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finelinefae · 1 month

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birdy [Pilot!harry x teacher!y/n]

synopsis: it’s the 1950s. harry's had a hard life and y/n just wants the truth

word count: 12.3k

contains: fluff, angst, childhood trauma, nightmares, abusive father, neglectful parents, grovelling, smut (size kink, tiny praise kink, breeding kink, oral m receiving)

this is part 3 of the aviator read part 2 here

this could have gone one of two ways...

. . .

Y/N was convinced that returning to the airbase took only half as much time as the journey to reach the campsite. She hated hiking, even more so after this trip, but she had places to be so she charged down the trail all the way back to the airbase. The clouds overhead seemed to mirror her anger, morphing into shades of grey, empathising with her mood.

“Y/N, Harry went back earlier this morning. We came back from the bonfire and he was hyperventilating and shit. Thought he was gonna pass out so me and Pat went to get him some water but when we got back he was gone.” Sonny had told her when she had asked why Harry was missing.

Y/N’s mind instantly went to the night she had woken up to one of Harry’s nightmares. She wondered whether or not that had something to do with his sudden disappearance. However, it didn't seem to cool the anger she felt that seemingly continued to grow with every fueled step she took back towards Offutt.

As she made it out of the clearing, she noticed a figure sitting under a tree in the distance. She paused, squinting her eyes and immediately recognising those broad shoulders and that head full of brunette curls. Now that she could finally see him, she wondered if it would be better to just let him sit and wallow in whatever guilt he may or may not be feeling but she considered confronting things like this as self-care and she wouldn’t allow herself to return home without knowing why she had woken up alone this morning.

She ignored the droplets of rain that began to fall slowly from the sky. Instead, she trudged through the slightly muddy grass. Y/N caught his head turn as though he sensed her incoming. He shot up, standing tall and began to walk towards her.

Harry couldn’t even react when he saw the anger radiating from her face. He knew what he had done and there was no good reason for it, “Y/N-”

When she was finally in front of him, Y/N took a deep breath to steady herself. “Don’t ever disrespect me like that again,” she said firmly, her voice carrying her emotions. Then, turning away, she began to walk away from him.

She felt a hand wrap around her wrist but she tugged it, breaking free from his grip, “No,” She turned around to face him, “You walk away from me, I walk away from you.” It’s what she planned to do all along, make him realise how much it hurt to have someone turn their back on you.

Harry’s heart seemed to crack as her voice trembled, “Y/N,”

“Why?” Her bottom lip wobbled but she held her breath, trying to be stronger than him, “Why would you do that? Y’know, I’ve put a lot of faith in you Harry, I trusted you. People labelled you so many things and I always backed you up but that was just…Mean. You are being mean.”

“I know, I know,” Harry said, which only fuelled her anger even more. He had no idea what it felt like to wake up alone, especially after admitting something so honest.

“You have no idea,” Her voice raised, “You have no idea what that felt like because you will always be the person who leaves.”

Harry couldn’t seem to find the words. She was right and finally seeing him how he saw himself. There was nothing good about him and he had been told that his entire life by all the people he cared about. Everything he loved as a child was taken away from him with claw marks all over them. He had been forced to grow up, leave home and raise three kids. He knew one day that they too would be taken away from him- they’d find better people, a happier life - and he would be left with nothing because it was all that he had known and all that he had deserved.

Y/N couldn’t seem to fathom how he stood there in complete silence. The silence seemed to birth a new feeling inside her, another seed planted in her slow-burning heartbreak.

Until His voice murmured something, barely audible to her ear, "It was you."

She stilled, “What?”

His head lifted and she finally got to see him through the fog of anger. His cheeks were tear stained, his eyes red-rimmed and tired like he had barely slept. His hair looked as though he had run his fingers through them one too many times. “In my nightmare, it was you.” He confessed.

Y/N was struggling to breathe, “What are you talking about?” She whispered, her eyes glassy.

“I haven’t experienced it that way in so long, I-I thought I was okay now.” Harry's chest rose and fell with each heavy breath.

“What did they do to you?” Y/N took a step forward.

“I thought I was at home. I-I was in my room in my own body and my pops was there sitting in his armchair. He wouldn’t stop laughing at me and then I looked down and saw y’ on the floor,” Harry inhaled sharply like he was picturing the moment as he was re-calling it, “I tried to wake y’ up but you wouldn’t reply, y’ wouldn’t wake up and he was just sat there laughing and laughing. I was calling for help but no one could hear me and t-then he started saying I did it.”

Y/N couldn’t hold back her tears anymore as Harry began to cry. She wanted to reach out for him, to remove every bad thing that had ever happened to him and replace them with good.

“He said it was me who hurt you,” He cried, “I tried to save you Y/N but I couldn’t and he was just laughing.”

“Harry,” Y/N whispered, grabbing his hand and feeling him grip her fingers so tightly she thought it would cut off the circulation.

“I woke up outside,” He murmured, sniffling, “I was sitting out somewhere in the morning and Sonny and Patsy found me. I could hardly catch m’breath and they went off to get something that’d help but I was too ashamed. I couldn’t face them and I couldn’t face you either.”

"Why?" Y/N couldn't help but ask, despite all the times she had promised him she would be there for him.

Harry's gaze fell to the ground as he struggled to find the words. “Because,” He huffed, trying to smile but he just looked broken, “What’s a girl like you doing with someone like me? God, I love you so much Y/N. I’ve never loved anybody in m’ whole life and the only thing I know about it is that y’ give the people y’ love what they are most deserving of and you deserve so much more than what I can give.”

Y/N’s lips parted but he continued, “I have nothing. I am nobody. Outside of this place, I have nothing. I come from a family of nobodies and you…you are everything.”

Y/N’s heart ached with every word he spoke and the vulnerability and pain on his face. She felt as though he was cutting himself open and he had nothing more he could hide away from her, “Harry, you are changing that.” She whispered, her voice filled with conviction.

He frowned, puzzled by her words, uncertain of their meaning. “The way you are with your brothers and Elise, what you’ve given them, it is the biggest example of love I have ever seen. This life you’ve shown them here comes from your love Harry.” She said, a smile breaking through her tears as his expression softened. She reaches up to cup his cheek in her hand, “I don’t want you to give me something better, I want you to give me you and the love I have seen you give to the people you care about. And I want to give you love too because I love you more than words can even comprehend and you are so deserving of it.”

Harry’s eyes close softly as if he can’t quite believe the words he’s hearing and he’s trying to absorb it all. Y/N pulls his head down so their foreheads are pressed against each other, “Maybe you thought you had nothing but you always had love and if this is your nothing then I want all of it. That is what I want you to give to me.” She whispers.

There's a pause, a moment of silent understanding between them, as Harry processes her words. His eyes slowly flutter open, revealing a depth of emotion that takes her breath away. She sees in his gaze a mixture of disbelief and gratitude as if her words have unlocked something within him that he never thought possible.

And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Harry's hands find their way to her face, his touch gentle yet firm. It's as if he's trying to memorise every contour, every line, every curve as if he's afraid that this moment might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

"There is nothing in this world that means more to me than you," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath. "Thank you," he adds, his words filled with sincerity and love.

Y/N smiles softly, her eyes reflecting warmth and understanding. "That's okay," she says gently.

The rain pours around them as they stand underneath the shelter of the tree. Harry doesn’t even ask for permission, too eager to, as he presses his lips to hers. Y/N squeaks in surprise but melts into him when she allows herself to feel all the things he can’t communicate, put into every motion of his lips.

Harry feels new like the burden of his childhood is eased from his shoulders as the light from her kiss injects itself into his body. He wonders how he could ever allow himself to walk away from this, “I’m so sorry Y/N.” He says against her lips, “I love you, I’m sorry.”

Y/N sighs, “We’ll learn,” She says, “We’ll get better and we’ll both learn.”

It’s more than just words of forgiveness, it’s a promise and the start of something new.

When they finish kissing, they both look up at the sky and see how hard the rain is pouring, “I think I’m over this trip now.” Y/N sighs, “I don’t think I ever want to go camping again.”

“Oh c’mon it was fun,” Harry teases with a sniffle but then sees her deadpan expression, “Okay it could have been better but at least we’re together now.”

Y/N takes her hand away from him and crosses her arms, “Who decided that?”

Harry’s face drops, “I-I thought-.”

She quirks a brow, “I haven’t forgiven you for leaving me yet. That was just cruel and you should know better!”

Harry looked at her apologetically “I know baby-“ He reached for her hand but she swiftly moved away, stepping out into the rain and walking back towards the trail.

“I won’t be letting you off so easily.” Harry’s shoulders slumped as he stayed glued to the floor, watching her walk away from him.

He tried not to smile as she stumbled over the uneven ground, her clothes getting wet from the rain. He cupped his mouth and yelled, “But y’ still love me right?”

“Of course I do you idiot!” She yelled over her shoulder.

Harry smiled, “I love you too, bigger than the whole sky Y/N.”

“Oh yeah?” Y/N yelled, “Prove it!”

Harry chuckled, running over to join her in the rain.

. . .

To grovel actually meant to get down on your knees and beg for not only days but weeks in Y/N’s books which Harry had gradually come to realise.

They returned from the airbase before everybody else and arrived at Y/N’s house to shower. Harry had tried to persuade Y/N to shower with him, using the classic excuse of ‘it’ll save water’ but she was too smart for that and he knew better.

Soon, life resumed its usual rhythm after the camping trip, but there was a noticeable change in Y/N and Harry. Others noticed the absence of tension between them, seeing the love reflected in their gazes whenever they looked at each other. However, they couldn't understand why Y/N refused to acknowledge their relationship, or why Harry seemed so smitten and eager- all of a sudden walking around like he was a lovesick puppy in need of attention.

Every day Harry would be doing something for Y/N, whether it was buying her flowers at the start of every week or walking her home during his work breaks. He’d rarely ever be seen with another woman, let alone make eye contact with them, all because he was desperate to make it up to the only woman he’d ever want for the rest of his life.

“Y/N,” Francine, one of the nursery workers, called her name as she was washing up paint pots in the sink, “He’s here for you.”

Y/N tried to hide her smile, “Could you tell him to wait please Fran?”

Soon Fran returned and in her arms was a giant bouquet, “He couldn’t stay very long,” She handed Y/N the roses, “But he told me to give you these.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, her hands still dripping wet as she held the red roses in her arms. She placed them on the countertop and took out the card attached to the bouquet. ‘I love you bigger than the whole sky, your Harry.’

Y/N bit down on her lip as she folded the small piece of paper and slid it into the front pocket of her apron. “When’s that boy gonna put a ring on y’ finger?” Loretta, one of the older nursery workers asked.

Y/N scoffed, “Only if he can get near my hand first, Loretta.”

Although marriage would definitely not be happening anytime soon, the picture of it in her mind made her smile.

In the evening, Y/N had been enjoying some much-needed girl time with Molly and Patsy. Y/N hadn’t seen Nancy since the night of the bonfire. She was rarely ever home to the point where the girls wondered why she even bothered renting her room out for much longer.

They sat around the living room in pink robes, watching a movie and reading magazines. It had been a while since Y/N had had some downtime with her housemates. So much of her time had been either working or being trapped in the whirlwind that was her relationship with Harry.

“Can I have some of that?” Patsy asked, unable to keep her eyes off the television as she held her hand out for the bottle of wine.

Molly passed it over but her eyes narrowed on Patsy, “Is that Sonny’s sweatshirt you’re wearing under that?”

Patsy finally looked away, her mouth opening and closing, “N-no?” She lied, terribly.

“Did you sleep with him?” Molly questioned.

Patsy swallowed, “No…maybe…yes.”

Patsy's feeble attempt at denial only made Y/N and Molly laugh harder. Y/N struggled to stifle her giggles, while Molly's laughter rang out loud and clear.

"And? How was it?” Molly urged, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Patsy’s face flushed bright red, “It was good.”

“That’s it?” Molly frowned.

“Fine,” Patsy’s shoulders slumped, “It was wonderful, Mol. The best I’ve ever had.”

“You’re lying,”

“It’s true!” Patsy exclaimed, “There’s just something about ‘em, right Y/N? You slept with Harry already didn’t you?”

Y/N’s smile fell from her face, “Huh?”

Molly smirked, “Now you definitely cannot lie about that. Everyone knows it.”

Y/N's smile faltered, confusion flickering in her eyes. "What do you mean, everyone knows?"

Molly's smirk widened. "Come on, Y/N. It's written all over your face. You've got that look all the girls have, you know the one where they lie about being with someone when it’s clearly not the truth."

Y/N's cheeks flushed as realisation dawned on her. "Oh," she murmured, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"So, spill it," Molly urged, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Have you?"

“I don’t know…Maybe,” She could feel the corner of her lips tugging upwards and her hands quickly shot up to cover her face.

Her two housemates squealed, jumping up from the couch with excitement, “You have?” Molly grinned.

“Yes!” Y/N laughed.

“Tell us all about it!” Patsy fell to the floor and leaned in towards her.

“O-Oh, I-” But as luck would have it, Y/N was interrupted by the doorbell ringing and then the door swinging open.

“Patsy?” Sonny’s voice rang down the hallway as he invited himself in again.

Molly rolled her eyes, annoyed, “What is it?”

Footsteps sounded against the hardwood floors as Sonny entered the living room. His eyes landed on the girls as they sat on the floor, “What are you doing?”

"What does it look like we're doing?" Molly retorted, crossing her arms defensively.

"Can I join in?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Patsy groaned, "Just tell us what you want, already."

“Oh,” Sonny shook his head as if reminding himself why he was here, “Elise is sick,”

Y/N stood up, “What? How sick?”

“George has had to bath her four times already and Harry can’t seem to get her to sleep. It’s manic in that house, y’ gotta help us out.” Sonny begged.

"But it's girl's night," Molly said firmly, gesturing toward the girls in their gowns. "And we're not your nurses or your babysitters."

"Please?" Sonny's eyes pleaded, darting towards Y/N.

Y/N sighed, relenting. "Fine. Let me get dressed." She manoeuvred past the girls seated on the floor and headed upstairs to her room to change.

“What? Patsy, y’ can’t be serious?” Molly whined.

“It’s Elise and Sonny’s sister.” Patsy shrugged as though it was reason enough.

Molly huffed, knowing no matter what she said it wouldn’t be enough to persuade them to help a sick child. The girl’s night they had planned would just have to be put on hold, “Alright,” She conceded.

Sonny led the girls across the estate to the Styles’ household. Along the way, Y/N and Molly teased Patsy and Sonny when they noticed them holding hands inside the pocket of Sonny’s aviator coat. The closer they got to the house, the more they could hear Elise wailing from inside.

He swung the door open, the girls following behind, “I’m back!” Sonny called as they entered the kitchen, “I bought reinforcements.”

Harry turned around when they all stepped into the room. He was shirtless, holding onto a crying Elise, her little face all scrunched up and red. His eyes immediately gravitated towards Y/N, “You’re here,” He sighed as if the sight of her had alleviated some of the stress he was feeling.

Y/N walked straight up to him and took Elise out of his grip, “M here,” She sighed, “Oh sweet girl, it’s okay,” Y/N kissed the side of the two-year-olds head, swaying her side to side in her arms.

“She’s been sick all afternoon, must have got it off some kid at the nursery.” Harry exclaimed, his eyes tired from taking care of his sister and being at work all day, “I’ve tried everything. Normally singing her to sleep helps but she won’t seem to settle and I’m all out of ideas.”

“Hey,” Y/N placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling his warm skin, “It’s okay, we’re here to help you.”

He relaxed beneath her touch, the sentiment making him smile, “Y’ don’t have to,” Harry murmured.

“Harry,” Y/N gave him a stern glare, “I want to.”

His lips curved into a grateful smile as he nodded. "Thank you."

Y/N was so ensnared by his captivating eyes she had to force herself to look away, “Go shower. We’ll clean up down here.”

Harry saluted playfully, brushing past her but not before pressing a hasty kiss to her cheek. Y/N gasped, spinning around and seeing a hint of a smirk on his face as he ran up the stairs.

“Ha Ha,” Elise croaked, pointing at her brother.

Y/N’s expression softened at the little girl’s tired voice, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

As Sonny and Patsy helped clean the kitchen, Molly made a start on dinner and George and Y/N bathed Elise in the kitchen sink. Although Elise was exhausted from being sick all afternoon, everyone went about their chores whilst trying to bring a smile to her face. Whenever she giggled at George and Sonny's antics or Patsy's playful arguing with Sonny whenever he attempted to flirt with her, the group would cheer from their achievement at making her laugh.

Once they’d put all the dishes on the table, Harry had come down from his shower. Y/N drew in a breath when he walked through the door with damp curls and a towel around his waist, “Jus’ need to grab something,” He smirked as he walked past Y/N who caught the smell of his coconut shampoo.

As Y/N stood at the kitchen sink to get rid of Elise’s bath water, she felt his solid form come up behind her. Her lips parted, a breath of air escaping her, as he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. With his other arm, he reached out, his hand still resting on her shoulder, to open the cupboard above her and pulled out a clean hand towel.

The warmth spreading through her body dissolved once he pulled away. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when she heard his feet against the floor fade as he left the room.

To her side, Molly and Patsy were trying not to laugh as they covered their mouths and tried to resume what they had previously been talking about before they were briefly interrupted. Y/N rolled her eyes and walked to the table to begin plating up dinner for everybody.

Harry had returned from his shower and now sat at the end of the table with Y/N to his right and Elise beside her sitting in a high chair. She was nibbling at the food George had prepped for her, taking small bites when she felt like it.

Everyone tucked into their meal as a smooth jazz record lulled in the background. Suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, George piped up, “So is everyone dating at this table?”

Sonny groaned, “Why’d you bring that up?”

“Because!” George paused, cutting into his meat, “I can’t handle the tension in this room, it’s like you all want to have sex with each other.”

“George don’t be so vulgar,” Molly snapped, her tone sharp, “But he does have a point.”

“Well Patsy and I are together,” Sonny put an arm around Patsy’s shoulders only to receive an angry glare in return, “What?” He took his arm back, “They already figured it out!”

“Well, what about Y/N and Harry,” Patsy crossed her arms, wanting to divert the attention to something else, all heads turning to face the couple at the end of the table.

“Well, I-I-“ Y/N was all flustered, not knowing how to approach the subject until Harry stepped in.

“It’s up to Y/N,” Harry shrugged, taking a bite from his fork. Y/N’s head whipped in his direction, “I’ll do whatever she wants me to do.”

As he spoke the words, she felt his hand land on her thigh. Y/N stilled as he squeezed her knee but instead of freezing like she always seemed to do with him, she placed her hand on top of his and flipped his hand over to intertwine their fingers wanting to show him at least some grace for his ability to speak when she couldn’t find the words.

“Well good for Y/N. You see not all girls are easily swayed by you boys, you know.” Molly remarked.

“Ahh are you sure about that Mol? Maybe it’s just because you’re the only girl here who hasn’t tried to sleep with any of us.” George quipped with a teasing grin.

Molly scowled, “Don’t you have to follow Nancy around or something?”

Sonny burst out laughing as George’s face fell, “Yeah yeah, you can all laugh but the other day I swear I almost got a smile outta her.”

“Oh nice, an almost smile yeah that’s really great George.” Everyone laughed around the table.

By the time dinner was over and everyone had been ridiculed at least once, Elise was already half asleep. Harry volunteered to tuck her in, lifting her gently and carrying her upstairs to her bedroom. As the others stepped outside for a smoke break, Y/N took it upon herself to clear the empty plates and tidy up.

Before tidying, Y/N went upstairs to use the bathroom. As she climbed the steps, she noticed a partially open door. Intrigued by the humming coming from the room, she quietly peeked inside.

It was dark other than a small candle lit up in the corner of the room. Harry stood by the window with Elise in his arms. Her cheek was resting on his shoulder as her small hands fisted the sleeve of his shirt. His big hand rubbed up and down her tiny back as her eyes fluttered open and closed. She almost resembled a cherub resting on a fluffy cloud as Harry hummed her to sleep, his head turning an inch to press a soft kiss to the side of her head.

Y/N's eyes glistened with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Her heart felt like it was trying to leap out of her chest and walk into the room to join them. The longer she stayed fixed on the two siblings, alone in one space, it seemed as if they were the only two people existing, if only for a brief moment in time.

Not wanting to disturb their peace and quiet, Y/N carefully tiptoed away from them to give them the space they needed.

She stood at the kitchen sink and began filling it with water and soap. Her mind drifted to the image of Harry holding Elise almost as if he were her own father. Y/N’s heart had been hurting for Harry and his siblings ever since he had broken down to her on the hill. A part of her wondered if she was doing all this because she felt she had to fulfil some kind of duty to them but it never felt like work helping the Styles’ siblings, she just had a spot for them in her heart that was growing exponentially by the day.

Y/N felt that presence that had become so familiar to her, come up behind her as she cleaned the dishes. His arms snaked around her waist, swaying them slowly to the gentle bossa nova that played over the record player, “Dance with me,” He murmured, pulling her away from the sink.

Y/N laughed, spinning around in his arms and pressing her wet and soapy hands to his face. Harry’s face scrunches, “Have I told y’ I love y’ today?” He asked, nuzzling his cheek in her palm.

“Hmm,” Y/N pretended to think, “I don’t think so.”

“Well I do,” He says, “I love you bigger than the whole sky, Birdy.”

“I love you too,” Y/N replies because she always will no matter how angry she is or was with him.

“Enough to forgive me?” He tries but his face already says he knows the answer.

Y/N inches forward, her lips brushing his, “Almost,”

Harry grins, pulling her in closer, “This could be our life y’know.”

“What could?”

“All this,” He motions to the house, “We have our own house and make our own food. Everyone is safe and we’re happy. Maybe have a couple of kids-”

Y/N scoffs, “A couple?”

“Alright,” Harry chuckles, his head falling back, “One, five, eight or even zero, I don’t care I jus’ wanna be with you.”

“That sounds nice,” Y/N sighed, falling in love with the image she had painted in her mind, “And we’d live here?”

Harry kissed the top of her head, resting his cheek on it as they swayed, “We can live wherever y’ want Birdy, I go where you go.”

Y/N can’t help but pull his neck down to kiss her. Even though they weren’t exactly together, Y/N couldn’t help but kiss him when she wanted to, which was more often than it wasn’t. She’d never tire of the way his lips felt against hers, how she’d melt in his embrace and feel his heart beating against his chest.

“Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t mean we’re together,” Y/N mumbled against his lips.

“I know Birdy, I know.” He smiles, kissing her even harder.

Harry ends up helping Y/N clean the kitchen, drying the dishes while she washes them. It's a new experience for him, doing something domestic with the person he loves. It feels small and simple yet meant more to him than he could seem to understand.

“Since I’m tryin’ to be better, I gotta tell y’ something,” Harry pinches her sleeve, needing to touch her in some way at all times.

“What’s wrong?” Y/N asked, immediately beginning to worry.

“Oh no it’s nothing so bad, it’s just my Mama sent us a letter a few weeks ago and I think ‘m gonna go visit her without the boys.” He shrugs, “Jus’ to check in on her y’ know?”

Y/N knew Harry didn’t want to admit the truth about his visit. Despite the fact he never had a close relationship with his mother, he had always been her protector. Harry couldn’t stay away from his home no matter how hard he tried, too afraid that if he did, something detrimental would happen and he’d feel nothing but guilt for the rest of his life.

“On your own?” Y/N frowned, “Y’ don’t even want George to come with you?”

“If George goes he’ll jus’ get upset. I probably won’t even tell ‘em I’m going, I jus’ wanna make sure everything is okay. Maybe if I show m’ face she’ll stop sending so many letters every weekend.” His voice carried a mix of concern and weariness.

“Well okay,” Y/N paused for a brief second, “I mean I could come with you, maybe, i-if that’s something you’d want.”

Fear flashed in Harry’s eyes, “No,” He stated firmly, “I’m not letting you anywhere near that old bastard.”

Y/N knew he was referring to his father, “I won’t let you go alone, Harry. It’s either me or one of your brother’s but I will not let you go into that house by yourself.” She wasn’t going to lie and say that she wasn’t afraid for him. She’d never met his Father or truly knew the depths to which he had gone into causing such trauma for Harry but she wasn’t going to allow it to continue. “Please, let me come with you.”

Harry opened his mouth to immediately reject her offer but paused, considering her words carefully. He saw the determination in her eyes, the fierce loyalty she held for him, and it touched something deep within him. He also knew she was stubborn and wouldn’t let up over something like this no matter how much he refused.

After a moment of silence, he sighed, relenting. "Alright," he finally murmured, his voice laced with apprehension. "But promise me, Y/N, you'll stay close and keep your guard up. My old man... he's not an easy man to deal with. We’ll be in and out of tha’ house all in the same day.”

Y/N nodded solemnly, her resolve unwavering, “Thank you,” She said.

. . .

With the days that passed before Harry would return to his childhood town, his fear and anxiety seemed to grow. His nightmares had continued to worsen, each one of them had turned into one about Y/N. On the nights when Y/N slept in her own bed, he found himself walking through the dimmed streets in the middle of the night to sneak into her house and crawl under the covers with her. She’d whisper soft things into his ear, promising that everything he dreamt of was simply just that, but he struggled to believe her as he held her tightly in his arms until the morning arrived.

They took the two-hour train from the station to his home town in Wyoming on the day of the visit. Harry barely spoke a word as he held Y/N’s hand in his lap all the way there. They had decided on wearing somewhat fancy attire. Harry wore tailored trousers with a belt and a white shirt tucked into it, whilst Y/N settled on a new blouse she had yet to wear and a long skirt with kitten heels. They hadn’t spoken it aloud but part of them wanted to show without telling his parents just how well they were doing for themselves.

“Baby,” Harry whispered, nudging Y/N awake after she dozed off on his shoulder, “We’re here now,”

Y/N hummed, her eyes fluttering open to the window. Outside was the train station which was really just a raised platform by the train tracks with a small ticket booth nearby. The place was almost deserted, with only a few people stepping off as the train pulled in. Harry grabbed her purse and held Y/N’s hand as they exited the train and stepped onto the platform. It wasn’t long before the train was off again, leaving a bellow of smoke behind.

Glancing around, Y/N noticed how grey Harry’s hometown was. The buildings seemed weathered, and besides the train station, there wasn't much else to see—just a row of buildings housing a grocery store, a clothing shop, and a bank. Everything became increasingly sparse and lifeless the further out of town you ventured, and Harry’s house just so happened to be situated on the outskirts.

When they left the train station, Harry walked to a cab that was already parked outside with no other customers. He opened the door for Y/N to enter first, “Are you okay?” Y/N asked, sensing Harry’s discomfort.

“Y’ know there’s nothing more I wanna do than take y’ back to Offutt right?” His eyes were hard as he stared between the two front seats out of the windshield of the beaten-up vehicle.

"I know," Y/N's voice was quiet, a hint of uncertainty creeping in as she wondered if she had pushed too far by insisting on accompanying him. However, before she could dwell on her thoughts further, he picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to it, reassuring her without words.

Y/N tried not to react too shocked when the vehicle stopped far outside of the town they had entered. In front of them was a house that looked as though it was made out of planks of wood hammered together. There was a front porch with a rocking chair that was rotting away and a clothesline with white sheets blowing in the breeze.

“This is your home?” Y/N wondered, looping her arm with Harry’s when he came up beside her.

“It’s never been m’home,” He replied, lowly.

As they approached the front door, it creaked open before they could even knock. Standing behind it was a woman with the same green eyes Y/N had noticed in each of her children. Her hair was wispy and greying, with streaks of brunette that were a darker shade than Harry’s. She had heavy bags under her eyes and wrinkles all over her face. Her thin lips turned into a smile, her eyes watering as she opened her arms to the man beside Y/N, “My boy,” She croaked.

Harry stiffened when he felt her arms wrap around him, “Mom,” He grumbled.

The woman pulled away and then her eyes turned to Y/N, her smile drooping, “Who’s this?”

Harry opened his mouth to introduce herself but Y/N quickly stepped in, “I’m a friend of your son, we met on the Airbase.” She held her hand out.

Harry’s mother looked down at her hand and then back to Harry, “You’re bringing girls home now? Where are your brothers?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, “They’re not here.”

“And Elise?” She went on.

“She’s back home,”

“This is her home,” His mother argued, “And I’m her mother,”

“We won’t be staying here for long,” Harry said, moving past his mother and stepping into the house. Y/N tried to offer his mother a smile but she just frowned.

The inside of Harry’s childhood home was cold and empty, lacking any hint of life or sign of a whole family living here for well over ten years. Bits of furniture littered the house here and there, each individual piece looked battered and beaten.

“Are you staying for dinner at least Harry? I’ve been cooking all afternoon,” His mother walked to the small kitchen and started stirring a pot that was already cooking on the stove.

Harry looked down at Y/N, “We can stay,” She told him even though she knew he didn’t like the idea, she didn’t want to let his mother’s cooking go to waste.

“M taking Y/N to m’ room,” Harry grumbled, unwilling to wait for his mother to say anything.

Y/N followed him to a small room near the living room. It was no bigger than an average old pantry, containing only a small, single bed and a little chair and table tucked into the corner. Above the bed hung a mobile adorned with wooden planes painted blue, dangling gently. Y/N reached out and held one of the jagged wooden planes in her palm.

The corners of her lips turned upwards as she examined it, wondering if Harry’s love for planes stemmed from a young age. Turning round to face him, she fell back onto his bed and sighed, “Come lay with me,” Her hand dangled from the bed, her fingers reaching out to brush his.

Harry shook his head but fell onto the bed beside her, his feet dangling off the end. It was so small that Y/N had to practically lay on top of him, her chin resting on his chest as she looked up at him. She brushed some of his hair out of his face, “How are you feeling?” She checked in.

“Strange,” He murmurs, “Seeing you in this house made me realise how foreign this place is to me now. You’re home and this is just… Something I don’t want in my life anymore.”

Y/N’s gaze softens, “Your mom never told me her name, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Harry’s hand slides up her back to play with the ends of her hair, “She doesn’t like anyone really but her name’s Debbie if y’ must know.”

“Debbie,” Y/N replies, her voice soft, “Hey, if things get uncomfortable we can go, just say the word.”

Harry felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude at her calming, understanding nature, “Thank you for being here.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Y/N teased and Harry laughed, the sound echoing in the darkened room of his childhood.

Despite Debbie’s cold attitude towards her, Y/N still tried to make an effort by helping set the table for dinner. In the corner of her eye, she caught Harry fussing over his mother when he saw her hands were all scathed from being outside every day as she poured stew into each bowl. The image made her eyes glisten with tears that threatened to fall until she blinked them away.

As they placed each bowl of stew on the table, a thud sounded from outside and then the squeak of the hinges on the front door as it swung open. Y/N’s heart stopped as Harry paced towards her, moving her behind him as an old man stumbled in. She grabbed Harry’s sleeve, peeking past him to see a man with hazel eyes and balding, grey hair. His face was wrinkled and scruffy, his nose red but his face gaunt. His footsteps were heavy against the wooden floorboards, with every inhale of his breath he seemed to suck out the warmth from the house.

His eyes fell on Harry and then to Y/N, “Hello boy,” His voice sounded like gravel as he spoke.

“Old man,” Harry’s voice was something Y/N had never heard from him before. It felt like he was trying to control all of his anger whilst also trying not to show his fear. She squeezed his arm a little, hoping it would give him some reassurance.

“Nice to know you’ve remembered your family,” He sniffled, closing the door behind him.

“Y’ make it hard to forget,” Harry replied.

Debbie walked in between them like it was something she had done many times before whenever there was tension, “Jack, you’re just in time for dinner.” She was much too cheery but it felt hollow and insincere, “Harry’s friend is joining us from that camp they’re staying at.”

Jack glanced at Debbie with a flicker of annoyance before turning his attention back to Harry and Y/N. "Well, aren't we all just one big happy fuckin’ family," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Y/N felt the tension in the room thicken, a silent battle unfolding between the family members. She exchanged a knowing glance with Harry, silently urging him to stay composed.

Ignoring Jack's jab, Debbie gestured towards the dining table. "Come on, let's sit down and eat. I've made your favourite, Jack," she said.

Sitting at the table, Jack's presence felt heavy in the room. Y/N looked at Harry, silently showing her support. She knew dinner would be tricky, but she was committed to being there for Harry. She held his hand under the table and squeezed. Harry rubbed his thumb over the pulse point on her wrist in order to relax himself.

It was just dinner and they’d be going home straight afterwards. Home to his real family, where it was safe and he was most loved.

Debbie came out of the kitchen with two cans of beer and placed them in front of Jack before sitting beside him. He cleared his throat as he opened both cans, “Where are y’ brothers?”

“Not here,” Harry spoke, lowly.

“Don’t get funny with me boy, where are they?”

“I already told you.” Y/N jumped when Jack’s hand smacked down on the table, Harry’s hand squeezing her in assurance like this was a normal reaction to have.

“You’ve left y’ brothers at that camp and bought this random whore here?” He spat.

“Don’t call her that,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t even know her fuckin’ name and y’ bought her into my house?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply but Y/N interrupted him, “My name is Y/N,” She said, her eyes hard, “And if that’s how you speak to someone you don’t know Mr Styles, I hate to see how you speak to those you do.”

Y/N could feel all eyes on her at the dinner table but she ignored them, acting as though what she said didn’t matter, as she tucked into the stew that was in front of her. “Next time you come back here,” Jack gruffed, “Y’ bring your brother’s. Much prefer them here anyway.”

This time it was Y/N’s turn to feel a bubble of anger rising within her, “Don’t want no more whores in my house, except y’ mother,” He chuckled, darkly, “She’s the only one allowed here.”

Harry shot up, his chair scraping against the floor, “How fuckin’ dare you,” He spat.

“Sit down,” His Father ordered, refusing to look up at him.

“Harry,” Debbie whispered, tugging on his hand to try and pull him down.

Reluctantly, Harry lowered himself to his seat. His jaw clenched as he stole a glance at Y/N, silently grateful for her unwavering support in the face of his family's hostility. He’d refuse to open his mouth for the rest of the dinner, in hopes it would speed things up and they could leave. He was filled with regret that he had allowed Y/N to come to this Hellscape, even more so for even considering it in the first place.

It fell silent- nothing but the scraping of cutlery against plates- until Y/N decided to speak, her anger too much to withhold any longer, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling me that Mr Styles,” Harry must have gotten whiplash from how quickly his head whipped around to look at Y/N as she spoke.

“Say that again,” Jack replied, lowly.

“I said I would appreciate it if you’d stop calling me a whore, it’s rather distasteful.” Y/N dared to look up at him, meeting his lifeless eyes when she did. She felt Harry’s fingers squeeze hers but she refused to break eye contact with the only man who she had ever hated before even meeting him.

“Distasteful? What are y’ a slut from Preston?”

“No,” Y/N continued, “I’m not a whore or a slut from Preston and if you knew me or your own son, you’d know he wouldn’t dare bring someone with the likes of you home with him.”

Rage flashed in Jack’s eye, “Why you little-”

Harry rose to his feet as Jack raised his hand in the air, bracing himself for the impending blow. But before Jack could strike, Y/N intervened. "The fact that you assume so little about me, Mr. Styles, is your first mistake," Y/N declared, her voice unwavering. "Truthfully, I know people. Put a hand on me, and I'll go straight to my father. He's a doctor, you see—a very important one who knows a lot of important people. One of his patients just so happens to be the Governor. Do you know the Governor, Mrs. Styles?" Y/N directed a smile at the timid lady sitting opposite her, who blinked in response and quickly nodded her head.

"As much as I hate throwing around big names, sometimes it pays to know people more powerful than those who assume they have it all," Y/N continued, her gaze steady on Jack. "Wouldn't you say, Mr. Styles?"

Y/N stood up from the table as Jack’s jaw clenched, biting his tongue to stop from speaking. She grabbed Harry’s hand and intertwined their fingers, “To answer your question, your sons are at Offutt Air Base not camp. It’s their home where their older brother raised them along with that little girl you both abandoned. You can assume I’m a whore or a slut or whatever you think I am however much you like Mr Styles but I will not let you sit there and strip all of the love your son has shown to your children when you weren’t willing to give them anything.”

“Thank you for the dinner Mrs Styles but we’re leaving,” Y/N looked up at Harry who was already looking at her with nothing but pride all over his face, “I’m sorry Harry but I can’t stay here anymore.”

He nodded, following her out of the house but stopping when his father stood in front of him. Y/N gasped when Harry raised his arm and punched his father straight across the face. Jack groaned, cupping his nose as blood began to drip from it. Harry gripped his shirt in a fist, “Call my wife a whore again and I’ll fucking end you.” He spat, pushing him away.

Y/N and Harry ignored his mother as she fretted about his now injured Father, walking out of the house.

As soon as they stepped off the porch, Harry pulled Y/N to the side of the house where they were shielded from view and pressed her against the wall. His lips met hers eagerly, his hands cradling her face as her eyes fluttered shut. "You called me your wife," she breathed between kisses.

"Easy mistake," he replied quickly before his lips seeked hers once more.

Once they pulled away, their chests heaving and Harry’s lips tinged pink from Y/N’s lipstick, the biggest grin stretched across his face, his eyes sparkling more than she had ever seen before, “I didn’t think I could love you any more than I did.”

Y/N’s eyes watered, a mixture of love and the come down from the adrenaline that had fueled her in the last few moments all began to hit her at once, “You are everything to me,” He murmured, “Everything.”

"I love you too, Harry.” Y/N leapt into his arms, wrapping herself around him and refusing to let go.

After leaving the house, it felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted, as though a burdensome weed had been plucked from their lives. The air seemed lighter, and even the moon appeared to shine a bit brighter overhead. As they walked, Y/N couldn't help but notice the peace reflected in Harry's eyes whenever he glanced up at the sky.

Though it wasn't the end, it felt like the first step towards releasing the things that brought no good into Harry's life. With Harry's arm lazily draped over her shoulder and hers around his waist, they stumbled down the street, unable to find a taxi or any passing vehicles to take them back to the train station. To outsiders, they might have seemed like a drunken couple, but in reality, they were simply two people deeply in love and, for that moment, they felt truly free—and that feeling was even better.

They boarded the last train back to Offutt that night, and Harry was adamant about keeping Y/N close. Despite the empty carriage, he insisted she sit with him, to the point where she was practically sitting on his lap.

As Y/N grew tired, Harry allowed her to rest her head in his lap while she stretched out across the seats. He gently played with her hair and traced the contours of her face. "Can I show you something when we get back?" he whispered. Although exhausted, and longing to simply fall asleep with him in her bed, she nodded in agreement.

Y/N giggled as Harry skipped ahead, the smile on his face had yet to be replaced as he led her to the warehouses at the airbase. “C’mon slowpoke,” Harry called much too loudly for this time of night.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Y/N shook her head, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Keys jangled in his back pocket as he pulled out a chain that had too many keys for Y/N to count dangling from it. He plucked one out and put it into the padlock that was keeping a lock on the large, metal doors to one of the hangars where the planes were kept.

The doors clanked open as Harry pulled them apart enough for them to walk through. The light from the moon slipped through the gap, creating a dim light within the hangar. Harry switched on the lights in the panel on the side and the whole room lit up. Y/N followed Harry as he took her to the back of the warehouse where some of the planes which needed fixing up were kept.

He stopped in front of a single-engine propellor aeroplane, painted blue with white stripes. It had a cockpit with a glass canopy and seated two people inside. Y/N frowned, “Is this what you wanted to show me?” Living on an airbase, she’d obviously seen plenty of planes that were different variations of the one in front of her so she was unsure what she was meant to be looking at that had got Harry so excited.

Harry rolled his eyes playfully. He came up behind her and placed both his hands over her eyes to cover them. She stumbled as he nudged her forwards towards the side of the plane, “We’ve been working on this for a while and me and the boys have been struggling to give it a name. It was only until I met you that I realised what the perfect name for it was.” Harry removed his hands from her eyes, Y/N’s eyes squinting to adjust to the light until they focused on a word written in yellow on the side of the plane.

Birdy.

Y/N’s lips parted, walking up to touch the yellow font to see if it was real. She turned on her heel, eyes watering, “You named a plane after me?”

Harry bit back a grin, eyes twinkling, “Of course I did,�� He whispered, “Need you with me all the time, now I can have you in the air too.”

“Oh Harry,” She sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck, “It’s wonderful,”

“Yeah? Y’ like it darling?” He kissed the top of her head.

“I love it,” She sighed, her eyes darting to the cockpit, “Can we sit in it?”

“Course,” Harry helped her up the little ladder and into the cockpit, before sitting in the spot next to her. “The electrics aren’t on so if y’ touch anything it won’t move.” Y/N’s hands pressed some of the buttons, still unable to believe she had a plane named after her.

Harry smiled watching her and then leaned in to kiss her. Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. Their lips met in a passionate kiss, and Harry deepened it, his tongue sliding into her mouth and his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. “Harry,” Y/N breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as he began to kiss down her neck.

“This is for you baby. There ain’t nobody else for me,” He whispered, “and I don’t want anybody else.”

His fingers brushed down the skin of her arms as her head rolled to the side. He kissed the base of the column of her neck, “You love me?” He asks, voice raspy.

“I do,” Y/N hums, her hands all over his clothed torso gripping the fabric in tight fists.

“How much,” Y/N gasped as his fingers played with the buttons of her blouse before he slowly undid the first one. He pressed his lips to her collarbones as he continued on the next button.

Y/N’s hands fell to the buckle of his belt, tugging on the metal to pull him closer. With every inch of skin that was revealed, Harry would place a small kiss there like he was worshipping every inch. Y/N could feel his breath fan over the top of her breasts as he got to the middle button, “C’mon baby, how much?” He taunted.

His hand slid up her back under her shirt to the clasp of her bra, “Tell me how much y’ love me and I’ll make y’ feel good hmm? Is that what y’ want birdy?”

Y/N nodded, “So much Harry, so much.”

“What?” Harry grinned, “Y’ love me so much or y’ want me so much?”

“Both,” Y/N gasped, “Please,”

Harry’s lips mould with hers as he uses both hands to remove her blouse, the buttons flying everywhere. Y/N’s hands fumble to remove his belt as Harry tugs his own shirt off hurriedly. His hands are hot against her body as he unclips the clasp of her bra, “So beautiful,” He says, in awe.

Y/N’s cheeks heat at the compliment. His hand splays across her bag, his pinky finger digging into the hem of her skirt as he continues to kiss her deeply. “Harry, I-” Her face feels hot as she stops herself, feeling too embarrassed to ask the question.

“What is it darling?” He cups her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone.

She looks up at him, her eyes round and full of lust, she cups the bulge of his dick through his trousers in her hand, “Please?” She whines.

“Y’ wanna suck on m’ cock sweet girl?” He smirks, seeing her get all flustered as she nods quickly. She’s already trying to unbuckle his belt before he has time to say anything else. Her eyes widened when his cock springs out of his boxers, she still couldn’t get over how big he was as she wrapped two hands around the thick girth and pumped up and down.

Harry groaned, feeling her hands wrapped around him. She pulled away to sit up on her knees in the seat, tucking her hair behind her ears and bending forward. Harry’s head falls back against the headrest as she puts one hand at the base of his cock and kisses the tip. “So big,” She murmurs.

“Gonna take it in y’ pretty mouth baby?” Harry taunts in a playful tone.

Y/N sucks on the tip, her eyes closing as she tastes him for the first time. Gradually she takes him deeper, inch by inch, her tongue sliding against the thick vein of his cock as she does. “Good girl,” Harry praises her, grabbing her hair and holding it in a fist.

She stops when the tip hits the back of her throat, using her hand to jerk off what she couldn’t take in her mouth. Harry groans when Y/N gags and pulls away to catch her breath, “Careful baby,” He squeezes her cheeks together and forces her to look at him. Seeing her red, glossy lips and hazy eyes, drool falling from the corner of her mouth from how big he was, almost made him cum right there. He wiped his thumb over her chin and kissed her, “Doing so good my girl,” He murmured against her lips.

As she goes back to mouthing at his cock, he can’t help but run a hand down her back and squeeze her ass beneath her skirt. Y/N makes a sound that sends vibrations down his cock and he knew she’d have to stop before he came down her throat, “Need to be inside y’ baby,' ' Harry spoke.

Y/N’s pops him out of her mouth, “Are y’ gonna fuck me now?” Her big doe eyes look up at him. She almost looked innocent if it weren’t for his cock in her fist.

“Yeah darling girl, M gonna love on y’ now.” He tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

Y/N's hands tangled in his curls as she adjusted herself to lay back on the seats. Harry’s lips parted as he looked down at her, her chest heaving and her nipples pebbling under his gaze. He ran a hand through his hair, the glass canopy around them fogging up with their breaths.

Harry swallowed, moving on top of her and holding himself up with his hands pressed into the plush seat beneath. Y/N’s legs parted for him to rest between them, her hands going to his back, fingers digging into the hard muscle.

“Are y’ okay?” Harry murmured, brushing some of the hair from her face.

Y/N smiled, “I’m fine,”

Y/N could feel his hardened length on the inside of her thigh as he pulled her skirt up and revealed her white panties. Harry tutted, “Did sucking me off make y’ this wet baby?” He asked, his fingers moving her panties to the side to reveal her dripping cunt.

Harry’s fingers dipped between her folds, brushing over her clit to collect some of her wetness before smearing it all over her pussy. His hand travelled down, smearing her juices over the tip of his cock before he lined himself up with her.

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever apologised properly for what I did that day,” He pressed open mouthed kisses a long her jawline as the tip of his cock teased her entrance, “What do y’ say darling girl? Y’gonna let me be good and fuck my apology into you?”

Y/N’s hips bucked into him, “Mhmm,”

Looping her arms around his neck, Y/N’s lips parted as Harry eased himself into her. She was suddenly reminded of just how big he was as he moved further and further inside of her until he bottomed out and she could feel every inch of him as she clamped around him, “S’ good,” She hummed, her eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Yeah?” Harry chuckled, kissing her quickly, “M nice and snug? Can y’ feel me in y’ baby?”

Y/N nodded, grabbing his hand and spreading out his fingers to press them against her tummy, “Feel you here,” She sighed.

Harry kissed her forehead, “Y’ like that?”

“The best,” She smiled, lazily.

“Made just f’ me that’s why,” Harry smirked.

Slowly, Harry began to slide in and out of her, taking his time knowing this moment was different to their first time. It was softer- gentle even. Y/N whines, feeling all of him against the walls of her pussy. Harry groans when he sees her stomach bulge when he moves back in her - a sight he could never overcome no matter how hard he tried.

“Y’ fucking perfect Y/N. Feels so good.” Harry’s voice wavered as he felt himself get lost in the feeling of her.

As his hips moved faster, the closer he was to his release. He held her hips, glancing down to see his cock moving in and out of her. He feels her pussy clenching tightly around him, signifying she was close to her release too.

“Am I making my girl feel good? Hmmm?” He presses his nose against her cheek as her head falls to the side. “M’ best girl, lovin’ me the way you do, how’d I get so lucky?” Y/N couldn’t seem to find the words to reply, her body writhing beneath him.

Harry pressed his hand down on her tummy, the added pressure making her groan, “Y’ gonna have my babies in there one day?”

“Yes,” Y/N gasps as he fucks her harder.

“Yeah? Gonna have all my kids and be a pretty little housewife?” Y/N whimpers, her hands scratching down his back. “I love y’ so much.” He whispers.

“Love you,” Y/N slurred.

Harry’s hand begins to rub at her clit, the added sense of pleasure filling her entire body with heat that only continued to build the more he pumped his heavy dick inside of her. Y/N feverishly craned her neck to kiss him, needing that extra physical touch.

“Y’ gonna let me cum in you, darling girl?” Harry murmured, his voice shaking.

“Please cum in me Harry,” Y/N’s eyes blurred as the bubble of heat burst in her belly.

With a final thrust, Harry released a heavy groan as his cock filled her insides with his cum. Y/N’s back arched into him as her breath caught in her throat, her eyes rolling back when she came around him at the same time.

Harry fell on top of Y/N, his sweaty forehead against her chest. She lazily moved her hand to his hair, running her fingers through his soft curls. Harry puckered his lips to press a kiss right where her heart was beating erratically.

A silence fell around them as they tried to catch their breaths, “Have y’ forgiven me yet?” Harry murmured, his hands tracing patterns on her hip.

"I think I forgave you ages ago; I just wanted to punish you a little," Y/N admitted, a truth she had realised for a while now.

"I deserved it," Harry agreed.

"You did," Y/N acknowledged.

“But I’ll be better. For you, I’ll be anything but I’ll always try to be better,” He looked up.

Y/N cupped his face, “I don’t need you to be anything but you.”

Harry kissed her palm, “Thank you… For it all.”

. . .

“Are you nervous?” Patsy asked as the girls sat on top of the hill on a picnic blanket.

“A little,” Y/N lied, she had hardly been able to sit still since this morning.

“Hey,” Molly smoked a cigarette, “These boys have done this plenty of times, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I just hope it all goes well, they’ve been working months on this.” Y/N’s eyes darted around to see if she could spot him.

Elise sat on the picnic blanket in a diaper, chewing on her fingers and making noises. Molly swooped her up in her arms as she stood, “What do you think Elise? Will your brothers actually do something smart?” Molly cooed.

Patsy hit her shoulder lightly, “Don’t be so mean,”

Y/N’s ears pricked as she heard the sound of an engine in the distance. She removed her sunglasses, trying to see where the source of the sound was coming from. “Look!” Patsy pointed towards the thing moving in the blue sky.

Y/N’s caught sight of the blue plane flying in the air, if she squinted enough she could see the yellow spelling of her nickname on the side, “He’s there!” Y/N laughed in disbelief, “He’s there!”

The plane flew closer and Y/N could make out Harry sitting in the cockpit with George beside him. All the girls waved, Elise giggling as they jumped up and down. Y/N took her hat off and started waving it around to try and catch Harry’s attention.

His head turned and a huge grin spread across his face as he saw her wearing a red dress just like she had told him she would after he told her they’d be flight testing the plane again and he wanted her to be there to watch.

“Will you be able to see me on the ground?” Y/N asked as she sat atop his worktop whilst he worked on the plane, her legs swinging backwards and forwards.

“It depends on how close y’ are. I can’t really see that well when ‘m flying high up.” He tells her.

“Hmm,” Y/N thinks, “What if I wear something colourful? Will y’ be able to see me then?”

Harry bites back a smile, “Maybe,” He shrugs, coming up to stand between her legs. He leans forward to kiss her, “Why? Y’ planning on wearing something special for me Birdy?”

Y/N bites her lip, her eyes sparkling, “Possibly.”

“C’mon,” Patsy snatched the blanket off the grass, “They’re going to land soon,”

The girls headed back to the runway where the plane would land. They could already see Sonny looking through his bicolours. Patsy waved, running towards him and falling into his arms. “Did y’ see?” He looked down at her, happiness all over his face.

“It’s great baby,” Patsy kissed him.

Y/N watched as the plane descended, growing bigger against the sky. With a rumble, the wheels made contact with the ground, the plane gradually slowing down as it ran down the runway. Everyone ran towards the plane as Harry lifted the glass chamber and hopped out with George coming round the other side.

Cheers sounded through the air from everybody. Harry’s eyes immediately met Y/N’s, his hands reaching out to catch her in his arms. She leapt into his embrace, moulding her lips against his, “That was incredible!” She squealed when they pulled away.

“Yeah?” Harry was trying to remain calm but she could tell he was proud of what he and his brothers had achieved today, “Y’ proud of me?”

“So unbelievably proud,” Y/N spoke, her eyes radiating the truth in her words.

“Ha, Ha!” Elise squealed for her brother.

Harry’s smile widened into a grin as Molly placed Elise into his arms, “Did you see that Elise?” He kissed her chubby cheek, “Did y’ see your brother flying?”

Elise just babbled in response.

Y/N wrapped her arms around Harry and Elise, joining in the embrace. At that moment, surrounded by the people he cared about most, Harry knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be. With a contented smile, he squeezed Y/N's hand, silently thanking her for always believing in him.

“Hey have any of you seen-” George glanced around before his eyes landed on someone in the distance, “There she is,” He murmured to himself.

Everyone watched as he ran towards a woman standing by the entrance of the warehouse, “Is that Nancy?” Molly held a hand over her eyes to block the sun so she could get a better look at them.

“Hey, I think it is,” Patsy agreed, her eyebrows furrowing.

Y/N looked up at Harry who just shrugged.

. . .

The same evening, the Styles’ house was filled to the brim with people who had come over for their house party, celebrating the success of today. Elise was staying at a family’s house since the party would most definitely be going on well into the night.

Y/N observed Harry from across the room as he engaged in conversation with his pilot friends as she sipped on a cocktail Patsy had given her. She had no idea what was in it but she drank it anyway, knowing it was probably better not to ask. Every so often, their eyes would meet, and a smile would pass between them as they communicated in a language only they knew.

She noticed his lips were still tinged red from the lipstick she had kissed him with as they got ready for the house party. Y/N had offered to wipe it away for him but he liked the idea of people knowing he had been kissing you just by looking at the colour of his lips and yours.

Y/N’s heart felt so at peace as she glanced around the room and spotted each member of her found family. Her life had been so grey and mundane until she came to Offutt where everything changed and love had given her a whole new palette of colours.

It had been hard and full of ups and downs but it was worth it, every second of time was worth it.

She felt a presence come up beside her and turned expecting to see Molly or Patsy but was surprised to see Nancy standing there, leaning against the wall next to her. “It’s funny, I’ve been here longer than you and I don’t think I’ve seen anyone look at somebody the way Harry looks at you.”

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed, “Thank you? I’m not-”

“Listen,” Nancy turned to face her, “I’m sorry.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, “W-what?”

“Please don’t make me say it again,” Nancy turned away again, “I was a bitch and I liked Harry but not for the same reasons you do. I should have stood up for you and him the night of the bonfire when that asshole came and spoke to you but once again I was a bitch and quite honestly I probably still am a bitch but I’ve met someone who I really like and I’m trying to be better.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, “Nancy-”

“I totally get it if you hate me and I don’t expect to be friends with you but George is Harry’s brother so we’re probably going to be seeing more of each other and-”

“Nancy,” Y/N interrupted her rambling, “It’s okay,”

Nancy’s shoulders dropped, “Really? You don’t hate me?”

“I’ve never hated you, I just haven’t particularly liked you but I think that could change if we truly got to know each other.” Y/N shrugged.

Nancy's eyes widened with surprise, hope flickering in them. "You mean that?" she asked, her voice tentative.

Y/N nodded, offering a small smile. “If you're George’s sister then one day we might be sister-in-laws and that would make things awfully strange if we didn’t get on, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Nancy huffed, “Those boys sure do need a break from family drama. I mean there’s some serious daddy issues in that family.”

Y/N laughed, it was the first thing they both had ever agreed on, “You can say that again.”

Nancy's face lit up with relief and gratitude. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice trembling with emotion, “I-I’ve never been good at having friends and I truly am sorry for being so horrible. If it helps, I guess you managed to prove me wrong, I think I even proved myself wrong with the way things are now.”

Y/N reached out and squeezed Nancy's hand reassuringly, “It’s all okay.”

Nancy and Y/N spoke for a little longer. Giggling as they compared their boyfriend’s habits with one another until George came over and whisked Nancy away.

A hand snaked around Y/N’s waist, her gaze falling on those ring-clad fingers. She turned to look up at those beautiful, green eyes, “Hi Harry,”

“Hi Birdy,” He whispered, his eyes darting from her eyes to her lips and then back up again. “Y making friends?”

“I’m trying,” She grinned.

“Good to know,” He smirked and then held out his hand, sliding his fingers to thread with hers, “Y wanna dance with me?”

“M not very good you know,” She had told him plenty of times before.

“S just swaying,” He repeated the words he said to her the first time they danced together.

Y/N laughed softly as Harry pulled her closer, their bodies swaying gently to the smooth jazz music filling the room. She rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. With a contented sigh, Y/N relaxed into his embrace, letting the music wash over them. In that moment, as they moved together, there was nowhere else she'd rather be than in the arms of the pilot she pictured spending the rest of her life with.

"What are you thinking in there?" Harry tapped the side of her head with the pad of his finger.

Y/N hummed, "I'm just happy,"

"Yeah? You are?"

"Yeah," Y/N sighed, resting her head against his heart, “I love you, Harry, so much,” Y/N murmured.

“I love you too Birdy,” Harry leaned down to brush his lips with hers, “Bigger than the whole sky.”

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ivyjupiterwrites · 30 days

Text

Imagine walking down the hall, and seeing Ghost. You pass this hulking man, his dark eyes flicking over to you he gives you a curt nod as the two of you go by each other. The scent of his musky cologne wafting in the hall, mixed with the smell of aviation fuel and a couple other rather comforting smells. You attempt to return it as coolly as possible, continuing on your path but also allowing yourself a little off lead.

Your eyes followed after him as he continued past, you fully turning your head to watch his jean covered ass as he strode away. So much so to the point where your head tilts a little, your mind void of everything aside from staring at his backside. His shoulders were immaculate, strong and like they were carved by the Romans themselves, straining beneath his jacket. His tactical vest clung to his barrel chest, giving you a pretty good idea of how thick through he truly was. Immensely.

His footsteps falter as he maintains pace away from you, feeling the burning sensation of your eyes on him. He was pretty observant after all, and his head snaps around to find you gawking at him. You watch the mask shift on his face, an expression unbeknownst to you taking over and he full stopped.

Snapping back around, your eyes flew open wide and your fists clenched at your side. You begun to quickly walk away, hips to elbows, hoping maybe you could scuttle away--quickly disappear around the corner--anything.

"Where are you going? Get back here." your hustled getaway was stopped in its tracks as he barked after you, leaning against the wall to wait for you in disbelief. "Come over here and explain to me just what was it exactly you were starin' at?"

Shamefully you march towards him with your head lowered, gaze fixated on your boots. You were now going to explain to this mountain of a man that you were ogling his ass, as well as his back and thighs. All of him was so.... picturesque, so admirable.

"Oh, so you can only look at me when I'm walking away, huh?" your eyes snapped off of the floor to meet his rather amused chocolate ones, and it made the blush all the worse. Ghost's intent stare upon you as he awaited your explanation made your palms sweat uncontrollably, feeling like you were under a microscope. "So, are you going to explain yourself or...?"

"I think its pretty self explanatory." you grumbled under your breath, all traces of boldness having left. Meeting his dark eyes again did nothing to soothe your anxiety, good god this man was fine. Towering over you, glaring down at you with such an intensity you thought you might combust. You really had to work on your looking skills.

"I don't think you starin' at my ass is self explanatory in the least." he snorted at your feigned attempts to just play it off, "You weren't just lookin' around that's for damned sure. You want a good look? Well, here I am. Gawk away."

#simon ghost riley #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader

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sunnysidevans · 1 year

Text

Middle Of A Memory - J.Seresin

Synopsis: Jake Seresin was an asshole, everyone knew it. He flew with confidence and held a cocky smirk. Behind every cocky smirk and snark remark was you, built into his memories, memories he always lived in.

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin X Pilot!Reader - CallSign: Hela.

Warnings: 18+,mentions of alcohol, mentions of flying accidents, mentions of death, swearing, angst and of course fluff.

“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave”

The hairs on the back of Jake’s neck stand and his body stiffens at the sound of Rooster's voice, causing him to stand from the pool table.

He knew he needed to keep his cool in front of the group of aviators. He plants his signature smirk on his lips, making his way to Rosster, looking over his face.

The smirk covers the thoughts running through his mind as he is quiet for a bit too long for Hangman. “Anyone who follows you” he leans back on the pool table, a smirk plastered on his lips. “Is just gonna run out of fuel” he tilts his head.

“You are just too snug on your perch” he pushes off the table, his back to the group he lets his facade falter.

He never wanted the group to know that Rooster hit a nerve.

His face remained stone as he turned back to the group, his mind on one thing, you.

Tennessee.

The bar was packed full for Friday night. The sound of the jukebox could be heard for miles. You grin, pushing into the crowded bar, looking around for the group of friends you were meeting. With none of them in sight you walk towards the bar, sliding on one of the stools. The bartender grins at you with a raise of their brows.

She chuckles, “new to the area?” she asks as you chuckle, eyes moving to her face. “What gave me away?” she shrugs, “I just get the impression you are not from here” she nods as you smile. “I am not, I just got stationed here” she grins, looking you over. “Army?” she asks as you laugh, head falling back. “No Ma’am I am Navy” she grins wider.

“I don’t see them very much” smirking, you shoot her a wink. “No, we certainly do not” the southern accent pulls your attention to the left. He’s leaning his elbow on the bar as your brows furrow, looking up at the sunkissed man beside you.

He grins, looking you over and then back at the bartender. “I’ll take another beer and add whatever the lady is havin to my tab” she smirks and moves her way across the bar. Sitting back in the chair, you look up at him, “well thank you for buying my drink” you say.

He smirks, nodding looking back down at you, “what brings you to lil ol tennesse?” he asks as you shrug, thanking the bartender. “Work for the most part” he nods, pulling the stool beside you closer, to the point your knees were touching as he sat down.

“Well, welcome, I’m Hangman” he holds his hand out with a smirk. You hold back the chuckle, raising your brows, you decided to play along. “Hangman? Did your mother hate you?” he laughs, shaking his head, “it’s my call sign, I’m a Naval Aviator” you nod slowly, biting back your growing smirk.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Hangman” you shake his outstretched hand, noticing your group of friends make their way in.

You stand and send him a smile, “Thanks again for the drink” you wink over your shoulder, walking towards the girls. “He was cute,” Raven, your best friend says.

“Please Ray, he’s a pilot, major red flag” you smirk as she chuckles, “So is that your red flag too?” you laugh behind the straw of your drink.

The music was pumping through the speakers loudly. Raven had a smirk on her lips as she danced to the Usher song playing through the speakers.

She points toward you seated with your third drink, motioning you to her. You laugh, setting the drink down and walking towards her.

Her hands fall to your hips, pulling her body into your own, whispering loudly in your ear, “you should go dance with hot cowboy!”. You laugh, hands falling on top of hers, “I don’t know Ray” you look up and as if he knew you were talking about him, he smirks and meets your eyeline.

“Do it! You need to get laid!” you shove her shoulder gently, catching her stumbling body.

“Fine!” you smirk as she laughs loudly. Raven watches as she cheers behind her own solo cup, looking at her over your shoulder with warning eyes. In the process, you don't notice Hangman making his way to meet you halfway. “Wanna dance?” he smirks, startling you as you meet his eye. Smirking, you holding your hand out to him, he takes it and pulls your back into his chest.

He chugs the last of his red solo cup, handing it off to someone beside him and lands his hands on your hips.

He leans down, lips brushing your bare shoulder causing a shiver down your spine, he smirks. “You are quite beautiful” he whispers in your ear, nose brushing your hairline as he stands to his full height. You laugh, head falling back onto his shoulder as your hips continue to grind against his own.

The bodies were sweaty, his musk was intoxicating more so than the shot of vodka in your drinks. Turning to face him, your forehead resting against his own as his smirk stayed tattooed on his lips.

Looking up at him through your lashes he grins, winking as the two of you make eye contact. “(Y/N)!” you turn to Gypsy, another girl that came out tonight. She smirks looking between the two of you, eyes falling back to you. “Hi Jakey” he grins, nodding towards her with a grin, hands still attached to your hips.

“Jakey?” you question slowly, in your intoxicated state thoughts moved slower. Your hand slides down his chest, “oh my god, big brother Jake?!” your finger is planted against his chest as you look at Gypsy. She nods, smirking as your eyes widen. “Anyways, Raven got a text from Bradley” you sigh, nodding.

Your hand continues it’s journey down Hangman's chest, landing on the buckle of his jeans with a smirk on your lips as your eyes meet his again.

“Nice dancing with you, hungman” kissing his cheek, you hurry over to the group of girls. In a blink of an eye, you were gone.

“Ladies and gentleman” Admiral Cain smirks from the front of the room full of aviators. “We have someone new joining our squad today” he stands with his hands on his hips, “she’s coming to us from Florida down in Pensacola, her skills will be an asset to this squad”. Walking into the room and shutting the door gently behind you, the smile on your lips is not hard to miss.

“I welcome, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), call sign Hela '' making it to the front of the room, you shake Admiral Cain’s outstretched hand. Raven smirks from her own seat at the look on Jake’s face at the sight of you.

“Let’s see what you got” he dismisses the group as everyone makes their way out of the room, green eyes stayed burned into your flight suit as you followed.

``You’re a pilot?” he asks, his voice full of southern charm. You sigh, turning to face him. “I am” you smirk, his own smirk grows. He holds the toothpick between his teeth, looking you up and down in the green flight suit, it was sexier to him than the skimpy outfit you had on the night before.

He holds his hand out again, “Jake Seresin” you shake his hand slowly. “I know who you are” you say, watching his face as he shrugs.

“You know of me darling, you’ve now formally met me” he winks.

“So, Hela huh?” he asks, following beside you towards the tarmac. “Named after the goddess of Death” you chuckle, grabbing your helmet on the way out the door. “Let's see if you can keep up hangman, or do I call you Hungman?” you wink.

“Can’t wait to see you fly Hells Bell” rolling your eyes, you look back at him. “What did you just call me?” he smirks,

“welcome to the south sweetheart”.

The ground was never as easy as the skies were, you were more comfortable flying a multi-million dollar plane instead of walking on the ground. “So, Hela” Jake’s voice is slightly distorted on the comms but you don’t miss it.

“What could you possibly want?” you ask, turning to see him beside your own plane. “Are you ready to have some fun?” he asks as you chuckle, looking around.

“Two bogies” you motion to him with a nod veering aside to move below him. He shakes his head with a soft chuckle. The comms fell silent only for a matter of minutes. “I could really use some help here” you grunt, continuing to attempt to avoid lock on yourself.

"Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Hangmans coming” you can hear the grin in his voice. “get down here and help me you glorified ken doll” he chuckles. “You wound me” you smirk behind your mask, moving below the boogie, they flew above you and straight ahead.

“I got you Hells” if you could count the amount of time you rolled your eyes. “I’ll see you back on the ground” you mumble, flying back to the base.

The cold shower was cool on your skin causing you to close your eyes. Being the new kid was never easy nor was it easy getting now with the attention of Jake Seresin.

“Jake likes you,” Raven says from the bench as you sigh.

“I don’t understand why he’s known me for a total of two days” you push the water out of your face with a groan. “You practically gave him a hard on at the bar, probably gave him one today” you laugh, stepping out the shower with the towel around your body.

“You okay?” you question, standing in front of her. She nods slowly, looking up at you with a shy smile, “everything okay with Brad?” you ask as she nods. “He got into Top Gun'' you grin, sitting beside her.

“That is wonderful!” you laugh as she nods sadly. “What is it?” you ask, picking up on the sadness in her voice. “I just want to be there with him,” she admits as you shake your head, standing up.

“You will totally be there with him before you know it!” she nods with a smile, standing herself.

“Are you coming tonight?” she asks, the squad was going out for drinks down the road from base. “I-I don’t know” you admit as she groans, “please hels?” she asks as you nod slowly. “I'll think about it” she nods with a smile on her face, kissing the top of your head as she exits the room.

You've been in Tennesee almost 10 months. On base with not one Seresin but two. "Please hels come out tonight!" Gypsy pleads from your the closet, shuffling through the clothes. "Why?" you ask from the bed, looking up from the book you were nose deep in.

"So you can flirt with Jake and get it over with" she admits, stopping at the surprised gasp you let out. "What are you talking about?" knowing the growing smirk on the younger Seresin's lips, you regretted asking.

"You and Jake flirt, you have since you got here, I think you should come out and show him what he’s missing" you laugh, nodding slowly. "What he’s missing? And that’s what exactly?” she shakes her head, hands on her hips as she turns to face you.

"Remember the army sergeant? Who was just head over heels for the hot naval aviator? What was his name?" you laugh, falling into the sheets. "Do not bring dylan into this!" you defend as she smirks leaning over you.

"You're coming."

The summer sun was slowly setting as the bar crowd made their way into the bar. You smile, looking around the bar. Girls danced on the bar as two women behind them happily gave drinks and shoved tips in their shirts.

“Is this a coyote ugly bar?” you ask Gypsy who grins from ear to ear. You laugh shaking your head, walking through the crowd, once you get closer a name calls for you.

“(Y/N)!?” you look up and see the eyes of the redhead from the bar looking down at you.

“Oh my god, Wanda?!” you yell back, moving closer to take her outstretched hand. “Are you kidding me?! What are you doing here?” you yell over the music as she grins, “Vis is stationed here too!” she grins as you laugh, squeezing her hand.

“I’m so happy for you!” you smile, taking the beer from her hands. “I’ll be back!” winking, she nods and stands and moves along the bar as you make your way to the crowded table.

Jake and the rest of the pilots had finally shown up. “There she is” you roll your eyes at Jake’s drawl, smirking at the blonde pilot. "Hi Hungman" he smirks at the nickname, noticing the short neckline of your top tonight. He notes it was similar to the one you wore when he first met you.

You move to stand beside him and turn to your friends. Raven is nose deep in her phone and Gypsy is flirting with one of the other pilots on the squad.

You couldn’t quite remember how many drinks you had or how you managed to get up on the bar with Wanda.

The group of aviators left you unsupervised for a matter of minutes and you were gone, like a child.

“Where’s hell's bell?” Jake asks, looking around the table as Gypsy shrugs, her eyes slowly land on you. “Uh, Jake” she nods towards the bar as you are taking Wanda’s outstretched hand. Climbing up with her as you gasp as No One Like You by Scorpions blasts through the speakers loudly.

“Gooooooood Evening Tennessee!” Wanda yells into the megaphone. “We have ourselves a special guest tonight, a former coyote herself now a Naval Aviator!” you laugh at the cheers in the bar, holding the beer up. “Give it up for our very own” everyone claps as you take wanda’s hand, swaying your hips. “Oh Jesus” Jake mumbles under his breath, setting his beer down and excusing himself from the conversation.

He was curious to see what happened but knew he couldn’t let you embarrass yourself very long.

Wanda’s hands land on your hips as your hips sway against hers, the crowd cheering as you bend down, running a hand up your bare thighs and standing with a flip to your hair. “I didn’t know she had it in her” Jake makes note to his younger sister who stood beside him, “I did” she winks. “I should probably get her down,” he says more to himself as she shrugs, “give her time”.

As the chorus plays the buttons on your blouse slowly come down and before Jake knows it, your plum lace bra is on full display.

Walking along the bar, you swing your shirt in your hands as a cowboy would a lasso, crouching down to get the money that fell in front of you. Standing back to your full height, you don’t notice him or his blonde hair right away, singing along loudly to the speakers.

He reaches forward, his hands falling behind your knees, jumping at the feeling of someone's hands on you, looking down at his smirking green eyes.

“C’mon Hell’s Bell, you’ve had enough fun for tonight” you laugh, head falling back as you laughed harder. Wanda makes her way over then noticing his hands at your knees.

“Hey now!” he holds his hands up in defense, she notices then the service khakis , “are you part of her squad?” she asks.

He nods and before you know it the world is upside down and you are face to face with Jake Seresins ass.

Jake gently sets you in the passenger seat of his truck, shutting the door quietly as you slump back into the soft interior. “Be careful” Gypsy has her hands on her hips, Jake notes she looks just like their mother. “I will, I’ll be back before you know it” she nods, patting his chest and walking to her own vehicle.

He climbs in as you are fumbling with the radio, “do you have anything good on this thing” your words are slurring. “Sit back, I will pick something” he smirks at the small huff you let out as your body hits the seat.

The roads are quiet in the early hours of the morning. Jake is skipping through songs at the red light as you gasp, “no no go back!” you protest, he furrows his brows and turns the song back. You grin as Waiting for a Girl Like you by Foreigner plays softly.

Reaching over, you turn the song up loudly and roll down the window. The summer breeze felt amazing against your skin as you sang along loudly. “Hela, get your ass back in that seat” Jake looks over as your seatbelt is unbuckled, he was not driving fast or dangerously but he can see the gears turning in your mind.

The upper half of your body is leaning out the window, your hand grips the handle above the window as you pull your hair out of the pony tail you opted for the evening.

“I’ve been waiting for someone new to make me feel alive!” you sang loudly, Jake hears you clear as day as you're hanging out his passenger side window, singing loudly to the eighties hit.

Jake knew at that moment, you were going to be one of the best people in his life.

San Diego.

Top Gun.

Everything in your naval career led to this moment, “I’m sending you to Miramar so pack up your shit” Admiral Cain grins from his seat, standing as he holds a hand out to you. “I am excited for you Hela” he shakes your outstretched hand as you grin.

That’s how you found yourself here, The Hard Deck bar.

Walking through the door, you are taking a look around the room. You make your way to the bar, sliding into the vacant seat farthest from the door. A shadow casts over the dim lighting causing you to look up at the smiling face. “You're a new face” she grins, setting her towel aside. “I just got in a few hours ago” she nods, reaching for the cold beer in the fridge under the bar.

“I’m Penny” she sets the beer down, winking and walking to another customer. You couldn’t understand how you made it here, the next class at Top Gun.

Sipping slowly on your second beer, you notice his laugh first. Ears perked up at the familiar sound, looking around as his laugh continued.

Jake Seresin was in this bar.

A smirk grows on your lips at the jukebox across the room. Sliding out of your seat and making your way over to the box, you slide the change into the slot and pick the one song you knew would trigger something in the aviator.

Jake's ears perk up at the sound of Foreigner but thinks nothing of it.

He knew the chances of you being in this bar were slim, the two of you hadn’t seen the other in almost two years. Thick as thieves, he was your best friend, you've kept in touch the whole time, random phone calls and sparse text messages.

“Excuse me Lieutenant '' the voice is soft and high pitched as he smirks at the snickers of his friends. They see the smirk on your lips, of course the group has no idea who you are but you still signal for them to keep quiet.

Jake turns around and his body goes slack.

You stood with your arms crossed over your chest, dressed in your service khakis and a smirk on your lips.

“Hells bell?!” he’s shoving the beer into his friend's hands, arms wrapping around your waist and spinning your body around. You laugh, arms wrapping around his neck and hugging him tighter.

“Hi Hungman '' he laughs into your neck, setting you to your feet. “Oh my god you made it to Top Gun didn't you?!” he asks, hands landing on your elbows.

The grin grows on your face as you nod, looking up at him. His face held nothing but pride as he pulled you back against his chest.

“Oh my god, I am so proud of you” you laugh, hugging his neck tighter, “I’m proud of you, I’m so excited we're doing this together” you admit, his smile grows. He pulls you into his side as his arm remains on your waist with a hand on your hip and faces his group of fellow aviators.

“Gentleman, I’d like to introduce to Hela '' you grin, holding out a hand towards them, “nice to meet you”.

The waves crashed against the shoreline, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you stood beside Jake, hugging his arm. “I can’t believe we’re here” you whisper, mostly to yourself but he grins.

“I know” you sigh, head falling to his shoulder. “I wish Gyps and Raven were here” he chuckles as you look up to meet his eye, “What am I chop liver?” he asks as you shake your head. “I’m so excited to do this with you Jake” you look over his face with a grin.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, “me too, of course it would be so amazing to have Gypsy but I am excited to go through the challenge with you” you blush, hiding your face against his service khakis, kissing his shoulder.

Chuckling, he rests his head on top of your own, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.

“Welcome to California Hells Bell '' you giggle, hugging his waist as your head falls into his chest.

“We’re gonna kick Top Guns ass” you grin.

The classroom was filled to the brim of Top Gun students. Shuffling through the door quietly, you look around for the blonde gel-covered hairs. He twirls the toothpick between his teeth as you smile, moving to sit beside him. “Good Morning” the man stands in the front of the room, hands behind his back.

“I am Admiral Bates, one of your instructors here at top gun” he smiles and eyes the room before continuing on, “and of course our airboss, Admiral Simpson'' he nods to the man at the back of the room who smiles.

“You are all here because you are the best the Navy has seen” he paces in the row of seats, “someone saw something in you all and thought you’d be perfect for Top Gun'' you turn towards jake, a smirk on your lips, “he means me” you whisper, nudging his shoulder. He rolls his eyes with his own grin, looking back at Admiral Bates.

“In the six weeks you are here, you will have a mix of things here at Top Gun, of course you will have airtime but also classes on the ground that you will need to complete before the air time” Admiral Bates seemed as the more laid back instructor compared to Admiral Simpson. “We can’t wait to see you all compete for the number one seat” Admiral Simpson says from the back of the room.

“Let's start today’s lesson, a good ol 'dog fight in the skies?” Admiral Bates questions as Cyclone grins, “I say we give 'em a shot”.

The aviators sat perched perfectly on your nose as you looked over the F-18, preflight pre-checks were something you took very seriously. “Hells bell!” you turn at the sound of Jake’s voice with a grin.

He makes his way in front of you, his own sunglasses perched on his nose, the sun kissing him almost perfectly.

You squint behind your aviators, looking up at him with a smile, “you ready?” he asks as you smirk, hands on your hips. “I’m always ready, Hungman” he chuckles, looking at you with a wide grin. “You still my wingman?” you ask, looking over his face as the smile breaks out across it. “Obviously, you aren’t going to get rid of me that easily '' your smile is contagious as one breaks out of Jake's face.

The two of you lean forward, foreheads falling against the others, “Fly Fast"' you wink with a whisper as your hand reaches out to the nape of his neck. He grins, his own hand reaching out to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers in the gel-covered hairs, “Fly Safe” he whispers back to you.

You and Jake started the small tradition before you were shipped back to Florida, always encouraging each other to fly fast but always fly safe, it was something the two of you told the other everytime you were in the skies.

“I got Warlock on my six” you mumble into your comms, looking out the canopy at the jet low in the hills. “I got you, tell me what we're doin” Jake replies, looking down from his canopy at you on his six. Smirking behind your oxygen mask, you look up at his jet, “I’m going after him”.

He holds back his chuckle, watching as you turn and head down to follow Warlock.

“You got him Hels!” Jake yells behind his comms as you continue after Warlock. He flies beside you, watching as you continue to attempt fighting off Warlock. “Hels, go left I’ll go right and split up in the canyon” Jake mumbles as you nod, looking over at him. “You got it”. The two of you break in opposite directions and move through the canyon.

Within seconds Warlock had tone on your jet, “Shit!” you grunt, slamming your hand against the glass. “That's a kill Hela, head back to base” Warlock says over the comms as you make your way back to base.

Landing on the tarmac, you huff and climb down the ladder, pulling the helmet off your head quickly. Walking towards the door, you ignore Jake making his way towards you.

"Hells bell!" he yells, joggin to keep up. "Hela!" he yells, hands on his hips as he watches your body stop. He approaches you slowly, “Look at me” he whispers, moving his hand to cup your cheek. Avoiding his eye, he tilts your chin up to meet his green eyes. You were never one to take losing easily and always discouraged yourself.

“You did great and did everything you could” he whispers as you nod slowly, “I still got myself killed, if I get myself killed, I can get you killed" your voice is soft.

He shakes his head, looking over your face, "I'm okay, and we're okay and we have six weeks to perfect it, six weeks to make top gun ours" you can't help the smile that makes its way on your face with a slight sniffle.

“There’s my girl” he smirks, pulling you into his body by the shoulders, walking towards the showers.

Six weeks flew by, graduation snuck up on all of you. Jake was number one and you were his number two. Gypsy sits herself on the bed in your small beachfront home, watching as you adjust your dress whites in the mirror. “I can’t believe you and Jake are number one and two for top gun” grinning, you look at her in the mirror.

“Jake is a good pilot” you smile at the thought of one of your favorite people. “Yet, in the six weeks you’ve been here you haven’t told him how in love with him you are” you chuckle, looking at her with a raised brow.

“You mind your business” she holds her hands up in surrender as you laugh. “We all see the love you have for the other, it’s been there for the last three years” she says, taking your wings in her hands and pinning it to your chest.

“I do love him” you admit with a smile, watching her smile grow in the mirror, “He’s my wingman”.

The ceremony was nice as awards were handed out to each aviator. Taking number two as Jake took home the plaque. You watch as he takes photos with everyone, plaque held high in his hands, his smile even brighter.

“I did it!” a voice whispers in your ear, warm hands placed against your hips, grinning against the beer bottle in your hand. Turning around you are met with his dazzling green eyes and loving smile.

“You did it” you whisper back, holding the beer out to him as he takes it in his own hands, sipping it with a smirk. “Couldn’t do it without my number two” you laugh, hand reaching out to hold onto his arms. “You could’ve done it without me, I know it” you admit as his face falls into seriousness.

“No, I couldn’t have done it without you Hela, any of it” he grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“Ladies and Gentleman” Cyclone appears at the front of the room, looking around at the aviators and their families. “I hate to cut celebrations short but I just got a call from the high ups, we are needed” he takes the envelope and lists off the names.

You and Jake were the first two listed.

You quickly shake the hand of Mr and Mrs Seresin as they grin at the two of you. Jake’s hand around your waist as the two of you run off. Mrs.Seresin knew the love in your eyes as you looked at her son.

The breeze was setting in as was the evening sun. You stood beside your jet as you went over the missiles and guns attached, pre-flight checklists. “Hela” looking over your shoulder, Jake makes his way to you. He has a smile on his face, the same smile that for the last six weeks brought you so much comfort.

The last three years of your life flashed in your mind. From the moment you met him in that Tennessee bar, to when he carried you home and listened to you sing your heart out to Foreigner.

“Hey” Jake’s voice brings you out of the flow of memories, a smile on his lips.

“Hangman” your voice is soft as he approaches, his brows furrowed. “What is it, are you okay?” he asks, he was never Hangman, always Jake or Hungman, your own twist on his callsign. Nodding as you look up at him “yes, yes” you grin.

He nods slowly, leaning forward to rest his forehead on yours.

Your eyes fall closed as your hand reaches back to his nape. “Fly fast” you whisper, squeezing the back of his neck as he grins holding the back of your neck to pull you closer, “fly safe” he whispers. As he goes to stand straighter, you hold him closer.

He furrows his brows, looking at you closely, “what is it?” he asks.

“I love you” looking over his face, he grins, “I love you too Hells bell” you shake your head, pulling away from him.

“I love you, I’ve fallen in love with you. You are my person, my wingman. I can’t imagine my life without you and I know this is the worst time to tell you this as well, we are going on a death mission possibly and if one of us doesn’t come back you need to know how-”

He grins at your rambling, pulling you back into him from the nape of your neck to connect your lips. You sigh against his lips, cupping his cheek and standing on your tippy toes to get closer to him.

“I love you Hela” he whispers against your lips, nudging his nose against your own. “Let's do this, get home safe and I am taking you out on a proper date” he grins at the smile on your face as you nod against his hands, “let’s get home safe”.

The mission started simple, enemy lines using planes identical to the ones you flew to shoot you down. “Hangman!” you pant, looking around you at the two bogies who surrounded you, frantically looking for your wingman. “I see you Hels, I see you!” he yells back, watching as the two of them continue hot on your tail. “Hangman” your voice is calm so calm it sends a chill down his spine.

“Hela, you are okay” you sigh, looking to either side of you, taking a deep breath. “I’m out of flares Jake '' you whisper, looking around the sky as the two bogies are surrounding you.

“Jake, I need you to take these two out” he shakes his head, watching over you. “I am not doing that, that could kill you!” he defends as you sigh.

Flying through the canyon you manage to get one of the planes off you.

In the matter of minutes smoke fills the air. “Smoke in the air!” you yell. Jake watches as the plane shards fall into the ocean beneath him. “Hela!” he yells through the comms.

“Combanchi, do you have visuals on Hela?!” the comms cut out for a short second before they kick back to him,

“negative”.

He grits his teeth as he follows the enemy plane, “Lieutenant, you need to return to the carrier”. He ignores the voice of Admiral Bates as he follows the plane, shooting them down with one missile.

He flies by as the smoke lingers, watching for a parachute in the water, he doesn’t find one.

The rain poured in New York.

Jake stood beside Gypsy and Raven at the back of the ceremony, watching as Admiral Simpson folds the flag and hands it to your mother.

Gypsy sobs beside him, hugging his arm as the cemetery slowly empties and the sea of umbrellas are gone. Just the three of them.

“She’s gone,” Raven whispers, holding onto gypsy’s hand. “I can’t believe this” Gypsy’s body shakes with sobs as Jake gently hands her over to her best friend. “Take her to the hotel, she needs rest” he encourages as the rain pours down onto his uniform. “Jake” Raven looks over his face as he shakes his head watching as she nods, an understanding in her eyes.

He watches as the car door opens and Bob, gypsy’s boyfriend steps out, helping her in and sending her a comforting smile.

He turns to the pile of dirt that is now turning to mud. “This isn’t fair Hels” he looks up at the sky, sniffling as the rain covers his cheeks, running with his tears. “It's not fair I have to say goodbye to you” he looks back down at the pile of mud.

“I miss you already” he sniffles, “I waited a long time for a girl like you” he smiles to himself at the memory of you hanging out the passanger seat of his truck, blaring the forigner song. Sobs take over his body as his knees fall into the mud. “Hey” he jumps at the hand on his shoulder, looking up to see Raven with her own sad smile.

“I know” she whispers as he sobs harder, body falling into hers. “I know” she rubs soothing circles on his back as he sobs into the mud.

“She’s gone and I couldn’t save her Raven” he hiccups, holding onto her as she shakes her head. "It’s not your fault Jake, I know she didn’t feel that way either” she lets him sob in her arms as the rain pours over the both of them. After a few minutes, she encourages him to stand.

He stands, hand holding onto her arm as he takes one look back at where you lay, your dog tags sat in his palm, he knew he should've left them but his heart couldn't part with them.

He turns back one last time at pile of dirt now running with the rain.

Present day.

The raven haired woman comes into his sight before he processes it, “take that back Bradley” Raven defends, looking at her boyfriend and back at Jake. “I’m sorry” Rooster taken back at the sound of his girlfriends voice as he looks at Hangman. Jake shakes his head, handing the pool stick to Coyote, walking out to the back deck of The Hard Deck.

The saltiness of the air filled his lungs, almost burning them. The night of your funeral comes rushing back to him as he watches the waves. “Hangman” he turns at the voice, Bob stands there with a sad smile. “I’m sorry” he whispers, moving to stand beside the blonde.

“It’s okay” he nods, looking over at the WSO. Bob was the only one in the squad who knew about you, he was there for Gypsy at the time of the funeral. “He shouldn’t say that, he doesn’t know what happened” he defends as Jake shakes his head.

“I don’t need to explain myself to Bradshaw, or anyone for that matter,” Jake stands taller, watching as Raven digs into her boyfriend.

“Jake lost his wingman, my best friend” Raven looks between the group of aviators. “(Y/N)” she looks at Gypsy, who has a sad smile at the mention of their friend. “He loves her so much, he hasn't processed her death very well, even after almost five years” Gypsy adds, looking at Rooster.

"Hela?" he asks softly as Raven nods, he knew of you, never getting the chance to meet you but always had the chance to talk to you when he called Raven.

“You know how he got his air to air kill?” Raven looks over, shooting daggers towards Phoenix who looks away ashamed.

“He went after the enemy plane who took her from us" she whispers, hands on her hips.

“He has a right to feel the way he does and act the way he does but, Bradley" she moves closer to her boyfriend, "that was a low blow even for you". She walks past her boyfriend and the group to join the two men on the patio.

She makes her way to them, smiling sadly at Jake, “I’m sorry” she reaches out, hugging him as he hugs her back tightly. “It’s completely okay” he admits, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

The two of them forming a bond since the day at your funeral, she understood what he was going through.

“I’m gonna head home for the night", he stands to his full height. “Big day tomorrow” he chuckles, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he sneaks past the rest of the squad.

Sitting behind the wheel of his truck, his eyes fall to the photo of you against his dash. It was from the first summer barbecue his family always had, the sundress laid against your skin perfectly as you smiled at him. He can feel the same smile deep in his bones as he smiles back at you, “miss you beautiful” his voice was soft in the night.

Jake walked through Top Gun the same way he did the first time, strong and confident. He knew the squad had to know what happened to you, guessing his sister and Raven told them about what happened.

The room was silent as he made his way on deck, sitting down in the front of the room with a smirk on his lips. “Never let them see you fall” your words played on replay in his mind, reminding him he was strong. He looks up as Admiral Bates and Admiral Simpson make their way on deck, standing immediately.

Jake throws himself into flying and flying only. He watches as Maverick makes his way to the front of the room, smirking behind his toothpick, recognizing him not only from The Hard Deck but also from the stories of the famous Maverick.

“Wheels up in 10” he nods, walking past the aviators, Jake stands and is immediately stopped by the admirals.

“Lieutenant Seresin” Admiral Bates stands with his hands on his hips, turning to face him he pulls the toothpick from his teeth. “Yes Sir?” he asks as Admiral Simpson looks at him, “I need you to follow me” he says,motioning to the door.

The squad watches as Hangman follows the Admirals. “What is going on?” Gypsy asks as Raven shrugs, looking between their boyfriends. “Did Jake do something already?” She asks as they all shrug again.

She sighs, hands on her hips as she follows Bob through the hall. The two men knock on the office door, watching the other before a soft voice encourages them in.

“Now Lieutenant” Cyclone looks at Hangman, he remembers him from his time at Top Gun, he remembers the two of you always together. "We know this might be confusing and shocking, so please remain calm" Jake follows the two men and his world stops.

There in front of him stood, you.

You turn from the window, face covered in bruises and a busted lip, covered in your Navy bomber jacket.

Jake felt his world rushing back to him, felt the weight of the last four years almost drowning him as he was staring into the face of death.

“Hi Hungman” your bruised lip smirks back at him.

if you enjoyed this fic, you can find all my other fics here, in the library.

a/n ps: if you've read this far and you're thinking, gosh, I wonder if there's a part two to this, you're totally right, you can find part two to this fic here: "Red Carnations"

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin angst #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x y/n #jake hangman x reader #top gun hangman #hangman fic #jake hangman fic

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alex99achapterthree · 11 days

Text

Phantom Friday... passes gas.

Mid-air refueling is critical for Naval aviation. It allows aircraft to take off with a full weapons load and top off fuel on the way to the target, and also allows for much longer missions.

Navy aircraft use the "hose and drogue" system. The tanker unreels a hose on the end of which is a basket that looks like a giant badminton birdie. The customer aircraft flies up to the basket and inserts a probe mounted on the aircraft...

...to get his fuel.

There were dedicated tanker aircraft like the KA-3 and KA-6...

... and also the "buddy store" pod (a pod with some fuel and a hose reel) that would allow any aircraft to be a tanker, like the little A-4...

... and even a Phantom.

It's a hard skill to learn. The basket on the hose might be dancing around in turbulence and even be pushed around by the slipstream of the receiving aircraft. Doing it at night makes it even harder. A whipping hose and basket can pose a danger to the potential customer, and sometimes bad things happen.

Lt Kueland was quick to remind the rest of the squadron in the ready room that Navy aircraft didn't have flight controls in the rear cockpit, so this wasn't his fault.

(If you suspect that I made this entire post just to use that last image and tell that feeble joke, I suspect you may be right.)

#aircraft #airplane #phantom friday

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topguncortez · 1 year

Text

What to Expect | Chapter 4

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: The dagger squad comes and visits your students at school. You and Jake share a steamy moment in your bedroom.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: pregnancy, vomiting, cursing, mentions of infidelity, fighting, spotting, cramping, fear of miscarriage.a filler before the DRAMA

Jake probably broke every single traffic law as he sped through the dark streets of California to get to the Kazansky house. He was still in his sleep shirt, boxers, socks and slides, not bothering to put on proper clothing as he got the text from you. You didn’t use the distress signal often, in fact there was only one time in the whole five years that Jake was with you that you had sent a ‘mayday’ text to him. It was when you got into a car accident and were being taken to the hospital. Jake felt like his heart stopped in his chest as he left work to get to you. And right now, he had that same feeling in his chest.

He hardly put the car in park, as he ran to your front door. You opened it before he had the chance to knock. You didn’t say a word as you grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bathroom on the first floor of your parents house.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Jake said, looking you over.

“I-I know Doctor Miller said it’s normal, but I’m still spotting a-and I feel like it’s not normal,” You cried and Jake’s heart broke, “It’s not enough to be concerned but I-I don’t like it.”

“Oh, pretty girl,” Jake said and pulled you into his chest. You sobbed into his chest and he shushed you, running his hand down your back, “If you’re really that scared, we can go back to Doctor Miller.”

“I just saw her last week,” You sniffled, “She said the same thing.”

Last week was your twelve week scan, and you had told Doctor Miller that you were still experiencing some spotting. She did a full pelvic exam and ran more bloodwork, but she told you the same thing she had two weeks prior, that nothing was wrong. Jake wasn’t able to join you because he had work but Bradley had been there with you.

“What can I do?” Jake asked, grabbing your face in his hands, and brushing a tear from your cheek.

“My head hurts,” You whimpered, “I’ve been getting headaches every single day.”

“Come on,” Jake grabbed your hand and opened the door.

The Kazansky house was decorated beautifully for the Christmas season. Sarah took her time making sure every little decoration was done perfectly. A large Christmas tree was placed by the fireplace that twinkled with lights and ornate ornaments. Tinsel and garland were wrapped around the railing that illuminated the steps of the grand staircase. Jake walked to your room, which you had also decorated for Christmas. He led you to your bed, and pulled back your covers. It was still made, telling Jake that you hadn’t even been to bed yet. He wondered how long you stayed up worrying about your unborn child.

“Lay down,” Jake instructed, and you wordlessly followed. You got into your warm king bed, and Jake walked around to the other side.

He slid in under the covers, and pulled you into his chest. You closed your eyes, feeling the familiar heartbeat against your skin, and breathing in the scent of his body wash. Jake always smelled like the earth after it rained with a hint of jet fuel. He lazily ran his hand up and down your spin, trying to calm you down. His other hand danced slowly on your hip, until he reached down and pulled your leg over his hips. You used to sleep like this against him all the time. It was familiar, comfortable. You let yourself relax against him, until you felt his hand on the back of your neck.

“It’s okay,” Jake said as you tensed up. His hand rubbed lightly at the skin, and you could feel the tension in your head cease, “I got you,” Jake leaned down and kissed your forehead as he lulled you into a dream filled sleep.

— — —

You weren’t sure why you were nervous. Maybe it was the fact that you are about to have eight aviators in your classroom. Five of them seemed to have the worst filter that you had ever witnessed in your life. Ever since Jake had met Owen a couple weeks ago, he had been asking when he could come back and visit the class. You had to get permission from your principal, but you decided to turn it into a science lesson and have them talk about what it’s like to fly. Your dad was always on board to come talk to children. He said it was how recruiting the next generation starts.

Your kids were currently at recess as you waited in the front office for your father and the dagger squad to show up. Ice asked what uniform you wanted them in and you said to surprise them. Alyssa was making copies for her class, when she looked up and saw the group walking in. She smirked and let out a low whistle.

“The hunk squad is here,” Alyssa said and you looked up at the front door. Jake was the first one you saw, donned in his summer dress whites.

“Oh god,” You said, and Alyssa chuckled.

“Ooo baby daddy looks good,” She nudged you and you rolled your eyes, “Who’s the one in the flight suit?”

Your eyes landed on Phoenix, and you smirked at Alyssa, “Got a lil crush?”

“Shush,” Alyssa blushed, “You can’t be the only one with a pilot. I gotta go get the kids. Get me her number,” You laughed and nodded as the dagger squad walked into the front office.

You clapped your hands and smiled, “Ready to meet about twenty-five nine year olds?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Fanboy said and Payback smacked his stomach, “Sorry. . .heck yeah.”

“We had a briefing on language, they should be on their best behavior,” Your dad said as you led them down to your classroom. The kids were starting to come back and fill the halls of the Second Grade wing. Alyssa was going to bring your two classes in last so you could surprise the kids with the aviators. You had even gone and pulled out some of your fighter jet decorations, putting them up over the christmas decor.

“Alright, you guys sit up here,” You pointed to the chairs at the front. You could hear the laughter of your kids and smiled, “I’m going to control the rugrats before they come in.”

You looked at Jake and he smiled at you. You looked away quickly and Jake frowned. You hadn’t even said anything to him since the other night, and he was confused. He knew that your mood swings were rough at this point, but you were starting to give him whiplash.

“Alright, aviators,” You said as you stepped out in the hallway, seeing your second graders lining up against the wall, “This is your teacher speaking, and we have some very special guests waiting inside our classroom. You all need to be on your best behavior and use your good manners. Alright?”

“Alright!” You kids responded.

You smiled, “Goodness, gracious-”

“GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!”

Bradley smiled at the door, hearing the voices of young children. He remembered the time at your old school when he came and played the piano for your class. He played ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and it quickly became the call and response for your class that year. It warmed his heart at the fact that you still used it. Jake looked over at Bradley and glared at him. Coyote could see the way Jake was throwing daggers with his eyes at Jake, and kicked his chair. Jake looked at his friend confused, but Coyote pointed to the door as a bunch of wide eyed second graders started filling in. Jake sat up a bit straighter and fixed the white cap that sat on his knee.

“It’s Mister Jake!” Owen gasped and pointed to him. Jake smiled and lifted his hand in a wave towards the little boy, “I told you he’s real!”

“Whatever,” Another boy said and shoved past Owen to get to his desk.

“Lil dickhead,” Coyote whispered and Jake nodded.

Once all the kids were seated, you walked to the front of your classroom, “Alright my little aviators, as you can see, I have brought some friends in to help with today’s science lesson. I present to you, the commander of the pacific fleet, Admiral Tom Kaznasky, callsign, Iceman.”

“Is he your dad?!” An excited second grader shouted as Ice stood up.

Ice chuckled, “I am her dad,” You nodded and sat down at your desk. Jake was the closest to you, and he looked at you, sending you a wink. You rolled your eyes and focused on what your dad was telling your class. Each member of the dagger squad introduced themselves and said their callsigns.

“Why is your name Bob?” One of your kids, Eli asked.

“It’s my callsign,” Bob answered.

“Yeah. . .but why?”

Bob opened his mouth but Jake answered instead, “It means Badass on Board.”

You groaned, closing your eyes as you heard the gasps from your kids.

“He said a bad word!”

“That’s 500 hundred push-ups,” Hondo said, and patted Jake on the back.

At the end of the presentation, the Dagger Squad taught the kids how to build paper airplanes. It was the sweetest sight as you looked at your classroom and saw the various members sitting next to your second graders. You held your tea mug in your heads as you sat on top of your desk, watching everything.

“How are you feeling?” Jake asked, coming up and resting against the desk next to you.

“Better today,” You said, taking a sip of the hot drink.

“Ginger tea?”

You nodded, “Mrs. Hernandez down the hall said it helped her during her first trimester.”

“It gets better soon,” Jake said, “Rachel said that her favorite part was the second trimester. Things calm down with the morning sickness and nausea, she had a lot more energy, she wasn’t huge-”

“Finish that statement, I dare you,” You pointed your index finger at him. Jake held his hands up in defense and walked away from you with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Attention aviators!” Ice said, stepping in front of class, “Your TopGun training is over. It is time for your final hop! This is for the trophy, and the chance to get your name on the plaque.”

“You heard the Admiral!” You said to your kids, “Line up at the door!”

You took the kids down to the gym, where they were going to throw their paper airplanes to see who would go the farthest. It was meant to just be the kids, but you noticed some of the dagger squad had also made paper airplanes as well. You chuckled as Fanboy and Payback argued about whose design was better. The paper airplane TopGun challenge was something Ice did back when you were in grade school. You looked forward to it every single year growing up, and you continued the tradition when you became a teacher.

“Aviators, line up on the line,” You said, and watched as the dagger squad members stepped up, “The little aviators, line up on the line.” Some of the dagger squad rolled their eyes and let the second graders step up to the painted lines on the gym floor.

“Okay, in three. . . two. . . one. . . take off!” You yelled and twenty five paper airplanes went soaring through the air and landed at various spots in the gym. Jake and Bob were on the other side, looking for the top five farthest planes.

“Aviators, form up, so we can give out awards!” Ice smiled.

The daggers had to help the little ones to stand in a proper formation, which caused some protest because certain kids wanted to stand by their friends. Once Jake and Bob picked up the top five planes, they walked over to Ice and Maverick. The “trophy” was just a goodie bag with some candy and a first in line pass for lunch. You read the top four names and had the kids come stand up at the front of the formation.

“The top Aviator, who will get the trophy and their name on the plaque is. . . . Owen!”

The little boy’s eyes lit up as he ran to the front of the formation. You handed him his airplane and the goodie bag. Once the formation was “dismissed” some of the kids asked the aviators to sign their airplane and play with them in the gym. It warmed your heart to see how good they were with kids. You couldn’t help but imagine what it’ll be like in just a short six months when you give birth to your child. You could see it now, barbeques and parties in your parents backyard, the Dagger Squad showing up with more gifts than you would know what to do with. Jake had a bright smile on his face as he jogged around the gym, trying to avoid the dodgeballs being thrown at him.

“He’s good with them,” You said as Rooster walked over to you.

“Yeah, I’ll give him that,” Rooster sighed and put his hands on his hips. You noticed he was wearing his khaki uniform today, something you knew he hated with a passion, but you loved how he looked in it.

“You look good, Bradshaw.”

A smirk rose on his lips as he looked at you, “I am good, Kazansky, very good.”

You rolled your eyes and playfully shoved him, “I gotta get the rugrats rounded up.”

“Can I do it?” Rooster asked and you nodded, “Goodness, gracious!” He yelled and all the second graders stopped in their spots.

“GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!” They responded.

“Okay, now that’s fucking cool,” Bradley said.

“That’s five hundred!” Hondo pointed at him.

You chuckled, “Line up, aviators! Time to return to the carrier.” All your kids quickly ran to line up by the wall like you have taught them to. You did a quick headcount making sure you got all of them, “My second graders, what do we tell the Dagger Squad, Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky for coming in today?”

“Thank you!” They all responded. Ice’s lit up with a smile.

“You are very welcome,” Ice said, “Chief Hondo is going to hand you your wings as you leave. I hope to see you all very soon!”

“Jessie, lead them to the class,” You said to your line leader. He nodded and walked towards the door of the gym. Some of the aviators waited by the door to give them high fives, as Hondo gave them stickers that looked identical to the gold wings pinned to some of their uniforms. You felt an arm drape around your shoulders and turned your head to see Jake standing next to you.

“I’m glad Owen won,” Jake said. You narrowed your eyes at him and then gasped.

“Jake, you didn’t. . .” You said and Jake sheepishly pulled out a paper airplane from his pocket and handed it to you. You read the name and shook your head.

“I watched him push Owen into the door when they went to get more construction paper from Ally’s room.”

“Thank you,” You said and held the paper airplane tightly in your hands. You looked Jake up and down again, really taking in the sight of him in his uniform. You bit your lip and took a step forward, whispering in his ear,

“Come over tonight.” Jake opened his mouth to say something, but you kissed his cheek and headed to where your class was.

— — —

Jake came over that night like you told him too, but you gave him a specific time to be there. You had known your dad’s night time schedule since you were old enough to read a clock. Iceman was always in bed by 9:30 and asleep by 10. You had used that knowledge to your advantage, and became very good at sneaking around the house at a young age. So Jake arrived at your house at 11:30, and parked down the street like you told him too. You also had him come through the garage door because it was on the opposite side of the house from your parents bedroom.

Once again, you didn’t say anything as you grabbed Jake’s hand and pulled him through the house. You made him take his shoes off and hide them in one of the storage closets in the garage. He stumbled a bit through the dark house and you shushed him. It felt like deja vu from that night twelve weeks ago, except this time you were pregnant and you both were sober.

The second you got to your room, you closed the door and pushed Jake up against it and kissed him. Jake froze for a second, but kissed you back, placing his hands on your hips. Your hands tangled in his perfect blonde hair as you kissed against your door.

“Wait,” Jake said, pulling away, “What are we doing?”

“Fucking,” You said and leaned into kiss him again but he stopped you.

“What?”

“Ugh,” You groaned, “Doing the same thing we did to get me knocked up.” You leaned in again and this time Jake didn’t stop you. He gently walked you towards your bed, his lips never leaving yours. When the back of your knees hit your bed, he picked you up a bit to lay you down on the mattress.

The past week you had been having vivid dreams of Jake and waking up every morning desperate. You knew that your hormones were raging, but you didn’t think they could get you like this. And seeing Jake in his dress uniform today was not helping you at all. Your hands roamed Jake’s body, going down to the hem of his shirt, and tugging it up his perfectly sculpted body. Jake only broke the kiss to take his shirt off, leaving him in the jeans that hugged his thighs and ass perfectly.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” You said, pushing his shoulder so he’d lay on his back. You climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. Your hands ran down the valley of his pecs, and Jake watched with hooded eyes as you kissed down his chest. He groaned as your tongue swirled over his nipple, your hips lazily grinding over his hard on.

“Jesus, what has gotten into you?” Jake asked. You sat up quickly and Jake couldn’t believe his eyes as you started crying, “Whoa hey, what’s wrong?”

“I hate you!” You cried and hit his chest with your fists, before crawling off of him.

“What did I do!?” Jake asked, his eyes wide as you pulled your knees to your chest, “Y/N, love, what did I do? Did I hurt you?”

“You asked me what has gotten into me! You got into me! You knocked me up! And now I just wanna rip your clothes off and smack you at the same time!”

Jake tried to bite back a smile as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. You didn’t fight against him as you cried into his neck. He knew that this would pass almost as quickly as it started, and you’d be laughing about it in no time. When the sniffles subsided, your fingers twirled around the dogtags on his neck.

“Jake,” You asked softly.

“Hm?”

“Do you think we can go get ice cream?” You looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and Jake smiled down at you.

He kissed your forehead and said, “Of Course.”

taglist: @materialgirl01 @cherrycola27 @love2write2626 @averyhotchner @maddievevo @xoxabs88xox @nagygreta @bioodforbiood @violyn20 @abaker74 @misshoneypaper @callsign-joyride @auroraboreallisfine @thedroneranger @rosewritesitout @nobody7102 @bradleybeachbabe @wildxwidow @cm27078 @caitsymichelle13 @whisperofsong @bonitanightmxres @maverooster @mizzzpink @khaylin27 @shawnsblue @shelbycillian @sexualparkour @thenewdaysalreadyhere @fandom-princess-forevermore @double-j @momc95 @buxkybarnez @paige-alexandra-may @coffeebooksandfandom @86laura11 @some-lovely-day @ohemgeewhat @itsmytimetoodream @emmaelix @springholland @atarmychick007 @okiegirl24 @i3k2ts @gassyandsassy1 @happierbelle @lemoonandlestars @captain-beskar @celestialeviereads @kandierteveilchen

THE TAGLIST IS FULL. DO NOT ASK TO BE TAGGED CAUSE YOU WON'T BE.

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thatsrightice · 5 months

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Made this on an alt, I hope you don't mind (my friends would never let me live it down 💀)

Anyway, We've talked about how Iceman is always seen with his glasses, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE PEN?

Also, don't even get me started about that mess of a locker. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE CLEAN ONE, this isn't you, bbg

And lastly, a little ice pick for you because I have never seen anyone post it around here

I had this typed up but tumblr deleted it :(

I don’t think the mess would be Iceman’s, he gives me too much neat vibes. Slider? I could see it. In a locker room full of men it’s impossible to keep the room clean, so I bet his locker-neighbors stuff gets over into his area a little bit.

But yes👏👏 the pen!!

I love the pen because it reminds me of the grease pencils aviators would carry with them when the F-14 Tomcat began dropping bombs, so obviously Ice isn’t carrying one because the Tomcat didn’t drop bombs until the 90s, but I still love the idea of it.

When F-14s began training for bombing missions, they would train with tons of other aircraft of different types with all different munitions and requirements and things to keep track of. Like how much fuel does everyone have left because most aircraft don’t have the Tomcat’s endurance and how much munitions are they actually permitted to use and such. So to keep track, Tomcat pilots would use grease pencils to write on the inside of their canopy because they had SO much canopy to work with unlike other aircraft.

Obviously there were shenanigans sometimes :D

#if you have pics of the grease pencil writings please send them my way!!! they’re so hard to find #i literally have been researching for a post about this before you sent your ask!#I will be doing a more in depth post later #grease pencils

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usafphantom2 · 3 months

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“The left afterburner technique” and SR-71 special problems: here’s what made Blackbird air refueling challenging

The KC-135Q tanker

It’s impossible to overemphasise the essential role played by the KC-135Q tanker crews, without whom successful prosecution of the SR-71 Blackbird mission would have been impossible. As told by Paul F Crickmore in his book Lockheed Blackbird: Beyond the Secret Missions (Revised Edition), it became apparent to Strategic Air Command (SAC) that the tanker force dedicated to supporting SR-71 operations would need to be expanded beyond the original 21 Q-model aircraft and in 1967 the decision was made to modify an additional 35 aircraft. Some 20 KC-135As from the 70th AREFS, 43rd BW at Little Rock AFB, Arkansas, and 15 from the 306th AREFS, 306th BW at McCoy AFB, Florida were therefore converted.

SR-71 T-Shirts

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

As told by Col. Richard H. Graham, a former Blackbird pilot, in his book SR-71 The Complete Illustrated History of THE BLACKBIRD The World’s Highest, Fastest Plane, KC-135Q crews and their aircraft were unique from the rest of the Air Force in several ways. Their aircrews in fact were the only one certified in Blackbird’s specific radio-silent rendezvous procedures, and their boom operators were the only ones qualified to refuel the SR-71.

SR-71 Blackbird air refueling

The Q-model tankers had special plumbing between their fuel tanks, allowing them to transfer JP-4 and JP-7 fuel between various tanks. Their engine could burn transfer JP-4 or JP-7 fuel. If the SR-71 landed somewhere JP-7 fuel was not available, the Q-model tankers flew in with the fuel and, through the use of transfer hoses on the ground, were able to refuel the SR-71. One of the best advantages of flying the Q-model tankers is that their crews did not have to be on twenty-four-hour alert status like the rest of the SAC’s tankers’ crew members.

No story on the SR-71 would be complete without an understanding and appreciation of just how valuable the KC-135Q model tankers and their crews were to the successful and safe completion of every mission.

The SR-71, needed to be refueled approximately every hour. Refueling was tricky, but SR-71 pilots were always up to the challenge.

The Unknown Story of the SR-71 Blackbird that was saved by a Tanker after a Double-Engine Flameout over Northern Laos

Usually, refueling was the first thing that they did after takeoff. Under some circumstances, while flying from Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa, they would take off with enough fuel for the entire mission.

Graham recalls;

“No refueling necessary it was called a Yo-Yo. But this was a maintenance nightmare. A few of our missions required the SR-71 to accelerate to Mach 3+ right after takeoff with a 65,000-pound fuel load. The Yo-Yo procedure had the crew chief completely refuel the plane to full tanks of 80,000 pounds of fuel. Then, with the nitrogen pressurization system working, they de-fueled 15,000 pounds of JP-7, ending up with a 65,000-pound fuel load and a plane that was capable of going immediately to Mach 3+.”

SR-71 Blackbird air refueling special problems

As explained by Aloysius G. Casey and Patrick A. Casey in their book Velocity Speed with Direction The Professional Career of Gen Jerome F. O’Malley, refueling presented special problems: visibility was poor due to the triangular forward window, and the helmet associated with the pressure suit caused undesired reflections. The receptacle (which received the fuel) was aft of the cockpit; therefore, the SR-71 had to fly underneath the tanker. Normally, one would take on about 70,000 pounds or 11,000 gallons of JP7 fuel.

SR-71 print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

Typically, refueling took place at about 25,000 feet. As the weight increased and the air speed had to be held down to accommodate the slower tanker, the aircraft became thrust-limited; that is, drag increased as it approached the stall speed for this unique aircraft (there was no additional thrust available without afterburner). At that point, the pilot had to move one throttle slightly into the afterburner range to hold position.

The left afterburner technique

Using one afterburner required the pilot to counter the asymmetry with rudder or just tolerate some sideways flight. Interestingly, the pilots developed the left afterburner technique so the aircraft would yaw slightly to the right. This way, only the left quarter panel had defogged air, and one could get that benefit if needed. Refueling was an intense effort for the pilot and was required two to four times for each mission.

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71 and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

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the-californicationist · 3 months

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Goldfish (SanSan AU) - 1/8

Sansa grabs a drink with her sister after winning her court case over the murder of Ramsay Bolton. A judge decides there is not enough evidence to claim she trained those hounds to eat him alive. At the bar, Sansa runs into the only hound she couldn’t tame: Sandor Clegane.

Warnings: descriptions of abuse, canon-mentioned abuse and domestic violence, mention of ramsay bolton, modern au, oral and vaginal sex

Sansa’s lawyer sat stoically beside her as Judge Ryker read out the verdict. In the case of first degree murder of Mr. Ramsay Bolton, Sansa Stark was not guilty. In the case of his manslaughter, she was also not guilty. The jury claimed that there was no evidence which showed that Ms. Stark exhibited prior control over the hounds of Winterfell manor, nor could they find any substantial evidence that she would be able to restrain a man as strong as Mr. Bolton without evidence of a struggle. His death was an accident.

A loud strike of the gavel made Sansa jump slightly in her stiff seat. Case closed.

“You’re free to go, Ms. Stark. May the Gods be merciful to you on your journey home,” her lawyer shook her hand and left her there, staring down at the dark, wooden table.

The eldest remaining Stark stayed seated for some time. Her pale hands lay clasped together as if still cuffed, unmoving. She breathed in deeply, but it was ragged at the end. As she tried to reach for that full gasp of oxygen, Sansa was halted by a small sob. She shuddered, not crying, yet still in some sort of ugly pain. A sick feeling ravaged her from her chest and into her throat. She breathed in again, pressing her feet so hard down into the bottoms of her patent leather pumps that her toes began to burn with pain. She wished, fleetingly, that her feet would kindle, and that she could catch fire, searing herself in the flames and consuming this goddamn wooden table for fuel, choking on her own soot and smoke. Suffocating in her own blaze. So much of her had already been licked away by others’ embers; maybe there was no tinder left to ignite? Just ash.

Everyone in the courtroom had almost filed out. A small hand caught her arm, shaking her from her internal inferno.

“Sans,” Arya said, “Let’s go. I parked out back.”

Sansa followed her sister dutifully. Arya was dressed up, if it could be called that. She wore black from head to toe; leather boots, men’s cargo trousers, a knit tunic, and a long, woolen pea coat. The younger Stark girl did not own makeup, nor would she wear any, and her hair was shorn into a buzz cut. Her skin was tanned, but clear, and her hands were shoved deep into her pockets, defensively. Sansa hadn’t seen her in more than four months, but she was glad she was with her now. She had even been kind enough to let her stay at her place while Sansa went through the last part of the trial.

Sansa climbed into the passenger side of Arya’s sporty little Mazda. Her sister eyed her, hesitantly, from the driver’s seat, round aviators sliding down her nose as she checked the parking garage for signage.

“So, where to?” Arya asked, genuinely unsure if Sansa would know.

Sansa sighed,

“I need a drink.”

Arya smiled,

“I know just the place.”

They had driven all the way to the northernmost point of the city; most people didn’t even consider it to still be London. Arya’s place that she knew so well was called The Wildling, and it was a true dive. Sansa didn’t care. As long as someone gave her a neat scotch and a chair, she would deal with whatever nonsense followed with it.

The bar was large, masculine, and smoky. It was filled with darts and pool, and it wasn’t the sort of spot to host hen parties. The walls were concrete block, painted back, and the floor was whatever material existed between dirt and tile. Sansa’s heels made a crispy noise as her soles walked over the stickiness of the floor. Heavy metal rattled through the building. Sansa expected to be overwhelmed by the sensory overload, but she didn’t really feel anything at all anymore. Ramsay had made sure of that.

The barkeep waved at Arya and came over to serve her. Arya turned to her sister,

“You want the usual?”

Sansa nodded. Arya knew what she drank these days. It was always hard liquor, and it was nearly impossible for her to order anything but scotch. Ramsay had been a gin drinker, Tyrion had been a wino, and Joffrey had preferred vodka, of course. Sansa hated the bloating that came with beer, so whisky it was.

Drink secured, Sansa sat down at a small table facing a window. She watched Arya for a moment to see if she would join her, but she had gotten stuck into a conversation with the bar staff. Sansa turned back to staring into the blackness of the night, admiring the wet gleam of the cobblestones in the street outside, and wishing she had made different choices.

Suddenly, the roar of a motorbike ripped her from her thoughts. It sped toward the bar, only to pull into a space right in front of Sansa’s viewpoint. Its rider, a staggeringly large man, killed the engine and stepped down from the dark machine, ruthlessly kicking the peg into place. He was dressed in black leather pants that strained against his muscular legs. His broad back was covered in a matching moto jacket, no patches. His helmet hid his entire face with a black visor, and the only identifying symbol was a small, silver dog painted on the side near where his jaw would lie, its mouth wide and snarling. As an icy cold realization ran down her spine, Sansa stared out the window and gazed up at a form she had not seen for a long time. It was the Hound.

#asoiaf #asoif/got #asoif fanfic #sansan #sandor clegane #house stark #sansa stark #sansan au #sansan fanfiction #biker!sandor #a break from our regularly scheduled programming #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #goldfish by the californicationist

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transgenderer · 4 months

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The Goodyear Inflatoplane was an inflatable experimental aircraft made by the Goodyear Aircraft Company, a subsidiary of Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, well known for the Goodyear blimp. Although it seemed an improbable project, the finished aircraft proved to be capable of meeting its design objectives, although orders were never forthcoming from the military. A total of 12 prototypes were built between 1956 and 1959, and testing continued until 1972, when the project was finally cancelled.

The original concept of an all-fabric inflatable aircraft was based on Taylor McDaniel's inflatable rubber glider experiments in 1931. Designed and built in only 12 weeks, the Goodyear Inflatoplane was built in 1956, with the idea that it could be used by the military as a rescue plane to be dropped in a hardened container behind enemy lines. The 44 cubic ft (1.25 cubic meter) container could also be transported by truck, jeep trailer or aircraft.[1] The inflatable surface of this aircraft was actually a sandwich of two rubber-type materials connected by a mesh of nylon threads, forming an I-beam. When the nylon was exposed to air, it absorbed and repelled water as it stiffened,[clarification needed] giving the aircraft its shape and rigidity. Structural integrity was retained in flight with forced air being continually circulated by the aircraft's motor. This continuous pressure supply enabled the aircraft to have a degree of puncture resilience, the testing of airmat showing that it could be punctured by up to six .30 calibre bullets and retain pressure.[2][3] Goodyear inflatoplane on display at the Smithsonian Institution

There were at least two versions: The GA-468 was a single-seater. It took about five minutes to inflate to about 25 psi (170 kPa); at full size, it was 19 ft 7 in (5.97 m) long, with a 22 ft (6.7 m) wingspan. A pilot would then hand-start the two-stroke cycle,[1] 40 horsepower (30 kW) Nelson engine, and takeoff with a maximum load of 240 pounds (110 kg). On 20 US gallons (76 L) of fuel, the aircraft could fly 390 miles (630 km), with an endurance of 6.5 hours. Maximum speed was 72 miles per hour (116 km/h), with a cruise speed of 60 mph. Later, a 42 horsepower (31 kW) engine was used in the aircraft.

Takeoff from turf was in 250 feet with 575 feet needed to clear a 50-foot obstacle. It landed in 350 feet. Rate of climb was 550 feet per minute. Its service ceiling was estimated at 10,000 ft.

The test program at Goodyear's facilities near Wingfoot Lake, Akron, Ohio showed that the inflation could be accomplished with as little as 8 psi (544 mbar), less than a car tire.[1] The flight test program had a fatal crash when Army aviator Lt. "Pug" Wallace was killed. The aircraft was in a descending turn when one of the control cables under the wing came off the pulley and was wedged in the pulley bracket, locking the stick. The turn tightened until one of the wings folded up over the propeller and was chopped up. With the wings flapping because of loss of air, one of the aluminum wing tip skids hit the pilot in the head, as was clear from marks on his helmet. Wallace was pitched out, over the nose of the aircraft and fell into the shallow lake. His parachute never opened.[4]

To Die For the InflatoPlane

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 1 year

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I Wanted to Be

A Ron 'Slider' Kerner Imagine

Description: Kids, family, all of those things that people always talk about as being the be-all, end-all, goal? Those things have never been on Ron Kerner's list. All he wants to do is fly. What happens when an old friend's little sister calls him for help?

Everything changes.

Warnings: Dead-beat dad, Mentioned Pregnancy, Mentioned Childbirth, Tooth Rotting Fluff

Word Count: 2939

A/N: This is another Discord fueled thought. @mayhemmanaged and I were talking about how we thought that Jake was either Ice's son or Slider's. I had a sudden urge to explore that thought and here we are!

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

My Masterlist

Texans have a saying or cautionary tale for nearly everything. Everything, it seems, except what you can tell your best friend's little sister when her no-good husband runs away from her and the baby she's carrying. When she'd called him, sobbing, he hadn't known what to do. What can you tell a twenty-five year old nine month pregnant woman you haven't seen in close to a decade? In the case of one Ron Kerner, mostly known as Slider nowadays, you don't say a word. Instead, you get emergency leave and hop onto the nearest transport home.

The tiny town of Cistern is exactly as he remembers it, hot, dry, and dusty. The sole bus trundles through town just as he pulls into the solitary gas station and steps out. It feels weird being back here. As much as Cistern hasn't changed, he knows he has. A quick stop at the pump station for fuel that sloshes sluggishly into the near empty tank of the truck he'd rented in Austin, and he's off again. Driving west a ways and then north until the only things he sees are scrub and the odd glimpse of cattle.

The turn-off to the Petersen ranch looks just like he remembers it, though the sign says Seresin now. Was that the name of the idiot who ran away? In all honesty, Ron can't be pressed to remember. All that matters is the girl waiting on the porch when the truck rattles to a stop. She looks the same as he remembers. Little Rebecca Petersen, not so little and decidedly not a Petersen anymore, but god does she not remind him still of the little thing that used to run around behind him and Danny, all knees, toothy grin and covered in freckles.

That grin, at least, is exactly the same. So is the teasing tone as she greets him as he walks up the front stairs. "Well, well, well, look at what the cat dragged in! If it isn't Ron Kerner, the big-shot Naval Aviator. What brings you back to sleepy old Cistern?"

"You know what." He can't help the sober turn to his voice as he hugs her gingerly, not sure of where to put his arms, not when the bulge of her belly is in the way. God, doesn't he wish he'd never said those words as soon as they left his mouth, though. Because that smile is gone, like the sun hidden by the clouds.

"You're here because of Brian." Her voice is tired, so tired that Ron can't help trying to make the girl he promised he'd protect smile again.

"Naw, Becks. I'm here for you and this little thing. Only in part for him."

It's words that he didn't know were true until 3 days later when he's standing in the maternity ward of the hospital and being handed a tiny squalling infant with a shock of honey hair and the tightest grip he's ever felt. The newly named Jacob Daniel Seresin seems to be just as enamored of Ron as Ron is of him. Say what you will about the little guy's deadbeat dad, but he made an awfully cute baby.

That instant shock of attachment stays with Ron for a long time afterward. He looks forward to receiving the letters Rebecca sends monthly, filled with polaroids of small Jake as he grows bigger and bigger. He can track every milestone on that little body from how he grows to the first tooth that comes painfully into that little mouth.

But he does not actually see the boy or his mama again for nearly five years. Things have changed considerably over that time. Ron's raked in another promotion, making him a full lieutenant. Ice met a girl and made her his wife, and to top it all off, they're both in Texas again. So on the first long weekend he gets, Ron hops into the old Ford truck he'd put together when he turned sixteen and drives straight up to Cistern.

This time, he drives up to the Seresin house to hear giggling and gets out of his truck just in time to catch a little boy in just a pair of shorts as he goes running past. It's the light dusting of freckles and toothy grin that he'd recognize anywhere which clues him into exactly who he's holding.

"Hey, kiddo. I'm your Uncle Ron. Dunno if you remember me." His voice is gruff as he turns the giggling brat upside down like he's looking for a way to turn a little robot off. Through giggles, he's gratified to hear the boy introduce himself as Jake. This time, the Rebecca he sees in the kitchen of the ranch house she grew up in and where she's raising her son is more like the happy teenager he'd left behind when he enlisted with her big brother. It still irks him that he couldn't protect Daniel. But he's going to protect Rebecca and Daniel's namesake as fiercely as he can.

"Hey, Becks. Y'missing something? I caught this little gremlin running around out there. Is this what you're looking for?" He can't resist tickling the bare tummy of the boy in his arms just to hear the musical giggles.

"Mama, Uncle Sly's here!" The piping voice of the little boy standing there all of two feet tall wearing just shorts is enough to crack even the crustiest aviator's stone heart. Rebecca's boy is a dusty, golden skinned marvel with his sun-bleached blonde hair and huge slightly gap-toothed grin. It feels like home, this place. That weekend, Ron spends more time out on a ranch than he has in years. Rebecca may have managed to keep the ranch going, but who's going to teach Jake everything he needs to know when his daddy isn't around? Anyways, that's Ron's rationale.

Soon after that, though, he's given orders. He's shipped all over the world, flying for the Navy. It seems like his star is on the rise, and while he's Lieutenant Commander and Captain Kerner in short order, he still stays Uncle Sly for one little boy who turns into a teenager back in Cistern seemingly overnight. Ron does his best to show up for all of the kid’s biggest milestones, but even he can’t hop onto a helo every time Jake has a baseball game or wins an award at school. Those weeks, Ron does his best to call and talk to the kid as much as he can.

He talks to Rebecca on the phone enough to know that the kid's struggling with something, something he won't talk to his Mama about. So the next time Ron's home, he heads to Cistern, as always with gifts in hand for the boy he loves like he is his own. Unlike prior snatched moments, Seresin Ranch is crackling with a tension Ron's never felt before. Jake's on the front porch, and Ron's suddenly struck by how grown up the boy seems, especially with how tall he is and the new manly breadth of his shoulders.

"Hey, Kiddo." As he tugs the kid into a hug, Ron can feel some tension leave those still small shoulders.

"Uncle Sly." Something's not right. Jake's not smiling today, not at all.

"What is it, kid?" A sudden jolt of fear rushes through Ron. "Where's your mom, kid?'

"She's in there, Uncle Sly, in the kitchen. With a man who's claiming to be my dad." The rage that burns in his chest is unlike any other that Ron's ever felt before. Sure enough, when he stalks into the kitchen, it's to see the one man he'd never wanted to see menacing Rebecca ever again.

"Brian." That one word is all it takes for Rebecca's shoulders to relax. Fifteen years have not treated Brian Seresin well. Not at all. His hair is graying and greasy, he's got a paunch and he's obviously drunk off his feet if the way he lists back and forth is any indication. "What are you doing back in Cistern?"

Ron's quick to gather Rebecca back behind him, knowing that Brian Seresin would never be bold enough to try to get to her, not through him, anyway. Jake’s followed him in, as always his shadow

"Wanted my woman back, Kerner. And my kid." He sniffs, wiping away yellow-tinged mucus on the leg of the dirtiest jeans that Ron's ever seen. "S'not fair, y'know? That you got to keep her and the brat while I was off. D'she treat y'well? She's great in bed, ain't she?"

It takes every fiber in his being to not deck the man for what he's saying about Rebecca. Thankfully Jake's holding his ma, otherwise he'd have launched himself at the fool to get his share of the beat down. It’s at that moment that Sly is glad they’d sent lawyers after Brian Seresin after Jake was born because it means he doesn’t have a claim on Rebecca or Jake anymore. They have the denial of parental rights and a divorce agreement to prove it. It doesn't take much more than a quirked eyebrow to get the man to spill the entire sordid tale. How he'd lost a lot of money and wanted to claim what he believed he was owed from Seresin Ranch.

"Call Sheriff Weatherby, Becks." When Ron finally speaks, the calm in his voice surprises even him. He sounds Ice-cold, which he guesses is what you get for spending the better part of a decade flying with the same person. "We've got an intruder on Seresin Ranch."

It doesn't surprise him in the slightest that it's Jake who picks up the landline and dials up Sheriff Weatherby, not at all. It's hours later, once one Brian Seresin has been carted away and Rebecca is asleep, that Ron finds Jake again. The kid's sitting in an old tire swing Ron had set up years ago, rocking idly while staring up into the endless expanse of stars in the sky above.

"So, that's him, huh? My pops, the man who walked out before I was even born?" He sounds so torn up about it, this gangly teen boy who loves his Mama to distraction and who would do anything to protect her. That's something they have in common.

"Yeah, kid." Ron doesn't try to hide the anger in his face, not now.

"Why did he come back? Why didn't he just stay away?" Ron's hand is gentle on the kid's back as he tries to think for a response.

"I dunno, kid. I wish he had never come back. Your Mama isn't the type to cry. But every time I've heard her cry it has been because of that man." The rage building in his chest causes a near imperceptible shake in his hands.

"Why didn't you ever marry Mama, Uncle Sly? You love her, I know you do. Then you can come home to us more often, can't you?" That one innocent observation is enough to have his entire world reeling. What would it be like? Having Becks to come home to? To have this kid, her son, as his own? Is he so easy to read that a teenager can tell what his most closely guarded secret is?

"I dunno kid. But enough about me. What's eating at you?" Ron's a little scared of the answer he's going to get.

"I want to fly, Uncle Sly. Like you do, like Uncle Daniel did." Jake's green eyes are all Rebecca's, all Daniel's and Ron can see the boy he loved like a brother in Jake's face. "D-d'you think I can do it?"

"It's dangerous, kid. But yeah. If there was anyone who could do it, it'd be you. You’ve got your mom’s determination and all of her support, too. Just don’t forget that you’ve got people who love you waiting for you, and you’ll be all set."

Those are obviously words Jake holds close to his heart. Because, before Ron's hit Vice-Admiral, Jake's already at the academy. He's taking Annapolis by storm, making his Mama and his dad, because thanks to the kid's prodding it's Ron and Rebecca Kerner now, incredibly proud. Ron's happy to find he has to wipe away tears when he sees his son, his son, get his wings a few short years later. Then there's another Kerner's star on the rise. His son’s.

He keeps a finger on the pulse of every deployment, every test, and beams with pride to see Jake graduate from Top Gun. That pride sits warm in his chest even as he gets a call from the one California number he'd memorized that he could never forget.

"Mr. Iceman! How're you doing?" The relationship between pilot and RIO hasn't changed over the past years. Neither of them flies anymore, but the bonds they built over 30 years ago haven't changed.

"It's about your kid, Sly." Ron can hear the hoarseness creeping into Ice's tone even now.

"What's going on, Tom?" After a life's service to the US Navy, Rear Admiral Ron 'Slider' Kerner isn't surprised to hear that Jake's been selected for a special detachment. The dad in him, though? He's terrified shitless. Nearly 30 years of loving that boy doesn’t feel like enough all of a sudden, not when Jake's going to be sent on a mission so dangerous that talking about it feels like a jinx. Even the heads up from the COMPACFLT doesn't help.

It's a tense few weeks in Texas. Ron terrorizes the base in Corpus Christi, his mind in Miramar with his son while his body is in Texas. Rebecca is equally distraught. Then Ron gets another call that fills him with sadness all over again. It is Sarah calling, "Hey Ron. Just wanted to tell you that he's gone. Tom's gone. The cancer. It came back with a vengeance. The doctors couldn't do anything. He passed away this morning."

During the entirety of the service, Ron can't help but feel like he would've given anything to see his best friend again one more time before he died. It's sad reconnecting with the rest of their 1986 cohort at the bar later. It’s even worse seeing his son stand somberly kitted out in his own whites across the way from him. He doesn’t, can’t go near him, mainly because nobody knows that Jake is Rear Admiral Kerner’s kid. But he can't help but feel like Tom would've wanted him to hug his boy instead. So that's what Rear Admiral Ron Kerner does. He hugs his son, tight, as many times as he can before he leaves. He watches from the docks as the carrier departs and waits with bated breath.

Rebecca channels her nerves into baking. She fills the house they rent off base with pastries, cookies, cakes and pies, most of which are Jake's favorites. Then it’s a waiting game. Ron calls in every favor he has in order to get more information on the mission Jake’s on, really for anything he can get. As it turns out, there is very little information that even an admiral can get. So all he can do is hold Rebecca close and pray. It’s frankly the longest three days of his life. He’s more tense than he was even during the Leyte Gulf incident, which feels like a world, a lifetime ago. That first call from Jake they get has his knees weak. The relief coursing through his system is too good to be true. So’s the first look he gets of his son when the carrier docks two days later.

The milling crowd of families lets out a roar of excitement when the first of the ship’s crew sets foot on shore. Ron wraps an arm around Rebecca, and keeps an eagle eye on the waves of departing sailors looking for aviator green flight suits. The crowd clears piece by piece and they still haven’t seen their boy or any of the aviators. They’re some of the only people waiting, and Ron can feel Rebecca’s tremors as she clutches at her necklace and rears up onto her tiptoes every once in a while. She sags against his chest and that’s when Ron finally sees their golden boy. He looks exhausted, but he’s safe, he’s home. Rebecca runs right for him first, and Ron can’t help his grin when he sees how tall Jake is in comparison to his Mama. The kid’s not shy about his love for Rebecca either. He introduces her to the aviators and then Ron’s being beckoned forward.

“And this is my pop, Admiral Kerner.” He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and god if that doesn’t remind Ron of Daniel again.

“Hey, kid.” Ron can’t help the fond grin on his face or the amusement when he sees Jake’s squadron rise into salutes the minute they hear his title. There’s a face in his squadron that Ron didn’t think he’d ever see again. There’s also somebody nearby who he hasn’t seen in decades.

“Baby Goose. Mav.” Ron’s nod is slight.

“Hey Sly. A kid huh?” Ron can’t resist smiling as he hugs the shorter man.

“Yeah, Mav. I had to catch up.” Watching Becks fawn over Jake again is everything he’s ever wanted.

“He’s a good one, you know, Sly?” As Ron stands shoulder to shoulder with Pete Mitchell again, watching their boys realize that they’re closer than they ever could have known, Ron knows one thing. He may have never intended to be a dad, but standing at the docks thirty years later, he knows he wouldn't have wanted to do anything else.

Taglist:

@mayhemmanaged, @desert-fern, @cassiemitchell, @dakotakazansky, @sarahsmi13s, @roosters-girl

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #ron slider kerner #ron slider kerner x oc #slider x oc #ron kerner x oc #the one where slider is jake's dad #exploring slider a bit more

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mlleclaudine · 12 hours

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This Chinese American Aviatrix Overcame Racism to Fly for the U.S. During World War II

A second-generation immigrant, Hazel Ying Lee was the first Chinese American woman to receive her pilot’s license

by Susan Tate Ankeny - Smithsonian magazine, April 23, 2024

Hazel Ying Lee (right) and fellow pilot Virginia Wong (left). Courtesy of the Museum of Chinese in America, New York City

Hazel Ying Lee circled the biplane, looking for anything suspicious. Missing something on a precheck could cost you your life. She checked the engine and confirmed that no oil had collected in its lower cylinder.

Starting a Fleet biplane involved choreography. Lee grasped the propeller with one hand and pulled it backward. “Just walk it through. You don’t need to use force,” her instructor, Al Greenwood, yelled from the cockpit. She repeated the process four times; each time, she heard the click that told her she’d done it correctly. Then, with both hands on the propeller, she raised her left leg forward. Swinging it behind her for leverage, she pulled, and the unique thumping that identified the Kinner engine began.

After climbing onto the wing and into the cockpit, Lee inspected the instrument panel, starting with the fuel. The tank held close to three hours of fuel when full. If a car ran out of gas or had engine trouble, the driver could pull to the roadside. In flight, the best you could hope for was to find a good field, and quickly.

As 19-year-old Lee performed her preflight check in July 1932, Greenwood’s other training biplane, calledthe Student Prince, taxied down the runway, piloted by one of the Chinese Flying Club of Portland boys earning solo hours. Founded in 1931, Greenwood’s school trained Chinese American pilots to go to China and help defend against the invading Japanese.

These young men would become a vital part of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek’s stand against the invasion. As the head of China’s Nationalist government, Chiang and his party were trying to establish control in a nation divided among revolutionists, nationalists, Indigenous warlords, and a developing communist army and government. Now, Japan seemed determined to take China’s resources. Many Chinese Americans supported Chiang and believed he would help China emerge from years of strife and discord.

China’s fledgling air force, with barracks and hangars still being constructed in the north, was easily defeated by the Imperial Japanese Army Air Force. The Chinese needed pilots. Delegates traveled to the United States to scout out flying schools that could teach young Chinese American pilots to fly for China. Across the country, branches of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association (CCBA), a group made up of local merchants and businessmen, agreed to help raise funds to train the young men.

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The association was established in 1882 with the purpose of aiding and protecting Chinese Americans by providing assistance with housing, jobs and other issues that arose. Portland residents Chan Lam and Ting Lee made impassioned speeches to raise money for an aviation school, ultimately raising enough money to sponsor 36 local students. Chinese flight schools opened not only in Portland but also in Boston, San Francisco, Los Angeles and other cities across the country. In total, around 200 Chinese American pilots would undergo training at these schools before joining China’s defense against Japan. Before a student was accepted into the program, he had to pledge his life to China, to the interests of China and to Chinese aviation. The pledge to die for China would take precedence over any personal relationships that might develop.

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Greenwood had purchased the Prince exclusively for the students in his Chinese flying school. He was essentially running two businesses simultaneously. With the new school under his direction, most of his time was spent training young men for combat in China, but he continued to give private flying lessons to students like Lee.

Greenwood’s first class of 15 boys quickly became idols to Lee. For as many hours as she could spare, she watched them practice. They treated her like a kid sister, though all of them were about the same age, and good-naturedly tolerated her enthusiastic antics and questions. She was fun to have around, laughing and playing tricks on them, with a wide smile and deep-voiced wisecracks.

A 1943 photograph of Lee, then serving in the WASPs. Courtesy of Texas Woman's University Collection

Lee stands next to the Student Prince in 1932. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

Lee had kept the photo of the first class that appeared in the Oregonian newspaper in January 1931. Looking like a motley crew of street urchins, the young men posed in front of the Prince, uncertain of what they were in for before Greenwood began his process of transforming them into pilots bound for war.

Lee had never been among others who shared her passion for aviation. Flying was all that Greenwood’s students talked about, and they knew as much about airplanes—and sometimes more—than experienced pilots. It was practice that they needed, practice flying. And Greenwood would provide it.

The “boys,” as Greenwood called them, proved to be able students, a little heavy on the control stick at first, but never lacking courage or a willingness to try anything. Training required ten hours of primary work and ten hours of advanced aerobatics from each student—an enormous task for one instructor. Other pilots were hired to provide instruction to the students.

Lee (in white) attends an air show in Shanghai in 1936. Public domain

Greenwood peppered his instruction with stories of his exploits, like one about his narrowest escape, to demonstrate the deadly consequences of fear. While practicing spins with a student, he’d turned the plane over at 7,000 feet and let it spin for about 5,000 feet. The student grabbed the stick, panicking, and, as a magazine article about Greenwood described it, “began to do things, all of which were wrong,” while using up nearly every one of the remaining 2,000 feet before Greenwood finally regained control—just before the wheels hit the tips of the grass. Controlling fear was essential no matter what happened in the air.

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Born in Portland in 1912, Lee was the second of eight children born to Chinese immigrants. After she discovered her love of aviation at age 19, Lee began dressing like a flier, in baggy pants tucked into riding boots. People stared and pointed, talking behind their hands. “There’s the girl who is learning to fly.” “So foolish.” “Her poor mother.”

One evening, Lee and her friend Elsie Chang sat on the schoolyard grass in the gathering twilight, while Lee dramatically explained everything about flying, as if she were taking Chang along for a ride. Lee described what she could see while flying, how she steered the airplane, how the air made the plane rock and bounce, and all the dangers that needed to be avoided, like stalling on a landing. To Chang, it all sounded terrifying.

Lee (far left) served in the WASPs during World War II. Courtesy of Texas Woman's University Collection

Lee was such a good storyteller that Chang closed her eyes and felt the wind and the weightlessness and heard the engine and smelled the trees in the air aloft. They fell back on the grass and stared up at the darkening sky, waiting for the first star to flicker.

Lee told Chang that no other Asian American woman had a pilot’s license in the United States. She was going to be the first.

Lee counted the minutes until she could get back in an airplane, with the wind in her face and the lulling rumble of the engine to soothe her. She loved the speed, the rhythmic, percussive thump of the engine, the rush of air surrounded by the silent expanse of sky. Lee experienced a new kind of solitude. Away from her family and the tight quarters of a home filled with younger siblings, an elevator operator job where she had to try to be invisible, she was alone without any expectations or judgments. It didn’t matter that she was of Chinese descent. No one could see her race; no one could see her gender. In the sky, she wasn’t Chinese or American, man or woman, visible or invisible. She was just herself. In the sky, she felt limitless.

Lee refused to be tied to a home and children when there were more exciting things to do. She saw how conformity ruled women’s lives, offering a suffocating security in return. Women moved from their fathers’ homes to their husbands’, where their sons would have more power than they ever would. For most women, groomed to deny their own capabilities, to distrust themselves and defer to men, the decision to fly was fraught with fears, not only of flying but also of being independent. In an age when women were encouraged to stay grounded, Lee’s desire to fly was the ultimate expression of individuality. A husband might insist she give up flying, and that was something she would never do.

Lee reviews her performance after a session in a Link trainer. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

If Lee could convince Greenwood and the CCBA to accept her into the next class of students training to go to China, she would sign the pledge without hesitation. To fly against the Japanese invaders would be the ultimate experience and worthy of any sacrifice. She’d die in battle fighting the enemy without any regrets. But the Chinese Flying Club, like all the related programs across the country, didn’t allow women. Lee decided that needed to change. There were few opportunities for a Chinese woman already. If she wasn’t admitted to Greenwood’s flying school, her future options were not just limited, they were unthinkable.

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In August 1932, Greenwood’s first class of 15 students eagerly awaited their departure for China, still heady from newspaper interviews and farewell speeches delivered at banquets in their honor. Four of the original 19 had failed to complete the class due to physical handicaps such as colorblindness. The proud graduates ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime posed in front of the Prince in two rows, wearing tentative smiles and looking like boys not used to being photographed. Most wore ties, a few wore crewneck sweaters over white shirts, and several wore the bomber-style zip-up jackets popular at the time. They had learned more than flying under Greenwood’s guidance; they now believed themselves to be confident young men, no longer boys, ready to fight a war and, if necessary, die for China.

While the men of the CCBA wondered if these kids would have the toughness required to survive combat, Greenwood expressed an unwavering faith in his students. In an interview with Webster A. Jones of the Oregonian, Greenwood tried to deflate the accepted belief that people of Chinese descent could not possibly be as capable as white American pilots. “Chinese make rattling good fliers,” he said. “This myth about Orientals not being able to fly is pure bunk. They are as good as Americans—or other Occidentals—in natural ability, and they are superior in a lot of ways.”

Lee (left) and Geneva Slack in 1943. Courtesy of Texas Woman's University Collection

L to R: Faith Buchner, Lee (standing on the wheel) and Grace Clark wearing “zoot suits” in 1943. Courtesy of Texas Woman's University Collection

After the graduates were photographed, Greenwood invited his other flying students to pose for a photo. Lee sauntered over to stand in front of the Prince,wearing wide khaki jodhpurs tucked into black riding boots, a polo shirt and a flight vest. Her goggles had been pushed up onto her flight cap. She took a drag from her cigarette and leaned back on the wing.

Greenwood recognized Lee’s transformation. She moved in a slow, confident stride, with a graceful swagger. Over the summer, she had made rapid progress and would soon fly solo. In a few short months, she had come into her own, and in doing so, had become something completely unique. Greenwood understood her need to be first, to compete with the boys and the girls, too. He smiled and nodded toward her as the camera shutter snapped.

Lee was as talented as any of the male fliers, but the CCBA had not yet granted permission. Since the Chinese elders and businessmen supporting the school paid all the training expenses for the students, they had to be convinced that girls were worth the investment. Greenwood’s latest argument, that the grant to train 36 students had not stipulated they be boys, proved incorrect. The contract called for “young men.” He would have to convince them that Lee was a crack pilot worthy of their financial investment. She had to pass her flying test to receive her license first, but that wasn’t going to be any trouble for her.

Greenwood became a fierce advocate for Lee, telling the Oregonian that she had received the same training as her male counterparts and was just as capable as them, if not more so. He believed Lee would prove his long-held belief that flying involved more finesse than muscle, and that keen intelligence was more important than brute strength.

Besides helping China defend itself against the Japanese invasion and having the opportunity to fly, Lee had another reason for wanting to go to China. Her father’s children from a previous marriage—her half-siblings—as well as her aunts, uncles and cousins still lived in the village where her father had grown up. This could be her chance to fulfill her dream of visiting her father’s homeland.

Ferrying trainees being briefed in the Ready Room. Lee appears at the center of the back row. Courtesy of Texas Woman's University Collection

On October 24, 1932, Lee passed the rigorous Department of Commerce pilot examination. Having also accumulated 50 flying hours, half of which were solo, Lee was granted a private pilot’s license. The document described her as a 5-foot-3, 117-pound woman. On November 1, the Oregon Journal reported on Lee’s achievement with the headline “Portland Elevator Girl Masters Flying and Gets License.” The reporter wrote, “The fifth floor of the H. Liebes & Co. [department store] was not high enough for Hazel Lee, 20, elevator operator there, so she got up early mornings to learn to fly an airplane. … Miss Lee took an airplane ride a year ago, got interested, and now that she can fly, she plans someday to go to China and interest women there in aviation.”

Lee was, in fact, the first Chinese American woman in the U.S., not just in Oregon, to earn a pilot’s license. (Katherine Sui Fun Cheung, born in China in 1904, earned her pilot’s license a few months before Lee and was the first woman of Chinese descent to do so in the U.S.; she later became a naturalized citizen.) Over the next decade, Lee would fly planes in both China and the U.S., becoming one of just two Chinese Americans accepted into the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP) during World War II. She died at age 32 on November 25, 1944, two days after her plane collided with another aircraft and burst into flames. “Of the 1,102 women who [flew] in the WASP program, 38 died in service,” notes the Federal Aviation Administration. “Lee was the last.”

#Hazel Ying Lee #Women Airforce Service Pilots #WWII #American Flygirl #Susan Tate Ankeny #Smithsonian magazine #April 2024 #long post #Youtube

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missathlete31 · 9 months

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Dead on Your Feet Chapter 12- Sneak Peak

It's no secret that I haven't been able to write anything new in months. My mind keeps coming up with ideas but then I try to execute them and it's just painful to reread. I've gotten more inspired lately, especially thanks to some of the amazing people on here who have been so encouraging (looking at you @seresimp!!!!) and I broke through some mental barriers to produce this first part of Chapter 12. Hoping for some feedback to fuel me through!! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story for your patience! I hope this sounds a little like the writer I used to be.

Masterlist for anyone that needs to refresh their memories because it's been like six months since I last posted

The ascent towards the helicopter is meant to be the end of this whole nightmare for Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell. His pilots have been found, have already risen to the sanctity of the bird hovering in the sky and now it is only left to him to be pulled to safety before they can all head home. Pete leaves the cold ocean waves ready to feel victorious, to feel as though he finally has succeeded and achieved the final miracle of the day, getting everyone home alive.

But once more he is struck down.

The second Maverick hauls himself into the rescue helicopter, all he recognizes is chaos. Gone is the hushed silence from outside, replaced with the panic-stricken energy of multiple bodies crammed into a tight space and fighting for purchase. Pete’s eyes naturally train on Rooster first, his gaze widening as he sees a young man pulling his Lieutenant back with a harsh grip. Mav moves to intervene, to scream over the hysterical bellowing issuing from Bradshaw’s mouth, and ask what the hell is going on, but before he can Pete gets a clear view of Jake Seresin on the floor of the aircraft, spread eagle and unmoving, as a middle aged Hispanic man pounds heavily on the blonde’s sternum.

Maverick knows logically that the man above Seresin is some sort of doctor, he can tell just from the uniform alone. However doctor or not, the sight of this man pumping harshly on Jake’s chest makes the older pilot need to look away in fear he might intercede. A protectiveness rises within Pete, unwavering in its ferocity at the unnatural sight before him; a bruised and bloody Hangman being pounded into the floor as a means of saving his life.

Because Seresin isn’t breathing.

The grimace from the rescue diver makes a lot more sense now.

Bradley's screams still ring out in the air around them, each one more and more blood curdling. He is being restrained by someone similar in size to the 6 foot Bradshaw and yet Rooster continues to hurl his exhausted and water logged body towards his wingman relentlessly. He roars over all the other noise around them, his temper on full display. It's been over a decade since Maverick has seen it in all its fury but he remembers how the younger Bradshaw can wield his anger like the deadliest sword. His visceral emotions striking like perfect daggers each and every time. Pete knows he needs to control it, to distract Rooster so that the man holding him back can get the rescue swimmer back up and they can make their way back to the ship, but the older pilot is shocked still; his senses all but burnt out at the overwhelming assault of the environment around him.

"Captain" a voice snaps, and Pete turns to see the doctor, the name Sosa stitched onto his chest, still pumping furiously. Maverick can make out the beginnings of a bruise reddening the other man's cheek, no doubt caused from a blow to the face by Bradley's fist before the aviator was properly subdued. "Captain" the man speaks up again, "I need you to control your pilot."

"I-" Maverick gapes helplessly, as though he is being asked to do the impossible; and maybe he is. There might have been a time when he could calm Bradley Bradshaw down with a quick word or a tight hug, when he would snuggle with the little boy who was scared of thunder, or lecture the kid who rode his bike too far down the street. That kid doesn't exist anymore, or perhaps the Maverick that could do all those things is really the one who's gone; either way Pete Mitchell is as helpless to the lashes of Bradley Bradshaw's ire as anyone else.

"Captain" the tone is desperate, exhausted, as still Doctor Sosa thrusts his hands powerfully down on Hangman's chest cavity in an effort to bring life back into the kid's heart. "We need to get that diver up now” he explains, “this Lieutenant needs more help than I can give in this bird, we have to get back to the ship. Now please-" a firmness laces his words, a command coming from a man who knows how this story is going to end unless something changes soon, "control your man."

#top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #top gun #top gun hangman #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun: maverick #dagger squad #pete maverick mitchell #pete mitchell #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #dead on your feet #trying to write again #its hard #and scary #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin whump #thank you all

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legendary-pink-dot · 10 months

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Home at Sunset

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x reader (no gender specified, but female in my mind)

Rating: Mature. A couple references to sexual activity.

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: Frankie and his aviators. Sunrise, sunset, and all the moments in between.

Notes: No use of "Y/N". No mention of Frankie's canon child. Angsty as hell; I am SO sorry, Frankie and Frankie's emotionally tortured and misunderstood lady.

A sunrise

Civil twilight gives rise to the first rays of sun. It's a sudden flash in the cockpit as they reach the end of the Andes mountain range and the start of the ocean, where their getaway boat awaits them. Frankie gently nudges the helicopter a shade higher, his touch confident but featherlight. So focused he forgets to put on his aviator sunglasses to protect his sight.

"Alright, baby, alright..." As snipers treat their weapons as a beloved and animate object, so too does Frankie with every aircraft he pilots, simultaneously guiding them and giving them exactly what they need.

One final ridge to clear and they'll have put this mission behind them. A mission that had gone wrong right from of the start, their team leader ignoring his instincts in favor of greed, and Frankie and his teammates making the mistake of not standing up to him. The result was having to do things other what they went there for, and running against time to leave with their stolen money and their lives.

"Come on now, come on..." he croons, just as sweetly as he did to you every night when he was home in happier times. A touch more elevation, *right there, just like that,* that's all it would take to get over the peak. She's close, so close, and he's almost there, he's got you...

**bang**

The gearbox blows and the helo suddenly drops, a plunging freefall that brings fearful shouts from his teammates. Frankie is the pilot you can trust, the calm in any storm. That's why he's always chosen. He furiously recalculates, readjusts, recalibrates on the fly, letting his years of experience and training take over.

In the few safe seconds he has left, he makes a controlled descent into the smoothest patch of jungle he can find, fatally spinning out but saving his team.

The loss of their transport hurts more than their cuts and bruises, but it's not the most pressing issue at the moment. Their landing site is remote and full of angry villagers, half fearful of the intrusion and half eager to claim the bags of stolen money that fell from the sky.

The slaughter that happens next is not his fault, yet he supposes it somehow is. The team silently loads the loot onto mules while Frankie packs away every poor decision that led to this moment, leaving the heaviest of baggage to deal with later as they make their slow and perilous trek towards home.

One early morning

"They trust me. They're putting their lives in my hands. It's my job to keep them safe."

It was Frankie's usual justification for going on private missions after retiring from the service, and he had used it again just hours before he was set to leave, both of you still agitated and arguing well into the early hours past midnight.

He takes that responsibility seriously -- too seriously you thought, wondering why he was willing to risk himself and his newfound peace of mind again for a team that didn't truly appreciate him. It was a rhetorical question and you knew it. "What about your responsibility to me? To us? You never come all the way back from these trips, and I hate seeing what it does to you."

Frankie had merely shrugged, raising his hands as if to say, "I have no choice." You knew he didn't, in a way. His loyalty to his teammates, his comrades, his friends ran deeper than you could ever hope to understand. It had helped fuel your love for him, but was also the source of your greatest pain, having to help Frankie put himself back together every time a piece of him was broken off.

"It's just recon," he'd promised. "It's safe. Easy money and no flying. I'll be home in 3 or 4 days." His voice had been calm but you heard the premonition of doubt floating below it. Never a good sign. A good pilot trusts their instincts, and Frankie was one of the best.

You had clung to each other that night, resigned to whatever fate the mission would decide to bring you, the risk always present of him not coming back and this moment being your last chance to savor him. You'd rocked against him, close and tight in his lap for an eternity, chasing a high that usually came easily but for once eluded you. A premonition twinned to Frankie's that you couldn't let go of, or for.

You'd woken a few hours later to discover he'd left while it was still pitch black outside. He hadn't waited for that pre-dawn time you usually love to languish in together, when he quietly slides thick and hot and sweet inside you, free but moored, both of you suspended in time and feeling like the world is holding its breath just for you. You'd slept in too late to catch the moment. You wondered when you'll be allowed to capture another.

An afternoon

It's been a full 5 days without any contact from Frankie, and none of the team's partners had heard anything either. That wasn't normal, but it had happened before. Going no-contact during a private mission was critical for your safety and theirs. You couldn't do anything but trust, hope, and wait.

As you finish your lunch, it's raining hard. You reach into the hallway closet for your umbrella, pausing beside the accessory rack and noticing for the first time since he left that he'd taken the wrong pair of aviator sunglasses with him. He was supposed to take his usual mission pair with the polarized lenses for high contrast, but had apparently taken his daily-wear mirrored chrome ones instead. "Just recon. No flying," he'd said. Right.

The same dread from that earlier promise returns and throttles you. You wish wherever Frankie is right now and whatever he's dealing with, that his vision is clear. It's the best you can hope for.

The sunset

Cars pass your house without stopping, a dog barks, kids are in the street playing out their last few minutes of dusky freedom. The golden hour passed long ago, and you've sat through 7 of them now without Frankie, sitting at your kitchen table paralyzed with fear and doubt. This is your 8th and you don't know how many more you can take.

You know the sound of Frankie's truck intimately: the purr of the well-tuned motor maintained by a dedicated mechanic, how the gravel in the driveway crunches differently than when underfoot the lighter wheels of your hatchback. You hear it now and wonder if it's a mirage. This announcement of his arrival is a sound you'd almost given up hoping for, and you let out the breath you didn't even realize you were holding.

You sprint to the door and fling it open. Most people would see a tired but normal Frankie walking up your driveway, but all you see is a shell, a ghostly being you recognize from the homecoming of previous missions. It's less of a soul and more of an enclosure for heavy burdens like relief, survivor's guilt, and personal recriminations. Your heart leaps and you forget every frustrated, hopeless word that was said the night before he left.

He drags himself up the flight of steps and falters. You see yourself reflected in his mirrored aviators, and you gently reach out to remove them so you can search his eyes for what you need to see.

Night closes in, the final tint of daylight fades, and Frankie falls into your arms and breaks.

#frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfic #pedro pascal #francisco catfish morales #i'm so sorry #hella angst

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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐂𝐡. 𝐗𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move; jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record.

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

“Just stay,” I tell Bob, “we can pop popcorn and have a pillow fight.”

He’s smiling again, small and shy, but I know tonight has placed a heaviness on Bob’s chest--one that he will have to carry with him all week. It’s an additional weight, piling on top of the mission, on top of taking care of me, on top of being friends with these people. He doesn’t say any of this, but I know it--from the crinkle between his brows, from the flex in his jaw, from the clench in his fists.

“I’ll puke if I call him,” I said to Bob after he scrolled through the messages, listened to the voicemails.

Bob nodded solemnly, sighing. His face was pinched in that Bob way, when he surveyed tough situations, when he had to make a decision. I knew without really knowing that this was the expression his face held when he was in the back of a jet.

“Then don’t call him, Fee.”

We take turns showering--washing sand out of our hair, brushing grainy sugar out of our molars, pressing lotion into our wind-whipped skin. I give him a pair of sweatpants and they’re too loose around his hips, but too tight around his calves and they’re pink and paint-stained. He wears them with a self-assurance--with a certain reverence.

We plug our phones in the kitchen at the same time, silencing them, quietly entering an agreement with each other that we will let Saturday pass and open the door for Sunday together--without our phones, without any messages from the squadron.

I go through the motions of the evening without Rooster and pretend like my heart isn’t aching. I load our glasses into the dishwasher and Stevie watches from afar. I fold up the throw blankets, I turn the record player off and put away the Elton John vinyl. I put bedding on the couch for Bob and check his bandages a final time before I tuck him in with cotton sheets and wool blankets. I turn all the lights off, but leave the lamp by the couch on so the room is lit with a slight orange glow. I don’t put another vinyl on the record player--don’t want to bother Bob. Maybe just knowing I’m not alone in the house, maybe just Bob being just down the hall, will ward off the nightmares.

I am pretending, of course, that I am okay without Rooster here. I am still pretending that his face, his blank stare, isn’t glistening behind my eyes each time I blink. Pretending like I won’t have my silent dreams tonight--about Maggie, about Rooster, about Hangman.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, I absently let my fingers skim the surface of Bob’s bandages, just buying myself time before I have to mosy into that empty, empty bedroom of mine and try to sleep in the bed that’s been so full of Rooster lately. Fuck, I know his pillow will fucking stink of him. The cologne made of skin and black pepper and jet fuel and soap.

Bob is watching me with his eyebrow slightly furrowed, squished into his goose-down pillow.

“What are you gonna do?” he whispers.

I smile, not meeting his eyes. What am I gonna do?

“I don’t know,” I whisper, “my feelings are hurt.”

Bob nods.

“Valid,” he breathes, “what am I gonna do?”

I let my entire hand fall over Bob’s. Mine is warm and soft and so is his--we are both lotioned and smell of ginger soap and willow-bark lotion. I keep my grip there and softly stroke the top of his hand--the way Rooster strokes mine, always in little circles like he’s trying to rub a small stain out of my skin. My throat fucking hurts.

“Technically,” I whisper, “Hangman’s your bitch now, right?”

Bob cracks a grin and a tiny bit of my shame, a tiny bit of my pain, a tiny bit of my humiliation flees. He has taken a few ounces off the massive weight on my chest with that toothy grin.

He ducks to catch my gaze and I finally bring my eyes to his. His glasses are falling down his nose, kind of crooked, but his eyes are very clear and kind. He nods, furrowing his brow just slightly.

“Everything will be better in the morning,” I whisper to him, willing my flat mouth to smile, “nothing bad can happen on a Sunday, right?”

Bob leans over and knocks on the wooden coffee table and I follow suit quickly.

“Goodnight, Fee,” he whispers.

Aching, I want to tell him that I’m suddenly too scared to walk down the hallway to my room. Let me sleep on the couch with you, Bob. I’ll be good. I won’t snore and I won’t take all the blankets. I won’t even move. It’ll just be for tonight. I won’t even ask you for what I really want--which is for your body to lay on top of mine and weigh me down to the sofa. Don’t let me float away.

“Night, Bobby.”

I put my lead shoes on before I walk down the hallway and try very hard to rub the tingle out of my nose. But my eyes are watering and I am holding onto the walls even though I could live in my house in total darkness and not so much as bump into a dresser or trip on a doorstop.

The door--I keep it open like I always do. But when I get into my bed and the sheets are frigid and make my skin goose, when I don’t bother lighting a candle, when I can’t make myself scoot away from my side of the bed--I wish the door was closed so I could cry, could mourn privately.

My bed feels like it’s made of sin. My linens feel unholy. My pillows feel impious.

So I just lay here, looking up at my ceiling, thinking of all the times before when I have looked up. I think of Rooster’s head between my legs, of his stark body flushed as he followed me to the shower when I pretended like he didn’t really know me. For just a second, just one second, I close my eyes and think I’ll be able to sleep like this; in my cold bed that feels dirty despite being sunbleached, with these thoughts of Rooster’s endless skin, with my Rooster-scented pillow just a few inches from my face, with hot tears boiling the skin on my cheeks.

Then I think about his faltering smile, about the shake in his voice when he whispered my name. I think about what the back of my head looked like to him. Then I’ve been jolted awake with a thunderous clap of anxiety.

It’s 3:39 AM when I sit up and squint in the dark, my heart hammering in my chest. Fuck.

Maggie would have loved Rooster. I have thought this before, yes, but now as I lie here and blink at my ceiling in my bed that is too big, I think it again. Maggie with her chipped teeth and blonde freckles and sweet laugh--she really, really would have loved Rooster. She would tease him relentlessly, which is what she always did to people she loved, and he would meet her halfway. I think they would have battled for my attention, tugging on my arms, kissing my cheeks. I think she would have pretended to be grossed out when he kissed me, but at the end of the day, she would’ve squeezed his shoulder and told him that she was happy he was a part of my life.

I can see her at our wedding, at first covertly wiping her tears and smiling pretty for pictures, but then coming undone after a few shots of gin. I think she would have cried during her speech, telling me how much she loved me, telling Rooster that she loved him almost just as much. Later, though, when she throbbed with a headache she would have pretended like she didn’t remember saying that at all. I think when we had children, she would have been the first one to hold our baby. I think she would weep when she held my first son or first daughter and Rooster would put his hands on her shoulders as she cradled their tiny head.

I think I know even what she would have said to him.

“Thank God,” she would say through her tears, “he looks just like Faye.”

But sitting here, blinking up at my ceiling, I know that it is all over. There will be no wedding and no children. There will be no family dinners, no teasing, no connection. If not because Maggie is dead and gone--then because my relationship with Rooster is withering every moment that passes.

And that is how the night drags on and on until the white morning light streams in through the window. My pillows are drenched in tears by then.

My muscles sting when I step out of bed--that dull sting after a fitful night’s rest, when the day sprawls out before me and I know I have to mull through it carefully, softly, tiredly. I get ready in silence, complete silence. There is a distinct sense that I am simply going through the motions--everything is mechanical.

Bob is still sleeping on the couch when I sneak into the kitchen to grab my phone off the charger. I won’t look at the notifications, quickly clear every single one before I plug headphones in. Linger by The Cranberries starts as I pour food into Stevie’s bowl.

I scrawl a quick note to Bob and leave it on the fridge in my dark shorthand.

Old habits die hard--farmer’s market run. Be back soon. Breakfast? Kisses, Fee

So when I walk out the front door with my face washed and a denim jacket shrugged over my shoulders, when I lock the front door behind me with Bob still slumbering on the sofa and a tote bag tucked in my arm, when I feel the early morning chill and the sporadic pockets of heat from the sun--I am stuck still in my place because the Bronco is pulling into my driveway, bouncing over the curb just as I turn to face the morning.

I think we see each other at the same time, the exact moment that Rooster throws the shift into park and reaches for the door handle. I can’t move, not even a breath can expand my chest. He is still, too, and his undereyes are littered with purple veins.

You know I’m such a fool for you / You got me wrapped around your finger / Do you have to let it linger?

When he steps out of the car, not breaking his gaze, I almost fall onto my brick porch. I almost just lay myself out there under the canopy of shade, almost let my limbs dismember, almost just lie back and die.

But instead, I let my hands drop to my thighs.

I can see him struggle to swallow, even from right here. He’s still wearing his UVA sweatshirt and jeans--he hasn’t changed. His eyes are rimmed with crimson and his face is somehow flushed and flaxen at the same time. His curls, which usually look somewhat managed, are messy. Truly messy--like he just ran his hands through his hair all night then came on over to my house.

The morning light is that precious pale blue, baby blue. And before I can stop myself I think that this shade of blue--so soft and fresh--would be the color I would paint our baby’s walls. Oh, no. Fuck.

He’s just looking up at me, his lips pulled down, his eyes glassy. I wonder what I look like to him, standing on my porch with headphones in, with my hair pulled back, with my cheeks puffy and pink. Do I look as ugly as I felt last night? Does he think I’m ugly now that he knows?

His mouth moves, but my music is too loud. I rip a headphone out and he staggers in place, like I’ve just executed him, like I’ve shot an arrow through his gut.

There are birds singing in the eucalyptus trees in my lawn. Somewhere down the street, someone is mowing their grass. Inside, I know Bob is sleeping silently. I know Stevie is quietly crunching her dry food. The Cranberries are still playing through my headphones, even though only one of them is plugged into my head. My mom loves The Cranberries.

He’s so tall, so broad--but right now his shoulders are pulled together and his feet look unsteady on the ground where they stand. He’s thinking about coming closer to me and I really, really don’t know what I want.

I think I could throw up if he said one word to me--if he came here to break it off with me or came here to say sorry or if he came here to cry into my neck again, to give me one last little piece before he never speaks to me again. But there is also our invisible string, the one that is slacked as its ever been right now--and I want it to be slacking because we are so close that there’s no endings and no beginnings between my body and his. Not because we’re too far apart.

I want him to lay in my bed. I want him to wear my oven mitts and pull bread out of my oven. I want to taste his tears on my tongue. I want to swallow him whole and I want to be swallowed whole.

“Hi,” I whisper to him, voice just loud enough for me to hear over my music.

He hears me, though.

“Hey,” he chokes back to me.

A ray of sun punctures a cotton cloud and kisses the stairs before me, like its guiding me down, like its guiding me to him. I don’t move, though. Can’t move.

I take my other headphone out and let my arms hang limp beside me. My belly hurts. Everything hurts--even my hair, even my fingernails. I’m so tired, too--can feel my eyes drooping and my spine curving.

“Can I come in?”

His vulnerability feels like a punch in the gut.

I feel myself shaking my head before I can really even process what I’m saying no to.

“Bob’s sleeping in the living room,” I say quietly, “don’t want to wake him.”

Rooster nods, eyes falling to the tennis shoes on my feet. He sniffles, eyes lingering there for a few moments. I think he’s trying to figure out what he’s going to say to me--what he’s going to say when he calls this whole thing off, when he tells me this was all a mistake.

“Come sit on my porch,” I whisper finally.

And it takes less than one minute for him to cross the driveway, climb the steps and stop on the stair just below me.

He smells like he’s been crying. I would die if I knew he’d been crying alone in his dorm, on his terrible twin-sized mattress.

“We should talk,” he says, like I don’t already know this.

“Okay,” I say.

He’s so close--so achingly close to me and I know that I shouldn’t touch him. I know that his skin beneath my palms, beneath my lips will make the ache widen. I know that everything will hurt more when he finally tells me that he’s pulling away, turning his cheek. But I know that it would feel good--for a few, fleeting moments--it would feel perfect. I would be at peace. Bliss. I will feel bliss if I touch him.

So I don’t do that--don’t reach for him.

Before we can sit down, he angles his face towards mine and his cheeks are reddening by the minute despite the chill in the early morning air. He sniffles again and his eyes are open so widely, so truthfully that I reach out and touch the railing to steady myself, to plant myself here.

Even his mustache looks messy when I’m this close to him--untrimmed, untamed.

Here it is, this tiny bit of space between us, but it feels like much more than one step. It feels like he is on one side of a crowded room and I’m on the other. It feels like we are on separate peaks of the same mountain, like we have to yell to hear each other and the air is thin. Between us, in this small space, there is a valley of uncertainty. My history that I have not told him--the people that have fucked me, the baby that didn’t stay, the hours I spent with my sister’s corpse--lies here like jagged rocks. His silence is vast, overcasting every single bit of centimeter between us.

Rooster let him speak to me like that. And I can’t stop thinking about his fucking face.

I almost want to tell him that I can’t talk now. I can’t talk right now because I am embarrassed to even be in his gaze. I can’t talk now because I want to be by myself, mourning what has somehow never begun yet felt never-ending, felt timeless. I can’t talk because my throat is caked with tears and dried bile.

“Faye,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly.

My name on his tongue--it makes something break down inside me. I want to throw my arms around his shoulders and breathe in his dirty hair and his salty skin and tell him that nothing else matters. I want to wrap my legs around his hips and beg him to just fucking hold me, just for one more minute. One last time.

“Don’t,” I whisper, blinking at the sky, “I won’t make you say it.”

I hold my hand up to him weakly, heart racing. I can’t look at him.

“What do you think I’m going to say?”

His voice is flat--quiet.

He’s being too gentle with me. If he ends it, I want it to be big and loud. I want him to sever our string and vow to never look at my face again. That is the only way I could live without him, the only way I could propel myself forward in this life--if I knew that there was no chance of us reconciling.

I hate that I know him. That I know that he could never end things between us like that. That he would never raise his voice, his hand. Even if I repulsed him--even if I had hurt him more than anyone else in the entire world--he would never hate me. The same way that I would never, could never, hate him.

When I scoff, I sound bitter. Bitter and angry, hateful.

“No harm, no foul,” I whisper and it really is breaking me, making my face pull together in that stupid anguished expression that just happens when I cry, “we can just be friends.”

I’m lying. I am lying through my teeth and to him. We could never be friends--not after this. Not after he’s been the only person in the world to make me cum. Not when he’s the only face I want to see at the end of any day, every day. Not when he’s set my kitchen table and bought my favorite Prosecco.

No. We couldn’t be friends. But it feels like the right thing to say.

My hand is still in the air between us, in all that empty air, and I have never felt uglier in my life. My thighs ache. I screw my eyes closed, wishing things were different, trying to remember what life was like before Rooster was here.

Then he does it. He wraps his fingers around my wrist and brings his mouth to the sacred skin of my palm. His breath is hot, very hot, when he lets his lips ghost over the skin. It feels holy when he kisses the spot in the middle of my open hand. The ugliness I feel--that vapid ugliness--lessens suddenly.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes against me and he doesn’t sound flat and quiet--he sounds desperate, “please don’t say that, baby.”

He kisses my palm once, twice more before I can even look at him.

I think this is a dream--I think I finally fell asleep in my sacreligious bed. I think I am dreaming that he’s here in the pocket of sunshine, I think I am dreaming about his lips against me. I think I will wake up sweating and smell pennies and instead of being here with him, my face will have inadvertently moved into his pillow. I got confused, smelled his scent so thick and strong, and dreamed him here. When I wake up, I will have to lay on the floor beside Bob and stare at the ceiling until he wakes up--just to hear someone else breathing.

But then I see him and he is opaque--he’s sturdy, real. He is stroking my hand with a rapidity I have never seen him possess. It very nearly hurts, stings.

“Bradley,” I manage to choke.

What I mean by this is: please love me. Forgive everything I did before I saw you for the first time. Hold me. Don’t let me go.

The world feels quiet when he sinks, lowering his denim-clad knees to the cold brick stairs, keeping my hand in his, keeping his eyes on mine. He’s looking up at me and his face looks like the word please. My hand is trembling in his, my fingers crisp.

He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says clearly, loudly, still desperate, “I’m so sorry, Faye.”

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood.

I’m blinking at the sky, which is growing bluer and bluer each moment that passes. There is a lump lodged in my throat so uncomfortably that I can’t even take a deep breath.

“Baby,” Rooster whispers, “look at me, please. Look at me.”

I shake my head. I’m woozy.

“Can’t,” I whisper, “I can’t.”

I can’t because I still feel mildly gruesome. I can still feel everyone’s curious gaze, the tense air when everyone was gaslighting themselves into thinking they were too drunk to understand what was happening, can still feel Hangman’s hot blood on my pointer finger.

“Please,” he says and he is begging me, begging me.

“I didn’t want you to know any of it,” I whisper, “not yet. I feel so disgusting.”

I think of Bob’s words last night, the ones he bit at me softly: “Listen, you aren’t as fucked up as you feel. And I know you feel fucked up. But you’re still you--even without her here, you’re still you. You’re still my best friend. You’re still you and you still deserve to live.”

“I’m sorry,” Rooster repeats, “I’m sorry I just sat there.”

He did do that. He just sat there. He sat there while I was burned alive in front of his friends, his fellow aviators. I was burned alive in front of the people that are supposed to consider themselves my equals. What am I supposed to do with that?

Sticky words are slithering up my throat once more and I can’t cover my mouth, can’t turn back around and go inside and lock the door behind me. Can’t leave him when he’s on his knees on my stairs.

“Before you can decide this,” I say and I still can’t look at him as I gesture between us, “I’ll just get it over with, okay? I’ll just fucking say everything.”

Now my head is so heavy that it falls, hangs down. I stare down at my tennis shoes--he is a glimmering mirage in my peripheral vision. And before he can say anything at all, I start talking--the words staining my lips bright red.

“I did some really fucked up stuff when I was high. I would let anyone fuck me. It didn’t matter. Old men, girls, middle-aged women, couples, college students. It didn’t matter,” I say, my voice tinging on broken, “Ten months. Anyone who would--did.”

I wipe my hand over my face and my own fingers feel foreign--like the fingers on an ice sculpture. I’m melting.

“But it really wasn’t about the sex ever. It was about,” I heave a breath and my throat feels like its closing, “being close to another human. It was about those moments after when they would stay until I fell asleep or when I would spend the night in their beds. It was fucking pathetic.”

I’m back there now--back to the ten months of being full. I can feel the strange hands and the strange bodies against mine. It always felt like I had my eyes closed, like I was in limbo, like I wasn’t really there.

I was on the outside looking in--looking at myself as her skull was pounded against a headboard with a man four times her size between her legs. Looking at myself as her face was pushed into a springy mattress that smelled like cigar smoke and armpit. Looking at myself as she was handed a wad of twenties from a very confused older gentleman, one that couldn’t stay hard for her, one that muttered something about a wife back home.

“I never used protection. It wasn’t just that I was fucked up on pills, but I just didn’t care. And then one day in August, I had a terrible sore throat. Bob called me, heard my voice, and made an appointment for me at the clinic on base. So I went in and it was the first time I’d been on base since Maggie died,” I am whispering now, whispering so softly to Rooster, “and they told me I had syphilis. And that I was pregnant.”

Rooster is staring up at me, I can feel it--his eyes are warmer than the sun. He stiffens, but does not release my hand.

I find his eyes. I’m crying.

“I was pregnant and alone then I was not pregnant and in rehab on my twenty-fifth birthday,” I say, “and I don’t know if you want to know or if you’d ask, but no, I don’t know who the father was. No way of knowing. Revolving door and all. And I’m clean. Callibate since August 8th, 2017.”

He’s silent--again. He’s just looking up at me, his mouth pulled into a frown and his eyes big and brown and sad. He’s trying to read my face and I’m trying to read his--neither attempt is fruitful.

It makes me want to lay down on the grass and decompose. It makes me want to go back inside and close every blind. It makes me want to shake Bob awake and ask for him to hold me. But I am standing here with Rooster holding my hand still, his eyes watery. He’s on his knees still.

It’s when my eyes flutter shut that he finally moves--moves to wrap his arms around my waist. His head sinks into my belly as he secures me against him. His face is warm and wet and he’s panting as he hugs me to him.

“I wish I had known you then,” he says, “I would’ve taken care of you.”

That’s all there is to it--whatever edge I thought we were teetering on, we aren’t anymore. We are in the middle of a solid-oak table and the floor below us is made of feathers and cotton batting.

He’s game. He knows the ugliest things about me and here he is--peppering kisses across my hips and my belly. I’m so shocked, my heart sinking down from my throat and back into my chest, that it takes me a moment to let my hands fall in his hair.

“I don’t care, Faye,” he says, muffled by my jacket, “I’m all in. I won’t let you down again, baby, I promise. Forgive me, please. Please.”

If Maggie was here, if she had nursed my aching heart through the night, she would have told me to keep him close. She would have told me to open my heart and let him inside. She would have told me to fall in love whenever, wherever.

And how could I look at him on his knees on my porch at seven twenty-two on a Sunday morning, his hair dirty and his clothes crumpled, and not forgive him?

“Forgiven,” I whisper, my voice crumbling, “all the way.”

☾ ☽

All the windows are open. A breeze floats inside my home from the approaching California dusk, a deep blue-purple fading the sky slowly. The sun is being swallowed by the ocean and lavender clouds mull across the sky aimlessly.

The living room smells alive--like it’s living and breathing. The air is fresh and cool and carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the white yarrow flowers that grow in abundance in my backyard. All the lights are off here, in the living room, and I’ve lit a few sweet-smelling candles. The TV is off and the record player is on.

Blue by Joni Mitchell, which is a record I consider sacred, is spinning. This Flight Tonight is playing now. Both my copies of the album are old--original pressings--which my father had gifted to me and Maggie when we moved to California.

“Quintessential in any California home,” my father had told us the night before we departed, a sad smile tugging at his lips, “but don’t forget your old folks in the Midwest.”

You got the touch so gentle and sweet / But you've got that look so critical / Now I can't talk to you baby / I get so weak

Rooster is behind the kitchen door, pouring us glasses of prosecco. I know that Stevie is in the kitchen with him now, too, mewling and preening for any glance he will throw her way. And I can’t see him but I know that he is smiling. He has been smiling all day, a sweet kind of smile, that relieved kind of smile when things fell apart but then came back together. The smile of someone that has been forgiven thoroughly.

I did let him inside my house.

We tip-toed past Bob’s sleeping figure, which was very polite and quiet even as tired as he was. Stevie followed Rooster to the bedroom and made sure to perch herself on the bed before I quietly closed the door.

I sat on the bed, muscles screaming, while he undressed and started the shower. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom for a moment, naked before me, and just watched me watch him. He was a never-ending plane of beauty. I thought of the first time I’d seen him naked, which was in that very bathroom, when I had decided that he had been sculpted out of clay. He was the kind of beautiful that knocked the air right out of my lungs--it made me long for an oxygen mask, an inhaler.

“You gonna be here when I get out?” He’d asked.

Maybe he was joking on the surface--with that slight smile and those crinkles beside his eyes, but beneath it, there was a sincerity. An earnest sincerity, one that was new to us--to this.

I nodded softly, gesturing to the bed.

“Right here,” I promised.

And without me having to ask him, he left the bathroom door open while he showered.

That’s when I laid down--when he hummed lowly to himself beneath the sound of running water slapping the tiles, when steam plumed and rose to the ceiling and fogged the mirrors. It was those sounds, those simple sounds, that I had missed so badly. Sounds no record player could imitate, sounds no record player could fill the void of. Little human sounds. Even if they were minuscule, even if they were fleeting--they were here now.

I woke up four hours later--I was in the exact spot I’d fallen asleep in, my denim jacket wrapped around my frame, my hair still clipped back, still facing the open bathroom door. But my shoes had been taken off and set beside the bed and a wool blanket was pulled over me. Golden late-morning sunlight was streaming into the bedroom by then.

When I walked into the living room, it was empty. The lights were off, but the curtains were pinned back so the room was bright and clear. Stevie was not perched on her loyal ottoman and that’s how I knew Rooster was still home--I knew she must’ve been trailing after him wherever he was.

Pushing through the kitchen door, I was immediately immersed in the remnants of a late breakfast. The sweet scent of confectioner sugar and maple syrup sweetly flooded the air, but the kitchen looked almost entirely clean save a mixing bowl in the sink and a copper pan on the stove.

“Hey,” Bob said, suddenly appearing in the back door, holding an empty plate and half-drunk juice glass, “sleepy-head.”

Bob was dressed in my clothing still, but his hair was combed and his cheeks were lively again instead of the pale white-rice color they possessed the night before. He was smiling at me and it felt like the first time I’d seen him happy since the bonfire.

“Deeply,” I said softly, my voice groggy, “pancakes?”

Bob glanced at his empty plate then nodded to the microwave.

“We made you a plate,” he said, “g’head, I’ll finish cleaning up in here. He’s out back.”

I was the kind of discombobulated I always felt after taking long naps, which was precisely why I never took naps. I was blinking, still trying to get my bearings, and I could feel the heat of the pillows against my cheeks still.

Bob was whistling, smiling a tight-lipped smile at me when he crossed the kitchen and grabbed the copper pan from behind me.

“Told you everything would be okay,” Bob said quietly, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes, “I’d never lie to you.”

My head was still heavy with sleep, my chest weighted with the sweet relief of the morning. I was so glad, suddenly, that it had not been a dream.

Bob handed me my plate and gently nudged me towards the door before settling in at the sink, turning the faucet on and plugging the drain.

Rooster was sitting on my brick patio, under the shade of my canopy, sipping coffee I knew had too much sugar and cream. He was looking out across the backyard at the pockets of wildflowers that sprouted along the fenceline. His face was shining beneath the sun, eyes still tired even if the rest of his place was slack. He looked the most tired I had ever seen him--and maybe the most beautiful. He was wearing my father’s Steely Dan shirt again. When I stepped closer to him, my knees feeling weak and my throat throbbing, I saw Stevie lying on her back beside his chair--sprawled out in the sun.

He didn’t notice me until I sat my plate beside his and settled into the chair beside him. He grinned at me, softening impossibly. I was too tired, too happy, too sad, too anxious, too elated to say anything yet. I smiled softly, the muscles in my face aching enormously.

He was surveying my face, eyes falling from my rust-colored cheeks to my fluttering lashes. Maybe he thought that last night had physically maimed me.

Wordlessly, he watched me cut into the pancakes, smiling.

“Missed you,” he whispered, his voice strained.

I knew then that he hadn’t just meant during my nap. That when he came out of the shower and saw me sleeping in my outside clothes, my shoes still on and my hair still clipped, he ached. He ached the same way I would have ached for him if I’d seen him curled up there. He didn’t mean that he had only missed me then, no--he had missed me long and hard during the night, the way I’d missed him.

“Don’t even get me started,” I whispered back, blinking my dry eyes.

He reached out then, swiping a gentle thumb across my cheek. And just that, just his hand on my face and holding my skin there, was enough to make me pause. I let my cutlery fall to my plate where it clattered. I let my head dip into his palm. I let my eyes fall shut one more time. I sat beneath the shade but still felt the heat, the sweetness, of the sun. I felt love for him even without me saying it--even without him saying it.

After just a few moments of that, a few moments where all I could hear was the sound of my soft breaths and Bob distantly dipping his hands in sudsy water, I knew that whatever was going to happen I was so glad to have had his love here with me. Even if it was only for now. Even if his time here was transient.

“Pillow lines on your cheek,” he chuckled, running his fingers along them.

That was when I opened my eyes and drank him in again. I kissed his hand as it fell from my cheek and shrugged, resuming my eating.

“Finally got some sleep,” I’d simply said.

He nodded soberly.

“Bob’s good company,” he said, “we have a lot in common.”

I raised my brow and Rooster sat back, a grin spreading across his features. He took a sip from his mug and sighed loudly, winking.

“You.”

I am lying on the couch now, tired down deep in my bones, very still. My eyes are heavy and I don’t know if it is because of all the tears I’ve shed or because I am an adult woman running on a four hour nap and two cups of black coffee. How would one know?

“Hungry?” Rooster called behind the kitchen door.

“No,” I answered, “still full.”

Still full. Yes, yes. Still full.

When he pushes through the kitchen door, lit by the edison bulbs glowing yellow in my kitchen, he grins at me very sweetly. He holds the kitchen door open for another moment after he’s passed through and Stevie meanders out behind him, sauntering.

“Bitch,” I whisper to her, shaking my head.

He lets the door fall shut before he sets one of the glasses on the table, handing me the other one. I take it but I’m too tired to sit up. So I just hold it, watching the bubbles race towards the top.

“I was thinking,” Rooster says as he sits on the edge of the couch, lifting my head so it rests on his thighs. His fingers find my hair and it is taking everything in my body to not drift off to sleep now.

“Uh-oh,” I whisper and he pinches me and it feels so good to be here.

“Maybe we could ride together,” he says quietly, and I can feel the breath that is stuck in his lungs, “you know, to work.”

I blink. Riding together to work, abstractly, seems very docile. People carpool, right? But after Saturday night, after today, what would people think? Would Admiral Simpson hear word that I am canoodling with a certain pilot and think I’m spiraling again? Will it make Hangman even more relentless--?

“Shh,” Rooster whispers.

His finger, his sweet familiar finger, smooths that familiar wrinkle between my brows softly. He lets it rest there, softly stroking my skin.

How does he know me so intrinsically? How does he pinpoint every bit of my concern and smooth it out as easily as he smooths the wrinkle of my brow?And suddenly, I am overwhelmed with all this love in my body for him. I want to kiss every inch of him, want him to fall to his knees and attach himself to me again, want to marry him right here in this living room with a Van Morrison record spinning.

“Mine or yours,” it’s all I can manage to whisper, to choke up.

He’s chuckling, I’m sputtering out something that resembles a laugh.

I want this to stay, stay right here on my couch, more than anything. I turn so my nose is against his pantleg, and I keep my face there, just smelling him and trying to remember this exact moment. This moment right now, on the last Sunday before the mission, when I want to tell him that I love him. When I want to tell him that if my sister was alive, she would love him relentlessly. I want to tell him that when we have children, I will miss her more than anything, that when we get married I will weep.

But I say nothing, just inhale his scent, just feel his body here and listen to all the little noises he makes.

Star bright, star bright / You got the lovin' that I like, all right

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: I am in my Joni Mitchell era...does it show?

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

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