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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 1

AO3

Summary: As Frankie reaches the end of her second week at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield, she begins to find her footing among the men of the 100th Bomb Group

Warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption, language

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee

The setting sun cast a golden blanket over Thorpe Abbotts airfield, basking everything in an idyllic, orange glow that was almost beautiful enough to distract from the heady stench of motor oil that lay thick on the air, permeating hair and clothes so thoroughly that anyone who spent even five minutes in the place would carry it with them for the rest of the day.

Frankie Bevan clamped a flashlight tight between her teeth, the narrow beam of light illuminating the underside of the B-17's gun turret as she surveyed it for any cracks or gaps in the glass that could compromise its integrity. The rest of the ground crew had called it a day almost two hours ago, but the Yanks always did prefer to work in the daylight. She was nearing the end of her third year in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and after so many nights spent running the airstrips in the darkness for the RAF, Frankie was well accustomed to toiling away into the night.

Thorpe Abbotts was new, and yet much the same. It was only her second week here, compensating for the Americans' manpower shortages. The job was always the same, no matter where she went or what planes she worked on - checks, fixes, refuelling, over and over again - but thus was the nature of a mechanic's job. What she was not yet quite used to was the Americans themselves. Loud and brash and self-assured, Frankie was sometimes glad they worked different hours.

Taking note of a few cracks in the glass panelling, she reached up to swipe the torch from her mouth, offering a satisfied nod as she completed her checks for the night. All that was left was to pin her list of concerns up on the board inside the mechanics' Nissen hut, and then it was off to the pub for her.

Once she changed out of her oil-stained coveralls, that was.

"They're working you like a dog down there on the strip," Georgina, one of Frankie's bunkmates, pointed out, flipping nonchalantly through a magazine as she lounged on her bed.

"Someone's gotta do it," She shrugged, kicking off her coveralls as she rummaged in the shared wardrobe for the correct service uniform. "Some of the mechanics they've brought over are practically kids, not sure I'd trust 'em to fix my plane if I was going up there."

"You'd better show 'em what for, then," George smiled, glancing over as Frankie finished buttoning up her blouse, reaching for the navy blue jacket.

"You coming for drinks?"

"Uh, nah - I'll go tomorrow. Sandra thinks we'll be starting early tomorrow so I wanna get a decent night's sleep."

"Ooh, luxury," Frankie teased, shimmying her shoulders as she made her way to the door of the hut. "Alright, see you later."

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The pub was crammed from door to door as she forced her way inside, the sound of chattering overpowering the music blaring from a radio in the corner. The American invasion of Thorpe Abbotts had well and truly been successful, scarcely a flash of RAF blue visible amongst the sea of khaki as Frankie burrowed her way through the crowds towards the bar.

"Pint of Guinness, please," She called over the din, the bartender offering a friendly nod of affirmation as she felt the crowd behind her push her body further into the edge of the bar.

"There y'are, love," The man nodded, placing the pint glass in front of her as she smiled her thanks, foam lining her top lip as she took her first sip. Frankie barely had time to wipe it away, turning to take a step back from the bar, before another body collided with hers. She gasped as the beer she had so looked forward to sloshed over the rim of the glass, pooling on the floor and staining the front of her uniform, as the other man's drink did the same.

"Woah, careful there!" The man cried, flicking a few stray droplets of spilt beer from his hand onto the floor. A deep frown creased her features as she peered up at him. The soldier was so tall that the tip of her head didn't quite pass his shoulder, and yet the irritation in her expression was so palpable that he took a full step back.

"Oh, that was my fault, was it?" Frankie tutted.

"Well, sweetheart, maybe if you'd been looking where you were going-"

"Maybe if you bloody Yanks gave us some room to breathe in here we wouldn't have a problem!"

There was an easy smile on the man's face that struck her as distinctly annoying. Discarding his now almost empty glass on the bar, the man put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Look. We're not gonna agree on this, so what d'ya say we settle this with a little friendly competition?"

She raised a brow. "What sort of competition?"

"Uh... how 'bout a drinking contest?"

Frankie let out a guffaw so forceful that the man's confident smile disappeared, and a few nearby airmen turned to watch the scene unfold. "Y'know what? Yeah. You're on."

With a nod, he turned away, marching towards the closest table. "Alright boys, gimme some space, I got a contest to win against half-pint over here."

She approached the table, sitting down opposite the soldier, smirking at his arrogance. The airmen he had kicked out of their seats were lingering to watch the spectacle unfold, and it was clear their bets were on her opponent.

"Now," He sighed, taking a seat. "In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I oughta introduce myself. John Egan," He said, reaching a hand across the table.

"Frances Bevan. Frankie," She nodded, shaking his hand.

Egan nodded. "So, normal rules apply. No spilling, no vomiting, gotta drain the glass. Still wanna do this?"

Frankie nodded firmly. "I'd never pass up such a wonderful opportunity to humble you Yanks," She grinned.

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Egan was turning red, his smug smile long since vanished, the motion of his arm slowing as he reached for the next shot glass, glancing across at her with a slightly nauseated expression. The crowd surrounding them had long since grown since they had begun, although how long ago that was she couldn't quite remember. The huge pile of empty shot glasses in the centre of the table did nothing to jog her memory.

"Oh, come on, Egan, you've gotta do better than that," Frankie teased, reaching forward and downing her next shot. In fairness, she too was beginning to feel light-headed, but it never showed on her face, her demeanour as cool and collected as it had been when she first sat down.

"I thought... I thought this would be easy," John complained, grimacing as he brought the next glass to his lips. "You're so small, where are you storing all this liquor?"

"I'm British - pretty sure it's in our bloodstream," She teased. Egan's eyes narrowed as he weakly upturned the contents of his glass into his mouth, screwing up his face as the liquid ran down his throat.

"I really like her," John admitted, letting out a long sigh as he drew a hand over his eyes. A few of the airmen laughed, clapping him over the shoulders.

"I think we're done here," Frankie chuckled.

"You forfeit?" He asked hopefully.

"No, I'm saying you're about to. That or you're gonna throw up - either way, I win."

"Nuh-uh," Egan shook his head. "Not gonna happen," He fought to suppress a burp, and the room seemed to brace itself for the inevitable vomit that would follow, letting out a collective sigh of relief when he swallowed his nausea back down. "...Yeah. Ok."

She clapped, throwing up her hands in victory as a couple of the men standing behind her cheered. "Well, it's been a real pleasure doing business with you Major," Frankie chuckled, fighting through the splitting headache that was growing in her temples as she rose from her seat, offering him a hand to help him stand.

John batted her away, but stumbled as he got up, one of his friends pressing a firm hand on his back to keep him upright. She smiled. "I'll help you get him back since it's my fault. Gotta get back to the huts anyway."

The airman accepted, each of them slinging one of Egan's arms around their shoulders as he tilted haphazardly over to one side, struggling to prop himself up against her due to her height. Trailing towards the door, a few of the men let out celebratory whoops at her as she passed, praising her victory.

"Thanks for the night, gents - I'm here all war," Frankie called over her shoulders, a cheer erupting from the crowd as they dragged Egan sideways out of the door.

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It was growing difficult to see as they marched John back to the huts, the street lights growing more and more sparse the closer they got to the airfield. "You gotta teach me how to do that," He slurred, tilting his head down towards her, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.

"You gotta get more practice in - you Americans with your 'no alcohol until you're 21' rule never stood a chance, we've just been in the game longer."

"Ah," He nodded, pausing for a moment. "Hey, why'd you call yourself Frankie?"

"Because Frances is a terrible name," She scoffed.

"Can I call you Fran?"

"Only if you want to die."

"Fair enough."

As they reached the end of the row of men's huts, she shrugged his arm off of her shoulders, relinquishing custody of John to the other airman, who thanked her for her help.

"See ya 'round, Shortcake!" Egan called as they trailed away, grinning proudly to himself at the nickname. Frankie scoffed, rolling her eyes and massaging her temples as her headache steadily worsened.

"You look like shit," George whispered as she wandered back into their hut. She had rolled her hair up into pin curls, protected beneath a headscarf, and was reading a copy of Wuthering Heights in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

"Got into a drinking contest with one of the Americans," She shrugged, tossing her beer-stained blouse and jacket into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, a reminder to wash them tomorrow.

"Did you win?"

"Of course."

"Shh!" One of the other women hissed from the opposite end of the room, shrouded in the darkness. Frankie pulled a face at her scolding, dragging a brush through the knots in her dark brown hair as George stifled a laugh, discarding her book and turning off the light once her friend had changed and gotten into bed.

It was silent for a while as she lay beneath the blankets, staring up at what would have been the ceiling if not for the complete absence of light. Her alcohol-induced headache thrummed behind her eyes, a constant, dull pain keeping her from sleep.

"George?" She whispered.

"What?"

"Do you have an aspirin?"

The sound of quiet rummaging was audible in the stillness of the hut, and she struggled to suppress a laugh as she felt the tube smack her in the face, a result of Georgina tossing it blindly in the darkness.

"Thank you," She giggled, trying not to gag as she took the pills dry, lying back and waiting for the pain to subside as she thought back on the night's events.

I'm not that short.

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The blinding morning sun was unwelcome the next day as Frankie made her way to the airfield from her hut, bike resting against her hip as she made a momentary stop to fix her hair for the day ahead, hair tie held between her teeth as she scooped it into a ponytail. Most of the women she shared the Nissen hut with had left over an hour ago, hurrying to the flight tower in anticipation of the arrival of yet more American pilots, but her job didn't begin until after the planes landed, so fortunately for her, she had been afforded a little more sleep, her headache now more or less dissipated.

A loud honking startled her, the hair tie slipping from her teeth and falling to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of her, the horn parping once more.

"Fuck's sake, what?" Frankie muttered, glancing up to see the cheery grin of Major John Egan smiling down at her.

"Mornin'."

"Are you even fit to drive after last night?"

"Fifty-fifty. Hop in, throw your bike in the back."

She frowned as she noticed the pile of bikes already forming in the back of the car, but stacked her on top all the same, sliding into the passenger seat beside him. "Starting a collection?"

"Won them in a bet, night before last. Got one for me and my buddy Buck, he's arriving today."

"Is that Major Cleven?" She asked.

"Sure is," John nodded as the engine roared to life, taking them sailing along the road towards the airstrip, the wind ruining her hair before she even had a chance to finish it.

"So..." He began, swerving slightly to dodge a few maintenance workers on bikes. "Where ya from, Frankie?"

"Stratford."

"I... do not know where that is."

"I didn't expect you to," She chuckled. "Grew up with my dad working his garage, that's what got me into it. Always preferred planes to cars, though."

"You and me both," John nodded, slowing as they neared the landing strip. Up ahead, the flight crew were beginning to disembark, and Frankie's eyes narrowed as she noticed one of the airmen carrying a large dog.

"If they let that dog shit in the plane, I'm not cleaning it up," She stated. "You've heard me say it, that's on the record now."

"Yes ma'am," Egan affirmed, pulling to a stop, a grin spreading across his face as he got close enough to recognise his friends.

As he clambered out of the car, stepping forward to greet his comrades, she climbed out of her seat, wandering around the back of the jeep to disentangle her bike from the pile, tugging it free as the sounds of wind and aeroplane engines overpowered the men's voices.

"Oh, and, uh - This is Frankie Bevan," John called, guiding Cleven towards her, speaking louder so that she could hear. She raised her hand in a somewhat awkward wave, almost dropping her bike on her foot as she hauled it off the back of the jeep. "Best damn mechanic we've got, she's holdin' us together, that's for sure."

"Ma'am," Cleven greeted her with a tilt of his cap.

"He's never seen me work," Frankie shook her head, stepping forward to shake Cleven's hand. "We only met yesterday, he's just being nice in the hopes I won't tell you about how I drank him under the table last night."

John scoffed. "That is not what-" She raised a brow and he stuttered. "Yeah, that - that did happen."

Cleven laughed, squeezing Egan's shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad he's had someone to keep him humble before I got here. Thank you for your work, ma'am, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

She nodded, grinning at Egan's embarrassment. "How was your flight?"

"Smooth sailin', not sure there'll be anything to fix up this time."

A soldier she had heard John greet as Demarco spoke up from where he was stood, scratching his dog's stomach. "The dog dropped a deuce in the cockpit."

Clicking her fingers, she pointed to Egan. "She's not doing that!" He called, craning his head over his shoulder as Demarco put his hands up in surrender.

"Well, that works wonders," Frankie chuckled, lifting her leg to straddle the seat of her bike. "Now, if all you gents have planned is standing around, I've got work to do."

"Bye Shortcake," John grinned as she pedalled the bicycle into motion, ringing the bell and offering up a middle finger as she left. He chuckled, feeling Cleven clap him over the shoulder again.

"She's interesting... nice," His friend began. "Bucky, I know you're sick of Marge tryna set you up, but she is definitely-"

"She's definitely my friend, Buck. Besides, I could never date a woman with a higher alcohol tolerance than me. That's just embarrassing."

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The wind whipped her hair this way and that as Frankie hammered at the pedals, gaining speed faster and faster with each second until the rolling fields beyond the airstrip were little more than a green blur. She'd always loved to cycle, preferably as fast as she possibly could. Her father used to say she should try racing, but his ambition curtailed rather when she got in trouble for almost taking out a couple of tourists outside Shakespeare's birthplace on her way home from school. Besides, she'd never quite had the discipline for sports.

Her breaks squeaked noisily as she rolled to a stop outside the mechanics' Nissen hut, stationed just beyond the main runway. They had been given a single hut for all of their operations, much to the chagrin of many. The back end was an orderly pile of spare parts - buckets of rivets, piles of sheet metal - but someone had supplied them with a table and chairs, and the recent addition of a gas stove and kettle had proved a huge hit.

Ken Lemmons was sat at the table as she wandered in, glancing at the corkboard by the door where she and the others posted notice of anything in need of urgent repair.

"A couple of the guys replaced the glass in the gun turrets earlier - thanks for the shout," Lemmons spoke up.

"Ah, good," Frankie nodded, taking a seat opposite him. As much as she bemoaned her younger, American co-workers, she had grown fond of Ken. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and by the look on his face, he was not enjoying it. She tossed the paper bag containing her lunch onto the table, retrieving a cucumber sandwich - meagre subsistence, and a sight that made the boy frown.

"I think I'd actually murder someone for some Hershey's right about now," He remarked, grimacing as he took another sip of coffee.

"Hey, we make do with what we've got," She shrugged, attempting to devour the sandwich before the cucumber could soak through the thin slices of bread. "I know one of the girls in the Land Army - I darn her jumpers in exchange for a bit of her extra cheese ration."

Lemmons chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I miss good chocolate. I can't get used to... Cad-berry's?"

"Oh, that's sacrilege," She laughed, tossing a slice of cucumber at him, which stuck to the breast pocket of his coveralls. "If you'd come a couple years ago when they were still making Dairy Milk you'd've thought you'd died and gone to heaven."

"I'll believe it when I see it," He grinned, plucking the slice off of his clothes. There was a pause before he spoke again. "One of the fellas says they're actually taking off later."

Frankie nodded, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around her food. "Oh yeah? This gonna be your first proper go at it?"

"Yeah..." Lemmons admitted, looking momentarily nervous. "You?"

She snorted back a laugh. "Nah. I've been in the WAAF nearly four years - moved around a bit, but whether it's Attlebridge or Docking or Thorpe Abbotts, it's all the same gig. You stick with me when the planes start coming back down and you'll be fine."

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "You're gonna babysit me?"

Frankie grinned, standing up to reach across the table and ruffle his curls. "With a cute little face like yours, who could help it?" She teased, laughing as he batted her away.

"Get off, I'm serious," Lemmons chuckled, but the smile never faded from his expression.

Ken's buddy hadn't been wrong, per se, but his fabled mission had come not hours, but days later, with a hammering knock on the door to her hut, the women stirring from their sleep in a wave of disgruntled moans.

"What time is it?" Frankie whined as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, resisting the urge to burrow her head beneath the pillow and block out the relentless knocking outside.

"Four thirty," George groaned, frowning vindictively at her watch as she put it on, as if time itself had caused her personal grievance.

"They're flying today, get ready!" A young male voice bellowed from the other side of the door, clearly too shy to bare his face to a room of half-dressed, irritated women.

"Fuck me, I'm coming," She muttered, brushing her hair with one hand as she buttoned up the front of her coveralls with the other.

"Spot me! How's my lipstick?" George called, and Frankie leant across the bed that separated them to wipe a stray smudge of red away with her thumb.

"All good."

"Right," Her bunkmate huffed. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"See you later," Frankie affirmed.

"I'll join you for drinks this time if all goes well!" George called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the door.

"I'll hold you to that!" She replied, smiling as she laced up her boots.

The planes left and returned in mere hours, but the in-between had felt never-ending as the ground crew waited in tense anticipation to see how many would return and in what state. Frankie had sent Egan away to the flight tower after his nervous hovering had started to get on her nerves, and she had since spent the last half-hour sitting in the grass beside the runway making daisy chains with a few of the local children as a way to pass the time.

"Frankie! They're comin' in!" She heard Lemmons yell from across the airstrip. Hurriedly sending the children back to their parents as the sound of plane engines grew steadily louder overhead, she scrambled to her feet, grass stains streaking the knees of her coveralls as she jogged over, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as the planes began to descend towards them.

"...10, 11, 12..." Frankie muttered, coming to the slow realisation that many of the men they'd sent away that morning had not returned. But that loss did not negate the importance of the work they had to do now. "Ok, let's go," She patted Lemmons on the shoulder, and they reached for the bikes they had discarded on the ground nearby, pedalling hard towards the landing strip.

From the second they arrived, she was surveying the damage, scanning the planes for the areas that would need the most attention. It was impossible to pick just one.

"There's a reason we go at night," She muttered, so softly no one else could hear over the din of shouts and dying engines. The mechanics weren't emergency staff, but she'd seen a fair few planes come in either on fire, half-collapsed or both over the years, enough to learn it was best to get in as soon as possible.

"Shit," Lemmons huffed beside her, staring up at a huge, jagged hole in the metal of one of the plane's wings.

"Send a couple of the boys back to the hut - tell them to bring a car back with all the sheet metal they can put in it. Oh - and get me a welder!" She called to him, and the young man began barking orders at the other mechanics, the crew erupting to life around the plane as they began to fix the mess that had returned.

"Frankie!" Egan's voice rang from down below as she climbed up onto the top of the plane, marking out the areas of the body that needed replacing. She looked down at him as he yelled again. "You need anything?"

"Nope, we're good here!" Frankie replied, holding up a thumbs-up in case the wind drowned out her voice. Looking down at the work to do below her, it was as if she could map out every fix in her mind, envision every action in order, play it out in her head until the beast was as good as new. She smiled to herself. "This is what I do."

#masters of the air #masters of the air fic #masters of the air oc #mota oc #hbo war #john egan #gale cleven #ken lemmons #rosie rosenthal x oc #oc: frankie #mota #fic | i'm your man #oc: george

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idk-bruh-20 · 9 months

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Irondad fic ideas #151

There is a LOT of Iron Man merch out there. One day, Stark Industries comes out with a line of Iron Man themed night lights that look like arc reactors. The marketing? "For kids who are scared of the dark: Iron Man will protect you."

In completely unrelated news, a whole bunch of child abusers across the country have recently been arrested as a result of anonymous tips to local authorities.

Bonus:

It's an open secret at some point. Teens who are being abused start buying the night lights. Hell, adults start buying them. Charities pop up to cover the cost for anyone who needs it. Kids who are newly safe often send their night lights on to others ("I'm not scared of the dark anymore," they say).

Even with all of this, nobody snitches to the media or government. They all know grown-ups tend to complicate and ruin precious things.

It helps that the night lights clearly can distinguish between different types of situations. Kids whose parents need mental health or addiction support suddenly find they're being contacted by free services that actually help. If ICE is a concern, the people knocking on the door are not cops but immigrant rights activists. Kids who are hungry get food. Families who need housing support coincidentally find it.

"Iron Man will protect you," indeed.

This fic idea was inspired by this post from @fotibrit!!

#tony: see kid I can be a vigilante too #tony: just your friendly neighborhood iron man :)#peter: and I'm very proud of you but did u have to go THAT HARD OMFG #tony: gotta look out for the little guy :)#peter: ACROSS THE ENTIRE WORLD?!#irondad fic ideas #irondad and spiderson #just to be clear peter loves the night light idea and obvs loves the results lol #it's just tony did kinda one-up him at his own game just a Little bit #tony 'dramatic and excessive' stark #tony stark #peter parker #iron man #iron dad and spider son #abusers get rekt #queueueueue #weekly reminder that i love you all but am too busy to be human :)#fic ideas still postponed but you can send asks if you want i just won't see them for a while #see announcements

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jhonny · 3 months

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"stop talking like that boy you're ruining my tboy swag" - yami bakura, probably

or, when both bakuras are trans but only one of them has perfected the trans voice.

+ bonus thief king (as a treat)

#yugioh #yu gi oh #ygo #bakura ryou #yami bakura #thief king bakura #rowan art #TKB has so much transmasc swag it's INSANE.#guy walks in with his hard-earned muscles dripping butch energy and then reincarnates into a gay little boy who talks very politely.#*TKB tearing his hair out* SPEAK UP SPEAK UP SPEAK UP FOR THE LOVE OF APEPI YOU ARE FAILING TO COMMAND THE ROOM.#where is your anger. where is your manspreading. where is your KILLING INSTINCT. RISE. RISE. RISE.#meanwhile ryou is just sitting here like um. i appreciate it but . i'm not into all that. thank you #ryou not being hypermasculine to compensate for his transness is incomprehensible to TKB who fought tooth + nail to be recognised as a man.#yes i Am writing fic about these two no it is Not good thank you and goodnight #rowan.txt

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ghouljams · 9 months

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We haven’t touched on Cowboy!Ghost’s, well, ghosts before, and I literally couldn’t get this out of my head last night. I’m going to treat this like actual fic, I feel so fancy...

Warnings:

Hurt/Comfort, Graphic depictions of animal death, PTSD, Ghost going through it

Pairing:

Ghost x OC (Goose) [can be read as x reader]

Summary:

Early days of Ghost and Goose’s relationship. Ghost has always prided himself on his ability to handle any situation, no matter how bleak. So why does he find himself so ill equipped to handle something as small as a couple chickens death?

A coyote got into the henhouse last night.

You can hear its yips and snarls, the aggressive barks of your cattle dog as it darts at the chicken wire, the starling lack of clucking. You whistle for the dog, and it races to go check on the other animals. The last thing you need is for the coyote to get into it with Mav when you pull its sorry ass from the chicken pen. You yawn, trying to hold onto the hope that at least some of your ladies got somewhere safe before the carnage started. You’ll stop by the tractor supply later and grab some chicks to bolster your flock again.

You stop. Watching Ghost stand frozen in front of the pen, shoulders tight, barely breathing. His eyes a million miles away.

The pen is littered with half shredded chickens. Feather and muscle strewn about. The wild frenzy of a half starved predator laid out in front of you. The loose organs and scent of death turns your stomach, you can’t imagine what it does to a fresh soldier. Ghost’s finger twitches, beating a rapid tattoo against his thigh, his gun is still neatly holstered. You suppose that’s for the best, or maybe a signal of the worst.

You think about your first fourth of July after your Daddy’s second tour. The way he’d disappeared into the house like a ghost. The way your momma handed you off to your granny and followed after him. How your granny had told you: sometimes you see something so bad it never leaves you.

"Go wait in the house," you tell him as soft as you can, pulling at his arm to try and pull his attention. Ghost nods mutely, eyes still glued to the blood soaked earth and torn limp bodies. "Go on," you press a little more firmly, you lead him away from the henhouse, out of sight of it, "I'll be in shortly."

Ghost follows your direction, ears ringing, head stuffed with cotton. Everything feels far away and yet so brightly present. He can smell gunpowder and burnt flesh, can feel the wet warmth of blood on his clothes where he knows there isn't any. Can hear the shouting. He pushes the front door to the house open and holds the brass handle tight in his fingers for a long moment, just standing, waiting. As if he'll hear the pang of gunfire over the infinitely patient silence.

He goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Stares at the black iron as it sits on the burner and waits for the yip of the coyote, the last gunshot. It doesn’t come. You take his hand in the silence and turn the burner off. Lead him to the table and sit him heavily in one of the wooden chairs. Ghost keeps his eyes forward, his shoulders rigid. He waits. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. For the memories to stop.

His hat is removed, set carefully on the table. A warm cloth touches his face, wiping gently at the crease in his forehead, at the stern set of his brow. Your fingers reach for the edge of his mask and he grabs your wrist, eyes finally darting to yours in a panic. He can't. It's too much, too hard. He can't.

Somehow you seem to understand, fingers sliding instead to cup his jaw, to rub your thumb against his cheek over the soft cotton. The washcloth wipes his brow again, still warm and soothing.

"You're safe," you murmur, "Safe and sound right here with me. And Daddy.” You tack Price on, as if you might not be enough to convince him. As if it isn’t your touch that’s bringing him back, your eyes that hold his with such kind patience it makes his heart hurt. “We won't let anything hurt you."

Ghost doesn’t say anything, can’t make his lips move or conjure a thought as to what he might say. If there is anything to say. Is there anything to say?

You tip his head forward, press the lightly damp cloth against the back of his neck. He lets his hand drop from your wrist as you move your hand from his cheek to scratch your fingers through his hair. Gentle, calming touches. Never asking more from him than his comfort.

He settles his hands on your hips, and for a moment he can pretend you’re his.

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yoyo-s-coffee · 3 months

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a break from the murder

#OKAY. okay. I'm insane Abt this game like. the demos barely out but I'm #foaming at the mouth like hope I'm not raising my expectations too much but it seems goood?????#literally obsessed with Leander. what's wrong with him. why is his monster form himself #oh to be a monster because you are too human #man's too fine he's Deranged I love him #@Leander y is your belt so complicated #trying to write a fic on TS is like trying to stich up a torn shirt because huh what when how #my art #digital art #fanart #art #digital painting #touchstarved #touchstarved game #touchstarved leander #leander #touchstarved ais #ais #yoyo's

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gaywarcriminals · 1 month

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Once finally left alone, Shen Qingqiu resisted the urge to snoop for all of 20 minutes. Look, if he was going to be stuck living as this man, he was within his rights to go through the original goods stuff! It was research, really— he was just doing his best to obey the systems draconian demands of staying in character! It was a perfectly sound course of action— Shen Qingqiu just wished he hadn’t started with the bedroom.

There, in the second drawer Shen Qingqiu gleefully yanked open, was a neatly lined up row of items sealing Shen Qingqiu’s death sentence. Shen Qingqiu wanted to cry as he started at the vials of oils and jar of unguent, the coil of bright red ropes, and most damningly of all, a hyperrealistic dildo carved of black jade, big enough to rival the heavenly pillar. Shen Qingqiu knew the original goods was lascivious, but immortal biding cables? What poor shimei was he forcing??? And that thing: surely it couldn’t fit comfortably inside any woman, at least not without the protagonist’s skills to ease the way! Shen Qingqiu picked up the weapon— there was no better name for it— and wondered if destroying it would spare him any torture. Surely at least a fingernail or two!

“Qingqiu, I forgot to ask, did—“

Shen Qingqiu made a very dignified sound of surprise as Yue Qingyuan entered the room behind him. Yue Qingyuan stopped in his tracks, looking between Shen Qingqiu and the jade monstrosity. Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to make an excuse, but what could he say? This scene was inexcusable. Dying of mortification was certainly one way of avoiding being human sticked!

“Qingqiu, you’ve barely gotten out of bed, you can’t possibly be ready for dual cultivation yet. Look how red you are, you must still be feverish.” Shen Qingqiu stared agape as Yue Qingyuan moved too close for propriety and pressed his hand to Shen Qingqiu’s forehead. He hummed consideringly. “I’ll go fetch Mu-shidi.”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu squeaked— the last thing he needed was another witness!

Yue Qingyuan sighed indulgently. “Alright, If Qingqiu is truly in need, this Qi-ge will use his mouth.”

For the second time that day, Shen Qingqiu fainted.

#don't worry they get SJ a mushroom body or something because SY is not about to leave this beautiful tragic man without a wife #or SY is SJ if that's your speed #I'm writers blocked so I'm grabbing old stupid ideas from my list #svsss #shen qingqiu #yue qingyuan #qijiu #fish fic

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chiropteracupola · 14 days

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granby + iskierka + keynes

#em draws stuff #em is posting about temeraire #temeraire #iskierka #john granby #doctor keynes #<- I do not know if keynes ever gets a first name so This Shall Do for tagging purposes for the present moment #speaking of which. my logic here is that granby is always getting whopped upside the head and stabbed and shot and dropped from high places #and therefore I think he should maybe cultivate his relationship with his crew's surgeon. because he is going to Need to.#keynes now. My Friend Keynes. I reallyreally would like to know More About Him and how exactly someone ends up as an aerial corps SURGEON #what is UP with this man I would like to KNOW about him #I would like to write fic even maybe. Hello Sir. Your Backstory?#designwise he ended up looking like patrick gallagher who you may be aware of for his role as awkward davies masterandcommander #which was not entirely intentional but I did end up leaning into it as I went on with the drawing.#he looks a lot like many people's version of tharkay here... I should make an effort for distinguishing them by drawing More Tharkays.#either way. keynes and gong su my favorite tem characters I don't really see anyone drawing. my underappreciated blorbos...#(this is maybe because I'm only on book 3 but) keynes is certainly on page a deal more than certain fellows I could name #anyWay. we are slowly creeping up to drawing BigLarge Iskierka but not all the way there yet. Stay Tuned.

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dragon-tidbits · 9 months

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And with that I think I should stop messing with it-

Oh what wonders and sights you can see with a dragon's eye view.

#Gravity Falls #Stanford Pines #GF Sona #Fan art #LET THE MAN RIDE A DRAGON #this show has a vice grip on my brain #consider it a snippet of a fan-fic I'm writing #and maybe will share one day #but don't hold your breath #Ford my beloved

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bambiraptorx · 9 months

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Raph eats spiders i guess

finally got around to drawing something else for IMNDY again and it's this lol

#rottmnt #rottmnt au #i'm not dead yet au #imndy au #rottmnt raph #future raph #raphael hamato #rottmnt big mama #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt fan comic #my art #this is what happens when you go through an apocalypse and then get thrown back in time #it completely screws up your sense of normal things people eat #anyway raph saw a bug and was like 'ooh a snack'#and big mama saw him eat it and was like 'is that a THREAT are you THREATENING me'#man i need some motivation to actually get the fic written lol

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 17 days

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 11

AO3

Warnings: Language, angst

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

Rosie's palms were slick with sweat, the din of the band muffled to his ears beneath the deafening thumping of his heart as he pushed his way through the crowds, never faltering, even when people called to him as he passed. The door seemed all at once impossibly far away when every second meant not knowing where Frankie was, not knowing if she was ok.

A sudden silence fell upon him as he stepped out into the night air, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sound of footsteps on gravel caught his attention, and he trailed after the crunch around to the side of the hut, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. George sat on the bench, leaning forward on her elbows, a deep frown creasing her cheeks. Frankie was pacing in front of her, a freshly lit cigarette letting off smoke as she held it to her lips. Even in the dim light, he could make out the redness in her eyes, and a wave of nausea coursed through him as he realised she'd been crying.

"Frankie?"

Their gazes snapped towards him, unaware of his presence until now. George was wide-eyed in concern, but there was something cold in Frankie's gaze - bitter, a type of ruefulness he'd never seen in her, especially not directed at him. She dropped the cigarette, stomping it out with her heel as she turned to walk away from him. "Frankie," George called, a warning tone in her voice, like a mother scolding a child.

It worked. She paused, face tilted up to the sky as she let out a long, exhausted sigh, and Rosie wanted nothing more but to step forward and hold her in his arms. But he knew in that moment she wouldn't let him. His eyes met George's for a moment, a nod of understanding passing between them. She rose to her feet, moving to give them some privacy, but as she passed him she paused.

"If you break her heart, I swear I'll kill you, Rosenthal."

"Understood, ma'am."

She walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading with distance. Frankie's shoulders were tense as she rubbed at her eyes, attempting to remove the evidence of the tears she'd shed over him.

"... Honey?" Rosie asked slowly. She stormed towards him, hands reaching out towards his chest to give him a shove, to release the anger bubbling inside her. But when the moment came, she froze, seizing the lapels of his jacket in her clenched fists, unable to meet his eye, gaze fixed on the line of medals that decorate his chest.

"Hey," He spoke gently, scarcely more than a whisper. Reaching a gentle hand to her arm, he felt her grip loosen, peeling her hand away from him so that he could lift it, placing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, gaze never leaving her face. She met his eyes the moment his lips brushed against her skin, jaw visibly clenched. "C'mon. Talk to me."

"You're going back up, aren't you?" Frankie's voice came low and hoarse. Her knuckle brushed against his cheek so briefly, yet he felt the urge to lean in against it, to feel her hand against his face.

"I don't know, I haven't decided yet."

"Yes, you have. You haven't realised it, but you'll go - that's who you are."

The corner of his mouth curled in an involuntary smile, charmed at the thought of being known so well. But her expression had no humour, and her fingers balled back into a fist, slipping out of his grasp.

"They'll replace me with someone who can't do the job as well as I can. I'm saving a life by staying - I can't just walk away from this, Frankie."

"What about me?" She knew the words were selfish the moment they left her, the shame making her squirm. "I'd been waiting for this for so long - it was keeping me going, knowing that I didn't have to live in fear for much longer, and now you're just dragging it out for what? So you can feel good about yourself?"

Rosie's brow furrowed, taking a half-step backwards away from her, lips parting for a moment as he searched for something to say. He had noted the smell of alcohol on her breath, telling himself she didn't mean what she said, but the words still stung.

"I want to stop. If I could, I would, but-"

"But you can-"

"No, I can't! This is bigger than any one person, I can't just give it up!"

Frankie's lip had begun to tremble, and she sniffed loudly, raising her hand to hastily wipe away the tears forming in her eyes before they could fall. Before he could think about it, he was stepping forward to envelop her in an embrace, but she batted his hand away before he could touch her, and Rosie swore he felt his heart skip a beat.

"I've been doing this for nearly five fucking years," She shook her head. "I deserved this, Rosie. Today wasn't just about you, I deserved to have this one thing."

He paused then, sucking in a long breath. He hadn't considered that - that this had been her war far longer than it had been his. How many bodies had she dragged out of planes in her time? How much blood had she wiped clean? More than he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry."

"But you won't change anything."

"No. But I need you."

"That's not fair. I wait for you every time and it is agony, and every time we're together I can't help but think of all the ways your next mission could go wrong, and I don't know how much longer I can do it."

Taking a step forward, he raised a tentative hand, holding back a sigh of relief as she let him touch her, his thumb skirting across her cheek. "I think you're the reason I'm still alive." He admitted, noticing the way her chest heaved as she sucked in a deep breath. "This was never gonna work out perfectly for us, but you're what I come back for. It's like... I think of you and I can do whatever it takes to make it back alive... because I love you."

All at once Frankie collapsed into him, head pressed firm against his chest, arms wrapped almost unbearably tight around his back. If she had to, she could live without him - she could get up and live her life every day, but it wouldn't be the same. He had made himself essential to her, had burrowed beneath her skin like an itch she couldn't scratch, and that presence would never leave, alive or dead. But a part of her would die with him. He squeezed her shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, warm breath fanning her skin.

There was nothing she could do. She could stand there in the dark and call off the whole thing, refuse to ever speak to him again, but the part of her that he occupied wasn't going away. Distance wouldn't solve anything, it would simply amplify her misery. The fear wouldn't abate, so long as there was breath in his lungs.

Rosie's cheek rested against her head, listening quietly to the steady thump of her heart. His hand moved from her shoulder to her hip to her hair, as if trying to map every inch of her with his fingertips, unable to hold her close enough without fusing his skin to hers. This was what he came home for, this was what kept him alive - what was heaven to the sound of her breathing?

"I love you too," She uttered. After a moment, Frankie raised her head, chin resting against his chest as she looked up at him. Rosie lifted a hand, wiping away the remnants of unshed tears with the back of his palm, a tired smile curling her lip as she let her eyes flutter shut. If he could've spent the rest of his life staring at her, he would've. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, reaching an arm around his back to take her hand in his.

"C'mon," He spoke softly, stepping backwards out of the embrace and tugging her along by the hand.

"Come where?" Frankie asked, brow furrowed.

"Just come," A grin creased his cheeks as she fell in step, their footsteps breaking the late-night silence.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The single lightbulb illuminating the path to the mess hall buzzed intermittently, flickering slightly as moths hovered around its glow. There was no one around, the staff having long gone for the night, the rooms within laying deserted. Frankie began to chuckle as she realised what they were doing, struggling to restrain a laugh as Rosie jostled the doorknob, wrestling with the thing for a minute before it came open with a creak.

"See? Like magic," He proclaimed.

"Yeah, on your third try," She snorted as he held out his elbow for her to take his arm as if they were entering a high-class restaurant.

It was utterly still inside the hall, the quiet so piercing that they could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Rosie led her through to the back, flicking on the kitchen light as the shelves and shelves of food came suddenly into view.

"You're a thief, Rosenthal," Frankie pointed out, pushing herself up to perch on the edge of the counter.

He hummed distractedly, rifling through the supplies now at their disposal. "They'll understand. Date night with the wife 'n all." For a moment he continued without realising what he'd said, and then he froze, turning his head slightly to glance nervously back at her.

Frankie was already smiling, and offered up a shrug, a wordless assurance of 'someday'. He turned back to the shelves, hoping the shadows would hide the tinge of red he could feel blooming in his cheeks.

"Aha," He declared, retrieving a pair of chocolate bars and tossing one across to her. Peeling back the paper, she took a bite as he pushed himself up onto the counter beside her, tapping the chocolate together as if they were toasting glasses.

"This is better than a party," Rosie sighed, leaning back against the wall as he raised a hand to loosen his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt.

"Really? You won't find any good booze in here," She raised a brow, holding the chocolate bar between her teeth as she shrugged off her jacket, tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I'd rather sit around with you."

"Mm, yeah. I'd rather eat chocolate," Frankie mused, staring down at the half-eaten bar in her hand before going in for another bite.

"Oh, nice - romantic," Rosie chuckled.

"What? I'm just being honest. That's gonna be the worst part about going to America - no Cadbury's. I'm making this sacrifice for you Robert, that's romantic."

"You're right, I'm sorry for not appreciating your suffering," Pushing himself upright, he leant over to press a kiss to her cheek, missing as she turned her head and accidentally pressing his lips to her chin.

Frankie let out a cackle, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him in for a real kiss as she slid sideways off the counter. He could taste chocolate on her lips, one hand squeezing her hip, the other cushioning her shoulder as she backed up against the wall. She ran a deliberate hand through his hair, messing up his curls in the way that always made her smile. He was going to have to stop buying hair gel.

Rosie could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt, pressing against her with his palm as if they could meld into one. This wasn't like him. His mother would've been red in the face. But it wasn't his fault that Frankie was just so damn pretty. Simply breathing seemed twice as hard whenever she smiled - it was a wonder how he'd ever lived without it. The moment she'd left the party, his stomach had dropped so hard he thought he'd vomit, so scared had he been at the prospect of losing her. He cupped her jaw, tilting her face higher towards him, the press of her head against the wall messing up the curls George had no doubt spent ages tending to.

She snaked an arm around the back of his neck, trapped between his shoulders and the wall. It was an unwinnable situation, but she could survive the fear if it meant he was hers once it was all over. Rosie was good - no, scratch that - he was the best. If anyone could make it back, he could.

He had just begun to loosen her tie when a sudden banging at the door startled them, tearing themselves apart as someone hammered a heavy fist, shining a torch through the window at the front end of the mess hall.

"We know someone's in there!" A booming yell sounded. "Come out!"

Frankie clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the laughter that threatened to erupt as Rosie gritted his teeth, trying his damndest not to do the same and give them away worse than they had already. She scrambled to collect her jacket, attempting to smooth down her hair with one hand as he hastily disposed of any evidence of their late-night feast.

The kitchen had a narrow back door, and Frankie pried it open as quietly as she could. Whoever had found them was still hammering on the front door, and as she peered out into the darkness she couldn't see any sign of reinforcements. "Go, go!" She whispered, shoes clutched in her hand to muffle her footsteps as they crept outside, scurrying across the grass towards the next row of Nissen huts.

As soon as they were home free she let a mighty laugh tear itself from her chest, splitting the air and undoubtedly waking up a few disgruntled workers. Rosie had begun to laugh too, their shoulders brushing as they swayed against each other, giddy on adrenaline. They were far too old to be sneaking around like teenagers, but he couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Slinging an arm around her shoulders, she leaned against him as they wandered back towards her hut, the party's crowds not yet dissipated out into the world.

Approaching her door, Frankie turned to face him, walking backwards as she wrapped her arms around his back. She took a deep breath, letting out a sigh, giddiness wearing off. "See you tomorrow?"

Rosie nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Yeah. I've gotta go see Bennett in the morning, I'll catch you after."

"Yeah, alright." Pushing herself up onto her toes, she kissed him one last time, before slipping inside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was quiet inside, the bathroom light humming as George stepped into the doorway, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, curls brushed out of her hair. "You're back."

"I'm back," Frankie sighed, scraping a hand through her hair as she collapsed backwards onto the bed, springs creaking beneath her. She heard desperate scrambling from the next room as George hurried to finish up, and the quick step of bare feet against the floor as she scurried over, sitting cross-legged on her bed beside her.

"...And?" She asked, tone laced with worry.

"I'm living with it," Frankie admitted, throwing up her hands in surrender.

"That's it?"

"Think about it, George!" She exclaimed, rolling over onto her stomach so that she could look up at her. "If I made him stop, if I said he had to go home, he'd be miserable. He'd resent it - he wouldn't resent me, 'cause he's too bloody good, but he'll hate it. He'll spend the rest of his life regretting it, and I don't wanna do that. I'll have to live with it too."

The corner of George's lip curled in a half-smirk. "It's that serious, huh? 'Rest of your life' type stuff?"

"... I think so."

"I get it. It's better in the long run."

"Yeah, if there is one," Frankie sighed, staring dejectedly down at the floor.

"Oi," George slid off the bed, crouching down before her, forcing Frankie to look at her. "Don't gimme that shit, ok? He's the best pilot this place has ever seen, no one has chances as good as he does. I know it's scary - you know I know that."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know. Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Get up and take that uniform off... you smell like chocolate."

Chuckling, Frankie pushed herself upright, beginning to peel away her clothes as George began to meticulously pin her hair into curlers for the next day. Sometimes she felt guilty - lamenting over the possibility of losing the man she loved when George had already lost hers. As if she were tempting fate, painting George's life as the worst possible version of her future.

"...You know I love you, right?" She asked slowly.

George looked up, brow raised. "Yeah, 'course. Why, are you dumping Rosie to run away with me now?"

Frankie let out a huff of laughter, buttoning up her pyjama shirt. "Yeah, that's the plan," She nodded, the pair grinning at each other as she climbed into bed. Flicking off the bedside lamp, she buried her head into the pillow, eyes shut tightly as she tried to fall asleep.

After a few minutes of silence, George spoke up again. "I would make a prettier bride than Rosie."

Grabbing her pillow, she hurled it at her, knocking George off balance and almost sending her tipping over the corner of the bed. "Oi!"

"I'm trying to sleep! Shut up and gimme my pillow back, or the engagement's off."

George chuckled, lobbing it back with as much, if not greater force, and Frankie yelped as it collided with her face, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"... I think you gave me a black eye."

"You're being a fucking baby."

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"General Doolittle has ordered the air strategy to shift radically...

"to shoot them down we need to get them in the air...

"...With bombers as the bait."

Frankie lingered outside the closed door to Bennett's office, arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the conversation within. She'd had to argue her way past a fair few guards just to get this far, and was resisting the sudden urge to march through the door and break something - preferably Bennett's nose.

She hadn't told Rosie she was coming, and the more she listened in, the more she felt confident she didn't want him to know either. He'd probably try to stop her from starting a fight. Footsteps approached the door from the inside, and Frankie ducked into the nearest office and out of view as Rosie passed. The room's inhabitants looked up at her as she entered, brows furrowed in confusion, and she offered an awkward smile, pretending to fix one of the clocks until he was safely out of sight.

Before the door to Bennett's office could fall close, she stepped in, propping her arm across the doorframe and blocking the exit.

"Can I help you ma'am?" He asked, brow raised as he stood up from his desk.

"Yeah, actually, I was wondering if you could direct me towards a CO with some basic fucking sense."

Bennett looked momentarily startled, before realisation seemed to flicker across his expression. "Ah. You're Rosenthal's girl, right?"

Frankie frowned. "I also happen to be the most experienced mechanic you've got. But yeah, I guess that works."

"In that case, you probably shouldn't come in here insulting your commanding officers."

"That'd certainly be a concern if I actually worked for you."

"Look... Sergeant? I get it. You found out about the new plan, somehow-"

"I was listening through the door just now."

"...You're really not allowed to do that."

"I really don't care."

"Frankie?" Rosie's voice echoed from the opposite end of the corridor, and she tried her best not to react as she heard his footsteps approaching behind her, felt a gentle hand on her arm. "What're you doing?"

"You know those orders are bullshit," Frankie continued, gaze never leaving Bennett. "And you're letting it happen because you're a fucking coward."

"Okay, Jesus Christ, let's go," Rosie spoke hurriedly, tugging on her arm. "Sir, I'm sorry about this."

"I'm not done-"

"Yes, you are."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn't get a chance to speak before Frankie was dragged out of his doorway, the door falling shut with a heavy thud as Rosie guided her away back down the hall.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? What was that?!"

"Plan A was to strangle him - I think it went well all things considered."

"Do not - what?!" Rosie shook his head, utterly dumbfounded as they stepped outside. "What are you doing?!"

Frankie stopped walking, turning on her heel to face him. "Those orders are gonna get these men killed. I mean, bait? Are they fucking serious?"

"Did you listen in on that entire conversation?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. The point is, I'm sick of having to stand by and watch them give out these bullshit orders that nobody can stand up to. They're murdering those boys if they do this, they're-"

"I know!" Rosie exclaimed, raising his hands to her shoulders. "I know. I care about them too, you know I do, but they're making me Major now - I can lead them - I'm gonna do everything I can to bring them home."

"... Wait, what? They're making you Major?"

"So you missed that part?"

"I think I blacked out after the 'bait' thing."

"Yeah, I got that impression."

Frankie nodded for a long moment, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. "... I hate not being able to do anything."

"I know," Rosie reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

"I'm the one who'll have to clean your blood out of the seat if you don't make it," She stated, unable to meet his eye. He felt the colour drain from his cheeks. "They'll give me your footlocker. I don't - I don't know what to do with it, I don't-" The more she spoke the faster the words came tumbling out, spiralling out of control.

"Hey, hey," Rosie cooed, wrapping an arm around the back of her neck to pull her into his chest. "We're good. We're okay, it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make it. I dunno if anyone's told you, but I'm kind of a big deal around here."

"Oh, shut up," Frankie thumped a fist against his shoulder, her voice barely audible, muffled against his jacket. When she pulled away she was fighting a smile, a red tint flushing her cheeks as she swept her hair out of her face.

"Seriously," He nodded, lifting his hands to cup her face. "It'll be alright."

"... Yeah."

#masters of the air #rosie rosenthal #masters of the air oc #mota fic #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal x oc #fic | i'm your man #oc: frankie #oc: george

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