#gale lines au

[thelittlepinkwitchblog]

"God he just wants to be loved. All he has is a library and a cat... and Elmister, but c'mon give the man a break." - Tim Downie

Okay so I'm watching an interview with Gale's VA and Dan Allen and Tim's natural voice and cadence are so so close to Gale's it's almost weird. (Not only was the early concept for his audition because on MOCAP he would resemble Henry Cavil from the Tudors. Also, Tim Downie almost voiced Raphael, he auditioned for both parts) Here are a few quotes that made me think of our favorite purple wizard man -

"When I was younger, I was very much a night owl. But as I get older I find myself waking up earlier."

"What are you doing? Go back to bed this instant."

"I need every book here. How many times - it doesn't matter how many times I've read them, It doesn't matter. Don't get into the details."

"I was bidding my time. Just bidding my time, I know my stuff. I've done my research... no it was just complete fluke and luck."

"Horror and comedy work in very similar ways. Creep, creep, creep, open the door, nothing happens. You sigh in relief and then the thing happens. Creating that comfort and then hitting you with something. "

"Although, what you could actually have, maybe some artifact so we dont blow Daddy up. I'm just putting it out there, you wouldn't want Daddy blown up, would you? Of course you wouldn't. "

"What I found the hardest was saying something and then embodying it. Being too cerebral with things."

"The cake I made was perfectly baked, layered, colored. Just little bits and pieces and little ideas..."

"That's what you're watching, an adult man, mid 40's, working hard. I know, it's unbelievable isn't it?"

"OH, there'll be a romance thing. Okay, sure, yeah. Wait, there's going to be a lot of it?"

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry you're going to have to sit through all of this with me, again. Take a deep breath, and off we go."

"It was great, great fun. A lot of work and hard work to get it all done. But to give it everything it needed and everything it warranted, my Gods it was fun to do."

"I'm just an incredibly modest, calm, calm man."

"This is a trajectory, either it's a good outcome, a bad outcome or a miscellaneous outcome. But on this, it could be any of those things, and all of those things and none of those things."

♡ NOTES ♡

The boat scene in the weave took 4 sessions to film, roughly 6 hours because of various technical difficulties and script changes

He loved filming and recording Gale as a hologram, it was one of his favorite parts

[shanediomorrissey]

A sneaky right winger and a sniper left winger exchange some words.

[memray]

gale cannot get away with saying this shit

+ gale and human virvan regency era au (they have lore)

i binge watched bridgerton and this is the first time i’ve drawn in 2 weeks

[darkurgetrash]

Last Line WIP Tag ♡

Thank you for the tag @commander-krios!

I also attached the latest panel of my Gale sort-of-comic that I will eventually get done once my obsession with Regency Rolan has decided to move on. 🤭

No pressure tags to @notlikeparis @tulip-heart @savriea @orangekittyenergy 🖤

Lead Me Through The Dark:

But they were only whispers, and such quietness was easily drowned out by the louder rhythm of her loving, finally hopeful heart.

[unnamed] Uni AU:

As Tav had expected – Karlach had already dove into the heart of it, disappearing among the hordes of cheering freshers with a red cup in each hand, her laughter echoing above the noise.

[yesistolethisurl]

thinking about modern au with atavian and gale, and how they might meet like

gale is on a forced "sabbatical" from his position at blackstaff university and slowly losing his mind when he gets an email from someone he doesn't recognize. it's a man asking if he could elaborate on a paper he wrote seven years ago.

his questions are incisive and oddly specific, but gale's not going to turn down the distraction and he's genuinely happy to help anyone with such an interest in magical theory. when he asks for the reason behind the questions, he just gets a vague "It's for a private matter, so I can't really disclose any details right now."

a week passes, and there's no further word from the mystery emailer. until one day gale turns on the tv and sees breaking news! the thieves behind the biggest art heist in baldurs gate history have finally been caught, finally busted by a private investigator in a humiliating blow to the flaming fist.

the talking heads segment with the guy comes on and

it's the same fucking guy from the emails

[grapecaseschoices]

private investigator au!

fun fact, Kendis Bishop is my PI au for Kendis. Inspired, but not quite, this.

I think BG3 as a PI au would be fun/interesting:

It would be called Who Killed Kidnapped Ulder Ravengard?

I don't think there would be a Tav, it'd just be Wyll as the main character he is. He was kicked out home by his rich daddy, thanks to some deal gone [seemingly] wrong. Ulder's obviously a politician. Maybe Governor of BG.

It would still be centered around cults, but I think here the cult of tiamat would have a bigger role. Maybe a comeback. Maybe involving Shar and Vlaakith, bc I always see Lae'zel, Shadowheart, and Halsin as the secondary main characters.

Bhaal isn't as prominent but Durge and Gortash are involved. Gortash as arms dealer and redeemed!Durge as a show to Lae'zel and Shadowheart that you can shake off your shackles and brainwashing.

Actually, I think Minthara and Durge can play as mirrors.

Karlach works for Gortash still but she found out that he's got some shady plans against the Dekarios and the Ravengards, and it's something that she struggles with.

Mizora is tied to Gortash through Zariel, and suspects what Gortash doesn't want to so she sends Wyll to take out Karlach [Mizora is Wyll's boss AND his informant].

But Wyll sees what's up and employees Karlach as a double agent --- she doesn't last very long as one [subtlety is not her forte], but she nabs a bunch of info on her way out

IDK there are other vague thoughts about the cults being a smokescreen to Gortash wanting to sell drugs and guns, but they're also a threat that he can't quite control.

I am making this up as I go along. But it will involve a Wyll and Durge romance. My Durge. IDK what Kaeliana is doing other than trying to help the misguided [Maybe Halsin put her on it, bc I see him as a big brother to her]

This is so disjointed but I refuse to dive deeper before I actually start feeling some time of way for it

Thanks for the ask bb <3

[anarkhebringer]

I love BG3, but the devs HAVE to stop softening the characters over time to pander to people

[emdotcom]

Okay! Looked through the queue, here's the art schedule, take it as you will.

9-14, Wednesday: Gemsona

9-15, Thursday: Gymsona

9-16, Friday: Double post, both Pokemon. Less about the games, more about those creatures!

9-17, Saturday: Herobrine & Sbeve Minecraft

9-18, Sunday: Double post again, FNAF & Ingo Hot

9-19, Monday: FNAF Security Breach

9-20, Tuesday: FNAF gijinkas. Just 2. Not particularly popular characters, either. Real weird take on one of 'em.

9-21, Wednesday: FNAF Pirate AU

From then on: When we hit this Thursday, I will flip a coin, & if it lands on heads, I delete anywhere between 1 to all of my Tumblr blogs & do not ever, ever remake them. If it lands on tails, I take no further action & never speak of this again.

All of these taking place at the regular 5-6pm, central time.

Regular posts in between, folks, so you're also getting the same bullshit you've grown accustomed to, I'm just also making you look at my art, as well

[nethereasypeasy]

Some fluffy head canons I have about the Baldurs Babes

mainly at camp :)

Gale stops tav to lace their boots, sarcastically tutting as he does it.

Karlach holds her hands round someones bowl and cups to warm them if they cool down too much. (Mama K microwave™)

Jaheira and Halsin share nightcaps and chat about the tadpole team. Mainly laughing at their comparative lack of experience - always ends on a 'they're good eggs tho' vibe.

Astarion and Shadowheart rate people's hair to eachother as an injoke, tav hears them mumbling numbers behind them whenever they speak to someone.

Lae'zel asks Gale to explain and pronounce things when no one is around because the 'annoying wizard' won't make fun, he's too eager to teach.

Jaheira has the best bedtime stories but they get Karlach hyped up and she asks a lot of questions till Astarion begs her to be quiet. Wyll takes mental notes for his own storytelling.

Karlach will force a game of 'I Spy' any time there is silence on the road.

Wyll is very good at little random gifts, he just remembers anything someone mentions to him. He's also low-key emotional if you return that kindness, 'you remembered?! 😭'

Halsin stops, kneels and whispers as he points and shows tav interesting plants or animals he spots when walking. 'look there's the mother and her babies' type shit. (He is camp dad(dy) ok)

Wyll teaches Lae'zel fencing. She's too keen though and tries to pin him down. She is not as graceful... But she has fun... chk!

Gale keeps a tiny portrait of Tara on him, you can't tell me modern au Gale's phone wouldn't be full of cat pics.

Astarion watches over the camp at night, he acts like he 'might as well/ I'm the only one lurking in the dark around HERE darlings' but sometimes he secretly gets a little teary looking at his first real friends all together.

Shadowheart writes moody poetry. She would tell Gale but she doesn't care for his taste... Or his possible critiques. If he ever did find her journal though he would be VERY enthused.

Astarion and tav will play with people's wardrobes when looting. Tav loves a funny hat and Astarion will do impressions of who he thinks would wear such god's awful attire.

Gale and Wyll play chess together after dinner some nights. They both say progressively cheesy lines when they take pieces, which is its own game itself at this point.

Halsin would quietly sing or hum to owlbear baby and scratch at night. Little lullabies and he'd probably tuck them in too. OR he'd be big daddy bear and snuggle up, especially when owlbear is scared and misses his mum.

The gang have played 'never have I ever' ONE time and ONE time only. It was a messy night.

... Jaheira was 100% last man standing.

[leiswxrld]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 (𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 ❥)

pairings: ellie!williams x fem!reader

sypnosis: it’s Valentine’s Day, a special day to spend with your loved ones right but what if a slasher is going around killing only once a year on this special day.

warnings: mdni 18+, smut, college slasher, anal fingering (r receiving), strap usage (r receiving), top ellie and bottom reader, face riding (r receiving), reader giving ellie a lap dance, weed and drugs, praises + degradation (mama, slut, baby, whore), ellie calls her strap her dick, strawberry vape supremacy, graphic content, college au

a/n: happy valentines my lovelies, I know this is a day late but I had to touch up a few things before I could post this and I’ve also been so busy yesterday so it had to wait till I got home, not proof read so there might be a few mistakes, low-key inspired by scream.

credits: @magicalboything @cafekitsune for line dividers ❥

'Good evening folks, this is Heather Gale reporting live from channel 5 with tonight’s news, it's that time of year where couples, friends and family around the world express their love and affection towards their loved ones but one striking question has our community in constant fear and paranoia, will the valentines day killer strike again ?'

'Today marks the death of late cheerleader captain Melissa brown who was found brutally stabbed over 20 times in the chest and stomach in her college dorm room a red rose left on her chest, police say she was returning from a party when she was viciously attacked by the killer, friends and family say she was a bright student, kind friend and positive role model for those who admired her, the community are desperately fighting to get Melissas killer found and behind bars.'

'Police ask that if you have any leads or tips that could potentially catch the Valentines Killer, they urge you to either report it to the police station or to anonymously send in your information, this is Heather Gale on channel 5 and I hope you all stay safe and well this Valentines.'

- -

"Really a valentines party" you reply in disbelief at the instagram post one of the boys from the football team had posted, you couldn't believe they were throwing a party when you were all advised not to throw any especially when the valentines killer could strike again.

"Yeah sick right I was thinking of going" your friend amarie says, scrolling onto the post and liking the picture. you throw her a dirty look, "amarie you know the college advised us not to attend any parties especially after what happened to heather she was killed straight after the party we went to last year" it felt so surreal when you found out she had been stabbed to death just after returning from the college party you attended that year, you remember being in your room when it came up on the news that starville's captain cheerleader was found dead.

"cmon y/n don't be such a whore, we'll all be together and we live in the same dorm room besides I'm pretty sure the killer only kills cheerleaders" she replies and you roll your eyes, "it's not just cheerleaders amarie it's anyone who goes to this fucking college, we're all at risk and were at a higher risk if we attend that stupid party"

amarie turns off her phone paying all her attention towards you, "think about it when was the last time you actually went to a party and got laid no offence but bitch I feel depressed just looking at you"

you cross your arms, "and what the fuck is that supposed to mean"

"it means I feel like I'm living with a christian.. your sex life is drier than a fucking desert" she remarks and you scoff, really.

"difference christians wait till marriage... reminder I have already lost my virginity" you remind her, the last time you really had sex was with a boy you hooked u with a few weeks back but you really didn't get the time to find someone and the only thing keeping you satisfied was your vibrator which was in dire need of some batteries.

"more of a reason for you to come to this party and get laid come on think about it, so many of the girls in our dorm are going we can't miss out on this opportunity besides I hear charlies going to be there" she replies, smiling to herself. Charlie was the star quarterback on the football team and one of the many boys she was frequently hooking up when she got the chance too.

"and that has something to do with me how" you reply and she shrugs her shoulders, "it means that there might be a chance you might meet someone you actually like" she replies, you ponder for a second..it could be a chance to finally hook up with someone.

"fine but I’m only going because I’m getting sick of using my vibrator plus there will be free drinks" you finally decide and she throws you a hella side eye, "girl tmi…” she says and you laugh, “now I need to go freshen up" she says, doing a little victory dance while looking at herself through her phone camera.

it was a good thing that the boys house was a 15 minute drive from your college building which meant you only spent around 5 dollars each for an Uber to get there. the house was the hotspot for most of the college parties that were thrown, a big estate with a pool and 3 floors meaning you could fit over a hundred people inside, "this thong is digging into my ass it feels like I've got carpet burn" amarie says, picking at the bright pink thong underneath her pink skirt.

You both choose to go all out, you in a red boob top and black skirt whilst amarie was wearing a pink corset top with a pink skirt. "I told you to choose the black one at the shop" you remark and she smacks her lips, "it wasn't going to match the cute pink corset top and skirt I've got so I guess I'm just going to have to suck it up" she replies, applying a thin layer of lip gloss on.

You both walk into the house, people stood near the entrance either drinking or getting smoking. you could see the inside of the house bathed in colourful lights, music blaring out into the cold midnight air.

Your strawberry flavoured vape clutched in your right hand as the stress began to creep in, your couldn't imagine that the valentine's killer could possibly strike again this year but the idea of it scared you shitless. You bring the vape to your lips inhaling the vapour as you taste the strawberry fumes enter your lungs, "I didn't expect for the party to be this fucking packed" you admit as amarie nods her head, "yeah seems like the whole campus" she pauses, "and a few other people from nearby attended"

you make it inside, pushing past your way through the sea of people making your way towards the kitchen, "You guys actually made it" Stacy another one of your friends says, going to hug you, "I mean I was expecting amarie but y/n that's a first" you give her a face that screams 'girl really' and she laughs, "no hard feelings babe but I never see your ass outside of your room except if you have class"

"none taken" you reply, manoeuvring around her so you could pour yourself a drink. you decide to do a classic vodka cranberry, basic but could easily get you drunk. "y/n pour some vodka in my cup" amarie says, holding the red solo cup towards you. you grab the bottle, pouring it until it hit the middle line, "girl quit playing pour me some more"

"You want to drink straight vodka"

"I'm trying to get shitfaced not drunk" she replies as if she was pointing out the obvious, you pour some more until it was nearly full. You down the vodka cranberry, putting down the bottle of vodka as you make your way onto the dance floor. the music blared through the speakers as you and your friends danced in the living room, grinding against amarie as she used her free hand to smack your ass.

You felt the unwanted and lustful eyes from every boy in room, ignoring them as you continued to grind against her taking a swig of your drink. Your eyes wandered for a second until they landed on a girl just poarched up against the banister of the stairs, talking to boy you recognised to be Charlie.

You'd fancied girls in the past but never took it further than just straight crushing but she was different, you don't think you'd ever seen her before on campus otherwise you wouldn't forget such a beautiful face. The mysterious brunette was dressed in a white wife beater, blue baggy jeans with a pair of retro red jordan's, the girl takes her eyes off of Charlie to look at you for a second, licking her lips before looking you up and down, not missing the long stare on your half exposed ass.

She had a blunt in her hand, taking a few drags from it before taking her attention off of you. You stop grinding and turn around to face amarie who's looking at your confused, "bitch why did you stop"

"who's that girl over there" you say discreetly pointing in direction of the staircase, "what girl" she replies, squinting her eyes to get a better look.

"that one with the tattoos going all up her arms" she looks once again before grinning, "ohhh that girl"

"that's ellie I only know her cause she normally sells weed to Charlie when we’re together I forgot how fucking fine she was" she adds taking a swig of her vodka, "shit I need another drink I'll be back"

amarie makes her way to the kitchen leaving you with a few of your other friends who were busy dancing on each other, thinking about it now you needed another drink.

You noticed that Ellie had moved to the couch some girl chatting her up as she seemed to not be listening, blunt in hand. she notices you right away, eyes lowered a fraction and manspreading with one leg propped up on the couch. a surge of confidence ran through you as you decide to go sit yourself next to her, she licks her lips turning to face you.

"why'd you stop dancing" she starts, offering the blunt to you as you happily accept it. you laugh, "what did you like my dancing" you reply, taking a drag before handing it back to her.

"I mean I liked what I was seeing" she admits boldly, making you shuffle nervously under her intimidating gaze, "if you'd like I could give you a lap dance" you offer and she raises a brow.

"you want to give someone you just met a lap dance huh" yes and no but this was the alcohol talking.

"yeah if you want I know a few things" you state and she thinks about it for a sec before standing up, "ok follow me doll" you blush at the nickname, taking ellies hand as she leads you upstairs, you look at amarie who's still in the kitchen pressed against the counter as she made out with Charlie, her hands wrapped around his neck as his were around her waist, typical amarie.

you passed so many people, a group of people doing drugs on the floor and the others doing dares on eachother on the other side of the room. her grip on your hand tightened, trying to avoid stepping on the people sat on the stairs to prevent yourself falling. there were many occupied rooms passing through all of them till you found a vacant one, ellie allowing you to go in first closing the door behind you.

the rooms quite big, a double bed with a lamp on each side with little side tables and a vanity behind you with picture frames on top, "you nervous" she asks almost taunting, sitting on the edge of the bed. the new found confidence from earlier was replaced with anxiety as it began to seep in, you've only jokingly given your friend a lap dance but that was only because you were dared to do it but that was out of the question now since you were sobering up and doing it for real.

"yeah" you admit and she chuckles, "don't worry I won't judge beside who's going to complain when they've got a pretty girl grinding on their lap" she grins and you roll your eyes with a smile as you remove your shoes.

the tension in the room was thick, Ellie's hands pressed against the sheets, the overbearing loud music coming from downstairs giving you a headache and the sounds of moans emitting from the other side of the walls, "remember no touching me this is just a dance" you emphasise, going to straddle her lap.

"I got you" she says, keeping her hands to her sides. you start by whining your hips against her lap, hands slowly brushing over her thighs feeling her tense up beneath you. you twisted around, moving to rhythm of the music each movement against her lap making you feel the unsuspected bulge tucked underneath her jeans.

she knows you felt it, fighting the urge to just scrap the lap dance and touch you, the friction against her strap rubbing up against her aching clit, pussy wet just watching you. she instinctively swallowed as your grinding increased, practically fucking her with clothes on, your red laced panties soaked in your own arousal, biting back the urge to moan.

Ellie mumbles in cohesively, her voice low and hoarse as you lift up off of her, seductively moving your hips towards the floor whilst your skirt rode up your ass, exposing the red lace that sat perfectly around your waist. you turn back around, the dim light in the room showing Ellie's eyes that had now darken in colour, her fists locked up tight that they turned red.

You kiss your way up her clothed body, seating yourself back onto her lap as you continued till you reached her neck, leaving love bites all over until you reached her cherry red lips, hovering over them before teasingly backing away, "I know you feel it.... pull it out" her voice low, looking up at you.

"feel what" you innocently tease, gasping when she grips onto your hips, "h-hey I said no touching"

"don't act smart with me...pull.it.out" she tells you and you give her a hesitant look, "what you never seen a dick before"

"no dumbass I have but I've just never done it with a girl" you shamefully admit and she just laughs, "I guess I'll be your first" her hands wrap around your back so that your laying on top of her and gently wraps her hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss.

her lips were addicting, not like the many boys you've hooked up with who just kissed for the sake of it but she took her time with you, it's almost like having sex but with her mouth allowing her to slip her tongue into your mouth as you moan, your hand going under her top rubbing up and down her stomach.

she pulls away, helping you remove her belt, quickly pulling her jeans down showing the very prominent bulge through her black calvin klein boxers "before you sit on it, I want you to fuck my face with your pussy" your face heats up at her words, embarrassment flooding through your body leaving your clit throbbing.

"you want me sit on your face" you ask almost astonished, "yes is that a problem?" she questions, "well no-

"then sit this pussy on my fucking face" she interrupts and you quickly follow, removing your black skirt and red lace before throwing them into a random corner of the room. you slowly, hover your cunt over her face scared that you might accidentally suffocate her.

she slaps your ass, "lower yourself down more" she growls, gripping your legs and pulling you onto her mouth. you slowly rock your hips against her mouth, ellie pressing her tongue against your clit, flicking her tongue up and down your vulva making your legs tremble, a whimper leaving your glossed lips.

Ellie’s sucking and biting, her nails digging into the fat of your thighs, your juices mixing in with her saliva that dripped down her chin. Your legs shake and ellie gets more faster, your head fuzzy with the overwhelming pleasure you were receiving, you felt like screaming covering your mouth with your hand, muffling your moans.

You never imagined you'd be getting head by girl at a college party whilst there were hundreds of people downstairs, the thought of it made you even wetter and you were fucking thankful you decided to come.

you finally come with a silent scream, gripping onto the headboard as she continued to go down on you until she was done, adding onto the best fucking head that you had gotten in ages. she taps your thigh, allowing you to raise up off of her face, your face heating up at ellie's wet face.

"you taste so good mama" she says, licking her lips and sitting up on the bed. she cracks her neck, giving you a kiss allowing you to taste yourself. "but I'm not done with you" she says, slapping your inner thigh.

"I want you to get on your knees and suck this dick baby" she moves her self to the edge of the bed, giving you room to get on your knees. you follow, getting in between her legs, she opens your mouth with her fingers and slips them inside until they were coated in your saliva before using them as lubricant to stroke herself, tapping the tip against your wet lips.

"say ahh..." you slightly open your mouth allowing her to slip her dick into your mouth, it's been a while since you've last given head, slowly bobbing your head up and down her length, she's just watching you using her fingers to tilt your head up so that you could make eye contact with her, her hands grip onto the back of your messy hair, helping you to go down on her faster your eyes filling up with tears, trying to open up your throat more so that you wouldn't gag.

"fuck..." she whispers, fumbling with something on the bed before pulling out her phone. your pace doesn't falter, watching as she presses the record button, the flash brightening up the dim room. you moan, trying so hard not to choke as you sloppily bob your head up and down faster, eye contact not ceasing.

you felt ashamed yet turned on at the same time at being recorded, ellie stroking your hair back to prevent it from falling into your face. your surprised you had been going on for this long, feeling the evident tiredness in your jaw, drool seeping from your mouth and lubricating her dick. she stops you, slowly pushing you off her, allowing you to catch your breath.

"I love watching you suck my dick baby but I wanna see how well you can take it" she admits, camera still recording. "get on all fours mama" she says standing up as you get up from your knees. she waits for you to get on all fours, arching your back as she climbs onto the bed behind you phone in hand, positioning herself.

she spreads your ass, spitting onto your gaping hole allowing it to drip down over as she uses her thumb to rub it in before prodding her tip against your glistening cunt, slowing pushing herself into you. you gasp, your mouth widening into an 'o', the feeling of her dick stretching you out, but before she could even move there's a sudden knock on the door.

"Room is occupied" Ellie yells, awaiting for the person behind the door to move along but the person on the other side doesn't go, knocking once again, "I said the room is occupied asshole go and fuck some place else" the person on the other side get's the message, walking away from the door.

"some fucking people" ellie whispers to you which makes you giggle. she starts to rock her hips into you, putting the palm of her hand against your back helping you to fuck back onto her. she fucked into you so lovingly but so fucking rough, hitting your g-spot that had you gasping and cursing, biting on your lip and your hand going to grip onto the sheets, "shit"

Ellie doesn't stop recording, one hand gripping onto your hips whilst thrusting into you, cursing at the way your ass moved against her hips. you turn around to look at her, her hair falling into her face as ellie looked back at you. she looked so fucking sexy in just her wife beater, showcasing all the different tattoos she had to offer... you don't think you've ever been this fucking whipped for someone with the way she had you acting.

"you should see how fucking perfect you look on camera...should turn your slutty ass into a fucking pornstar shit" you moan in response to her words, fucking yourself back onto her. your pants get louder, the squelching noises from your gushing cunt getting louder every time ellie pulled back, she slaps your ass watching how it jiggled under the camera light. "fuck.....elsss"

your cheeks were flushed and your forehead was lined with sweat, feeling ellie get deeper every time she pulled you back onto her, receiving cute and desperate moans from your lips as your tits bounce with every rough drag of her hips.

You practically trying to pull away, begging ellie to let you come as she pounded you into the bed, her thumb pressing against your labia, rubbing against it.

You gasp again, feeling her finger slowly slip into your exposed hole the uncomfortable feeling making you clench around her fingers, she curls her fingers almost doing a ‘come here’ motion, whispering for you to relax so that it wouldn’t feel as painful, she gradually builds her speed making you feel lightheaded, this new fucking feeling making you dizzy.

"so fucking tight" she fists her fingers into you, the rings around your walls clenching around her skinny fingers whilst pounding into you as your eyes rolled shut.

You start to spasm around her strap before you know it your creaming around her dick, your climax riding out as she continued to milk you, her pace never faltering, “f-fuck stop els it’s too much”

“be a good little whore and cum for me again” that alone sends you over the edge and your cumming again, not believing you could even come more than twice as she lazily gives you a few more thrusts before pulling out her dick coated in your sweet juices, leaving you sprawled out on the bed, allowing you to catch your breath.

you could hear your heart beating out of your ears, laying there slumped on the bed before ellie stopped the recording. you remain motionless, trying to catch your breath as ellie helped you up from the bed. You both messily get dressed in silence, your back turned as you applied your strawberry lipgloss that had smeared off before a notification on ellie's phone catches her attention, "I-uh gotta go- something I've got to take care off, I guess I’ll see you around y/n" she says, quickly buckling up her belt and stepping into her shoes.

she gives you one last kiss on the lips, savouring the sweet taste from your scented lipgloss before disappearing into the hallway. you look for the red lace underwear that you had thrown into the corner of the room earlier but it was nowhere to be found, you curse yourself deciding to wrap a jumper you found in the closet around your waist to prevent flashing anyone, before swiftly leaving the room.

you make your way downstairs, people screaming and left in a state of disarray , how did you not hear this before……did you miss something ?

a frantic amarie rushes to you, "where were you we were looking for you" she yells, bringing you into a death-crushing hug leaving you confused. "I-i was in the bathroom why what happened" you inquire, pulling away.

"the killer striked again, charlies dead"

[ayselluna]

Spawn Astarion Recommendations!

So I heard you guys want Spawn Astarion Recommendations too! I heard you :) Apologies if it took awhile it got hard to compile everything I read.

I honestly have read more one shots Spawn Astarion than series tbh. but here are some series I love! These are Astarion x Tav / You / OCs following the story from the game! I'll be happy to make another list for AU's! Another Ascended list is on the way too~ :))

I DEFINITELY RECOMMEND FOLLOWING THESE WRITERS TOO as they have really great HCs and One Shots!

The Arrangement by @fangswbenefits - This is one of the first ones I've read and how she wrote Astarion is just so ASTARION! The lines, the slow burn and the smut are exquisite as hell. I do suggest reading her oneshots too! Her smuts are so good I suggest reading it ALONE. XD ONGOING!

The Fangs Between Us by @feyascorner - Not your typical Lovey-dovey Astarion and Tav. Astarion actually felt betrayed and actually tried killing you! Can love still blossom? is it still there? Would you guys even be friends?! So much angst and but oh so goooood! ONGOING!

Shadows of the Past by @pastshadowsff-blog / PallidMoon - What's an Astarion story w/o the angst? I would definitely be devastated the moment Astarion left me! The process of healing and loving, the confrontations here are soooo on point! Have a good gale on the side too~ ONGOING!

Love at First Knife by @bg-brainrot - DEFINITELY A FAVORITE! Aside from the romance from Astarion and TAV you get the WHOLE GANG TOO! I'm a sucker on everything on this series! I can't count how many times I've re-read this while I wait for my other fics to update. ONGOING? I'm not sure but it gets updated!

When He’s all but Forgotten How to Love Again by @bg-brainrot - okay another one from the same author, at this point just read everything!! okay, but what if TAV died and got reincarnated?! If you got an elf TAV this is definitely one for the books! I LOOOOVE this one a lot. Getting your memories back and seeking your lover out, would it be the same? Would he even remember you?! Surely he will right?! but what if he don't? hmmmm READ IT! ONGOING!

Astarion Talks In His Sleep by  @littlejuicebox - This is a short series but this was just memorable coz WE'LL LOVE EVERYTHING in it. It's one of the happy endings you'd totally wish for and how this story got me gasping and giddy was just chef's kiss! You'll love her DADSTARION series too! I LOVE THIS FAMILY A LOT. :))

Cursed To Put My Hands On Everything by @maladaptive-menace - I recently found this and I got hook immediately on the concept! I also love the titles on this series, as the title says~ :)) So imagine you're doing your mundane things IRL and one tiring night you found yourself Isekaid IN the GAME?! You know you're effed up, how would you survive?! well at least you got your dream come true of meeting the gang in the flesh…specially the Pale Elf~ ONGOING!

Winter Holiday Challenge Fills by @justporo - So this is an all fluff from the Winter Holidays! I know it's not christmas anymore but if you missed it during that time who cares?! READ IT! Get all the fluffiness you need from this series! Check that full masterlist on their profile too while you're at it~ :)) FINISHED!

The Currents of Destiny by @lendeah - You and Astarion fights after he didn't go with the Ascension, left and scorn you to die screaming! But what if he sees all the what if that could happen?! Would his decision stay the same? FINISHED!

An Adventure in Making a Life by @redlittlefoxari - okay something different but maybe a PREGNANCY fic anyone? :D This was one of the fastest story I binged! You both just learned you're pregnant but an invitation from a friend comes forth! Maybe keep it a surprise for the gang? How would this pregnancy on the road takes you? ALSOOOO FREAKING LOVIING HUSBAND ASTARION UGGHH i can't~

I have more authors to recommend but we'll keep this list for now! I urge you to follow these authors too and check their other works.

Let me know if you guys are up for more recommendations! I have more to share! <3 Hope you enjoy reading them as I did! More reading buddies!

[fettuccinealfred0]

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 2

Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 7.4k

(CW: general vampirism, period typical sexism, forced marriage)

Summary:

“Do you, Lord Astarion Ancunin, take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Astarion gives a dramatic ‘I do’ with a self-important little flourish of his hand. Even in the little time you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize that he is a showman above all and is incapable of turning down an opportunity to be over-the-top. 

Gale turns to you, “And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you force the words out through gritted teeth because at this point, what choice do you really have?

Read on ao3

There’s a knock on your door the next morning, but you ignore it- too consumed by the throbbing pain in your head and the feeling of tiny knives stabbing at the back of your eyes. This is what you get for crying yourself to sleep. 

At some point last night, you had managed to pull yourself off the floor and into the bed, still wearing your gown. You had barely thought to pull the pins out of your hair before you were curling in on yourself under the covers, pillow dampening under your cheek. 

But there are no tears left this morning, only anger burning through your veins. 

Anger felt easy, anger felt familiar. Anger masked hurt and gave it a purpose. You were hurt by Astarion because he made you feel special and you were angry at yourself because you had been too caught up in the fantasy and believed him. The two sentiments twisted and warped in your mind until you were left angry at Astarion for tricking you.

There’s another knock at the door and it infuriates you. Why couldn’t you be left alone to grieve? These people would have the entirety of your life to bother you. Did you not deserve one day to yourself? You pick up one of your shoes from the floor and hurl it at the door as you yell at the person on the other side to leave you alone. 

Thankfully, your message must have been received, because for a few moments, there’s nothing but glorious silence. You let your eyes drift closed again, but your mind is too quick to turn back to last night- how easy it had been to dance with Astarion, how his arm had felt wrapped around your waist, the solid line of his body as he had pinned you to the wall and threatened you. And through all those memories is your new fiancé’s stupid, perfect, beautiful, lying face.

The way you see it, you have two ways of getting out of this wedding. Either you manage to escape or figure out how to kill Astarion. 

How do you kill a vampire, though? You try to pull the stories you were told as a little girl from the recesses of your mind to see if you remember any weaknesses or weapons you can use against him. You’re supposed to drive something through their heart- a wooden stake. The elegant wooden bed posts are perhaps the most reasonable candidate, you just have to figure out how to saw through the thick wood. At this point, you’re desperate enough to start gnawing on one like a beaver. You’re studying the posts and losing hope at the feasibility of turning one into a stake when the dark haired woman from last night bursts her way into the room. 

“Get out!” You practically screech at her, reaching down to pick up your remaining shoe to throw it at her. The woman simply dodges the shoe and continues wheeling in a cart of food. 

“You weren’t answering the door, my lady,” she says, in a sickly sweet voice that makes you want to grab the butter knife from the cart and jam it into her throat. The way she looks at you makes you feel like you were the one inconveniencing her and not that she is complicit in your captivity.

The butter knife had you thinking again, though. It was not the best weapon by any means, but it was perhaps the best defense you would have access to. You rise from the bed and move toward the cart under the guise of investigating the food on it. 

It is a lavish spread. Someone had obviously gone through great care to make sure you would find at least something on it appealing and your growling stomach is tempted by some of the sweet-looking pastries. Nevertheless, in your scheming this morning, you had already decided that one of your little acts of revenge will be to refuse food. Astarion can’t very well keep a prisoner who is dead. Or at the very least, it will be a great inconvenience for him and that thought fills you with the tiniest spark of joy.

You press your hands to the cart, continuing your fake investigation of the breakfast. The servant has her back turned to you as she remakes the bed and you take the opportunity to carefully slide the knife off the cart, concealing it in the pocket in the folds of your skirt. 

“I’m not hungry,” you finally declare, as you settle at the little table in the corner of the room. You feel better, now that you’ve got your secret little knife with you- more prepared, and at least a small step further on your plot to get out of here. 

“Lord Ancunin will be worried about you if you don’t eat,” the lady answers, but you can tell she is growing a bit exasperated by your antics. She prepares a plate of food anyway, setting it on the table in front of you. Passing over the food, you instead pick up the cup of tea she’d poured in an attempt to soothe your stomach. 

“Astarion can worry all he’d like. I’m not going to let him fatten me up like I’m some pig he’s readying for slaughter,” you push the plate back toward her as you speak. 

Astarion might have gotten what he wanted for now, but you were by no means going to make this easy for him. You were going to fight and claw and resist him in every way you knew how. A dark, vengeful part of you smirks at the idea of his pretty face marred by your claw marks. 

“If he wanted you dead, you’d already be dead,” the maid says, though her face does soften a bit, full of pity. You hate her for that, for pitying you. Had you really fallen so far that you were seen as nothing more than a helpless little snack for a vampire Lord? 

 “At least let me help you out of that dress. You’ll feel better with a change of clothes,” she says and even though you’ve decided that this woman is your new enemy along with Astarion, she might be right that you would feel better in new clothes. You debate whether you should accept this offer of help or not, worried that if she were to help you out of your dress, she would find your precious knife tucked in the pocket. 

She seems to notice your internal struggle and offers, “Or I could bring you a new dress and you could change on your own?”

You do end up agreeing to those terms, but quickly discover that you have vastly underestimated the difficulty of removing a ballgown. You weren’t used to dressing by yourself and the tiny buttons down the back of your gown seem too slippery and impossible to manage on your own. For a moment, you consider giving up entirely and just wearing this dress for the rest of your miserable life, but now that the idea of changing your clothes has gotten in your head, you want out of the stupid dress that is so full of reminders of last night.

You quickly tuck the knife underneath the pillows of the bed so that the woman cannot find it in your skirts before you swallow your pride and hesitantly knock on the inside of the door. It whips open almost immediately, the dark haired woman looking at you curiously, her long ponytail swaying behind her.

“Can you help me? I can’t get this dress off by myself,” you say, but you can feel your voice is tinged with embarrassment.

She enters the room again and undoes the slippery buttons on the back of your dress with dextrous fingers. Her speed is irritating since you had just spent the past half hour hopping around your room with your hands twisted behind your back like a fool. 

“What’s your name?” you finally ask, as she’s helping to undo your corset.

“Shadowheart, my lady.”

“That’s a…” you struggle with the words, trying to be polite, “unique name.”

Shadowheart snorts out a laugh and you appreciate that she seems to have a sense of humor. “I’m not from around here.” 

The dress she helps you into is soft and simple. The pale blue cotton is light and will keep you cool during the warm summer afternoon and the thin lace trim around the neckline is delicate and refined, hinting at your fiancé’s wealth. It’s the complete opposite of what you would have expected for the bride of a vampire. A part of you had even considered that Astarion might keep you dressed up in gaudy ball gowns for the rest of all time. He did seem to have a flair for the dramatic. Your initial pleasure with the dress sours when you realize this dress was just another reminder that as your husband, Astarion could completely control every aspect of your life, right down to the clothes on your back. Or the lack of clothes, though you shudder at the thought. 

“We can go to a dressmaker soon and get you new clothes,” Shadowheart says, when she notices you plucking sadly at the material. “Or we can try writing a letter to your father and organize having your old clothes sent here, if you’d rather?”

Her offer makes you question if you might have been too quick to judge Shadowheart, who has been nothing but kind to you this morning, even when you have screamed and thrown things at her. Perhaps you could manage to turn her into a useful ally in your escape, after all. You couldn’t allow yourself to think that you might grow friendly with her over time. No, right now, all your mental faculties need to be dedicated to getting out of here before the wedding, before you would be legally bound to Astarion. 

“The dressmaker is agreeable to me- though, it would be nice to have some of my old items sent here. Personal belongings and books and whatnot,” you answer and she gives you a small smile. Truthfully, you’d rather not have your old wardrobe sent here, especially since you planned on leaving before it would arrive. Those dresses hold memories that at this point, you’d rather forget. But, if you were to be stuck here forever, you would certainly miss your little collection of books and you also long desperately for the necklace your mother had given you before she died- it would provide a small bit of comfort in this very stressful time.

You hesitate to tell Shadhowheart that the necklace is the real purpose of your request. If your father was given any inclination how much that necklace meant to you or how much it was likely worth, it would certainly be missing if your belongings ever did show up. 

“That can certainly be arranged, my lady,” she gives you another sweet smile as she guides you to sit so she can work on your hair. She looks like she’s debating whether or not to speak for a moment before she says, “Believe it or not, but everyone here really does want what’s best for you. This was just the only way for Astarion to ensure you kept his vampirism a secret.”

You scoff, immediately dismissing her words. You hadn’t missed the way that she had mistakenly called him Astarion rather than Lord Ancunin. There was a familiarity that was suggested at her use of his first name and it sat wrong with you- this idea that Astarion could be respected or, gods forbid, friendly enough with his staff that they would feel comfortable using his first name.

“But what about the woman he was drinking from last night? Why does she get to leave with her freedom?” You snap back at her, the hypocrisy of it all fanning the spark of anger within you again. 

“The Lord has a longstanding agreement with several local people.” Shadowheart explains and when you let out a huff of annoyance at her answer, she continues, “There’s a level of trust and predictability there that isn’t present with you. You’re a wild card.”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” you grumble, though you aren’t entirely sure if there was any truth to your words. You hadn’t really had time to think about what you would do after the ball since you were too focused on trying to escape Astarion. Perhaps you might have told your father on the carriage ride home, but he would have probably used it as an excuse to send you to the nuthouse and finally be rid of you. You would have still ended the night locked in a room, though admittedly one with worse interior design. 

Even after Shadowheart excuses herself from the room, you sit glumly over this realization. It seems predetermined that your fate was to be imprisoned- in the asylum, in this room, in a marriage to Astarion or a marriage to that rat of a man who had been with your father last night. 

The escape efforts continue in your mind, but you grow half-heartedness as the hours continue to tick by. 

Shadowheart returns a few hours later with lunch, a spread of meats and cheeses with breads and dried fruits. Your fingers pass reluctantly over the dates, which were always a favorite of yours, while you reach to pour yourself a cup of tea. It’s dark and rich and you only realize after you’ve drunk the whole pot that it’s filled the room with a hint of a lovely bergamot smell. Your heart twinges when you realize that Astarion has taken this from you now, too- that bergamot has become intrinsically linked with him in your mind

You spend time staring out the window at the view of the garden, watching the servants come and go as they clean up after the ball and you can’t help but wonder if your view is by design or if this room is just the most equipped to hold a prisoner. Since your room is on the top floor, the distance to the ground makes jumping impossible. The drop could potentially kill you or at least leave you so injured you wouldn’t be able to get very far. It takes about an hour to tie together the sheets from the bed and see how long you can fasten the makeshift rope, if maybe you can climb down the side of the building before you jump. Ultimately, you don’t have enough material and the drop would still be too far. You remake the bed, disheartened at your lack of viable escape options. 

When Shadowheart returns a few hours later, she lets out an annoyed sigh at your uneaten lunch, replacing it with dinner, roast duck on a bed of fragrant rice. The aroma wafts through the room, but you hold strong, letting the bowl sit untouched on the small corner table. Once again, you greedily suck down the tea, grateful that you were given an herbal blend that smells of lavender rather than bergamot. 

The lack of progress you’ve made in escaping today has you feeling defeated, and you resolve yourself to the fact that your only available option is to fight your way out. After retrieving your hidden butter knife from underneath the plump pillows, you wait by the door. Strength isn’t your strong suit, so the act of surprise will have to be your weapon. You aren’t entirely sure how much damage you can do with the dull knife, but a poor weapon is better than no weapon at all. Hopefully, you can subdue the next person who comes through that door and negotiate your way out. Shadowheart would likely be back to help you prepare for bed soon and as guilty as you feel at the prospect of using her as a hostage, your own well-being was paramount. 

The doorknob twists and you pounce. It’s perhaps the worst or the best possible option of who has opened the door.

“Oh, I rather like being in this position with you. Tell me, dearest, what will you do with me now that you’ve caught me?” Astarion practically purrs with his beautiful, lilting voice. 

You have Astarion pinned to the wall in the perfect mirror image of last night, your arm against his chest so that the knife is pressed firmly against the column of his throat. You don’t allow yourself to look at his neck longer than it takes to position the knife, too scared you will be distracted by the way the muscles curve and dip into that delightful hollow at the base of his throat. 

But you do catch the two distinct puncture wounds on his neck. The crude markings looked as if a wild animal had ripped their teeth into him carelessly. They can only be one thing. Bite marks. 

The twin scars were an obvious clue to his true nature, a birthmark left from when he was reborn anew as a vampire. The high collar he had been wearing last night had covered them but the scar tissue is jagged and rough against his pale skin and they stand out unmistakably now. 

Ripping your gaze from his neck, you glare into his definitely-not-distracting eyes as he regards you with a hint of amusement that just serves to irritate you further. You were supposed to be intimidating here, not amusing. 

“Really, what was the plan here?” Astarion seems to grow bored at your lack of a response, lips turning up at the corner as he lets out a breath of laughter, “To stab me to death with a knife that’s not even sharp enough to cut a slice of bread?”

Your arm holding the knife up to his neck wavers and Astarion’s fingers trace a gentle path across your arms until he grasps your hand, nearly crushing it in his grip. The pain makes you involuntarily open your fist and the knife clatters to the floor with a clunk. Astarion’s quick to move his boot to step on it so you’re unable to pick it up. 

With the threat of the knife removed, Astarion still lets you keep him pinned to the wall. “I see you got at least something out of the breakfast I sent for you.”

“I don’t appreciate being locked in my room,” you snarl back at him. 

“Yes, well, when you start to earn some trust, I’ll let you out. But you’re not off to a strong start with the knife, darling.”

Darling.

You think of how he had called you darling last night as he swept you into his arms and danced, how it had sounded like a hymn dripping from his lips that caused a sweet warmth to pool in your belly. Now, you practically hiss at him using the words, hackles raised in defense like a wild dog. 

He pokes your cheek, lips curled up in a smile, “Very scary.”

“I hate you.”

“A shame, really. We could’ve had so much fun together,” Astarion’s hand sneaks down to curl around your back and rest against your hip while he talks, pulling you closer against him. The position is so similar to how he had held you while you danced last night and for a moment, you give in, letting yourself enjoy his touch rather than immediately shaking his hands off. 

His voice is deep and sultry, hand tightening where it clutches against the fabric of your dress, “If only you hadn’t ruined my plans for last night… I would have come back from my midnight snack, satiated by blood, but starving for you. I would have taken you to stroll the gardens, fed you a line about how the roses were jealous of your beauty and I would have even cut one off for you for you to remember me by.”

You’re struck by how similar his plan was to your daydream last night, as if Astarion was intimately familiar with your deepest desires.  

He’s leaning closer and the soft brush of one of his white curls against your forehead is nearly divine as his words continue to hypnotize you, “I would have kissed you, over and over and over again, until you couldn’t think straight.” 

“I could’ve touched you,” he emphasizes his words by dipping the hand on your waist just a fraction of an inch lower. The warm smell of bergamot is flooding your senses and his mouth is moving so, so close to yours, only a hair’s breadth away from your own as he speaks in a rich, seductive voice. Your lips part in anticipation, breath hitching in your throat at the thought.

“Have you ever been touched before?” His gaze feels like a caress as it slides down your neck to your collarbones, gentle fingers tilting your chin up to refocus your gaze on his lovely face. 

“No, not a proper little girl like you. I can’t imagine how pent up you are. I would have used my mouth and my hands on you until you saw stars.  Until all you could remember was my name, falling from your lips like a prayer.”

“Enough,” you shake your head, placing your hand against his chest to press yourself a step away from him. His eyes are dark and hooded as he follows your movement and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the flaming heat you feel licking at your face. 

It’s cruel of Astarion to imprison you and then come in here and fill your mind with delicious fantasies. Perhaps this is his way of playing with his food- to visit you and shame you for how desperately you wanted him. It was cruel of him to demean you for your desire, not after he pretended to need you just as badly last night. 

“You don’t get to mock me,” you say to him, once you’ve collected your composure.

“I’m not mocking, pet, I’m teasing.” He’s still leaned against the wall, arms casually crossed across his chest. “It’s what good lovers do to each other.”

“Lovers?” you splutter.

“I’m teasing again, dear. Gods, you make it so easy.” Astarion finally pushes himself off from the wall, leaning down to pick up the knife and tuck it in his own pocket.

You glare at him while he moves, attempting to assert your dominance over a situation that you were quickly losing control of. 

“You haven’t eaten today,” Astarion breaks the silence, eyes softening a bit. He sounds genuinely concerned and his pretend sincerity has you wondering if you could be quick enough to grab the knife back out of his pocket and give him a good stab in the side. He doesn’t get to be concerned about you. Not when he is the one causing you distress.

“I wasn’t hungry.” Your stomach betrays you by choosing that moment to grumble. You know Astarion heard it. Damned vampire.

“My, my. Well, you’re either lying or you’re dying of some weird stomach condition. And as much fun as the latter would be, I’d really prefer you stay alive until our wedding.”

Refusing to respond to his taunts, you cross your arms over your chest and continue glaring.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to poison you, darling. That would be a waste of perfectly good blood.” Astarion says, rolling his eyes. You know that he catches how you stiffen at the mention of blood.

“Oh,” he draws out the word all long and self-important now that he thinks he has you figured out, “So that’s what you’re worried about, that I’m going to drink from you. Dearest, as fun as it was chasing after you last night, I prefer meals that are a bit easier to catch.”

You remain silent, still, and Astarion takes a step closer to you, his fingers brushing affectionately against your upper arm. It’s nearly impossible to hold back the shiver that threatens to run down your spine.

“Just promise me you’ll eat something,” his eyes have got that stupid soft-ness to them again that makes you want to do the opposite of what he’s saying just to spite him. 

You remind yourself that you can’t believe a word he says. Astarion has proven himself as a liar and a cheat. In fact, his whole act tonight is probably a part of his masterplan to sacrifice you for your virgin blood or something. 

“I won’t promise you anything!” you cry, incredulous. 

Astarion moves to leave but pauses in the doorway, hand curled around the doorknob. If he would just open the door, you could try to rush out around him. 

“How do you feel about a nighttime wedding?” He asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder. 

“Whatever pleases you, husband.” You hiss back at him. “My opinion on our upcoming marriage hasn’t seemed to matter so far.”

“Yes, well, you do forfeit some right to make your own choices when you exhibit poor decision making capabilities and sneak around, following scary monsters in the dark,” he snarks, which sets off a fresh wave of anger within you. 

Astarion closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath. You feel a bit of pride that you seem to be getting under his skin just as much as he is frustrating you. 

“You like roses, right?” Astarion asks.

“Yes,” you reply. The initial pleasure that he had remembered a detail about you from last night fades as you begin to grow wary about his motives in asking.

“Good, I’ve planned for there to be plenty at the wedding tomorrow night. I’ll be the handsome devil standing at the end of the aisle,” he shoots a wink over his shoulder before the lock clicks behind him. At this point, the familiar sound nearly makes you sick to your stomach. 

—---

Shadowheart comes in to see you sulking a bit later and draws a bath for you. The warm water feels wonderful, but does nothing to tamper the heat that has been rising under your skin since the moment Astarion let you pin him to the wall. 

You don’t sleep very well that night, anger and something else coursing through your veins. Astarion’s words from earlier stick with you in your dreams. 

I would have kissed you, over and over and over again.

I would have used my mouth and my hands on you until you saw stars. Until all you could remember was my name, falling from your lips like a prayer.

And a day ago, you would have let him, would have been driven half mad with ecstasy at the prospect. But Astarion had to ruin that. Astarion had to ruin everything. He was the subject of all of your daydreams and the architect of all your nightmares.

You do manage to sleep, eventually, but you wake up hot and sticky with sweat, the taste of Astarion’s lips still a whisper in your mind. 

And yeah, okay, maybe you do snag a pastry at breakfast when Shadowheart isn’t looking. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she notices. You can only hope that she doesn’t report it back to Astarion. 

In the morning, you watch the gardens as they’re prepared for the wedding, observing how the ornate flowery archway that you suppose will be your altar is constructed at a moment’s notice. You feel like you are marching to your death as the wedding crawls ever closer, your chance of escape slipping further away with every passing moment. 

Shadowheart returns in the late afternoon to help you prepare for the ceremony. The dress she carries with her is far simpler than you expected, less intricate even than your dress from the ball a couple nights ago. The dark material is offset with shimmery, golden thread embroidered into the material in beautiful floral patterns. You wonder if Astarion just kept this on hand or had managed to contact a dressmaker who could make this dress so quickly.

Shadowheart pins your hair up in tasteful braided style and you do have to admit that you look beautiful when you look into the mirror. That familiar rage is burning in you again. You don’t want to look beautiful for Astarion, you don’t want to drag this out any longer or harder than it needs to be. 

You dread the thought of tonight. You were not as naive to the world as your father might have thought; you had heard the whisperings of other ladies when they discussed the horrors of their marital beds, heard the talk of greedy husbands and so much pain. On a normal wedding night, even the best of men could turn into a savage and you shudder to think what it might be like with a man who is already a beast. How much worse would it be for you?

But were you not a hypocrite? Had you not dreamt of coming undone on his elegant hands just last night? You force yourself to stop before you can continue down that train of thought and get carried away with silly, romantic notions. No, it was best to prepare for the worst. Tonight would be a worse torture than your two days locked in a cage. And you had to attend a stupid party about it first. 

Shadowheart seems to be able to sense your nerves, probably because you’ve spent the whole afternoon alternating between fiddling with your hands and sighing.

She kneels down in front of you, staring at you with an intensity that lets you know her next words will be very important. “You know that I am your lady’s maid. That I default to serving you over the Lord, right?”

“Deep down, he is a good man, but if anything, and I mean anything, happens tonight that makes you uncomfortable, you call me and I will drag Lord Ancunin out of here bruised and bloody. I don’t care if it’s as simple as him attempting to hold your hand when you don’t wish him to.”

Her words comfort you even though you wonder how much time that would really buy you. After all, it was part of your wifely duties to satisfy your husband, to bear his children. Although you aren’t entirely sure if it’s possible to have children with a vampire, you’re going to operate under the assumption that it’s possible until you’re told otherwise as part of your ‘prepare for the worst’ strategy. 

“Thank you,” you sincerely tell her because you want to let her know that her words have comforted you even if you doubt that she would be able to fight off a vampire.

“If you really wanted to help, you could get me out of this marriage,” you offer up, partially as a joke and partially to see if maybe the solution to your problems is really that easy. 

“We both know I can’t do that,” Shadowheart says, because it never is that easy. Once again, she’s got that stupid, sad smile on her face again that makes you want to knock her pretty teeth out. 

“Thought I’d try, at least.”

Your feet seem to have stopped working, so Shadowheart has to practically drag you out of the room and dump you in the garden. She’s, unfortunately, much stronger than she looks. Who knows, maybe she could take down a vampire?

The floral archway you had spent all morning looking at is even more breathtaking in person. The deep, red roses are braided in against beautiful ironwork. You hate Astarion for remembering that you liked roses, hate him for feigning kindness and trying to do something that you would like.

Astarion is standing at the end of the altar, as promised, and damn it all if he doesn’t look like Lucifer incarnate- the most beautiful angel hiding an evil and twisted soul. When you get closer, you can see that his waistcoat has matching floral embroidery on it. 

So, you’re matching now? That’s what the world has devolved into. It takes everything in you to not rip the stupid dress off right then. But, you refrain yourself because you’re in public and you’re a lady (and definitely not because you were humbled by the button fiasco yesterday).

You practically snarl when you meet Astarion at the altar but he ignores you, his finger reaching out to trace along the petal of rose embroidered on your dress, right next to your collarbone. If he were alive, you would be able to feel the warmth from his hand. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“You have ruined roses for me,” you spit back at him. Astarion’s brow furrows for a moment before the man standing next to the two of you is awkwardly clearing his throat. You recognize him from the ball, as the man who interrupted your and Astarion’s dance. He must be Astarion’s valet, serving him as Shadowheart does for you. 

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” The valet tries to sound enthusiastic but he wilts a bit when you shift your glare to him. 

You can feel Shadowheart standing behind you and you know that if you try to run, she’ll simply grab you and drag you back. 

“The quicker this is over with, the better.” You say and can’t resist looking at Astarion and adding, “Though, I’m sure you know a thing or two about finishing quickly, darling.” 

You can tell that Astarion’s valet is holding back a laugh at your comment. 

“Continue, Gale.” Astarion finally instructs after a few seconds of stunned silence. 

The man, Gale, holds up a stack of papers that he begins to read from. Oh my, were all of those pages filled with words? You might be here all night. 

“What is marriage? A contract, yes, but also the blessed union of two souls, sealed together in eternal love. The marriage bond is sacred and divine, but we must not mistake it as pure. No, real love is never pure. It is messy and confusing and the both of you will make many mistakes as you grow together.”

Hang on, was this guy even married? Who the fuck is he to be out here spewing nonsense about the sanctity of marriage? And when did he even have the time to write this? You’re so confused by the situation that your anger at Astarion has managed to dissipate completely.

Gale is somehow still rambling on, minutes later, as you stare at him with an open mouth, “And although, the two of you are entering this contract under… less than ideal circumstances, we can only hope that your love will grow to flourish. In fact-”

Astarion finally cuts him off. “We can do without the fanfare, I think.”

Gale gives a disappointed sigh, grumbling about how he was just trying to make this a nice moment.

“Do you, Lord Astarion Ancunin, take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Astarion gives a dramatic ‘I do’ with a self-important little flourish of his hand. Even in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize that he is a showman above all and is incapable of turning down an opportunity to be over-the-top. 

Gale turns to you, “And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you force the words out through gritted teeth because at this point, what choice do you really have? 

You slide the rings on each other’s fingers and Astarion’s cool skin against your hand feels wonderful amidst the balmy summer night.

There’s no after-party, no fanfare. You simply say the words and sign the paperwork and leave immediately, content to go wallow by yourself in your room as you wait for Astarion to consummate your marriage.

You’ve half sent yourself into a panic as you pace, even if Shadowheart’s promise from earlier rings comfortably in your ears. You wish you hadn’t already wasted your knife yesterday. It would at least provide some false sense of comfort for when Astarion came for you. 

You sit and you wait. And you wait. And you wait. Astarion doesn’t come. 

You feel your eyes struggling to stay open and only when you catch your chin falling down to your chest do you snap yourself awake. This isn’t like you, to just take something lying down. The only solution left is to confront him. You jump to your feet, crossing the room with the most determination you’ve been able to muster all day. 

For the first time, the door to your room is unlocked when you turn the handle. Surprised, you poke your head out, scanning left and right down the hallway to check that there’s not some sort of booby trap. That seems like something Astarion would do- offer you hope of escape and then callously snatch it away at the last moment. 

Candlelight flickers in the doorway a few rooms away. When you peek into the room, Astarion is reading something, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up on the desk looking like the arrogant asshole you know he is. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all, just turns the page of his book.

“The door was unlocked,” you say, because you aren’t really sure of how else to greet him. Hello felt far too simple after you had spent the past two nights pinning each other to walls and playing mind games with one another. 

Astarion hums in affirmation, eyes still focused on the book in his lap. “Yes, I only had it locked in order to keep you here long enough for us to get married. Do what you’d like now. You are the new lady of the manor.”

It seems unreal, that the past two days of torture were ultimately going to amount to… nothing? Perhaps this was just another one of his tricks to catch you unawares? If you stopped thinking of him like a threat, stopped expecting the worst in him, or gods forbid, if you lowered your guard, it would be that much easier for him to trap you.

“So, I’m free to leave?” You try asking cautiously, expecting his red eyes to snap up and for him to hiss out an angry no, for him to laugh at you and snatch away your freedom right after he had teased you with the unlocked door.

“I’d suggest you wait until the morning, but yes, feel free to leave and continue on with your life however you please. Or stay. I really don’t care.” He says instead, turning the page of his book again. Was he even bothering to listen to you?

“Then why did you force me to marry you?” You cry out because nothing these past two days has made any sense to you. Nothing has made sense to you since you saw Astarion standing in front of you like a holy angel who had been blessed with all of heaven’s beauty, when all you knew was that this man had been made to ruin you. 

And now, everything about Astarion is a contradiction. You hate him and yet you crave him. He offers you hope while crudely stabbing through your back with a knife. He imprisons you and shackles you to him by law and offers to let you go free. Even now, as you stare at how the candlelight sends shadows dancing across his pale skin that make his jawline somehow appear even sharper, you aren’t sure whether you want to kiss him or kill him. 

“Well, I doubt anyone would believe a new bride when she says her husband is a vampire. They’d chalk it up to a newlywed squabble or perhaps think that you just don’t understand the sensuality of a good bite. And if you do choose to leave, the longer we aren’t together, the more people will assume you’re spreading nasty rumors because we’re estranged.”

That… actually makes a lot of sense. You had been too caught up in your panic and your anger to look at this situation with any real rationality. 

But now, faced with the choice, where would you go? If all the freedom in the world was yours, what would you do with it? Certainly, you wouldn’t go to your old home, with your angry father and unsympathetic brothers. 

You would want a garden, you think, perhaps one to rival the Ancunin’s. You would want to fill your days with reading and gardening and walking. For the first time, you wonder if perhaps the life you’ve always wished for has been offered up to you on a silver platter. Your mind had been so tainted with your hatred for Astarion that you didn’t even imagine that perhaps you could be happy here. That perhaps you could be happier than you even were before.

“I don’t… I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” your shoulders drop in realization, fingertips nervously running along the pretty embroidery of your dress. It feels like an admission of defeat as you stand in front of him, as if you’ve been eviscerated and are trying desperately to keep your insides from falling out on the floor in front of him.  

“Stay here then,” Astarion answers and he looks so bored with the conversation that the familiar fire of anger is burning in your veins. How dare he callously act like his actions have had no consequence on your life? How dare he act like he didn’t have the legal authority to control you as your husband if he wanted to? How dare he act like he hadn’t flipped your world upside down the moment he first swept you into his arms?

You force yourself to take a deep breath, to soothe the anger that sits deep in your chest and you finally decide to bring up the issue that’s plagued your mind all day. “You didn’t come to my room tonight.”

“Do you want me to?” He looks genuinely shocked and finally closes the book and drops his feet from the desk. He takes a moment to collect himself before leaning forward, looking up at you from under his eyelashes. “I know I’m irresistible. There is still plenty of time tonight for me to ravish you, if that’s what you’d like.”

You know it’s an act, know he’s probably teasing to get a rise out of you. But you can help the panic that bubbles in you and you immediately shout a refusal to his offer.

Astarion leans back in his chair, hands coming to rest under his chin. His fingers are long and slender and oh, so elegant as they press together as if in prayer. This man, who could destroy faiths and desecrate holy ground with just the flick of his pretty wrist. 

It dawns on you that the gold wedding ring you had slipped onto his finger hours ago has already mysteriously disappeared from his hands. And though it might be hypocritical of you, who removed your ring almost immediately, you can’t help but be a little hurt that he apparently wasted no time in casting you aside, either. Have you already been so cruelly disregarded? 

“I don’t go where I’m unwelcome, darling.” He curls his lips up at the corner in a devilish smile,  “I’d much rather wait until you’re so desperate that you beg me to have you.”

You’re determined not to give Astarion the shocked, embarrassed reaction you know he’s itching for. 

“And what if I want you to be the one to beg?” you ask him instead. His eyes flash with a wicked gleam, so red you can’t help but remember the blood running down his chin in the moonlight.

“Well, that can certainly be arranged, darling.” Astarion keeps you locked in his fiery gaze for another moment or two before he sighs and breaks the tension. “But that’s not going to happen tonight, so I suggest you go to bed. Get some beauty sleep, not that you need it.”

And yeah, maybe you do have to hold back a laugh at that stupid line. 

“Goodnight,” you say, turning to go back to your room.

“Sweet dreams, little flower,” Astarion calls after you. 

And for the second night in a row, you dream of crimson eyes and elegant hands that have you waking restless and unfulfilled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:

For the record, I absolutely love Gale, but lets not pretend that he wouldn't go SO over the top if he was allowed to officiate a wedding.

As always, thanks to AliensNSuch on ao3 for beta-reading! ETA for the third chapter is next Sunday, 12/31.

[vagabond-umlaut]

synchronise

On one end of the line, you've sunny days, mild breezes and not one thing to worry over. On the other end, there are only moonless nights, foul gales and one too many decisions– made and unmade– to repent for. And in the middle of this line segment, is you—

The only means by which the scales can be re-balanced. The equilibrium lost can be re-discovered. The wheels of life thrown off-kilter can be re-synchronised.

[Long story short: Time can be a funny little bitch— Good thing, you know how to be funnier than time itself!]

gojo satoru x fem!reader; canon divergent au; time travel fix-it; fluff and angst with an eventual happy ending; slow burn but not rly tbh; ft. Sassy Gremlin Dumb Reader and Exhausted Whipped Protective Gojo– everyone else is dragged into this chaotic mess whether they like it or not *pointed stare at suguru, shoko, nanami, haibara*; toji tries his best to be a good parent; mamagumi lives; everyone's alive here (✿◡‿◡)

chapters:

one: 26/12/2018

two: 23/3/2005

three: T-Junction (Ⅰ)

[read this on ao3 instead!! ^_^]

please comment on this post to be added to the taglist!!

the header image is from pinterest, the dividers are by @benkeibear & the characters used here aren't mine. please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this. hope y'all enjoy reading this ❤️❤️

masterlist

[ghost-proofbaby]

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS? (a barista!eddie x barista!reader au)

summary: eddie really hates being on bar. Especially during morning rush. When you not only notice his impending breakdown, but do something about it, he realizes that the two of you might be capable of being more than just coworkers.

warnings: ONE use of "y/n", fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns), description of being overstimulated/extremely anxious

wc: 4.5k

a/n: shoutout to all the friends that let me make them fellow victims of the siren <3 also thank you to everyone who showed love the first one shot! i didn't expect that at all so it means the world. hopefully with this part, it makes more sense what i meant by little slices of life! the masterlist will always have the individual one shots listed chronologically.

the full menu

Bar was Eddie’s own personal Hell when he first started. It was chaotic, it was fast paced, and it was simply too much to deal with first thing in the morning (especially on the sparse few hours of sleep he functioned off of). 

He was much better put to use on DTO. Taking orders, stalling perfectly so that whoever was on food could get a jump start, cracking plenty of jokes all while still always perfectly reciting back the customer’s drinks. He thrived on DTO. Even when he would be assigned to “one-manning” drive, which simply meant he handled both taking orders and handing them out the window, he was clearly one of the best.

Nicole knew this. Meg knew this. All the shifts knew this — except the newest shift, Gale, apparently.

Because this morning, a major fuck up had occurred. 

Gale was going over his floor plan for the peak rush, explaining who would be in which position, and Eddie knew something was up the moment you shot him a concerned look from across the room. Initially, it was actually funny, the way your eyes so quickly found his and your nose scrunched microscopically. But by the time Gale had made his rounds to Eddie, he understood that the reaction you’d given him the privilege to witness had not been just something cute – it had been a siren going off from across the store, your attempt to forewarn him of the impending chaos and doom. 

Since that first opening, Eddie has been lucky. Just as he had hoped for, that morning wasn’t the last time he saw you. In fact, he sees so much of you on a weekly basis, he’s sure the Universe is playing a sick joke. It was bound to happen; there’s only so many people who are willingly to be openers (for obvious reasons), and you were one of those brave soldiers. He took Nicole’s advice to heart, he decided to let you slip into pace beside him on the front lines, and he’d been reaping the benefits. 

You’re kind, you’re funny, you make the time pass. You make Eddie feel like the two of you might be friends, or at least could be. And it wasn’t the fake kind of niceties that some of the other baristas would extend only from the moment they clocked in to the moment they clocked out. Your sweetness towards him lasted long past being on the clock. In the parking lot in the early mornings, in the lobby after your shift as the two of you solicited just to get a few more jokes in with Nicole. You’d wait for him and walk out to his car with him. You learned how he likes his coffee, and sometimes made him his preferred drink amidst your opening tasks, only handing it over with a smile and charming, “Drink up, Munson. You’re gonna need it to keep up with me today.” 

God, he fucking liked you. 

A month of openings all tallied up to this moment now, in which you’d just opened him up to the possibility of private, silent conversations in a crowded room. He’d never been on the receiving end of that before. Usually, he was the outsider as glances in a secret language were exchanged. 

Not anymore. Not now that you had your sights set on him. 

“Hey, Eddie,” Gale approaches him slowly, a friendly enough smile on his face. He’d transferred here from another store a few weeks ago, “So, game plan for today’s peak.”

The words lay it on me are on the tip of Eddie’s tongue, but they stick to the roof of his mouth instead. He wasn’t that quick on his toes with most people at work. Half the time, he’s lucky he’s managed any banter with you. 

Blandly, Gale explains how Marissa will be on cafe bar. “And then, I’m going to put myself over on front and warming, try to keep myself flexible for you guys. I’ll have you, Y/N, and Ash run drive today.” 

Eddie pales a little, and just as your eyes had immediately sought out his, he’s looking right over Gale’s shoulder to find you peeking out from around the corner, already in position. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah!” Gale is oblivious to Eddie’s nerves, “I’ll have you bar, she’ll be your DTO. It’ll be great, you guys are going to kill it.” 

The only thing dying will be our drive times. 

Gale leaves with a quick, encouraging smack to Eddie’s shoulder, telling him to go ahead and head over to the small nook that’s designated for the drive thru as he ‘splits the bars’ – changing the system so that tickets for cafe and mobile orders will expel out from the printer that sits atop the bar facing the front of the store, while any drive thru orders print on the bar hidden there. 

Eddie is in his own personal Hell. Actually, he’s in his own worst conundrum. 

On one hand, he’s thrilled to be able to spend the day in this corner with you. Plenty of times, Nicole will assign you to bar and Eddie to take orders or greet customers on the window, and it’s wonderful. Forced proximity due to the set up of the store, easy conversation during lulls, and abundance of inside jokes shouted between customers. He loves it. But he only loves it because he’s not the one busting out those drinks, already starting on the next iced caramel macchiato as the customer at the speaker box has hardly finished announcing it as their drink of choice. He loves seeing you in your element; you’re quick, fast and always on your own rhythm that keeps those damn drive times that corporate care about so much under a minute. Eddie could never do that – he could never average thirty second wait times, especially when so many customers order so many drinks. 

Today is not his ideal situation. He will be the one trying to juggle all those drinks, trying to find a pace that works for both him and the customers and fucking corporate. 

“You good?” you whisper the moment he steps up around the corner and up to the bar, turning and facing you. Your mirror images of one another – both of you have your lower backs pressed to sticky counters, leaning with arms crossed and already looking defeated before the rush has even begun. 

“I’m gonna fuck it all up,” he blurts out quietly, the girl who will be on window - Ashleigh, Ash for short – not quite joining you two in the corner yet. “Our times are going to suck so badly.” 

If it were anyone else, he would have just shrugged the question off. He would have smiled politely. But it’s you, still bleeding sunshine even after being back from vacation for a full month, and still offering him a reassuring smile even as his pessimism hangs around the space like a dark cloud. 

“Fuck the times,” you immediately say, and he laughs a little, eyes widening in shock at how serious you look right now, “You know what? I think our store has been doing a little too good. I’ve always wanted to see if we could get it up to a five minute window time. Are you down to test my theory today?” 

He can’t help but fully throw his head back at that, smile wide, no laughter audibly escaping him but he can feel it fizzing in his chest. He used to hate that, especially during his first shift with you – the way you could seemingly make him feel so much better about this entire situation. Now he’s just grateful. If he has to stand on the deck of a sinking ship on this terrible Tuesday morning, he’s so glad he’s going down with you. 

It’s the worst moment for Ash to appear between the two of you, looking wildly confused as she asks, “Did you just say five minute window times?” 

You throw your head back, and the laugh that leaves you is the prettiest sound Eddie has ever heard. The fizzling chuckles in his chest burst, and Ash only looks at the two of you as if you were certifiably insane. 

Oh, yeah. He’s very glad that this is the ship he will go down in. 

—

Famous last words. Not even an hour into peak, Eddie is biting down on every positive thought you had fooled him into entertaining. His jaw aches with both stress and regret as his knuckles sting from burning himself again with the steam wand. Honestly, he thinks he burnt himself less his first time on warming, and he still has a scar on his pinky from those damned ovens. 

“We’re just waiting on a-” Ash starts to say to him when she turns and lets the window close, effectively sealing them off from the customer. 

“A grande hot americano, I know,” Eddie cuts her off. He didn’t mean to snap, but his irritation is getting the better of him. An impending meltdown is already crawling beneath his skin due to overstimulation and stress. 

Yeah, he really hates bar. 

When the newest green bean meekly adds on, “With cream and two sugar,” Eddie prepares himself to scream into oblivion. 

Until you interfere. 

He’s just taken his first breath, shallow and vapid as he glares at Ash, when one of your hands comes down on his shoulder, the other carefully slipping the cup that only needs to have hot water added to it from  his grasp and into yours. 

“I can finish this off for you,” you sweetly insist, leaning forward so that your face fills the minimal space between him and Ash, “That okay?”

Something flashes in your eyes. It isn’t the same look any of your other coworkers send him when he’s falling behind, when he feels like he’s drowning in this position. It doesn’t feel as though you’re insisting on finishing the drink out of impatience, a desperate last call to speed Eddie along like some sort of machine, but instead as though you’re genuinely trying to help him. 

And your hand. It’s still on his shoulder, curling carefully as he finally can feel the way your thumb is sweeping back and forth over his shoulder blade. Such a soothing motion, it nearly makes him cry. Between your thumb and hand, your gentle eyes, your sweet perfume that cuts through the nauseating smell of coffee – all of it makes him just want to throw in the towel, step off the bar, and let you hug him while he’s a giant crybaby. He knows you’re the only one here who wouldn’t judge him. He’s witnessed first hand several other coworkers do almost exactly that, as a matter of fact. 

He was still secretly jealous of your coworker Sam and the day that she’d been on the verge of her own breakdown, still had the image of the way you’d softened when you caught sight of her genuine tears and just pulled her into your arms. 

He swears he isn’t down bad as some of the kids would call it. He wasn’t special – everyone wanted hugs from you. 

“That’s fine,” he answers after far too many precious seconds have slipped away between you two, the customer at the window momentarily forgotten. His voice is thick with emotion and he has to blink several times just to eat away at that impending breakdown once more. 

Just make it another few hours. Another few hours, and you can scream and cry all you want in the van. You can lose your damn mind if you so please, if you make it another few hours.

He has to remind himself of this over and over as he lets you finish off that fucking americano, and he takes a few consecutive stickers of nothing but frappucinos. He doesn’t even know the time, but it might be better that way. 

He doesn’t even realize the way you’re still watching him so carefully, and so full of concern. 

Suddenly, though, your voice sounds over the headsets — this time, without a car at the speaker box. You’ve clicked for the private channel, meant just for communication between any of the baristas wearing a headset.

“Hey, Gale?” you sweetly say. 

Eddie finishes the drink he’s working on with shaking hands.

Gale takes several seconds until he finally answers you from where he is in the back, “What’s up?”

“Can we switch up the floor a little bit?” Eddie’s stomach twists immediately, the burn of betrayal causing his shoulders to tense without facing you. Cool. Great. She noticed. She’s doing something about it. She’s about to throw me under the bus. Whatever. “I’m getting tired of DTO, starting to kind of stutter and I can’t hear the customers clearly anymore because my brain is melted.” 

That he didn’t expect. It’s subtle, and a little white lie. You hadn’t been stuttering. Any mishearings were laughed off easily. You were constantly buying Eddie more time to get a head start on the drinks.

You weren’t requesting a switch for your sake.

Gale sighs over the channel, mumbling your name before saying, “It’s the middle of peak, we can’t-“

“What if me and Eddie just switch?” he finally turns to face you at your suggestion. You’re not quite looking at him with pity, but understanding. You’d been there before — overwhelmed and panicked on bar, left out to sea without anyone to throw you an anchor. And you could recognize an anxiety attack from a mile away. “The customers always like him better anyways. And he has better suggestions for drinks-“ 

You’re blatantly lying. You knew Eddie was more comfortable on DTO. You knew he could handle that, even on his bad days. He almost gives in to his urge to hug you out of sheer relief.

“I- Fine. Yeah, that’s fine.” 

Once Gale agrees, you’re instantly logging out of your partner number and sweeping your arm out dramatically for Eddie to take your place at the order screen with a small smile. He moves forward slowly, finally feeling like he can breathe as you walk up to the bar. 

You didn’t need a break from DTO. You’d thrown yourself under the bus to offer him some relief. 

Wordlessly, the two of you transition into your new positions, and it immediately becomes obvious that it was more ideal. You barrel through drinks all while wearing a smile, and although Eddie stays a bit reserved in his interactions with customers as his anxiety settles, he still shows off all his strong suits. Stalling customers with idle chat, lying about checking to see if something was in stock so you could pull extra shots, repeating back drinks multiple times to make sure you heard it correctly. 

It’s seamless. The times that corporate cares about dwindle down to better match the day’s goal, and Eddie’s chest finally loosens. 

You didn’t have to do that. Anyone else wouldn’t have done that.

When the rush has finally passed, both you and Eddie finally in the final stretch of an hour until your shifts end, he finds the nerve to bring it up.

You’re wiping down counters, humming under your breath, when he clears his throat awkwardly, “Uh, thank you. For earlier.” 

“Why are you thanking me?” you ask nonchalantly, shrugging as you stop pretending to be busy, “I really was tired of DTO-“ 

“No, you weren’t,” he stops you from defending your lie, “You… you’re amazing at DTO. Better than me by a landslide.” 

Your entire expression softens from that constant joy and constant reassurance. But the glow of your kindness doesn’t erase with the relaxing of your cheeks. If anything, it simmers and only reaches Eddie even more potently.

You relay your next words with careful consideration, “I’m really not, Eddie. It’s not a competition. I.. do enjoy DTO, but you were stressed. And Gale wasn’t about to change his floor without someone saying something.” 

“If it had been anyone else, they would have told me to suck it up,” he points out.

“But it wasn’t anyone else. It was me, and I don’t think any of us should have to spend our shifts suffering.” 

You leave off a very important detail that you aren’t quite ready for Eddie to be privy to yet — if it had been anyone else, you wouldn’t have caved so quickly. You actually probably also would have told anyone else to suck it up, albeit still in a light-hearted and encouraging tone. You would have offered extra help, you would have tried to make jokes to ease the anxiety, but you wouldn’t have just thrown yourself under the bus. 

And yet, when it comes to him, you find yourself going soft. Any affirmativeness that you use during your training, that you usually persist with having with new hires, has melted. 

You hated seeing him so stressed. 

“You know,” Eddie’s nervous to say his next words, but they’re true, “You’re probably my favorite coworker.” 

Your smile is back, radiant and comforting. Eddie’s pride swells that it was his hand that ignited that bit of flame back into you. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

You’re like a child, looking down bashfully and fiddling with the edges of your apron. He’s sure that any second now, you might start swaying side to side, that your pupils might form into absolute hearts. You visualize exactly how it feels every time he sees that yellow Jeep parked in the lot. 

You bite your lip to break from your shy spell, leaning towards him with a summer glint to your eyes, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m starting to think you’re my favorite too, Munson.” 

A conglomeration of the past month – it feels as though it all comes to a rise in this moment, hitting an unimaginable peak, and he isn’t scared of a sudden drop. There will be no veering or falling down from these heights, no sudden lack of friendliness. He knows it surely the longer he stares into your eyes. If anything, maybe this is actually just a beginning. 

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts, unable to contain himself, “I doubt that, Sunshine.” 

The nickname slips out without much thought, but he doesn’t even have time to panic – your grin is painfully wide as you lift a brow. “Wanna bet?”

“Never took you as a gambler.”

“John rubbed off on me.” 

He twists his face, holding back any sexual innuendos, and that’s when it happens. Your mouth falls open, realizing the dirty joke he’s biting down on, and you gasp dramatically. Your hand flies out without second thought, smacking him on his shoulder. 

A smack. That’s what breaks the seal between the two of you. A joking smack on the shoulder at a crude innuendo, and suddenly the unspoken and terribly awkward boundary that should always exist between coworkers is shattered. 

“I lied,” you try to deadpan, but you can’t stop smiling at Eddie’s withheld laughter, “Oh my God, fuck you. That’s gross! You’re officially my least favorite coworker.”

“Yeah, but I bet John’s your favorite customer, right?” 

He’s able to block your second attempt at a slap this time, now close enough that he smells your perfume and sweet shampoo. Smells whatever lotion you use, that lingering and stubborn fragrant chai syrup that’s dried on your arms. You’re giggling shamelessly as you wrestle your wrist out of his grip. He swears, if you’d let him, his fingertips would stay pressed there on your pulse until the two of you conjoined in some twisted way. Like overgrown roots taking back control of abandoned buildings, you’d wrap around him and his ridiculous insinuations. He’d die a happy man. He’s already about to die a happy man as he feels your heart racing, and he almost convinces himself that you feel it too. 

God, Eddie really liked you. He doesn’t care anymore, he’s willing to admit it to himself at the very least. He fucking likes you. He’d be a fool not to. 

His fingers are still wrapped around soft skin when suddenly, Gale rounds the corner, and clears his throat. 

“I, um-” his eyes zero in on the space left behind as Eddie drops your wrist, and you’re quick to tuck it behind your back. It’s as if the two of you are children who have been caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. Eddie shoves his own burning fingertips into the pocket of his apron, “I just wanted to say you guys did good today. It’s- uh, you’re both off. So… yeah. Um, good job today.” 

Eddie gets second hand embarrassment from Gale’s stuttering, but you look like you might burst into laughter at any moment. Not teasing chuckles or cruel mockery, but the kind of laughter that occurs when two friends are in trouble, and they avoid each other’s gazes during their scolding in the fear of laughing at an inopportune moment. 

You won’t look his way. It’s exactly that. 

“Thanks,” Eddie forces out, seemingly satisfying Gale as he just nods and scurries off. 

Once you two are left alone in the corner again, you finally look at him and burst into that building laughter. 

Sunshine is fitting for you, he decides, as your laughter fills his lungs with the sun and more. 

—

“So, you don’t live near the store?” you ask, scrunching up your nose cutely as you walk side by side with Eddie across the parking lot towards your cars. Both of you had been eager to get out of the store after Gale’s fiddly dismissal. 

Eddie shakes his head, pulling the straw of his free drink from his mouth, “Nah, twenty minutes out.” 

He’d gotten a caramel frappuccino, emphasis on a blasphemous amount of drizzle, and Ash had nearly castrated him with a glare as she had bustled away on bar. You’d only snorted under your breath and asked for a water. 

“Really?” you stop dead in your tracks, in the center of the parking lot. Eddie can’t lie – it makes him nervous. If any of the usual asshole drivers that usually speed through here decided to arrive, they’d hit you. He has half the mind to reach out and grab your hand, to tug you over to the safe space between the two of your cars, “No way – I live twenty minutes away.” 

He swears his stomach falls to the pavement below, “You live in Hawkins?” 

No. It can’t be possible. He refuses to believe that you could live so close, that you would have been residing so near him this entire time and it took a miserable opening job at some out-of-the-way coffeeshop for him to meet you. You cannot be in Hawkins. Not fucking possible.

“Oh, no,” you shake your head, finally walking over to that space Eddie had deemed safe. The shade from your Jeep stretches only about half way to his van as the sun gets closer to settling into the center of the sky, “Opposite direction.”

“Damn.” 

He can’t help the disappointment; yes, his stomach had dropped at the prospect of having spent years already circling around meeting you, but it’s his heart that sinks as you reveal the actual distance between the two of you. 

At least this means you don’t know anything about his reputation in his hometown. 

“That would’ve been cool, though, right?” you stop and turn to him, kicking as a few of the pebbles on the ground, “If I just so happened to live, like, next door to you or something.”

It would have been Eddie’s innocent crush’s dream come true. To find out his sunny coworker was also his goddamn neighbor.

“Yeah,” he tries to hide his disappointment, continuing on with a shrug, “But if we’re gonna be neighbors, it’s probably better that I live next door to you.” 

You look up at him questioning, “Can I… ask why?” 

“I live in a trailer park.” 

He shouldn’t be handing this information over so easily. He’s one step away from dumping all his childhood traumas onto you. 

And he knows that the others joke that it’s normal, and that there've been many heartfelt conversations on the floor between rushes. But something about this feels more personal – it doesn’t feel like two coworkers just comparing old wounds or exchanging living situations. It feels like two friends just getting to know each other. 

He never would have admitted that to anyone else that works with the two of you. 

You don’t even react, just shrugging as he had to brush off his disappointment. There’s no pity, no disgust. No judgment. It’s just a new piece of the puzzle that is Eddie. 

“Fair enough,” you settle on replying before it looks as if you’ve had a sudden revelation. Eddie swears he sees the lightbulb go off over your head, “You know, no one else knows where I live.”

He finds that hard to believe. They all adore you too much, surely your coworkers would be fumbling over themselves to find out as much about you as they can.

“Really?”

“Really. No one’s ever asked me. And it’s… never really come up.” 

Something about holding this rare piece of information about you makes Eddie want to jump for joy. He wants to hold it close to his chest, tuck it away for safe keepings. He doesn’t really know why. 

But he’s on his way to figuring it out as he says, “I guess it’s not something coworkers really talk about, huh? Probably more friends territory.” 

A slight fib, because plenty of the other baristas have overshared that type of information. The ones that talk too much, that never seem to take a breath or leave a space for people like yourself or Eddie to really insert yourselves into the conversations.

He’d noticed that. You talk quite a bit too, but never about yourself. Always encouraging information out of other people, remembering the little details they share, but it’s never an even exchange. He used to think it was a choice you made, but he’s suddenly wondering if it’s because no one ever cared to listen. 

“I guess so,” you hum. You two should part ways. You climb into your Jeep, Eddie hop into his van. And maybe you’d sit in your respective idle vehicles for a second, even look at each other through tinted windows and make silly faces. But this should be the beginning of the end of your day together. Someone has to leave; one of you should leave. Instead, you just tilt your head curiously at Eddie, and he knows why now he wants to hold you so near and dear and safely as you ask him, “Well, in that case, do you wanna be friends?” 

And – yeah. Eddie does want to be friends. As a matter of fact, he might want to even be more than friends eventually. But for now, this offering is enough. 

He thinks you’ve rubbed off a little on him, because he must be bleeding a little bit of sunshine as he says, “Absolutely.”

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[middlingmay]

German!Gale AU

And now for the other one that won't leave me alone.

Gale was born in Germany, but he lived in France for a decent portion of his childhood. His parents moved there for work. His mother was a part-time typist and his father. Well his father was many things; whatever people paid him to be (and as fast as possible), but he was known for transport.

Gale loved growing up in France. It was so busy he could pass by unnoticed and enjoy his people-watching in peace. So many people came from all over to enjoy one of centres of European culture, or so the Americans called it. His parents didn't like that much, but Gale liked the Americans the best. Brash. Up front. Not much guessing about what they really meant. He got enough of that at home.

But then dad came barging in the front door of their modest apartment at 2.23 in the morning with a black eye, and they were packing the essentials and anything of value, and crossing the border the Germany, barely stopping on the way.

Neither his mother or his father ever explained why they'd had to move, but Gale didn't need them to confirm what he already knew. He'd lost enough of his own precious belongings - a collector's edition of his favourite comic series; a perfect, detailed model plane he'd won in a maths competition at school; the watch his grandfather had given him before he died.

And then there were the drunk ramblings when mother had gone to bed about how Gale had cursed this family and his luck, and everything was all his fault.

He was five the first time he felt the back of his father's hand and heard the vitriol he really thought of his son. And he was never allowed to forget.

When Gale was barely a man, in those final stages of gangly teenagehood, things...changed in Germany. It wasn't anything groundbreaking. More like when the floorboards that always creaked finally moved a little under your feet. People were still struggling to recover after the War, and all the voices that had been looking for someone to blame were getting a little closer to home, a little louder, a little more important and harder to shrug off.

One of his only friends Solomon had stopped looking him in the eye. When Gale had demanded an answer in that quiet, firm, unyielding way of his, Solomon had scoffed.

"You look just like them, Gale. The posters."

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Everything Solomon was not.

"Mama says we have to go before... well. Just, before. But you'll be fine, Gale."

He never saw Solomon again.

In his twenties, they were at war and his dad still worked in transport. People came to the house and paid him to take things to places they'd only wrote down once before making his father burn the paper.

But then his father pocketed the money and when those people left, he'd make a call and those officials with the impeccable uniforms would turn up, question his father thoroughly, before handing him a packet of money as well.

"Hitler will turn our fortunes around, boy. You'd best fall in line, before you ruin this for me, too, and kill us all."

Now Gale was quiet, but he wasn't meek. And he didn't think the Nazis had it right at all. But they'd abandoned a lot of their pretenses by now and news of attacks and deaths and beatings were commonplace.

So Gale decided to get into the family business. He didn't tell his father, and people who knew his last name were slow to trust, but anyone who spent any significant time with him couldn't help but respect him.

He didn't understand why, but he was grateful, honoured.

The first time he reunited a dark haired, dark eyed child with their gaunt and terrified parents he crawled into the hayloft in the barn and sobbed into the straw. It wasn't anything grand, he wasn't a human smuggler. He simply found ways to move some small supplies around for others make the bigger, grander gestures of resistance. But when frightened breaths came from the wooden crate, he'd had to bite his lip until it bled to stop from vomiting at transporting someone that small like goods.

For their life, Gale, he'd told himself.

He hated himself and was terrified in equal measure. Filled with a righteous fury that made him want to fight it all. Terrified that he'd wake up to those impeccable uniforms pointing a gun at his head, and his father grinning and pocketing his pay packet, before they pulled the trigger.

Then, one day, the last straw broke the camel's back. Or, more accurately, fell into his cabbage patch.

The dark haired man was drenched in blood. There was barely any skin visible from the top of his head to the collar of his jacket. Dark blue eyes glared out from the red.

He was tall, taller than Gale, broad and strong looking. But Gale was clearly in a better state. If it came down to it, he was sure he could hold his own.

The man held his hand to his lips, gasping on his knees in the dirt. "Bitte," he whispered in an American accent.

"Amerikaner?"

The man nodded and tapped his chest with one hand, the other still raised, palm out. "John."

John. Gale returned the favour in kind, and he liked the way his name sounded in American.

Just as he was about to ask the man if he needed help - the stupidest damned question he would have ever asked in his life because seriously - barking and shouting came from the woods a ways behind the house.

Terror flashed in those blue eyes.

"Please," the man begged, dragged from the depths of him and Gale got the impression it wasn't something he said often. "Please help me."

And the awful limbo Gale had felt stuck in for years started to crumble away. He marched forward and grabbed John roughly and hauled him to his feet. He half carried him to the hay cart and tossed him onto it. John barely had time to give him a single bewildered glance before Gale was shoveling hay over him and dragging the cart around the barn and next to the silo. Then over the hill came a small band of hunters, dogs and guns and all. One of them was a regular visitor to his father and Gale ran forward waving his arms and yelling.

"You are looking for someone?"

They were.

"They are injured?"

They were.

He led them to the cabbage patch and the blood on the pale leaves.

"I've checked everywhere and they're not hiding anywhere I can find."

And because most people saw his father when they looked at him, the hunters gave nothing more than a cursory glance around, before they left.

And Gale is left with an American man hiding in some hay, who by hook or by crook, he was going to get out of here.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Friends in the Crucible

MOTA PACIFIC THEATRE || FLIGHT SURGERY AU

1: Welcome to Hell Island

Requested by the sweet @forsythiagalt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All personnel prepare for landing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Lemons, sir.”

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

“Then it’s Kenny. Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sergeant looked away to the other side.

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

The heaving rattle of panicked breath beside them stopped.

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

The sheet was tugged up all the way.

That triage was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup, and we leave in ten.”

“Okey Buck, go, go, go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hit?”

“No. Read me, Benny-“

“80-“ Demarco obligingly resumed counting.

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

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

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

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

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

“You got it, commander.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How bad?”

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

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

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

“That’s what I said.” Demarco agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell for?” Egan balked.

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

“I repeat -what the hell for?”

“They’ve drank a lotta coffee sir.”

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

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

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

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

“94, 57, 88, 91, 63, 82”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaning on the everlasting arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

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

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So should you.” she hinted kindly.

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

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

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

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

“Kiss ‘em better?”

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

“She scares me.” he objected.

“And I don’t?”

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

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

“Buck!”

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

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

“I’m one of twenty.” she reminded.

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

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

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

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

“Better than you thought.” Egan prodded.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Twenty eight.” Egan confirmed.

“Outta thirty?” Cleven asked for confirmation.

“Yes sir.” Crosby answered him.

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

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

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

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

“It’s a scratch.”

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

“Well, mine do.”

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

“-you do though.”

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

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

“-What?”

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it was pretty.”

“Yeah. Not too bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, a nap, and a hug.”

“Alright.”

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

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

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

“Uh, yes, that’s the most common-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your billet.”

“For naps.” she clarified cheekily.

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

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

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

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

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