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#Mattie Shepard x Captain John D Brady
love-studying58 · 3 months
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SURPRISE!!!!!!
A sneak peek into my fictional series ~ Defenders of the Sky
This snippet is told from Major John Egan’s point of view. This is not the first chapter.
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Word Count: n/a for this post.
Author’s Note: All ideas are my own. I will be adding a consistent playlist of songs before each chapter for nearly all the characters I write about. Each chapter will consist of different point of views; multiple perspectives will be present depending on plot events.
Warnings: There will be future mentions of war, extreme slow burn, swearing, death, mentions of POW and concentration camps, nazi guards, historical inaccuracy/timeline inaccuracy, mentions of abuse, PTSD, a soldier’s mental anguish, killing, man/woman relationships, hurt/comfort, pov first person, language, mutual pining, gore, angst, alcohol, smoking, military terminology, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, death, violence, debilitating mental thoughts, eventual smut.
Thank you for all your requests. I am making an effort to write everyday, so patience on your part is greatly appreciated. I do not want to promise an eventual deadline for completion, but will keep you guys updated.
I do not own HBO, Band of Brothers, The Pacific, or Masters of the Air, nor do I own any of the characters. I mean no disrespect toward any of the actors on this show.
Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged for upcoming posts. 🏷
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A rough voice accompanied by a tap on my shoulder rouses me. I groan inwardly, squinting beneath the unremitting beam of light. My whole body is tight from lack of sleep.
“Come on, Major. Breakfast is at four-thirty. Briefing at five-fifteen.” Of course, another mission. I hate the unexpected.
A momentary frisson of annoyance runs through me as I roll onto my back, “I’m up,” I mutter, dismissing the officer until he departs and the harsh, inciped, white light weakens.
I casually position my left bicep under the pillow and close my eyes again, but I know its imperative I get to the briefing as soon as I can.
My head feels thick because of drink, still. The enticement of dancing among young women and the ability to have as many drinks as I preferred felt to congenial. 
Thoughts of two nights prior flood my senses; my dance with Susan.
I liked her, particularly because of her attractive features; her dark mid-length hair and fanned out eyelashes. Her amber-flecked eyes were ones I could drown in. 
Are you sure you like her, just for that matter? The thought is morose. Have you ever liked a woman for more than her features? Was I ever honest, though?
The sobering truth is inconsequential; I’d rather find a distraction and swallow back a few drinks in order to keep my mind halted for a few hours. It’s because of this war. This war. Maybe it could be temporary. War is normal now, Egan, I surmised.
I notice a few of the other men are also awake; the rustling of cotton sheets and disgruntled murmurs are familiar to me now. Our mission won’t end unless our own plane gets blown apart or we land behind German lines; the frailty or mere occurrence of either happening, few cared to discuss.
Watch it, Bucky, Buck Cleven’s voice echoed in my head. He had been staring slightly at me with his usual, calculated, appreciation that night. It’s one dance; not a lifetime. I was too drunk at the time to apprehend what he meant; if it nuanced at teasing, I couldn’t decipher it. Buck’s personality very seldom suggested humour. She might not fancy you. Not even a wry joke.
My senses felt too relaxed and obstructed by the faint stupor of the alcohol. I had responded to him anyways, telling myself I could dance with her if I wanted to, Ah, come on Buck, for once, leave the dancing to me tonight. You’re too involved with Marge to have any fun.
Cleven had watched me, indignant, grinning with easy noncompliance.
I smirk. Good old Buck. Trying to deter my persistence; the only man I know who has a picture of his girl, Marjorie, in his left breast-pocket. Keeps her photo on the dash of his B-17. The only man who decides to dance with Meatball when he could be waltzing with some American Red Cross woman.
Cleven was like that; polished, a man of integrity, one who kept his word. A reliable friend. A friend more than a mere acquaintance.
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