she could. From citizens, to landmarks. Countless hours of talking to locals, gathering double the amount of information for both her and her captain. The past week and half was filled with sleepless nights where she spent organizing all of her information, trying her best to keep quiet while she snuck off to an empty corner of the submarine. She had worked hard, and she still wasn’t done with all of her work. She made her way up to her quarters to gather up all of her things while pondering on where she wanted to do her work. She needed some place quiet. While pondering over where she was going to work tonight, a memory played back in her mind. If you ever need a place to hide, don’t hesitate to come in here to read or to finish your research. Her captain’s offer rang through her head, however, he had been scarce within the past week. Only ever mumbling a soft acknowledgment whenever accidentally brushing elbows in the narrow halls. He was busy, she knew that, and she wasn’t going to be the one to disturb him. She would hate to be a nuisance, and no matter how oddly comforting his presence was, she was not going to be selfish when it came to his time. It was not her place to do so.

(Y/n) was exhausted, but she could not get herself to abandon her pen for just one night. She was already in the zone. Why spoil the tenacity? Walking through the mostly empty halls, she found herself in the kitchen. It was quiet, it had better lighting than the library, and was more comforting than the metal walls in her bunk. She settled into the chair and spread out her papers, eventually getting lost within her work. Pages upon pages, scrawled across in shorthand cursive. Ink smeared slightly on the edges of some of the paper, some in better shape than the others. (Y/n) paid no mind to the misspelled words, or the messy handwriting, these were rough drafts after all, and she had no plan to show them to anyone.

It was maybe an hour before her exhaustion started to catch up to her, all the information of Bronze Island becoming one big daydream about the island. The work they did there, the people she met, all the new little details about a place she had only ever researched before were still fresh on her mind, ready to be recorded in those notes of hers. It wasn’t long into her small reverie that her captain had wormed himself into her mind. This was not the first time, and she knew it certainly was not the last. He had a way of appearing in her thoughts, her mind always coming up with a way to bring him to the forefront. Although she had to admit the thought of him was nice, it was distracting. It was inappropriate. It was unprofessional. It was many things, but why had none of the moral obstructions present stop her from indulging in her thoughts.

She would be lying if she said that she didn’t entertain these thoughts late at night. She’d be lying if she said that she hadn’t thought about him in ways that she shouldn’t have been thinking about her captain. How his golden eyes caught in the light, gleaming like fine jewelry. How he carried himself with such conviction, and how his predominant intelligence seemed to exude from him. There was also a dark air around him, a dangerous one. One that she found too enticing for her own good. One that shouldn't draw her closer, shouldn’t leave her wanting to understand what was under the surface. She would tell herself that it was her curious nature, alway wanting to record facts about certain people. Yeah, that’s all it was. She would reason with herself every time. It wasn’t at all the way he still seemed to look good no matter how much sleep he missed. It wasn’t the dominant energy around him, that gave everyone a reminder on why he was in charge. It wasn’t the way his commands, and comments towards her made her stomach turn, and mind wander. She was only interested for research purposes. Yeah, that’s all it was.

༺☆༻

On the other side of the ship sat Trafalgar Law. He was working on recording all the samples that he had made on the island. The steady grumble of the engines vibrated through the walls. It was comforting for them to be back to sea once again. It made him feel better to know all the checks and tests had been run on their ship before they had left as well. His crew had worked hard, and he was proud of them. It was days like this he was grateful for each and everyone of them. After all, what is a captain without his crew? He let himself feel proud for once. It was a rare feeling, he never liked to indulge himself in such petty things, like pride. Pride made a man reckless. Pride was a damning distraction. Distractions were not the kind of thing Trafalgar Law liked to mess with, not when he had goals that he had not yet accomplished. Tonight though, he let himself feel the tiniest miniscule of pride for his crew. He let himself revel in the thoughts of every single one of his crew members, but one just kept sticking out to him. (Y/n). He told himself it was because she was still newer to the crew. She was new, and had this amazing drive for new information. Her knowledge was astonishing. He would tell himself that these thoughts were strictly professional, and not at all personally rooted in the feeling that he would get when she called him Captain. It wasn’t at all the way her eyes lit up whenever he asked her about something she was writing about. It wasn’t at all the way that her cheeks would tinge pink whenever he would give her an order. He was simply just proud of his crew member. Tonight, he was letting himself feel a little proud. That’s all it was.

The praise never stayed long when he allowed himself to feel such things. Whenever thoughts like this would arise too much for his own liking, he would bury himself in more of his work. He didn’t have time to concern himself with superficial feelings. Law stared at the pages in front of him. The recorded data was written in that same pretty cursive handwriting that had seemed to scrawl across his mind from time to time. Against his will, the owner of the handwriting was now back at the front of his mind. Two weeks ago, Law had offered his space to her. Fourteen days and she had yet to take him up on his offer. Not that he was counting. Part of him was thankful for that. Thankful that he wouldn’t have to confront the warm bubbling feeling he would get in her presence. Grateful he could ignore the electricity that would course through his limbs whenever the two brushed against each other by accident in the narrow hallways. He could ignore the way her laugh harmoniously bounced off the walls in the common area while conversing with her crewmates. He could ignore how their gazes were usually held for a second too long. On the other hand, something nagged him deep down. Thoughts of regret towards the offer threatened to arise, but whenever they did, he found himself burying himself into more of his work. The papers on his desk had remained twice as high in the past fortnight. Books were more scattered than usual. Crumpled up papers with ink smears fell around his desk. Every now and then, his mind would drift to (Y/n) and he would find himself stalling his work, staring at a page for far too long. Tracing the arches and curves of her letters and words within her work. It unnerved Law how undisciplined his mind had been lately, and over a crew member of all things. He huffed to himself and looked over at the clock that was hanging on the steel wall. 11 p.m. He needed a break, opting to go get a cup of coffee to wake him up.

In Law’s book, 11 p.m. was hardly late. His crew turned in earlier than usual, leaving the cold corridors of the submarine empty. He made his way into the kitchen of the submarine, only to find the woman who had been taking up his mind for the past two weeks. She was sitting there at the table, papers laid out in front of her as she wrote short handedly on her notes. A small pang of odd discomfort settled when he realized she had opted to do work here rather than in the quietness of his office with him, like he had offered. The feeling quickly went away whenever she raised her head and peered up at him with her pretty eyes that always seemed to captivate him, as of lately. A small smile graced her lips as she noticed it was her captain. There it was again, the odd warm feeling that he seemed to get around her. “Good evening, captain,” she said warmly. “I see you have emerged,” she teased him. Law had been cooped up in his office for nearly a week, not counting the times he had to leave, like to eat or go to the bathroom. It wasn’t unusual for Law to work in his office for days on end, everyone knew that. Law stalked over to the woman who was sitting at the table, “What’re you working on?” he asked her, picking up a paper that had been pushed to the side. He examined the paper, holding it in between his fingers. Little doodles adorned the corners of the page, and messy shorthand was scribbled onto the lines. Information about the island that they had just departed from about a week ago. (Y/n) studied his movements closely, he had never seen the rough drafts of her work, just the edited and refined versions. “Just adding some information about Bronze Island,” she replied as she watched his face closely as he analyzed the paper. The rough draft of research was not something she shared. From corner to corner, the pages were filled with messy shorthand, and various notes in the margins while tiny doodles adorned the spaces in the corners. She was very nervous for her captain to see these. She watched as his face remained still as ever, the only movement were his golden eyes. After a few anxious moments, he laid the paper down, “This is very good work, I can’t wait to see it when it’s done.” His praise was rare. A small smile broke out onto her face.

“Thank you, captain,” she beamed up at him, grateful for his praise. Law nodded at her, walking away from her to fix himself a cup of coffee. He stood in front of the coffee pot, glancing over his shoulder at the girl sitting at the table, papers spread out in front of her. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” He broke the silence in the kitchen. She thought for a second. A coffee would probably wake her up enough to get to the stopping point she had planned to. She peered up at her captain, “I would like that, thank you.”

Law continued brewing the coffee, pouring two cups as (Y/n) made her way towards him. He handed her the cup of coffee, their fingertips brushing. A familiar warm feeling bloomed within the both of them, the same one they had been trying to push away. They locked eyes as everything seemed to stand still. A silence fell around both of them. The mere few seconds felt like hours. As quickly as the feeling came, it went, and they pulled their gazes away. (Y/n) took her coffee and made it the way that she liked, Law opting for black. Predictable, she thought to herself. They stood there in the comfortable silence, before Law spoke up. “I am working on the trials we ran on the island, I could use some of your notes, would you come to my office with me?” He asked her. Her eyes locked his once again, that twinkle he had found all too beguiling present in her irises. “Yes! Let me just grab my things,” She beamed, “Here, hold this,” She placed the coffee cup in his hand before turning to grab her things. She gathered up all her papers in her arms, and all her pens, denying any help that Law had to offer as they made their way to his office.

Law’s office was dimly lit, the only light coming from a lamp in the corner of the room. It was bright enough to illuminate the workspace, but not bright enough to spread to the corners of the room. It was cold in his room, probably to aid him in staying awake if she had to guess. His desk was stacked high with papers and books. Crumpled up pieces of paper scattered around his desk, not enough to make his office too messy, but enough to be noticed. In the right corner of the room was Law’s bookshelf, lined with books, mostly medical, but a few novels scattered throughout. (Y/n) wondered what kind of novels the Surgeon of Death liked to indulge in reading. She couldn’t fathom him reading anything of fiction. In the corner of the room was her captain's bed. The blankets were thrown to the foot of the bed, while two pillows propped up on each other at the top. (Y/n) pulled her gaze away from all the furniture and how it was set up in his quarters, and set her things down. She took the papers that contained all the information she had and spread them out in front of her. She looked up at her captain, “So, where are we starting?” She asked him.

“Let’s start with the sample records you recorded the other day,” He said. They had collected a bunch of samples from the island they were visiting. These samples ranged from swabs of sidewalks and door handles, to buccal and nasal swabs from willing citizens. Law had been culturing the virus over the past few days, checking up on it every hour to see how it was developing. No wonder the man hadn’t gotten any sleep. Law constantly worked, it brought him a sort of peace. It was something he had complete control over. He rarely let anyone assist him if unneeded. Everyone on the crew knew that.

Y/n took out the data that she had collected from the culturing virus in the lab, flipping through the pages to make sure she included everything. As she flipped, her finger glided across one of the edges of the paper. A sharp pain traveled through her finger causing her to yank her hand back from the stack of papers. Muttering a curse under her breath, she laid the pack of papers in front of Law before looking down at the finger that had started to ooze red. “I’m sorry, excuse me for a second,” she said as she stood up from her seat. Before she could make her way to the door, Law stopped her with a gentle, “Let me see.” Hesitantly, Y/n reached towards Law as he took her hand to examine the measly paper cut that hardly needed a bandaid. As Law reached to hold her hand, butterflies erupted within her stomach. A heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked away. Law didn’t miss her reaction, but he didn’t say a word cause he was dealing with his own stomach flipping. He kicked himself, telling him that there was no reason to give such notice to something as small and ordinary as a papercut. He blamed the doctor within him for his following actions. Opening a drawer in his desk, Law pulled out a small first-aid kit. It contained antiseptic, bandages, and antibiotic ointments. Y/n started to protest, “Captain, that’s really not nec-” she started, but being cut off by her own hiss as he poured antiseptic on the papercut, paying no mind to her protests. “You don’t want to lose your finger to an infection, do you?” He asked her, as he cleaned her wound. She hissed at the cold sting from the antiseptic. “I hardly think anyone has ever lost their finger to a papercut,” She mused, as he added some antibacterial ointment and wrapped her finger in a bandaid. Law gazed up at her, catching her eyes that reflected the light of the small desk lamp. In that moment he could’ve sworn he was putting a band-aid on the finger of an angel, not that he would ever admit to that. He quickly pushed the thought away before replying, “You’d be surprised at the results of an untreated cut. Even the smallest ones can fester into a nasty infection,” He told her, as she gazed back at him. She held his golden gaze, pink still resting in her cheeks.

A small smile broke out onto her face, “Well, thank you doctor. Whatever would I do without you?” She teased him. It had been a while since she had shown her playful side to him. He secretly wished that she would do it more. Law’s usual smirk crept up, “You would have no fingers,” He played along, “It’d be bad to have my researcher have no fingers, how would you record all the data I need?” He paused, “Besides, don’t you need these to write your book?” He held up her fingers between his inked one before gently letting them go.

“So I’m a useful asset to you?” She asked him, her tone still playful, however the question held some truth in it. She had worried she wasn’t enough for this crew. She remembered the words Law had said to her when he asked her to join. Your knowledge outweighs your weakness. However, not a day went by where she didn’t think that she was a burden. Her strength did not match the crew’s, and no matter how hard she trained, her work always seemed to get in the way of her actually improving. She knew she was the weak link, and she knew her captain knew that too. Law looked up at her, furrowing his eyebrows. The joking was now over, “You’re not an asset, you’re a member of my crew,” he said seriously, “I wouldn’t let anyone I didn’t think was worthy onto this submarine. Each and every one of my crew members has their strengths and weaknesses. Just cause you’re not out on the battlefield doesn’t mean you’re not valuable. You’re a very hard worker. Having you around takes a lot of my workload off. You’re more than needed around here,” He assured her. A small smile came back onto her face. Seeing her smile at his words did something inside of him. Something he wasn’t sure if he should indulge in. Something that made him want to whisper sweet praise to her if that’s what it took to make her smile like that all the time. It took a few moments of them standing in front of each other for them to realize how long they had been looking at each other. Law cleared his throat before pulling away, pushing down all the rising feelings again. It was unprofessional. It wasn’t right to feel these things. Law had to pull himself together.

༺☆༻

After about two hours of going through data, the caffeine had started to wear off and drowsiness started to creep in. Law was unyielding when it came to his work, never stopping for more than a few minutes before delving right back into the research. An unwelcome yawn ripped through Y/n’s system. Law noticed this, and he knew she had been working more lately trying to get all the data recorded on top of adding all the information she had gathered for her book. “Y/n, you can go to bed, it’s almost 3:30.” He had told her with a sincere tone. Y/n shook her head at him, “No, it’s okay, I can keep working,” she assured him before looking back down at her page. Truth was, she was exhausted and felt as if she could hardly keep her eyes open, but she didn’t want to seem like she couldn’t keep up. Just a few more minutes, she thought to herself. The sound of the clock on the wall was almost hypnotizing as it aided in lulling her into closing her eyes. I’ll just rest my eyes for a second, she told herself as she let her eyes close, propping her head up with her hand, still holding her pen in her dominant one. The chair she was sitting in was hardly comfortable, but right now it felt as if it had become one of the coziest places on earth. A few seconds turned into a few minutes. A few minutes turned into her letting the darkness of sleep welcome her. Law looked up at her when he heard her breaths start to become slower, and deeper. He let himself study her for a minute. He watched as her chest rose and fell with her soft breaths, her hair falling across her face as one of her hands propped up her head. He stood up and made his way in front of her to wake her. He gently reached out to shake her, almost feeling bad for having to wake her. He didn’t want to disturb her peace, he knew she had been putting in a lot of extra work lately. He could tell she hadn’t been getting any good sleep since their arrival to the island. His tattooed hand gently gripped her shoulder, giving her a light shake. He whispered her name a few times, but to no avail, she was out cold. Law gently shook his head as he contemplated his next moves. He didn’t want to leave her asleep in the chair, she would surely be sore in the morning, however the thought of carrying her to her bedroom was quickly written off. The crew would never relent if one of them saw, even if it was late at night, you never knew who could be awake wandering the halls. Law glanced over at his bed, and then back at the sleeping woman. He gently reached down and removed the pen and notebook from her hands, setting it on the desk in front of her. He was careful, but was sure of the fact that she wasn’t waking up when she didn’t so much as stir at the sudden absence of the items she was holding. Law hesitantly scooped her out of the chair before laying her down in his bed, covering her up with his blanket, letting her head rest on his pillow. He stood there and stared for a minute, selfishly reveling in how she looked in his bed. He knew it was strange behavior for him. He’d never let anyone fall asleep in his office, let alone move their sleeping body to his own personal bed. He mulled over his decision for a split second, and then did what he did best. Ignored the gnawing feeling, and buried himself in his work for the hundredth time that week. He ignored the small breaths and snores that left her body. He ignored the warm feeling that rose whenever he looked over at her. He had to remind himself, she was a part of his crew. He was her superior. He brushed off the unprofessional thoughts. She was his subordinate and that’s all it was.

@drakulana 2024 // i do not give permission to copy, translate, or repost without my consent

taglist: @pinksaiyans , @buttmishaaaa

lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist!

#one piece #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #one piece fan fiction #one piece fan fic #one piece x reader #trafalgar #trafalgardwaterlaw #heart pirates #law trafalgar #traflagar law

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skeletoninthemelonland · 6 days

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You don't have to answer this if you don't want to

Fushionsprunt is a moving city, right? How does one get onto a moving city?

(And a branch question to that, have any stray animals managed to find themselves getting on board?)

Fusionsprunt is sort of a cyperpunk-y city, so anyone can get on board if given permission, then they are escorted inside by provided aircrafts.

Most of the story takes place in a desert, so there are only a few creatures that find shelter within the lower machinery parts of the ship (such as small reptiles and arachnids) or somewhere on the main deck and surroundings (such as small mammals).

The city itself is a moving ecosystem with different species inhabiting it, including ones that are used to tropical environments. Plant life has grown on the sides of the ship hull as well, and although seen in low quality here, it should looks somewhat like this.

#ofc the ship is far bigger and the layer of plant life is much more thicker #fusionsprunt #starbsart

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goldenfreightforwardingmarketing · 4 months

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soapsilly · 5 months

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Redemption - Roronoa Zoro Imagine

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader

Spoilers for One Piece (?)

A/N: This is Part 2 for Betrayal, another Zoro imagine I wrote, so if you haven't read that I'd recommend you do that first.

Summary: After (Y/N) confessed to the Straw Hat Pirates that during their two year separation, she betrayed her boyfriend Zoro and had a child back on the island she was stranded on, she had to leave the group. But once her new home was under attack she had no other choice but to once again hope for the crew's help. Will they forgive her?

Part 3

Requests are closed

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Fire... smoke... screams...

She could see the clouds of smoke from miles away. Once she set foot on the island the first things that greeted her weren't the familiar smell of the autumn leaves or the sound of the market place but rather the smell of the burnt down huts and the pleas of the townspeople. Ever since Whitebeard's death two years ago pirates from all over the world set sail in search of the One Piece. It was exactly like after Gol D. Roger's execution all over again. But her little island? This wasn't where the One Piece was hidden. What these pirates wanted was merely to destroy, to pillage and to artificially drive up their bounty...

"We would never do that", the young woman thought to herself, "all our bounties were racked up for far better reasons. Luffy would never allow this" (Y/N) was well aware, that she herself was part of a notorious pirate crew - or rather she had been part of one until recently...

The realization hurt but she didn't have time to keep thinking about her misery. All that mattered right now was the little boy for whom she had given up everything. As fast as her feet would carry her she ran towards the edge of the forrest where the little cabin that she called her home stood.

She breathed a sigh of relief once she arrived and saw that the destruction of the village had not yet reached that part of the island. But she didn't plan to just sit by and wait for that to happen. The people on the island she called her home weren't fighters. If they were lucky there were a few handymen that knew how to handle tools and heavy machinery but that was about it. She knew that she could never take on those pirates on her own - even if she improved her strenght greatly in the span of those last two years. But she knew who could...

************************************************************************

"Are you sure you're okay?", she whispered, not wanting to get caught by the other Straw Hats.

"Pffft.. Never felt better", the swordsman dismissed her worries with a movement of his hand and continued undressing the woman that was lying underneath him. Calloused hands roaming her body, trying to take in as much of her as he could.

"But - But you should rest...", it became increasingly harder to string together coherrent sentences with the way Zoro was kissing down her chest.

"If you insist", with a swift movement he flipped them around and in an instant the witch was now on top her green-haired boyfriend, straddling him firmly.

She started laughing, "You know, that's not what I meant"

Not many people knew Zoro the way (Y/N) knew him. The other Straw Hats would probably describe him as a 'matter of fact' - guy. His playful side wasn't something he kept hidden - not at all. It's just that the stupid jokes were only funny when they left her lips.

"Hey, Zoro. Dinner's ready", Sanji's words pulled the swordsman out of his thoughts. Every since (Y/N)'s confession nobody on the ship acted normal around him anymore - well nobody except Luffy and Robin. Luffy was never the most delicate, which Zoro was grateful for and Robin probably knew that he just wanted to move on. Nami however didn't leave him alone, offered to speak, to be a shoulder to cry on. He appreciated her good intentions but he just wanted to repress the feelings, exercise and drink his pain away. But the thing that annoyed him the most was that shitty cook being so nauseatingly nice to him. Nami told Sanji that she would raise him hell if he even dared to think to start a fight with Zoro. But what she had achieved, was that the only little thing that the swordsman had left of his (Y/N) was now gone too. He remembered how amusing she found the fights he and curly-brows had - so much so that Zoro tried to initiate fights with the cook. But Sanji never took the bait no matter how hard he had to pull himself together. If Nami-swan wanted something from him, he would not disappoint.

************************************************************************

There she was, it was barely a week and a half since (Y/N) left the Thousand Sunny back on Sabaody but yet it felt like a lifetime. The witch took a few deep breaths before slowly making her way over to the ship. She was grateful that Robin told her that the crew would have to make a stop for supplies an island over before heading to Fish-Man Island. On her way over there, she had hoped that she didn't miss them, that they'd still be there and all the hoping seemed to have payed off. But the hardest challenge - convincing her former friends to help her after everything she put them trough - still lay ahead of her.

Much to her dismay the whole group was not only on the ship when she arrived, they were also in the middle of dinner.

"(Y/N), you came back!", Luffy's voice broke the silence. The girl realized that he genuinely sounded happy to see her. She wasn't quite sure if she felt happy that there was at least one person left on this ship that didn't hate her or sad because she had to tell him yet again, that she still wasn't coming back.

But before she (Y/N) could even attempt to say anything, Nami spoke up, "No, Luffy. She's not. What are you doing here?"

Her voice was cold - so much in fact, that (Y/N) needed two attempts to explain the reason for why she was there. Once she finally ended her plea for help there were a solid few seconds where nobody said a word. (Y/N) had mostly spoken to Luffy as the captain of the ship but she knew that it was really the navigator that she would have to convince to help her. She kept her eyes firmly trained on the Straw Hat anticipating his decision. She, of course, noticed Zoro's presence in the room - how could she not? - but right now all that mattered was that the crew agreed to help.

"Please, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice...", (Y/N) added quietly after a few more seconds of silence.

"Of course, I'm coming to save you, (Y/N)-chan~", Sanji was the first one to speak up in his sing song voice with hearts in his eyes. For him it wasn't even a question at all. All he saw was a damsel in distress and he'd be the knight in shining armour to come and save the day. He could already picture himself as the hero of the battle and all the ladies clinging on to him to show their gratitude. It was Usopp that had to break the flirtatious cook out of his ramble with a slap on the back of his head.

"What are we even debating about? Of course, we're helping, guys! She's one of us", Chopper agreed. The ship's doctor was always a loyal soul. Chopper and (Y/N) both were outsiders before they met the Straw Hats so she knew how important his nakama were to him.

"No, Chopper. That's exactly the case! She's not. Not anymore", Nami objected, "she should've thought about that before betraying the whole crew. We can't always drop everything just because a former acquaintance happens to have a problem"

Nami liked to say that she was only upset for Zoro - and she really was. She knew that the mosshead was utterly in love with the other woman. She could tell from the way he would loosen up around her, she could tell by the way he would look after her to make sure nothing and nobody would ever upset or hurt her, she could tell by the way he was slightly - only slightly - less annoying when he was around her but the truth was also that Nami was hurt for herself too. (Y/N) was her friend, the first girl that joined the group before Robin finally made them a trio. They had talked about their plans and then (Y/N) just chose the domestic life over everything they had dreamed of?

"And what will you do the next time you'll be in trouble? We won't always be around to save the day", the red-head now spoke directly to (Y/N).

"I promise, I won't ever bother you again, but you haven't seen what I've seen. I'm not asking for myself..."

Of course, she wasn't asking for selfish reasons. Zoro knew that. (Y/N) always chastised him for being so stubborn. But the swordsman knew that she was honestly none the better. If he ever told her that, she'd never admit it but it was the truth. And so he also knew that (Y/N) was far to proud to come and ask them for help so soon after leaving the crew - well, except if she had no other choice. But it didn't really matter anyways, if she was in danger or even just in any type of discomfort, he'd always come and save her.

Zoro had heard enough, "We're helping"

It was the first time that (Y/N) looked at him since she entered the ship. She looked like a scared deer with how wide her eyes were. It was clear to him that she didn't expect him to stand up for her at all. Did she really think that lowly of him? Why did that thought sting? If Nami was anything to go by, he should hate her and helping her should be the last thing on his mind but he just couldn't help his feelings. This time it was Zoro that couldn't stand the tension, so he tore his eyes away from his ex-lover.

"Zoro, are you-", Nami seemed unsure.

"Either we all go or I'll go alone, I'm done talking about this", and with those words the swordsman stood up from the table and left the room. When he passed (Y/N) on the way out, he had to side-step as to not bump into her but just that act alone was the closest he's been to her in a long time.

"Guess, it's settled then", Luffy laughed, "(Y/N) lead the way!"

************************************************************************

Zoro and (Y/N) were lying on the deck of the Sunny at the moment talking about anything and eveything. Usually the mosshead would have a afternoon nap but instead (Y/N) and him decided spend some time together soaking up the last sunrays of the day.

"Is there anything else you want out of life?", (Y/N) asked her boyfriend, who had his head comfortable rested on her lap.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... other than becoming the world's greatest swordsman?"

"No, why would I?"

"Well, you made that promise to a friend when you were a child. You're a man now. Isn't there anyhting else that you could wish for? In addition to being the best? I mean what happens once you reach your goal?"

Zoro was quiet for a moment, it was clear to (Y/N) that her lover had truly never ever considered there possibly being more.

"Well, what about you then?", he positioned himself so that he was now looking up at her.

"I guess, I'd like to be married someday", she answered nonchalantly.

"Why?", Zoro's voice dripped with confusion but there was also somehting else... judgement maybe?

"I don't know, I think I just like the thought of having that special bond with a person, you know? Belonging together, having each other's back...", she trailed off towards the end. She could feel her cheeks heat up. Talking about feelings was so much easier when drunk...

"Oi! Everything okay with you?", Zoro sounded amused, "you sound exactly like curly-brows"

"Why? Because I want to belong somewhere?", she was irritated by his reaction.

"Don't be so dramatic", the swordsman rolled his eyes, "you belong to the crew like all of us"

She wiggled her way out from underneath him not wanting him on her anymore.

"Do you really not understand how that's different? I just don't want to be just someone's girlfriend for the rest of my life", she was starting to get frustrated now.

"Just someone's girlfriend? And being someone's wife is better? What kind of goal is that?", (Y/N) could sense that Zoro was not taking her seriously at the moment, which made her even more furious. Unfortunately the witch was an angry-crier, so wasn't long before the tears started to fill her eyes. When he saw her reaction, he added, "Damn, you are so sensitive"

"And you are always so goddamn insensitive! Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall!", (Y/N) knew she shouldn't yell but the way he was talking down to her made her feel so helpless.

"I don´t want to talk to you anyways when you're being so difficult. I should've just taken a nap", he was annoyed by her behavior.

"Fine!", with that she stood up and walked away from her boyfriend but as she was walking inside the Sunny she turned around telling him, "and for your information, the are some things that Sanji actually gets very right, you know..."

She knew that indirectly comparing him to the cook would rub him the wrong way but she really couldn't resist.

"Oi, are you actually trying to start a fight or what?!", Zoro yelled after her, raising his voice for the first time the entire conversation.

Zoro mindlessly sat by the railing sharpening his katanas. Would things be different today had he acted a little more sensitive during their fight? Back then he didn't pay it anymore mind. In fact, he didn't think (Y/N) would've either. They had had far bigger fights - or so he thought - but guess it was more important to her than he anticipated. Maybe he wasn't enough for her... Was she really that unhappy?

"Hey...", Zoro was pulled from his thoughts by (Y/N) herself. It was the first time that she directly spoke to him since her confession on Sabaody, "I just wanted to thank you for speaking up back then. You really saved us"

Us... Zoro felt a sting in his chest. Of course, her new man and their son. Helping her wasn't even a question for him but the thought that she was in that situation to begin with made him angry. What kind of man doesn't protect his family?

"Don't mention it", he grunted, still not looking up from his blades.

"No, I mean it. If it wasn't for you I don't know what I'd do", Zoro couldn't help but notice that the way she was talking to him wasn't as familiar anymore almost like they were strangers. First the crew and now (Y/N) too. All this tiptoeing around made him sick - he wasn't used to being pitied and he didn't like it. One bit. He would almost have preferred it if she had just sad down with him and talked... normally?

As if she had read his mind, she asked him if she could sit with him for a moment. She took the shrug she got in returned as a 'yes' and sat down opposite from him.

"Zoro... I - I really never meant to hurt you", she continued. He wasn't sure if he wanted to have this conversation now but the alternative was her leaving again, so...

"It's my own fault. I should've known better", he answered.

"What? Why would you say that?", the woman opposite of him truly sounded upset with his statement. She was trying to catch his eye but he adjusted himself so that he was now facing the water.

"I wouldn't give you what you wanted. I was too occupied with my goal of becoming the strongest. All the training, the exercising...", he trailed off towards the end. "Logical consequences", he tried to sound unbothered.

The witch furrowed her brows, "No... No, no. Where is that coming from?"

"You told me you wanted to get married someday and I didn't take you seriously"

She remembered the fight but hadn't thought about for ages - especially because - in her mind - it wasn't so big of a deal. But then again, the swordsman also never heard what happened after the fight.

When Sanji entered the dining area the first thing he noticed was a sniffling (Y/N). With the speed of lightning he was kneeling in front of her, tracing soothing cirlces on one of her hands.

"(Y/N)-chan! What happened? Who hurt you?", the cook jumped up from his position on the floor.

"It's nothing, Sanji. Just a little fight", she wiped her tears away and tried to smile up at him.

"Was it that stupid Marimo? I'm going to break his face for making you cry", he was already halfway out of the room before the witch could even react.

"Sanji, no, please don't", she pleaded. Usually she'd be the last person to stop either one of them from starting a fight with the other but this time was different.

When the blond heard how desperate she sounded he stopped in his tracks, instead he turned around and started to prepare some tea for himself and the girl.

Once the tea was served, he sat down with her, so they could talk.

"It's silly...", she tried to dismiss the problem but Sanji wouldn't have it.

"How silly can it be if it makes you cry?", at the mention of her tears she swore there were distinct flames in his irises.

"It's just... Zoro and I were talking about our goals in life and when I told him I'd like to get married someday, he didn't seem to like the idea"

"How could anybody say 'no' to a proposal from you? I would marry you in an instant ~", where the witch had seen flames a moment ago, there were now hearts in his irises.

"Oh yeah? Sanji, no offense but you'd marry any woman that's not on the tree by three", she couldn't help but laugh, "But in fact, I wasn't proposing to him. We were fighting because he's just so... insensitive? You know, sometimes it's like only his thoughts and feelings are what make sense to him and so other thoughts and feelings are irrational and therefore not valid..."

"Stupid.. selfish.. douchebag.. mosshead..", Sanji was talking more to himself than to the girl sitting opposite of him, "why are you even putting up with him? You could easily find a better man that would cherish you and worship the ground you walk on"

The witch was sure the cook was talking about himself but let it slide for the moment.

"I love him", she shrugged, "what you don't understand is, that I'd rather have a thousand fights and never ever get married than to marry somebody else"

In that moment, the cook genuinely could feel how serious the girl was.

" - but don't tell him that. Otherwise, I'll never get him to tie the knot", she quickly added.

"I wouldn't dream of it", the blond confirmed.

"So, and now let's make dinner, yes? I'm starting to get hungry", (Y/N) was nudged Sanji in the side, a bright smile lighting up her face.

To further cheer her up, the cook promised to prepare the witch's favourite meal for dinner and (Y/N) was happy to help and spend some more time with her friend.

(Y/N) was in the midst of stirring one of the many pots, that were cooking on the stove - with Luffy as their captain a single dish would never be enough - when she heard Zoro's voice from outside the kitchen.

"Oi! (Y/N) come quick! There's something I want to show you"

The girl turned to the cook, who by the look of it was busy with adjusting the taste with seasoning so every dish was nothing short of perfect.

"Is it okay if I leave you to it now?", she smiled.

"Are you sure? The stupid marimo didn't even apologize"

"Positive", she shrugged, "I'm not angy anymore and I'm sure he isn't either. Why waste time being pissed at each other when you could also just spend the time that you have together being happy?"

And with that she skipped towards the door leading to the deck where her stubborn, stupid marimo headed boyfriend was already waiting for her. But just before she could leave the kitchen she made an abrupt stop, returned to where she left the cook standing and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which almost made the receiver levitate.

"Thank you, Sanji"

"Zoro, no... There's nothing you could've said or done differently that would've changed anything. I'm... so sorry", she hoped that this would convince him that it really wasn't a 'him-issue' and that he shouldn't give up on love all together, but he remained silence. When she realized that he wouldn't answer her she made a move to get up but just before she could leave Zoro spoke up.

"I don't hate you, you know?", it was the first time during their conversation that he had looked at her - really looked her in the face. She could see that he still loved her. He has always been bad at articulating his emotions but that was okay for her because she could always tell how he felt about her. He showed her. Two years of seperations didn't change that.

She didn't expect him to say anything now - least off all that. Of course, she felt glad to hear it but still she couldn't help but to feel guilty... like she didn't deserve forgiveness for all the pain she caused.

"I wouldn't blame you", she sat back down.

"I could never. Three days are one thing. Two years a whole nother", he shrugged, "Besides, Nami hates you enough for the both of us"

The witch sat there shocked but once she saw Zoro's smirk, she let out a relieved laugh.

"I think Nami hates me enough for the whole crew", she giggled.

The two of them started teasing each ofther and for a moment it felt like before. Before Sabaody, before (Y/N)'s confession, before their separation.

"By the way, I like your dress", the woman told Zoro with a deadpan look. It took a few moments for her words to register in his mind before he started yelling.

"Dress?! Are you blind, woman??"

When she saw how frustrated he was with her she couldn't hold back her giggles.

Their laughs could be heard all over the Sunny, much to the bewilderment of a certain navigator.

"Look at that! How could he be laughing with her like that after everything she put him through?", she turned to Robin.

"They love each other. Feelings don't change from one day to another"

"Well, for her they apparently did...", Nami retorted.

The older woman sent the red-head a knowing smile but chose to stay silent.

************************************************************************

The battle was in full effect and (Y/N) was in awe of how strong everybody has become over these last two years. Even the self-proclaimed coward trio of Usopp, Nami and Chopper did a lot of damage to the enemy crew. A lot of parts of town have been destroyed during the fight but the witch knew that this was the lesser of two evils and the townspeople would work together once everything was over to build it up again.

"They're like vermin!", Nami shouted. She was right. The pirates weren't strong - at least not compared to the Straw Hats - but they were many and they were everywhere.

"Doesn't matter. We're stronger", Ruffy laughed.

During the fight (Y/N) felt like she never left the crew, working together like a well maintained machine. For a moment she forgot about the struggles and that all of this would be only temporary - that they would leave once the threat was over - but then a loud explosion pulled her back to reality. A cloud of black and grey smoke rose up from just outside of town where the forrest began.

"My house!", the young witch shouted, "I need to go- I need- I-"

The others could see the genuine fear in her eyes as she was running towards where the flames were blazing up from afar.

"I'm coming with you", Zoro started to follow her.

The girl stopped in her tracks, "Wait, no you can't come"

"Why? Don't be ridiculous. You'll need help"

"Yes, but not from you", she her voice sounded urgent, "Sanji? Can't you come? Or Robin?"

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're wasting time!", the swordsman was getting angry. Why would she rather want the waiter's help before his? He could keep her safer that any body else on the crew but of course she had to be stubborn again.

"Both of you are wasting time. I'm coming", Robin interjected. Zoro tried to object but before he could both of the women already took off.

"What are you hiding, (Y/N)?", the older of the two asked.

"You'll see soon enough"

************************************************************************

Once the fight was over the forrest floor around the hut was littered with pirates. Neither (Y/N) nor Robin believed in taking prisoners. Fortunately, (Y/N)'s little house and garden were unscathed.

"How?", Robin was puzzled.

The younger woman sent her a bright smile, "That's Mim's doing"

"Mim?"

And so (Y/N) told her about her mentor. Mim was an older woman - an old hag to be specific - that took care of (Y/N) when she landed on her island two years ago. She was strict and a little grim but also extremely warm-hearted and as chance would have it, she was known as the island's sorceress. At first (Y/N) believed that it was only hearsay, like it had been in her home village, but she quickly realized that the old lady was an actual witch and better yet - she would teach her.

"I see. So, your mentor protected your home with a spell", Robin concluded as the both of them walked over to the little hut.

As they walked up to the door, an old woman and a little child came up to them. When Robin saw the little boy with the green hair and the outstreched arms, she quickly realized why (Y/N) was so against Zoro accompanying her.

"You need to tell him, (Y/N)"

"I can't, Robin. It wouldn't change a thing"

"You don't know that", she insisted.

But before (Y/N) could give an answer, they heard the voice a certain green-haired swordsman.

"What wouldn't change a thing?"

(Y/N) stiffened up. When Zoro saw the little boy in her arms his eyes immediately grew wide. The whole crew waited in anticipation.

It was the toddler that broke the silence with his babbling, signaling for his mother to be wanting to be let down. Once she set him down the little boy immediately started to wobble his way over to Chooper, where he promptly fell on his behind and happily started to wildy gesture around.

"Is that - ? Why did- ? When-?", Zoro was lost for words and so were the others. It was Nami that spoke up first.

"(Y/N)...", she walked over to the other girl and hugged her tight, "I'm so sorry"

"You didn't know", she assured the navigator, "to be honest? I probably would have reacted the same way". She sent her friend a half-smile.

"Ma-ma?", the toddler demanded his mother's attention, two fists full of Chopper's fur in both of his chubby hands.

"Ah. No, no. Leave the nice Tanuki alone, honey", she walked over to the little boy scooping him up in her arms again, ignoring the ship doctor's protests over the misidentification.

Zoro cleared his throat to get her attention back to him. As much as he enjoyed the moment of reconciliation, he still thought there was some things the two of them had to talk about.

Within seconds the mood switched yet again and all of a sudden everybody was reminded of the reality of the situation they were in.

"Maybe we should give those two a minute or two...", Robin suggested.

"Yeah", (Y/N) answered but didn't take her eyes off of Zoro, "Sanji, why don't you cook something nice for us? The fridge should be stocked...". Her suggestion was met with instant approval from their ever hungry captain.

Sanji just nodded, still not having processed the newly gained information. How could the marimo be a father??

Nami made grabby hands towards the Mini-Zoro in (Y/N)'s arms. Usually she was rather unimpressed with babies. But this was different. This baby belonged to her best friend and... Zoro.

"Come to aunty Nami", (Y/N) didn't hesitate for a moment to hand him over to the red-head. Had it been Luffy or Usopp she'd think twice but she trusted Nami to take care of her baby.

"I'll leave you two to it, so you can talk", the navigator continued, "What's the little man's name by the way?"

"Oh, I decided to name him Sanji", (Y/N) answered seriously.

"Excuse me?!", Zoro was shocked.

"Just joking! I'm sorry", she tried to calm the mosshead down. From behind her, she could see Usopp and Nami snickering behind their hands and Sanji nearly dying of heart palpitations. "It's Sora", she added quietly as the others left her and the swordsman alone.

"Is (Y/N) coming back now?", the witch heard Chopper ask somewhere in the background but she didn't have the mental capacity to think about anything but Zoro at the moment.

"Sora...", he repeated thoughtfully once they were alone, "Does he- does he have my name?"

(Y/N) felt anxious. Would he like that?

"Well...", she started but had to stop because she didn't know what to say, "I mean... yeah?"

"Roronoa Sora...", Zoro didn't know how to properly express his feelings in the moment. Hell - he didn't even know himself. But he knew that he liked the sound of that.

"Why didn't you say anything?", he asked her. It was almost like a plea.

"Would it have changed anything? I didn't want to burden you"

"Burden me?", he was in disbelief, "How could you ever burden me?"

"Don't you understand? I was alone on this island. All alone and I had to make a decision" she was getting emotional - for the first time since her confession. There were no more jokes and funny digs to mask how she really felt.

Zoro felt terrible, he knew how hard it was for her to feel isolated and then to go through something like this without any help? When they first got together he would've never thought that he'd ever grow so attached to the girl but it didn't take long for him to really fall madly and deeply in love with her. Sometimes he'd feel bad that couldn't really express how he truly felt for her but he promised himself he would do anything in his power to protect her. But he couldn't even do that.

"You had your goal... and... and... I never wanted to hold you back", (Y/N) couldn't stop the tears from falling anymore. Being separated from him was the worst feeling in the world but she would give up everything and more for him.

Zoro pulled her into his chest, holding her close and tucking her head underneath his chin. From the way hear hands would immediately grab at his robe, it was noticeable how much she missed his touch.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through all that. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you felt like you had to lie", he hated that she felt like she had to protect him. The crew - especially Nami - had been so terrible to her, "I love you more than anything..."

She pulled back and looked up at him. Tears still streaming down her face. Even now, he couldn't help but to think how beautiful she was. And for the first time in over two years his lips met hers.

The kiss wasn't hungry or sensual. Zoro could taste the salt from her tears on her lips but it didn't bother him at all.

Once they broke apart she smiled up at him, "I've missed you"

************************************************************************

"Are you sure?", Nami shouted down from the Sunny.

"A pirate ship is no place for a child", (Y/N) answered back.

It's been a week since the fight. The townspeople were already in the process of building up what's been broken and it was time for the Straw Hats to move on. Of course, the offered the witch to join them again but nothing changed for her. She had to think about her son first and foremost - as much as she would miss life on the sea. Most of the crew already boarded the ship. It was only Zoro left on the beach with (Y/N) and their son.

"I guess it's goodbye then, huh?", the witch had a sad smile on her face.

"I promise it's not forever. As soon as Luffy is pirate king I'll come back for you... both of you", the mosshead still wasn't the most secure in his new role as a father but as long as he had (Y/N) he knew that it'd be alright.

(Y/N) went in for what would be the last hug for a long, long time, "Promise me you'll be safe. Who's gonna make you take care of yourself when I'm not there?", she smiled.

The two of them exchanged a few more kisses and 'I love you's before the crew told them it was time to depart. During the last hug, Sora, who was seated in his mothers arm reached, out and grabbed his father's cheek with a happy laugh. Zoro furrowed his brows for a moment but then quickly started grinning.

"And you keep an eye out for your mother, yes?"

The toddler babbled as if to confirm that he understood his father's order.

A loud sob disrupted the family moment. When they turned to the Sunny they saw the whole crew smiling down at them - much to the discomfort of Zoro, who was still not entirely at ease with PDA. It was Franky that the initial sob came from. The cyborg has always been prone to tears but on closer examination it was almost the whole crew that was at least a little teary-eyed. Everyone except Luffy, who had a puzzled look on his face.

"Oi, that baby looks like Zoro..."

That sentenced earned him a hefty slap at the back of the head from nami and a hearty laugh from (Y/N).

"I'm gonna miss you guys so much", she smiled through tears.

"We'll be back before you know it, (Y/N)-chan~", Sanji shouted down to her.

"Oi! Let my girlfriend alone! Nobody's gonna miss you", the swordsman, who had joined the others on the ship by now, yelled at the cook.

(Y/N) stayed on the beach listening to the two of them fight until they were too far away to make out the words anymore. Then she turned to the little mosshead in her arms.

"Guess, it's just us now huh? Roronoa Sora..."

***

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