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yourlocaltreesimp · 2 months

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Covering BOTW!Link in kisses pretty please (> <)

Yeah, I can do that!

I made this surprisingly angsty (though if you’re not new around here that may be less shocking) so be warned.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

For someone with such an utterly distinct lack of memory, Wild often found himself drowning within them. Fleeting snippets of vision or audio cut in and out, warped and distorted beyond anything he can truly grasp at. One second he’d be laughing alongside his brothers, but when his eyes blinked he’d be a century in the last. Oftentimes after the phantom arms of his previous life embraced him, he felt less than who he was before. his smiles dulled and heart weighed down. As if knowing more about who he was then made him less of who he was now. As if the two sentiences couldn’t coexist.

It was a quiet night, humid with the onset of summer. The fireflies —lightning bugs as Twilight called them— dancing lofty paths amidst the air. Sat side by side, the champion absorbed the fable. At first it seemed rather childish, the idea of two wolves within oneself fighting to make the forefront. But the longer he went on the more it resonated. The mental image as one sneers and snaps, barring its ugly teeth in unwavering violent truth. All while the other dodges and uses the violent’s strength against itself, all while denying its own violent nature.

Allegorically it was good versus bad, overindulgence against suppression. The idea that to overindulge, to snap, to be reckless would lead to being taken advantage of. Wild knew why Twilight thought the story relevant to him. He knew that whenever he’d turn his back on his enemies to support that it wasn’t viewed as loyalty. He knew that there was lots to lose, and they couldn’t afford another injury. He knew Twi didn’t want to see him fall into a similar circumstance. But he knew he couldn’t afford to fail again. He couldn’t fall short. He can’t lose someone close again.

Where externally he was viewed as the former, he internally found himself in the latter of cases. He fought the battle between the whispers of the others in contrast to his own thoughts of himself. Left with the residual pressure to be nothing short of perfect, to be The Hero of Time, to be worthy of the title and the land and the fate and the soul. The yearning to simply live and be without the burden of his own guilt, to be Link, to be your lover and accept the love without feeling indebted.

He didn’t realise Twilight had left.

His head swims and he feels clammy as he curls up, deciding aimlessly that it’s time to sleep. His feet lead him inside his house and he can hardly even stumble up the loft. Someone else can sort dinner.

Any sense of sensibility is muddled and mixed. Time does not matter, nor the relevancy if his mind.

He stares back at the shards of his past life, his chipped reflection in each mirror, and can’t help but wonder who he’d be if he were just Link.

Or would he be even anything at all if not a hero?

What was it that he truly was?

Mipha had written that he was a rather rowdy child, eager to take on the world with nothing more than a stick in hand. Then, he held no care for being proper. Wide grin and leaves in his hair, he was happy. Perhaps that was the most of himself he could ever be. Perhaps that was the reason he finds himself wandering aimlessly now. Perhaps that is his nature.

The records of many soldiers he fought alongside depicted him as the prime standard of the military. Those days were cold, and he just remembered how much he hurt. The ache of every muscle and bruise, every drill, every spar, every battle, every day spent alive that was spent suffering. His ability to cut down any monster or man with any weapon. His instinct and ability to hurt was primed until he now questions if that little boy who splashed around in rivers and threw handfuls of mud had retreated into the cold hands of death. The soldiers’ mirage of him is idyllic, but holds distressingly true to his own memory.

Perhaps that is why his mind is clear and quiet with weapon in hand and a body beneath his feet.

He dreams of musty stables and bare campgrounds, both places the since passed versions of himself would’ve spent a night at. The smell of dirt and dust is accompanied by the crackle of a fire as drunken men sing out of tune.

The littlest curled up as his teeth chattered, the chipped tooth whistling as he exhaled. A warm hand settles on his shoulders as his father drapes another thin blanket over him. He does not yet know this means his father will go without warmth.

The soldier tossing and turning, unable to relax even long enough to sleep. He too his tormented by the potential of falling. He does not yet know what’s to come. He does not yet know there’s nothing to be done.

The scene shifts and he is at the castle. It’s his first time and his eyes shine as he follows his father closely, following hot on his feet with a giddy grin.

It is his home. His work. His life. He follows the princess closely, just far enough to not make himself overbearing. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not fail.

The colours fade and mix and blur, the dreamscape shifting oncemore. It’s raining. It pitters across his shoulders as he kicks up the puddles, scaring the stray cuccos from the stable not too far away. His father fusses over the sword he’d found, and he can hardly muster the strength to swing it against the base of the apple tree. He results in climbing up the twisted limbs, collecting extra ripe apples to ease his father’s worries. The wet bark gives no grip to his feet and he falls to the ground, winded next to the funny blue sword. It glints and chirps and when he catches his breath he laughs back.

It’s storming. The grass smells wet and irony. The bloody mud cakes his boots as his foot falls brace against the ground. His arms lock as he flings his shield to the side, the guardian falling to disrepair. His shield lay broken. He can see his strained face in the dirty reflection. He doesn’t like the man staring back. The rain pelts across his back and the lightning shakes the ground. His muffled ears pick up Zelda’s distress as another guardian climbs up the mound of soul. He draws his sword. He didn’t even know if it were possible to deflect a guardian laser with a blade. But he can’t fail now. Not after everything. A flash of blue light overtakes his vision as his limbs slacken.

He shoots awake with a familiar tightness in his chest, his scars itching and burning. He writhes beneath his own skin as he kicks the covers off, the cold air seizing him. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he wheezes. His vision tunnels and it feels as if he’s dying again.

Why can’t it just be over.

When will he finally be enough— if not for the sake of the world then to at least save himself?

Or maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He couldn’t save all those innocent people. Castle town, Deya, Lon Lon? Who was he to demand he was worth saving?

He hacks and coughs before even trying to look at his surroundings. Through the mixed screaming within his mind he gathers a few realisations. He’s alive. He’s home. You’re curled up beside him, reaching for his warmth. His hands tremble as they reach towards his uneven hairline, grabbing a fistful and tugging. The pain stings, he feels more than awake as his heart races.

“Mm- Link?” You mumbled against his side, awoken by the cold lack of covers. Guilt fills his throat again until he can’t breathe. He’s supposed to help you, to love you, to be of use. Not be such a burden. But here he is again, making it about him. Making your life worse and demanding comfort like a child.

“Heyheyhey- It’s ok, you’re safe” Your voice was as soft and gentle as your touch as you cradled his cheek. He didn’t even realise he was crying. Why was he crying? Who’d want a hero who cries like a coward in the face of a danger that isn’t even real? You collect his hands together, loosening his grip from his hair and running your thumbs across his knuckles. His head stirs as you speak, and he can’t make out anything of what you are saying. His ears ring, more than usual, drowning out any sound.

“Breathe with me, ok?” He nods weakly after you repeat yourself for the third or fourth time. He tries his best, his ribs shuddering before he could fully breathe in, but no longer deprived of oxygen, his head stops swimming as much.

It’s a while of sitting there, hands in your lap as you calm him down in whatever way he quietly requests. It’s so odd. Being raised to serve and to give and being taught through experience that your worth lies in your deeds… to suddenly being the one catered to. It still feels as if asking to be loved is forbidden. That his purpose comes before all requirement and survival. Somedays it still feels like death would come before he would be comfortable. But it took many long nights and longer days spent having uncomfortable conversations before he realised he still had a chance, only if he chose to make one for himself.

At some point he lets himself settle. He sinks into the now cool mattress as you stare into his eyes. He feels a flicker of shame before your hands are back on his jaw and you're pressing light kisses to his skin. Both temples, forehead, each freckle on the apple of his cheeks, crooked nose, the tip of his burn scar, the cut in his chin. You pull back for a moment to admire what you’ve made of him through the years. He smiles, lopsided and as giddy as he was in childhood. You press an eager kiss to his lips, giggling throughout.

He may be lost within the maze of his own mind, a man held hostage to himself, but despite being a failure by his own previous standards, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s enough for you.

#firreplies #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #x reader #lu wildxreader #lu wild #yes i got inspo for his panic attack by my own #no i’m not ok #yes they do hurt #no i’m not in therapy #do any of you read these?#if you do you get a gold star #⭐️

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gallifreyanhotfive · 2 months

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Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 45

The Doctor owes Casanova a chicken because he helped save the world by making out with one of the most decorated Sontaran generals (thus giving the Doctor time to blow stuff up). (Audio: The House of Masks)

Braxiatel will one day have his own K9. It will be given to him by a friend he hasn't met yet. (Audio: Weapon of Choice)

Braxiatel owns a bar in the 27th century called the White Rabbit. (Audio: Everyone Loves Irving)

Fitz Kreiner once described the TARDIS kitchen as being a cross between a medieval kitchen and Frankenstein's laboratory. (Novel: Autumn Mist)

By some accounts, Morgaine is an alternate universe version of the Master where there were Magic Lords instead of Time Lords. (Novel: The Monster Vault)

The Forge is an English intelligence organization that often experiments with nonhuman lifeforms for their own purposes. Their Project Lazarus was the Doctor; they wanted to find a way to replicate regeneration. (Audio: Project: Lazarus)

Mickey and Martha encountered the Ninth Doctor, Rose, and Jack after they got married. Mickey had sent the Doctor a message to get some help because Martha was transforming into a Gargoyle. Both of them were quite annoyed that Mickey had managed to get the "wrong" Doctor. (Comic: The Transformed)

The Doctor speaks cow (telepathically, of course, because doing so verbally would be silly). (Audio: The End)

Quiquaequod is an alternate version of the Eighth Doctor who was a wizard. He summoned fire to defeat Darcoul, but he accidentally caught his apprentice's cape on fire. His apprentice then burned to death in front of him. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

An alternate version of the Master that traveled with the Doctor was an android (that the Doctor had built to save him). His face kept on falling off. (TV/Novel: Scream of the Shalka)

There are legends that the Web of Time was woven by time spiders, but they were killed when the Time Lords started exploring the vortex. Occasionally, they had to do pest control as one would pop up every now and then. (Audio: The End)

The Master had a sword fight with the Eighth Doctor and ended up stabbing him in the chest. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

Addison Delamar once tried to auction off the Ninth Doctor's memories, so he instead broadcasted them to everyone. They were all so overwhelmed by his grief that they ran away. (Comic: The Bidding War)

Attending this auction was the Church of the Evergreen Man, who consider the Doctor to be a Messiah. They called him "the Prophet, blessed be his divine countenance." (Comic: The Bidding War)

The Church of the Evergreen Man also maintained the Oakdown Gallery, where the only confirmed painting of the Master is. (Short story: Dalek: The Astounding Untold History of the Greatest Enemies of the Universe)

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billthedrake · 4 months

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Note: This is a hypnosis story co-written with @josmith1718

THE PROTOCAL (CHAPTER THREE)

I woke up the next day to find the bed empty again. I don’t know what it was, but I usually woke up early with Dad and we both had breakfast before heading to our jobs. This weekend, it seemed as though I was catching up on the sleep I had not been having because of the increased workload from the promotion. I was also sleeping like a baby because of dad’s increased libido and his breakthrough, finally let me go there... have a taste of that beautiful furry ass. I was already sporting morning wood, feeling like a teenager again when I realized I should get up and see what was on today’s docket.

I roused up and slipped on some shorts and a T-shirt. The dildo was there on the nightstand but cleaned and standing up, like Dad had set it ready for future use.

I padded down the hall and saw the door to my office was closed. I realized Dad must have been doing another session with the Company when I heard him talking with the Tech Bro. I didn’t know he’d scheduled anything, but I figured he’d fill me in later. Meanwhile I went to fix some coffee for us, hopefully he would not be in there too long.

I checked my phone and saw the email from the Company:

"Hello Kyle,

I hope the Protocol is going well for you! Just checking in to see if everything has been going well with you and Brian. Let me know if you’d like to have a virtual follow up. We like to make sure our customers are finding success in their lives after using our service.

The Company"

They were definitely getting a five-star rating!

Dad finally came out, a relaxed smile on his face.

"Morning son," he greeted me. I was surprised he had done his consultation shirtless, but it was the weekend, no need to be so formal.

"Hey Dad. You talked to the Company?" I asked as I got our mugs out and ready for the coffee. He looked at me, smiling before nodding, "Yep. It was a debriefing consultation to make sure everything was going well."

I leaned on the counter, eyes heavy on him, smiling, "And...?"

A part of me was still worried Dad might think it was not working or it was a hoax. Every time I put him under, I always ensured he was unaware that he went under, so how could he even know if he was actually being hypnotized?

He grinned. "And... I’m getting some incredible sex. Having you eat me out was incredible. I guess I had too many hang ups to realize how good it could be. Not sure if it’s like the placebo effect because I haven’t done anything except for listening to those audio files. A month ago, I would not have let you near my backdoor and last night you ate me out and shoved a dildo in me and it wasn’t bad. I actually enjoyed it.” He grinned, blushing a bit. He was adorable.

"It was amazing for me, too, Dad."

Dad had a knowing smirk as he walked towards me. He gave me a kiss and then lowered his shorts and turned around, bracing himself on the island.

"I, um, cleaned myself out again, son... you think you could rim me?” He blushed.

My first thought was uh oh, I created a horny monster. My second thought was fuck it, Dad’s ass is meaty as hell, and I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in there and munch away.

I crouched down and grabbed those meaty cheeks, slapping them a bit. Dad let out a small grunt.

“You have such an amazing ass, dad. Beautiful, muscled, hairy... a real man’s ass.” It was like tawdry newlywed sex, fucking around with Dad in every room of the house.

The man reached back and parted his buns. Dad’s trench was hairy and I loved that Irish Spring smell and the way his hairs there were almost fluffy soft. I licked the crevice. Dad liked that, but he LOVED it when my tongue made contact with his pucker.

"Oh God, son. Rim me, buddy.... Aw yeah, just like that."

Like the night before, he hiked his ass back and rode my face. But unlike the night before I had a good position to grip his ass to hold him steady when I wanted to power drill that hole with my tongue.

I probably alternated my rim approach and ate him out for ten solid minutes before I pulled back. I pressed a finger against his ring and watched it sink in. Deeper than that dildo last night. I wondered if Dad played with that toy while I was asleep, practicing as I slept next to him, unaware that my old man was fucking himself in preparation for my cock. Fuck, that turned me on, and I tried inserting two fingers with some extra spit. It was too much but Dad loved the combo of one finger inside and one finger along the outside of the ring.

"Come on buddy, stand up," he finally said. Not angry or scared about my exploration of his ass. He sounded out of breath, "Your turn stud, let me take care of you."

I pulled back and did what he asked as I pulled down my shorts. I had a pretty good idea I was going to be getting serviced by Dad.

“I think you may be obsessed with my ass just like I’m with your cock, huh.”

He was such a great cocksucker, something I would never say aloud to him. I don’t think we were there yet, but the man gave the best head. He knew exactly what I liked, and my favorite was how he would be on his knees with his eyes on me, looking up at my reaction to gauge how fast or slow he should go.

Of course, Dad did not disappoint with his performance. The big beefy guy got on his haunches and just went to town on my dong. I still remember the first time he blew me and surprised me at how amazing it was to have my father’s lips and tongue and throat on my cock. It just got better with the longer he and I fooled around. Steady bobs as he gave the base of my shaft a slight twist with his hand. The man was a milking machine and every time he sucked me off, it made me feel like the only man in the world.

"Oh SHIT!" I cried when dad deepthroated me out of nowhere. I was already horned up and had my eyes closed with my hands on his shoulders, rubbing them as he did his thing. The deepthroating was unexpected and that tripped my wire and got me firing my morning load.

Dad gulped it down expertly and stayed with my cock in his mouth while I rode the orgasm, which went on longer than usual. I had to pat his hair, urging him to slow down and finally pull off. He had a big grin when he did.

"That going to last ya, buddy?" He asked as he got up, his cock obscenely stretching the fabric of his shorts.

"How long does it have to...?” I nervously asked. I was already thinking of an afternoon quickie. If my dad’s ex thought he had a crazy libido, I must’ve inherited it as well and then some. I was ready to jump him again as he scratched his pec and with his thumb cleaned a bit of cum on his chin before putting it in his mouth and sucking it off.

"At least till tonight," he laughed at my reaction watching him suck off his thumb with remnants of my cum. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, "Go ahead and shower up son. I’ll fix some breakfast."

“Don’t you want to come and shower with me instead?” I asked as I tried to grab his cock.

He laughed and slapped my hand away before he spun me around and held me in his arms, “We’ll run out of the hot water if I go in with you, bud.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and then slapped my ass, “Get in the shower, son, that’s a fatherly order.”

“Yes sir.” I did a half ass salute and left.

****

Later that morning, I set up in my office and met the Tech Bro for a consultation. Their customer service was exceptional. I replied to his email and within minutes, we had set up this meeting for the same day.

It was a great conversation. I was a little embarrassed to talk about all the sex stuff, but I figured that’s why we went with these guys. So, I told him about the progress with rimming and toy play.

Tech Bro gave me an "attaboy" smirk. "Glad to hear, Kyle. Is that what you wanted to get out of this?"

He knew there was more both sexually and otherwise, but I was hesitant to admit it.

"A lot of it, yeah," I replied, "I don’t wanna push D—uh, Brian to do something he doesn’t wanna do." I almost referred to him as Dad but had to stop myself.

"Like I mentioned before, Kyle, this just taps into Brian’s deeper desires, not run against them. Keep reminding yourself that if he doesn’t want to do something, he will not do them."

As he explained, I noticed Tech Bro was wearing a slim-cut navy suit without a tie. But my attention was drawn to his pocket square. I don’t know why I was so focused on that. Maybe because it looked old fashioned. Or something my CEO would wear or something. Or maybe it was just the pattern.

"Good," Tech Bro said. "You feel confident with the Protocol going forward." More of a statement rather than a question.

"Yeah," I responded confidently, "It took me a while to get the hang of it, but Brian seems really receptive and that helps."

Tech Bro smiled and nodded, "I’ve not met a more receptive subject in a long time Kyle."

I was strangely proud of that comment and a bit horny. I would definitely need Dad to help me out if he wasn’t tired or busy. I absentmindedly rubbed my crotch until we finished.

"Well, you guys are the best," I gushed.

He laughed, "Always glad to hear a customer is happy."

We wrapped up and signed off. I felt a little lazy that afternoon and though my cock was straining my shorts, my tiredness won out and I took a nap while Dad watched golf.

***

I hated Sunday evenings, since it meant the end of the week, but it had been an amazing, relaxing and unforgettable weekend with Dad. I sometimes worried if I’d ever get sick of this domestic life with my father. I smiled and decided no, I would never get sick of being with Dad. Only wish I could openly show him off as my husband rather than just my father...

I did the dishes after dinner, and he put them away. As he was finished with the last one, I dropped the trigger word. No need to have the theatrics of waiting it out or planning. After the conversation with the tech bro, I owned it, using the trigger that made dad into this beautiful zonked out hunk wherever we were.

"Power down."

Dad entered that relaxing state easily and readily.

Before, I’d been focused on specifics, but now, it was like a switch in mind shifted and now, I just wanted to get him under.

"You are in that white room, Brian." I said with confidence.

I was getting hard in my shorts as I stood a couple feet in front of him, matching his vacant stare with my own.

"Yes, it’s bright in here." He replied. It seemed like dad was beginning to be more confident in this state as well. He sounded as though he were awake and not under. I had to check and grabbed his hand, raising it and letting go. His arm fell and hit his side, but he did not register anything. My cock was beginning to hurt from straining my shorts.

"Yes it is... It is blindingly white. Soon, though, you are beginning to feel a faint breeze. Do you know where it is coming from?”

“No, I’m alone in here.”

“That’s not completely true, Brian. Kyle is always with you.” I grabbed his hand and he looked at me and smiled, “Kyle is here.”

“He is and he is going to be with you always, making sure you are safe and happy. Even now, you and Kyle realize that there is water coming into the room. It’s slowly filling the room until your feet are under the water.”

“Son, we have to leave. The water could rise.” I felt him tighten his grip and try to pull me in.

“As long as you are in the room with Kyle, nothing will happen to you, Brian.”

“But my son... I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“As long as you are with Kyle in the room, nothing will happen to him. Both of you are protecting each other. Why is that?”

“We love each other.”

I smiled and caressed his hand. He lightened his grip, and his thumb began to caress my hand.

“Now Brian, the water is up to your ankles, the water is a beautiful blue, it is relaxing to be in the cool water flowing beneath you."

"I’m feeling relaxed." Dad said.

"You are safe in this white room. With the cool water, Kyle and his voice."

Dad was smiling, “My beautiful son... a real stud.”

I was breathing hard, this was really hot, dad’s innermost thoughts verbally expressed and, in his mind, I was ‘beautiful’ and a ‘stud,’ "You are safe with him." I said in a raspy voice.

Dad nodded.

"When the time is right, Kyle will guide you." I reached out with my free hand and touched his arm. As soon as I had made him feel safe and he felt my touch again, I could see dad get fully erect. He was chubbing a bit when I held his hand, but he lost it when he went into protection mode. Now that we were ‘safe’ he began to get hard again, sporting an equally angry boner like mine.

"With his body and his voice, he will lead you through this water safely."

"My son is such a good boy.” His breathing was getting heavy now.

If dad kept whispering sweet nothings to me, I would cum hands free.

"On the count of three you will return to your kitchen, once again following all instructions and suggestions and being unaware that you were under.” I let go of him and kept my close proximity with him.

"One... the water is drawing away.... Two.... the white is darkening, the water receding fully now.... Wake up...Three."

He blinked and smirked, mistaking my proximity with wanting to initiate something.

"Someone horny?" He asked.

Maybe he wasn’t so mistaken. "A little," I admitted.

Dad grinned, “Duty calls.” Dad crouched down in front of me and fished out my cock. I placed my hands on his shoulders and let him take care of me.

***

The work week hit in the worst way. My promotion meant I had more responsibility at work, which was translating into longer hours. Dad had dinner ready for me when I got home, but I was tired and stressed. I even begged off one of his blowjobs one night. He was sad but bounced back by giving me a foot rub as we watched T.V. and then another massage before bed.

I did make sure to put Dad under a couple of times, to reinforce the Protocol. Maybe it wasn't quite the rush of a turn on to do so now, almost a routine. But I didn't want to lose our progress. The novelty was wearing off, but I can’t deny it was working wonders.

I noticed the dildo had moved a couple times during the week. I guessed Dad was using the dildo on his own for his “bottoming exercises,” and I made a mental note to ask him about it later. Now, each time I came home, I would play “Where’s Waldo” with the dildo see if the dildo had traveled between rooms while I was away.

By the time Friday rolled around, I was ready for a special date night. Dad was in a giddy mood too, his eyes almost twinkling in excitement when he asked if I had anything I wanted to do that evening.

"Why don't you get cleaned out, Dad?" I asked. "That is, if you can wait a little for dinner."

The man undid the buttons on his plaid shirt. Damn he had a hell of a lot of muscle, more defined than before. He had been hitting the gym with more frequency now. He wasn’t jacked but was getting some real definition. Honestly, I loved my dad’s body before, but if he was hitting the gym harder AFTER we initiated the Protocol, well, that’s a nice bonus I thought.

"You got it, buddy," he said. Chipper as hell. This from a man who wouldn't even let me touch his ass a month ago. "Any chance I could get a taste of ya first? You know, as a preview?"

I grinned and unzipped my suit. Friday was business casual, but I was still trying to dress for success in my new role. I sat on the couch and let Dad scarf down my dong, slobbering on it, and working my length, before he pulled off.

"You're gonna cum soon, aren't ya?"

"Probably, yeah."

Dad gave another quick suck then pulled off. "Let's hold that thought, buddy."

As Dad got up, he walked away but stopped and looked back before saying, “I love when you wear your suits, son. Turns me on like no other seeing my executive stud in his tailored suits.” I bit my lip and grabbed hold of the cushions and concentrated on my breathing. This man was about to make me cum. God, I was the one that needed to get in a quick cold shower if I was going to survive without cumming.

While he showered and cleaned himself out with the new douche, I went to the bedroom and stripped down. I hadn't gotten off the day before and was hard as a rock and dad’s comment and oral service didn’t help at all. It felt like I had taken several Viagra pills for lunch.

I reclined on the bed naked except for a tie around my neck that dad had given me. It was funny, I never gifted dad with ties or socks for Father’s Day, but he would give me ties almost always on special occasions. I didn’t mind, especially since I wear a tie daily at work. Thinking of the ties helped me take a breather and get my erection under control until I started thinking about dad in a different light. I thought of when I would put dad under and what new suggestions I’d plant in his mind.

Finally my old man strutted in. All of his hot, blue collar muscle and his graying hair made him look incredible. Coyly, he had a towel wrapped around his waist, but he took it off and tossed it on the back of a chair.

"All ready for ya, son," he said as he got up on the bed, “Damn, buddy, you are pushing my buttons tonight, alright.” Just him saying that made me leak some pre.

"Could I eat a proper meal from that ass, dad?" I asked in a whispered voice. I was trying really hard not to shoot prematurely but dad was so fucking hot in that moment. His eyes ate me up, his hand was hot on my skin, and his fresh smell was intoxicating.

He straddled my waist, facing away, before backing his body towards me, "I think you could, son. I washed really well, bud, squeaky clean just for my boy."

"Let me show you my appreciation for cleaning yourself out..." I said as I kissed his left ass cheek, then his right. Dad leaned over some and reached back to pull his own buns apart.

Dad's hole was beautiful. Tight, puckered ring, just the right amount of fine hair around it. I leaned up and started licking.

"Buddy..." He pressed back into my munching mouth. I couldn't believe my father had gotten so into being eaten out. I think I surprised myself too by how much I loved to rim him. I was eating him, finally something to get my mind off my own leaking erection. I was in fucking heaven in that moment, munching on dad’s beautiful hole.

But as I worked his sensitive hole fast and slow, deep and shallow, I wanted to try more. I pulled back and teased the rim with my finger. The spit lubed the way and I watched Dad's hole open up enough to swallow my digit to the knuckle. Still tight as fuck but accepting. I prodded the entrance more. What surprised me more was that dad didn’t object in the least, letting me finger him. I needed to kiss him, show him how much I loved him.

"I wanna kiss you, Dad," I hissed.

"Yeah," he grunted and as he pulled away and turned around, I saw he was not only very erect, he was dripping mad. Like father like son, both men leaking like faulty faucets. He repositioned his body and I met him halfway, our mouths crashing together for a deep, wet kiss.

"Love ya, buddy," he growled into my lips.

"Love you too Dad. So much."

We kind of wrestled on the bed. Dad was bigger and stronger but he let me take the top position, my younger body positioned above his. Once I was there, Dad's eyes widened and he let out a choked groan. And like that, I felt his legs wrap around my waist and his hands clutch at my arms.

This was the hypnosis kicking in, I guess. I gave a sexy smirk to him as I reached over for the lube. Then I wedged my hand beneath our bodies to find that magic spot beneath Dad's legs.

"Damn!" he hissed the second I touched his pucker.

"Feel good, Dad?" I asked. I probed deeper. My fingers were extra lubed and soon Dad's hole would be too.

He nodded, urgent and vulnerable. "You have no idea, buddy."

I slathered the rest of the lube onto my cock and scooted in place.

"You're big," he hissed as I smeared the greasy liquid around his entrance, stimulating him in the process.

His eyes rolled back as his head hit the pillow under him. "God..." He grunted euphorically.

It was an awakening, the point of no return, he was getting that promised ‘pleasure tenfold’ I suggested to him before. He was being bombarded by pleasure from everything; my touch, my weight on his, my cock entering him, his ‘secret spot’ in his ass, amplified by his need to make me happy and deliver me pleasure with his body. Everything was perfectly aligned for dad to have an unforgettable date night.

I took in his momentary, out of body experience at the chance to power my hips forward. And like that, my dick was pushing into the tightest most wonderful sleeve. Wet and hot. I was wedged about four inches inside my father's cherry. Me, his son, I was breaching his cherry for real.

"Fuck!" I growled, overcome by the feeling and the knowledge I was taking Dad's virginity.

The man's eyes opened up and looked at me in a silent plea. His hands were gripping my arms too tightly and his tree trunk legs were crushing my sides, but I didn’t care. I saw fear on his face. Not pain, not discomfort, but something more primally psychological. I was going to help him through it, even if I had to endure this moment of discomfort too.

"Listen to my voice, Dad," I urged. My dick held dead still inside his guts as I looked down on him. "You're making me feel good, Dad. Feeling really great, thanks to you... I want to continue... I need to fuck."

I started sawing in and out with gentle, micro thrusts.

"God, son," Dad grunted. He was feeling a range of intense feelings. My cock, his stretched hole, the novel sensations of having his guts opened up. His eyes focused more intently on me, trying to follow the hypnotic suggestions that had been planted.

"This feels right, Brian," I grunted. This was the first time I'd called Dad by his first name outside of the hypnosis sessions. I was thrusting in and out of Dad now. Getting deeper. The man was still tight as fuck. I was getting a hell of a first ride. "Tell me this feels right."

Dad's voice was soft and deep. "It feels right, Kyle."

I fucked him faster, deeper. "I'm gonna try to hit your spot, Brian.... you gonna let your son all the way in?"

"I want you to, Kyle," Dad said. Eyes still trained laser focused on my face, his attention still craving my voice.

I slowed the in and out motion and jabbed at that deepest cherry spot with shallow thrusts. "Right there, Brian... Dad... feel it?"

He tried to keep his eyes on me, but his body was going into overdrive. He was sweating a lot. His legs were still pressing me tightly but with the sensation of my cock in his ass, I didn’t care. Dad soon screamed, "YES!"

His fingers tightened even more around my biceps, it actually hurt how with powerful his grip was.

"Oh, Kyle... son!"

"Feel it, Dad," I urged. I graduated from shallow jabs to full deep strokes into Dad. Giving him the full fuck his first time out. His face turned red and his body grew rigid. And hands free, his cock fired off. Heavy jets of Dad's seed shot out, all over his body, reaching his cheek and forehead even, his cum was that strong.

I couldn't hold off either. I was orgasming the hottest orgasm of my life. The load flooding Dad's no longer virgin guts matched the size of the one he was shooting. The whole time, his hand gripped me and his legs wrapped around my ass greedily.

We both broke into a smile as we came down from our mutually timed high. I didn't want to pull out yet, and Dad didn't want to unclench his legs just yet.

"That... buddy... was fucking amazing," Dad said.

"Dad... I didn't even dream it could be so good," I said.

We kissed and embraced. His legs and hands let up finally, letting our make out session be a comfortable experience for me. But, after a minute of this romantic kissing, we were both getting horned up again, wanting to experience what had just happened for a second or third time. We looked at one another and knew, we were going to fuck again.

#drakestories

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bookmaven · 1 year

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THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND, and Other Short Novels by William Hope Hodgson. (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1946) Cover art by Hannes Bok. 3014 copy edition.

‘The House on the Borderland is unique in several ways. The narrative itself is a double-frame narrative: the editor of the volume is presenting a manuscript he found under mysterious circumstances, describing the account of two fishermen who themselves discovered a hand-written account of the cosmic haunting of a recluse’s remote home.

Additionally, the novel is one of the earliest examples of the departure of horror fiction from the Gothic style of supernatural, psychological hauntings, to more realist, science-fiction/cosmic horror themes. The recluse is, among other events, transported to a mysterious supra-universal plane populated by monsters and elder gods; and his house withstands assaults from legions of monsters as he travels across time and the solar system.

The book was very influential on H. P. Lovecraft, who himself was famous for the cosmic horror themes in his work. The concept of an uncaring, and even evil, universe that Lovecraft found so disturbing is front and center in this supremely strange novel.’

source [a newer print edition]

source [radio play]

source [audio from Libre Vox]

#book blog #books #books books books #book cover #horror #beautiful books #william hope hodgson #arkham horror #arkham house #hannes bok #cosmic horror #elder gods #radio play

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blurredcolour · 12 days

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In My Blood | Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

It is no longer safe for you to remain in Belgium. With the Gestapo closing in, Curt is finally ready to make his escape with you. But is it too late?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Detailed Description of Murder, Death, Injuries, Angst, Grief, Fear, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

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: 6929

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

May 3, 1940

“Honestly Papa,” You protested in French, threading the telephone cord between your fingers as the line crackled and hummed with the standard overseas audio distortions,“I do not understand why you will not let me come home, nothing has happened in months–”

“Enough, my little monster,” Your father’s voice gently but firmly cut you off. “We have been over this a thousand times, it is simply too dangerous for you to leave England with war declared. Yes, it is quiet at the moment, but it is only a matter of time now that the weather has grown warm.”

Your eyes scanned across the neatly appointed Edwardian writing desk in your grandmother’s study before turning to eye the drizzly gardens of the Dower House through the spotless window behind you.

“If it is so dangerous, why do you and Mama insist on staying in Brussels? You are both more important than me and if those Nazi bastards invade you know that’s where they’re headed – straight for you.”

“Come, come now, don’t let your mother hear you using that language.” His chastisement was half-hearted and filled with laughter, pulling a reluctant grin from you. “Belgium is neutral, firstly, but if the worst happens, we will simply flee to the house in Wallonia. Chin-up my little monster, we are made of sterner stuff, are we not?”

“Yes, Papa,” You replied, feeling somewhat reassured and heartened, “we truly are.”

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

October 28, 1943

The collision of your spine against the brick wall drove the air from your lungs, a strangled noise of pain seeping from your throat as the broken end of a bolt that had once affixed something to the side of the building tore through the fabric of your blouse and dug into the meat of your right upper arm. Gritting your teeth as your eyes watered at the searing pain and warm gush down your sleeve, your grip tightened on the handle of your knife, swinging it higher towards the vulnerable neck of the man you had lured into this alleyway.

He had been following you for at least twenty minutes, Gestapo most likely, on your way to pick up some material to then courier to another contact. You had been unsuccessful at losing him, and with the sun setting and curfew nearly upon you, confrontation had remained your only option. While sneaking out after curfew was perilous enough, being caught out around the fall of curfew was nearly suicidal. Parking your bike in front of a well-attended pub, you had made your way across the town square, wending your way through the emptying streets before ducking into this very alley to lay in wait.

Unfortunately for you, the man had proven to be much larger than you had first estimated, and along with a brutal case of halitosis, each sour breath assaulting your senses as it impacted your face, he was easily overpowering you, slowly turning your knife in your grip, threatening to use your own weapon against you. Unfortunately for him, you had been trained in all the ‘ungentlemanly’ ways one could undertake warfare, and he was utterly unprepared for the collision of your foot with his most tender parts.

A sound consisting of an intriguing mixture of a yelp and a wheeze escaped his mouth as he fell back, his oppressive weight finally easing off you. Seizing the momentum, you quickly struck with your blade, meeting the weak block of his forearm and drawing a yowl this time. While he was not proving to be a quiet kill, thankfully his racket resembled an alley cat, and could be explained away if necessary. Heart hammering in your ears, breaths coming in quick gasps under the heady influence of your own adrenaline, you swung the blade home into the defenseless flesh of his neck and tugged forward, sealing your opponent’s fate as he crumpled to the worn cobblestones.

Taking several awkward steps backward, you inhaled deep, greedy gulps of air as the man exhaled his last and grew still. It was both relieving and unsettling. Casting about for the large metal bins you had glimpsed earlier, you darted across the alley to quickly remove the lids from both, shifting the filthy contents from one into the other to make space for your deposit. Returning to his lifeless form, you assessed his bulk before struggling to strip him of his large, navy wool coat before dragging him down the alley and hoisting him into his final resting place. The wound in your triceps screamed in agonized protest with every breath until you had resecured the lid, the scene unremarkable enough in the long shadows of evening.

Shrugging into the bulky coat to conceal the damage to your blouse and retrieving your luggage, discarded moments before the altercation began, you forced yourself to exit the alley at a perfectly normal pace in the direction of Doctor Legot’s clinic, trusty bicycle abandoned for the sake of a speedy departure. Reaching the clinic well after closing, you slid around the back, setting down your suitcase to root around in the hedges for the upturned pot hiding the spare key known to only a select few. You took a moment to compose yourself, taking a deep breath and brusquely wiping at the tears of discomfort that had been stubbornly welling in your eyes the entire journey.

The lock turned soundlessly under your practiced hand, the door swinging inward to an unexpected shaft of light spilling from the patient washroom. Peering around the doorjamb, your eyes widened to see Curt standing at the small sink in the powder room, stripped down to his undershirt, carefully dragging a safety razor across one lathered cheek. Exhaustion and injury got the better of you, making you sway unsteadily, forcing you to catch yourself on the frame of the door, immediately attracting his attention.

“Marie?” He turned to look at you, well-defined muscles of his arms flexing with his movements, shaving cream adorably still adorning a great deal of his face.

Hastily lurching forward into the clinic, you quickly closed and latched the door behind you, depositing your luggage and shoulder bag before shrugging out of the claustrophobic overcoat.

“Jesus Christ, look at you!” His outburst, followed by the sound of his razor hitting the porcelain bowl of the sink, made you drop your gaze to your clothes, only to be greeted by the sight of your late opponent’s blood drenching the fabric.

“Oh, do not fret about me…” You had hoped to put on a display of bravado, but your voice was aggravatingly thin, “…the other fellow is much worse off.”

His startlingly warm palms cupping your elbows made your head jerk back up, meeting his furrowed brow, eyes darkened with concern. “That isn’t very comforting, gorgeous.” He muttered and began tugging you towards Doctor Legot’s office where a crack of light shone from beneath the door. “Doc?” He barked out before open the door without any further preamble.

Only a small noise of protest sounded before the doctor was shooting to his feet, quickly ushering you to take his recently vacated chair, rapidly looking you over before his eyes settled on your arm.

“I’m not going to ask how such misfortune befell you, Marie. I am a wiser man than that. But what, specifically, happened to your arm?” He murmured in Dutch as he retrieved a set of suture scissors to begin cutting away the sleeve of your ruined shirt.

“I backed into the shorn off end of a bolt with rather a bit of force.” You sighed wearily, glancing at Curt who remained in the room, eyeing the pair of you intensely from where he leaned against a filing cabinet. “Why is your guest upstairs?”

Your sentence ended in a hiss as you inhaled sharply through your teeth at the feeling of the doctor’s fingers prodding at the wound on the back of your upper arm.

“He cut himself shaving by candlelight one too many times. Once the cast came off, we made an agreement he could come upstairs between closing and dinner to wash up. You’ve had your tetanus vaccine?”

As Legot began to aggressively paint your wound with disinfectant, you pressed your lips together tightly against any further mortifying outbursts, and thus only managed a nod in confirmation.

“Good.” The room fell silent as he applied a square of gauze to your wound, securing it in place by wrapping your arm in a bandage, tying it off.

Your eyes drifted back to Curt who had not seemed to move an inch, not even changed position, the shaving cream on his face drying out, growing crusty against his skin. His silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing you had encountered this evening, his voice seeming to have filled every waking encounter you’d had with him thus far.

“It’s a lot of blood…” He muttered, eyes rising from your clothes, marred by scarlet quickly turning a mottled brown as the blood dried and aged.

“Mostly someone else’s.” You reminded him gently, earning a non-plussed grunt in reply.

A heavy sigh fell from the Doctor Legot’s lips, making you look up at him slowly. “Marie there has been…an increase in the Gestapo around town. A contact of mine was even questioned about a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to you. And now that you seem to have had a run in, I’m…concerned.”

Despite similar thoughts ricocheting about your brain the entire flight back to his clinic, the breath you drew in felt like it contained thousands of tiny shards of glass which imbedded themselves deep inside your breast as you heard it from an external source. Rationally, to have survived so many months in your occupation was a feat worth celebrating.

An SOE agent typically had a life expectancy of six months, and yet to watch your ability to remain in Belgium, to remain useful to your fellow Belgians, crumble before you was incredibly painful. You allowed your exhale to accumulate in your cheeks before releasing it all at once through pursed lips with a nod, the feeling of having failed your people, your family, once again a yawning pit deep in your gut.

“It is time for me to move on.” You conceded flatly.

“If you are headed in a certain direction, might you be able to take a certain guest with you?” He asked with a nod in the American’s direction.“Couriers are still stretched thin.”

Your eyes widened slowly as it dawned on you that it was well over two months since Curt had become a guest in his cellar and should be well on his way to Spain by now. “He is well enough to travel then? Have they made him papers yet?” Your rapid-fire questions were greeted by frantic blinking from the doctor before he nodded quickly in the affirmative to both.

Turning back to Curt you tilted your head, reinvigorated by the chance to be useful one last time as you tried to remove yourself from occupied Europe, saving another’s life infinitely more important than simply trying to preserve your own. “Tell me, Curt, are you ready to head back to England?”

The apprehension that had drawn his features tight melted away, yielding to a bright smile, his eyes fairly sparkling with anticipation at the promise of beginning his escape at last. “You have no idea.”

You could do nothing to stop the uplift at the corner of your mouth in response, nodding slightly. “I’m going to change out of these clothes and then we’ll get ready to leave in the morning.”

Straightening from his lean against the cabinet, he moved to the door. “I’ll just go grab…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall before returning with your suitcase, setting it on the floor with a nod before departing once more, not loitering long enough to accept your gratitude.

Legot produced an old flour sack for you to deposit any clothes beyond saving, to be burned upstairs in his fireplace, before leaving you alone in his office. Feeling the chill of autumn in your damp clothes, you quickly stripped, using a towel to wipe any bloody remnants from your skin with water from the sink in the corner of the room, before changing into fresh clothing. Your mind was already occupied with plotting your route – to Antwerp, fetching supplies from the small flat you kept as a base of operations there, and then boarding a train to the border before crossing on foot then onto another train at Lille to Toulouse before meeting up with the Ponzán group to be guided across the Pyrenees. But this time, you would be one of the party making the crossing in neutral Spain.

Bringing your damp towel to try and blot any blood from the pilfered overcoat, hoping to save it for Curt’s benefit during the mountain crossing to come, you turned off the office lights and headed toward the storeroom, grabbing the garment from the floor on the way. Dropping it through the open trapdoor followed by the wet towel, you smiled to Curt as he appeared below, passing him your suitcase with your good arm before beginning your own descent down the ladder. Pushed well beyond all possible limits, your battered and bandaged arm gave out at your demand to bear your body weight, a yelp escaping as your right hand lost its grip on the ladder as a result.

Strong hands quickly landed on your hips, steadying and supporting you.

“Easy, gorgeous, good as you got the guy, he still hurt you.” Curt muttered behind you, the fresh scent of soap and aftershave radiating from his warm skin as he helped you down the last few rungs.

“Th, thank you, Curt.” You stammered, hugging your throbbing limb close as your feet settled onto the cellar floor, watching him easily climb up the ladder to swing the heavy trapdoor shut almost silently even from inside. “You’ve come a long way in the past few weeks…”

He smirked a little, carrying your luggage over to set on the foot of your bed for you. “Been doing a lot of shadow boxing down here.”

“Boxing!” You breathed in surprise, gathering the abandoned coat from the crumpled heap it left on the floor, trying not to notice the way his muscles moved as he pulled on a thick knit sweater in the cool damp of your hiding space. “If I had known, I would have gotten comics related to your interest…”

“I enjoyed the ones you brought, even read the book too. My teachers would be proud.”

A small laugh escaped you as you settled onto the edge of the bed, inspecting the coat for bloodstains and methodically beginning to blot them out. His own laughed intertwined with yours all too melodically, making you swallow tightly.

“That coat is awful big for you, gorgeous.” He teased, watching you from where he stood at the end of your bed.

“It’s not for me, Curt, it’s for you – you’re going to need it where we’re headed. Just need to get all the blood out first.” You murmured, turning the right sleeve inside out knowing you had surely bled on it yourself.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You peered up at him a moment before shaking your head. “Other than England. That will suffice for now. I will share the goal with you day by day, but the less you know the safer you will be. Aside from a few key portions, the majority of the trip will be by train to start. Tomorrow, though, we shall have to try something new.” You trailed off into a mutter at the last, wrestling with the heavy fabric, shooting him a grateful look as he grabbed the hem of the coat to help you position it, allowing you to reach one of the last stains.

“What’s so special about tomorrow?” He prodded, clearly still listening even though your final statement had more been musing aloud than for his ears.

Pausing a moment you sighed before meeting his eyes. “I suppose you ought to know that I appear to be a known entity to the Gestapo, at the very least locally, and so we will take extra evasive manoeuvres when we leave town. I shall be disguised, we will leave just before dawn, and avoid public transportation. I have a few ideas for how we might reach where we are going first, do not worry.” You offered a reassuring smile, to which he returned a small nod. “Jan will have been by the take your photo and give you papers?”

“Oh, yeah, nice fella if a bit quiet. Gave me a couple sets of papers.” He stepped over to his cot to retrieve two well forged sets of identity papers, bringing them over for you to inspect.

Laying the now-cleaned coat to dry across your suitcase, you accepted them from him, looking them over before holding out those in your left hand. “These are your Belgian papers. I suggest you put these in your usual pocket – the one you will reach for first, so that you can produce them as naturally as possible. We will destroy them as soon as we have left Belgium.” You watched as he took them from you.

“Belgian papers, got it.” Curt made a tiny salute with the papers before grabbing a leather jacket from the back of a small chair that was a new addition to the cellar, sliding them into the inner left breast pocket.

“And these,” you held out those in your right hand, “are your French papers. You will want to keep these close, in a safe place on your person, but not somewhere you will mistakenly hand them over until they are needed.”

His eyebrow shot up playfully. “Hold up, Marie, I thought you just said you weren’t going to tell me where we’re going…”

“Did I?” You blinked innocently and his guffaw of amusement threatened to pull another unintentional smile from you.

Since when had your expressions become so very difficult to control?

“The most important thing for you to remember on our journey,” you soldiered on despite your inner struggle, “is not to speak. Your voice absolutely gives away the fact that you do not belong here. Many of the airmen whom we guide find the most success by feigning deafness. It explains both their inability to speak and the fact that they do not understand the language.”

“You could just teach me French, or whatever you speak with Doc…”

“Flemish?” You found yourself fighting back laughter. “We do not have enough time for you to master either, Curt. We leave tomorrow. Now take your French papiers and get some sleep, we leave in a few hours.” You nodded firmly, but with a kind smile.

“You too, Marie, you need dinner or anything?”

Shaking your head softly, certain you could not bring yourself to eat even if you felt hungry, the pair of you settled in to sleep, the damp wool coat taking over the chair in the middle of the room to dry, looming in the flickering candlelight like some grim reminder of your actions. Huffing at your melodramatic thoughts, you pulled the blankets over your head and rolled over to get some rest.

As agreed upon, Legot woke the pair of you shortly after four with warm bread, apples, and granola. You could almost taste the ghost of butter, jam, sugar, and cream on your tongue – heavily rationed delights that had been hard to come by in England and all but non-existent here under Nazi rule. Downing your dry, brown breakfast, you opened your suitcase to retrieve a wig from its depths, gathering your hair and securing it beneath the false strands to disguise your apparently known appearance.

“I dunno Marie…” Curt’s musing were interrupted by an exaggerated yawn as he smoothed his hair with a pot of borrowed pomade. “Your natural hair looks so much prettier on you.”

Fighting the girlish urge to preen under his indirect compliment, you shook your head. “It’s a good thing I’m not trying to look pretty then, just different.”

“Well in that case you look nothing like your usual self.” He shrugged into his leather jacket before snagging the hard-won navy coat from the back of the chair and folded it in perhaps the most unmethodical way you had ever witnessed, but it still wound up flat and small enough to fit into his suitcase.

“Good.” You muttered and snapped the latches on your own luggage closed, heading over to the ladder to climb up.

“Wait, let me help you.” He hurried over, reaching out to grasp your waist. “You sure you can pull the cases up?”

Huffing a little, more in annoyance at being injured than his offers of help, you nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” Clenching your jaw, you forced your way up the ladder, stubbornly ignoring the ache in your still-healing arm, turning to reach out expectantly for the first piece of luggage once you were kneeling on the floor above.

A bemused expression greeted you before he easily hoisted the first, waiting until you had it tucked aside before sending the second up. Taking a moment to extinguish the candles still burning below, he then quickly ascended the ladder to join you, silently securing the trapdoor behind him.

“Right, this is it then.”

About to make your way down the hall to bid a final farewell to the doctor, you turned with a soft gasp to find him stand there with a small canvas bag of food.

“For your journey.” He held it out, nodding as Curt quickly stepped forward to sling it over his shoulder.

“Be safe, Doctor Legot, thank you for all your assistance.”

“The very same to you, Marie. Best of luck on your travels.”

A small, sentimental smile poked through your serious expression before your eyes widened. “If you are in need of a bicycle, mine remains outside the pub across from the town square. Farewell.”

At serious risk of lingering too long, you turned then and headed out the backdoor, glancing over your shoulder in the faint light of early morning to ensure Curt was following you. You kept a quick pace, cutting and winding through town towards a familiar farmyard, dairy cows grazing the fields, lowing softly, as the farmer and his daughters loaded containers of milk into the back of a worn truck. The sun had escaped the confines of the horizon by now, flooding the landscape with the golden light of an autumn sunrise as you cast another glance of confirmation over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own feet at the unjustly stunning quality of Curt’s eyes in daylight.

“Whoa, easy.” He hurried a few steps forward to steady you by the elbow, catching the attention of Tillens who quickly sent his children back into the house.

“Hush.” You whispered firmly before waving to the farmer, who squinted at you a moment before relaxing as you greeted him warmly in Dutch.

“That you, Marie? You’ve done something new with your hair, didn’t even recognize you for a moment…”

“The point, I am afraid. Are you by any chance headed to Antwerp today?” You asked hopefully, stomach falling as he shook his head.

“Could take you to Brussels, but Antwerp is tomorrow.”

Brussels was the one place you avoided, far too many familiar faces and even more Nazis along with their collaborating government.

“How much could I offer to convince you to take us to Antwerp today?”

Tillens’ brown eyes studied your disguise before looking over at your companion. “It’s only one hour out of my way, Marie, for you there is no charge. Hop in the back and I’ll pack the rest of these around you.”

Your eyes widened before you quickly gestured Curt forward, digging into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out the loaf of the bread you found there. “Then please accept this, for your family.”

“Marie…” Tillens protested but you pushed it forward insistently and he accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, every bit helps.”

“Thank you, for it truly does.” Grasping Curt’s elbow, you pointed into the back of the truck, watching him step up and weave his way towards the back.

Setting your suitcase on the tailgate, you reached for the handhold with your left arm, gasping as Curt’s hands were suddenly around your waist to hoist you in amongst the containers of milk.

“Gorgeous but stubborn.” He muttered under his breath, grabbing your suitcase and leading you over to a gap he had found just large enough for the pair of you to settle on the floor.

Pulling your shoulder bag against your body, you tucked your skirt beneath yourself as you sat down beside him, nodding to Tillens as he peered in at the pair of you before sealing you in with the last of his cargo.

“It’s about a two-hour drive, feel free to sleep.” You whispered, the back of the truck going dark as Tillens secured the doors shut, the motor growling to life shortly thereafter.

“So he speaks Flemish too?” Curt asked curiously as the vehicle jolted into motion and you nodded softly.

“It’s Dutch, really, with some regional differences. In the bigger cities you’ll find more of a mix of Flemish and French.”

“And you speak it all.” Curt smirked and you nodded, hugging your knees to your chest as the cargo rattled around you. “Really somethin’…” He muttered, leaning back to close his eyes and try to get some rest as you had suggested.

The drive smoothed out as the truck navigated onto the main road, and you felt yourself relax a little after the first hour of distance was put between you and Beverst. You were by no means out of danger – the Gestapo was an insidious organization, their network a far-reaching and interconnected tangle. The fact that at least one agent had come looking for you specifically meant that, if the entirety did not know of you yet, they soon would. You had to run all the way to be truly safe.

Of their own volition, your eyes drifted towards Curt’s sleeping form, his handsome face grown slack and soft in sleep, the youth of him both striking and painful. What would his life look like if Hitler had been able to keep his hands to himself…or better yet had never even come to power? What would your life look like? Certainly neither of you would be in the back of a dairy truck sneaking your way to Antwerp.

A roughened patch of road jostled his body, threatening to wake him and you quickly wrenched your eyes away, studying the handwritten labels from Tillens’ farm. Thankfully Curt remained asleep for the rest of the drive, the truck pulling to a stop amidst the hum of the city, and you gently prodded him awake with a shake to the shoulder.

“We’re here.” You whispered before pressing a finger to your lips and he nodded drowsily before straightening.

Light flooded into the back of the truck, the pair of you blinking owlishly as Tillens shifted the cargo to make a path of exit into a familiar alley. Climbing out carefully, you turned to unload the suitcases as Curt passed each, nodding sharply to the farmer before you and the airman assembled yourselves, and strolled casually out into the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

The interference and unpredictability of humans had you on edge, not appreciating the way Curt always seemed to be not where you expected him to be with every glance over your shoulder. After the fourth time you looked for him a little too long, your heart in your throat, you stepped around a rather annoying blonde making eyes at him, and seized his free hand with yours. To keep better track of him, of course. The fact that your throat tightened slightly as his blunt fingers wrapped around your hand in return, requiring a forceful swallow to clear it, was utterly irrelevant.

Turning the corner, you looked both ways before tugging on his hand, guiding him across the street to the unassuming building of flats from which you were intending to collect your warmer clothes and some other supplies. The sight of the rather nice car out front was the first sign that something was off. The next was the sound of your neighbour, an ancient, haggard woman named Josephine De Smet, speaking loudly in the stairwell, her creaking voice cascading down the tiled stairs to the lobby, halting your feet immediately.

Clearly distracted, Curt’s body collided with your back, forcing you to brace against the wall lest you topple over.

“Geez, why’d you sto–” His less-than-hushed whisper was cut off by your palm, forcefully freed from his grasp, slapping over his mouth as you quickly pushed him back into the corner of the lobby under the stairs, casting a sharp look at him before craning your ear back upwards.

Holding your breath, you listened intently, trying to hear the rest of the conversation. To confirm if the alarm bells ringing in your head were warranted.

“Just what has that hussy gotten herself mixed up in then, sir?” The old crone rasped in French, not her usual choice of language, and you pressed your lips into a line thin.

“I cannot say, madam, other than she is a monster and you’d best be wary.” The deep male voice, a German accent poisoning his pronunciation, made you inhale sharply through your nose.

Hand dropping from where it pressed against Curt’s remarkably plush and soft lips to grasp the lapel of his jacket, you pulled hard, yanking him out of the building and back onto the street. They were a lot closer on your trail than you had realized. Pulse rabbiting at your throat, you held your suitcase out to Curt in a silent request, grateful when he took it without question, following you as you took off down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.

Darting around the next corner, you led him on a chaotic, unpredictable, and hopefully untraceable path to a tramway stop several blocks away as you dug through your shoulder bag for the coins to make fare for both of you. Once that was secured, you traded his fare for your suitcase, tucking your own coins into the pocket of your light jacket, trying to suppress your grimace at the loss of your winter clothes in that now unvisitable flat. The feeling of Curt’s sturdy hand slipping into yours, enveloping your skin in warmth and his strong grip, halted you for half a step before releasing some of the tension in your lungs.

Propelling forward across the street, the pair of you jumped onto the tram just as it was about to pull away, shuffling into the heart of the crowded carriage to purchase your tickets and keep your faces away from the windows. It was not an overly warm ride to Antwerpen-Centraal station, but you could certainly feel sweat prickling in your armpits and rolling down your back between your shoulder blades. Tugging on Curt’s sleeve, you disembarked one stop short with him and ducked into an alley to yank the wig free, hanging your head upside down to shake out your hair before repining it. It surely looked sad, but given that identity papers were required to board a train, you needed to resemble your photo and thus the wig was shoved into a nearby trash bin.

“We will be asked for papers, there will be a lot of soldiers, try to remain relaxed and do as I do.” You whispered to Curt, and he nodded, patting the left breast of his pocket with an easy smile, though you watched his adam’s apple bob sharply as he swallowed. “We will be buying tickets and travelling to the border where will stop for the night, alright?”

“Lead on, gorgeous.” He nodded and turned to following you toward the grand, stone-clad station built at the turn of the century.

The presence of Nazi soldiers was pronounced, their bright red swatiskas flashing about the otherwise pleasant square like blemishes on a beautiful face. Keeping your expression perfectly neutral yet pleasant, confident yet not cocky, you took a moment to exhale slowly as you made it past the first hurdle into the building before heading to the ticket counter, requesting two tickets to Kortrijk. It was nothing short of a miracle that you managed a polite nod rather than kissing the ticket seller full on the mouth when he informed you the train would be leaving in twenty minutes. Pulling the bills from your bag, you accepted the tickets in return before leading Curt to track three.

Rolling your shoulders in and down your back, you confidently offered your identity papers to the Nazi soldier standing at the carriage door, immensely pleased when Curt did the same without prompting.

“Where are you two headed?” The soldier asked in clipped, stilted French, his piercing blue eyes wholly unsettling as they flicked between you and Curt before coming back to you.

“Kortrijk, sir.” You answered simply.

If he wanted to know more, he would need to ask more. You certainly had a lie prepared should he require one. He made a noise of displeasure, looking over your shoulder, implying the accumulation of other passengers.

“Off you go.” He grunted, returning both sets of papers to you and you nodded rapidly, climbing aboard quickly, even as your arm shook under the strain of hauling your body up the steps.

Shuffling down the hallway of the carriage, you at last came to an empty compartment, stepping inside and setting your luggage on the bench. As soon as Curt stepped in behind you, you slid the door shut behind him, knowing it was rude with a full train but not wanting anyone else to join you. As you turned back, he was already hoisting your suitcase up onto the luggage rack, making you smile fondly.

“Merci.” You murmured, hoping he would understand your meaning.

Judging by his responding smile, it seemed he certainly did. Despite your longing to collapse onto the bench seat, you sat with decorum, trying not to stare at your watch and count down the minutes. As the last whistle blew and the cars at last shunted into motion, you finally relaxed back into the cushion behind you.

“Is it always like that?” Curt whispered and you shot him a rueful look before shaking your head.

“I am deeply sorry, that…that is solely a complication of traveling with me right now.” You murmured in response, digging out his ticket and papers, returning them to him. “The conductor will arrive closer to our destination to check your ticket, then we show the papers again in the station after we detrain.”

You watched as he carefully took the items and tucked them back into his inner pocket.

“No apologies, gorgeous. We’re both not wanted here, so it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He nodded and you looked out the window when rain pelted the glass as the train left the shelter of the station, biting the inside of your cheek savagely to keep your emotions in check. “Why don’t we have some lunch?”

He started to root around in the bag from Legot and you forced a smile, sharing the few apples and the small wedge of cheese, akin to a rare jewel, that the man had gifted the two of you with. After a minor squabble over who ought to be resting, Curt finally gave up and obstinately remained awake as you insisted that you must, staring out the window as the fields of Flanders rolled by. The train made numerous stops until the conductor arrived to check your tickets, signalling you were about to arrive in Kortrijk, the final stop.

Courtesy of your preparation, the process went remarkably smooth, and the pair of you stepped off the train once Curt had retrieved the suitcases from overhead. Another successful check of your papers and you were melting into the population freshly departing from their workday and making their way home. Within thirty minutes, you had arrived at an unassuming home on the southern edge of town, knocking the door in the prescribed way.

A young woman with a toddler perched on her hip opened the door, eyeing each of you cautiously.

“May I help you?” She asked in Dutch.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. We were wondering if you might be interested in some new cosmetics?” You smiled broadly, delivering the passphrase.

A flash of recognition crossed her delicate features, her plump cheeks flushing in excitement as she briefly went rigid before she reined in her emotions. “Why don’t you come in and show me what you have for sale…” She stepped back, holding the door open wider for you and Curt to step inside.

Once the door was secured behind you, she led you through her small but tidy home up the narrow stairs to a small half door before opening it slowly.

“Here you are, dinner will take some time.”

“Whatever you can spare is truly appreciated, thank you.” You thanked her softly, sliding your suitcase into the attic before crouching down to crawl in after it.

The space was smaller than Legot’s cellar but larger than the back of Tillens’ dairy truck, enough room for each of you to lay flat, high up in the very peak of the small house. It was not a safe house you would have employed for a larger group. For the first time, you were grateful it was nearly November and not the heat of summer.

“Ouch!” Curt hissed as he cracked his head on a low beam, and you frowned, shifting up onto your knees to make sure he was alright. “Yeah, yeah, m’fine Marie, just an idiot.” He gave you a lopsided grin and you shook your head.

“Sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a cellar either?” You tilted your head hopefully.

“Never stayed at the Ritz, you?” He asked, settling onto the centuries-old wooden planks beside you.

“Hmmm.” You hummed noncommittally. “She says she’ll have something for us to eat in a bit, we will rest and then start out walking after midnight.”

“Walk…?” He prompted, eyebrow raised.

“It is not easy to cross the border, we cannot simply take the train into France, so we must walk. It is best to do so at night, and even better to do so rested. I promise we can linger a little longer at our next place, but we must get out of Belgium.” Despite your efforts to quash it, a slight tremor remained in your voice and Curt shot you a look of sympathy and utterly threatened your ability to maintain your composure. “So sleep.” You tacked on firmly and pulled off your jacket, folding it up to make a pillow before laying on your side with your back to him.

There was a decidedly awkward silence as he remained seated, looming above you, before laying down with a heavy exhale, clearly frustrated with you. Well that made two of you.

Dinner arrived two hours later with a soft knock, driving home the fact that you had not slept, but the warm vegetable hash was so very welcome and filling, giving you hope that you might be able to actually fall asleep for the last few hours of your stay here. As you lay back down onto your make-shift pillow, Curt’s breaths almost immediately evened out into the heavy sighs of sleep, making your lips twitch in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Yet as you closed your eyes, all that echoed through your mind was the voice of your father ‘mon petit monstre’ and the Gestapo agent from the stairwell of your flat building ‘elle est un monstre.’

Petit monstre

Un monstre

Monstre

Grief clawed at your throat, making you sit up sharply as you gasped for air, eyes brimming with tears as the realization that you would never again hear that nickname in your father’s voice – that it would now only come to you by way of anger and insult – sank like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Sniffling petulantly as your nose began to run, you jumped at the feeling of Curt’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong…” He whispered groggily, shifting closer.

Shaking your head quickly, you roughly wiped the tears from your eyes trying to hide the evidence, huffing as the action only caused fresh ones to spill onto your cheeks.

“Don’t tell me then, just c’mere.” He replied and gathered you into his arms, cradling you close against his chest.

Every muscle in your body went rigid at first, your rational, well-trained self knowing this was utterly inappropriate. And yet…

And yet, he was so warm, so kind, and he was holding you so tightly that maybe you could fall apart just a little without crumbling entirely. Surrendering to the fact that no arms had attempted to hold and comfort you in years, you yielded to his embrace, becoming pliant as you loosened the clenched-fist-grip on your grief just a little, allowing tears to slide freely down your cheeks in the darkness of that attic as his palm soothed up and down your spine.

“Shhh, I’m right here, you’re not alone…”

How very much you wanted to believe him.

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

Read Part Three

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick #curt biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #masters of the air

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