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autumnalwalker · 7 days

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Empty Names - 24 - Nostalgia

Author's Note: In which Ashan tests out some new types of magic, remembers childhood trauma, revisits his hometown, and learns a bit more about Carnette Bridgewood from Road and Sullivan. See the tags for additional commentary. Word Count: 17,474 Content Warnings: "Genre-typical violence" in the form of a fight between a wizard and a monster. Dead animals (died offscreen). Anxiety over past trauma.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost “Get away from him!”

“Teacher, what is going on?”

“Did you really think you could hide what you did? What he is?”

“Ashan, just look at me. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“What is he talking about?”

“Put down your staff Glassgaze. Even you can’t stop all of us at once.”

“Watch me.”

*******

Ashan lies in bed on the hazy verge between sleep and waking, trying to sort newly unblocked memories from dreams. He realizes his eyes are wet and he sits up, breath hitching and body shuddering as he clasps silken bedsheets to his bare chest. The forgotten experience from a decade ago is now as fresh in his mind as if it had just happened yesterday, and it is difficult not to fall back into the mindset of the frightened child who went through it.

He attempts to still himself the way he always does but his mind jumps to the one who taught him that technique and the image of her lying bloody and burnt from a failed attempt to protect him. The child he was back then had not yet mastered that stillness to keep his spells precise. He had not yet had to perfect that stillness to keep himself sane while unable to comprehend the language of his own thoughts.

A more external grounding then. Something anchored in the here and now. The smoothness of the sheets between his fingers. The gentle weight of the blankets on his legs. The barest blue glow of morning light leaking through the window blinds to lend a suggestion of shape to the patterns embroidered on the gauzy bed curtains.

He had not expected to get so used to sleeping in a bed. Not after so many years simply suspending himself in midair with magic overnight in order to conveniently sleep anywhere. It is the blankets, he thinks. There is something strangely comforting about their layered weight.

He waves a hand and the curtains around the bed and over the window slide open to let in the sun. There is the desk beneath the window with its pile of tomes borrowed from the Manor’s library. There is his neatly folded robe within easy reach atop the bedside table. There is the white laptop gifted to him by Eris where he left it on the vanity across the room from him. Despite having so little, he has still marked this decadent guest room room as his own.

It is a strange thought, having a room to call his own. It feels presumptuous and nostalgic all at once. He and Aliana had always been on the road. The longest the two of them ever stayed in one place was a single season, and even that had a deadline from the start after which he knew they would move on again. This current arrangement, as far as he has been able to tell from talking to Road, appears to be indefinite as long as he wants it.

The last time he had his own room to live in rather than to stay in was when his parents still thought he was alive.

He catches sight of himself in the vanity’s mirror and stares down his reflection until its expression is as calm as it should be. He squeezes the bedsheets to himself one last time before letting them fall, getting up, and dressing himself.

Properly attired he is no longer Ashan, the scared child who just watched his mentor fall and had his potential sealed away. He is the wizard Glassheart, traveling adventurer and protector of those in need.

Yet still the preserved memory throbs like a reopened wound seeking acknowledgement.

He looks from the stack of tomes with their arcane lore of a dozen worlds’ spells to the sleeping laptop with its queued videos of this world’s contemporary makeup styles and techniques. On any other day he could easily lose himself in either for hours, but right now he needs something more solid to distract himself with.

Climbing out the window and testing his reflexes with a spell to slow his fall makes for a decent start.

Making a morning ritual of exercise helps, and by now he has almost memorized the winding trails of the Bridgewood Estate’s extensive gardens. Focusing on one footstep after another during a brisk jog is its own form of meditation, and should that not prove enough to occupy his mind, identifying the rare flowers and herbs as he passes by is an engaging challenge.

A maintenance golem pauses its gardening to wave a spindly leg at him and Ashan nods back to it in acknowledgement. It is always the same one that waves to him on these morning jogs. While they all might look like identical shiny black orbs on spidery legs, he has learned to pick out variations in their animating auras in his time here. He wonders if the sorceress Bridgewood explicitly designed her creations with distinct personalities from the start or constructed a malleable template that would naturally produce emergent behavior over time. Either one would be an impressive feat in its own right, especially considering the sheer quantity of the constructs keeping the manor and estate grounds clean and orderly in their maker’s absence.

The minutes pass by in a pleasant strain of muscles and lungs. The paving stones beneath his feet. The floral scents upon the breeze. The sunlight on his face. Anchors to the here and now. The dark, sound-proofed tent and the enchanted shackles around a child’s wrists were years ago, not last night.

He rounds the bend in the path to the gazebo where he has made his habit of performing his more stationary morning exercises and finds Road already there. They are holding a cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand and staring up at the star-painted inner dome of the gazebo’s ceiling.

“It used to shift in real time to reflect the sky on the opposite side of the earth,” Road says when Ashan joins them in admiring the mural. “I wonder if it froze the moment Carnette was gone or slowly wound down. I bet Sullivan would know.” They blink and turn their head to greet Ashan with a warm smile. “But it’s too beautiful a morning for thoughts like that. Join me for breakfast?”

They punctuate the offer with a raise of their carried bundle.

“I appreciate the offer,” Ashan replies. His mind leaps back to the images that plagued him during the night and he cuts off the second half of that sentence.

“Wonderful,” Road laughs. “Well, come one, I was just on my way to a perfect spot.”

“I take it you have recovered,” Ashan observes as he follows Road deeper into the gardens. “Bridgewood said you were feeling unwell.”

“Oh, nothing that a good night’s sleep or two couldn’t fix. As Sullivan so likes to remind me, even heroes need to sleep. The worrywort.”

They round another bend in the garden trail and arrive at a patinated copper gate beneath an arch of ivy. It creaks as Road pushes it open without slowing their gait. Only when they realize Ashan has stopped to stare do they pause to turn around.

“This is the entrance to the hedge maze,” Ashan says. Thus far he has limited his exploration of the interior of Bridgewood Manor out of respect as a guest. He has avoided exploring the maze out of wariness. While he has explicitly been granted free reign to explore the Estate’s grounds, labyrinths are potentially dangerous conceptual archetypes at the best of times, and all the moreso when created by mages. To attempt to navigate one crafted by the sorceress Bridgewood herself…

“It would be quite the adventure to explore, wouldn’t it?” Road invites. “Even the maintenance golems barely come in here anymore and Sullivan’s focused all his attention on the Manor, so there’s probably things in here Carnette never got around to showing anyone.”

A thrill of exploration trickles down Ashan’s spine, the likes of which he has not felt since the last time Aliana took him into an ancient, monster-infested ruin years ago.

“Not that we’ll be going very far in for now,” Road amends. “But even a little taste of adventure makes wonderful spice for a meal.”

Ashan follows them past the gate and down the overgrown marble staircase beyond. Vines and fallen leaves from the overhead trellises crunch underfoot as they make their descent. The only view of the maze below is through stained glass windows more interested in displaying their images than allowing a view from above by which to plan a route. Dryads dancing in a ring. A carnivorous plant surrounded by bones. An arachnoid flower whose web drips with nectar. A waterfall spilling into a pool full of treasure. The scenes go on.

“Are these all vistas to be found within the maze?” Ashan asks.

“Hard to say,” Road replies, “but knowing Carnette, she probably at least planned to include them all at some point. Who knows which ones she ever got around to and which ones she changed her mind about or got bored with. The one time she threw me in here and told me to try to solve the maze, it was still in the early design phase and I know she expanded it after that and took at least some of my feedback into account.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs and the stone walls give way to towering unkempt hedges. Road pushes on through the leafy branches stretching out into the path and Ashan conjures a marker beacon to follow back, just in case.

“I am not sure where to begin unpacking that,” Ashan says.

Road laughs and turns a corner, their voice making it easy for Ashan to follow them even when out of sight. “It was my first time meeting her. Sullivan claimed that the two of them were past the ‘trying to kill each other’ stage of their courtship and wanted to introduce us. Turns out he’d been talking up my skills as an adventurer and she thought it’d be entertaining to test those claims so she rearranged the layout of the Estate to make us traverse the hedge maze in order to reach the Manor. Between you and me, I think she was a little bit jealous and wanted to see how Sullivan and I held up under pressure together.”

“And the offering of feedback?” Ashan asks, choosing not to pursue the questions raised by the jealousy part.

“I don’t know that she ever went through with it, but she’d been toying with the idea of plucking adventurers from worlds like Orthon and Dorbreith - and maybe even people from other worlds like this that don’t acknowledge ‘adventurer’ as a profession - and offering them boons if they could successfully make their way through. I told her that if that’s what she wanted then she needed to make the traps and puzzles less deadly and put in more safe areas where challengers could stop to catch their breath.”

“But… why?”

“Well, not to brag too much, but if Sullivan and I were making it through by the skin of our teeth then most anyone else she was likely to chuck in here at random was going to wind up dead and I wanted to prevent that if I could. Even we had to cheat towards the end by baiting the invincible minotaur golem she had stalking us into mowing down the walls for us so we could skip straight to the exit.”

“While that raises a number of other questions, what I meant was why would she go through the trouble? What did she hope to get out of such a convoluted and colossal undertaking?”

Road shrugs. “Entertainment? Another way to spread her reputation? Subjects to test experimental hypotheses on? An audience to show off the fruits of her hobby to? Carnette was never someone who did anything for just one reason and she enjoyed keeping those reasons obscured. She and Sullivan had that in common.” Road pushes down an overgrown hedge patch, stops, and gestures for Ashan to squeeze past them. “We’re here.”

The maze opens up into a hexagonal courtyard. Flagstone pathways meander from the corridors at the corners to converge on a shaded bower next to a fountain that spills into a pond. Beneath the bower’s flowering canopy sit a mosaic-topped table surrounded by wicker chairs and a marble pedestal. Atop the pedestal is an orb the color and texture of tanned flesh, half as wide as Ashan is tall. Ruddy tendrils flow down from the base of the orb and into the grass. Roots, Ashan takes them for at first.

Ashan approaches the bower and the orb within with less caution than he normally might. Surely Road would not plan to share a meal next to something dangerous. Pondering the orb, he can tell that it is both alive and magical, although he cannot identify the type or origin of either aspect. He steps into the bower’s shade and the orb’s surface begins to ripple in an undulating, swirling pattern. Its top half contracts, becoming pear-shaped, and then curves to one side, evocative of an animal cocking its head in curiosity.

Ashan flicks his wand into his hand by reflex at the unexpected movement. The no-longer-orb rears back, stretching and flattening into a fan reminiscent of a cobra’s hood. What are probably bones become apparent beneath what is now obviously taut skin.

A hand alights on Ashan’s shoulder. It feels just like Aliana’s whenever she was about to either calm, encourage, or praise him.

“It’s a psychically reactive art piece,” Road says. “Most Culescun flesh sculptures are shaped to resonate with and emanate an emotion, but this one copies and syncretizes the feelings of the viewers. I’d been wondering where it ended up ever since Jero visited a while back.”

Ashan’s wand slides back into his sleeve. The sculpture becomes a swirling orb of ponderous curiosity once more. The hand lifts from his shoulder.

“So this was xyr gift to the sorceress Bridgewood for assisting xem in xyr exile?”

“The very same,” Road confirms while unwrapping their bundle on top of the mosaic table. It is a simple spread. A loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and an apple. “It seemed like a shame for it to be stuck down here alone for so long without stimulation. Given that this maze doesn’t rearrange itself anymore, I imagine you could bring the others down here sometime if you felt like it. I’m sure Lacuna at least would get a kick out of it.”

Bones press against the sculpture’s skin from the inside in alarm.

“Stimulation?” Ashan asks. “It is not sapient, is it?”

“Of course not. Jero’s got too many ethical standards for that, even if Carnette didn’t always.” Road plucks a pair of crystal goblets dangling from vines that let go with a tug and walks over to the fountain.

“What do you mean by that?” Ashan follows Road.

In the nearby pool, several of the sculpture’s red tendrils have grown feathery fronds that wave in the current created by the fountain’s overflow. Ashan recognizes them to be gills, of a sort. A gill-less red tendril snatches a water-striding insect from the pool’s surface, dragging it under and enveloping it.

“Carnette and I often didn’t see eye to eye on matters,” Road says while rinsing the goblets in the fountain. “I’d hesitate to call her outright malicious - most of the time anyway - but she had a tendency to overlook the fact that whatever she was doing might affect real people. And when she did go out of her way to do something good, well, like I said, she never did anything for just one reason.”

“I see,” Ashan says. “I had always heard conflicting stories about her, but on Orthon at least the tales singing her praise always outweighed any warnings of wickedness.”

“She always could be talked down from her worst impulses so long as there was someone willing to try, I’ll give her that. And she’d usually answer an earnest plea for help, even if she did dress it up in a speech to justify how she was just using the opportunity to further her own unfathomable agenda. She and Sullivan are alike in that way too.”

Road passes Ashan a crystal goblet filled with cool, clear fountain water. The stem is still wet from the rinsing.

“Cheers,” Road says and clinks their vessel to Ashan’s.

Ashan touches the glass to his lips and catches the faintest whiff of sweetness over rotten eggs. Road has already drained theirs in one long drink and is moving to refill it, so he takes a sip. It tastes of sugar and sulfur.

Road takes a seat at the table and the sleeve of their purple jacket trimmed with green extends into a clawed gauntlet that they use to divide the cheese and cut the apple in half.

“For all that those two fed on each other’s chaos at times,” Road continues, “they actually mellowed one another out in the grand scheme of things.” The gauntlet retracts and Road breaks the bread by hand. They hand half the loaf across the table to where Ashan has seated himself. “He misses her, you know. He hides it, but I’ve known him longer than I can remember and this is the first time I’ve ever known him to grieve.”

Ashan’s gaze snaps up from the fruits and nuts filling the bread. “Why are you telling me this?”

“A couple of reasons.”

“Much like the sorceress Bridgewod herself?”

Road laughs. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I? But really, I’m just looking out for my friends. I’ve found that people function best when they have more than one confidant they can talk to, and while he’ll never admit it, something’s been eating at Sullivan lately and he could use another friend.” A smile, more mischievous than Road’s usual, but no less warm. “And besides, I think he’s taken a rare liking to you, not that he’ll admit that either.”

“I have no interest in courtship,” Ashan says flatly.

“Not at all what I meant,” Road chuckles. “And don’t worry, neither does he. Those days are well behind him. As I said, friendship. Merely something to consider at any rate. The abrasiveness is mostly a mask, I promise.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Ashan concedes. “And your other reason?”

“I figured you could use a diverting conversation and it seemed like a potentially engaging topic.”

The sculpture twists itself into a knot.

“You did not encounter me by chance this morning.” It is a statement, not a question.

“Not exactly,” Road admits, “but not exactly not either. I guess you could say I’ve got a knack for showing up where and when I’m needed, even if I don’t fully understand the why of it. The info gathering that Sullivan - and now Lacuna - do simply speeds up the process and makes it more efficient. I can tell when it’s happening though, and when you showed up I made some educated guesses.”

“Such as?”

“No offense, but speaking from experience, you strike me as the kind of person who holds things in until they get to be too much and spill over, and given that there was mention of you and Lacuna possibly attempting to remove your seal yesterday it seemed likely enough that something from that might be bothering you. So, if you want to talk about it, we’re in a safe place and you have my word no one else will hear about it, and if you’d rather have a distraction, we’re in a place built by the most famous mage of the last few centuries and I’ve got stories to tell. Or I can shut up and we can enjoy a beautiful morning in silence.”

Ashan nods and chews his bread in silence, pondering the orb, the one it was gifted to, the one so willing to talk about her, and the offer they made.

The silence of a peaceful morning where decisions can be put off for at least a little while.

Ashan takes a sip of the strange water and conjures a set of razor thin barriers to further slice his half of the apple and cheese.

The sorceress Bridgewood…

Unlike wizard, witch, or enchanter, the term sorcerer is not so much a description of how one’s magic works, but an accusation. Broader than titles such as pyromancer, warder, or cleric that refer to the types of magic one specializes in, “sorcerer” is a term reserved for mages who practice magic that is considered taboo, whether because it is morally abhorrent or just too dangerous for anyone to safely or responsibly control. Stealing or binding souls. Communion with the eldritch. Mind control. True resurrection of the dead. City-leveling evocations. Not always a mark of evil, but always one of danger. Someone might delve into forbidden sorcerous arts with the best of intentions meaning to use them for good; or simply be overconfident enough that they really think they can control what generations of mages before them have failed.

And then there were the so-called “true sorcerers.” Every couple centuries or so someone usually shows up with the talent and skill to actually command that kind of power without destroying themselves and everyone around them. Maybe once a millennium there would be such an individual who refrains from abusing their power to the point that they become threats to entire countries, if not entire worlds.

Or so Aliana had taught Ashan long ago. According to her, the only “true sorcerer” like that alive right now in this world cluster is - or now rather was - the sorceress Bridgewood. It was a name he had latched onto ever since he first heard it. In his early teens he had occasionally fancied himself as aspiring to the title himself one day. The day he mentioned that to Aliana was one of the few times she ever snapped at him. That conversation makes more sense now.

“The counterseal ritual worked,” Ashan says, breaking the silence, “but the blocked memories of the seal’s application have come back unexpectedly vividly.”

“As if no time has passed at all since the memories were locked away, perfectly preserved and ready to throw you right back into who you were at the time,” Road whispers.

The sculpture grows spines in surprise.

“How did you know?” Ashan asks.

“Personal experience. There’s a reason I’ve come to prefer amnestics and wipes over blocks. They’re not as precise or complete, but even if the memories do come back for whatever reason, they tend to be blurred and as dulled by time as memories normally would be. Less risk of dropping you into the deep end of unprocessed trauma out of the blue that way.”

“I see. You do have a great deal of experience with aiding those who inadvertently fell through the Masquerade.”

Amnesticization for the sake of Masquerade preservation is the one exception to the proscription on mind-altering magic. Of course even non-mages that work with potential Masquerade breaches would be well-versed in the different methods of allowing people to return to their mundane lives.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Road says. “But as for your current situation, you’ve got options. Amnestics to dull the pain are technically an option, albeit not one that I would recommend for a variety of reasons. Then there’s the old standby of ‘cope, drown it out, and live your life until it fades like any other bad memory,’ which has its ups and downs. Or there’s the hard but effective route of trying to work through and process it, but that’s not going to happen in a single morning and from the look of that sculpture over there, you’re not up to doing much more talking about it right now anyway.”

“Not so much, I fear.”

“Nothing wrong with that. And if you like, remind me later and I can get you in touch with some therapists I usually recommend to first timers Backstage. But for now, any requests for a story? Sullivan’s the real teller between the two of us, but I’ve been told I can be distracting when I want to be.”

“Thank you, truly,” Ashan says. “Although one thing I feel I must share lest I leave her reputation unnecessarily tarnished is that I know for sure now that my ment- that Aliana was against the application of the seal on me and only conceded to play her role in binding my magic after she had exhausted her other options for protecting me at great cost to herself.”

“I’m glad to hear you weren’t betrayed in that way too.”

“It does not change the fact that she ultimately kidnapped me without any intent of bringing me back home. It is a solace that I am still deciding what to make of.”

“I know the feeling.”

“But as for story requests, perhaps a tale involving the sorceress Bridgewood? We are in her home afterall, and, after her consort, I imagine you knew her best.”

Road grins and leans in close over the table. “Oh, I’ve got a few I could tell. Remember our fair lady of the green? The minor goddess who helped us out with the Logos quest? So, a while back some produce corporation was imprisoning and exploiting her to increase crop yields and was blatant enough to feature her as a mascot in their advertising…”

*******

“Please, just don’t hurt him!”

“You’re in no position to make demands Glassgaze. Count yourself lucky that none of the elder mages you felled before we put a stop to your outburst died.”

“He’s just a child. He hasn’t hurt anyone.”

“He just cut maestro Silverthorn’s arm off to protect you. He’s an anchor world mage whose magic is unbound by logic or rules and with more potential for power than I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve taught him control. Restraint. Honor. Do you really think it’s luck that no one died today?”

“Honor? That’s a joke coming from you. You’ve taught him enough to be dangerous by giving him a taste of combining magic systems from outside his homeworld. Or did you really think you had the next sorceress Bridgewood on your hands?”

“That’s still no reason to kill him. You’re talking about executing a child for being a potential threat. Bind him if you have to, but please, don’t hurt him.”

*******

Ashan raises his arm that isn’t temporarily paralyzed and accepts Road’s offer to lift him off the floor of the gym’s sparring ring.

“Good match,” Road says. “If you’d had more room to maneuver you might have had me.”

Eris and Lacuna had already been at the office when Ashan and Road arrived after breakfast. They got to talking about the nullification of the seal on his magic and one thing led to another and soon enough Eris proposed a sparring match to see what he could do. To Ashan’s surprise, Lacuna demurred from watching a display of the magic she had helped unlock in favor of staying in her lab to catch up on work. Ashan won fairly handily against Eris and then Road asked if he was up for another round.

It ended much as any match against Road does, save for the fact that he got them to draw that energy sword of theirs against him for the first time.

“A good match indeed,” Ashan says while Road pulls him to his feet. He sways, off balance from one arm limply dangling as dead weight, and Road waits until he steadies before letting go and handing him back his wand that he had dropped when their blade of orange light disrupted his motor control.

Yes, a good match, or at least an educational one. A reminder that theoretical study of varied forms of magic and the sudden ability to access them does not automatically equate to mastery. And loss does ever carry its own opportunities.

Ashan touches his wand to his numb hand and focuses on a spell he has been wanting to try for some time now, ever since encountering that first tome borrowed from Bridgewood’s library. That tome, Whispers of the Sun, had an entire chapter dedicated to spells of healing flame as a prime example both of how pyromancy can be more than the pure destruction commonly associated with it and of how varied the approaches of traditions originating from different worlds can be when arriving at the same end state for a spell. Some of those spells were crude acts of cauterization. Others grew out of the concept of fire as a cleansing agent burning out impurities, sometimes symbolically and sometimes literally.

This spell is rooted in the conceptualization of the sun as the ultimate source of all life and fire as an extension of the sun.

Some spells require incantations, be they poetic verse to manifest a concept or nonsense syllables meant to resonate on esoteric frequencies with the universe’s vibrating threads. Other spells require gestures, be they precise hand signs and dances drawn from a deep canon of tradition or simple focusing motions bridging the gap between visualized will and manifested physicality.

This spell requires a prayer.

It is a wordless prayer, as all the deepest prayers are. It is a praise of the sun. It is a cry for the comfort of warmth. It is a recognition of connection and promise of care. It is more witchcraft than wizardry. It is not a technique of precise formulae and methodology. It is a gift that asks only for a reverent heart.

Reverence has never come easily to Ashan, but he hopes that wonder will make an adequate substitute to the recipe as he casts his mind back.

The warmth of a roadside campfire and the end of a day’s travel and the countless stars overhead. His first time seeing a farm in person and the rows and rows of green leaves turned to face the sun. The sight of the sky after weeks of exploring underground ruins and the tears the light brought to his eyes. The hearthfire at a bustling inn and the realization that he was living a scene out of a fantasy. A dragon’s blazing breath and the eggs it incubated while he and Aliana watched from hiding. The smell of his parents’ cooking wafting across the yard and the knowledge that it was time to come inside from his play. A towering white tree whose bark glitters more like crystal than wood while its mother-of-pearl leaves make a shifting rainbow above.

Three times Ashan sat beneath that tree and each time was the closest he has ever felt to reverence. The first was as a child, roughly a year after his abduction, and it was a surprise gift from Aliana in an attempt to share someplace special to her. The second was at the end of his training, waiting for seven days for a branch to fall so he could carve it into a wand as his mentor had done with her staff, and afterwards Aliana bestowed upon him the epithet of Glassheart to anoint him as a peer rather than a student. The third was on his last day on Orthon, after he learned there had never been an intent to bring him home, and it had been at Aliana’s request for one last detour before taking him home so that she might say goodbye.

He understands that goodbye better now.

White flames spread from the tip of his wand to envelop his hand and crawl up his arm, illuminating the sleeve of his robe from within. His fingers twitch involuntarily as sensation returns, first as warmth, then as a pins-and-needles tingling. The sensation and the twitching moves up to his elbow; to his shoulder. He feels the air grow cold around him. He feels himself start to sweat. He feels a pang of hunger. The flames grow brighter and spread to his neck.

Ashan Glassheart clears his mind and the flames flicker and go out.

His arm feels feverishly hot and the tingling sensation persists, but there is no pain and he has full motor function once again.

The full process took seven seconds, but it feels like much longer.

He is holding up his hand and flexing his fingers, about to comment on the spell working better than anticipated for a first try when an unexpected voice interrupts him.

“I see we’re doing self-immolations today,” Bridgewood - the current Bridgewood - lilts. “Someone should have told me, I would have brought marshmallows.”

“Ashan has healing magic now,” Road says. “He just cured the paralysis from my sword.”

“No offense,” Eris says, “but if that’s healing I think I’ll take my chances with my own regen. I’ve had my fill of mages lighting me on fire.”

“Is that surliness I hear?” Bridgewood croons. “Sounds like someone lost her match.”

“Gonna have to try harder than that to bait me,” Eris says nonchalantly. “Yeah, I lost this round, but that just means our score is tied again. Besides I’ve figured out his tells with glow color and magic type so I’m feeling pretty good about next time.”

His tells? What is she talking about?

“Okay, why’s everyone staring?” Eris asks.

“There is no color-coded glowing to my utilizing different magic systems,” Ashan says. “Not to the mundane eye anyway.”

Eris closes her eyes and massages her temples with one hand. “Oh goddammit…” she mutters.

Bridgewood’s smirk beams wide. “Well now, as positively delicious as those implications might be to unpack, we do have work to be doing.” He turns to Road. “My friend, I’ve finished the sorting of which of those cursed trinkets to hold back as bait, so you and muscles over there are free to finish your wrapup deliveries from that job. Excuse me, that ‘mission’. Wizard boy, you’re with me. There’s a crossover point I want to assess as a staging ground for our ersatz smuggling route and a monster that’s wandered out of it to harass the locals so we’ll be making with the proverbial bird stoning.”

Eris stares Bridgewood down, swallows whatever words has in mind, and turns to Road to say “I’ll get the vans ready.”

It occurs to Ashan to wonder just what she and Bridgewood spoke of in private before and on their long way back from assisting the changeling siblings yesterday. He would have expected more pushback from her against Bridgewood’s apparent giving of orders, especially given the friction between them up until now.

He considers questioning the directives himself (is not Road the one who should be issuing such commands?) but decides against it for now. If there is good work to be done then what does the organizational structure matter? Better instead to focus on the most relevant information.

“So, where is this crossover point?”

*******

“There, there. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But… but… hi-his arm! And your head! And everyone is… and they are saying-”

“Shhh… You did nothing wrong. All that can be healed. I’m going to make everything alright and in the morning this will all just be a bad dream.”

“Glassgaze, the elders are ready for you. And your… charge. They said to remind you this is your last chance to back out and let them do a full sealing. Otherwise any future transgressions of his are on your head.”

“Tell them they can wait another few godsdamn minutes!”

“They also said to remind you that if he ever leaves this world then you can consider yourself exiled along with him.”

“Fine. It’s not like I ever planned to take him back home. Now let us have a moment.”

*******

Ashan looks out the window of the armored van at the greens and browns of the rocky hill country as the vehicle bounces and jolts its way down an offroad trail.�� That boulder. That gulley. That stand of mesquite and mountain cedar trees. The more he sees the more the suspicion that has been growing since passing through one of the Bridgewood Estate’s tree portals becomes a certainty.

“I know this place,” Ashan observes.

“Good,” Bridgewood replies from the driver’s seat, “that means I was on the money about which crossover point you absconded through as a kid.”

“Why are we here?”

“My friend and I believe the unknown group that caused that nasty business with the dead dragon getting a ship stuck in its skull back on our first outing has been targeting smuggling operations passing through crossover points in order to acquire various illicit magics and technologies while leaving no witnesses. Our backup plan if other avenues of inquiry fail us is to leak a rumor through certain channels which I know are being monitored that a certain sorceress’s private collection has been burgled and moved off world in order to lure this group into a confrontation. We’re here to assess the nearby crossover point to make sure it’s a suitable staging ground.”

“That is not what I meant. Why this crossover point specifically?”

One last bounce and a swerve to keep the armored van from barreling into an arroyo and the suggestion of a trail turns into an unpaved road through the hilly backwoods. The trees here are short and srcubby, but they are thick enough to block any good view of the surroundings.

“A few days ago the techie flagged a series of cryptid sightings in the area as a potential job to follow up on,” Bridgewood offers. “No direct human contact yet, but a mild correlation to a suspected drop in local wildlife populations. Not too unusual with the nearby crossover point. It seemed minor enough that I normally would have set it as something for my friend to occupy themself with in between bigger jobs with the rest of you lot, but I figured we may as well make this outing the stone to kill both of these birds with.”

“Are you being evasive or simply obtuse? I doubt my personal connection with the area is a coincidence.”

“You’ve got that right,” Bridgewood chimes. “Say, you never learned to drive, did you?”

“What?” Ashan blinks at the sudden non sequitur. “No. Why?”

“Would you like to? This is a pretty easy stretch of road and there’s no one around to try to pull you over, as hilarious as that would be.”

“I shall pass.”

Bridgewood shrugs, taking both hands off the wheel in the process. “Suit yourself. According to television, it’s supposed to be an effective bonding and trust building activity.”

“That may well be,” Ashan begins slowly, “the most blatant attempt to change the subject I have ever witnessed.”

“Oh if that had only been a conversational redirection you never would have noticed,” Bridgewood chortles. “How about this then? Answer a question of mine and I’ll answer the question you seem to think I’m avoiding.”

Through a break in the trees, Ashan sports a familiar creek out the window. They are moving away from the crossover point and towards town. Searching for the cryptid first then. That would make sense if the goal is to do a catch and release back through the crossover point to whatever world it slipped in from. He thinks back to how long it took him and Aliana to make this trek. Far slower having been on foot but the route was more direct.

“Go ahead and ask your question,” Ashan says. “We have plenty of time and I have few secrets.”

“Excellent,” Bridgewood purrs. “Now tell me, what do you think of my wife?”

“Excuse me?” Ashan stutters.

“Carnette. The sorceress Bridgewood. My dearly departed wife. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you going all wide-eyed fanboy every time you encounter one of her creations. I’d like to know why. Around these parts her name gets spoken in frightful whispers more than open adulation.”

“On Orthon,” Ashan says after a moment of consideration, “she is considered a living legend. Some would even go so far as to call her a heroic figure, although there are some popular stories that would dispute that.”

“It’d hardly be the first time someone made that mistake,” Sullivan laughs, “but do go on.”

“To begin with, it is said that almost two centuries ago, as a mere teenager, she arrived on Orthon out of the blue and within the span of three years mastered seven different Orthonian magic styles - four of them considered forbidden arts - and averted a calamity brought on by a megalomaniacal cabal. Even without those feats, her very presence revolutionized what we knew about interworld travel and branching anchor theories of cosmology. The sporadicness of her presence over the next century arguably taught us about that field as much as she did herself.”

“But who was she to you?”

“By the time I arrived on Orthon she had not been to that world in over half a century so by then she was more like a historic folk hero that few other than elder mages had ever met in person. They say that the continental Convocation of Mages that sets the regulations on magic in the region my mentor and I spent most our time in was originally formed by her old adventuring party and that on her final visit she contributed directly to laying the foundations for the modern academy system of teaching wizardry that my mentor learned from.”

Ashan feels his cheeks grow warm with the realization that he is stalling.

“On the most personal level,” he continues, “she was someone to aspire to. The bards all had at least one story of the sorceress Bridgewood in their repertoire, the mysterious mage from another world who mastered the forbidden arts without being corrupted by them, saved the world, and went on to invent whole new fields of theory. Even if more than half of the stories were nonsense, that still left enough truth to make the very concept of a ‘true sorcerer’ synonymous with her name. For a time, I thought that if I could be great like her I could prove that I was also an exception to the trend of anchor world mages being dangerously unpredictable, power hungry, and literally fueled by their own ego. I dreamed that if I could do that I would not have to hide what I was anymore.”

“You thought that even with the darker stories floating around about her?” Sullivan asks. “I don’t have nearly as many ears on Orthon as I would like, but I know at least a few of those made it over there. Void Without, I’m sure a few even originated from there.”

Ashan’s gaze drifts back out to the dirt road in front of them.

“I was a child at the time, projecting onto an icon. Even the best stories about her portrayed her as a hard-to-work-with eccentric, so I rationalized that between that and her more sorcerous arts she was bound to have a few enemies that spread lies over the years. That rationalization stopped after I told Aliana about my dream and she grew truly angry with me for the first and only time. Or so I thought. Knowing now what I had been made to forget, I wonder if it was fear that she was feeling. Fear of losing me or fear that she was wrong about me, I know not. All the same, I took that as a sign that those darker tales must be somehow true and began focusing on being good, possibly great, in my own way instead. Or at least in Aliana’s way.”

The van’s interior falls into the near silence of bumpy roads and long-restrained confessions floating unexpectedly free to breathe.

Ashan turns back to face this Bridgewood. At last the desire to know gets the better of him.

“What was she like?” he asks of the other Bridgewood.

Sullivan’s ever-present smirk softens into a genuine smile. It is as disconcerting as a cat suddenly sparing its prey.

“Carnette is… the most absurd woman I have ever met. She’s a brilliant scholar with a wicked sense of humor capable of vacillating between childish whimsy and ruthless practicality on a moment’s notice. Any so-called heroic act she ever took was motivated by amusement, utility, or spite. She has more power than most could ever dream of and her favorite thing to use it for is interior decorating. At least one secret door in the Bridgewood Manor is opened by the theme song of a children’s cartoon. She delighted in making a show of academically eviscerating anyone espousing theories of magic she thought were hogwash and then literally eviscerating the fools that fell back on insults and challenges to duels in lieu of sound defenses. I know of at least four different instances where she all but abducted random people off the street, ran experiments on them, called it a gift or blessing, set them loose, and then spent years observing them in secret to gather datapoints for whatever hypothesis she was testing.” Bridgewood takes his eyes off the road and locks them with Ashan’s. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No,” Ashan says. He wishes it were otherwise. It almost is.

Bridgewood softly shakes his head and returns to watching the road in time to steer around a pothole trying to become a sinkhole. “Of course you don’t,” he says. “You never met her. Stick around long enough and one day you will.”

“You speak as if she is still around.”

“And you use ‘we’ when referring to the people of Orthon.”

The silence of a linguistic habit considered and questioned.

“If I may,” Ashan asks, “how did you meet her?”

Bridgewood cackles and turns out of the brush onto a paved road.

“I take it that is an off limits question then,” Ashan says.

“Oh, no, I’m a veritable open book when it comes to that tale,” Sullivan lilts. “I tried to kill her several times and she found it endearing. Eventually we landed ourselves in a business arrangement of a marriage contract where I would get the money and status that goes with the Bridgewood name, and she would get a conversation partner who wasn’t terrified of her and a willing test subject for her more outlandish experiments. I’m laughing because now you know what it looks like when I redirect a conversation.”

“Oh.”

“Got so excited to learn more about the great sorceress Bridgewood that you forgot why you were even answering that question, didn’t you?”

“It was rare knowledge from a rare source with a rare opportunity. The other answer could wait,” Ashan says. It is as true a statement as saying yes would have been, if marginally more dignified.

“Ha! You really are a wizard through and through. I even got you monologing earlier.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Oh, then I suppose that was the normal sort of gushing at length about your childhood idol and spilling all your complicated personal feelings with barely any prompting because you’ve been alone so long you don’t know how to regulate sharing to any rate between all or nothing.”

“I do not gush,” Ashan says after a moment of recovery. “Now, you have a question to stop avoiding and an answer to give.”

“Struck a nerve there did I? You’ll have to forgive me, it’s like a reflex when I see them exposed.”

Ashan stares Bridewood down coolly. The smile has regressed back to a smirk. Outside, the forest has thinned out into unkempt fields separated from the road by fencing wire strung between wooden posts. There were horses in those empty fields when he was a child.

“Fine, fine,” Bridgewood relents. “I chose this specific locale and your company in particular because I wanted to see how you would react. Yesterday with muscles was wonderfully informative and productive, both in observing how she handled seeing off that changeling pair and in the little chat we had on the way back. I hoped to do the same with you.”

“But why?”

The smirk grows wider. They pass by a once-whitewashed house with a corrugated metal roof. More are coming up.

“Let me answer that question with a question,” Bridgewood trills. “And it will be part of the answer, even if it doesn’t sound like it at first.”

“Very well, but this had better be the last such evasion.”

The van slows as it comes into town. Single-story houses and trailer homes line either side of the road. Most have modest sized yards surrounding and separating them. Some of those yards are strewn with cheap plastic lawn furniture and children’s toys. Some sport kitschy ornaments. Some (usually but not always the fenced-in ones) have animals; goats, dogs, pigs, a few chickens. Some have all of the above at once or nothing but overgrown weeds.

Bridgewood leaves Ashan hanging in silence to take in the familiar milieu before finally asking his question.

“If you could go back to your family, pain free, with everyone’s memories modified as if you never left, erasing even the pain your leaving had caused, would you?”

The van slows to a stop at an achingly familiar intersection without traffic light or stop sign. Ashan’s breath hitches. Mercifully, Bridgewood continues on through instead of turning left.

“That is not a hypothetical worth engaging in.”

“Whoever said it was hypothetical? All manner of people owe me favors and Carnette left me with many a useful trinket. I could make it happen. Say the word and you could live a peaceful life with your family as Adr-”

“That name is not for you to say!” Ashan snaps before Bridgewood can finish the utterance. More calmly, he continues, “The Count of Curses and Dust made me a similar offer. They would have bought that Name and bequeathed it to a changeling to return in my place and live that life so that I might live this one without guilt. What you propose would be the opposite but the same. I would no longer be Ashan Glassheart. Either deal would mean losing a part of myself.”

The van turn takes the next right turn to continue meandering through the tiny town’s only real neighborhood. A white pickup truck without tires lays rusting in front of a mobile home with a collapsed roof. Once, there was an old woman who paid a young boy in cookies to weed her garden and showed carrying a pot of soup up at the door of anyone with a sick child.

“Then why not bring your family Backstage? The Bridgewood name is useful for getting people to turn a blind eye toward such a minor Masquerade breach.”

“Even if they forgave me and accepted me back, the work I do is dangerous. I do not know that I could bear to put them through the new pain of worrying about me every time I go out.”

“Why not settle down with them then? There’s no shortage of jobs in Crossherd for a mage willing to work on utilities. There’s not a direct bridge to the pocket dimension around here, but the conditions are ripe for someone of your talent to make one. You could be a wizard and have your family without worrying their pretty little heads.”

“I have the ability to do good in a way that others cannot. It would be wrong for me not to.”

“How selfless of you,” Bridgewood condescends.

They pass by a house recognizable by its plastic lawn flamingos. The house on either side is boarded up. Back when the sun had not yet bleached the flamingos white or rendered them brittle and full of holes, two children that went to elementary school together fought with sticks they said were swords until they put aside their differences and turned their attention to the terrible pink dragons threatening the kingdom. Today, those no-longer-children glance at one another through tinted glass without recognition.

“Only mostly,” Ashan admits. “I cannot deny that I enjoy what I do. Felling monsters. Bringing villains to justice. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves. There is a… joy… to playing the role of hero. No, more than that. It is a part of me as much as either Name.”

“Congratulations,” Bridgewood chirps. “That is exactly the set of answers I hoped you’d give.”

“So this was a test.”

“Think of it as,” Bridgewood drawls, “an assessment of compatibility.”

“For how you and I will work together?”

“Quiet Void, perish the thought. Compatibility with my friend.”

“You mean Road.”

“I’ve never had another.”

“They mentioned something about that this morning.”

The smirk flickers to a grimace.

The van turns back onto the closest thing the town has to a main street. There’s a church on the corner for a god the boy who would be Ashan never understood. Nor did he (nor does he) understand why there were three churches in town all to the same god. Nor why he always had to wear his most uncomfortable clothes and wake up early just to hear an old man drone on in a voice that put him to sleep whenever it was not a story about lion dens or fighting giants with slingshots. The sign for the country barbeque across the street is gone. There are more churches than restaurants in town now.

“Look wizard boy, I’ll tell you what I told muscles yesterday. My friend is about as close to perfect as humanly possible, but at the end of the day they are still human, which means one day they will slip up, and when they do it will be bad. You need to watch out for that.”

“That seems like perfectly obvious advice about anyone working on a team doing what we do.”

“You still haven’t noticed, have you? The way they make everything feel like it’s going to be alright just by being there? How easy it is to trust them and go along with whatever course of action they suggest? That voice saying that even when a job goes badly surely they’ll find a way to get you out? Not that they can help it. It’s just the way they are now.”

“It almost sounds like you are telling me to be wary of Road.” The very notion feels wrong.

“I’m telling you to be wary of yourself for my friend’s sake. The worst they’ve ever been hurt was always because the people around them put them on a pedestal. I’m hoping that you and muscles have enough in common with them that you won’t be so blind. The techie’s a lost cause, but as long as she’s content to stay in her lab playing with her toys she shouldn’t be too much of a liability.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t. Not yet, and if there’s a drop of Fortune’s heart that doesn’t hate me yet you never will.”

The silence of uncomprehended warnings, outgrown smallness, and withered remembrance. Ashan looked up his hometown once after Eris gifted him his laptop. It confirmed the impression he got when he first returned to this place alongside Aliana. He was not the only one that left this place for good. The population today truly is but a fraction of what he remembered.

“What if I had not given the answers you hoped for?” Ashan asks.

“Ah, classic wizard,” Sullivan chuckles. “Asking questions you’re better off not knowing.”

“A question I am better off knowing then: What manner of creature are we searching for? ‘Cryptid’ is a designation vague as it is broad.”

“I don’t rightly know. The reported sightings were all contradictory when they described it as anything more than a shadow moving in the night. It could just as well be multiple creatures or a shapeshifter. If I hadn’t had access to first hand confirmation that this place has a history of monsters crossing over –” Bridgewood glances pointedly at Ashan “– then I might well have written the whole business off.”

“You sound far too amused by your own ignorance,” Ashan says.

“Mystery is one of life’s greatest spices.”

“Let us get on with the solving then. I assume you have already gathered the names and addresses of those who witnessed this alleged cryptid.”

“Obviously, but as long as I have convenient bait and a local expert on hand I see no reason to involve middlemen when I can skip straight to luring our quarry out.”

Ashan silently chides himself for not having seen this coming. Magic is spread thin and weakened on anchor worlds by their nature and monsters whose very biology relies on magic instinctively find themselves drawn towards those whose presence warps reality’s rules to their will so that they might sustain themselves. That was the very reason he needed rescuing by Aliana all those years ago. For similar reasons, wild and predatory monsters on other worlds will often target young and inexperienced mages as their favored prey. More powerful mages however, are treated as greater predators that all but the mightiest monsters will give a wide berth.

“Suppressing my presence to avoid attracting monsters was one of the first things I was taught,” Ashan says, “and even if doing so were not a subconscious reflex for me by now I suspect that my aura would function more as repellent than as bait.”

“What, your mentor never taught you aura flaring?”

“I am aware of the technique, but it is a pointless one. It takes little practice to control how much one passively warps the ambient flow of magic, so it is useless as a tool for gauging a mage’s power when they may just as easily be hiding their potential as bluffing about their strength. Moreover, it is crass.”

“Crass? That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Vulgar as a contest of urination.”

“Huh, must be an Orthonian thing. Anywhy, I’m going to kindly request that you do that to make yourself look as appetizing as possible.”

“What part of it being a crass and useless technique did you not understand?”

“In that case I’ll just need to find some other poor unwitting schmuck. If there’s a monster hanging around for as long as this one apparently has been, then odds are decent that there’s a potential mage in town.”

Ashan follows the nod of Bridgewood’s head out the window and realizes that their van has slowed its cruising around town to a crawl in front of the high school he never got to attend. Ashan waits for the pang of loss for a part of growing up he missed out on, but it never comes. That realization brings a loss of its own. How disconnected from one’s own culture must one be to not even feel a desire for the milestones that were denied? He tries and fails to imagine what it would have been like, sitting in classes and studying all day, making friends his own age, joining a club or band or sports team. All he has for context to build the fantasy off of is a handful of blurry memories of elementary school and television shows. It all feels so alien to him now.

What would he even have been doing at that age? High school spans four years, does it not? So the year spent sailing the western archipelago up through the infiltration of the gala at the oasis palace a year before his falling out with Aliana, with the catastrophic failure of his old translation charm roughly halfway in between. No wonder he cannot relate.

“If you’re looking for your baby brother,” Bridgewood says to the staring Ashan, “classes don’t start for another two weeks and he won’t be attending here for another couple years yet anyway.”

The question of why he would be looking for his brother dies on Ashan’s lips and his stomach drops alongside the crumbling barrier between compartmentalized knowledge. He is in the town where he grew up and his family lives. He is in a town that is being stalked by an unknown monster. His family is in a town with a monster. He was attacked by monsters and saved by mages seven times as a child although he was only allowed to remember the last time. He has a brother who has never met him and is only slightly older than he was when he was taken.

“We are not using my brother as monster bait,” Ashan says coldly.

“Of course not,” Bridgewood replies, unperturbed by the condensation gathering on the van’s windows from the sudden drop in temperature. “You know as well as I do that magic has nothing to do with bloodlines. Your parents might have let you run wild in the woods to live in whimsy and believe in impossible things, but him they shower with so much protective affection that the possibility of playing in the backyard unsupervised or visiting friends without a chaperone could never even occur to him. No fairy tales in that household anymore to inspire another child to go wandering off. If he ever develops any potential for magic, it won’t be until he’s out on his own, burned out from the med school path your parents already decided for him and wondering what else he could have been.”

“What.”

Bridgewood grins wide, showing too many teeth for a proper smile.

“Why, my dear fellow, it’s my job to know these things. I dare say that I know more about you and your compatriots than you do yourselves. I know why muscles never got to meet her grandparents or even learn their names and why her parents were so dead set on assimilation. I know that the techie’s great grandparents were a pair of witches and why they kept their kids in the dark about it.” He leans across the van’s center console as close to Ashan’s face as his seatbelt will let him and tilts his head sideways. “And I know that Aliana Glassgaze is currently on this iteration of Earth.”

There is hunger in those dark eyes, and for the first time in years Ashan’s instinct is for flight rather than fight as he reflexively shrinks back into his seat.

Bridgewood snaps back upright and the seatbelt whirs to catch up with him.

“But that’s beside the point,” Bridgewood chirps. He stares at the seemingly empty school and blinks several times in rapid succession. “Pity. Nothing appetizing amongst the summer school kids taking makeup classes. Always a tossup whether groups like that are going to be against the grain enough to be prime candidates or too beaten down in their self-worth to have any chance at all.”

The van lurches back into motion once more and Ashan recovers enough to say “We are not kidnapping children to use as monster bait.”

Legs burning from strain long after losing the strength for another step. Each breath like knives in his lungs long after he’s covered his mouth to muffle the sound. Crying in the dark long after tears have run dry. The sight of eyes shining in the dark. The smell of rancid breath. The sound of heavy footsteps drawing closer.

“There is a cave in the woods on the far side of town from whence we arrived,” Ashan says. “I played there often as a child and if there is a monster, cryptid, or other fiend in the area, it will likely be making its lair there, and even if not it is a secluded enough spot that when I make myself into a lure there should be no risk of a Masquerade breach.”

“Excellent,” Bridgewood replies. “Let’s be off then, shall we?”

For all Bridgewood’s earlier chattiness on the way in, the drive out of town is mercifully quiet with no words exchanged beyond the occasional instruction from Ashan to take a turn. This lasts until they pass the small cemetery at the edge of town.

“Do you want to stop and pay your respects?” Bridgewood asks in the softest voice Ashan has ever heard from him. “I find it helps.”

“I would rather you not joke about that.”

“I’ve left four different graves with four different names on three different worlds. Saying goodbye always helped me move on.”

“I have already seen it once and that was more than enough for a tombstone with a name that is not dead.”

“I see.”

The only other words spoken for the next quarter hour are a single “Turn off here” from Ashan, followed by a “We shall walk the rest of the way” five minutes of unproductive off-road driving later.

These woods and hills are more familiar than the town. Less changed. Less diminished. Maybe the trees feel shorter now that he has grown and maybe their distance from his old home no longer feels so great now that his world is bigger, but they are still dense enough that it does not take Ashan long to lose sight of the van. As he comes to the rocky ledge he once scrambled to climb up and over, he finds himself, for a moment, back in those long summer days of trekking out from the house at dawn and exploring uncharted lands full of creatures he still is unsure if they were imagined or not. And then he casually waves a hand and ascends a ramp of glass to the top of the ledge within a forest that was charted long before he was born. He hesitates to focus his senses on the mystical just yet. He has not made up his mind how he might feel if he were not to find his childhood playmates.

The sight of the cave freezes Ashan in his tracks once he locates the opening at the end of an unassuming shallow gulch.

Darkness. Wedged back into a crevice to hide. Curled up on top of a thin mattress and chained to a tentpole. Waiting for the not-a-dog to either give up or find and gobble him up. Waiting for the frightful old men to decide his fate. A light in the dark, a screech, silence, and a voice telling him he is safe now. The light of a tent flap opening, silence, a hug, and a voice telling him that she has a plan to keep him safe.

Faded memories from long ago swirl with the preserved fears of a child who had not yet processed and overcome his fear of the close dark spaces he gained two years prior.

Focus on the here and now. The late summer breeze on his skin. The buzzing of insects in his ears. The sight of a metal grate over the mouth of the cave.

That last one had not been here before. Ashan goes to investigate, concerns of lurking cryptids forgotten for the moment. The metal is rusted where the black paint has worn away and a grimy padlock holds the hinged segment closed. An orange and white sign bolted to the bars warns of danger and a second plaque affixed atop that one says a child died here.

On that fateful day, all those years ago, Aliana told the child she would later name Ashan not to look while she cast the glamor to disguise the remains of the strange hound that tried to eat him. To further distract him, she had assigned him the task of setting up a trail for others to find the cave. In that energized state of having just gone from terror of impending death to the promise of being a real wizard doing real magic, it had seemed like a game. Did she cast something on him to stifle his fear at the time? All the same, he still snuck a peak at what his soon-to-be-mentor was doing.

The sight of her dragging his own dead body into the darkness of the cave became a recurring feature in his nightmares over the following weeks. They continued until the night that he confessed what he saw to Aliana. That was the first time she hugged him. It was also the first time he caught her quietly crying when she thought he was not looking. The former became frequent and regular. The latter would not occur again for several years.

“Now that’s curious,” Bridgewood’s voice brings Ashan’s voice back to the present as he kneels down next to the young wizard. “It looks like water’s flowed through here lately but there’s no branches or other debris stuck on the grate, and everything else around here is dry as a bone. Hmmm… Terrible idiom, that. Bones are wet and full of marrow when you first pull them out.”

As he says that last part, Bridgewood runs a finger along the condensation gathered at the bottom bars of the grate, revealing it to be more viscous than water. To Ashan’s disgust, he licks his finger clean afterward.

“Was that truly necessary?” Ashan asks.

“No, but it was informative,” Bridgewood answers as he stands back up. “I do believe we have an ooze on our hands. Or maybe a slime. I never could remember the difference.”

“An ooze is an undifferentiated mass whereas a slime has a central core,” Ashan says.

“I’ll take your wizard’s word on that.” Bridgewood taps the grate with a knife Ashan did not see him draw. “Anywhat, shall I open this up for a spot of spelunking?”

Just another summer day of adventure. Just another afternoon with friends he was not ready to call imaginary just yet. Just another fun game. A new creature he had never seen before and a hungry growl that set him on edge. A brave stride forward and a sandwich offered in friendship. A bitten hand and a flight to a favorite secret place that was not as safe as he thought.

“No need,” Ashan says. “Better to draw it out into the open than to potentially fight in tight quarters.”

“In that case I’ll make myself scarce while you make yourself bait,” Bridgewood proposes as he follows Ashan out of the gulch and onto the hill above the cave entrance. “I’ll be watching for the moment to make my move.”

“Shall we agree upon a signal for when to make that move?”

“No need. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to make myself unpresentable.”

With that, Bridgewood unbuttons his yellow vest and slides it off. With a flick of his wrists he inverts the garment and Ashan catches a glimpse of the inner lining as it flips around to become the outer pattern. There is an impression of a color almost but not quite violet; an extra-spectral blend between stygian blue and self-luminous red. And then Bridgewood is gone with a record skip hitch in the sounds of the woods.

Curiosity regarding how Bridgewood disappeared right before his eyes loses the battle with Ashan’s relief at not having eyes on him for this next part. Even if a part of him knows that Bridgewood is technically watching from hiding, the lack of a visible witness eases the embarrassment of what he is about to do.

It is said that each mage perceives the way magic flows through and intertwines with the background of reality differently. To Ashan, it has always appeared as something like floating threads, colored shapes, and heat haze refractions in the air; nearly imperceptible whenever he is not actively focusing on them but always there and ever moving on arcane currents. Anything living or possessing a mind causes an interruption in this flow, whether as a slow spot to gather in and concentrate like most people, an obstacle to divert the current around like Eris, or as a bubbling spring adding its own chaos of colors and threads to the stream like the average mage.

Most mages learn early on to suppress their own aura of distortion to just-noticeable levels. Too quiet and it is as if one has something to hide. Too loud and it is a terrible rudeness to every other magically-sensitive individual around that has to put up with such noise. To flare one’s aura to make more noise than necessary is the domain of untrained children and hot-blooded youths thinking with organs other than their brain as they try to show off. And even without considerations of etiquette, there are the practical concerns of overactive auras attracting monsters or spontaneously manifesting unintended effects on one’s surroundings.

Thus are the ingrained best practices that Ashan shoves to the side in order to mimic the telltale signature of a mage accidentally coming into their powers for the first time. At first he attempts to relax to loosen up that self-restraint, but the exercise is self-defeating. Restraint is his resting default and too much of his training has inextricably intertwined the concepts of calmness and control.

Agitation then. Ashan opens the mental compartment he has tried to sequester his younger self’s regained memories in all day, reaches in, and grabs ahold of those feelings. The excitement over arriving at the Convocation of Mages after a week of thinking they would not make it in time, which led to his running off on his own. The confusion at the strange things one of the elder mages he recognized from the previous year started saying to him. The fear when he heard his mentor shout at the elder to get away from him and the things the elder said in return as six more elders filed in to surround her. The desperation that caused him to lash out at the mage that finally managed to land a hit on his mentor. The guilt over his conjured barrier slicing the elder’s arm clean off. The despair at the sight of Aliana falling beaten, bloodied, and restrained when she had been so close to saving him

The anger.

At her for being reduced to begging.

At her for proposing that they seal away his potential.

At her for taking those memories away from him.

At her for taking him away.

At her for making it all seem like a game.

At her for failing him.

At himself for being angry when he knows she only ever did the best she could for him.

Ashan wraps his arms around himself. He closes his eyes. He curls in on himself. He falls to his knees. He shudders. He throws his head back. He opens his mouth wide to scream.

No sound escapes his lips. No tear escapes his eyes. No catharsis finds him.

The air ripples and shimmers around him. Glassy conjurations flicker in and out of existence. Frost coats the ground.

It all stops even more abruptly than it began. With an abashed effort, Ashan reins himself and his aura back in, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the unseemly display. Even apparently alone in the woods, he cannot help but feel much as he would as if he had just caused a scene by screaming at the top of his lungs for no reason in the middle of a crowded street.

He distracts himself with the more delicate task of keeping his mage’s aura of reality distortion just slightly more noticeable than normal while also intermittently flickering it in and out. If that initial flare had been a piercing cry of pain, this is the weakened flailing that follows it. The tired wiggling of the worm on the hook. Not something that would fool anyone intelligent and trained, but enough for a beast or the insatiably curious.

Enough time passes in the eerie silence of woods gone quiet that Ashan begins to worry he overdid the initial flare and scared off his quarry instead of luring it in. Then he catches sight of something moving between the trees, obscured by the tangle of low-hanging branches that nearly touch the ground. The silhouette is that of a deer, but the gait is all wrong. Once it finally emerges from the tree line into the clearing of the hill Ashan stands atop of the reason for the wrongness becomes apparent.

It has the shape of a deer, yes. It even has the skeleton of a deer arranged in mostly the correct configuration. Yet it lacks the flesh of a deer, save perhaps for a few mostly-digested scraps hanging suspended alongside dirt, leaves, and twigs within the translucent cyan goo that has wrapped itself around those bones. It half shambles, half undulates closer in a loose imitation of quadrupedal locomotion.

A slime then, not an ooze if it is capable of this level of mimicry. But then why is there no central nucleus in sight for him to extract and incapacitate it?

Ashan’s contemplation of the apparent contradiction in esoteric biology is cut off by the sound of movement behind him. He turns his head, keeping the slime deer in his peripheral vision, and spies a dog. Then a coyote. A second deer. All reduced to skeletons lending shape to cyan slime and still not a core in sight. A smaller bone-filled blob drops out of the second deer’s abdomen and assembles itself into a rat, or maybe a squirrel.

Ashan stays still, allowing the slime animals to get closer, surrounding him. The first deer stops just outside of arm’s reach, then collapses into a blob, contracts, and launches itself at him. A quick rotation on his heel and Ashan propels himself into the air atop a conjured spiral. He lets the spiral fade, cups his hands as he falls, thrusts his arms downward, and slides down the side of a glass dome as it appears between him and the now trapped slime animals.

Ashan steps back from his conjuration and draws his wand. The creatures begin pressing themselves against the inside of the dome and he can feel the barrier grow thinner as they absorb its magic. No matter, a few quick lashing motions with the wand is all it takes to reinforce the conjuration. So long as the slime animals trapped inside do not concentrate their efforts all in one spot he can easily keep up such a simple spell for more than long enough to convert the dome to a sphere to transport to the van and from there to the crossover point.

He raises his wand and the dome stretches to raise with it. He makes a scooping motion with his free hand and the dome reshapes to reach under as well as around. He makes a fist and the great floating glass egg full of slime and bones and dirt contracts, merging the slime animals into one another. Or ooze animals. Still no sign of a core, strange as that strikes him.

A tingling sensation around Ashan’s ankle draws his attention downward to see a tendril coming up from the soil. The buried gelatinous mass shoots out of the ground, climbs up his leg, and keeps ascending until it bursts out from the high collar of Ashan’s robes. He has barely enough presence of mind to take a deep breath and close his eyes before it envelops his face. It tries and fails to push between his tightly shut lips and eyelids while he tries to slide his hands between it and his cheeks.

He forces himself to stay calm. Focus on what he needs to do, not on what will happen if he fails. A precise-yet-simple forcefield that moves outward with his hands is all it should take. He does not even need to get all of the ooze off in one go, only the majority so that it lacks the force to keep pushing. An easy feat.

The ooze works its way up his nostrils and into his ears. His sinuses ache from the pressure. The tingling intensifies into a burning. Serenity is lost. The conjuration flickers out. Ashan’s hands start frantically tearing at the thing trying to digest his face. His eyes shoot open from shock and pain.

On the other side of the blurry cyan haze there is a flicker of chimerical violet.

The ooze, slime, or whatever it was is gone and Ashan is gasping for air. His vision is clear save for the tears of irritated eyes. The burning is now a rapidly-fading tingling and the pain inside his head has reduced to a dull throbbing.

“You’re welcome,” Bridgewood whispers from behind him, close enough for Ashan to feel his breath on his ear. “Now look sharp, your new friends have gotten out of their playpen and want to say hello.”

Ashan wipes his vision clear and looks up to see that the slime animals are indeed upon him now that he dropped his conjuration in his moment of fear. He attempts to say something and falls into a coughing fit.

“Still need a moment?” Bridgewood purrs. “Then allow me.”

Ashan feels a hand on his shoulder as Bridgewood pushes past him. The back of his head and his shoulder come into view. And then the not-purple of his inverted vest.

Bridgewood is gone again. Ashan is breathing easier and his eyes have stopped watering. The slime animals have all been beheaded.

Being headless only stops them for a moment before the blobs around their skulls extrude pseudopods to reconnect to their bodies and lift them back into place.

“I do so detest oozes,” Bridgewood’s voice echoes from somewhere amongst the trees. “Utterly unsatisfying and unproductive to stab. I’ll leave the rest of this in your capable hands.”

“You would abandon me?” Ashan calls out while tossing up a quick barrier between himself and the slime animals.

“No, but this is one of the rare problems that can’t be solved well with knives, so there’s not much else for me to do here unless you want me to try eating the rest of them and that doesn’t work well with live capture.”

“Surely there must be something you can do.”

“How about moral support? I have full faith that you won’t make the same mistake twice and can handle the rest on your own. Go team.”

Irritating though his delivery may be, Ashan has long held enough faith in his own skill to agree with Bridgewood’s assessment. Now to prove them both correct.

A conjured ramp that retracts behind him as he ascends suffices for getting Ashan off the ground to forestall any additional subterranean surprises arising from momentary overconfidence. Curling the edges of this new platform into a bowl around him prevents the bone-wearing mimic slimes from reaching him by launching themselves up or combining their masses to extend a single long pseudopod. Adding lotus-like layers to the protective bowl gives him time to analyze the situation uninterrupted when the creatures try to eat through the conjuration.

Standing nearly level with the treetops (not that they are much more than twice Ashan’s height and he has never been called a tall man) Ashan gazes down at the slime animals below as they mill about and start to haphazardly merge with one another in an attempt to reach him. He still maintains that the prey mimicry is too complex for an ooze, so where are the cores necessary for processing that behavior? Within the animal skulls, taking the place of the digested brains like a hermit crab repurposing a mollusc shell perhaps? Partial merging or absorption of those brains – whether physically or psychically – would aid with the mimicry as well.

An interesting theory, but how to keep the ooze still enough to safely perform the delicate operation of opening the skull to confirm without damaging the potential core within? Freezing has proven effective in the past when facing such monsters alongside Aliana, but that has never been Ashan’s speciality and he is far enough out from the crossover point right now that he is still relying on thermodynamic redirection to power his spells so too much lowering of the ambient temperature could cause complications down the line.

Ashan cocks his head in consideration of the conundrum for a moment and then lets out a hum of realization. His ability to access other magic systems is no longer sealed, and he is passing familiar with a foreign style lauded for its efficiency in energy draw.

Ashan focuses on the gelatinous mimics below and intones the words that caused him no small amount of grief a month ago.

Winter's lash falls harsh. Wind bites, snow cuts, frostbite gnaws, Scouring flesh and soul.

The storm drowns voices Blinds the eye, and steals all warmth Nothing left but white.

BLIZZARD!

The Dorbreithan Long Chant spell completes and a bitter chill wind swirls about the slimes below. Their movements slow as frost forms on the surface of their cyan bodies. Once that ice spreads inwards in crystaline formations toward the suspended skeletons within, the mimics have come to nearly a complete stop. That is enough to work with, although it takes Ashan several seconds to mentally wrestle with the unfamiliar spell to get it to cease its effects lest it do permanent damage to the slime cores he hopes to extract for relocation.

Once the blizzard wind stops, it is a simple matter to conjure a barrier thin enough to act as a guillotine above the neck of the devoured coyote and let it fall. Then it is a mere flick of his wand to draw a wire into existence and reel the falling goo-covered skull up to him.

Fishing with only conjurations as tools had doubled as both training and a means of keeping himself and Aliaina fed on the road since the early days of his time on Orthon. She started him off with nets before moving on to hooks and lines conjured directly into the fishes’ open mouths once he learned finer control. Later still came the creation and manipulation of razor-thin barriers in the place of knives for preparing and fileting the catch. Or at least on the days when Aliana was not feeling lazy enough to simply drop the catch and a portion of river water into her own complex conjuration combining autoclave, centrifuge, and blender. In retrospect, getting used to the alleged stew of superheated fish slurry might explain Ashan’s general ambivalence towards the taste of food.

At any rate, it is the experience in dissection and bone removal that is relevant now as Ashan peels back the wriggling semisolid layers of slime from the coyote skull hovering in front of him. The glass scalpel that appears at the tip of his wand is sharp enough to glide through the minimally digested bone like bread crust and he does so with a steady hand. He cuts out a square from the top of the skull and pulls it out to reveal… nothing. Only more undifferentiated teal jelly fills the skull’s inner cavities.

Ashan takes a step back as the slime surrounding and permeating the skull begins to flail pseudopods once more with full motive ability despite still harboring an unabated outer layer of frost. Ashan flings it outside of his observation perch, back to the ground with the rest of its mass, and takes another look at the scene below him, trying to figure out what he is missing.

More of the slime animals have arrived and more amorphous tendrils like the one that grabbed him earlier are beginning to extrude from the ground. Strangely, the new arrivals that were not present to be hit by the Blizzard spell also carry a layer of frost cold enough to cause the ambient humidity to condense into a thin mist around them. None of the creatures seem to be hindered by the cold any longer. Stranger still, now that Ashan thinks about it, the soil layer here should not be thick enough for a slime or ooze to hide within. But if there are cracks in the limestone beneath the soil leading to the cave below…

Ashan’s eyes skip over one particular point between the trees, and his train of thought is disrupted as everything shifts slightly, from the movements of the slimes below to the positions of the clouds above. He tries to find and focus on that spot again, and once more there’s a skip as if a fraction of a second was lost.

Concerning, but he can confirm what that is once he tests the other hypothesis he was building up to. Ashan picks out the straggler furthest from the growing mass of prey mimics and begins another chant that was once used against him.

Storm's wrath gathering, Glistening blades fall and scourge Earth lies bare, burnt clean.

LIGHTNING!

With the final word Ashan points his wand at his chosen target. The air takes on the scent of ozone. His hair rises from the static. A bolt streaks from the tip of his wand and splatters the slime furthest from the main group, scattering the bones of the hopefully wild pig it had consumed.

As expected, over the course of the next minute, the slime pig pulls itself back together, albeit sans half its bones. More importantly, sparks between arcing between other slimes that he knows he did not hit with that spell. That supports one hypothesis, but best not to rely solely on sight.

Ashan closes his eyes and opens his less physical senses as much as he can. It is no substitute for vision when navigating, but much like smell or touch, that is not its primary purpose, even if it can augment. “Looking” down he confirms that the slimes, while barely disturbing the flow of magic otherwise, have become reservoirs and conduits for the energy comprising the spells he threw at them. Though that reservoir thins in the empty space between the slime animals, “seen” like this it is all one continuous manifestation. A continuous manifestation that, though dulled and made hazy by the intervening stone, extends underground into the cave below where it flows down into a distinct central nexus.

Ashan returns his focus above ground to the point his eyes refused to see and finds what he can only conceptualize as a gaping hole in the fabric of everything. In all his time as a wizard, Bridgewood is the only individual he has ever encountered with such an overdone metaphysical cloak. Watching and waiting from the sidelines, just like he said he would be.

Ashan is about to open his eyes and act on his confirmed suspicions when another set of presences further out in the woods catches his attention. They feel familiarly green to him, with hints of orange, and purple, and gray. Fae, he now knows to classify it as, albeit vastly different in power and temperament from the Count of Curses and Dust. He thinks once upon a time he simply called them friends.

For just a moment, Ashan allows his expression to twitch into a smile. Resolve redoubled, he opens his eyes but continues to stare at nothing. Eyes fixed forward, single-minded and unfocused he holds his wand upright in front of him. His glass gaze stares through the candle flame that ignites above the wand’s tip and pours his will into it, fuel for the fire. The glass lotus descends to the ground, unfurls, and fades, leaving him exposed.

The slime animals… no, the singular slime with multiple remote segments mimicking devoured prey does not approach him. It is too enraptured by that. Through the flame Ashan can feel its simple mind relaxing just as well as he can see the skeletons surrounding him go limp as the slime nodes containing them begin melting down into shapeless blobs.

It is surprisingly hard not to let himself mirror that feeling and sink with it.

But a motionless, enraptured slime with its core hidden away is hardly progress towards capture and relocation, so Ashan calls to mind the more advanced applications of this spell he studied in Whispers of the Sun, and puts them into practice. “The Flame of Yearning” that tome from the sorceress Bridgewood’s very own library called this spell, and it is now that emotion which Ashan feeds to the flame. Yearning for two different homes he cannot return to, one just down the road and the other hardly further yet literally a world away. Yearning for three different parents he did not choose, two he ran from and one he drove away. Yearning for four friendships that have already been extended to him, all of which feel varying degrees of confusing and unearned. Yearning poured into one candle flame that becomes a torch, a beacon.

There is more fuel for this flame than he realized he had. Once they have been dredged up, it is a relief to feel the flame consume them. Not that they are truly gone. The flame is a part of him and it does not extinguish when the spell ends, it returns. The healing flame came from without as a praise to the sun for providing the warmth of life. The flame of yearning hails from another world that saw pyromancy as life’s warmth originating from within, and how can one not yearn to connect in the face of a soul bared?

From without or from within, so long as an anchor world mage can hold both as being true both can be called upon.

The yearning becomes the flame that draws the moth and Ashan shapes the feeling into a desire. A desire to approach, to reveal oneself, source to source and heart to heart.

Frankly, such an application treads dangerously close to the sorcerous taboo of mind alteration for Ashan’s comfort. He tells himself that it is just a nearly-mindless slime that he is influencing. What is more, one might even say that he learned this spell, however indirectly, from the true sorceress Bridgewood herself and now he is casting it with her chosen consort and keeper of her legacy for an audience. The old childhood dream rekindles and then becomes further kindling itself.

It is hard to worry about much with such a pretty fire.

The flame fills his vision and his mind.

He has spent nearly half his life with trained serenity.

Calmness and control intertwined.

It is how he keeps his spellcasting precise and powerful.

It was how he kept from going mad when his own mind became incomprehensible.

Falling into the flame feels like such a natural extension of that.

A polite cough from right behind Ashan snaps him back to full awareness. Awareness of the flame sputtering out. Awareness of a quivering cyan blob towering over him. Awareness of a sphere of bones hovering in the center of the slime that is pulling itself closed over a nucleus that had exposed itself to the now-extinguished flame’s light.

Ashan’s stomach drops at the realization that the ball of bones contains at least one skeleton that is human shaped but far too small even for an infant. While no sign of such remains, Ashan is certain it once sported a pair of gossamer wings. He refuses to wonder if it ever played with children in these woods.

The slime shudders, contacts, and stretches to fall on top of the tantalizing young wizard overflowing with magic before it.

Springing backwards out of the way is hardly a challenge for Ashan. Nor is slamming a hollow cylinder through the center of the slime to extract the core like a post hole digger. Nor is stripping away the shell of bones giving a wall to the nucleus.

Wrapping the slime’s core in a floating sphere and then having that sphere grow a series of inward-facing needles to just barely pierce the core’s outer membrane and send it into a paralyzed state is a somewhat more delicate procedure. But it is a procedure he has carried out before, albeit not on so large, dispersed, or magic-absorbing a specimen. Nonetheless, the rest of the slime’s body loses cohesion, dropping the skeletons that had not yet been absorbed into the central mass unceremoniously to the ground.

Ashan lets himself breathe and shiver in the chill that his magic has brought to the late summer afternoon.

“Well done I say. An expectedly excellent performance.”

Ashan turns around to find Bridgewood approaching him, buttoning his vest back into place, yellow side out once more.

“Thank you,” Ashan says with a nod, “and all due credit to you for the role you deigned to play.”

Bridgewood takes an exaggerated bow. “But of course. What is the star without the stagehand? Or the hero without unseen Fortune plucking the strings? As I said when we first met, the spotlight is not for me.”

“I imagine whatever enchantment you have on that vest makes that easier for you.”

“Not an enchantment, but a color,” Bridgewood tuts. “I can never seem to recall the name, but Carnette called it the color of forgetting.” He pouts. “She never would tell me where she found a tailor capable of working with xenochromatic threads.”

Ashan’s stomach drops with the realization of why the world seemed to lurch every time he caught a glimpse of Bridgewood.

“In the future, please provide warning before exposing your allies to amnestic elements,” he states. “Or better yet, refrain altogether. I have had more than enough of my memory being stolen, even if it is only for a second at a time.”

Had Ashan not been staring him down with a glare, he might have missed the split second of Bridgewood’s mask slipping; of the man in yellow going wide-eyed and stiff as if physically struck. When the lazily elegant posture returns, the smirk maintains its absence.

“I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again,” Bridgewood says. The lack of over-acted affect in his voice is as off-putting as his genuine affection when speaking of his dearly departed wife.

“Good,” Ashan replies, wondering what old wound he just touched upon, but still bothered enough to be curt.

The moment passes, the smirk returns.

“Anywhom,” Bridgewood croons, “you go on ahead and get that thing loaded up for transport –” he gestures at the paralyzed slime core floating next to Ashan “– and I’ll be right along after I clean up the leftovers.” He sweeps an arm to indicate the now-inert piles of goo and bones covering the clearing.

Ashan nods in assent and turns to leave. A scooping motion of his hand brings along a portion of the slime’s cyan body mass in a separate bubble. It should be enough to healthily sustain the core for a time, but not enough for it to cause trouble with in the short term.

The walk back to the armored van feels shorter than the trek from it to the cave, even with maintaining a pair of mobile containment conjurations. Is it that the weight of memory is lighter after having faced the place he left his life behind? Or is it the ease of navigating from a recollection whose age is measured in minutes rather than years? Maybe it is simply the benefit of traveling downhill.

Ashan finds the van unlocked. He opens the rear doors, floats the slime in its two parts into the back, speaks the activation syllables to light up the warding glyphs painted on the inner surfaces of the vehicle, closes the doors, and lets his glass bubbles holding the slime vanish. If the captured creature is making any futile attempts to escape its new confines, the wards are keeping it muted and preventing the van from rocking.

A soft rustle of tree branches draws Ashan’s attention and he turns around, expecting Bridgewood or another threat that they missed. His posture relaxes and his wand slips back up his sleeve at the sight of three tiny figures hiding within the boughs of the nearest tree. A brown-and-white-furred bullfrog with nubbly horns. A twelve-legged weasel draped across the branch like tinsel. A humanoid figure barely taller than his hand bearing a moth’s bark camouflage wings. Beings that Ashan now knows to be Nameless fairies without a court or master. In hindsight, it is a wonder none of them ever took his old Name for their own. Or maybe they tried and failed (or were thwarted) and that was one of the six times his memory of the world Backstage was erased before even Aliana found him.

All the same, Ashan smiles and waves to his onetime playmates. They low and chitter and giggle and disappear back into the woods, safe in the knowledge that the latest monster to threaten this place has been locked away.

He wonders if they remember him. Probably not truly. A sense of familiarity may remain, but with how closely Names, memory, and identity are intertwined it is difficult for the Nameless to hold onto experiences which they are not regularly reminded of.

Ashan tears his gaze away from the direction the fairies fled just in time to catch Bridgewood returning.

“Everything’s secure and ready to go I see. Delightful.” Bridgewood leans a hand on the side of the van and blinks at it several times in rapid succession before turning back to Ashan. “As for my end, thanks to one of Carnette’s gifts, I can assure you there’s no longer a trace of our new delicious friend here to be found.” He pats the side of the van and then pushes himself off with a twirl that set him walking towards the driver seat door. “Let’s be off shall we? We still have a crossover point to examine.”

“Indeed,” Ashan says while returning to the passenger seat. “I presume you have some inkling of which world we will need to attune the crossover to in order to return this slime. It is not from Orthon – not unless something has changed drastically on that side of the crossover – but beyond that I am less certain.”

Two doors open and close.

“Right on both counts,” Bridgewood answers. “Yes I do, and no it isn’t. But…”

Two seatbelts whir, stretch, and click into place.

“We don’t technically have to return it to its homeworld.”

A diminished slime silently surges against the wards, unable to reach the front seats.

“What are you implying?” Ashan asks.

A key slides into an ignition lock and waits to be turned.

“There’s a room in the Manor positively packed with stasis chambers for the sort of delectable specimens Carnette liked to collect for study and preservation. We could let our passenger hang out in the back a little bit longer while we survey the crossover point, skip the trip offworld, bring it home, and toss it into storage. Maybe I’d even give you a tour of some parts of the house you haven’t seen yet.”

“That hardly sounds like what we set out to do.”

“Doesn’t it? What are you implying?” Bridgewood’s tone hovers between bemused and mocking.

“First you stride into the room and begin handing out assignments for the day without consultation and now you propose keeping a creature you said was meant to be relocated. Is this organization truly Road’s or do you pull the strings?”

“I assure you, this is my friend’s venture, through and through and everything I do is to support them. This morning was merely me reporting back with the status of tasks that had been delegated to me. We’ve been together long enough that we’ve long since reached an understanding about leeway and how I do things so long as certain lines aren’t crossed, and the important thing in this case is that we keep the creature from hurting anyone without killing it. Storing it in stasis accomplishes that while saving us the headache of interworld transit and ensuring that it won’t ever wander back across the crossover and cause a mess all over again.”

“And Road is okay with this?”

“My friend trusts me enough to not ask questions. But I’ll leave this one up to you.”

“Why?”

“I’m curious. What will you do with the options on the table and what will you tell my friend afterward?”

The key turns. The engine rumbles to life.

“No need to answer now,” Bridgewood continues. “We’ve got a whole drive back ahead of us for you to take your time contemplating.”

The drive passes back through Ashan’s hometown in silence. For all that Bridgewood must surely know why Ashan pointedly looks away from the window when they reach an intersection that they pass straight through, the expected remark never comes. The exposed nerve remains untouched. In that moment, there is no smirk.

Ashan tells himself he managed not to glimpse the couple taking a walk down their neighborhood street with their young son watching the strange, unmarked black van pass through their tired little town.

He suspects that Sullivan Bridgewood saw them clearly.

*******

“Ashan… If you ever remember this, please know that I’m sorry. For everything.”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost

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rhys-ravenfeather · 1 year

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Introducing Oasis to Oakwood’s second character, Benny :P

As you could probably guess from the name, he’s a retooled version of/based off Bendy from my BATIM AU...albeit older and a LOT less cheery than the pure demon babey, heh. Though I imagine he was a lot more like his original BATIM counterpart when he was younger.

Text for those who can’t read it:

‘I’m...not really sure how to feel about this guy. Okay, so Benny was the first person...or shadow, I guess, to find me after I transformed who DIDN’T freak out and/or try attacking me...at least not for long...but hey! He agreed to help me! So now we’re traveling together--he helps me find a way to get back to normal, I help him find his sister...and hope this moody shadow actually keeps HIS end of the deal. He doesn’t really seem like a fan of humans. Still, he’s pretty strong, so for now I guess I’m better with than without him...’

Bonus versions without text:

Reblogs>Likes

#rhys-art #oasis to oakwood #oto #original character #oto character #tbh benny is one of the characters i had the most trouble with heh...#WAY back when i did an earlier drawing of him where he was part-reptoid or something #i ended up deleting the drawing...albeit not before paying someone for a commission of him heh...^^'#eventually i decided to make him a shadow being; partly to fit with the more 'fantasy' part of oto's science fantasy story #and partly because well hey--him being a shadow is pretty similar to being all inky #also i struggled with his hair for the LONGEST time--i wanted him to have a hairstyle that looked similar to original! bendy's horns #i'm pretty happy with what i ended up with...though i was worried when i was doing this that his human form looked a bit too similar to 1/2 #2/2 himesh from myth city #though i feel he looks JUST different enough here--and i actually DO plan to have the characters change their looks as the story goes on #so i think it's okay #also for the record: i've stated before that i HATE the 'humans are selfish/evil/the REAL monsters!' mindset in fiction AND reality #so don't expect this mindset of his to last :P

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tearlessrain · 2 months

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please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

#I found their original stuff while I was researching various waterhorses and their folklore for no reason #because one of the characters in their original work happens to be an each uisge #and then it turned out it ALSO included a lot of figures from welsh folklore in general #so yknow if you happen to have my incredibly specific hyperfixations you'll love it but even if you don't it's great #I didn't mean to bring up phantom of the opera so much it just happens to be very relevant to a lot of my talking points #I haven't actually seen it in years

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gojoath · 12 days

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ಣ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ ARE YOU STILL WATCHING? OKKOTSU YŪTA

your boyfriend, yūta, doesn’t ever like sharing what’s his. apparently that statement goes for your fictional crushes too.

summary. fem reader. yandere yūta. obsession. manipulation. stalking. yandere themes. aged up characters. jealousy -> over fictional characters. fem oral receiving. yuta gets jealous over your fictional crushes. possessiveness. toxic relationships. wc, 3.2k.

note. another repost (did not realise how much i wrote for this)

yuuta loves your nights spent together. the ones where it’s just the both of you— as it should be, wrapped in each others embrace, pressed into his side for movie marathons and new episodes of your favourite tv show just moments after they’ve aired.

it’s like nights of proof, evidence that he’s all you’ll ever need because he’s never seen you laugh or smile like you do when you’re with him. he hopes you’ll eventually be able to see that this is the happiest you’ll ever be, the type of joy of being with him. wrapped in his love.

it’s a night quite like this one, yuuta gives you a sweet smile as he pushes through the living room door— greeted with your soft figure on the sofa, already flicking through the netflix homescreen and the sofa dips under his weight when he sits beside you.

hes watching you so intently, his still gaze cutting through your features and the feeling urges you to turn to meet him just as you decide on your entertainment for the night with a giddy smile.

“hi, yuu-“ you grin as your boyfriend yuuta presses into you, laughing into the kiss he smears against your lips and he thinks you feel so warm under his touch. his hands are cold against your skin but you don’t run or shy away from it when he squeezes at your waist, your lips moving seamlessly against his until he’s letting his eyes peer towards the tv softly to see what you’ve chosen.

only then does he pull away from you, with a soft frown on his pretty features but his hands still hold you before he’s turning to sigh.

“but baby, i thought it was our night.” the show on the tv isn’t yuuta’s usual choice for your nights alone. he much preferred the romcons or chick-flicks that you normally chose — the ones that gave him the opportunities to inch closer, to squeeze into you during confession scenes or steal a kiss alongside your on-screen idols.

“but yuuta, please— they just released a movie, you know how much i love the series.” you’re looking up at him with a slight glow to your gaze, deliberately tracing your hands across his shoulders — pushing them through his hair like a silent little plea. “and you know who is in it.” you continue, but your words make your boyfriend stiffen this time — something harsher to his gaze because he knows exactly who you mean when you’re biting on your lower lip to hide your smile. his smile, the one that’s reserved for him. it’s supposed to be his.

you know who, being your favourite character from your favourite show. you’ve never openly admitted him to be your on-screen crush but yuuta knows better than anyone that he definitely is. he can always see the way you fidget whenever he’s on screen, doing something heroic and oh so insufferable— he doesn’t see the appeal. he doesn’t know why you do either when you have him by your side. he’s been made deliberately handsome, to play into naive, sweet girls like you’s fantasies but you don’t need someone like that. isn’t he already enough for you?

maybe it’s the thought of being saved by a hero but your boyfriend could do that for you too. he could be your hero — it wouldn’t be hard to draw you into an alleyway with a cursed spirit or maybe two, he’d jump at the opportunity to save you — to reveal himself in all of his glory.

although yuuta promised he would never let anything bad happen to you, it would all be part of his carefully curated plan to have you pliant and scared. you’d never be in any real danger — just enough to be begging for your true hero. you’d cry for him, right? not for anything else?

but despite all of that and because he loves you, he can never say no to you. not when you’re blinking up at him deliberately sweet and starry eyed, tracing shapes into his sensitive skin until the tips of his ears are red and his answer is pushed between the next press of your lips against his. “o-okay, we can watch it.” because he wants, needs to make you happy.

“really? you’re the best!” the smile and praise yuuta’s answer earns from you is so warming and he’s convinced himself it’s because of him, and not because hes letting you watch the movie for your favourite character instead. it’s because you love him, that’s it.

so he lets you kick your feet cutely as you get yourself comfortable beside him, letting him pull you tight into his side like hes staking a claim against the pixels on the tv — like some territorial show of a wild animal claiming it’s mate as his dull gaze focuses on the tv infront of you.

but it doesn’t take long before he’s irritable and fidgeting. two minutes into the opening credits and his eyes are on you because he can almost feel the way you’re beaming at the screen— catching the first glimpse of you know whoand already yuuta wants to kill him. what would it take for him to prove he wasn’t all that you imagine him to be?

would you want to watch your boyfriend tear him apart in the name of love?

but instead of that, he finds another means of bringing you back to him. he lets the cool trace of his fingertips press beneath your shirt as you shudder into him. your eyes are still on the screen but your body leans closer, like an instinct of sorts that feels like it burns him.

another breath and yuuta leans down into you, pressing his lips beneath your ear then across your jawline and he can feel the way your body seems to rise in temperature with every kiss. you’re not pushing him away yet but you’re not looking at him either, so he continues — tracing messy, twisted hearts into your skin between suckled kisses, until his lips are leaving sensitive little marks down your neck and you’re panting against him softly.

“yuuta, the movie.” is all you finally manage but he doesn’t care, couldn’t care because you’re his and he needs to prove it, as silly and twisted as it may seem. he needs to, and you let him.

“sorry, i— i just need you. i cant help it.” theres a strain to yuuta’s voice as he answers you but he feels you shudder when he’s pushing himself onto the floor between your thighs— leaning up to continue his onslaught of kisses before he’s trailing lower gradually, painfully slow until you’re finally looking at him.

he can still hear the effects of the movie in the background but your attention is on him and he feels something burn in his heart at that. that you chose him over everyone else, he knew you’d never abandon or betray him. you really dolove him like you say.

yuuta’s teeth nip at your collarbones before he’s tugging at your shorts to pull them down then your thighs after, letting you lie back more on the sofa as he presses himself beneath them. he pushes them apart to spread you almost too quickly with his next breath as his eyes break from yours only to take you in.

you’re left in only your shirt and panties, so exposed and pretty as they cling to the warmth of your intimate skin and it makes the coiling pleasure in yuuta’s gut tighten delightfully as he admires you.

“yuuta,” your lips part to moan and it makes him shudder before he’s covering it with a sweet smile and his hands are on you.

it happens so fast when you feel yuuta push your panties to the side messily and the first swipe of his finger between your folds is purposeful, but rushed. it’s like he’s desperate to feel you beneath him, warm and wet as he drags the rough pad of his finger beneath the hood of your clit to roll the sensitive bud. you twitch, cutely, grabbing onto the fabric of the sofa cushions beneath you as the press of his touch makes you whimper softly.

“you sound pretty.“ he hums before he’s deliberately pressing down onto your puffy clit harder, hungrily, like he’s trying to force more of those sweet sounds out of you, only for him, as he spreads you even wider. he keeps up the same pace and pressure until you’re wet enough for him to push two fingers inside, almost whining when he’s not met with much resistance.

yuuta’s fingers are long, long enough for you to hiss at the stretch but your walls still squeeze and mould around them so effortlessly as you take him in. it makes something blissful flutter in his tummy when your head rolls back at the pleasure. so he shifts one of your thighs over his shoulder as he keeps you spread, ready and accessible for him while he gazes up at you from under long lashes and leans into press his first soft kiss between your folds.

but what your boyfriend doesn’t expect to see with his next blink is your eyes on the tv, even if only for a moment— it’s a moment you’re not even looking at him despite the way he’s pushing his fingers into your cunt. he wonders if you’re imagining your tv crush to be the one between your thighs right now, pressing into the spots inside of you that make your walls squeeze and quiver. he hates this, he hates him. do you always think about him instead of your boyfriend?

“baby?” you hum like you’re aknowledging the call but your eyes are still on the screen over his shoulder despite the way your ever loving boyfriend is between your thighs. his tongue is on your clit, tracing it in messy circles and all you can give him in return is a soft pant — why arent you looking at him when he’s treating you so well? why are your eyes still on someone else instead.

“baby.” he calls again but it’s accompanied by a deliberately deep press of his fingers into your walls as he pushes himself up, pulling his mouth away from you and deliberately kneeling infront of the tv until you’re forced to meet his dark gaze. but the depth of frost it seems to hold almost makes you shudder beneath it. it’s lacking it’s usual dull glow despite the way his fingers still press hot between your folds.

“do you want me to stop?” yuuta hums, voice soft despite the way he’s looking at you, holding your gaze like he’s asking you to beg for your life instead of the simple, easily answered question that rings true.

“n-no,”

“then why won’t you look at me?” he’s not unaware of the way the drop in his tone makes you squeeze around his fingers, the obedience earns you another languid press of the digits into you — so deep you can feel the cold touch of the promise ring on his ring finger. the one you wear too. you remember the promise you both made, don’t you? “i thought you liked this.”

“i do, yuu.. please, it’s so good.” your voice takes a higher pitch than normal as yuuta pulls his fingers back out of you, almost teasing you with the reminder he could pull away entirely as you give him a teary eyed blink.

“but you’re not looking at me. you’re watching him,” his gaze deepens, lidded and sleepy when he leans closer to you — ghosting his lips against yours until you’re pressing back into the cushions and your lungs squeeze on your next breath. if it wasn’t for the way your pussy was trying so desperately to pull him back in, he’d think you were scared.

“no, no it just distracted me. i love it,” your toes curl from where they’re resting in the air but your answer pleases yuuta enough to draw himself back again before he’s back between your thighs. his gaze remains though, watching you so intently — you wouldn’t look away again, would you? another saccharine press of his fingers into your walls and he scissors them, making you moan before he’s asking his next question.

“what else? what else do you love?” his warm breath rolls over your slick folds, his dark eyes wavering from yours slightly to shine on where his digits sink into you.

“i love you, yuu— just please, keep going,” the love confession is enough for him, for now and your gaze stays true on his own as his head lowers and his tongue curls against your clit before he’s dragging it back up.

yuuta feels sticky at the words still and he groans, angling his fingers inside of you up with twisted purpose, like he’s showing off how well he can work you — play with your body infront of the screen like he’s making your favourite actor watch. “then watch me.” he brushes them against the spongy spot inside of you, his request murmured between your folds until your hands are in his hair to pull him deeper. “please,”

it’s languid, filthy the way he pumps his fingers in and out of your wet heat, complimenting it with kitten licks because he knows exactly how to pull the pleasure out of you, the pleasure he owns. the sound effects from the movie are doing little to cover up the lewd squelching sounds accompanied with his slurps and smacks as his eyes lift to touch yours again.

“he can’t touch you like this, baby” yuuta continues to sink his fingers into you as he speaks, swirling tantalising circles into your clit with his tongue while his fingers drag more slick out, making a sloppy mess between your thighs as he laps it back up. it’s a little cruel the way he doesn’t give into your fantasies but why should he when you’re his, so he buries his face into you with a loud swallow—every noise so much messier and wetter than the last, your hands grab and curl in the dark mess of hair and he hums as he urges you to answer. “it’s only me, remember?”

“y-yes, only you.” you reply like you’re hypnotised, in some sort of hormone-drunken trance but oh he loves you like this. it’s like your pretty little head can’t even thinkabout anything else that isn’t your hopelessly devoted boyfriend with every flick of his tongue and twist of his wrist.

“what are you thinking about, hm?” it’s fucked up the way he wishes he could look into your mind, to tear you apart for your thoughts and secrets — to strip your bare and peer into your soul.

“w-what?” your hips stutter, shake beneath him but yuuta finds it too easy to hold you there — pressing more of his weight onto you as he presses your ass into the cushions, and he takes a deep inhale of your pussy with his next lewd suckle on your clit. he could get high on your scent, on your taste and your being.

“do you think about me?” but still, he continues because he needs to hear you say it. to tell him it’s only him you think about when you’re on the brink of orgasm, when it warms and licks at the base of your spine — when you’re so sickwith pleasure and want is it him that’s on your mind? tell him it’s him.

put him at ease after all hes done for you. after how he loves you.

“mhm,” you stutter as yuuta licks into your pussy with a hunger that’s so uniquely him, and you almost choke on a babbled cry of his name as you tremble. you feel him flatten his tongue against your sensitive bud before he’s sucking it gently between his lips and pulling away with an exaggerated pop that has butterflies pooling in your stomach. he’s trained you so well, mindlessly coaxing you into feeding into his obsession because you know it’ll earn you a sweet reward.

“do you want me to save you?” your pussy throbs around his digits and he breathes a warm sigh across your skin, your eyes clenching tight as your thighs quiver against the width of his shoulders and your head drops back as his dark gaze cuts up into you. you feel him drag his tongue in slow, thorough swirls over your clit as your hips rock side to side. “p-please, baby. tell me,”

“y-yes, ‘m gonna cum— save me,” you tell him and your mind feels like it filled with cotton— thick with pleasure but yuuta smile’s against your folds as he works you with practiced precision. he’s watching your hips twist under his touch and feeding on your reactions, devouring you entirely with every lav of his tongue as he breathes into you.

it only takes a few more twists over your puffy clit, accompanied by the deep graze of his fingertips against the sensitive spots inside of you until you’re cumming, so hard and good it almost makes you see white completely as your toes curl and ache. your thighs squeeze around his cheeks and it’s eager the way he buries himself even deeper into you, slurping greedily at the cream his fingers urge to push out of you and he moans at the feeling of you making a mess of his mouth and cheeks.

every whimpered whine against your folds makes you feel even better — prolonging your blissful state and yuuta fucking loves it, so he doesn’t stop until he’s full. not until you’re stuttering out his name and pushing at his head with the overstimulation that makes you burn with every drawn out flick of his tongue. his fingers ease away from the tight, saccharine squeeze of your walls.

you’re adorable as you come down from your high, all dazed and drowsy and your boyfriend admires you as he lets his cheek rest on your still quivering thigh, gazing up at you despite how heavy his cock feels against his sweats right now. your hands are in his hair still but they’ve stopped pulling at his roots, instead you’re busying yourself with brushing the dark hair back from his features as he gives you an adoring blink.

you smile, albeit a little sleepy but it warms yuuta completely at how much love he swears it holds, “yuuta, now we have to restart the movie,” you’re pouting now but you’re pretty, so pretty it earns you a kind smile from your boyfriend despite your want to still watch that same movie he just did his best to pull you away from.

“but, baby, i don’t feel like watching anymore.” his words are soft, accompanied by his fingertips trailing up the inside of your thigh to squeeze and you’re still so sensitive the touch makes you shudder. his next touch is a little higher, just short of your folds as he tests the waters and despite the lingering remnants of your orgasm— you don’t push him away, even when his finger is swiping through the sensitive petals of your pussy once more.

he really didn’t have anything to worry about, did he? you really do love him. the realisation makes him smile again before he’s twisting gently to bite at the inside of thigh— suckling at the skin to leave a mark until you jolt at the sting.

“i found something else to do that’s better for both of us. it’s our night, right? so come, give me all of you.”

#cw yandere #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #okkotsu yuta smut #okkotsu yuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta smut #okkotsu yuuta x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #okkotsu yuta x you #yuuta smut #jjk x you #yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta x you #yuuta x you

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neil-gaiman · 1 year

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Hello Neil,

I have finally joined the masses in adding to the large amount of asks that you must have in your inbox. Hopefully your day is treating you well! I come to ask a question that I've been turning over in my mind a lot lately- I am an English major and plan on pursuing Journalism as a full time job. That is neither here nor there, but I've found myself in an odd space with writing recently. See I have never written anything that was not non-fiction in my 23 years of life. Be it either personal narratives or reporting, I've never made anything up. But as of late I have been taken up with Fantasy books, and have begun to adore how they communicate real life problems through the lens of the magical, and find myself thinking, "I wonder if I could do that" Do you think someone that never considered themselves a "writer" or "story teller" growing up, can become one? I find myself trying to write little stories to myself and they just end up feeling like gibberish... I don't know if I'm cut out for the style of writing and I fear its because I've started so late in my writing adventure. Can reporters write fiction? Thanks for all you do and writing stories I can find myself in < 3

If you were in your 90s and you were worried about this I would agree that perhaps it was a little on the late side. But 23? You won't even have even finished growing a brain until your late 20s.

It's another skill to learn and a fun one at that. Enjoy!

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lila-lou · 2 months

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✨Youth✨

Summary: After another argument with his wife, Jensen ends up alone in a bar. When he meets you, he is quickly drawn by your carefree youth.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, dirty talk, rough sex, language, age gap, cheating

Word Count: 4597

A/N: No hate towards anybody. It's just fiction.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

It was some Thursday evening when Jensen was sitting alone in a bar in the middle of Austin.

He sat at the counter, nursing a drink, his mind consumed by yet another argument with his wife. For over four interminable years, the thought of divorce had lingered like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness, but the specter of his children and the looming threat of financial ruin held him captive in a loveless marriage.

Lost in his thoughts, he was jolted awake by the approach of a young woman, her youthful allure a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within him. She flashed him a dazzling smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she slid onto the stool beside him.

"Rough night?", she asked, her voice sweet as sugar.

Jensen couldn't help but return her smile, captivated by her radiant presence. "You could say that", he replied, his voice tinged with wistfulness.

Undeterred, the woman leaned in closer, her laughter like a melody in the air. "Well, how about we make it a little less rough?", she suggested, her words laced with a tantalizing promise.

As they bantered back and forth, Jensen found himself drawn to her effortless charm, the weight of his burdens momentarily forgotten in her company. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of a life unencumbered by responsibility.

As the night wore on, they laughed and flirted, sharing stories and secrets as if they had known each other for a lifetime. And in that fleeting moment of connection, Jensen felt a glimmer of hope stirring within him, a whisper of possibility amidst the chaos of his crumbling marriage.

As the bar began to empty, Jensen reluctantly prepared to bid farewell to the captivating young woman who had momentarily lifted his spirits. With a heavy heart, he watched as she gathered her belongings, preparing to leave.

"Leaving already?", he asked, his voice tinged with regret.

The woman flashed him a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "I'm afraid so", she replied, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

But before she could slip away, Jensen reached out, his hand gently clasping her arm. "Wait", he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Surprised, the woman turned back to him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Everything okay?", she asked, concern coloring her words.

Jensen hesitated, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. "Do you have any plans for the rest of the night?", he asked, his voice tentative.

The woman regarded him for a moment, uncertainty clouding her features. "Not particularly", she admitted. "Why do you ask?".

"How about we grab another drink? Somewhere a little quieter?", he suggested, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes.

The woman studied him for a moment, her gaze searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But finding none, she returned his smile.

"Sure", she said, her voice filled with newfound enthusiasm. "Lead the way".

With a renewed sense of purpose, Jensen rose from his seat, a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. And as they stepped out into the cool night air, he allowed himself to forget everything except the girl next to him.

Side by side, they walked through the deserted streets, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the silence.

"So, tell me about yourself", Jensen began, his voice tentative yet eager.

You glanced at him, a playful smile dancing on your lips. "What do you want to know?", you asked, your tone teasing.

Jensen hesitated, unsure of where to begin. But then, emboldened by the anonymity of the night, he decided to take a leap of faith.

"I want to know about the real you", he said, his voice low and earnest. "The parts you don't usually share with strangers".

You regarded him for a moment, your gaze softening with understanding. "Alright", you said. "But fair warning, you asked for it".

As you walked, your conversation drifted effortlessly towards more intimate topics, your words a tapestry of shared confessions and unspoken desires. With each passing moment, Jensen felt himself opening up in ways he never thought possible, the barriers he had erected around his heart slowly crumbling in the presence of you.

And then, your conversation took an even more intimate turn, the topic of your own miserable sex lives hanging heavy in the air like a forbidden fruit waiting to be plucked.

Jensen couldn't shake the feeling of nostalgia that washed over. Your youthful exuberance and carefree spirit reminded him of a time long gone, a time when the world was filled with endless possibilities and the future stretched out before him like an open road.

"You know", he began, his voice tinged with a hint of longing, "I used to have a lot more fun before I got married".

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Tell me more", you teased.

Jensen chuckled, the memories flooding back with startling clarity. "Back then, I didn't have a care in the world. It was all about living in the moment, seizing every opportunity that came my way", he explained, a smile playing on his lips.

"And the sex", he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fuck, the sex was wild. No rules, no boundaries, just pure, unadulterated passion".

"Sounds like you had quite a few adventurous years", you remarked, a hint of admiration in your voice.

Jensen nodded, a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. "I did", he admitted. "But then life happened, and before I knew it, I was knee-deep in responsibilities and obligations".

As you walked on, Jensen couldn't help but admire your youthful beauty. In your presence, he felt a sense of longing stir within him, a yearning for the carefree days of his youth when the world was his for the taking.

Jensen's voice, low and tinged with longing, broke the silence. "You know", he began, his words carrying a weight of confession, "I miss the thrill of a more adventurous sex life. The… rough stuff".

Your eyes sparkled as you turned to him, a playful smile dancing on your lips. "Oh, I know exactly what you mean", you replied. "But do tell me more".

Jensen took a deep breath, emboldened by your encouragement. "I miss the excitement, the unpredictability", he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "And the way younger girls bring a certain... something unused to the experience".

"I just want a man who knows how to take charge", you confessed.

You continued and told Jensen what you liked in bed and how no one had really managed to do it for you before

Jensen found himself growing increasingly aroused by your confession, his thoughts consumed by fantasies of fulfilling your deepest desires. Feeling a stirring of nervous excitement, Jensen’s heart raced as he struggled to contain the torrent of desire that threatened to consume him. Yet, emboldened by your candidness, he couldn’t resist the urge to flirt back, his words dripping with innuendo and suggestion.

“You have no idea what your words do to me”, he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

His words, laden with longing and need, sent a shiver of excitement coursing down your spine.

A nervous giggle escaped your lips as you met his gaze, your own desire mirrored in the depths of his eyes. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea", you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to hear you say it".

Jensen's breath hitched at your response, his heart pounding in his chest. "I want you", he confessed, his voice raw with need. "I want to fuck you so good until you beg me to stop”.

Your pulse quickened at his declaration, your body thrumming with anticipation as you felt the heat of his gaze upon you.

Feeling a surge of excitement, you took Jensen's hand in yours, your touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins. You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "Follow me".

Jensen's heart raced at your command, his desire for you reaching a fever pitch as he eagerly complied. With a sense of urgency, you set off through the streets, as you made your way towards your apartment.

And as you finally reached your building, the air hummed with the promise of what was to come.

With a sense of urgency, you led Jensen inside, your movements confident and sure.

With a seductive smile, you shrugged off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a silent invitation. Your movements were fluid and graceful, each sway of your hips sending a surge of desire coursing through Jensen's veins.

As you moved towards the kitchen, you cast a playful glance over your shoulder, catching Jensen's eye with a knowing smirk. Without a word, you reached into the fridge, retrieving two ice-cold beers and popping the caps off with a deft twist of your wrist.

Jensen couldn't tear his gaze away as you bent down to grab the beers, the curve of your ass accentuated by the tight fabric of your dress. His pulse quickened at the sight.

With a saucy grin, you straightened up, holding out one of the beers to Jensen with a playful wink. "Thirsty?", you purred.

Jensen nodded, his mouth suddenly dry as he accepted the beer from your outstretched hand. "You have no fucking idea", he replied, his voice husky with desire.

Your fingers brushed for a fleeting moment, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through you both. You settled onto the couch, your bodies inches apart.

Jensen´s heart raced with anticipation as he shifted closer, his body instinctively drawn to yours like a moth to a flame.

Feeling your presence beside him, Jensen's senses heightened, every movement and gesture amplified by the intoxicating allure of your proximity. He licked his lips nervously, his gaze flickering to your face as he struggled to contain the desire that burned within him.

Meanwhile, you sat nearby, your gaze fixed on Jensen with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Your face rested in your hand, your arm casually draped over the back of the sofa as you observed the unfolding scene with keen interest.

Jensen's breathing grew heavy as he felt your eyes on him. With a shaky breath, he turned his face towards you, his lips parting in a silent question.

"What do you think about?", he asked, his voice husky.

Your lips curved into a knowing smile as you met his gaze. “I think", you replied, your voice low and sultry, "that you're thinking about the same thing I am".

Jensen's pulse quickened at your words. With a hungry look in his eyes, he leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered, "And what might that be?".

Your smile widened into a playful grin as you also leaned in closer, your lips tantalizingly close to his ear. "I think", you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "that we're both thinking about how good it's going to feel when you finally bury yourself deep inside me ".

With a primal growl of need, Jensen closed the distance between the two of you, his lips crashing against yours in a passionate kiss.

Your mouths moved together in a heated dance of tongues and lips. Jensen's hands roamed eagerly over your body, tracing every curve.

Feeling you respond to his touch, Jensen's desire intensified, his need for you becoming a relentless ache deep within his core. With a bold move, he pulled you onto his lap, the heat of your body pressing against his.

As you continued to kiss, Jensen's arousal surged, his erection straining against the confines of his now uncomfortably tight jeans. The ache between his legs only served to fuel his desire, his need for release.

With a low groan of frustration, Jensen shifted uncomfortably, the pressure of his arousal pressing insistently against your body. He could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your clothing, each touch sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through him.

But even as his desire threatened to consume him, Jensen couldn't tear himself away from your lips. With each kiss, each caress, he felt himself falling deeper under your spell, lost in a whirlwind of passion and longing that left him dizzy with need.

As you pressed yourself tighter against Jensen's throbbing arousal, a low growl of desire escaped his lips.

With a husky voice, Jensen whispered into your ear, his words dripping with desire. "You feel so good against me", he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "I can't wait to make you feel even better".

Your breath hitched at his words, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine. You leaned back, exposing your neck to him. Unable to resist the temptation, Jensen trailed kisses along the curve of your neck, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He savored the taste of your skin, the sweetness driving him crazy.

As he kissed your neck, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer with a sense of urgency. Your nails grazed lightly against his scalp.

As Jensen's hands moved to pull off your clothes, a surge of primal desire consumed him. With each garment removed, he admired the youthful beauty of your body, his gaze lingering on your curves with a hunger that bordered on obsession.

"You're so beautiful", he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "I could spend hours touching every inch of you".

Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as you met his gaze, your eyes smoldering with desire. "I want you", you confessed, your voice breathless with need. "I need you".

With a hungry look in his eyes, Jensen continued to admire your naked form, his hands tracing the contours of your skin

"Fuck, you're perfect", he breathed, his voice husky with longing.

As Jensen's lips trailed down your neck, a soft moan escaped your lips, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body. With each kiss, each suck, you felt yourself growing more and more aroused.

"Oh, Jensen", you gasped, your voice thick with desire. "That feels so good"-

Encouraged by your response, Jensen continued his ministrations, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of your exposed skin. The softness of your flesh driving him wild with desire.

As he reached your breasts, Jensen's mouth watered at the sight of them, their perfect shape and form calling out to him like a siren's song. With a sense of reverence, he took one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling gently as he teased it with his tongue.

Your breath hitched at the sensation, your hands tangling in Jensen's hair as you arched your back, offering yourself up to him completely.

"Jensen", you moaned, your voice a breathless plea.

Without a word, Jensen scooped you up into his arms, carrying you towards your bedroom with a sense of urgency. He stumbled through the darkness, your bodies pressed together in a frantic embrace.

Finally, you reached your bedroom.

You knelt down before Jensen. With shaky fingers, you reached for his belt, your movements slow and uncertain as you struggled to control yourself.

Jensen watched you with a mixture of amusement and desire, his ego swelling with satisfaction at the sight of your submission.

With a deep breath, you continued to undress him. As you pulled down his jeans to reveal the full extent of his arousal, your breath caught in your throat at the sight, your eyes widening.

"Come on, sweetheart", he murmured. "I know you can handle it."

Your heart raced at his words, a shiver of fear running down your spine as you gazed up at him. His size intimidated you, but a part of you craved the challenge, the thrill of pushing your limits and surrendering yourself completely to him.

Jensen smirked at your reaction.

With a newfound determination, you reached out to touch him, your fingers still trembling as you wrapped them around his throbbing length.

His size was more than you were accustomed to, and you struggled to take him fully into your mouth. With each attempt, you bobbed your back and forth, your lips stretched tight around him as you tried to accommodate his girth.

Jensen groaned in pleasure as he felt your warm mouth enveloping him, your efforts to please him driving him wild with desire. He watched with a mixture of arousal and amusement as you struggled with his size, your determination to please him evident in every movement.

"That's it, baby", he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Take as much as you can".

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment at your inability to fully satisfy him, but you refused to give up. You redoubled your efforts, your tongue swirling around him as you tried to find a rhythm that worked for both of you.

Jensen's pleasure intensified as he felt your efforts, your dedication to pleasing him.

As Jensen's desire reached a crescendo, he felt a surge of primal instinct take hold. With a commanding grip, he gently guided your head, urging you to take him deeper into your mouth.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt Jensen's firm hand guiding your movements. Despite your initial apprehension, you surrendered to his touch, allowing him to take control as you continued to pleasure him.

Jensen groaned in pleasure as he felt your lips tighten around him, your mouth stretching. With each thrust, he felt himself growing closer to the edge.

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you struggled to keep up with Jensen's pace. Your throat constricted around him as you fought to take him in, the sensation both overwhelming and exhilarating.

With a gasp for air, you pushed against his thighs, desperately trying to free yourself from his grasp.

Sensing your distress, Jensen quickly stepped out of his jeans, releasing you from his hold. With a swift motion, he pushed you roughly onto the bed, his movements fueled by a desire to claim you completely.

You lay beneath him, your chest heaving with exertion as you tried to catch your breath. Your eyes widened in anticipation as Jensen spread your legs apart, his gaze fixated on your glistening folds with hunger.

Jensen's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him, the sight of your young and glistening pussy filling him with an overwhelming sense of desire. "You're so beautiful", he murmured, his voice husky with lust. "So perfect".

Your cheeks flushed with arousal at his words, your body quivering with anticipation as you awaited his touch. Jensen leaned in close, his lips grazing against your inner thigh as he teased you with his proximity.

As Jensen's lips met your delicate skin, a shudder of pleasure ran through your body, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. With each gentle kiss, each teasing caress, you felt yourself melting under his touch, your arousal building with every passing second.

Jensen's tongue traced a path along your inner thigh, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your veins. You arched your back, your breath hitching in your throat as you yearned for his touch, your body trembling with desire.

Jensen closed the distance between you, his lips finding your glistening folds. He savored the taste of you, the sweetness of your arousal.

Your moans filled the air as Jensen's skilled tongue danced across your sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves. You clung to the sheets beneath you, your fingers digging into the fabric as you surrendered yourself completely to the ecstasy of the moment.

With each flick of his tongue, each suck, Jensen brought you closer and closer to the edge, his expert ministrations pushing you to the brink of ecstasy. And as you teetered on the edge of oblivion, you gave yourself over to the pleasure completely, your body trembling with the force of your release.

But before you could catch your breath, Jensen was upon you, his desire for you burning like a wildfire. He positioned himself between your trembling thighs, his throbbing length poised at the entrance to your tight, quivering heat.

Your eyes widened in anticipation as you felt Jensen's hardness pressing against you, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You were so tight, so achingly perfect, that Jensen found himself completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

With a primal growl of need, Jensen pushed himself inside you, his cock sinking into your depths with a force that took both of you by surprise. You gasped in pleasure as you felt him fill you completely, your body stretching to accommodate his size.

Jensen's breath came in ragged gasps as he began to move, his hips rocking rhythmically against yours as he plunged deeper and deeper into your warmth. With each thrust, he felt himself growing more and more lost in the heat of their passion.

As Jensen surrendered to the intoxicating pleasure of your union, he couldn't help but marvel at the tightness of your young body.

"You're so tight, baby", he groaned, his voice thick with lust as he buried himself deeper inside you. "So fucking tight".

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, a shiver of pleasure coursing through you as you felt him filling.

“Bet you wish your wife was as tight as me, huh?”, you teased, moaning.

"You think you're tighter?", he growled, his voice low and husky with desire. "Let me show you how tight you can be".

With a hungry gleam in his eyes, Jensen's thrusts grew more forceful, his need for you pushing him to new heights.

"Is that all you've got?", you taunted, your voice laced with desire as you egged him on. "I thought you were supposed to be a real man".

Jensen's grip tightened around your throat, his dominance asserting itself as he pressed you into the mattress with a primal force. "You have no idea what a real man can do", he growled, his voice rough with desire.

You gasped as Jensen's fingers dug into your skin, the mixture of pleasure and pain driving you wild with need. "Show me", you whispered.

You moaned loudly as the intensity of Jensen's thrusts grew, the force of his movements bruising your delicate flesh and causing you to wince in discomfort. But even as you struggled to catch your breath, your desire for him burned hotter than ever.

Feeling your resistance waning, Jensen's grip tightened around your throat even more, with a force that left you seeing stars. The sensation of his hands around your neck sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, the line between pain and pleasure blurring into a haze of desire.

Your body trembling with the force of your arousal. With each thrust, each choked gasp for air, you felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion.

"You're such a slut for me, aren't you?", he growled, his voice thick with lust as he pounded into you relentlessly. "You love it when I treat you rough, don't you?".

Your breath hitched at his words, a flush of arousal spreading across your skin. Despite the growing ache in your body, you couldn't deny the electric thrill of the intensity.

"Yes", you gasped, your voice barely a whisper.

Emboldened by your response, Jensen's movements grew even more aggressive, his hands gripping your hips with a force that left bruises in their wake.

With a rough shove, Jensen you onto your stomach, his desire to dominate you overpowering any concerns for your comfort. As he pushed into you from behind with even more force, you cried out in ecstasy, your body quivering with pleasure.

"You're just a little whore, aren't you?", he snarled, his voice low as he pounded into you relentlessly. "You love it when I use you like this, don't you?".

"Yes", you moaned.

Jensen´s hand coming down in a sharp slap against your exposed flesh.

You gasped as the sting of his hand sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, your skin tingling with the sensation. Despite the pain, you found yourself craving more, your desire for him overwhelming any concerns for your own comfort.

"Such a naughty little slut", Jensen growled.

“I want more", you gasped.

Jensen continued to deliver sharp slaps to your ass, each one sending you closer to the brink of ecstasy.

As your orgasm washed over you in a tidal wave of pleasure, your body clenched around Jensen with a newfound intensity, driving him to the brink of madness. Every muscle in your body tensed with the force of your release, your inner walls pulsating rhythmically around him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you.

Jensen groaned as he felt your tightness envelop him completely, the sensation driving him wild with desire. With each pulsating throb of your inner muscles, he felt himself growing closer and closer to the edge, his need for release becoming almost unbearable.

But even as he teetered on the brink of ecstasy, Jensen refused to let himself succumb to the overwhelming pleasure. With a low growl, he continued to pound into you with force.

"You like that, huh?", he growled. "You like feeling me deep inside you, filling you up?".

"Yes", you gasped again. "I want you to fuck me harder. I want to feel you deep inside me".

His grip on your hips tightening with each rough thrust

As your passion reached its peak, Jensen and you surrendered yourselves completely to the fiery intensity of your desire. With one final, primal thrust, Jensen buried himself deep inside you, his body trembling with the force of his release.

You cried out in ecstasy as you felt him pulsating within you, another climax crashing over you in a tidal wave of pleasure.

With a guttural moan of satisfaction, Jensen collapsed against you, your bodies entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat.

You couldn't help but grin as you watched Jensen catch his breath, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. With a playful glint in your eyes, you reached out to trace a finger along the contours of his face.

After a while, Jensen rose from the bed and began to dress, a sense of bittersweet reality settled over the room.

You watched him with a mixture of longing and resignation, your heart heavy. As he buttoned up his shirt, Jensen turned to face you, a hesitant expression on his face.

"Can I... can I get your number?", he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. You paused for a moment, your gaze meeting his with a mixture of sadness and resolve.

"I'm sorry", you replied gently. "But that was my last one-night stand. I'm looking for something more serious now".

Jensen's heart sank at your words, a pang of regret coursing through him. "But", you continued, your voice tinged with warmth, "if you ever decide to truly make a change and get a divorce, hit me up”.

With a nod, Jensen absorbed your words, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. He gathered his belongings, a sense of longing tugging at his heart as he made his way to the door.

As he stepped out into the night, the cool air washing over him, Jensen couldn't shake the feeling of hope that stirred within him. Perhaps one day, when he was truly ready to make a change, he would find his way back to you.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

#jensen ackles #smut #rough kink #teasing #jensen x y/n #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x reader #jackles #dirty talk #soldier boy #dean winchester

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weirdworldofwinnie · 8 months

Text

Oasis in a Desperate Land of Dark Desire - Part One: Arrival

Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Wife Reader, NSFW 18+ only

Summary: You are married to the man in charge of the Manhattan Project himself, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, and it's your first day (and night) at Los Alamos where tension and unspoken worry is getting high, but he finds time to show you how love can be an oasis in what seems like a rather barren land.

Word Count: ~7, 213

Warnings: Age gap (reader is mid-20s and he is almost 40, and they have been married for a couple years), period stereotypical gender roles (maybe sexism?), unprotected + oral sex, mention of miscarriage, and strong hints at infidelity

Disclaimer: Obviously NOT completely historically or scientifically accurate to real life and is inspired by the film with Cillian Murphy's portrayal of Oppenheimer. There are definitely mentions of Katherine and Jean Tatlock as lovers in this, but he does not have any children with Kitty and is not physically with either of them presently. I also want to clarify that this (while researched) is still just my interpretation with AU elements added in, and it isn't supposed to be in total support and reflection of the real man's life/personality. Scroll away and DNI if you are uncomfortable or take issue with this story; it is primarily for entertainment purposes only and it is just fantasy/fiction!

April 1943

The ride en route to the secluded destination christened as "Los Alamos" was long, hot, and bumpy through the New Mexico desert on a single primitive dirt road with the sun beating down on the windshield, glaring into your eyes and reflecting off the expensive dainty golden watch wrapped around your wrist that had been last year's anniversary present, and the jostling motion of the car made your breasts jiggle up and down slightly, reminding you that you'd been in such a hurry to leave with Robert this morning you'd regrettably forgone putting on a bra. He glanced over to you now, his porkpie hat shadowing the serious and contemplative expression that he had been wearing as a regular look for weeks now... Finally this plan was coming to fruition, but at what cost? It was the government's money and the scientists who were on the line. Robert let you know more details than most out of his non-physics inner circle because he trusted you to keep your lips sealed, but he never gave specifics about what exactly the coined Manhattan Project, or Project Y, was for in terms of a mission yet because it was national security level secret, however it didn't take a genius to figure out it was incredibly important and the development of something dangerous... Too dangerous to keep in a campus laboratory at Berkeley.

As the car approached the main gate and passed by the checkpoint, you realized just now fairly remote this barbed-wire location was and it made a small sinkhole crater in your stomach. But Robert knew this land from his youth and you partly did too, for he owned ranchland here and you both had spent many hours in the last couple years roaming on horseback and on foot into the twilight hours of the day, feeling the chill of the evening breeze and the rustle of shrubbery as the sun dipped down below the horizon and plum light bathed the landscape, bouncing off the backdrop of mountains and reaching deep into the canyons. You recalled fondly one time in particular during the early stages of being courted by him... It was technically only the second date and he had mistakenly trusted you with a horse, even though you were hardly an experienced rider, and of course it had gone ballistic and attempted to buck you off as you held on for dear life to the stiff dark brown leather saddle.

"Woah... Woah! Easy, easy," Robert had called out, grabbing a hold of the bridle and patting the stallion on the neck as you gasped and he kicked his hooves, thrashing the dirt and missing Robert's cowboy boots by inches.

"This one can be a bit rowdy, sometimes the wild never quite gets bred out, and he's not used to you," he explained simply over your panicked cries as he kept patting and verbally calming the animal down.

"But what did I do wrong? I swear, he dislikes me tremendously!" you exclaimed in shock and Robert only shook his head.

"Then he has very poor taste in women if he rejects you," he had joked and you went sliding off the horse's back to where Robert caught you, easing you to the ground gently.

"Are you alright?" he asked, eyes alight with a mischievous concern, but you merely brushed your pants off and smoothed your blouse, shaking the experience off.

"Of course I am. Now are we riding or not?"

He smiled at your confidence, but had hoisted you up onto his horse instead, straddling you from behind so you were facing front and clutching onto the reins. His arms loped around your waist and the horse began to trot, bouncing both you and him in a steady up and down motion, and you flicked the reins, causing the horse to take off into the expansive landscape and Robert let out a joyous whoop as the pace transitioned into a gregarious cantering gallop and the wind whipped your hair around like a battered Old Glory flag in a storm.

"This is too fast!" you had yelled out, but he only laughed, tightening his hold into a squeeze around you and spoke into your ear with a low murmur which instinctively made the goosebumps flare up on your neck.

"I wouldn't let you go even if that horse went mad and flew us off the ground over into a ravine to our deaths."

A little more than six months later after that frivolous adventure, he had dropped to his knee in that very desert and proposed to you, a diamond engagement ring encased in a black box in his palms and you were startled, taken aback at the promptness and faintly aware he was actively seeing at least one other woman at the time, but he had claimed he called it off with her a week ago.

You had cautiously accepted, knowing he was far from a wholesome man, but he was certainly one in a billion and you had unapologetically been with him ever since, even though some friends and extended relatives had openly judged, thinking you were only climbing up a social status ladder by doing so, and a couple of your more left-leaning girlfriends thought you were foolish to already settle for a man at your young age, but you truly loved him. Romance was rather odd; so rushed it could be and yet you felt comfortable around him as if you had known each other for life; soulmates, perhaps, if there ever was such a notion.

The wedding ceremony had been lavish enough to make you feel special, but it had been a more low-key event with only a small group of the closest friends and family in attendance, for he did not want much pomp and circumstance and you had spent the honeymoon at his secluded New Mexico ranch property, bizarrely a sort of prelude to where you both were ending up now. The phone hadn't stopped ringing for the past few weeks and since this work was taking up presidency, it was truth to be told that you hadn't really had time for each other and had been distant these past couple months as he diverted all his focus and intellect to the government and you hoped that after all this preparation, everything would settle somewhat now that he was at the ground level site. You felt trepidation but also excitement because this venture felt relevant and Robert was in his element with the company of like minded individuals all working towards a common goal. His vocation in teaching what he already knew of upper level physics had been boring him lately and he had told you multiple times he was haunted by the pressing need to be essential to the war effort outside of the confines of a classroom; he and his students had to make a real impact and change to the world, to this damned war. And if Robert wasn't the most ambitious, motivated, self-driven intelligent human being you'd ever met, then you'd be stumped to know who was right for the job; he could be dangerously dogged and was as loyal to this country as roots were to their corresponding corn stalks.

And now, starting today, he was the one man scientific director, a ruler really, of this militarized oasis in the middle of, well, nowhere.

Fractions of the place were still in progress, as evident by the trucks and the hammering with the occasional man lumbering past hauling construction boards on his shoulders. The Oppenheimers were still early in arrival, but everyone else on the project was supposed to be settled in by the end of the week. The house you and your husband were to live at was much better off than the cookie-cutter houses hastily put up suburban style along the man-made streets and it was tucked furthest away from the epicenter of town; a large spacious log and stone cabin (that had been formerly a boys' school) ranch style home surrounded by pine trees and shrubs along with a decent yard with that seemed ripe for cultivating a garden, and yet the home was modest and not overly luxurious; this was no vacation.

"The kitchen isn't finished?" you asked in surprise at once upon entry inside and Robert sighed, knowing you how much you had a penchant for cooking and he also knew that hosting gatherings here was going to be essential.

"I'll make sure they get it complete by the end of the week," he assured, resting a hand on the small of your back as you dropped down the luggage on the floor.

"Well, it is rather nice otherwise," you admitted, turning to him and smiling, but he couldn't quite return the gesture.

"Robert, what's the matter?" You reached to cup his cheek and he leaned into your touch before lifting up his own hand and placing it atop the one plastered to his face.

"I'm frankly worried how this is all going to work, how soon we can accomplish what we need to do. The death toll in Germany grows by the day, it may already be too late and..."

You placed a hand to his lips, shushing him with sadness.

"Please, shh, I'll have none of that talk when we just arrived in our new house. We are here now and that is the most important first step that matters towards any kind of accomplishment to your saving the world from this hellish war."

"I need to go do some oversight on the operations in town and at the laboratory," he announced abruptly, stepping back from your touch and picking up his briefcase as you nodded, moving with him to the front door.

"I'll see you tonight then. I think I'll make deviled chicken with a creamy coleslaw."

"I'm sure it will be delicious." He gave a tight smile and it was a somewhat ironic statement coming from the man who ate less than a thousand calories a day. That was one frustrating aspect about him that you had discovered when you had moved in with him back in California and realized he never had regular meals, and lately drinks and cigarettes were his main fuel. You hoped one of these days your passion for food would finally rub off on his aversion, but it probably wouldn't happen here with the increased supply rationing.

He disappeared out the door with his hat and you stood for awhile, taking in this new environment inside the main part of the house with its interesting architecture of high beamed ceilings and picture windows that allowed ample amounts of natural light at almost all hours. You spent most of the day unpacking and organizing, briefly going out to greet and visit with the other wives of top scientists, some you already knew, but others you had not met until today and you noticed that one of those you weren't familiar with was visibly pregnant... She was even younger than you and seeing her led you to wonder how quickly this little manufactured desert town was going to see a population boom in the next few years. Robert had brought up the concept of having children with you on more than one occasion, since you had already gone through one miscarriage (only in your first trimester and you never knew the sex of it, the doctor told you it could have been worse if you had carried to full term and lost the infant at birth, but it was still a gutting loss... Although you knew Robert was privately relieved, especially now since his work would likely leave no room in his heart to father an innocent, demanding child and all the burden would go to you alone) and there was the fact of possible infertility. The hardship of procreation probably ran in the family... Your mother had also miscarried, then had your premature brother who caught polio at two years old and perished weeks later, and then she herself had died during your own childbirth, leaving your father devastated and alone to care for you. You had a complicated, strained relationship early on with him and you wondered perhaps Freud was loosely right about the Oedipus complex since you always had such strong attractions to older men... but at least your father always tried to give you the best possible life he had with his wealth, which led you to moving out from your childhood home in New York across the country to pursue attending college in California in the field of psychology and medicine. You had been in the process of getting a degree in nursing, at least until Robert altered your life by his own ambitions and you had been forced to drop your studies temporarily to move out here with him, but you planned to be studying some by correspondence if the government allowed and also to be able to help out in the small hospital on site for an occupation.

To trim the excess fat off a long story short, it had been a bizarre fluke that you met and promptly fell in love with Robert... you were introduced on campus by friends who also knew Jean Tatlock, a budding psychiatrist and proudly Communist, and he had happened to take a bright shine to you. You considered him unattainable at first, a very well respected brilliant physics teacher with more life experience than you could have dreamed of... He was otherworldly at times, yet found grounding earth in your presence, but it would mystify you what exactly he found so desirable in you. You were as lovely as any other woman your age and smart, but you never thought of yourself as outstandingly intelligent when compared to the people he taught in academia, and not absolutely drop dead gorgeous in terms of prize worthy beauty. Perhaps the attraction, like Robert's scientific passion, was on a molecular scale and only bonded by invisible atoms making the illusion of being a solid relationship. Maybe it was as basic as the fact that you two were mutually compatible with each other and respectable of any differences, unlike his other fiery messy relationships with Jean and Katherine. Would you having a baby split that all apart? Personally, you weren't sure you were ready for any offspring yet and to be thrown into motherhood when you were still navigating having a successful marriage and you highly doubted "The Hill" (as the residents here were calling it) would be a healthy environment for children to thrive in, despite the efforts for a school and daycare, seeing that there were armed uniforms milling about all hours of the day and silent stress was already pervasive in every look, cough, and casual conversation you noticed through passing by. And it was only day one of, as Robert predicated, two to three years of hard work swathed in isolated secrecy.

As daylight began to fade fast and inevitably hand itself over to the darkness, you went back to the house to fry up the chicken. The stove was effective, although one burner seemed a little on the fritz, but half of the cabinetry was unfinished and the counter space was minimal.

Laying out the cream-colored napkins and the finest china you had brought packed securely in a box, you delicately set the table. Despite not having a birth mother to guide you through womanhood, you took to home keeping fairly well and religiously read the magazines, believing being married to an upper class man meant all these details and roles. But privately you also felt the crushing pressure and caught yourself wondering if you were immature to be in this mold. Robert never told you otherwise though and he would theoretically be the last man to stamp out a woman's sense of inner individuality, but you couldn't ignore the fact you, while willingly, still had to sideline your educational and career priorities to come support and live here with your husband. But it didn't matter too much, for you knew in your heart you could follow this man to the ends of the earth if you so desired.

For good ambient measure, you lit two pillar candles in the center of the tablecloth and just as you laid the food on a plate, you heard the front door crack open and the soft clomping of shoes.

Robert would never be the 'Honey, I'm home!' type of husband, yet he always managed to make an entrance regardless, especially now. His slender frame leaned into the doorway, hands crumpling his hat in front of his crotch and the candlelight flashed harrowing ghoulish shadows across his sharp cheekbones and dull pinkish lips.

"Well, what do you think?" you proposed, gesturing to the table spread when he didn't speak. He only gazed at your feminine features, his eyes full of desire that wasn't for the dinner you made, and when his mouth finally parted, he spoke in a husky voice, slowly coming closer and abandoning his hat to a chair, closing in on you.

"I'm sure it is very palatable, but I fear my hunger cannot be fulfilled by only earthly consumption," he confessed, ducking to kiss your cheek and moving his hands up to your neck, caressing your nape and moving his mouth to your lips, but you gently pushed him away, pressing into the fabric of his gray suit jacket.

"We should wait until after dinner," you told him earnestly, knowing what he wanted instead.

"Dessert, then?" he murmured, coming close again despite your light physical resistance and thumbing your bottom lip. You smiled and his arm snaked under your skirt and between your thighs, hand crawling upward to your panties and you breathed in, changing your mind.

"Maybe I can wait to eat after all."

His breath caught, a single finger inches from hitting your covered vaginal area, before he removed his teasing hand and pulled back, gripping your shoulders with conviction.

"Eat. You deserve it and you worked hard on preparing it, I can observe."

He bent down, gentlemanly drawing out a chair for you to sit down in, which you did, letting his hands linger at the neckline of your blouse before he walked around to the other side of the small round table and took a seat, rummaging out a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and striking it up with his lighter, the smoke wafting in wispy trails around his head. You took a careful first bite, relishing in the flavor and spices (paprika in particular) as he sat there across from you, relaxing back in his chair and taking a drag on the cigarette, puffing out a sigh. You smirked, swallowing a forkful as he kept his gaze steady on you.

"You're making me self conscious, just sitting there surveying my appetite," you told him and he grinned, fiddling with the cigarette.

"I enjoy watching you eat. You are the very essence of life I see lacking in so much of this world."

You blushed in the warm glow of the candlelight, remaining humble.

"That is quite a compliment I don't know if I'm quite worthy of."

"You are, no jury would contradict me." He nodded sincerely as he smoked and you ate in silence for a few minutes before he then finally gave his cigarette a rest and poked at his food, politely taking a few bites of hot chicken and chewing at a snail's pace.

"How did today go?" you tentatively asked, finishing off your own chicken and moving to the rich, crunchy coleslaw.

"We will be making progress. Although I will always say, that General Groves is the most obstinate man with the exact deposition one would expect from a bulldog," he answered with a touch of bitter amusement.

"Should you be saying that? They're... not listening, are they?" you asked in a hushed paranoid voice, glancing around the room and knowing that the phone lines were tapped for sure, but you weren't certain they would go as far to place bugging devices hidden in the house.

"Relax, I could say much worse," Robert admitted nonchalantly with a harmless shrug and you allowed yourself a chuckle, mentally picturing a bulldog in a General's uniform. You took a bite of cabbage, changing the conversation to your side of social contacts in this limited town.

"I met with our neighbors and the other ladies today. They seem cordial and we have already exchanged pleasantries and plans for a party next weekend. I also offered to babysit one mother's two rambunctious little boys and spoke to the doctor at the medical facility about assistance there."

Robert nodded, gesturing with his empty fork.

"Keeping busy I see, but I'll have to arrange to let you in the office sometime instead of spending your days cooped up here and at the neighbors. I missed you and your insight already today."

"But you know I am not privy to everything you and your scientists are doing here..." you started to protest before he cut you off.

"I'm well aware, but I doubt a visit to my own office will cause a security uproar. You are my wife, Y/N. The reason most of the scientists came to Los Alamos in the first place was not solely the work, but because they could bring their wives, their families. We do our best work with moral and... sexual support." He raised his eyebrows and you felt a tingle run through you, a yearning for exactly what he was suggesting, but you had to finish the meal first.

Once you cleared most of your plate, he surprised you by taking the dishes and quickly rinsing the plates in the sink before making and pouring out his signature martinis. You knew Robert must be silently stressed however, for he only took one sip of his drink before he moved outside under the roof awning with his tobacco pipe, settling down on a folding chair and gazing out at the landscape and listening to the low mumble of military personnel mingling about on patrol as though this were a prison (which it was).

You joined him with a cigarette a few minutes later (you had never smoked a single cigarette until you married Robert and unconsciously adopted the habit, but you weren't much of a smoker when it made you cough, yet you kind of enjoyed the nicotine having that convenient effect of temporarily soothing your nerves) and positioned yourself down next to him, letting the cigarette dangle from your lips while folding your hands neatly on your knees.

His eyelids were appearing heavy and his head drooped, chin tucking down. You gave him a bumping nudge and he looked over at you, teeth clamped down on his pipe.

"Tired?" you wondered and he gave a noncommittal grunt, fixing his eyes back straight ahead. You noticed how still he was - calm - and it was a welcome change from the past few weeks where he had been wound up, constantly on the phone at one point or another and gone for many hours in meetings. But now that nearly everyone was all here, it was almost too tranquil... giving the illusion of calm before potential chaos.

"Oppie!" a young man's voice suddenly called out and he came jogging into view on the rock slabbed pathway, halting slightly when he saw you.

"Oh, good evening Ma'am," he greeted courteously with a squinted smile. You smiled in turn, nodding, and he focused to Robert, who gave a tilt of his pipe in acknowledgement and stood up stiffly.

"Any news I should know about, Feynman?"

The man paused, glancing to you warily.

"Is it about the nature of our work?" Robert asked sharply and Feynman shook his head.

"No, sir, it is not pertaining to that."

"Well, whatever it is you can say in front of my wife and I then."

"It's just a communicative matter. There was a phone call from a young woman asking for you earlier that was flagged in the office for personal matters concerning security. Groves is in a fit and I was to inform you tomorrow, but I thought I'd give fair warning and-"

"Then I will address it tomorrow," Robert interrupted and without further word, took your arm and marched you back inside the house. You shook off his touch and shut the door hard, spinning to address him.

"What the hell was that about?"

He closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his forehead while exhaling.

"There are intimate ghosts that continue to haunt me," he answered cryptically, taking refuge in the lounge and sipping his martini, but you had a hunch however who was the "ghost" because you knew her and you pointed a finger sternly at him.

"This is about Jean, isn't it? How does she even know to contact this location? And I thought you were all done with her, as you are with that Katherine!"

"I am, I swear to it. But she is different than any other woman I have been with before you, though. She can be... unstable and she may need to hear from me."

"She just wants your sex, that's all!"

"It's more complicated than that."

"You had nights with her while you were having nights with me during courting, I heard about it from our friends. It was still the sex that was the driving factor that she desired from you."

He looked down, unable to deny that entirely and you backed away, shaking your head.

"I can't believe this, the first day here and you can't shake those Communist ties trailing us."

"May I remind you that you considered fully joining once upon a time in the not so distant past? We met at such a social function, remember?"

You bit your lip and refused to meet his wide eyes staring a hole into you, for this was very well true.

"I did, but I overcame it. It's ridiculous to devote one's energy to an ideology and not to concrete, practical solutions. I was never devoted and absolutely do not consider myself a member. I never was."

This made Robert scowl, setting his glass down with a clink.

"It is my opinion that you should be free to choose your dogmas, if you want any at all that is. Belief is voluntary, but it shouldn't be a crime; we all deserve our wiggle room."

"Is that what she told you too?"

He licked his lips, stepping close so you were involuntarily arrested by his blue eyes boring into yours and his hand slid up your arm, finding your shoulder and the bra strap peeking out from the neckline of the blouse.

"I see you put one on," he muttered and you blinked, almost forgetting about that little detail and refusing to be seduced by his perceptivity.

"Yes, I did. My breasts are still sore from that uncomfortable car ride."

"It's a shame they are so contained now," he whispered, beginning to undo the buttons on the blouse and push his fingers into the crevice between your breasts, but you weren't quite having it after the unresolved discussion and the way he had been moments before.

"We are going to do this now? After what I just accused? And besides, I thought you were too preoccupied and planning to sit out there half the night smoking away by your lonesome while I go to bed."

"You make nights worth bearing awake, especially tonight." He shifted, groping at your breasts and you stumbled back into the wall, breathing in shallow gasps. He put a finger to his lips conspiratorially and hugged your body with his own, speaking discreetly.

"We should be quiet to not disturb any nearby neighbors."

"They can't hear us and besides, I'm sick of piping down," you whined, remembering the date nights out in the desert where he'd lay out a picnic blanket and fuck you right then and there with the horses grazing several feet away and the canopy of stars winking overhead. You'd make as much noise as merited, probably confusing the yipping coyotes far off in the distance.

"I think we can try to control our auditory impulses for one night," Robert whispered, hands going to your waist and tugging at your skirt.

"The bedroom," you gasped, rushing away from him and down the narrow hallway, twisting around as he chased you with a huff.

"Where is it?" you asked anxiously, opening a couple doors and unfamiliar to this section of the house in the minimal lighting, when he suddenly pushed you from behind into an empty room with a single large king bed.

"Only the best for us," he told you and you fell forwards onto it, kicking your heels off and quickly flipping around to your back as he loosened his tie, casting it off to the floor and unbuttoning his white shirt as you sat up, reaching needily for his belt buckle and he leaned over onto you now shirtless and when he met your lips in a frantic kiss, you then noticed the prudent stench of sweat on his skin that was disrupting his usual familiar smoky flavor mixed with cologne and aftershave.

"Wait," you ordered, pressing a hand up on his collarbone.

"What is it?" he implored worriedly, searching your expression for the solution.

"Bath, you should bathe. It's been a few days and this heat isn't helping. Hasn't anyone told you that you reek like a dog?"

He groaned mournfully, leaning back and unfastening the belt, tossing it to the floor with a clunk of metal.

"You won't let me have you until I do?" he asked sadly, but you had an idea.

"What if I join you?"

His eyes sparked at this notion and you moved off the bed, finding the bathroom across the hall. This house was one of only a few equipped with tubs instead of showers; they didn't call this street "Bathtub Row" for nothing.

Robert finished undressing in front of you, tugging down his trousers and boxers, springing forth an already ready penis.

"You're going to make me work for it tonight, aren't you?" he asked as he stepped into the large basin, turning on the faucet and letting out a gasp when a strong stream of water blasted onto his bare feet.

"J-Jesus Christ, it's freezing!" he exclaimed loudly with a sputter and frantically slamming a hand on the knob as you laughed from your spot by the sink, taking out your earrings and slipping off your small wristwatch.

"Get in, I was warned about the water supply around here possibly being fickle, even for us," he commanded as you finagled your skirt and blouse off with your bra and panties discarded to the bathroom floor before taking a leg over the tub and stepping in to sit down across from him, letting the tub fill up one third of the way as a sitz bath before awkwardly reaching around him to grab the bar of ivory soap from the dish and began to rub into his back with it.

"I should've put in a request for an even larger bath," he complained as you scrunched up your legs against his and scrubbed dutifully into the folds of his skin.

"It'll do fine, darling."

He took the soap and you both took turns lathering each other up, making frothy circles with the creamy soap and rinsing, the water streaming down into the tub again, flooding both yours and his soapy complexion, washing it all off down the drain before having it fill up again, this time three quarters of the way. The water now pleasantly lukewarm, Robert contorted his body to submerge his head under the waterline and he came up with a loud splash, his wiry dark hair flattening to a wet mess on his forehead as your own dampened and you watched the droplets of water collect on his somewhat pallid skin. He scooted closer, entangling legs, and couldn't resist a quick dart of a finger down to your vagina and you whimpered as he touched your clitoris, inserting into you and making you arch your back and buck your hips when he inserted another finger, exploring around your wet velvety walls.

"God, Robert..." you moaned, digging your nails into the grooves of his skin and up to his head, feeling the cropped soaked scalp and neck. He suddenly lightly shoved you against the side of the tub, pressing his mouth to yours and naturally winding his tongue in, kissing you passionately until the water temperature grew too cold and you shivered, glued to his body and burying your face into his wet shoulder.

"That was merely the first act, sweetheart," he whispered and you smiled, leaning back a few inches so he could get up and step out onto the bath mat, taking your hand as he did so to pull you up and guide you out. Robert grabbed a large towel from the rack and wound it around the both of you, letting his genitals press up against yours and you both stood there for a while, listening to the steady drip-drop-drip-drop-drip-drop of falling water to the flooring.

"I'm surprised you've held off this long," you murmured, feeling his rising erection in between your thighs.

"I truly can't wait any longer," he admitted urgently and the towel dropped with a flump to the floor, and with bodies still slick with water, you and him exited the bathroom to fumble to the bedroom and the blue light from the window illuminated the sheets, the ideal love making spot. He let you collapse on your back and easily came down on top, gripping the back of your neck and already plunging in to align, but you squirmed in dissatisfaction.

"So soon?" you whined, wanting to play with and taste him first, but he was antsy to get to the pinnacle.

"Your virtuous patience should be framed and put on the walls of this house, along with your divine beauty," he whispered, head moving down to your breasts and you dug your fingers into his bare back, running along the bones of his more pronounced spine.

"C'mon, Oppie, let's do this the fun way... Give it to me," you begged and he cringed slightly, but rolled over onto his side and you immediately found his stiff penis with your hands, clenching around it firmly and stroking. He moaned softly and it flexed in your grasp... He could be a decent size when engaged, which was impressive for his underweight body.

"But don't you dare let me go without seeding you inside," he warned as though you had all the control.

"That's the plan."

Wordlessly, you positioned yourself down to the head of his cock and licked off his pre-cum, the recognizable taste milky on your tongue and you sucked, bringing it halfway in and fondling his balls lovingly in the meantime. He was breathing heavily and you didn't linger long at his member however because you could tell he was getting very close and neither you nor him wanted him to release anywhere other than the intended internal target. Pulling out and licking your lips, you repositioned your body on top of his and sank down flat to his chest, and he thrusted his hips up to meet you, heaving in with a grunt. You winced at the initial entry; you were always so sensitive down there (especially since the miscarriage), and he steadily kept at it, probing in further without being too rough.

"Fuck..." you breathed with a cry and he came forward to smooch your cheek as you mounted your hands on his shoulders and he pumped in and out, shaking the entire bed.

"That's exactly what I'm doing, my love," he breathed, keeping an intense gaze trained on you.

"Robert..." you groaned, letting him push as far as he could go until the pleasure was overloading and you felt his hot wet spurt of cum hit, eliciting a long moan from him, his slender frame shuddering beneath you. He closed his eyes and you kept a firm clench around his shaft, not ready to have him pull out yet. Gasping, you began rocking back and forth with ecstasy, your insides stretched to their limit and he seemed to know you were struggling to hold him.

"I'm coming out," he muttered and gently pulled back wetly so he wasn't balls deep in you anymore and then you repositioned to lightly ride him, which was your favorite position, and you bounced up and down on his upright full cock, orgasming a few more times as he watched your euphoria in rapture, so proud he alone could make you like this over and over until you were out of air and exhausted, collapsing to the side of the bed and feeling the sheets very damp with bodily juices.

Robert spooned you from behind, arms draped over to dangle his fingers on your swollen nipples and you matched his breathing in rhythm. Every time was somehow better than the last... Sex with him was as natural as breathing and you appreciated the consistent chemistry that you worried would have faded after a couple years of marriage due to what you'd heard about stress and boredom destroying a couple's sex drive, but Robert was not a boring person in the least sense of the term.

"We should do this every night," you offered hopefully and he chuckled.

"And make me the most lucky, tired man in this whole community? I'd be up for that, although it'll be a wonder if I get any work done at all when I've got this memory lingering with me tomorrow," he replied and you heard the smile in his tone, but with it came the bitter resurgence of the likely phone call from another woman that was bile in the back of your throat and even though he supposedly broke it off with her before you got married, you knew he had stayed in contact and you couldn't help but wonder how he fucked her and if it was comparable to what you and him had with each other, since she seemed to want him so badly. That wasn't to mention "Kitty" who he had insisted on still being "friends" with. A bit depressed and irritated, you pushed away his hands off your breasts and turned back over to face him in the dimness that made even those prominent blue colored eyes of his too muddled to see into.

"How did you become the most desired physicist to women in the whole country?" you asked softly.

"Good genes?" he guessed in amusement and you shook your head, not requiring a punchline.

"You're known to be a womanizer, neurotic, eccentric, a tad arrogant, and yet everybody seems to want you, including me as your own wife. Tell me, why did the universe give you such magnetized gifts?"

He gave a subtle lift of his shoulders with a small lazy smile as you laid your head on the pillow, fending off fatigue.

"Why was Aphrodite the one chosen to be blessed with such beauty and fertility? Why are we the way that we are? There are some matters of the human being to be unfounded in the definitive and everything is relative." He sat up with his back against the headboard and proceeded to light another cigarette and you sleepily watched the hazy smoke drift off above the bed towards the ceiling. He sighed, setting it to rest in the ashtray on the nightstand and wrap his lean arm around your body, drawing you close into his side.

"You are my goddess, Y/N. You are the only woman I want to return home too, always. Don't you know that?" he murmured into your hair and you vaguely nodded.

"I do, but I also know you're not always the most faithful man."

He lifted his hand and touched his ring finger to yours, matching the simple gold bands you both shared as two united.

"I married you out of good faith and the vows we pledged might have well been written in stone in the language of the gods along on the pulmonary arteries flowing as though a river into my heart," he told you with no trace of doubt, but you knew the whole story that didn't need flourishing.

"Only because the two other women fell through on commitment - although tonight I suspect they both presumably still want you - and one was already hitched, so she was having an affair by being with you and wouldn't divorce unless you happened to get her pregnant. I just happened to be the most available, the convenient bride with no attached strings, even though everyone said it was abnormally soon and I am too young," you recounted bitterly and he frowned, tilting your chin upward.

"Is that how you see it? I have never fallen for someone as fast and as hard as I did for you. I still feel the way I did when I laid a glimpse on you at Mary Ellen Washburn's party."

You smiled despite yourself and he bent to kiss the top of your head as you snuggled into his chest, absentmindedly fondling his moist cock with your fingers.

"I do love you beyond comprehension, Y/N," he whispered and you glanced up, meeting his look.

"I do too and I want to believe I always will, until the end of our existence. I am not those other women and I do not want to become so."

A solemn seriousness grew over him and he closed his eyes as you felt tears suddenly spike and an unexplainable terrible sense of dread came over you.

"Promise me one thing, Robert." You paused, taking a deep breath.

"Promise me that whatever happens to us in this world, in this setting, that you will always find a way home and whatever we face, we face together."

He gave a single nod, but you sensed reluctance in the way a muscle in his jaw made a minor spasm.

"I will always do my best."

"Alright," you resigned and he sighed, relaxing back and settling down into the sheets, further roping his arms around you and you burrowed your face into his chest, feeling his light hair follicles tickle your forehead. Tomorrow - and the future for that matter - was uncertain, but at least tonight was building up to a promise of solid sureness, a safeness, bonding those atoms of love again.

Love, or the feeling of it, was a lot like quantum mechanics; essentially invisible to the naked eye and complicated, but the one difference was that it was unmeasurable. No amount of numbers or equations could add up the real affection you felt for your husband, even when the waters became too choppy to be comfortable and it was far from perfect. You just had to cement the fact that you were Mrs. Oppenheimer and that wasn't going to change anytime soon, any disruptive external factors be absolutely damned to hell.

Thanks for reading, expect a little drama for chapter 2... And I do not have a full outline to every part of this fic, so please be patient as I find spare time to work on it and upload. I always appreciate any likes, reblogs, and feedback ❤️

*If anyone would be interested in being tagged, drop a comment and I'll make a tag list for the next part!*

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 1 year

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My mom bought me this book for Christmas

The Resurrectionist by EB Hudspeth, a fantasy field guide full of anatomical illustrations of monsters and cryptids.

The musculoskeletal systems are fun to look at, but not nearly as in-depth as I would have liked. If you have more than a passing knowledge of taxonomy (or in my case, access to Wikipedia), a lot of the details fall apart under scrutiny

The harpy has four upper limbs connected to one shoulder girdle; it shouldn't have arms, only wings

The sphinx is not classified as a mammal, but is still somehow in the family Felidae with cats (and like the harpy is also drawn with only two girdles despite having six limbs. I will give the author credit for giving the sphinx a keel for the wing muscles to attach to)

It lists the Hindu deity Genesha as a cryptid, which is a no-no.

Cerberus is also explicitly not a mammal, but somehow still a canine (literally in the species Canis with wolves, dogs, and coyotes)

Both mermaids and dragons are listed as members of the order Caudata; the only extant members of Caudata are salamanders, which kinda makes sense for dragons, but not so much for mermaids (also, the author keeps playing it fast and loose with cladistics; both mermaids and dragons are in the same order despite being in different classes, and while dragons are explicitly said to be amphibians, mermaids are given the fictional class mammicthyes, which means mammal-fish. At that point, why not just call mermaids amphibians? Why make up a fake latin hybrid name?)

But what bugs me most of all is the classification of the Minotaur as its own order of mammal when in mythology it is explicitly described as a hybrid of two known species (made possible only by the cruel machinations of the divine, but still)

To use actual taxonomical nomenclature, the minotaur's species would be B. taurus × H. sapiens (specifically B. taurus♂ × H. sapiens♀; there are, to my knowledge, no legends of H. sapiens♂ × B. taurus♀). That's how ligers, tigons, mules, zorses, pizzly bears, narlugas, etc., are described.

If I had written this book, I would have leaned more into evolutionary biology. Most land animals have four limbs because they all evolved from boney lobe-finned fish, which split off from the boneless sharks and rays millions of years earlier, so any six-limbed vertebrates would need to be descended from a fictitious category of six-finned fish which would either be an offshoot of boney fish/tetrapods (I guess they'd be hexapods, though that term refers to insect arthropods), OR a precursor to boney and cartilaginous fish that both clades split away from much earlier (it's easier to lose structures than to gain them, so it makes more sense for a six-limbed ancestor to spawn four-limbed descendants than the other way around).

Think about how different elephants are from humans, and humans are from aligators, and aligators are from penguins, and remember that they all evolved from the same ancestor tiktaalik, an amphibious fish that existed some 375 million years ago. Imagine a precursor six-limbed species and how diverse all its descendants would look after 400 million years. Save for the occasional instance of convergent evolution causing two unrelated species to independently evolve similar body plans to fill the same niche, tetrapods and hexapods would look nothing alike. There would be very little recognizable overlap between the two. A six-limbed "pegasus" would not look like a real world horse, and a six-limbed "dragon" would not look reptilian/dinosaur-ish, for much the same reason that giraffes don't look like frogs; they're just too distantly related. Bonless sharks and boney fish and whales/dolphins all have similar looking bodyplans only because their environment requires the same hydrodynamic shape, while terrstrial vertebrates are much more physically diverse.

#biology #anatomy #monsters #cryptids #cryptozoology #book of monsters #evolution #evolutionary biology #evolutionary history #taxonomy #cladistics #science #hard fantasy #hard science fiction #hard science #tetrapod #hexapod

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oddinary4bts · 1 year

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Sinful Lust | myg & jjk

☆summary: in an attempt to spice up your bedroom life with your boyfriend Min Yoongi, you suggest bringing another man into the action. Yoongi seems reluctant at first, but when you mention his friend Jeon Jungkook, he can’t deny his attraction. All that’s left to do is to convince Jungkook into participating...

☆pairing: bisexual boyfriend!Yoongi x female!reader x Jungkook

☆rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

☆genre: mostly smut. a tiny little bit of angst if you squint real hard. an open-ending if I decide to make this into a full fic, snippets of life!au

☆warnings: cursing, alcohol, pet names, explicit content: lingerie set, threesome, dom!jk, sub!yoongi (with a tiny little bit of switch maybe), switch!reader, consent bc consent is important!, oral sex (female and male receiving, male on male, female on male and male on female), Jungkook has a praise kink, dirty (filthy) talking, hair pulling, jerking off, tits play, ass slapping, ass biting, deep throating, clit play, fingering, pussy slapping, ass eating, ass fingering, unprotected sex (please use protection irl), big dick!jungkook, finger sucking, mouth fucking, edging (sorry yoongi), anal sex, double penetration, choking, aftercare (none for jungkook :( )

☆word count: 10.4k

☆a/n: Yeah so. This is pure filth. I am sorry. I lost control of myself and... yeah. No regrets though. I hope you’ll enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it hahaha. Thank you @moonleeai as always for beta-ing this fic <3

☆a/n pt2: also, I switched up my writing style a little for this one bc I wanted to try something new, so my bad if it’s trash. And another thing that’s worth mentioning: I do not own BTS or any of the members. I do not know what they are like irl (I do not claim to know their personalities, sexual orientations, beliefs, etc.). This fic is just a work of fiction, so please keep that in mind while reading

☆series masterpost

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

If there is one thing you have figured out about your boyfriend, it’s that he likes men just as much as women. Has probably never really indulged into his fantasies with the male gender, but you know he desires it, in the deep dark corners of his heart.

You know he has a thing for one of his younger friends. And you can’t blame Yoongi – Jungkook is a source of fantasies even for you. With the sleeve of tattoos, piercings, and his new motorcycle, you’re pretty sure Jeon Jungkook is the initiator of a lot of fantasies in the people surrounding him. Because Jungkook is sinfully beautiful, with his long hair and muscular body. An image of lust and desire.

Yoongi is sitting across from you. Eyes lost in his book, with a strand of his long hair actually hiding his gaze from you. He hasn’t noticed you worrying at your bottom lip, or the way you have been tightening your thighs together for the last minute. You have a clear image in mind: him, going down on Jungkook. And you know Yoongi will say yes if you ask.

Indeed, he’s never refused you anything when it comes to sex. He’s happy to indulge in your own fantasies, and finds pleasure in seeing you come undone. Maybe it’s time you find pleasure in seeing him come undone.

“Yoons”, you breathe.

It’s whiny, the way you say it. Yet he keeps his attention on his book, mouth falling open. “Uh?”

“Is there something you would like to do?”

He looks infinitely confused, and his eyes finally flit to yours. “Right now?”

You nod, tilting your head to the side until it rests against the couch. Your eyes are dark, lustful, and you bash your eyelashes for him.

He immediately gets the meaning.

“Oh.” He puts his bookmark in place, before dropping the book on the coffee table. “Isn’t Jungkook supposed to drop off some stuff later?”

All part of the plan. Jungkook went on a trip to another country a few weeks ago and bought alcohol for you and Yoongi. He’s supposed to drop it off after dinner, and you can’t help the wandering thoughts in your head.

“Yeah?” you let out, sighing heavily.

With a little bit of dramatic effect too, maybe.

“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, and there’s the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

It’s been established in your relationship that Yoongi is bisexual. So you don’t feel a tug of regret when you say, “Would you ever be interested in having sex with a man?”

A confused line appears between his eyebrows. “While dating you? I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

You keep silent, wetting your lips, and it takes him a moment for him to understand that that’s not what you meant.

“Oh”, he lets out again. He chuckles, and the smirk reappears on his lips. “What has been troubling your thoughts, sunshine?”

“I know you want it”, you simply state.

He’s not stupid enough to deny it, so he remains silent.

“What do you think about a threesome?” you ask.

At that he ponders for a time. “I don’t know if I’d like sharing you with someone else.”

You had expected that answer. But you know what to say to convince him otherwise. “What do you think about Jungkook?”

You don’t miss the light flush that moves on Yoongi’s cheeks. It’s echoed on your own cheeks.

“What about him?”

You cock an eyebrow, because Yoongi knows just as well as you what you’re implying.

“He’d never say yes.”

Your fingers travel up to your lips, and you pinch the bottom one between your index and thumb. You think for a time. Yoongi is not wrong. You have no idea how you’d convince Jungkook to do something like that. Even if Jungkook is the type to sleep around a lot, you don’t know if he’s ever done anything similar.

More than that, you don’t know if he’d be willing to have sex with one of his friends. But Jungkook… Always willing to offer a helping hand Jungkook… You’re pretty sure he’d do anything for one of his hyungs.

“There’s no hurt in asking”, you point out.

Yoongi folds his arms on his chest. “It could make our friendship pretty awkward.”

You have an inkling Jungkook won’t say no though. So you offer your best puppy eyes to Yoongi.

He chuckles, and shakes his head. But you know by the blush that hasn’t left his cheeks that Yoongi is just as willing as you are to ask.

Maybe he’s been thinking about it himself, you wonder.

You figure you should prepare, if you’re to ask Jungkook tonight. Yoongi helps, and you realize he’s a lot touchier than he usually is. Kissing your neck while he’s hugging you from behind, pressing you against him. It’s his way of saying thank you. You know he probably won’t voice the words, but he’s the man you love.

You know him well enough after all.

The hours tick by slowly, and when you hear the doorbell ring you both startle. You look at Yoongi, and he offers you no salvation. You’re the one that will have to ask.

You make your way to the door, opening it to reveal Jungkook. He’s just as attractive as ever, with his oversized black t-shirt that hides the upper part of his sleeve of tattoos. You drink in the sight, offering him a warm smile as he greets you with his bunny grin.

“Hey Jungkook”, you reply, and you open the door wider for him.

He doesn’t hesitate, stepping in and around you. “Yoongi-hyung!” he says as a way of greeting your boyfriend.

Yoongi has moved closer, and he grabs the bottle of whiskey Jungkook has brought back from Scotland. You notice your boyfriend looks a little uncomfortable, but Jungkook’s eyes have already moved back to you.

“How was the trip?” you ask as you close the door behind him, leaning against it.

Jungkook is holding his biker helmet in one hand. Your thoughts provide you with an image of him riding the motorcycle, and it’s all you can do not to bite your lips.

“It was awesome”, he says. “Road tripping around Great Britain was way more fun than I thought it would be.”

You cock your head to the side prettily. “Was it?”

Jungkook nods, and his eyes dip on your frame. You think he hasn’t noticed the way you’re dressed before, because his eyes widen a little.

You’re wearing jeans, with a set of lingerie under a shirt. Your oversized white dress shirt probably hid it at first, but Jungkook’s gaze takes a while before moving back up to your face.

You’re pretty sure it has gotten a shade darker by the time he meets your gaze again.

“It was”, he replies. He glances at Yoongi, probably wondering if the scorching look you’ve been eyeing him with is normal, or if something’s wrong with Yoongi.

Yoongi is still holding the whiskey bottle, and he raises it a little. “Want a glass?”

Jungkook is a smart man. He doesn’t always let it show, but you know those big, doe eyes of his notice everything. You almost think you won’t even have to ask out loud. He’s already connected the dots by the time he looks back at you.

“I hoped you’d ask.” The words are said in a lower tone than the voice he usually uses. It feels intimate, and a drop of warmth moves down your spine.

“You’ve gone so far to get it for us, it’s only normal we offer some to thank you.”

He gulps. You know he’s fighting internal demons right now, trying not to gaze down at your breasts again. So you push up from the door, walking around Jungkook, close enough for your arm to brush his.

“Why don’t you come in?” you say over your shoulder, as you make your way to the kitchen to get glasses.

You and Yoongi form a great team. Because by the time you join them in the living room, Jungkook is sitting on one end of the couch, and Yoongi is turning on some ambient music. Nothing too high-key, because you don’t want to scare Jungkook away.

You need to make sure he wants this too, even if he probably has connected the dots already.

You put the glasses down on the coffee table next to Yoongi’s book before grabbing the whiskey bottle. Before you open it, you kneel down, sitting on your heels. That way when you pour Jungkook will have a direct view of your cleavage. You take your time pouring, feeling the burn of his gaze on your curves.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Yoongi comments.

He’s bold. Bolder than you thought he would be. But he always does when he becomes horny, and you know your offer has made him hornier than you’ve seen him in a while.

Jungkook tears his gaze away from you, almost reluctantly. He seems to hesitate for a time, and if he hasn’t really caught up to the vibe, he sure has now.

“I’ve always told you your girlfriend is gorgeous”, he agrees.

Yoongi has a smirk playing on his lips, but he remains silent as you finish pouring the glasses. You grab one of them, taking a small sip of the burning liquid. You let it roll on your tongue before swallowing slowly. You keep your neck arched a little, just so Jungkook can see your throat work as you swallow.

He shifts on the couch a little, spreading his muscular thighs open.

“It tastes so good”, you purr.

Jungkook’s lips part open, and he catches a breath. “Does it?”

He’s always looked like the dominant kind. From the stories he’s told you both, you know he is. But if you want to really pleasure Yoongi tonight, you have to make sure you stay in control.

“Taste it yourself”, you say, wetting your lips as you slowly get up.

You keep the same glass you just drank in, and you walk around the coffee table to offer it to Jungkook. He glances at Yoongi as you do, and Yoongi runs a hand through his hair, smiling at his friend.

Jungkook grabs the glass you hand him. You don’t let it go right away, and you smirk as Jungkook looks up at you. He plays with his piercing, before offering you a dashing smile. You let go of the glass and watch him as he takes a sip.

He swallows just as well as you just did.

Your smirk turns satisfied, and you turn back around to grab the two other glasses. You give one to Yoongi, and then you sit next to him. Your boyfriend wraps an arm around your shoulder until you’ve molded yourself perfectly at his side. He moves your hair behind your shoulder, before kissing the spot on your neck over the collar of your shirt.

You tilt your head to the side, offering him better access as he sucks on the skin, and you never gaze away from Jungkook.

You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked in a few minutes now.

“We’ve been thinking”, you say as Yoongi presses a wet kiss on your neck before pulling away, observing the mark he put on your skin. “We have to thank you properly.”

Jungkook shifts a little again, and if you didn’t want to keep the eye contact you would look down at his lap to see if he’s already aroused. He bites at his piercing, and his gaze moves from you to Yoongi, before resting on you again. “A glass is plenty enough.”

You know he’s lying. His voice is husky, low. You’ve never heard him speaking like that before and it only makes you want him more.

Want him for Yoongi too.

“We can offer you a lot more”, Yoongi says. He shifts too, and you know he’s already hard. You decide to be bold, and you let your free hand fall to his lap. It rests on the top of his thigh, and you gently pat him.

“We sure can”, you echo. You wet your lips, though Jungkook is looking at where you’re touching Yoongi. You don’t miss the flash of envy that moves on his features. “If you want to.”

You’re not sure if he expected you to ask for explicit consent. He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before knocking back his glass and drinking the whole of it.

Anticipation builds up in your core as his dark eyes find your face again. He’s smirking, and it’s a dangerous look on his features. You’re pretty sure he can consume both you and Yoongi if he wants to.

“If I want what?”

He’s teasing. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, and it only burns brighter as your hand moves to Yoongi’s dick. You palm him through his jeans, and Yoongi rests his forehead against the back of your shoulder. Probably because he’s growing shy, and he’s afraid Jungkook is going to refuse.

“We could make you feel good”, you purr. You palm Yoongi harder. “Couldn’t we, baby?”

He moans against the back of your shoulder, and you let a dangerous smirk of your own move on your lips.

“Pretty sure that meant yes.”

Jungkook shifts. This time your eyes betray you and they fall to the bulge that has already appeared in his pants. He looks big, but you quickly move your gaze back up to his face.

“You guys want to fuck me?”

Jungkook is crude. You didn’t expect that from him, yet it suits him well. It suits his fuckboy persona far more than you thought it would. But it also explains why he’s been able to sleep around like that – he knows what he’s doing.

Yoongi looks up from your shoulder at that. He surprises you with his next words. “We want to show you how you’ve been good for us.”

Yoongi is not the dominant type. It happens, sometimes, and you didn’t think it’d come out when you’d be with Jungkook. You’re happy it has though, because Jungkook loses the dark look. It turns into want, unexpectedly, and it makes you understand one thing: he has a praise kink.

“Such a good boy, who bought whiskey for us. Right, Yoons?”

Yoongi sinks his teeth into your shoulder. It takes you by surprise, and you let out a small moan. Jungkook watches carefully, putting his glass down on the coffee table. You drink from yours, never breaking eye contact, a little like you did earlier.

It works just as well, and you’re pretty sure Jungkook shifts purposefully closer to you. He’s not close enough for you to touch, but you can tell he wants it.

“You’re going to jerk him off in front of me?” he asks.

He’s figured out the dynamic of sex between you and Yoongi, hasn’t he? He knows you’re the dominant one, and something about it makes him want to dominate Yoongi with you.

Jungkook is right where you want him to be.

“I might”, you say innocently. “Would you like that?”

You cock your head to the side, and Yoongi goes back to sucking a mark on your skin. It makes your focus on Jungkook waver a little, and heat pools at your core.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to know for a time. He’s probably never been in a situation like that before. But he finds the strength to smirk, nodding once. “I wonder what kind of sounds hyung makes when he comes.”

Yoongi bucks his hips, searching for more friction. Jungkook is turning him on far quicker than you usually do.

“Then why don’t you help me get him out of his pants?”

The question takes Jungkook aback. He didn’t expect you’d want him to participate in pleasuring Yoongi, didn’t he?

He wets his lips, his tongue playing with his piercing for a time, before he replies. “I’m not sure what you want me to do.” He looks like he wants to please though.

“Why don’t you get on your knees in front of him?”

Jungkook’s mouth is parted. He doesn’t know what to do, but he watches you bite your lower lip, before nodding once again. While he positions himself, you take the glass of whiskey out of Yoongi’s hand, before putting it along with yours on the coffee table. It brings Jungkook very close to you and you freeze as he grabs your jaw. His face is inches away from yours when he says, “Can I at least kiss you before I suck his dick?” Because he knows that’s what you want. He understood as soon as you suggested him kneeling in front of Yoongi.

Yoongi’s breathing grows louder. Jungkook lets you turn your head towards your boyfriend. You make sure Yoongi is willing, cocking an eyebrow in question. He pats your back, sitting back on the couch to watch.

Your eyes trail back to Jungkook, and you see him swallow once as you close the distance between the two of you, one hand landing on the nape of his neck to bring him closer. He kisses you slower than you expected, and his piercing presses an indent into your lips. When he swipes at your bottom lip with his tongue, you open your mouth.

Jungkook is a good kisser. It takes you aback, and you moan in his mouth. The moan turns to a pained whimper when Yoongi grabs your hair and pulls you back.

“Enough”, he says.

You think he’s angry, but you only notice that he’s freed his dick from his pants while you were kissing Jungkook. And he’s slowly stroking it. For a second, you bite your lip, wanting to dive down and wrap your lips around his tip, but you resist.

The goal is to get Jungkook to suck his dick, not you.

Jungkook seems taken aback. He’s breathing heavily, lips parted as his eyes avoid Yoongi’s dick. He looks at your boyfriend’s thighs, at his face, but he clearly ignores the dick that’s standing prettily about a foot in front of his face.

“Don’t be shy”, you encourage him.

Jungkook blushes a little, and his eyes settle on you. “I’ve never done this before.”

The little bit of insecurity that shines on his face takes you by surprise. You gently cup his cheek, glancing back at Yoongi once before you focus on Jungkook.

“You’re so good at everything”, you praise. He swallows, listening to you intently. “Show me that you can be good at this too.”

When you pull him closer to Yoongi’s dick, Jungkook doesn’t resist. He follows your lead, until his mouth is but an inch away from your boyfriend’s cock. Yoongi is holding it up, and he’s watching Jungkook with round eyes.

You can tell he’s wanted this for a while by the bead of precum that sits on the slit.

“Why don’t you lick it first, mmh?” you encourage Jungkook. “So you can get a taste.”

He gulps, and his eyes flutter shut as he obeys. Yoongi sucks in a breath as Jungkook licks at his slit, hesitantly at first. But then he seems to steel himself, and he swirls his tongue around the tip of Yoongi’s dick once, then twice.

You can tell Yoongi’s aching to grab the back of Jungkook’s head so he can fuck his mouth by the way his grip on you tightens. It hurts a little, but you’re fascinated. You can’t look away as Jungkook wraps his lips around the head, sucking once.

Yoongi hisses, before letting out a low, “Shibal”.

You think the word is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard Yoongi say before.

“See, you make him feel so good already”, you praise Jungkook, and he lets out a small moan.

He likes it. That much you can tell. He really does, because one of his hands replaces Yoongi’s at the base of his dick. That frees your boyfriend’s hands, and it doesn’t take him long to pull you in a heated kiss that leaves you breathless. You suck on his tongue and swallow the moans he lets out as Jungkook starts bobbing his head up and down. Slowly at first, then finding a rhythm that seems to be comfortable.

Probably because Yoongi has moved one hand to Jungkook’s hair, and he’s guiding him down on his dick. It’s your turn to moan now, and you go back to kissing Yoongi.

He’s panting, trying to focus on your lips, but some part of you tells you he wants to look at Jungkook. So you pull away and sure enough Yoongi’s eyelids shoot open, and his gaze glues to where Jungkook is working on him.

Jungkook is holding your boyfriend’s cock up with his tattooed hand. His long fingers make Yoongi seem smaller than he looks in your own hand, but you know your boyfriend stretches you well enough. You already think about fucking yourself on his dick, using Jungkook’s spit as lube…

You need friction, and soon. You quickly shrug off the cotton dress shirt. Jungkook opens his eyes, and his gaze trails to you. He drinks you in as you palm one of your breasts through the lingerie. It makes you feel hot, even though he’s currently almost choking on your boyfriend’s dick.

Especially as Yoongi bucks his hips, and he hits the back of Jungkook’s throat. You’re surprised to hear Jungkook moan, and for a time you think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard in your life.

You’ve unbuttoned your pants by the time Jungkook has blinked some tears away, and you’re pulling them down your legs when he sits back on his heels to catch his breath.

Yoongi is a mess. Head thrown back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down each time he swallows or gulps. You’re pretty sure he could finish like that, but you want to give him more.

“You’re so good”, you praise Jungkook. “You could make him come like that.”

Jungkook slowly jerks Yoongi off while his eyes trace every curve of your body, as if you’re a piece of art he has yet to understand. He doesn’t seem like he wants Yoongi to come down his throat, and you’re not sure you can blame him. But still he looks at the two of you with fire in his gaze. He doesn’t want to stop either, and you watch him battle conflicted emotions for a time.

“But aren’t we supposed to be the ones making you feel good?” you add, offering him salvation.

“I feel good”, he admits, and he flushes deep red.

You smirk, playing with your tit again. You pinch your nipple through the fabric, brows almost touching as you let out a small moan. Jungkook has stopped jerking off Yoongi by now, and you look down at your boyfriend’s dick. He’s leaking precum, and you bite on your lip.

“Do you think I should suck him too?” you ask. Before Jungkook can reply, you turn your attention to Yoongi. He’s already looking at you through half-lidded eyes. “Will you be a good boy and not come down my throat, mmh?”

Yoongi doesn’t seem like he can even think coherent thoughts. Still he nods, mostly because he’s probably on the verge of an orgasm and he has no sanity left.

You look at Jungkook. He’s sat back on his heels, and he’s palming himself through his pants. The bulge has grown a lot more by now, and you weren’t wrong before: he clearly has a huge dick.

You salivate at the thought, knowing just how well it matches his large frame. You wonder if he tastes like your boyfriend. You’re not sure Yoongi would like you doing that; he’s shown a little possessiveness earlier when you were kissing Jungkook. So you focus on taking off your jeans for now. The fabric feels too tight against your skin, and you need them off before you start blowing Yoongi’s dick.

Jungkook watches you, as does your boyfriend. You’re stuck not really knowing what to do next. Because both men clearly want something from you. You’re surprised when Yoongi speaks up.

“Do you want to taste her too?” he asks.

Your eyes widen a little, and Jungkook gulps once. “If you don’t mind.”

“She’s got the sweetest taste, of course I don’t mind.”

You meet Yoongi’s gaze. You realize he’s doing this for you. He knows you find Jungkook attractive too, and he’s ready to give you what you want.

It makes you love him even more. So you go in for a kiss, kneeling next to Yoongi.

You startle when Jungkook slaps your ass. “Why don’t you get in a position where I can eat you out while you take my place at hyung’s dick, mmh?”

You almost forgot Jungkook is more on the dominant side too. If you weren’t already soaking through the lingerie, you know his words would have made you drip.

You obey him, mostly because you’re afraid Yoongi’s going to change his mind. But your boyfriend doesn’t seem like he will, and he offers you a sweet smile and a nod of his head to indicate that he wants this just as much as you do.

You stop hesitating. While you get on all fours, Yoongi finishes taking off his pants and underwear. His skin is red where the pants have been tight against his skin, and you massage his thighs mindlessly while Jungkook moves.

He takes off his shirt, and you’re pretty sure both you and Yoongi have frozen as he stands next to you, the hard planes of his body making both of you salivate. Jungkook works out a lot, and the results are satisfying, giving him a body you could spend hours admiring. He looks like a perfect Greek god, and you’re struck dumb. It doesn’t last long, because he quickly moves behind you, sitting on the couch until his face is at a level with your raised ass.

Before you have a chance to turn and focus on Yoongi’s dick, Jungkook bites in your ass, hard, and then sucks on the skin.

He’s been dying to leave a mark on you too since he saw Yoongi do it, hasn’t he? It makes you moan, and as your pussy clenches around nothing, you grab Yoongi’s cock by the base to bring it up to your mouth. And you’re relentless, sucking him just how you know he likes it. You’re probably better than Jungkook, just because you know how to please Yoongi like the back of your hand, and his cock hardens in your mouth.

You know Yoongi could come just like that. But he told you he wouldn’t, and you trust him. So you give him your best, taking as much of him in as you can, keeping the gag reflex in as he hits the back of your throat. One of your hands starts playing with his balls, with just the right pressure, and you moan around his cock loudly when Jungkook cups your pussy through the lingerie set.

“She’s soaked”, he tells Yoongi.

Yoongi chuckles. “She’s probably dying to be fucked.”

Oh the little shit. Jungkook slaps your ass again, and it stings. “I assume you’ll be the one to fuck her.”

“Don’t think she can take both of us at the same time.”

Listening to them talk about fucking you like that is making you forget what you’re supposed to do. You make to pull away, but then someone holds your head in place.

“We didn’t say you could stop.”

It’s Jungkook. And as he holds you down, Yoongi starts fucking up in your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. If you weren’t busy choking around the dick in your mouth, you’d hear the sound of kissing.

Indeed, Yoongi pulled Jungkook into a kiss, and surprisingly enough Jungkook didn’t resist. No, he’s been enjoying this far more than he expected he would.

You blink back tears as Yoongi keeps hitting the back of your throat. It’s not your first time doing something like this, though Yoongi is usually softer with you. It seems bringing Jungkook into the action has changed him, because he’s relentless, fucking your mouth hard.

You don’t care. Not a single bit, because Jungkook has pulled the lingerie set to the side, just enough for two of his long fingers to start drawing circles on your clit. You moan, and the sound is echoed by a grunt from Yoongi.

“You’re two messes”, Jungkook says as he dips his fingers inside of you up to the first knuckle. He’s collecting your juice, and a second later he’s back to drawing quick circles on your clit. “Begging to be fucked by me.”

The moan Yoongi lets out this time is higher pitched. More like a whine, and you choke around his dick as he thrusts up hard. You would pull away if you didn’t know Jungkook is going to force you back down. Right now, you want him to pleasure you, and you move back a little, seeking for friction on his hand.

He pulls the hand away, before slapping your pussy hard. You whine around Yoongi’s cock, and your boyfriend grabs a handful of your hair. You can imagine him, with his head thrown back on the couch. Not knowing where to look between you and Jungkook. And apart from the light touch of his fingers on your clit, you don’t know what Jungkook is doing. Is he touching himself, or is he watching Yoongi? Is he discovering he might like this more than he expected, or is he searching for a way out?

“Should I get her ready for us, hyung?”

The little brat. You know your boyfriend will feel intimidated by having to dominate you with someone else. But still, Yoongi says, “You sucked my dick, it’s only fair I let you fuck my girl”.

You’re not sure if it’s fair. But thinking about Jungkook fucking you with Yoongi… it makes you go haywire. You dig your nails in Yoongi’s thigh, where you’ve been holding yourself up for a moment after you stopped playing with his balls. He hisses in pain, but you’re swirling your tongue around his tip, playing with his frenulum just the way he likes.

Jungkook is silent for a time. He moves his fingers from your clit to your entrance, circling it once to collect more juice. But then instead of moving back down to your clit, he moves up, and your pussy clenches as his fingers play with the circle of muscle of your asshole.

“Have you ever been fucked by two guys at the same time?” he asks. You don’t know if he wants an answer, so you keep sucking your boyfriend. Jungkook slaps your ass again, and his fingers go back to your clit.

You understand his question was rhetorical when something very wet replaces his fingers on your ass. His tongue. He uses it to play with the ring of muscle, even going all the way as to dip his tongue inside. You want to reach back and touch him, but you can’t let go of your boyfriend.

Not when Yoongi is using your mouth like this.

The fingers Jungkook has been using on your clit move back to your entrance once again. This time, he dips them in, deep, without a moment of hesitation. You clench around him and he spreads the fingers, fighting against your walls. This time, you pull away to moan, face falling on your boyfriend’s stomach as you jerk him off quickly, holding his dick tight in your grip.

Yoongi’s shirt is clinging to him, sweaty from the action. Though he’s mostly just been benefiting from what you and Jungkook do, you know his heart has been beating out of his chest. You raise your head to look at him, but he’s busy looking at Jungkook. It makes you glance back, and you think you could almost come watching Jungkook work on you like that.

Jungkook has his eyes closed, brows knit together as if he’s in deep focus. You can only see the top of his face from where he’s eating your ass, and his fingers make squelching sounds as they fuck into your pussy.

You’re so wet you’re almost convinced you could take both of the men in your pussy. The thought makes you moan, a pornographic sound that makes Jungkook’s eyes open. He pulls away, and he slaps your ass as you just stare at him.

“Why are you not sucking hyung anymore?” he asks, cocking his head to the side as he observes you with that dark lustful gaze of his. “You can’t focus?”

As he says the words, he fucks his fingers harder into you, and the knuckles of his other fingers almost hurt as they hit the soft flesh on both sides of your pussy. You can tell you’ll be sore once Jungkook is done with you. Once Yoongi is done with you too.

Your nails once again dig in Yoongi’s thigh, and he quickly grabs your hand to move it away. He puts it back on his balls, and you massage gently, not wanting to hurt him. You try to straighten, but Jungkook puts a hand on the top of your back, shoving you down towards your boyfriend’s dick.

“Be a good girl and suck him, baby, he’s been so good to us both.”

You obey, and your tongue is back on Yoongi in no time, tasting the salty precum that keeps leaking from his cock. Jungkook laps at your hole once again, and it’s a new feeling. You’ve never done that before, but he knows what he’s doing. So much so that you’re barely surprised when he dips his thumb in your ass, pushing hard against the tight ring of muscle until your hole has swallowed all of his digit.

You could come soon. You’re pretty sure if you focus just for a few seconds, you’ll be coming all around Jungkook’s fingers. But you don’t want to come just yet, you want to enjoy every little jolt of electricity Jungkook pulls from you.

Maybe your lack of attention on Yoongi has given him back his thoughts, because your boyfriend grabs one of your breasts in his large hand, his grip tight. You reward him by swallowing his dick whole, letting your throat work around his head.

You’re becoming more wet with every movement of Jungkook’s fingers inside of you. So much so that he adds a third one with ease, stretching you wide open. You don’t even know who he’s trying to get you ready for: Yoongi, or himself?

You don’t care. You want both of them to fuck you.

But you want a little control too, you want to know what’s happening. As Jungkook fucks his digits inside of you, you pull away from Yoongi’s cock.

“Jungkook, why don’t you finish undressing?”

He stops moving, probably not expecting you to still be vocal. But he obeys you, mostly because his dick has been straining against his pants for a while. You can’t imagine it being comfortable.

While he undresses, you climb on Yoongi’s lap, your back facing him. You grab his dick, holding it up long enough so you can sink onto it, and you moan breathlessly as you go as far deep as you can, until all of him is gripped in all of you. You clench around him, and his large hands find your waist as he grunts.

And while you’re fucking yourself on Yoongi, you turn to look at Jungkook. He’s even more beautiful than you imagined he’d be: his cock is huge, definitely larger than your boyfriend. You almost think you won’t be able to take him in, but something about the way he smiles devilishly tells you he knows how to get you all ready for him. His dick has a large vein that goes from the base all the way to the tip. You want to run your tongue on it, but he’s sitting a little too far again, muscular thighs spread wide as he strokes his cock lazily.

His eyes follow you as you move up and down on Yoongi, and your boyfriend’s fingers dig in the supple flesh on your hips as he guides you on himself. But when Yoongi moans again, you don’t miss the way Jungkook’s eyes dart to him, his grip around his dick tightening as he starts going faster.

“You like it, mmh?” you tease him, regaining his attention.

Jungkook plays with his piercing, his head resting against the couch as he watches you.

“You could suck my clit while I fuck myself on Yoongi.”

Your suggestion is barely out of your mouth before Jungkook gets up. His dick stands proud and tall, and you look back at Yoongi to see him already drinking in the sight. He fucks into you then, and you slow down so he can use you however he wants.

Jungkook jerks himself off, gently, making his way towards you. He stands in front of you, and you can’t help but look down at his dick. At the large head, that shines red as precum appears on his slit. Your eyes trail up to his face, and the smirk on his lips tell you enough of what he wants.

He wants you to choke on his dick. But he understood something too, earlier when you asked Yoongi for permission.

“Hyung, can I fuck her mouth?”

Yoongi moans loudly as your mouth falls open.

“Say it with your words.” Jungkook is indecent. You’re pretty sure he’d tie the both of you up and use you both however he wanted if you let him.

“As long as she likes it”, Yoongi replies breathlessly. He slows down his movements into you, but he pulls you lower, until all of his dick is sheathed inside of you. He then circles his hips, and it makes him reach places unknown to you before. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you moan loudly.

The moan is interrupted by two digits sitting on your tongue. Your eyes shoot open, and you instinctively close your mouth around the fingers, sucking once. Jungkook cocks his head to the side as you start playing with the pad of his digits, hollowing your cheeks as you suck another time.

“You really want to suck my dick, don’t you?”

You do. You also want to see Yoongi sucking his dick, but you’re not sure the position allows it. So you nod, keeping Jungkook’s fingers in your mouth for as long as he allows before he’s grabbing the back of your head, dragging you closer to his cock.

You resist a little, just because you want to be a little brat, and Jungkook slaps your cheek with his cock once.

“Open up your throat.”

His words convey a command you’re wired to give in too. No matter how much you like to dominate, you’re not sure you have it in you to disobey him when he speaks the words with such a husky voice.

So you open your mouth, and you let him move your head until he can thrust into your mouth. He’s big. Large. It hurts your jaw a little, and your eyes water as he reaches the back of your throat faster than you thought he would. It doesn’t deter him, and he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting in again.

Below you, Yoongi is still circling his hips, and he grunts as you clench your walls around him, instinctively. Your juice is dripping down his balls, tickling him, and he has the clear image of Jungkook licking him clean. He almost wants to ask, but he’s too shy. All he can do is fuck you as he listens to you choking on Jungkook’s dick.

Jungkook fucks your mouth another couple of times before he lets go of the back of your head, moving your hair to the side to reveal your neck. He caresses it with one long finger, and you take the lead, grabbing a hold of his dick as you swallow once, your throat tightening against him.

The sound he lets out makes you think you’ve reached nirvana. It also makes Yoongi fuck up into you, and though he’s already hitting your cervix, you almost think he’s gotten deeper.

You offer Jungkook’s cock the same care you offered Yoongi’s earlier. You suck him dry, licking up at his head to taste his precum. It tastes a little different than Yoongi’s. A little sweeter, and you think you could get drunk off of it. It’s addictive, and all you can do is swallow as much of him as you can, hollowing your cheeks around him.

You try to look up at him, but the position doesn’t really allow him. You’re bent and you’d have to stop sucking his dick to be able to turn your head enough to look at him. You can’t resist the impulse though, and you hold his dick with one hand as you pull away, licking down his length, with your head tilted to the side until you can look up at him.

He’s not looking at you. His head is thrown back, revealing a sharp jawline that could cut through glass. You can’t resist yourself, and you let your teeth graze the sensitive skin of his dick.

He looks down so fast you almost think he gets whiplash. Instead, he just surveys you with a dark dangerous look on his features. It makes you add your own movements to Yoongi’s action, and your boyfriend’s grip on your hips tightens even more.

“I thought you were supposed to suck my clit”, you tell Jungkook, maintaining eye contact as you tap his dick on the side of your face, tongue darting out until you’ve found the frenulum.

He seems angry, towering over you like that. You’ve seen him eating good food enough before to know that that’s because he’s enjoying himself. “When you can suck my dick like that?”

You pull away, and surprisingly enough he lets you go. You start moving up and down on Yoongi again, cocking your head to the side. “But poor Yoongi is barely getting any action.”

Jungkook looks at your boyfriend. You’re not sure he’ll understand what you want, but a few seconds later he drops to his knees.

“Maybe he just needs me to suck on his balls, don’t you think?”

You moan, almost in time as Yoongi. Jungkook is bold. Crazy, even. You lose a hand in his hair as he dives in. He stops by your clit first, sucking it hard. It makes you clench around the cock spearing you, earning you a grunt from your boyfriend. He’s rock hard inside of you, and you’re pretty sure it’s taking all of his will not to come.

He suddenly straightens and wraps an arm around your middle as Jungkook moves lower. You assume Jungkook sucked on one of his balls, and Yoongi lets out a low string of curses that makes a knot tighten in your core.

You’re far from being ready to let it uncoil. But you can tell Yoongi will come if Jungkook keeps doing whatever he’s doing.

“Yoons, you think you can hold on a little longer for us?” you purr.

His forehead is resting on the back of your shoulder, so you feel it when he nods. But he has no words for you, just a broken string of moans that form a melody in your ears as you keep moving up and down. You taunt him, clenching your walls once, and the moans turn into a hiss.

“Never thought hyung was such a good boy”, Jungkook says as he pulls away. He’s got spit on his chin and your hand moves from his hair to his chin so you can dry it.

And instead of letting it air dry, you bring your thumb to your mouth, licking it dry. Jungkook just watches you carefully, and then he’s moving back to your clit.

The next few minutes are lost to you. The orgasm that hits you takes you by surprise, almost bringing Yoongi down with you. But he’s better than you, and he just forces you to still your movements as your walls pulse against his dick.

Jungkook is too skilled with his tongue. Flicking your clit in a way that makes you see stars, until they’ve exploded and you’re just left panting for dear life.

“You ask him not to come and then you just do?” Jungkook teases. “How unfair.”

He stands, licking his lip dry. You’re spent, head thrown back and resting against your boyfriend’s shoulder. Yoongi is still holding you, one of his hands palming your breast through your lingerie set.

You’re pretty sure it’s ruined at this point. Jungkook bends down, and to your surprise he steals a kiss on your boyfriend’s lips. Yoongi moans in his mouth, and while they kiss Jungkook’s hand sneaks under you. He finds the place where the lingerie is attached, and quickly releases it.

You turn your head, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. Jungkook must have sensed it, because a second later he’s meeting your lips. You can still taste a little bit of yourself on him, though you know Yoongi lapped most of it clean.

“Let’s get her out of this”, Jungkook says as he pulls away.

Yoongi obeys, and he pulls the lingerie set over your head, until your breasts are finally revealed. Your nipples are perked on your chest, hardened by the pleasure that just ran to you. Your boyfriend palms them as Jungkook watches, and he’s back to stroking his dick.

You reach out, and your hand finds his balls as he pleasures himself. He tilts his head to the side, but he lets you do as you want. You’re weak from the orgasm that just rocked through you, and Jungkook looks as if he’s coated in an aura.

You know it’s the ecstasy from you coming so hard, but some part of you want to believe he’s a fallen angel.

As you palm him, Jungkook’s gaze slides to Yoongi’s next to you. Yoongi wets his lips, and his eyes drop to his friend’s dick.

“You want to get a taste?”

Really, Jungkook is not familiar with sanity. He doesn’t care for it, only wants to ruin the both of you. You’re forced to let go of his balls as he moves until he’s got one knee resting on the armrest of the couch. He holds his dick up towards Yoongi, and you let out a slow whimper as Yoongi wraps his lips around Jungkook’s large head.

You realize then that Yoongi probably has had lots of experience with men before you came into his life, because he clearly knows what he’s doing. Jungkook looks almost pained, brows touching on his forehead as his mouth falls open. He’s panting after a few seconds, and his eyes fall on you.

“Fuck”, he curses. “I don’t know which of you sucks best.”

From the moans he lets out next, you’re pretty sure it’s Yoongi. But you don’t care, you’re too busy circling your hips so Yoongi’s cock reaches every little spot in you that can make you see stars.

Jungkook observes you. You think he’s been watching you more than Yoongi. And as Yoongi bobs his head up and down, taking more of Jungkook’s cock than you ever could, the younger man bends down and presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is sweet and slow. With no tongue, just his lips working against yours. His are infinitely soft, and you moan in his mouth. He keeps on kissing you, to a slow and steady rhythm that almost aches.

You miss him as soon as he straightens. But you don’t miss the way his gaze hardens as he holds yours. He looks sad, for just a fleeting moment. The next moment the look is gone, replaced by a lustful expression.

“Fuck”, Jungkook says, and he looks away from you to meet Yoongi’s gaze as your boyfriend keeps sucking him. “I want to get the chance to fuck her before I come.”

Yoongi whines, and he reluctantly pulls away from Jungkook’s cock. The latter refuses to meet your gaze anymore, and he motions to the couch.

“Hyung, why don’t you lie down?” he says.

You clench your jaw, before getting up from Yoongi’s lap. Your pussy clenches around nothing for the first time in a while, and you stand next to Jungkook as Yoongi moves. You startle as Jungkook slaps your ass, hard.

“Do you think your asshole is ready to take him?”

He meets your gaze now. He’s about to drag you to hell with him, and you admit you should be scared. Somehow, you aren’t, and you just want him to use you the way that he wants.

“I don’t know”, you whisper.

“Bend down”, he orders.

You nod, facing the couch until your chest is pressed against the back rest. You hold yourself up with a knee propped on the side of the couch, and your eyes turn to Yoongi. He’s holding his dick, jerking off slower than his usual. Probably because he’s already too close to coming.

You jerk forward as Jungkook lands another slap to your ass. It stings, and he parts your cheeks to reveal your asshole to him again. One of his hands moves between your legs, collecting your juice as he dips two fingers inside of you again. Once he thinks his digits to be lubricated enough, Jungkook pulls out and moves them to your asshole. He seems to hesitate for a time, and you bite your lips as you hear him spit, and the blob of saliva lands on your hole a second later.

Only then does Jungkook push his fingers inside your ass. He fingers it slowly, with scissoring motions that make your legs tremble, but you hold on strong. You keep holding Yoongi’s gaze for as long as you can, but when Jungkook adds a third finger, you lose the battle against your drooping eyelids.

The feeling is foreign. It doesn’t feel as good as when he was fingering your pussy earlier. Yet it makes you clench your pussy around nothing, makes clear juice collect around the entrance again, until you’re dripping on Yoongi under you.

Jungkook starts going faster, and when he slaps your ass with his free hand you moan loudly, hiding your face in the couch cushion. You wince when Jungkook pulls you by the hair, forcing you to look at Yoongi again.

“Look at him”, he commands. “You’re going to have his cock deep inside your ass soon.”

Yoongi is jerking himself faster than before when you finally are able to open your eyes. His jaw is clenched hard, and you can see a vein popping in his neck. You reach between the two of you, and he lets you grab his dick, though you only offer him a slow job as you’re too weak from Jungkook’s ministrations.

Jungkook takes that as a cue to pull his fingers out of your ass.

“Sit on him.”

You’re slow to obey. Yoongi sits up a little to help you, and a moment later you sit on him reverse-cowgirl style. You look up at Jungkook, waiting for his next order, but surprisingly enough Yoongi acts on his own. He angles his dick with your ass, moving it between your cheeks twice before settling it against the ring of muscle.

You wait for Jungkook to give you permission, and when he nods you sink down on Yoongi.

His dick is far bigger than Jungkook’s three fingers. It hurts a little more, even though Yoongi took the time to use his spit as lube before he aligned his dick with your ass. You wince, but you refuse to close your eyes, holding Jungkook’s gaze until Yoongi is deep inside of you.

“What a fucking pretty picture”, Jungkook murmurs.

Yoongi lies back down, bringing you with him. He puts his feet up on the couch, to give himself leverage so he can slowly move in and out of your ass. Never fully leaving you empty, but always keeping a steady rhythm. The initial discomfort slowly melts into pleasure, and your hand moves between your legs, until you’re drawing circles on your clit.

Jungkook surveys you for a moment before he decides to join the fun. It’s a little awkward at first, as he positions himself, but soon enough he’s kneeling between both your legs and Yoongi’s. He spits in his hand, rubbing his palm on the head of his dick for a few seconds as his eyes fall to the spot where Yoongi is slowly fucking you. He must like what he sees, because his features turn hungry.

He’s going to wreck you.

Jungkook positions himself at your entrance. He uses his dick to rub on your clit a few times, and you bite down on your lip as he does it. It feels good, better than you thought it would, but you’re pretty sure that’s just because Yoongi is still fucking your ass, and your body is craving for more. Jungkook’s features soften as he meets your gaze, but when he starts pushing in, your eyes shut.

It hurts. A lot. Yoongi stills inside of you as you let out a pained sound. Jungkook gives you a moment to adjust, and then he’s pushing in a little more. The tip is fully in by the time he stops again, and you’re panting as Yoongi holds you tight to his chest. He runs a soothing hand on your side, and you take a deep breath to try and relax.

You startle when a hand cups your cheek, making your eyes fly open. It’s Jungkook, and he makes sure you’re looking at him, solely focused on his gaze, before he finishes thrusting in.

You weren’t wrong. He’s enormous inside of you. Way bigger than Yoongi. But you don’t know if the feeling is confused because Yoongi’s dick is still up your ass. You feel so full you think you might explode. Jungkook gently runs his thumb on your cheek, and you take a deep breath in time with him. You slowly breathe it out, and the ache between your legs slowly changes.

It still hurts, but not as much, and you nod slowly to indicate to Jungkook that you’re ready. He’s gentle as he pulls out, before thrusting all the way in once again. You moan, and everything clenches around the two dicks. Yoongi tightens his hold on your middle, fingers digging in your ribs. He’s probably going to come without even having to move, his body succumbing to all the edging you and Jungkook gave him.

It takes a moment for your pussy to adjust. But it eventually does. Jungkook sees the change in you, and he grabs your waist carefully as he gets ready to pound into you. He’s not quite ready to do it yet though.

“Hyung, why don’t you fill her ass with your come?” he says. “You like it, uh? When I fuck into her like that?”

Yoongi curses again. “Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s willing for you to come now”, Jungkook continues.

You nod. “Please come for me, baby.”

Jungkook clenches his jaw at the pet name, but his eyes roll to the back of his head as Yoongi starts moving again. And then Jungkook is thrusting in you, in synch with Yoongi, and all you can focus on is the spot between your legs. The two cocks spearing you, fucking into you relentlessly until you’re on the verge of another orgasm.

You’re a moaning mess. Both men also moan their share, being vocal in their pleasure. Yoongi is the first one to reach his high between the three of you. He stills deep inside of you, releasing his hot seed in your ass as Jungkook keeps fucking into you. The latter must see you’re on the verge of coming undone too, because he reaches between your bodies, until his thumb is rubbing on your clit.

You come next, painting Yoongi’s pelvic white as his come drips from your ass. You don’t remember when he pulled out, but the feeling joined with Jungkook’s thumb brought you to your orgasm, and it hits you with a renewed intensity. It blurs your vision, turning it fully white, and there’s ringing in your ears when you finally fall from the high.

Jungkook hasn’t come yet. He waits until you’re looking at him again, and his hand wraps around your throat as he leans forward, just to hit a better angle for himself. And then he’s coming too, ropes and ropes of his seed that he plants deep inside of you, barely even slowing his rhythm. He milks his orgasm inside of you, with knitted brows and his teeth digging in his lower lip. It almost looks painful, and you reach up to pull his lip free of his teeth.

Only then does he still inside of you, though his dick twitches a few times again before it finally rests too.

There’s nothing but the sound of breathing for a time. From Yoongi beneath you and Jungkook above you. Your own breath is ragged, and you’re not sure you have blinked since Jungkook has come. Your eyes are lost in his, and you drink in the emotions that pass in his gaze.

You wonder if it’s regret that makes him pull away until all you can watch is his profile as he sits on the other side of the couch. You feel his seed roll down your pussy, sliding over your sensitive hole until it drips on Yoongi, mixing with his own come.

It’s sinful. What you did tonight is sinful, and your body is already sore from it. But as Yoongi presses a kiss on the back of your shoulder, you know you would do it all again.

It takes a moment before Yoongi lets you go. He always holds you after you’ve done the deed. It’s something that’s always been important to the two of you. But it feels a little unfair today, because Jungkook is sitting on his side of the couch and he looks infinitely lonely over there. So you sit up, moving off of Yoongi until he can sit up too.

“Do you guys want a glass of water?” you ask.

“Please”, Jungkook answers, and Yoongi nods once when you meet his gaze.

You get up from the couch with shaky legs, and you wince as you feel more come roll down your thighs. You bend down to grab Yoongi’s shirt, pulling it over your head, and then you’re off to clean yourself and grab water for the two men.

When you come back from your trip to the bathroom and the kitchen, you’re hit with the smell of sex that clings to the living room. You’d open the windows right away if you didn’t know how cold it is outside, so you instead move to the boys to offer them their glasses.

Both of them have put their pants back on, and Jungkook is holding his shirt in his lap, looking at it with a troubled expression. If they have talked while you were gone, they’re now completely silent.

“Here”, you say as you hand the glasses.

Yoongi grabs his and gulps it down in long sips, while Jungkook barely looks up at his before taking it. It takes him a few seconds before he’s drinking, and you turn your head away from his pretty features to look at your boyfriend instead.

Yoongi is already looking at you. He offers you a loving smile, the one he reserves just for you. It makes you smile too, filling your chest with warmth as you move towards him, until you’re sitting on his lap with your arms wrapped around his neck. Jungkook takes that as a cue to put his shirt on, and he sighs heavily before glancing at the two of you.

“Didn’t expect this would ever happen in my life”, he admits, and a tired smile moves on his lips.

If you hadn’t seen the troubled expression on his features a moment ago, you would almost think Jungkook is happy and satisfied at the moment. The latter might be true, but there’s sadness surrounding Jungkook. Something you don’t think you’re supposed to be the one to fix.

“Thank you”, Yoongi says.

You turn your head to look at him, as Jungkook lets out a small laugh. “Anytime, hyung.”

“Both for the whiskey and the sex”, Yoongi adds as a joke, and this time Jungkook’s laugh rings truer.

You talk a little, letting the afterglow of the sex carry you through a conversation about everything and nothing. You partake in it, though you’re getting tired. The two orgasms that those men pulled out of you are taking their toll on you, and soon enough, you’re yawning with your head resting against Yoongi’s shoulder.

Jungkook chuckles. “I’ll take that as a cue that I should go.” He gets up, stretching lazily. His shirt hikes up a little to reveal a sliver of his skin, and you feel hot all over again at the thought that you had sex with him.

Jeon Jungkook just manhandled both you and Yoongi as if it’s nothing to him.

You follow him up, walking to the door with him. Yoongi walks behind you, his fingers finding your hand and holding it gently as you lean against the wall in the hall. You watch as Jungkook puts his shoes on, before grabbing his biker helmet that he left next to the door.

“So”, he breathes out, and a small chuckle follows the word. “I’ll see you two around?”

He’s looking at you as he says the words. You offer him a small smile. “I hope you didn’t think you’d get rid of us so easily.”

The unease that has seemed to be clinging to Jungkook slides away, replaced by relief. Did he think you were going to drop your friendship with him?

“Of course not”, he denies. “Even if tonight was unexpected…” he trails off.

“It was fun?” Yoongi provides.

Jungkook nods his head, and his eyes flit to Yoongi besides you. “We should do it again.”

Yoongi’s fingers tighten around yours, the only indication that he would want it too. But he’s letting you choose what to reply.

A smirk casts a mischievous look on your features, and you barely hesitate before saying, “Let’s meet up again sometime next week”.

Teaser | Next

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Ooooooooof yeah. That was... yeah. I’m sorry for sinning so hard haha but thank you for coming down to hell with me :’) I’m wondering, will you guys like seeing more of this couple/throuple?? If so, please let me know by following this link! Also, don’t be afraid to leave feedback, it’s always appreciated!!

Taglist: (add yourself to the taglist here)

@chimchimmarie | @pamzn | @the-boy-meets-evil | @sugarwithtea

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moreespressoformydepresso · 5 months

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Imagine if, while in the zoo, the tributes of the 10th hunger games had spent their time bonding and at some point kinda joked about escaping together? And they all thought out exit strategies and such and even the word they’d use as signal to initiate the plans. They discuss who’s good at what, jokingly dividing tasks between them, with Wovey, Bobbin, and Mizzen getting the task of “stay behind us and don’t die” because they’re the youngest. No one really takes it seriously, they just use the fantasy to escape their horrid reality for a second because it’s nice to imagine all of them can make it out alive, even if they know that’s not the case.

Then the arena bombings happen

Otto and Ginnee probably still die, since they died from schrapnel, but Panlo and Sheaf were far enough away to still be conscious and moving around (that last part is mostly because of adrenaline). Everyone’s caught off-guard, but someone (probably Coral) sees their chance and screams the word they discussed, and all tributes jump into action. Jessup and Lucy Gray still save their respective mentors, but because the tributes are working together the peacekeepers have been taken out so there’s no one to drag them away. Instead, all 21 remaining tributes book it as fast as they can and manage to escape the area before reinforcements arrive. They are now on the run, and cannot show their faces without getting shot on sight, but they’re alive and that’s what matters. Mizzen, Sheaf, and Treech are the best thieves of the group (Mizzen’s small and fast (he was just closer to the snakes than everyone else shut up), Sheaf is described as "a limber little girl", and Treech sneakily stole Dill’s water bottles. That’s my evidence. Also they need more love) and thus go out to scrap together anything that may be helpful.

They, being the overachieving badasses they are, get their hands on futuristic medicine to cure Dill’s tuberculosis faster than the real world ever could and help Hy manage his asthma (because it’s chronic, there’s no way they can find a cure for that just lying around even in the future). I say they’re overachieving, because Sheaf did the back handspring for food, Treech only died because of Lucy’s cheating (still getting 6th(movie)/3d(book) place, and he definitely would’ve killed her and been a real contender for the win if she hadn’t cheated), and Mizzen is 13. A 13-year-old got 5th(book)/4th(movie) place. I rest my case.

They use the newfound supplies to heal their wounds and disinfect them, Jessup doesn’t get rabies because I make the rules here, and things are good. They spend a while utilizing their unique skills to stay hidden until one of two things happen:

1) the mentors, who have gotten quite attached to their assigned tributes, fight for the games to be disbanded and rally the rest of the academy, leading to a better Panem where the Capitol and the districts become a functioning, not-dystopian nation again and everything ends well.

2) the tributes manage to escape the capitol and flee into the woods, letting Lucy Grey lead them to the Covey because ain’t no way they can just go back to their own districts just yet. The covey, being nomadic, is the best place for them to stay until they’ve grown up enough to be unrecognizable from their child selves to anyone who doesn’t actually know them.

Either way, things are better. I wanted to share this because I’m sad that all these wonderful (fictional) children died for the amusement of genuine monsters (and those indoctrinated to believe district people are not people)

Edit because a lot of new people are liking this post: someone wrote it :)

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yorshie · 11 months

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Bayverse Headcanons

Just some headcanons I keep in mind when I'm writing bayverse. Will probably come back and add more as I decide on them.

Leonardo

Height/weight: 6’2”, 670lbs

Theme song : Loyal by ODESZA

Ambidextrous but if he needs to punch someone he uses his right hand

Has a dry sense of humor, more little quips and witty one liners than anything planned

Turns into a bit of a caveman when you’re in danger. He catches you going someplace dangerous? Straight to turtle jail for 1000 years. You don’t wanna be picked up and carried to safety? Too bad, it’s happening

Is the King of small touches. A hand on your back, a nudge of his knuckles to get you moving. Mr. soft eyes and low voice when he wants to get his way

Still gets into arguments with Raph. Sometimes they still dissolve into fisticuffs.

References vines to the horror of his brothers (his fav is “road work ahead”)

No one will play Risk with him because even if he’s losing he somehow bleeds everyone dry

Has a gameboy with exactly one game, Harvest Moon: Friends of Mineral Town. All his animals have names like "Bob" or "Tilda"

can't cook, is banned from the kitchen, once set water on fire.

reads science fiction, fantasy and sagas a lot, though if you pay attention to his books the covers are sometimes swapped and it's almost always poetry or romances.

Not a big fan of PDA. Will give you a snoot boop or a chaste forehead kiss in public, but anything more is off limits. What’s that? You wanna snuggle? You better hope none of his brothers walk in because this turtle might panic and shove you off his lap in a snap decision instinct. You wanna go to his room? The scandal. What will everyone think? Fine, but he’ll ninja you in there. No one will know or see. Ninja silent. Except- Donnie will know. Donnie will see. Because he was sitting in the chair right next to you two and you both somehow forgot he was there.

Hogs the bed. And the covers. And the pillows. Basically if you want any bed commodity you better be prepared to snuggle

If you want him to watch tv that’s not sports it’s gotta be some older saga or classic that you actually have to pay attention to. Loves black and white martial arts movies. You once caught him hugging a pillow and watching Princess Mononoke with tears in his eyes.

Will just stare at the person who asked him to kill a little harmless spider before leaving the room

Donatello

Height/Weight: 6’8”/ 680lbs

Theme Song: Frequency by Tim Wolf

Left handed

Donnie is THE sarcastic little shit.

He realizes quickly that while Leo has softness, and Raph is filthy, he doesn’t need to stoop to theatrics to get what he wants. He just has to make eye contact, tilt his head, and tell you in a calm, plain voice what he desires, and it works.

Can’t keep his attention on one thing for a long period of time, or has to have multiple stimuli going on to keep focus. King of multitasking

The turtle most likely to curse

Can’t sleep without a nightlight and either music or a movie

Listens to filthy music when he’s working.

The others gang up on him during trivia night to give everyone else a chance

the adrenaline junkie

one time he got Leo's tea mixed up with his coffee and he spat the substance clear across the Lair.

can cook but it's kinda bland. Can't bake to save his life, despite arguing with every failed cake like it’s out to get him: “it’s science why won’t you work??!”

hasn't opened a real book since the invention of the internet. Has a library of hard drives with the subject matter clearly labeled in alphabetical order. Mikey doesn't know about it and thus it has stayed relatively in order.

Doesn’t use his bed much, so the upside is you always have room to stretch out. Bad news is, if you want this turtle to get any decent sleep, you have to figure out how to keep him trapped enough where he can’t move without waking you up. And he’s a ninja.

Donnie likes to watch informative things. Like how it’s made, or unsolved mysteries. His crack show though? Cryptid hunters. He’ll laugh himself silly over people trying to trap Bigfoot or corner Mothman

The one that kills spiders

Raphael

Height/Weight: 6’5”/ 720lbs

Theme Song: Don’t Get in My Way by Zack Hemsey

Right handed

Turtle has a MOUTH and he is not afraid to open it to to get what he wants. Absolutely filthy when he wants to be.

Will turn into a little melted turtle puddle if someone is sweet to him. Doesn’t really turn to butter over words, but actions will get him every time.

Watches crocodile hunter and golden girls when no one else is awake. Loves animal documentaries, and zoboomafoo

Rough around the edges when it comes to heartfelt affection or feelings. With seduction he’s smooth, but telling someone he genuinely cares for them? Good luck stringing two words together my dude.

Prefers silence or listening when hanging out with someone. He’s slow with his input, careful with what he says. You’re winning if you can make him laugh

in the kitchen he’s either making the most disgusting looking thing that tastes fucking amazing or he’s grilling. Doesn’t tell anyone he learned how to make bread watching Julia Childe.

If he's doing something dangerous or something stupid, the worse thing you could say is along the line of "Leo said-" like, congrats, you just made sure he's gonna do the thing everyone knows he shouldn't. Flip side, he's trying to talk you out of doing something? Just sigh and say "ok, guess I'll go ask Leo-" Boom. Thing is done. Is it healthy? no. Does it work? yes.

Is the most considerate when it comes to sleepy time. He’ll make sure you have your own pillow, own blankets. He sleeps on his stomach and doesn’t move much, and is large enough that you could sleep tucked under the lip of his shell without fear of being squashed

Not the one to call if you see a spider. He will scream

Michelangelo

Height/weight: 6’0”/ 640lbs

Theme Song: Handclap by Fitz and the Tantrums

Right handed but if he puts his mind to it he can use his left equally for everything but writing

Is legally obligated to use cheesy pick up lines, and is a Talker

Uses lollipops and hard candy to keep his focus, bit of an oral fixation

completely ruins heartfelt moments by getting sidetracked. Can be giving the mushiest compliments then in the next breath go "so you gonna eat that leftover cake in your fridge or nah?"

Changes nicknames for you on a semi-weekly basis just to keep you on your toes and to annoy his brothers

Prankster extraordinare

Can cook, but like the annoying ‘these are the worst ingredients to combine and somehow this tastes good and I'm going to sue you over telling me what's in this’

Is the best with understanding emotions and expressing himself. Yes, Leo might be better reading body language, but Mikey has empathy over why someone might react a certain way, not just 'if I do y then x happens'

Will push buttons to see how much he can bug someone

The one most likely to help you sneak out and get up to shit. Also the one most likely to get you two caught.

Makes up song lyrics when he doesn't know the actual words. Will change them to suit his needs, or how badly he wants to tick off his brothers. Not sure who would get the MOST annoyed by wrong lyrics on purpose, but you just know he has a different set fine tuned for each brother

His bed is basically a storage container for pillows and blankets. Which is good, because he is a serial cuddler, and if you need space to sleep you’ve got plenty of pillows to act as a body double if needs be

Loves soap operas, iron chef, diners drive-ins and dives. The more drama is in it, the more he eats it up. He and Raph bond over Golden Girls once the bigger brother realized he wasn’t going to get teased over it

Will pick up the spider to show you it’s not something to be scared of

#tmnt headcanons #tmnt bayverse #tmnt bayverse headcanons #bayverse leonardo #bayverse donatello #bayverse raphael #bayverse michelangelo #my writing snippets

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The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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

The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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