#masters of the air x ofc
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Damn Yankees (Bucky Egan x OFC)
Summary: The Great American Pastime puts Sergeant Holly Dean and Major Bucky Egan’s friendship to the test when her struggling Nationals play yet another game against his beloved Yankees.
Note: I introduce you to Miss Thing herself. By the way, the Yankees and the Nationals (also interchangeably referred to as The Senators back then) played 8 or so games against each other in mid-to-late June 1943, which I don’t think is a point of accuracy anyone cares that much about. Anyway, do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 2k
Warnings: Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies. Internalized thoughts about death and loss. Holly and Bucky are extremely annoying about baseball so if that’s not your thing…
Holly didn’t flinch when the door to the Air Exec office abruptly opened, and she didn’t have to look up from her typewriter to see who pulled up a chair in front of her desk and made himself comfortable.
“Morning, Bucky,” she said.
“It’s a good morning to be a Yankees fan, Holly.”
The first time Major John Egan walked through the office door, restlessness radiated off of him. Holly didn’t understand why he was assigned to Air Exec in the first place. He didn’t seem to either, but he gravitated toward her, initially amazed at how quickly she could type. When the novelty of that wore off, her feverish devotion to the Washington Nationals made him hang around anyway.
“You’re not even from New York."
“Sure, but who doesn’t love a team that wins?”
She bristled at his gloating. “Being a Nats fan builds character.”
“You know what they say about Washington, first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League.”
“We’re second this year,” she reminded him.
Mostly because all of the good baseball players enlisted, including Bucky’s hero Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, who had enlisted the USAAF earlier that spring. Bucky hoped he’d get assigned to Thorpe Abbotts at some point. Holly figured he’d stay stateside as a fitness instructor.
“Behind the Yankees,” he said.
“We’ll see after tonight’s game.”
“We’ve been wiping the floor with you.”
She scoffed. “Wiping the floor? It’s been pretty even wins.”
“You tell yourself that.”
“Well, we’re gonna win tonight.”
“Wanna bet?” he asked.
The incessant clicking from her typewriter stopped as she lifted her gaze to him. “When the Nationals win tonight, you have to do all of my filing tomorrow.”
“Alright.” He rapped his knuckles against the top of her desk as he considered his wager. “When the Yankees win tonight, you’ll do as much of my paperwork as I can get away with giving you tomorrow.”
Holly stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
Bucky gave it a firm shake. “Looking forward to my day off.”
“I’ll bring a radio to the hardstand tonight. Woody’s gonna be working late on Brady’s fort, so you can eat your words when no one else is around.”
“More like you’ll want Woody to tell you a joke to cheer you up when the Nationals lose again.”
Easy-going Woody was the perfect chaperone. Otherwise unnecessary, considering Holly and Bucky were both adults, but Holly quickly learned that just about everyone at Thorpe Abbotts had an opinion as to what constituted acceptable behavior between a man and a woman. She already had enough people talking about her, anyway.
Colonel Huglin approached, making a beeline for Bucky.
Holly resumed her typing without missing a beat, keys clicking along with the others in the room. “Good morning, Colonel,” Holly greeted.
“Good morning, Sergeant Dean,” he said, kindly enough. “Major Egan, I need to speak with you in my office.”
“‘Course, Colonel.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Major,” Holly said.
Bucky smiled, giving her a nod. “Sure will, Sarge.”
The game was technically at one in the afternoon on the East Coast, but the time difference made it a night game for those listening across the ocean. Unless Bucky got held up by Huglin, she knew he’d be there. He practically had the Yankees’ schedule memorized.
——
The summer sun wasn’t close to setting by the time the game crept up and Holly made her way to the hardstand. She kept the portable radio tucked securely under her arm while she walked. Silently prayed she wouldn’t somehow trip on the way and smash the radio to pieces just because she wanted to listen to a baseball game.
Woody waved at her in the distance, arm sweeping excitedly through the air.
“I haven’t seen you all day!” Holly shouted.
“Too long to go without seeing the likes of you!” Woody yelled back.
Woody, of course, being Private Kate Woodward, part of Ken Lemmons’ ground crew and her best friend on base, probably in general, the more she thought about it. Blonde hair in twin braids, green eyes that glistened with determination, grease smudged on her face, and a wrench in hand, Woody was practically the poster girl for the fearless wartime woman, in Holly’s biased opinion.
“What brings you to my humble hardstand?”
“Bucky and I are gonna listen to the Nationals-Yankees game. He has to do my filing tomorrow if the Nats win,” Holly said.
Woody laughed. “Good luck.” She scratched her forehead, marking her face with another streak of grease. “Just so you know, Brady might be coming out here later.”
“Checking on his fort?”
“I think he doesn’t trust me or something. He’s been coming around almost every day to see how the repairs are going,” Woody said. “I’m certainly not complaining about his company, though.”
“I’m sure.”
“Maybe one of these days he’ll give me a personal tour of his cockpit.”
Holly choked out a laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand. “Woody!”
“Get your head out of the gutter. I’m strictly talking planes here.” Woody grinned. “Your Yankee’s pulling up.”
Bucky parked the jeep next to the women, raising an eyebrow at Holly’s attempts to stifle her giggles. She handed him the radio as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Hey Woody, how’s it going?” Bucky asked.
“It’s going, Major.”
He nodded toward the plane in question. “Everything coming along okay?”
“Just like Kenny said, it looks a lot worse than it is. It’ll be back in the air in no time.”
“Wouldn’t expect any less from you guys.”
She shook her head, an amused smile on her face. “I oughta get back to it. You have fun doing Holly’s filing tomorrow.”
“Hey, I thought we were friends!” Bucky shouted as Woody jogged away, leaving them to listen to the game.
Holly took the radio from Bucky, setting it on her lap. “I’ve used this one before,” she said. “It should pick up the station well enough.”
“How’d you get that out here?”
“Said it was your orders.” She smiled, tuning the radio until the boisterous announcer’s voice emerged from the speaker and nearly drowned out Bucky’s laughter.
“It’s a beautiful afternoon here in the nation’s capital folks! We’ve got the New York Yankees in DC up against the Nationals at Griffith Stadium. Now, the Nats have been down the past two games, but we’re hoping they’ll be able to rally this time around—”
“Is Early the starting catcher?”
“Yeah, pretty sure he is.”
“There’s a National I like.”
“‘Cause he’s the only person who might be chattier than you.”
“It’s one hell of a distraction strategy.”
“You’d know,” she joked, lightly elbowing him in the side.
Jake Early was one of Holly’s favorite players on the Nationals. Not a great hitter, but one hell of a catcher who took to imitating radio announcers and auctioneers or even singing to throw off opposing batters. It was one of the highlights of watching a Nats game in person, in her opinion.
“Have you ever been to a Yankees game?” she asked.
He nodded. “A couple. Listening on the radio is one thing, but seeing them in action? I felt like I got struck by lightning. How about you?”
“I went to a few Nats games every season growing up, but Stan and I went on a lot of dates to home games. One time he nearly broke his hand catching a ball that got hit into our section.”
Bucky shook his head. “What a souvenir, though.”
He knew about Stan. Everyone did. Bucky had the sense to not walk on eggshells if she brought him up. Holly had taken the news better than most people expected. She and Stan had a long discussion about it before he shipped out. Allowed herself to cry at night for a week or so afterward, but pulled herself together and pushed forward. At least, she tried to.
Every now and then, her sailor’s bloated corpse would inevitably be dredged up for curious newcomers to Thorpe Abbotts. Her ears rang with the whispers, always some variation of, ‘Her fiance—Navy, I think—yeah, at Midway—I know—poor girl.’ Stanley Conway’s ghost did little more than serve as an explanation to strangers as to why his former fiance could be…weird was the nicest way someone put it, though a plethora of less than complimentary adjectives had been applied to her and her odd behavior over the past year.
But Bucky liked her. Hung around her even when he wasn’t working in the office. Sometimes her melancholy made him do more of the heavy lifting conversationally. If he minded, he never told her. His friendship made it tough for her to remember to refer to him as Major Egan and not just Bucky, sometimes. Stan would be proud of this Holly, though, the one who made stupid bets on baseball games with an officer.
Bucky took out his flask, taking a swig before offering it to her. She regretted how quickly she accepted, her throat burning as she shoved it back in his hands.
“What is that?” she hissed.
“Whiskey.”
“That’s not whiskey.” She coughed. “You could put that in the gas tank and drive into town with it.”
“You’ve got the taste of a sailor, that’s what the issue here is. Should’ve joined the WAVES if you wanted rum.”
“I was going to. Stan said he didn’t think it’d be a good idea for us to be in the same branch and all that,” she said. “I kinda wish I had. The Service League is almost better than the Majors right now, especially the Navy league since they got Ted Williams.”
He balked. “You sound just like Crank! And DiMaggio’s in the Army league—he’s one of us!”
“So what? If it’s about who’s the best, Crank’s got a point, Williams can bat 400 no sweat.”
“DiMaggio did during his ‘41 streak.”
“Yeah, during his streak. Williams ended the whole ‘41 season with 406.”
“I was gonna be nice and drive you back after the Nats lose. You can walk, toots,” he half-joked.
“Woody can drive me,” she said, turning to glance behind her. Between the dusk and distance, she couldn’t tell if Brady had made his way out there yet. “I’m staying out here with her, anyway.”
“Want me to hang around?”
“If you want.”
“I’m asking what you want.”
She hummed, slouching back in her seat, a far away expression on her face. “I want the Nats to win.”
Bucky slouched against her, shoulder-to-shoulder. Glanced between her face and the radio a few times, hoping the Nationals would pull off something big for her.
He didn’t pry for details. Wasn’t quite sure how to ask her about it. Part of him was too afraid to know. He was afraid of a lot of things he’d never admit, but the place Holly drifted off to terrified him. So he took it upon himself to get her out of there. He talked about the game. And how he won the bicycles for Buck. And that he was just kidding when he said he wouldn’t drive her back to the womens’ barracks—couldn’t leave her and Woody out by themselves, after all.
Bucky didn't know how much time had passed before Holly finally spoke again.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
He blinked. “For what?”
“You know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, the Yankees are down bad, and I’m having a ball,” he said. “So you’re apologizing for nothing, doll.”
He felt like someone poured club soda over his brain when she smiled, brown eyes glimmering gold. His gaze fell to her lips, his tongue darting out between his own for a moment. His shadow fell over her like a blanket as he leaned closer.
“And it’s strike three, you’re out for the Yankees in the top of the ninth!” The announcer’s voice blared through the radio, nearly making him jump in his seat. “That’s the game folks! The Washington Nationals win on their home turf against the New York Yankees—“
“We won! Oh my god, we won!” Holly sat up, nearly knocking the radio off of her lap in her excitement. She landed a few playful punches on his arm. “Take that, Egan!”
He rolled his eyes, smiling nevertheless. “It’s a good thing the Nats don’t win more often, because you’re the sorest winner I’ve ever met.”
“You can dish it out, but you can’t take it. That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Hey, I’m a man of my word. I’ll do your filing tomorrow,” he said, bringing his flask to his lips. “Damn Yankees.”
#bucky egan x oc#bucky egan x ofc#bucky egan#john egan#john egan x oc#john egan x ofc#masters of the air#masters of the air x oc#masters of the air x ofc#mota x oc#mota x ofc#mota fanfic#hbo war fanfic#hbo war#ch: holly
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crash landings and all
(a/n): to my annie x brady girlies, here is the piece i’ve since promised and since fallen in love with!!! featuring annie, brady, coffee cups and the rising sun + some heartfelt talks about reality. and of course all those emotions annie doesn’t really need but feels instead. enjoy!
It was 0600 and she couldn't sleep.
But this had been happening far too many times in the past few weeks for her to ignore it and call it nerves, or worry, or any other bothersome symptom that would have one of the girls nudging her and asking her if she was okay.
Which she was, alright?
Or she was at least trying to tell herself that.
When there were mornings without missions, that's usually when she would come and sit out, just outside of the mess hall, and stare out towards where the B-17s sat, silhouetted against the purple and pink skyline as the sun began to appear. She'd usually sit there for about an hour, before she started seeing people moving about, and then she'd disappear inside, grab herself a coffee, avoid one of Major Egan's horrible jokes in the morning, and then be on her way to her crew, or to Silver Bullets, or to anything really - to distract herself, get her mind active, get her brain focused on something other than the worry.
This morning was no different - beautiful as the early dawn was, it was also incredibly reflective. She'd sit in the silence, the only noise the breeze in the trees and past her ears, the birds beginning to wake up and sing. It was usually a lot of her convincing herself things were fine and that everything was okay. That she was okay. But usually that didn't last very long and she was off worrying about one of the girls, or that one damn engine on Silver Bullets, or better yet if Lemmons had screwed that one bolt in enough. It kind of ate her alive at the worst of times.
"Hey." Annie looked up and found, stepping down onto the step, and nestling in beside her was Brady, an outstretched hand with a steaming mug of coffee opposite her, and a tired smile on his face.
"Hey," Annie said, trying to hide her surprise and current spiral that she thought was normally drawn across her face, "you're up early. Thanks." She took the coffee and watched as he settled beside her with a sigh, sipping at his own cup of coffee and glanced her way.
"I could say the same about you." he said back, his voice still waking up it seemed from sleep, knocking her shoulder gently. Annie watched him, the first rays of the morning son painting his face a beautiful golden with his eyes and she nodded.
"Couldn't sleep." she told him honestly, "Haven't been sleeping too well anyway, so. What's not to lose with a sunrise, you know?" Brady watched her for a moment, his lanky knees bent up to his chest, the mug resting on his kneecap and his expression quiet.
"Something worrying you?" he asked her, seemingly the first assumption of many on this base - was something worrying her? The sun would shine and she'd be worried, she'd be sat at a table and someone would cough and she'd think she'd have to get the doctor, someone would come in with a headache and she'd assume the worst. So, yeah, maybe there was something wrong, but she wasn't about to spill that to Brady at 0600 in the morning.
"I just worry about the girls, you know how it is. Making sure people are sleeping, eating, feeling okay, not feeling too homesick they're bedridden. That their letters get sent, get read, they get comforted, listened to." Annie said, "Just making sure they're keeping what smiles they can on their faces." Brady caught her gaze as she glanced his way and she found a small smile lingering on her lips.
"It's just what I have to do. Make sure things work like a well-oiled machine." she told him honestly, sipping at the coffee, "I must say, you know how to make a coffee taste good." Brady smirked slightly, a bit of a laugh escaping his mouth, before he looked at her.
"I'm glad you like it," he told her, his voice tender, "but don't try to worry yourself over your crew. They're a good group of ladies flying a B-17. And they've got a great pilot to lead 'em."
"Thanks, John."
"Just make sure you keep an eye on yourself, alright," Brady said, leaning into her side a bit, causing her to glance his way, "you're a part of that crew and just as important." He spoke with a gentle ease of tone, but equally just as serious, like he was coaxing someone to calm down.
"John Brady, you are full of compliments this morning." Annie said quietly, sipping her coffee and peering at him over the edge of coffee cup, just in time to watch his ears flame red a bit and he gulped and smiled at her.
"I don't lie." he told her and Annie grinned and held his gaze for a moment.
"Humor me then," Annie said and a brief moment of reflection passed over Brady's face, "Croz sort of let it out, about those 'mechanical failures' when he mistook France for England…..what was that about…..?" Annie watched him expectantly and Brady's ears flamed a deeper red to the point it spread to his cheeks.
"Supposedly you covered for Croz, real gentlemanly, too, I must admit." Annie said, "Lying to Major Egan of all people, John Brady, I wouldn't suspect such a thing." Brady chuckled at her words and shook his head.
"I was putting it how it was," Brady said, "God, it was embarrassing though. In front of both Buck and Bucky. Land the plane on its belly, Croz vomiting just below, the thing about to blow up but it doesn't, our first introduction to the base. You do what you gotta do for the crew. I was a bit of a shithead to Croz, but to be flying over France -Nazi-occupied France - it wasn't the most pleasant." Annie smiled, watching him as he spoke.
Knowing how he cared how he flew, how he coped. He was so fluent in what he thought and believed, right and truthful. Caring, gentle, but firm and purposeful in his speech.
"The worst was that belly-landing though," Brady said, shaking his head as he sipped his coffee, "that was horrible." Annie watched as Brady seemed to relive it for a moment. She bit back her lip and then reached a hand forward and placed it on the sleeve of his wrist, the touch warm and welcoming and causing their eyes to meet.
"I crashed an AT-6 when I was doing hours for my license." Annie said - she had never dared to tell a soul such a thing, she wanted to take that to the grave, bury it, hide the humiliation. She'd jumped out of it like she was losing her mind, a lunatic sprinting across the base, with her hair ends crispy and black, her blonde hair suffering from the smoldering smoke, looking more monster than woman in that moment. Not her finest, but it had taught her a whole lot of lessons. Brady watched her for a moment, surprised.
"You?" Brady said with a nod, "Crashed not only a plane, but an AT-6? No, I don't believe you." Annie could get his joking tone pretty solid by this point and instead laughed at his words, leaning back to wrap her slightly cold fingertips around the mug and nodded.
"I did in fact crash-land it. Crazed eyes, hair-on-fire and all." Annie said and Brady watched her as if amazed.
"I must admit, it's hard for me to picture that because you're one of the best pilots I've ever met." Brady said and if she were honest, they both looked surprised as that came out of his mouth, but he was quickly talking next and she took a moment to relive those words.
"I mean, you look so calm and collected….what…what happened to warrant that?" he said, leaning a bit closer, evidently interested in the tale that had her losing her mind for weeks after.
"Truth be told, me learning to fly was like telling a fish to live in a tree," Annie said watching as Brady chuckled, "I wasn't always….this." She pointed to her face and Brady smirked.
"Oh c'mon, you're a goddamn good pilot, Annie, really." Brady said, and then smiled, "Go on though." Annie sent him a look with a playful smirk.
"You, asshole." she said and nudged his shoulder, "Don't try to get back at me with that or something in the future."
"Never, my lips are sealed." Brady said, sending her a wink - why would he do that at six am when she's somewhat still fogged with sleep and brain exhaustion.
"Anyway," Annie said, catching his smile again, "all the engines crapped out on me as I was coming in for the landing, the tower was telling me to eject, ejector was jammed, and the wheels were stuck at 45 degrees. So, I did what I could, braced myself and the thing slid across about hundreds of feet of sand before tilting to the side, me pouring out like Ma's soup for dinner. It was so bad, and horrifically embarrassing. God."
"Hey," Brady said, leaning into her peripheral, "'least you can say you know how it's done." Annie let out a laugh at his words then and there, her heart feeling warm for one of the first mornings sat out here; usually alone and now in good company.
"I mean, it wasn't the first time I even crashed landed." Brady offered with a shoulder shrug. Annie stared at him, trying to keep the smile from her lips.
"You're joking."
"Wish I was, Annie," Brady said, "back in training, went down, Croz could tell you all about it. Became pretty well-known among the base and the training groups." He smiled.
"But," he said, "'least I can say I did it." Annie let out a laugh, clasping a hand over her mouth as she glanced at him and watched him chuckle, his eyes glowing in the morning sun that was slowly peaking its way over the horizon line.
"You should join me for mornings like this more often," Annie said quietly, looking out towards the sunlight, "get some things off your chest. It's why I do well….usually alone, but it helps me think. Through things like that." She looked over and met his gaze and smiled. His expressions in the early morning were so much gentler than at dinner, and it almost made her wish he could stay like that forever in some selfish way. All of them, truth be told.
"I think I will," Brady said, "I'm glad you like the coffee. I wasn't sure what you went for, but….you seemed like a cream type of person."
"You either are really good as guessing or someone snitched." Annie said, catching Brady smirking.
"Nah, Bessie was in there the other day getting coffee for you two. I know she drinks straight black and was wondering who the hell she'd be getting a coffee full of creamer for so…." Brady admitted, glancing her way, "I hope you enjoy it." Annie looked to the cup of coffee and took another lingering sip. She wanted to stay like this for a while, freeze time maybe. But that would never be such a thing in their lives.
"We should take a spin together some time," Annie said looking towards him, a smile growing on her lips, "if you ever wanted to be in Silver Bullets when she gets going in the air. You could be my co-pilot." Brady watched her, his face still for a moment, held in a graceful balance of seriousness and surprise and then the corner of his lips ticked upwards.
"I think Francis would drop-kick me from the cockpit." Brady whispered quietly to her and Annie chuckled.
"She'd be fine with it, I swear to you," Annie said, "maybe not anytime soon, as long as we're going up, dropping bombs and all. But maybe when this whole thing ends. And we just get to be. When we get to go home." Looking over, she found Brady already watching her. Home, seemed to echo in her mind the longer she held his gaze.
"Hey! That you Brady?" Annie watched Brady turn away from her face and glance behind her, her own gaze following to find Crank coming towards them, waving an arm, "Buck's been trying to get a-hold of you!" Brady nodded and then looked back at her, a sudden shift in whatever it was that existed between them. He slowly got to his feet, brushed off his pants and then stopped to lean down towards her ear.
"I'd love to be your co-pilot," Brady whispered, sending chills up her neck, "ma'am." Then, he was up and off, sending her cheeks flaming red, her eyes going over her shoulder, as he went and caught up to Crank, shaking his hand and nodding to him, exchanging all the pleasantries. Annie caught his eyes one final time as he glanced back at her. He winked.
#im so normal about them i swear#THEM!!!!#annie bradshaw#john brady#annie x brady#john brady x oc#listen they were going through and its john brady so ofc he had to find a way to make her blush :'))))#very excited to continue just writing them#can promise they do get to take that spin in silver bullets together ;D#THEMMMMM#an absolute joy these two#proud of this one :)#enjoy!!#masters of the air#mota#mota writings#silver bullets
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You Belong To Me
From the Love Letter Series
Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)
The revelation that Robert Rosenthal does in fact love his best friend, Josephine Harris, comes too little too late as he’s getting ready to ship out to England. With a promise to write exchanged on the train platform, and an even bigger pinky promise that he come home to her, Rosie and Jo forge a romance detailed in their letters. Now that he’s returned home, he intends to make good on his promises.
“I’d better see you at Minton’s…”
He remembered the good natured teasing in his own voice as he began his semi-goodbye to Crosby on the hardstand the day they left Thorpe Abbotts. Croz had chuckled and promised he’d see him there; a sense of familiarity between the two as they felt their lives back home creeping upon them.
Now… well, now he was standing in front of the bar at Minton’s, fingers tapping idly on the short rocks glass in his hand, eyes sweeping over the sea of people. Men in their dress uniforms, pressed sharp; women wearing their favorite red lipstick and best stockings, all crowded together on the dance floor while the band played on.
New York was still swept up in the victory of the war; sweethearts who couldn’t get enough of dancing with their soldier who had just come home. Men looking to meet someone, to quell the ache of the last few years with a female companion.
Bringing the glass to his lips, Rosie let the familiar taste of the scotch soothe him, as he continued his people watching. Thinking back on it, sure, he had told Crosby that in no uncertain terms he’d be at Minton’s upon getting home; but it was a sentence almost identical to the one he had spoken moments before he shipped out, that resonated with him like the aftershocks of ringing a bell.
He couldn’t help but conjure up his own vision of red lips, smooth skin and a bright smile; the piece of home he had taken with him to East Anglia, and carried close to his heart (in the breast pocket of his uniform) on every single mission.
Josephine.
They had been childhood friends who grew up on the same block. Their moms were almost always having coffee together or, if the weather was nice, out on the stoop of their homes while Robert and Josephine played on the sidewalk. As kids, he had called her Jo, and she affectionately called him Robbie; and his Ma, well, his Ma would just shake her head with a fond smile and chuckle, muttering about how one day he would see it.
He’s twenty-eight now and he finally sees it, though, he supposes he saw it long before he shipped out. He had wanted to run down the block, knock on her door until her mother answered with a scowl on her face at all the noise, but something had stopped him. His Ma had said he thinks too much, but the laundry list of what-if’s had violently plagued him before deciding no, on his behalf. How could he drop that revelation on her, and then leave for god knows how long? His Ma had taught him better than that.
What he had asked her instead, was if he could write to her; but when the words tumbled forth past his lips, one or two getting tangled in his wiry mustache, she was already asking him the same thing.
“Would it be alright if I wrote to you?”
The pair both fell silent, before a soft laugh escaped Jo’s lips, and he knew he would be counting the days until he was able to hear it again.
“Should have known you’d beat me to the punch.” He grinned, head shaking in jest.
Jo just smiled and threw her arms around him, holding him close for as many minutes as she could before the conductor at Grand Central Station called for the ‘All Aboard.”
“Robbie…” She had looked up at him, big brown eyes filled with unshed tears for him; for this war, and if he had to guess, herself.
“I’ll meet you at Minton’s as soon as I’m back.” He had assured her, thumb swiping under her cheek to catch the first tear.
“You promise?”
He hated to make promises when the future was so uncertain for them, but, this was Josephine and he would be damned if he didn’t attempt to make her smile one more time before he got on that train.
“I’ll do you one better,” He grinned, holding out his right hand. “I pinky promise you, I’ll be at Minton’s, waiting for you.”
It was as close as he could get to saying ‘I Love You’.
Jo grinned, hooking the pinky of her own hand with his, just as the conductor yelled the last call for passengers.
“I’ll be waiting for your letters…” he had whispered, pulling her close once more. “With bated breath, Jo.”
“Not nearly as much as I’ll be waiting for yours,” She sniffled softly before leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Come home to me in one piece, Robbie, please.”
That had been then. Before Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie's Riveters, twenty-five successful missions and reupping for a second tour. Before he had bailed out over Russia, before the horrors of Nuremberg and a hell of a journey back to base. He often thought back to that night after he had returned to East Anglia, sitting in the Officers Club with Croz, wondering if they were becoming the monsters they had been sent to fight.
No, they hadn’t become the monsters, but he had felt that the longer he was away from home the more he lost bits and pieces of himself from the ‘before’ and had to learn to live with the Robert Rosenthal of ‘after’. Would she like the ‘after’. The thought entered his mind so quickly, he almost missed it. Hell, he was still processing it all, and as he turned back to face the bar for a refill, his gaze caught on the entrance of the club.
There she was, his Jo, purse clutched in her hands as she looked around the crowded room for a familiar face. Dark brown eyes scanning over the bodies packed in like sardines, brown curls immaculately pinned up, bright red lips pursed in concentration. Abandoning his empty glass, he smoothed a hand over his curls, straightened his jacket, and pushed off the bar. Weaving his way through the throngs of people, he kept his gaze locked on her, as his feet carried him across the floor.
Rosie felt everything around him fade into a dull buzz as soon as her eyes found his. He pushed his way to the edge of the crowd, finally coming to a stop in front of her. Now, face to face, Rosie and Jo could do nothing more than stare at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to speak, to break the bubble around them, but both felt compelled to do something.
“I promised, didn’t I?” Rosie broke the silence with a smile.
He just barely made out his name falling from her lips before she was in his arms. He caught her with ease and held on tight. It was proof that she was real, that he was home, and there was nothing to fear as they stood at the entrance to Minton’s. Nobody spared them a glance as they sidestepped the couple, a sort of mutual understanding as so many others reunited under the same roof.
“Let me look at you,” Jo had pulled away first, but only letting go of him enough to let her hands slide down his arms to take his. “Home in one piece I see.
“As requested,” Rosie grinned, giving her delicate hands a squeeze. “And as promised.”
“You know better than anyone, that to break a pinky promise is as good as treason, Robert Rosenthal.”
“And you should know that I don’t make pinky promises with just anyone, Josephine Harris.”
“Well, now that we’ve settled that…” she trailed off, a teasing grin on her lips as Rosie began to guide her towards where he had spotted an empty table near the back. Close enough to get to the dance floor when they were ready, but far enough back that they could talk and still hear each other over the din of music and other patrons.
“Are dirty martinis still your poison, or did that change while I was gone?”
“Nothing’s changed,” she looked up at him as if to reassure him that it wasn’t just her cocktail order that remained the same, but the sentiments they exchanged in their numerous letters while he had been over in England. “Everything is exactly as you left it.”
In lieu of a response, he pulled out the chair for her, holding it steady as she slid gracefully into the offered seat, before moving to the chair across from hers.
Instead of sitting, Rosie moved the empty chair next to the one Jo was currently occupying, so that he could sit closer to her, as opposed to having the table between them. Once he was happy with the placement, he lowered himself into the vacant space, body turned at an angle so he could face his companion. He just barely caught a waiter moving in their direction, and flagged the gentleman down, promptly ordering Jo her aforementioned martini, and another scotch for himself. Once the waiter was gone, Rosie’s warm, much larger hand, covered Jo’s, his palms still rough from countless hours behind the yolk, causing him to internally wince as he felt her soft skin against his. The thought was quickly snuffed out as her hand turned upward to his, their palms meeting before her fingers intertwined with his on the table top.
“I missed you,” Jo spoke first this time, breaking the silence. “So much, Robbie.”
“I missed you too. Like you wouldn’t believe,” He admitted. “Your letters, they were the only thing I looked forward to. Just don’t tell my Ma that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, Major.” She teased.
Rosie made a show of wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, mustache twitching upward as he smiled at Jo, stopping only when the waiter returned with their drinks. He watched as she lifted the martini glass to her lips; delicate fingers holding the top of the glass, nails painted a bright red, her eyes watching him over the rim as she took her first sip. He felt parched, regardless of the drink in front of him, as he watched her move with such precision and grace. Something he had missed sorely over the last few years, and fully intended on appreciating now that he could.
“Did they make it right?” He asked.
“Perfect,” She nodded, placing the glass back on the table. “Just as good as I remember.”
“It can’t have been that long since the last time you were here.” Rosie spoke, lifting his own glass to his lips.
“I haven’t been since… well, since the night before you left.”
“Minton’s is your favorite place! You mean to tell me you haven’t been here since–”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Jo finished for him.
Her confession hung in the air, Rosie both shocked but warmed at the thought that she hadn’t been here without him and that the last time she was here had been with him. That she reserved this place as something that belonged to just them. He felt there was no better time than to drop his own truth bomb; he only hoped it didn’t send her running back out the door.
“Since we’re confessing things,” He started carefully. “I uh.. I want you to know that I carried your picture with me while I was gone.”
“…you did?”
“Every day,” he nodded. “I took you on every mission with me.”
He wasn’t sure what to expect after confessing all of that to her, but the glistening of her own eyes as she looked back at him wasn’t it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what… I didn’t mean to make you cry, Jo.”
“Shush,” She spoke quickly, one finger over his lips. “You wonderful, handsome man.”
His eyebrow quirked in response. It was all he could do given that her finger was still over his lips, and she had asked him to stop talking. But he wanted to do more than just keep talking. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her silly, and then take her on the dance floor and spin her around until they were both giddy and dizzy and drunk on each other. And then he wanted to kiss her some more. All too gently, he took her hand in his, moved it away from his lips, and carefully tugged her towards him until she was close enough for him to wrap her up in his arms.
“I should have kissed you that day at the train station,” Rosie started. “I was convinced you wouldn’t want me the same way I wanted you, and there were so many what-if’s, and then I was leaving. Truth be told, I should have kissed you long before the train station.”
“I’ve always been yours, Robbie,” She smiled. “We just took the scenic route.”
And then there was silence, save for the gasp that Jo let loose as Rosie’s lips finally descended on hers. Firm, yet gentle, and with the slight tickle of his mustache, he poured every ounce of himself into making sure she knew just how much he loved her without words. Because the words had been written in many letters over the course of years; phrased with care and longing for each other, a desire that grew much like stoking the flames of a campfire until it reached the point of blazing uncontrollably and there was no turning back. For Rosie and Jo, the fire burned and neither cared to put it out, or attempt to quell the flames.
When they finally pulled apart, the need for oxygen too great to withstand, neither could stop their smiles from growing. There it was. Their love for the ages, that they had planted, grown and nurtured during the days of war, was finally seen blooming under the dim lighting of Minton’s Jazz Club.
“I love you, Jo.”
“I love you too,” She grinned. “More than I could have ever said in any letter.”
“Yet somehow, I always knew. I wonder how that happened.” He teased her, leaning forward to press his lips to hers again.
The smart remark she had been ready to dish his way died on her lips as the band began playing a song that had Rosie tapping out a beat, eyes widening with mirth as he grabbed Jo’s hand and stood, pulling her up with him.
“Come on, pretty girl, let's dance!”
He led them through the crowd of people until they reached the dance floor, and then he found them a spot where he could hold her close and spin her in his arms until his heart's content. The band played on, an Artie Shaw tune that had Rosie laughing to himself as he thought back to the sound of his crew imitating him as they sat around the poker table at the Flak House, way back when. It was a story he had only briefly shared in a letter that he had written from Coombe House during a night he couldn’t find sleep. But now, the sounds of Artie Shaw brought him a smile, as the woman in his arms smiled back at him.
The band moved into a slower song, and Rosie pulled Jo closer, pressing their bodies together as they moved together, cheek to cheek.
“You really took my picture with you on every flight?” She spoke quietly, her voice for his ears only.
“I did,” Rosie nodded. “I kept it in my jacket, close to me. Except for that one time.”
“You know… when your mother got that telegram from the War Department that you had gone down, she ran down the block to our house so I could read it.”
“Oh honey…”
“I refused to believe you had left me without a proper chance at us. Selfish as it may seem, I couldn’t picture my life without you.”
“You won’t have to; not now, or ever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere ever again where you can’t go too.”
“Pinky promise?”
“More than that,” He grinned, before pressing his lips to her own. When they pulled apart they couldn’t help the smiles that took hold. “We can seal this one with a kiss.”
Read Part 2 Here
A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!
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#rosie rosenthal x oc#robert rosie rosenthal#masters of the air fic#Robert Rosie Rosenthal x ofc#Gina baker writes#mota fic#Nate Mann
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decided to break my own heart today i guess
#ofc he would be there but i never specifically thought about it#i'm never googling things ever again#a knife to the heart#and i wish i had kept it that way#my eyes are leaking#buck x bucky#buckbucky#masters of the air
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“a real tough cookie with the whiskey breath.”
oh blind dates oc fest my beloved how i missed you. to the surprise of no one, because i cannot be quiet about anything ever : a MOTA OC this time around. i'm sure this bar probably has a name to be found somewhere on the internet, but until I come across it [ big cartoony shrug ]. anyways, here's Genevieve Laurent, or Gen, if you're friendly. @blind-dates-fest ♡
Tom’s is only a fifteen minute bike ride away. The pay is good, she gets to keep all her tips, and her boss, for lack of a better term — downright adores her.
That’s never been the reason why she’s stuck with it all this time, though. There were better paying jobs in equal distance, and if she really, really wanted to, she thinks she’d do a pretty okay job packing parachutes or something of a similar vein. Respectable work, her mother would call it, which was secret code for: work that will keep you out of trouble, and possibly off the street before midnight. But that was really what it came down to: whether Genevieve wanted to do it. And for all the respect she had for those women, she knew that wasn’t the thing that called to her — not like it did to Claire, who was now off in London with the best and brightest, working in the Foreign Office.
Whatever that meant.
Much more glamorous than Genevieve’s own station, and she’s fairly certain none of their mother’s letters are imploring Claire to quit anytime soon. She was almost apologetic, in a way, that she couldn’t entice her family with letters filled with omissions, with work so secret she could hardly speak of it — but the beer wouldn’t pour itself and somebody had to do it after all those hours in flight.
“Thought you were leaving me out to dry tonight, sweetheart,” There’s a solid hand gripping her shoulder and squeezing, and Tom gives her a smile that’s all crows feet and genuine appreciation. Of course, the place wasn’t actually called Tom’s — but the sign was so faded that she and the other girls just tended to refer to it by the name of their esteemed publican. Genevieve returns the smile.
“And miss out on all this? Wouldn’t dream of it.” As if to accent her point, there’s a wave of hoots and hollering from the floor beyond the bar — no doubt from a bet won or a game of darts coming to its speedy conclusion. The song of the end of the work day. He gives her shoulder a shake, then lets go.
“Do me a favor and take those whiskeys to the table in the back? I think Elsie’s got caught up out there,” she follows his gaze to one of the other girls on shift —Elsie’s smile is easy and the tray on the table is empty, but she’s chatting up a storm at a table of men in brown uniforms. And Genevieve can’t exactly blame her, because while they knew practically every member of the RAF who came in and out on their days off, Americans were a sight to behold. Which is probably why Tom is sending her to the table in the back, with the hopes that she’ll be speedy.
“Yessir,” Genevieve hums, taking the tray of glasses with little fuss, making her way across the bustling floor with practiced hustle.
It’s not the pay that keeps her here, or the warmth of her boss. Not even the fact that she could do every job in this place, if she had to.
Genevieve had a penchant for poking her nose into places for the thrill of it — and there really was no thrill quite like conversation with people who had time to kill and liquor in their systems.
She recognizes the RAF officer at the table: David Griffiths, who Claire knew better than Genevieve did. She’d laughed when Claire told her he joined the RAF, and as an officer, no less. He’d been meek before the war, to put it lightly — maybe that slate-colored uniform and dark blue tie gave him the confidence he once lacked, she didn’t know. And then a couple regulars from around town. So the one in a brown uniform as opposed to their English blue sticks out like a sore thumb, and her curiosity is piqued in spite of David’s attempt to draw her attention with his smile alone.
“Thought old Tom was keeping you in the back tonight.”
“You know, it’s much easier to simply say you missed me, Griffiths,” she hums, leaning over to set down the tray. “Whiskeys for the table, yeah?” David clears his throat and makes a show of adjusting his cuffs, flaunting the new insignia adorning his sleeve as he had for every promotion prior. Genevieve straightens out, wraps her arm around his shoulder to pick off a stray thread.
“Captain Griffiths, congratulations,” Genevieve acknowledges just for the sake of him, then diverts her attention to look over the table, eyes settling on the new face staring right back at her. His dark hair curls over his forehead, with a straight nose and a pretty pair of lips — the wings on his jacket are catching lamplight. The smile on his face is what’s got her the most curious. “And who’ve you brought to cause trouble in Tom’s respectable place of business?”
The smile grows, the stranger leans back in his seat.
“No trouble over here ma’am, not unless you hate singin’.” His voice is deep and gravelly and, well, very American. His tone goes up at the end of the sentence, like it’s a question she’s meant to answer, and Genevieve wonders if it still counts as a bait when she can recognize it for what it is. She raises her brows, David’s hand curls around her wrist loosely as if to remind her that he’s there.
“Only if it’s bad.”
“Best keep your mouth shut then, Major, wouldn’t want to cause a scene,” around them, the other men chuckle at David’s quip — Genevieve pulls her wrist from his barely-there grasp as the Major raises his glass to his lips, before waving a hand dismissively on the swallow.
“Don’t listen to him, I’m like a canary over here.” He draws out each syllable, his smile only growing. She doesn’t believe him for a second.
“Well, Major, make sure not to shatter any glasses with your tunes and you’ll have soothed all my worries,” He chuckles at that, sitting back in the chair and Genevieve looks him up and down rather shamelessly before patting Griffiths’ shoulder. “Enjoy your evening, boys.”
Genevieve knows the feeling well — that sensation of eyes tracking her every movement as she walks away. She’d call it a sixth sense, the way she can make the distinction between the slighted nature of Griffiths’ staring as opposed to the more welcome lingering look of the Major, who’s name she’d surely get by the end of the night. If Claire were here, she’d probably laugh, then apologize to Griffiths for her little sister’s fleeting attention span, accompanied with some remark about how Genevieve had a penchant for things shiny and new. Genevieve would beg to differ and say it was more like she had a penchant for the things she didn’t understand.
And so what if she liked the staring, and leaving the air more charged than she’d found it?
Regardless of the interaction, the night wears on, and so long as the taps are flowing Genevieve is busy enough to keep from staring at the back table for too long. At some point, they stand up and make their way toward the dartboard (and Elsie with them, who shoots her a wink from across the room that has her laughing and Tom groaning from their spots behind the bar). Luckily, she’s only gone for maybe fifteen minutes — and she comes back with orders for Tom, before scurrying over and leaning forward on the bar.
“Better straighten up over there, Genny,” Elsie leans forward further to tuck one of Genevieve’s stray hairs behind her ear.
“Back from your mission so soon?”
“Well I had to make sure the prize was in place.” Genevieve raises an inquisitive brow.
“And that means..?”
“It means—” Elsie is effectively cut off by another round of hollering, and Genevieve knows the grin on the other girl’s face all too well. Elsie turns around and she follows the girl’s eyes to several things. One, Griffiths walking out of the pub, two, Major Canary laughing as he makes his way over and three, a conglomerate of Irishmen clapping his shoulders and shaking them in congratulations. “Well now we know who the winner is. Good luck!”
Before Genevieve can get a word in, Elsie’s scurrying back over to Tom on the other end of the bar to grab the drinks he’s lined up. She turns her back to the floor, but still hears a heavy exhale as someone takes a seat behind her. Then she tilts her head to look, and makes little attempt to withhold her smile as the dots connect fairly quickly in her head.
“Major Canary,” Genevieve hums in greeting. “Am I getting you anything?”
“Whiskey’s fine,” He looks around, like he’s taking a survey of the room, then turns to rest both elbows on the polished wood as she grabs one of the glasses that’s already dried. “Think you got me in trouble with your boyfriend back there,” he laments with a grin, running his thumb over his bottom lip.
“Who, me?” Genevieve slides the glass along the countertop. “You might have the wrong girl, sir.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?” He takes that tone again — so clearly baiting her and Genevieve is, admittedly, a little too eager to take what he’s giving this time.
“Well for one, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she hums, holding up the pointer finger, and then her middle one, “And two, I’m willing to wager it was the dart game that got you in trouble, Major.” She slides the glass over the countertop, and he takes it. He’s closer now than he was at the table — she can finally make out that his eyes are blue, like the RAF uniforms.
“Yeah? How much are you willing to bet?”
“Well, how much did you earn in your game? Must’ve been a hefty sum for the Captain to walk out like that.” Genevieve leans forward on the bar now, tilting her head as she looks at him, already knowing the answer. His eyes flit over her face and down the length of her neck, following the curve of her shape before the bar cuts off his vantage point, then he goes back to returning her stare. He brings the glass to his lips, then licks off the excess before he opens his mouth again.
“A shot with the pretty girl serving drinks tonight? Pretty priceless if you ask me.”
“Well that’s a line if I’ve ever heard one,” Genevieve remarks with an airy laugh.
“But it made you laugh. Must be doing something right.” He counters, and she laughs again with a roll of her eyes. “See? Just did it again.” Genevieve shakes her head slightly.
“Well if my company’s so priceless why haven’t you asked my name yet? Bragging rights and all that.” It’s hardly the bait of their earlier conversation — but it’s something, and she wonders if he recognizes it for what it is, like she had at the table. He finishes off the glass, pushing it back to her with his fingertips and holding her gaze all-the-while.
“Well my bragging was gonna be making you laugh ‘till your boss throws me out, but I should probably get the name so I know who to ask for next time, right?” She takes his glass, and moves to fill it again — feeling both like the belle of a ball and like one of those wood logs in a fireplace crumbling into charcoals, giving off sparks. Somewhere in the back of her head, Claire is screaming at her to stop dancing so close to cliffsides before she takes a tumble she’ll regret, but right now she doesn’t feel any ground giving way beneath her feet.
“Genevieve. Gen, if you’re friendly.” She hums out, taking her time on his refill with the express purpose of keeping him there a little longer. The laugh he lets out is breathy, almost disbelieving, and she looks back up at him through her lashes. “Your turn, or should I just keep calling you Major Canary?”
“My turn, she says,” he mutters, probably more to himself than her even if she can hear it. She passes the glass back over. “Well if we’re being friendly it’s Bucky. Egan.” He exaggerates it — the word friendly, but Genevieve’s really hanging on the ‘if’. She feels almost like a kid picking apart words to prove her point. She should’ve been a lawyer. ‘If’ meant she had options, and maybe she feels a little prideful; to know she has control of where this thing goes. It’s a rush. The kind she wouldn’t get packing parachutes or up in an office. The kind only another person could give her.
The ground gives a little beneath her feet, but Genevieve is undeterred.
“But I take it you’re aiming for a little more than that, is that right, Bucky?”
The smug grin on his face is as much of an answer as any.
And it excites her down to her bones.
#masters of the air#john egan x ofc#masters of the air oc#mota fic#mota fanfic#mota fanfiction#blind dates oc fest 2024#. genevieve laurent#...yes there's France lore#I’ve got lady pilots existing in my docs Now but By God Tom’s Girls stole my keys. I just think they’re neat#took a little inspo from a historical fiction book I read for Claire admittedly#shoutout bletchley park codebreakers#this one for all my little sisters with academically gifted big sisters [ raises hand ]
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much ado about nothing, major
THE PROLOGUE
pairing: john “bucky” egan x (ofc) maude “blue” bluell
warnings: this story will contain mature themes, descriptions of injury, blood, sexual content, swearing, as well as, physical and mental illness. proceed with caution.
there must be something or nothing at all
in which a delightful duet devoured turns rather sour between one maude "blue" bluell & one major john "bucky" egan.
Everything starts with something.
That something could be the break of a new day, eyes peeling back out of the darkest slumbers, the shuffling of cards before an intense gamble of win or loss, or the tickling of one's throat, signaling the beginning of a newfound illness.
Maude Bluell wasn't sure if she could consider feeling fortunate to wake up to such a day, when all days nowadays were filled in such deep darkness. But, she tried her best to hold onto those traces of light, finding solace in the fates of the gamblers who won — who proved they could not only fight a war but for their survival. And she too had to try to survive under the pretenses placed upon her. She knew she couldn't just sit around and let the tickle win — let the illness of her country's enemies spread like a disease.
She needed to fight for what was right just as much, and she fought alright through the Red Cross. She figured it wouldn't hurt, signing up for the war effort — serving some sort of support. But the person who signed up for such a fleet in 1940, definitely wasn't the same person who had found herself stationed at Thorpe Abbotts, England in 1943. Working as a nurse with concentrated care for the men who mastered the air, she respected their bravery in risking their lives as they combated through the sky. The pilots that resided on this particular base were formally known as the 100th Bomb Group, informally known as the Bloody 100th.
Because of this, loss became a regular part of everyday life — a routine for Nurse Bluell as the numbers of documented casualties raised on her chart. She learned to grow a thicker skin as the men she cared for left as fast as they came, blurring into the lines of her vision and burning deeply into the cusp of her memory.
Yet, that very first week in the hospital of Thorpe Abbots proved to be clear — clearer than the skies above that had ripped her men from the air and left the ones who remained grasping onto it as they struggled to take in the simplest of breaths.
She could recall every miniscule feature of the very first man to die in her arms.. The way her fingers had been so deeply coated in his blood, traces remained under her fingernails in passing days. Like a broken record, the image of his eyes bulging out of his head during his final breath, played over and over in her head, taking up every remnant of space in her mind and leaving her in a trance.
So much so, that her colleagues grew concerned when they found her lost in the wall in front of her, still as a statue, as the water ran hard against her skin for longer than it should have.
The remedy for such a state was a recommended night out on the town, which really consisted of a gathering on base. A social event amongst the many factions, men and women alike, letting loose and having fun.
But who could find a sense of enjoyment after watching a man die?
Maude Bluell sure couldn't.
To her dismay, Nurse Charlotte "Lottie" Reign and Nurse Susan "Susie Q" Quinn — Bluell's colleagues and quarter mates — did not take no for an answer, dragging Miss. Bluell out of the safe haven of their room to sulk to the boistorous function of the night.
Little did Nurse Bluell know that something would in fact start that very same night. Something she'd find to be just that, only for it to become nothing — nothing at all?
And as it is told — on a hot summer's night in 1943 — one Nurse Maude "Blue" Bluell would bump into one Major John "Bucky" Egan.
And the rest would very well be something...
——
where it all begins.... ;)
— xanadu
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if you would like to be added or taken out — please comment below <3
#masters of the air fanfiction#mota#callum turner#major john bucky egan x ofc#major john bucky egan#major john egan#bucky egan#callum turner fans#callum turner fandom#mota fandom#mota fanfic#mota fanfiction
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Lilla Thornton (Masters of The Air OFC)
Note: A little introduction to my newest original female character for the Masters of The Air universe. Look out for all her adventures in the weeks to come.
Word Count: 895 words.
Glass plasma bottles clicked against each other as they moved inside the chipped wooden crate marked "Medical Supplies". Pyramids of morphine syrettes threatened to spill with every second step heavier than the opposite. In a different setting, desperate hands would be grabbing at the morphine, like kids to a bowl of candy. It was a highly sought-after substance on the frontlines by medics, but in the ghostly quiet hallways of the on-base infirmary, no one dared to steal from what supplies graced the stockroom.
In the middle of the infirmary's hustle and bustle lay a heavy oak desk, out of place and odd for its surroundings but very fitting for the occupier who worked upon it, hour after hour.
Thud! Rattle! Clunk! The wooden crate came to rest upon the paper-laden desk as dainty hands rifled through its contents, determined to find the item that she so urgently needed.
"Ah-ha!" the gentle rasp with a Texan accent piped up as she grasped what she was looking for in her left hand. "There you are, you little rascal."
"Still talking to the medical supplies, I see."
"You know me, Nora. If a seasick-riddled boat journey across the pond can't change my ways, it will never happen," Second Lieutenant Thornton chirped as she turned to stand before the friendly face.
Lilla Thornton was a petite girl from Fredericksburg, Texas. Although she was small in stature, she had a big personality. As head nurse, the tiny Texan often had to drum up morale as her fellow medics worked tirelessly on wounded men evacuated from the battle-damaged aircraft returning from missions into occupied Europe. It was almost like working on a production line; as soon as a patient was stable, they'd be moved to a more suitable bed within the infirmary, away from all the chaos.
A no-nonsense kind of girl, Lilla was known for throwing herself into her work, placing it on top of her list before pleasure. Her time at Thorpe Abbotts was a perfect example of this practice. As her nurses clung to the men of the 100th every Friday at the Half Moon Inn, the young Lieutenant would spend her night taking stock of supplies and rolling bandages. Even back home, she'd rather spend her weekends studying or helping her father run the family ranch than travel the hour into Austin to go drinking and galavanting with her friends.
Growing up, she had to learn and take responsibility more quickly than most girls. At the age of seven, her dear mother Tabitha passed suddenly of an unknown illness that doctors were trying to grasp a better knowledge and understanding. Lilla was the eldest of three siblings, meaning any extra time she had after her classes were finished was spent working to bring in extra money to aid the family finances.
Her father, a cripple who couldn't work, always encouraged the brunette to follow her heart, and on the 18th of August 1941, Lilla Thornton joined the Army Nurse Corps. With a passion for helping those in need and a hard-working ethic, Army life came as easy as learning to crawl as an infant.
Training started at Brooke General Hospital, San Antonio, Texas, before she was assigned to the Eighth Air Force as a breakaway unit in September of 1942. A single gold bar sat proudly upon the collar of her dress uniform and the new role of head nurse upon her shoulders.
At Kearney Army Airfield, Nebraska, Lilla made friends with a fellow nurse from Louisiana. Like Lilla, Nora was a serious person putting just as much dedication into her role as a nurse as the Texan girl did. Nora and Lilla forged a friendship that would stand the test of time.
Thrusting the two bottles of saline towards the medic, followed by some syrettes of morphine, Lilla raised an eyebrow in question at the female before her.
"This should be more than enough for now. You don't happen to have any chocolate in your magic box, Lieutenant Thornton?" Nora’s Southern drawl emphasized certain words as she asked the smaller female.
Holding up a finger, Lilla turned and began to search through a heavy oak drawer connected to her desk before producing a foil-covered article. Chocolate had become a rare commodity, especially with all the rationing the Americans faced while living in England, and what they could get a hold of tasted far from what they were used to back home.
"This is my last ration for this month. It better be for a good reason you’re looking for some. You owe me one, Nora."
"You got my word, Li. If you have the time, can you check on Lieutenant Payne? I think he's coming down with pneumonia."
Looking up from her clipboard at the mention of one of the navigators, Lilla nodded. It was apparent there was some kind of bug going around the base. She’d already treated a few men with similar symptoms.
"I don't have long left until I've finished my shift here, but I'll be round as soon as possible. Just make sure he's kept warm until I get there."
Returning her attention to the crate of supplies, Lilla sat down behind the desk to begin the final stock check of her shift.
#hbo war#masters of the air#rosie rosenthal#original character#original female character#lilla thornton#lilla thornton x rosie rosenthal#masters of the air fanfic#masters of the air original female character#nix writes#OFC#ladies of hbo war#1940s character#women's army nurse corps
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Oooh, tell me about Walk the Earth with Eyes Turned Skyward: Everett Blakely x Grace Linden (OFC)
Love the title
Thanks for the ask, Bee!
The plot can be summarized like this: Grace Linden of the Red Cross Aero Club at Thorpe Abbotts has fallen for pilot Everett Blakely, who is charming, handsome...and very much married. On the other hand, he may be faithful to his wife, but he's still got eyes...
Featuring the irrepressible James Douglass, who's got a crush of his own on Grace.
As for the title, I'm still working on making sure the story lives up to it!
Here's a snippet:
The weekly dances at the officers’ club were, hands down, at the top of the list of Grace’s favorite activities at Thorpe Abbotts. Though she had never thought of herself as a very good dancer, she had enthusiasm, and that went a long way – conversational skills and charm went the rest. Touch, spin, step, sway, change partners, and again.
Jim Douglass was the most enthusiastic of partners and clamored for her attention whenever possible. She tried not to let on how much she liked to tease him when he begged another dance, insisting he was a terrible partner whenever he approached, making him earn her assent – then enjoying herself thoroughly when he kept up a steady stream of chatter while he twirled her across the floor. Doug had a joke or an opinion about everything, and she always felt thoroughly entertained after a dance with him.
One night when she got tired of having her feet stepped on, and Doug wasn’t available, she still really wanted to dance, so on the off-chance, she recklessly asked Ev Blakely for a spin ‘round the floor. “No, no,” he tried to beg off, “Don’t ask me, is Dougie too tired?” But her persistence and the infectious hilarity of her mood finally wore him down, and he followed her to the floor led by her fingertips on his forearm. The band was playing something incredibly catchy by Glen Gray, and when they stepped out, she had no idea what to expect.
Taglist: @precious-little-scoundrel @ginabaker1666 @winniemaywebber @basilone @shoshiwrites @mercurygray @junojelli
#masters of the air#mota#mota fanfic#wip ask game#asked and answered#everett blakely#james douglass#everett blakely x ofc#james douglass x ofc
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Everyone’s Incomplete. And Who’s the Best at Saving Face?
Summary: Everretts girlfriend truly never wants to give John a break from her disgusting comments.
WC: 1,460
C/W: Mentions of John having an ED, Hurt/comfort.
MOTA Masterlist!
John stared down at the slice of pizza sitting on the plate in front of him. The grease from the pizza staring at him like this was some competition. He kept curling and uncurling his toes in the ill-fitting bowling shoes, his hands resting on his knee caps tapping his fingers against them. He needed some kind of social out but he felt stuck in the dark gray plastic chair at the bowling alley. John knew Gale was just in the bathroom and knew he expected John to eat the piece of pizza. The one that was still challenging him everytime he looked down.
He couldn’t throw it away Curt was just getting them a refill on the pitcher of Dr. Pepper. That and Gale told him to make sure John didn’t throw it away.
Maybe this wouldn’t have been the case if John would’ve been having a good day. But he quite frankly, hadn’t. This morning he threw up the peanut butter and Nutella toast.
So, of course he knew Gale would know he would be going on an empty stomach.
He felt embarrassed like some toddler stuck at the table because he wouldn’t eat vegetables. His partners turn away from catching him if tried to slip it to the dogs.
“Do you ever eat?”
John felt his heart drop to his ass at the sound of the wicked witch herself, Ava.
Everett’s evil girlfriend as they called her…do you ever eat? It rang and bounced around John’s head like a tuning fork. Then he felt the turn of his stomach and the sudden wave of nauseating fear of throwing up hit him. He most certainly would not let Ava get the power of seeing him cry. John pushed his chair, keeping his gaze on the carpeted floors of the swirly colorful bowling alley carpet. He went around the corner and down the hall and pushed the door open. Almost hitting Gale with the door, letting out a sob covering his mouth.
“Hey, hey, John sweety.” Gale basically caught him, “What happened?”
John leaned his head into Gale's neck letting out another wet sob. “It’s okay, baby. I’m right here, it’s okay to let it out.” Gale rubbed his back. John couldn’t hold it in anymore, he had been damn near in tears right before they left the house.
Curt came back holding the two pitchers of soda, his eyebrows furrowed as he didn’t see John where he left him a couple minutes ago. But Ava was standing at the high top table looking at her phone and texting. She let out a loud frustrated sigh as she most obviously was texting Everett.
“Did you see where John went?” Curt set the pitchers on the table.
She rolled her eyes with enough force she turned her head, “I dunno…I just asked him something and he stormed off.”
Curt could tell that his simple question was boring her from the two seconds she had to look away from her phone. “What’d you…no. Fuck you Ava.” Curt turned on his heels and stormed to the bathroom the atomic bomb going off in his brain…what the fuck did she say to him?
Curt opened the bathroom door and saw the two boys standing there. John sniffled into Gales' neck. “What happened?” Curt felt the blazing red, hot anger building up inside him just seeing John that upset.
“I don’t know?”
Then it clicked in Curt’s brain, he turned on his heels storming back down the hall and into the main part looking for Everett. What was he going to do when he found him? He’s not sure…yet…he wanted to punch him.
He saw Everett arguing with Ava by the counter. He’d wait till they were done and he would maybe say something; although, he never did.
“Curtie?” That sweet angel voice sang to him.
“Hey, doll face.” Curt kissed his cheek putting an arm around him, “Do you know what Ava said to John?”
“No, I didn't even see him walk away.” Ken’s lip fell into a pout, “She’s so mean to him.”
“I know, I wanna fuckin’ knock her perfect fuckin’ teeth out.” Curt clenched his jaw, balling up his fist.
“I do too but, sadly, that's an assault charge.”
“Do you think Everett’s dad would agree with me if I punched him?”
“Don’t punch anyone, babes.” Ken took curts free hand and began rubbing his knuckles that always seemed to have some kind of bruise or cut on them.
He knew he was right. Curt you shouldn’t punch anyone…well some…
Everett came storming back, his fists clenched. “Hey, outside.” Curt stood up nodding towards the door, catching Everett’s shoulders.
“What?”
“You heard me?”
Everett felt the steaming panic now coursing through his veins as he followed Curt outside of the bowling alley and around the corner of the parking lot. This was it…he was about to get his ass beat by Curt, prepare for the pain…
“What the fuck did she say to John?” Curt spat out at him.
“I don’t know, she didn't say anything about him to me?” Truthfully, they’d been fighting because she had wanted to go through his phone.
“Why are you with her, Ev? She’s a bitch, I’m sorry but it’s true, I’m not sorry actually. You see the way that she treats him when you drag her along to everything we do! You never say anything either becuase you’re a fuckin’ coward. You’re a Coward, Everett. You know just as well as everyone else that John has his shit going on and he does not need her stupid fuckin’ remarks when he’s basically in his own home. Fuck you, Everett.” Curt shoved him back.
Everett stood there silently for a moment then sunk his hands into his pockets to grab out a cigarette and his lighter.
“Ew, what're you doing?” Ava came around the corner, her keys already pulled out of her bag.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re leaving, come on.”
“Whatever, Ava. I gotta go get my shit and say bye to the guys.” Everett snapped, pointing back towards the door.
“Okay well hurry up.” She rolled her eyes. Everett wanted to punch the brick wall so badly but he knew what that would entail…broken hand and a fucked up football season.
Everett came back in and found his vans in the pile of the guys shoes. He found an open seat away from the others and toed off the bowling shoes.
Then Gale walked up…when you get your shoes on, can we talk?” He couldn’t read Gale's voice, he sounded calm but not necessarily in a positive way.
He followed him over to the doors, far enough out of earshot of the others as Everett started to fear for his life in another way. If you had gotten Gale upset you were in deep shit…and that’s about where he was gonna be.
“Look, Everett I love you, you’re one of the coolest guys I know and you’re one helluva football player. But I also love John, and he’s going through a very difficult time and you know that. I’m not getting into it, but I think for now it would be better if you didn’t come around for awhile. I can’t control who you talk to but I think me and John need a break.”
Gale sighed and squeezed Everett’s shoulder then turned on his heels disappearing back into the bowling alley…well obviously this was Gale's way of telling him to leave.
So he did. Not because he wanted to…not because Ava wanted to. Because he didn’t know what other options he had.
John sat in Gales' car, his head rested back on the headrest, staring out the window. The thousand yard stare Gale hated seeing on him.
“Are you doing okay?” Gale rubbed his thigh.
“I guess.” John sniffed, he didn’t know how to be okay. He felt guilty once again pulling Gale away from something .
“Is there anything I can do? Do you want to take a nap together, when we get home?”
“Please.”
“We can take a nap, I’ll make us dinner and then we can watch whatever you want till we go to bed.”
“Okay.” John smiled a bit through the dried up tears. “Maybe tomorrow I can swap lives with Meatball for a day?”
“Maybe, but I don’t know if you’ll like having to watch Meatball with your body getting all kinds of cuddles.”
“You wouldn’t cuddle me if I was Meatball?”
“Yes I would still cuddle you, John.”
“Good because I would totally cry and no one can turn away from a cute crying dog.”
“God, I love you, John.”
“I love you too.”
-
Thank you for reading!!! Liked and reblogs are highly appreciated!!!
Brought to you by Military La La Land @mangokitkats @ihearteugeneroe
#masters of the air#mota#hs au#title after matt maltese song#clegan#gale cleven#buck cleven#john egan#bucky egan#everett blakely#everett blakely x ofc#ken lemmons#curtis biddick#curtis/lemmons#curtis x lemmons#toxic relationship#mentions of ed’s#angst
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meeting the master
neteyam sully x fem!metkayina!reader
summary: when neteyam gets invited to one of your famous parties, he’s not too sure why. he knows of you, but doesn’t know you. you change that.
warnings: fluff, neteyam checking you out, you checking him out
aged up characters ofc, not proof read
this is high key based off the great gatsby fyi🤞
“neteyam! you have to come to y/n’s party tonight!” mukata exclaimed.
he was one of the boys neteyam and his brother quickly befriended in awa’atlu.
neteyam’s ears twitched at your name.
everyone always raved about your parties, how charming and beautiful you were. but neteyam had never seen you.
the more and more he heard about you, the more it intrigued him. how can someone be so great to a whole clan?
that night, deep into the ocean on an island, neteyam disconnected his queue to the ilu. his feet hit the cold sand as he pushed his braids out of his face.
loud cultural music consumed his upturned ears as they twitched from the noise. there were easily over three hundred clan members on the island.
neteyam suddenly felt very insecure. he was the only omatikaya- standing alone- in the middle of a crowded party.
“neteyam!” mukata ushered the man over. neteyam silently thanked eywa for not making him stand alone any longer.
“isn’t this great? one of y/n’s best!” mukata commented, his almond eyes blinking quickly.
“very… lavish.”
throughout the night, neteyam sipped on a specialty drink that was made specifically for that night.
he began to wonder where you actually were. really, he just didn’t know what you looked like.
some metkayina girls approached neteyam, batting their eyelashes and flirting with him.
“have you met y/n yet?” leyra asked.
“i have not.”
“she is like royalty. if tsireya wasn’t the chief’s daughter, everyone would believe y/n is.”
“i’ve heard that she has eaten people.” eyrina said, her voice barely above a whisper.
neteyam’s brow bone raised as his ears twitched.
“don’t be ridiculous-“ leyra gently slapped her friend.
“i believe my friend is calling me,” neteyam dismissed himself. he needed fresh air- the party atmosphere was extremely overwhelming.
he pushed through some brush and found a woman. long curly hair cascaded down her back in a V shape, a fancy loincloth that had shells and pearls decorated on the waist. it hung low on her hips and jewelry filled her finned-arms.
“hello?” he asked softly.
you turned around to hear the voice that startled you. a tall man with broad shoulders and- it was one of the sullys.
the sully family had arrived in awa’atlu a few weeks prior. you blinked your eyes at him, your second eyelid showing as it took a second to disappear.
“hi.”
“getting some air?” he questioned you, joining you to stand by the ocean.
“yes, same with you?” you asked.
“yes ma’am, i needed a break from the crowd.”
you were beyond gorgeous. a flower was tucked behind your ear, purposely balanced on the flesh. you had big, doe eyes that sparkled in the moonlight.
it quickly made neteyam flustered.
his freckles were illuminated under the moon as you stared at him, the white dots seeming placed from eywa in a particular manner.
he was a very handsome man, with almost eight inches of height between your heads.
“i understand. who invited you?” you asked him, your voice gentle as you gazed down at his veiny hands.
“mukata, he said this would be y/n’s biggest party yet. although, i still haven’t met her. and really, i’ve heard so much about her yet i’m surprised she didn’t have a grand entrance to the party introducing herself.”
neteyam felt himself ramble, his eyes finally going to meet your face. you had a blank expression, one he couldn’t read.
“i guess i haven’t been a good host then,” you shrugged.
“what?” neteyam asked, his heart dropping.
you laughed at the man.
“i’m y/n, nice to meet you…”
“neteyam.”
“nice to meet you, neteyam.”
“ngaytxoa (my apologies), y/n, i didn’t know-“
“it’s okay, neteyam.”
you reassurance only made him feel a little better, however the overwhelming guilt was larger.
“no really, i-“
“neteyam, it is fine.” you placed your hand on his bicep, the muscle flexing under your touch. neteyam suddenly realized he was extremely touched starved and craved more of it.
a crimson pink made its way onto his cheeks as he looked out onto the ocean.
“do you want to know a secret?” you whispered, lifting yourself on the tips of your toes to reach his ear.
he softly purred, making your heart stammer.
“i do not really care for parties.”
neteyam turned to look at you, a confused look on his face.
“then why do you throw them?”
you shrugged at the man.
“if i don’t, then this island will remain boring forever.”
neteyam’s ears faltered as you turned to look out at the sea.
“i love the ocean and my home, but sometimes i need change.”
“like a forest?”
you looked back at neteyam to see him giving you a small smile. you grinned back.
“perhaps a forest.”
you and neteyam spent all night talking about your homes, the reason him and his family came to awa’atlu, and many other things.
the sunrise was quickly coming as you rubbed your eyes.
neteyam was laying on the sand next to you as you hugged your knees to your chest, continuing to babble on and on about your lives.
and while you two talked for hours, there was never an awkward moment. everything just felt right.
“i guess we should head back to the main land.” you suggested, seeing the fisherman off in the distance.
neteyam agreed, standing up. he offered you his hand, an electric shock going through both of you as your finned hand connected with his.
he was much stronger than you, his back filled with muscles. and sand.
“neteyam, you have sand on your back.”
without waiting for him to answer, you stepped behind him and ran your hands over his deep blue skin. the stripped patterns looked beautiful as you were mesmerized by his back.
neteyam accidentally let out a loud purr as you grazed against skin, making both of you blush.
“feel nice?” you teased, finally removing your hands from his skin (much to neteyam’s dismay).
the sunrise was dotting on your teal skin, illuminating your features as you stared up at neteyam.
in the beginning of his stay, he had yet to realize why you were so important, why everyone was obsessed with you.
but when he sat and talked with you, he soon found himself realizing just exactly why everyone adored you.
you were thoughtful, intelligent, cared for your people, funny, witty, and many other things he could not put into words.
and he began to think to himself if he could imagine being with anyone else, despite just having met you.
but when eywa calls, neteyam answers. and right now, he can hear a ringing in his ears.
#simpforboys#neteyam sully x reader#neteyam x you#neteyam sully#neteyam x reader#neteyam#neteyam x y/n#neteyam fluff#neteyam smut#neteyam sully smut#neteyam angst#neteyam sully x na’vi!reader#neteyam sully x you#neteyam sully x y/n#neteyam sully x metkayina!reader#neteyam sully fluff#avatar 2#avatar#avatar neteyam#atwow
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Little Wing (John Brady x OC)
Summary: Kate "Woody" Woodward and John Brady have it bad for each other, except Woody's convinced he doesn't care for her and Brady's convinced he messed up his shot with her. They prove each other wrong.
Note: Woody and Brady’s first kiss fic yay🤭 Title comes from the Jimi Hendrix song (which is on Woody’s playlist). I know I keep saying this, but I’m so overwhelmed with the response to Woody/Brady, I didn’t expect it at all, and it means so much to me🖤 Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies. Suggestive to a point, but not explicit. Light miscommunication plotline.
Darla had been the one who pointed it out. The Texan wasn’t one for biting her tongue, and expressed earlier that day while they were eating lunch with Meg that John Brady wasn’t making himself scarce around the hardstand, or the hangar. Wherever that downed plane of his was while they were working on it, he’d inevitably show up at some point.
“‘S like he don’t think we can fix a damn plane,” Darla said through a mouthful of toast, stale from that morning’s breakfast. The guys in the kitchen knew the three of them weren’t ones to pass up food just because it was a few hours old.
“I got the same thing at my pop’s shop back home. These fellas would bring in their cars and tell ‘im they didn’t want me workin’ on them. Half of ‘em didn’t even know how to change a tire,” Meg agreed, her thick Boston accent making Woody have to strain to understand what she was saying sometimes.
Darla shook her head. “Some ‘a these flyboys, I swear to god they got more swagger than sense.”
Woody didn’t want to tell them that Brady’s frequenting their work area might have coincided with the one day he showed up to check on how things were going, and she apparently struck a nerve by trying to be nice—something she was rusty at despite her best efforts. So he’d hang around and watch, sometimes not saying very much at all while puffing away at his pipe. Made her feel tantalizingly scrutinized beneath his stormy gaze.
His crew were all nice enough guys. A little rowdy sometimes, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Still, their pilot’s recent behavior made it tough for her to shake the feeling that he wasn’t all that fond of her. A damn shame, because she had it bad for him. Figured it was the first time she was into a guy who was decent.
Earlier that week, Hambone waited out the English rain in the hangar with her, telling her what he and the rest of them did before the war. Mostly recent high school graduates or everyday working guys. She didn’t find it surprising that the pilot had a degree, but almost couldn’t believe her ears when Hambone told her that Brady was a musician before the war. If anyone deserved to walk around with the swagger most of the pilots did, it was Brady, in her opinion, yet to her, he seemed level-headed and reserved.
She had left lunch with Darla and Meg that afternoon with a newfound resolve to win Brady over somehow. If not for her own sake, then to at least not make her own faux pas the other girls’ problem.
Her quip to Holly about John Brady and his cockpit was mostly for her best friend’s amusement. Anything in her past she’d remotely consider a relationship boiled down to little more than sex. Never exclusive, and never all that satisfying, either.
Woody nearly scoffed at herself. As if he’d want anything to do with a woman like her.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” she said as he walked up.
He sighed, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You don’t have to be so formal, Woody. It’s just us out here.”
“Bucky and Holly are listening to the Yankees at the Nationals.” She nodded in the direction of the jeep in the distance. “They made some bet on it.”
“I hardly think that counts considering how far they are.”
She hesitated. “If you say so.” Stopped herself from adding ‘sir’ at the end.
The following ten or so minutes were all hers. Pointed out every inch of the plane that’d been worked on since he last came by. Had an answer for all of his questions or concerns. She didn’t miss a single detail, wanting him to know yes, she was serious, and yes, she could fix a damn plane. Got the same thrill she did when she’d tell people how she souped up their cars to race, watching the appreciation and at times disbelief for her work on their face.
“Still got some kinks to work out, but it should be coming along a lot quicker now,” she said.
“You did all of that since yesterday?”
“I can’t take all the credit. Darla and Meg helped out, too.”
He cracked a grin, his pipe between his teeth. “You’re pretty damn good, Woody.”
She smiled. Her heart might’ve skipped a beat or two. “Thank you.”
“You must’ve been a mechanic before this, huh?”
“Here and there,” she said. Eager to steer the conversation away from herself, she quickly added, “You’re a musician, aren’t you?”
“I am. I got my degree in music, too.”
“Let me guess what you play…” She folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t strike me as a tuba man.”
The slightest smile worked its way onto his face. “No, I’m not.”
“Way too smart to be playing the triangle.”
“Hey, don’t count out the triangle.”
“You’re pulling my leg!” She laughed, silently proud of herself for not saying 'You're fucking with me' which otherwise would've been her reflexive response. “Alright, I’m gonna make my real guess now.” She pursed her lips as she considered her options. “Clarinet?”
He nodded. “And saxophone.”
“Both? Oh, I’d love to hear you play sometime,” she said. “Either. Whichever one you like best.”
“I play with the band in the officer’s club once in a while. You should come by. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you there.”
“I’m not an officer.”
“I’ll make sure no one kicks you out.”
“Are you offering to be my personal muscle?” she half-joked.
He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t think you need it, but sure.”
“Thanks, John,” she said. “Unless you prefer Jack? Or just John?”
“What do you think suits me?” he asked.
“Well, I like Johnny, if you’re really asking.” She smiled like she was letting him in on a secret, like she knew all along he’d be Johnny to her.
It was her eyes that got him, though. The same green he saw when someone else made her laugh or how just about everyone seemed to have some anecdote about Woody—how she helped them out or told a joke that was just the thing to lift their spirits. But for all of the stories about Woody, the undertones of admiration or outright expressions of desire within them, nobody had one like his. Kissed his cheek without hesitation. Looked at him with those forest green eyes he could lose a hundred years in. Just when he was sure he had his chance and missed it, he was Johnny, and instead of getting lost in that forest, he knew exactly where he was going, how to push his way through and find her.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered, staring above them and shaking her head.
Woody grabbed a screwdriver and kicked over a wooden milk crate that had seen better days. She tentatively placed her boot on it, pressing down a moment before stepping up.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t reach otherwise.”
“That thing’s about as flimsy as cardboard,” he said, setting his pipe aside. “You’ll break your neck.” His strong hands were on her hips before he finished speaking. Held her steady as she stood on top of the crate.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
She worked in silence until she stood on her toes, and the crate wobbled ominously beneath her. “I can’t see. Can you get me a flashlight and—”
He squeezed her hips in frustration. “Woody, just do it tomorrow. It’s not worth getting hurt over.”
“Help me down, Johnny?” she asked, turning slightly in his hold, her eyes flashed an unmistakable desire that nearly sent him to his knees.
He kept one hand on her waist, the other holding her free hand as she stepped down from the crate. A flash of red spread across her cheeks, and he was drawn in closer like a moth to flame, following her to the nearby toolbox where she put the screwdriver back in place, double-checking the contents before locking it up for the night.
“You got something…” His thumb brushed just below her lip. They stared at each other in silence, voice caught in his throat before he closed the gap between them, cradling her chin in his hand as he kissed her.
A shock to her system, there was something uniquely vulgar in his tenderness. Past lips on her own had been rough and selfish, part of a song and dance she grew tired of by the time she was nineteen. To be kissed with such care at twenty-three made her skin burn for more.
She grabbed his collar, pulling him closer. Threatened to lose herself in the embrace, almost unsure of where Woody ended and John began.
He caught her bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. She shuddered when he released it and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips, her want betraying her with a soft whimper.
She felt him pulling away and thought her heart was going to beat out of her chest. “Johnny, don’t go. Not yet,” she whispered pleadingly, raking her fingers through his hair.
It didn’t take much else for him to give in, losing himself in that forest in her eyes. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Being good,” she answered, “and I was getting better at that until you got here not even an hour ago.”
He smiled, eyes glistening almost mischievously. “Well, I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Am I your sweetheart?”
“If you want to be.”
She smiled. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Good, I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else’s,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Me either.”
#john brady x oc#john brady x ofc#masters of the air x oc#masters of the air x ofc#masters of the air#john brady#mota#mota x oc#mota fanfic#ch: woody
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Heyy Ronnie! It's my birthday today. I was wondering if you could do a reader x gojo fic where reader is kinda sad on her bday? Like people are showing her love but due to bad previous bdays she feels low sometimes during the day? And she feels like she isn't worthy of the love she's getting now after these years (from friends and parents)? Ofc satoru is by her side telling her good things hehe🥹
birthday pick me up
satoru x f!reader
content: good ol birthday fluff, dad gojo w megs + tsumiki, no evil suguru bc idagf this my fake world we are all happy in it
an: MY BELOVED BABIE!!! I SPEED RAN THIS SO I COULD MAKE SURE IT GOT TO YOU ON YOUR BIRTHDAY. as a fellow emo birthday sharer (the stories in this fic are literally taken from my own birthdays that were horrible lol), i hope you find a way to make this day wonderful. spoiler non spoiler for the fic, another year you fight on is always something to celebrate!!! I wish a wonderful year of happiness and love ahead for you sweetie pie, I hope you have a wonderful, wonderful day <3
--
as you write up the mission report, your fingers splayed right against your temples trying to soothe the tension, the root cause of all problems in your life - your very ridiculous boyfriend - sets something down on your desk.
you look up to find a very cheeky grin on his face, teetering on that fine line that he toes between bothersome and endearing as he waits for your response.
“satoru.”
“yes, my love?”
“why did you just give me a muffin with wax on it?”
he frowns, his upper lip jutting out into a soft pout.
“it’s a cupcake, baby.”
“where’s the frosting, master chef?”
he yanks his blindfold down, a guilty smile pressed on his face.
“in my stomach. you just took so long on your mission and i got so hungry that i just ate some. just a teeny tiny bite.”
you lift the sad excuse of a cupcake into the air between you two, glaring at him with your eyes narrowed. he gives you a sheepish smile in response, as he leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead in apology.
“what’s with the wax in the middle?”
“that’s a candle.”
“why is there a candle in my non-cupcake?”
“it’s august first, sweet thing! it’s the start of y/n month!” he responds, so matter of factly like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
you now realize what’s happening. and you’re going to stop it in your tracks.
back in december, you surprised satoru and megumi - deeming the entire month of december their month and giving them little surprises and gifts for the entire thirty one days. it was more for megumi than satoru at first.
“megs.”
“yes, y/n?”
“what flavor birthday cake do you want, kid? we’ll order it soon so it’s all nice and ready to be picked up on friday, okay?”
you turn around to find him sitting there with a blank face. you walk up to his side, leaning over so your eyes can be level with his.
“are you one of those kids who hates cake? we can do ice cream, muffins, even vegetables if that’s what tickles your fancy. whatever you want, okay?”
and when he mutters out those six words, it stops you in your tracks all together.
“i’ve never had birthday cake before. i don’t know which one i like.”
after he admitted that to you, you made sure that you and satoru went the entire six miles for him, so that he’d love his birthday, so he could feel special. because of course that asshole toji never did it for him.
you ordered every flavor of cake so he could pick a favorite (vanilla won) and got piles and piles of gifts with the gojo clan money. and since satoru is satoru, you had to make sure he had his fair share of celebration that month too since they were both born in december.
you never expected them to do it back. and you didn’t want him to either. and it’s not that you don’t appreciate it or don’t love him for wanting to go the extra mile for you because you do, it’s just that…
you hate birthdays.
after a string of misfortunes year after year, of counting down the days just to be kicked down, has turned you off from the holiday all together.
after inviting everyone to your fifteenth birthday at the bowling alley, just to have no one show up. to sit there in embarrassment, convincing your parents for hours on end that people will show up, that they’ll eat the cake your mom spent hours making just to take the entire thing home and get an embarrassing reminder every time you opened the fridge.
or your nineteenth birthday. when your parents had an important graduation party to go to and your siblings were out of town, when you spent the entire day wallowing in your room, your phone absent of notifications. because no one remembered and those who did didn’t care enough to stay.
year after year, a cruel reminder that a day that’s supposed to be special, that’s supposed to be about you, is anything but.
you can make sure that megumi, tsumiki, and satoru don’t feel the same. that their special days aren’t tainted. but yours is already far beyond repair and you’d like to keep it where it is. deep in your mind, where no one can touch it.
“satoru. can we not do y/n month? i-i don’t want to celebrate my birthday.”
satoru, for all intents and purposes, looks like a kicked dog.
“what do you mean? you love birthdays!”
“i love your birthday, ‘toru. and miki and megs too but i don’t want all that for mine. it’s- let’s just pretend its a normal day. i’ll go to work, we’ll eat dinner, and then you can be nice to me and i can get some at the end of the night, if you know what i mean.” you say, giving him a cheeky grin.
he brings his hands up to your cheeks, cupping your face in his hands.
“but it’s your birthday, silly. i’ll let you get some, obviously, but we have to do more than that.” he responds, frowning.
you lean into his touch, his hands moving to snake around your waist as you sigh into his chest.
“toru. the best present you can give me is if we do nothing. i-i don’t like to think about my birthday because it makes me sad and i just want to have a normal day with the three of you. i-i don’t expect you to understand but can you just do that for me? is that okay?” you ask, looking up at his sparkly blue eyes, in the few moments they’re free from his blindfold.
he leans forward, to press the softest kiss to your lips, before pulling back.
“okay. no birthday.”
you should have known better that satoru gojo does not take no for an answer.
--
you wake up in the morning to two very smiley faces and one teeny tiny smile staring at you. satoru, tsumiki, and megumi are all wearing matching purple birthday hats, surrounded in a plethora of streamers in your bedroom. the second you flicker your eyes open, they all pop confetti into the air, the sound catching you off guard.
“oh my-”
“happy birthday, my love!” satoru responds, excitedly leaning over to kiss you. he leans too hard because then he’s knocked you over, the two of you tangled up in the sheets and the confetti falling on your bed.
you sit up as megumi and tsumki climb onto the bed with you, tsumki pressing a wet kiss to your cheek while megumi tucks himself into your arm to give you a hug.
“how did you even do this while i was still in the room?”
satoru props himself up to pull one of the matching party hats onto your head and press a kiss to your forehead as he explains.
“you sleep like the walking dead, babe. we literally popped the confetti once before and it didn’t even wake you up.”
you take in the room in earnest this time, the three of them intently watching you. there are sparkly gold streamers hanging from the wall, a little handmade sign that has tsumiki and megumi written all over it taped to the wall, and a sweet little tray of your favorite breakfast on the side.
you turn to your left to find satoru looking at you, that stupid, stupid lovestruck grin on his face as he stares you down.
“you like it, babe?”
“satoru, you didn’t have to, i just-”
he clamps his hand over your mouth, feigning his best serious look.
“i held off for the other twenty four days of august babe. i had so much planned and i threw it all out for you. but you’re going to let me have this one day and do everything i say because it’s your birthday.”
“shouldn’t you listen to me because i’m the birthday girl?”
“i only accept that rule when the birthday girl isn’t being stupid.”
“hey, you just-”
“did you like it, y/n?”
you place one of your hands in megumi’s hair, who's still tucked into your side, as you crush satoru’s hand in your other hand.
“it really is sweet. thank you. i’ve never had anyone do something like this for me before.”
satoru gives you a satisfied smile as he leans forward, pressing another kiss to your face.
“get used to it. you’ve got like fifty more birthdays with me.” he responds, hopping off the bed as he sets the tray in front of you.
--
satoru wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to go all out. because after breakfast, he takes the three of you out on the town, to go bowling. which is something you were originally against, because in all honestly, you haven’t returned to an alley since your fifteenth birthday.
but he drags you in by the wrist and you have so much fun that you forget about the entire thing. satoru’s cheater ass runs down the alley when his ball went into the gutter, tsumiki spends the entire time looking for a pink bowling ball and can’t find one, and megumi gets way too excited about the all you can eat nachos that he accidentally ate too many and almost threw up.
the entire thing is so silly and so genuinely fun that you don’t think about sitting in the alley alone as a kid even once. you’re laughing too hard to even remember.
and when you get home, your entire apartment is decked out this time and all your friends are jumping out at you the second you walk in, pressing warm kisses to your cheek and wishing you a happy birthday.
of course he did a surprise party. satoru rents out a karaoke machine, makes them all play a game about who knew you best (nanami won, satoru was pissed), made you open gifts, and brought you a real cake with frosting and candles on it.
and the entire thing makes you so happy, you could cry.
you stand by the half eaten cake as everyone winds down in the foyer, stuck in their own conversations. and the entire day, the entire ordeal that satoru went to plan this makes your heart squelch as you watch it in front of you.
but there’s some part of you. thirteen, fifteen, nineteen year old you that still sits in your head. that remembers that pitiful feeling of being alone on your birthday and convinces you that this is a one time thing.
that it’s the exception, not the rule. that your birthday is nothing to celebrate, still.
you feel a hand snake around your waist and a pair of lips on your neck as satoru wraps himself around you, his voice warm on your neck.
“did you enjoy today, birthday girl?”
“yeah. I love you, ‘toru. thank you.”
you lean to the side to press a kiss to his cheek, before you focus back in on megumi and nanami’s very intense chess game that’s going on.
“princess.”
“hm?”
“i know you. tell me what’s going on in that head. you wanted chocolate instead of red velvet, didn’t you?”
“well, when you put it like that-”
“red velvet and chocolate are the same. it’s just dyed a different color!”
you laugh as you turn around in his arms, knotting your knuckles together around his neck.
“no, satoru. you made it perfect and i loved every second.”
“then?”
“it’s just weird, love. i’m not sure how to explain.”
satoru leans down to put his hands around your waist and lift you up onto the counter. you’re both level height now, your face a few inches from him as you try your best to explain the block in your chest.
“i love that you did this for me, please don’t think i didn’t. but some part of me can’t help but feel less than right now.” you whisper, his eyes washing over in concern.
“less than what?”
“i just mean- this is the first time someone has done this for me and i-” you respond, your voice cracking as those hot tears fall out of your eyes.
he brings his hand up to your cheek, his touch warm.
“sweetheart. you know you deserve this right? big fancy birthday parties? breakfast in bed and handmade decorations and birthday cards?”
you can feel the tears pouring out of your eyes even harder at his words, his voice so soft that it makes every untouched wound in your mind hurt.
“i-i know everyone deserves it logically but it’s just been so many years and no-no one ever wanted to do it for me that i just-no one even cared and i still feel like they don’t-”
satoru brings his hands around your waist as he leans the majority of his frame into yours, his mouth hovering right by your ear. he’s whispering soft words into your ear as he tells you to calm down, his hands rubbing small circles into your back.
“y/n. your birthday is very special to me.”
you bring your hands up to your eyes as you wipe your tears away, pouting at him through the redness on your face.
“why’s that?”
“everyday, i’m grateful you were born. that you’re in my life, that you’re with me, that you’re in this world.”
he brings your knuckles up to his mouth as he presses a soft kiss, a beaming, warm smile on his face.
“the day you were born should always be celebrated. with this intensity, if not more. it’s another day that you, another year that you’re on this earth here with me. with us, living and breathing.”
he presses a kiss to your cheek before whispering the final words in your ear, that shatter your resolve completely.
“what is there not to celebrate, sweetheart? it’s just another year i got to spend with you. another year i get to watch you push on past what bothers you, to stay soft when everything around you is hard. another year you keep fighting. that is always, always something to celebrate.”
you wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into his hug, the hold so tight that you can physically feel the pressure in your chest. you must have stirred up some commotion with your crying because they’re all standing at your side now, irritated looks on all of their faces.
“you made her cry, asshole.” shoko says, rolling her eyes at him.
“you give us a whole lecture about how this day needs to be treated like a national holiday and then your dumbass made her cry?” suguru says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
you pull away from your hug, laughing at their insistence as satoru starts defending himself, and you can’t help but feel it.
excited for your birthday next year.
because you know satoru and you know he’s already planning out the ten miles for y/n month for the next year.
--
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Murder Dads
Hannigram x Child!reader
(Platonic Ofc)
Summary: Y/n had a good home life, that was until they found out it was all a lie. Fortunately, they had two people who treated them well and gave them the life they wanted.
(Nah bc I acc love the idea of this sm and I am PRAYING you all love it too-)
TW! Implied/Mention of kidnapping, mention of drugging, death, description of death/dead bodies, passing out, mention of/implied murder-suicide and mention of infertility.
~~~~
A loud crash from down the hall caused you to jolt upright in your bed. The cool air seeped through the thin cloth of your shirt as you stepped out from under the covers and locked the door across from your bed.
You jumped out your skin as footsteps raced up and down the hall, the slim line of light under your door slipped into your room, the faint shadow of two sets of shoes lingered outside. Heart racing quickly, you rushed to your wardrobe and hid between the tops and trousers piled in each corner.
A loud crash echoed throughout the room, the yellow candle light from the hallway chandelier leaked into the room, letting the dressers and cast aside shoes and toys bask in the beautiful glow.
“Search the room.” A tall man in a black jacket barked at a group of soldiers, giving them orders as they raced to check every spot in the room. Under the bed, behind the curtains, beneath dressers. Anywhere and everywhere.
But fear jolted through your body as one walked over and reached for the handle on the wardrobe. The bright white light of their torch as it flashed in your eyes made you flinch.
“Found the kid.” The soldier yelled over to the man, making the man in charge race over as they pulled you out.
You kicked and squirmed to get out of the soldiers grasp but couldn’t. The man in charge looked down at you, urging you to be calm.
“My name is Agent Crawford of the FBI. You have nothing to worry about, you’re safe now.” He smiled softly, not expecting the harsh kick to the stomach you gave him.
A single gunshot echoed down the hall as well as two thuds.
“Mama?” You called out.
Enough squirming finally became useful as the soldier loosened his grip to much and you ran off. Panting like a dog, you rushed down the hall until you got to the master bedroom. You came to a halt, seeing blood cover the hard wood floor and the body of your Mama and Papa sprawled out. A knife lay in your Papa’s hand, his grip slowly loosening and his eyes briefly glancing at you before softly gazing off into the distance.
The colour drained from your face as realisation set in.
As you tried to run over, a hand caught the back of your shirt. Tears spilled out your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as you fought against whoever was holding you back. You yelped quickly as they pulled you into their embrace holding you tightly against their chest. The slow rise and fall of their breathing calmed you slightly as they held you in place, not letting go no matter how hard you struggled.
Pain stung your soul as you were dragged away from the scene, watching everyone else allowed in. Everyone was able to see them except you. Their child.
“I’m going to set you down now, can you promise to not run?” The voice hummed through your body as they kept their hold on you. Their voice was soft but rough, round yet pointy, like the sharp end of a dull pencil. An accent as well. Not one you had heard before- or ever. It was pretty though.
A small nod was all they needed to trust you.
They gently set you down with a grunt and watched as you turned to face them. He was a well-dressed man, in his mid 50’s with greying hair and nice brown eyes. You gazed up at him and saw him reach for your face. Worry set in and you reacted the only way you knew how.
Fear and acceptance.
You clamped your eyes shut and braced for him to strike you. Instead he tussled your hair, his touched moving down to hold your shoulder.
“Theres no need to worry.” He started, bending slightly to be at your level. “You’re safe with me.”
You felt tears run down your face as you opened your eyes. Staring at him, a look of happiness settled as well as a soft smile as you hugged him. You clung to his midsection, feeling his arms embrace you, one hand tangling in your hair and the other rubbing your shoulder.
Someone gently cleared their throat from behind you, causing you to begrudgingly let go and turn. Another tall man, thinner framed than the one behind you, with casual clothes on, messy brown hair and thin rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Dr. Lecter, can I speak to you over here?” He asked.
A soft hum left Dr Lecter’s lips as he stepped around you and walked away with the other man.
Curiosity got the better of you as you spotted most police and FBI agents trying to get press away from the windows, giving you the opportunity to see your mama and papa.
Quickly and quietly, you waltzed into their bedroom, under the crime scene tape. You saw the blood that rolled from your mama’s lifeless body. Gallons seemed to have drained from the wound in her chest. Her eyes were cold, desolat of any feeling or emotion. She was half covered in a black bag, yellow pieces of paper with numbers in bold surrounded the cornered off area.
The floorboards screeched under your weight as you knelt next to her, brushed the bloodied hair off of her face. A sob left your lips as you looked at her. She always said she’d never leave you, not after the deal of issues she and papa had went through to get you. She made sure you knew she wouldn’t leave your side.
She hadn’t lied fully. You were beside her. She just didn’t know.
You hadn’t realised the river of tears sinking into your shirt and the amount of sobs that echoed in the room.
Heavy boots raced to your spot, grabbing you under your shoulders and dragging you out of the taped off area. Your body began trembling. The adults surrounding you watched and began trying to help you as you shook like a leaf in the wind. All their words blurred as you fell into someone’s arms.
~~~~~~~~
Your eyes opened slowly, analysing your surroundings. The soft beeping of a heart monitor, machines huddled around the twin bed, dull walls empty of anything other than scattered motivational posters.
A hospital room.
“Good. You’re awake.”
A gasp left your jaw agape as your gaze shot over to the speaker.
“My Name is Will Graham, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. We both work with the FBI and wanted to speak with you about your abductors.”
“Abductors.?”
Dr. Lecter folded his jacket and placed it on a chair beside him. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the guard on the edge of the bed. “The people in this drawing.”
He placed a sheet of brightly coloured paper on your lap. A crudely scribbled sketch of a family of three stretched across a plain sheet of paper with your name on the bottom left corner. The family was your mama, your papa and you.
“The perfect, happy family.” Your papa always said.
You listened closely as they began to explain who your ‘parents’ were.
Drug smugglers. Human traffickers.
Mafia boss father and mother who dabbled in modelling. They had wanted kids with each other since they met, but found out your mama was infertile.
That’s where you came into the equation. They saw you at the park with your family and just knew the three of you would be perfect together.
So, of course, they stalked you and your family. They found out your school, when your parents went to work, when you’d be alone with a nanny. Apparently, one day your old nanny went ‘missing’ so your parents hired a new one.
Dr. Lecter suspected that you were either unconscious when your parents were killed or suppressed the memory. You couldn’t remember it if you tried your hardest.
Your face contorted as you heard your mama and papa had drugged you with each meal to keep your their little angel.
Oblivious and innocent was what they wanted.
It was what they needed.
Your heart sunk as Mr Graham spoke about how your father had lost all their money in casinos and splurging on stuff he wouldn’t need.
To save himself and his wife from their investors hunting them down and spending hours torturing them before killing them, he decided to commit to a murder-suicide plan.
Turns out that Mr Graham had been the one to shoot your papa right as he had plunged the knife deep into your mama’s chest.
Your breath hitched as you thought about how horrible that must have been. Life of both yourself and your wife’s fading in front of you as an agent drags your child away. No chance to say goodbye. No nothing.
You sobbed into your palms as you held yourself still, threatening to tremble once again.
Dr Lecter placed a palm on your back, rubbing gentle circles into your skin and assuring you that ‘Everything would be okay in the end.’
For weeks you waited for that good end.
You were cooped up in that small hospital room for what felt like years until you were finally permitted to leave under supervision.
That supervision was, of course, Dr Lecter and Mr Graham.
When you were out they would take you to cafes and restaurants you liked, as well as clothes shopping and toy shops. They gave you everything you wanted.
Dr Lecter brought you to his house at some point too. He cooked for you and let you hang around his kitchen and watch. After some time Mr Graham came to the door, surprised to see you answer.
Will threw you over his shoulder, delivering you to Dr Lecter. He gently placed you down next to him before closing the oven door.
“Could you two set up the dining table for me? I forgot to do it earlier.” He said softly, going back to chopping up vegetables.
You and Will grabbed some cutlery and began placing things down where you were kinda sure they went. Needless to say, Dr Lecter had to rearrange them all.
After a lesson on how to set a table properly, you were allowed to start eating.
Hannibal smiled as he saw you happily chewing away. He hadn’t seen you smile properly before and he thought it was adorable, especially due to the fact that it was at his cooking. Such a small creature that had been through so much yet still had a smile on its face.
Will had taken notice as he watched you guzzle down your food. His gaze focussed on you before glancing at Hannibal, as if communicating with him. Hannibal looked back and smirked softly.
You looked at them as you finished your food, seeing that had been done for a while. A gentle apology left your mouth before Hannibal swiped yours and Will’s plates away.
Will walked towards you and took your hand in his, saying he had an amazing surprise for you. He guided you upstairs and to a door with a white sign on the handle,
‘Y/n’s Room’
You looked up at him, eyes shining with wonder and he opened the door.
The door rolled open with a loud creak and stopped just before hitting the wall. Will flicked on the light and presented a room- your new room. You quickly stepped inside and began to explore but stopped at a burgundy desk pressed up against the wall below a window.
On the desk was a paper with lots and lots of writing you would never read. You heard Hannibal’s footsteps come upstairs and stop at the doorway, watching with Will as you read the title of the sheet.
‘Adoption Papers for Y/N L/N’
~~~~~~~~
Finished Sunday 14th of January 2024 3:01 AM.
#nbc hannibal#will graham#hannibal lecter#hannigram#hannigram x reader#Hannigram x child!reader#hannibal x child!reader#will Graham x child!reader#will Graham x reader#Will Graham x hannibal Lecter#will graham x hannibal#daddy issues#I’m trying my best and it’s rlly late
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All Of Me
From the Love Letters Series
Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)
Jo struggles with her response to Rosie's first letter but later finds help in an unlikely friend with shared common ground. It's his second letter back-to-back, however, that stacks her worry like wobbly apple crates, ready to tumble at a moment's notice.
Read part 2 Here
Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist
October 1943
My Dearest Robbie,
Today is Halloween, so it would be remiss of me not to wish you a Happy one. I know you won’t be celebrating; not that we are either, but it’s still heartwarming to see some of the littles in the neighborhood running up and down the streets looking for sweets. I’m saving a Hershey bar for when you’re back, so that we can share it like we always do. The leaves have all turned by now, and Prospect Park is a beautiful shade of golden hues. I’ve taken to walking with your sister, as it fills a small void in my days. She’s excellent company, and somehow always has some local gossip at the ready for when I need cheering up. I couldn’t help myself and told her the story of your bicycling disaster. Please don’t be too mad at me. I hope that by now, you’ve learned to ride a bike properly, and that poor Pappy hasn’t had to fish you out of any more ditches. Please thank him for me, because I don’t know what I would have done if he had not been there to rescue you.
If I know you at all, I know that you’ve been hemming and hawing over the weather over there, but the longer it rains in England, the better I feel knowing you’re on solid ground. I’m glad to know you’re able to find some respite in the Officers Club, even if it’s just some jazz records and mediocre scotch. Good company can make all the difference and it warms my heart to know you have that in your crew and fellow officers. I’m putting my bet in now on Nash and the Red Cross girl. Having someone is important, so if he finds that in her, I’m glad for them both. Tell Pappy not to be so pessimistic though, I’m sure Nash will make her very happy.
Speaking of having someone waiting, I paid a visit to Harry Crosby’s wife, Jean. I thought she could use a friend, so we spent an afternoon in the city, having lunch and doing some shopping. It’s lonely enough moving to a new city, but with her husband overseas, I can’t imagine how she feels. I know how I feel waiting for you, and so she must feel it tenfold. With the holidays approaching, I’ve invited her to spend Thanksgiving with us. I couldn’t bear the idea of her spending it alone. She’s a darling woman, and I agree, we will have to double with her and Harry once you’re both home.
Sweetheart, how you could ever think that I will not worry about you while you’re over there, is a mystery. I will worry, and miss you, every single day until you’re back home. I will be holding you to that date, Robbie, and am counting the days until we’re on the dance floor, together. Until then…
Forever yours,
Jo
Reaching for the bottle of perfume on the dresser, Jo quickly spritzed a generous helping of the floral scent on the paper in her hand, to ensure it lasted the long journey, before folding it up and sliding it into its designated envelope. Carefully, and with a delicate hand, she addressed the letter to Thorpe Abbotts Airbase. She had received Rosie’s first letter earlier in the week, and had spent that time drafting multiple responses; all of which had ended up in the waste paper basket in the corner of her bedroom. She had spent three nights mulling it over, before deciding that she should clear her head, and write as if he was sitting next to her. Well, it was not so much her deciding as it was advice from Jean Crosby. If anyone had experience in writing these types of letters, it was Jean. And so, Jo had written as if Rosie was sitting next to her; as if he was leaning across the table and telling her the details of his latest adventure with enthusiasm, and she had written back with equal vigor.
Picking up the letter, and her purse, she made her way from the bedroom, downstairs to where her mother was having coffee with Mrs. Rosenthal. Entering the kitchen, both women ceased their discussion to greet her, her mother holding out an envelope for her.
“Josephine, this came in the mail for you.”
Jo gently plucked the envelope from her mothers hand, smiling when she saw the handwriting on the front was none other than Rosie’s. Carefully, she slipped it into her purse to read once she was alone.
“Another letter so quickly?” Her mother’s grin widened. “He must miss you terribly.”
“He doesn’t write to me that frequently,” Mrs. Rosenthal joked, sending a subtle wink in Jo’s direction. “But then again, he’s not in love with me.”
“Somehow, I think he’ll always love you most, Mrs. Rosenthal, and I’m quite alright with that.” Jo smiled.
“Where are you off to?” Her mother asked, noticing that she had her purse in hand.
“Off to post this to Robbie, and then to meet Jean Crosby for lunch.”
“Oh, well then, travel safely, and let her know she’s welcome to come here for dinner tonight if she wants.”
“I’ll let her know, mom,” Jo smiled, moving to bid her mother goodbye with a quick peck to the cheek, before doing the same with Mrs. Rosenthal. “Now, you two can go back to your gossip.”
“It’s not gossip, Josephine, if we’re talking about our children.” The older woman’s voice held a lilt to it as Jo exited the kitchen.
“Then stop planning our wedding!” Jo called back with a laugh as she exited their home and made her way out into the Brooklyn sunshine.
The fall air was chilly, but not unbearably so as she walked down the block to the Post Office, letter in hand and a prayer in her mind that it would reach Rosie safely. She knew that the post could be unreliable, and take time to reach those stationed overseas, but she hoped against all odds that maybe her letter would get to its intended recipient a little faster than all the rest. It was silly of her to think so, after all, she wasn’t the only woman in New York who was missing her sweetheart, but this was new to her. To both of them. Beginning a romance with thousands of miles between them. Some days Jo regretted not saying anything sooner, wondering if they would have had time before he shipped out. But, then she thinks to herself that they did have time; years together growing up, and learning the ways of each other inside and out, and for that she would always be thankful.
A short cab ride later, and Jo was knocking on Jean Crosby’s front door. When the door swung open, Jean on the other side, the two women greeted each other as if they were old friends. A kinship that was shared in the dark times of war, but somehow found a ray of light to brighten their days.
“Jo! I was starting to think you got lost!” Her friend teased.
“No,” Jo grinned, red lips stretched into a smile. “I had to stop by the post and drop off Robbie’s letter.”
“Finally finished it, then?”
“I did. And just in time to reply to the one I got this morning.”
“Back to back?” Jean looked at her, eyebrow raised in what Jo could only describe as concern.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jean sighed, stopping mid way of pulling her white gloves on, to face Jo with a serious expression.
“Well…”
“You don’t think…”
“The only time I get back to back letters from Bing, is when something bad is happening over there.”
“Jean…”
“If it came from him, he’s fine, honey.” she reached out, hand coming down over Jo’s in reassurance.
“It’s in my purse,” Jo confessed. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Do you want to go sit and read it before we leave?”
“I suppose I’d feel better if I knew for sure he was alright.”
Nodding, Jean pulled off her gloves, and dropped her purse back on the credenza by the door, before guiding Jo further into the house.
Once settled in the living room, Jean began to step away, to allow Jo the privacy that a letter from your man overseas deserved, when Jo’s hand shot out to stop her.
“Could you…?”
“Of course.” Jean smiled softly, settling into the sofa next to her, but with enough space not to read over her shoulder.
Jo carefully opened the envelope, fingers trembling as she slid the paper from its confines. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned over the paper quickly, before releasing a shuddering breath of relief.
“He’s alright,” her hand flew to her chest as the words escaped her. “He’s somewhere called the Flak House?”
“Never heard of that,” Jean looked confused. “What is it?”
My Dearest Jo,
Sweetheart, I can’t promise this letter will be as happy as my last one. What I can promise is that I’m alright, and spending the next week in the English countryside at a place called the Flak House. It’s a place used to help soldiers rest after rough missions. Jo, it’s been three rough ones, back to back, with what felt like no end in sight. I will spare you the details, because you shouldn’t have to read about all of the blood, and horrors, but I do sadly need to tell you that we lost Herbert Nash on the first mission. It happened so quickly, it didn’t register until I had my feet on the ground again. I broke the news to Helen, his Red Cross girl, and I pray that what I saw on her face, is something no one will ever have to see on yours.
One day, maybe, I will give you the details of our third mission, but for now, I know I should be counting my blessings. And enjoying this time, because sweetheart, this estate truly is something, but the kind of something I would want to be enjoying with you. Together, in the warm sun, reading our favorite books, or rowing on the lake. The boys are enjoying their week of R&R, but I can’t find it in me to relax. Though, I suppose you knew that already. Nobody knows me better than you, Jo, and it’s a time like this that I wish I had you near.
I couldn’t sleep, which is the reason for this letter, and I think a part of it is that I needed to make sure you knew I was alright. The other part of me, in some way, needed to get this all off my chest. I’m sorry for burdening you with these ugly truths. I’ll try not to do it often, and I hope that it doesn’t become a habit with every mission, that I’m left rattled to my core with fear. I can hear you telling me to take care of myself, and honey, I promise I’m trying. By the time this makes it to you back home, I will be long gone from my stay here, and back on base. I’m sorry for the short letter, darling. I promise the next one will be longer, and happier. Until then…
All of my love, always
Robbie
Jo finished reading, her stomach dropping as she turned to Jean, to confirm that the other woman had in fact, been right.
“Jo, what is it?”
“He couldn’t say much, spared most of the details, but he said it was rough up there.”
“Is he alright?”
“Robbie’s fine,” Jo confirmed. “But, Herbert Nash, is dead.”
“Oh that poor Red Cross girl!” She gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in shock. “Didn’t they just meet?”
“They did,” Jo nodded. “I told Robbie I was rooting for the pair in the letter I just posted.”
“How could you have known?”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sore over it.”
“I know you do,” Jean sympathized. The woman had enough sense to stand, and pull Jo up with her, knowing if she didn’t get them out of the house, her friend would likely spiral with worry. “Now come on, put that letter back in your purse, and let’s get out of the house for a bit.”
With a sigh, Jo nodded, and carefully put the letter back in the safety of her purse, before turning and following Jean towards the front door. For now, she could breathe easy, knowing that Rosie was safe. She knew that his mind was likely full of dark clouds, replaying events of the damage over and over, causing him grief and sadness; it brought with it a melancholy feeling that she wasn’t with him, and couldn’t be there for him to lean on. She knew he had his crew, and now, Harry Crosby, and she prayed that he had the sense to use that to his advantage.
Jo was grateful that she had Jean. Their afternoon out kept her mind off of the letter that was burning a hole in her purse, and the man who was an ocean away, suffering the loss of a friend. They had stopped by the Automat for lunch, before taking the train uptown for some window shopping, and at Jo’s insistence, a new hat for Jean. By the time she had gotten back home, her mother was already cleaning up dinner. Her father was in the living room, the radio on while he listened to the nightly news.
“Josephine, you missed dinner.” Her mother lamented at the sound of the front door closing behind her.
“I’m sorry, mom,” Jo sighed, entering the kitchen and sliding into one of the empty chairs. “We got a late start on our lunch.”
Turning from her spot at the sink, Mrs. Harris surveyed her daughter, before promptly shutting the water and moving to sit across from her.
“What happened? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Jean and I just had a busy day is all.”
“Josephine, don’t lie to me.” She spoke with the authority of a mother who meant business, and Jo couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from behind her eyes.
“Robbie’s letter,” she swiftly wiped away the first stray tear. “Oh mom, he lost one of his closest friends!”
Mrs. Harris let out a shuddering breath at Jo’s admission. The fear she had felt at the sight of her daughter's tears made her think the absolute worst for the young man who had become part of their family, and stolen her daughter’s heart.
“Who was it?” Mrs. Harris asked.
“Herbert Nash. He trained with Robbie in Texas, and he was killed on their first mission.”
“May his soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Harris made the sign of the cross.
“Robbie said it was so bad, three flights, back to back. He didn’t say much else, just that it was too much blood and horror to share.”
“Jesus, that poor boy.”
Jo fished the letter from her purse, sliding it across the table to her mother, giving a small nod for her to read it.
“Are you sure you want me to?”
“Just the once.” Jo smiled slightly.
“Well, alright then.”
Mrs. Harris pulled the paper from the envelope, and then the only sound in the room was the breathing of mother and daughter, and the muffled sound of the radio coming from the living room. The pair sat together until Jo’s mother folded the paper back up, and handed it back to her. The silence was growing thicker the longer they sat there, neither sure of what to say. When Jo’s father joined them in the kitchen, the two women seemed to snap out of their daze.
“What’s going on in here then?”
“She’s got another letter from Robert.”
“Didn’t you just get one? Is he alright?”
Jo nor her mother missed the recognition in Mr. Harris’ eyes. Having served in The Great War, he knew what could be in any one of the letters his daughter received, and he hoped for her sake, that none of them would make her cry the way she was now.
“He’s fine. Lost a man during his first mission, and was sent to an estate for rest.” Her mother filled him in for her.
“Jesus, already? Didn’t the boy just get over there?” Her father looked shocked.
“He said it was really bad, dad.” Jo spoke up, finding her voice again.
“Well, the best thing you can do is be there for him, even though you’re far away right now.” Her mother let her hand fall to cover hers, eyes filled with the understanding of a woman whose husband had been away once before.
“Your mother was what kept me going during the war,” Her father agreed. “I can promise you, Robert will take your words with him up there when he’s flying.”
“Go now,” her mother ushered her out of the kitchen. “Clean yourself up and write him back. You’ll sleep better tonight knowing you got your feelings out.”
She felt heavy as she stood from her chair, her legs like lead as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, numbness encompassing her until she had the door shut securely behind her. The words blood and horror swirling around in her mind over and over, like the edges of a cyclone that showed no signs of slowing down. Is that what this was? A storm that would continue to speed up, with nothing to stop it, until the last bomb was dropped, the last round fired? She wasn’t sure, but she turned the ideas over and over, words sticking together in her head as she changed for bed, removed her makeup, until finally, she pulled out the chair at her desk to begin her reply to Rosie.
My Dearest Robbie,
Sweetheart, I don’t think there are enough words for me to express just how sorry I am for you after opening your last letter. To lose Nash so quickly, and in such a way. I hope that it didn’t pain you too deeply to break that news to his Red Cross sweetheart, and that she is able to find some happiness again soon. Do not apologize for the length of your last letter. Every letter from you is something I treasure, whether it’s three words, or three pages. I will always reply, so long as you’ll have me.
I’d like to hear more about the Estate you spent the week at, if you’re willing to talk about it. It does sound like the kind of place I would love to spend time with you, though, anywhere you are, is somewhere I want to be. Maybe we can escape somewhere lush and green once you return, and spend our days under the sun, with nothing but time on our hands. Until then, yes, you were right, I do wish you’d take care of yourself. I know you will, but that sometimes it takes a bit of pushing. Don’t try and shoulder the burden all alone, Robbie. You have people who will shoulder it with you; Pappy isn’t just your co-pilot in the sky. Try and remember that.
I’d like to try and make you smile, if only for a moment. I found our mothers gossiping at the kitchen table this afternoon as I headed out. They claim it’s not gossip if they’re talking about their children; I suspect they’re plotting as usual. Speaking of your mother, try and squeeze in an extra letter for her, if you can. She misses you, though she claims to be alright with you writing to me more than her, I know she’d appreciate an extra piece of mail and to know you’re doing well. Don’t give her too much grief for the gossip, you know she can’t help it.
I’m counting the days until you’re here again, Robbie, and we can carry on as we were meant to; together. Until that time comes, I’m sending you all of my love.
All of me, always
Jo
Read Part 4 Here
A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!
Tag List: @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @rosiesriveter @bobparkhurst @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @rowdy-redhead @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd @basilone @at-1800-hours @justheretoreadthxxs @claireelizabeth85
#masters of the air#love letters: rosie & jo#mota fanfic#rosie rosenthal x ofc#rosie rosenthal fic#robert rosenthal x ofc#rosie rosenthal x oc#nate mann#hbo war#Gina baker writes
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Too Cute | Saigiku Jouno
MATERLIST ┊BSD MASTER LIST
WC; 1.9k+┊!MDNI! ┊TW; Fem!reader! X jouno saigiku, reader is implied to be shorter than jouno, and is wearing a skirt. Grinding, cumming in panties, praising, teasing + more
REQUEST; Hi I love your work and was wondering if you could write a smut fic about Jouno from bsd where you have a crush on him and ofc he knows but he teases you until smut ensues ❤️
@sangsangsang320
It was always believed that members of the Hunting Dogs possessed an uncanny intelligence, but I never imagined that Jouno would catch on to the fact that I harbored a massive crush on him. It all began with subtle gestures that hinted at his awareness.
He began suggesting joint missions with me, which initially didn't strike me as odd, but the frequency of these proposals started to raise eyebrows. It reached a point where, without fail, he would volunteer himself as my partner before anyone else had the chance to speak up during mission assignments. The pattern became so consistent that it was impossible for me to dismiss it as mere coincidence.
Today was no exception; he offered himself once again with that signature closed-eye smile, and his teasing gaze locked onto me. Despite my efforts to maintain composure, my cheeks betrayed me, flushing with embarrassment. Desperate to escape the teasing banter, I averted my gaze, hoping to avoid any more playful remarks from Jouno. Little did I know, my attempt to evade his teasing only seemed to fuel his mischievous spirit.
As I shifted my focus away, I could sense Jouno's amusement lingering in the air. His teasing remarks were like a playful dance, orchestrated with a mix of humor and undeniable charm. "Shy today, aren't we?" he remarked, his voice laced with a subtle teasing tone that only deepened the shade of red on my cheeks.
Unable to escape the good-natured ribbing, I mustered a half-hearted smile. "Just focusing on the mission," I mumbled, attempting to brush off the attention.
Jouno's relentless pursuit of amusement continued, and as he caught my attempt to evade his gaze, he flashed a sly grin. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone light and teasing. "Oh? Are you mad at me? Come on, you can't look away from me forever."
I couldn't help but roll my eyes playfully at his comment. "Mad? Please, Jouno, I have better things to do than getting mad at your endless teasing," I retorted, trying to mask the subtle amusement in my own voice.
He chuckled, the sound carrying a warmth that seemed to dissipate any lingering tension. "Well, I can't resist teasing you. It's just too much fun," he admitted, his gaze holding a glint of mischief.
As the mission unfolded, Jouno's teasing became a rhythmic background to our actions. It was as if he found a secret pleasure in unraveling my composure, and I couldn't deny the strange allure it added to our partnership.
At times, his comments bordered on the edge of flirtation or more so, was flirting, leaving me to wonder if there was more to his teasing than met the eye. Was it just his way of injecting humor into our missions, or did it carry a subtle undercurrent of something more?
I had initially dismissed Jouno's teasing as just a facet of his playful personality, convincing myself that it was nothing more than harmless banter. However, despite my best efforts to maintain a professional front, I found myself succumbing to feelings that transcended the boundaries of camaraderie. Long before these feelings took root, Jouno's demeanor hadn't been particularly flirtatious or teasing.
It was only after my emotions started to evolve that his behavior took a noticeable turn. It became apparent that he was aware of the shift in dynamics between us, and rather than concealing it, he embraced the change with an extra layer of flirtation. It left me wondering how he had uncovered my hidden feelings, especially since I hadn't confided in anyone about them.
As we navigated missions together, the air between us crackled with a different kind of tension—one that went beyond the challenges we faced as members of the Hunting Dogs. Jouno's overt flirting, once subtle, became a palpable force, leaving me grappling with the unspoken complexities of our evolving connection.
The feelings that welled up inside me were undeniably real, manifesting as a warm, bubbling sensation in the pit of my stomach every time Jouno drew near. It was more than just a fleeting attraction; it was a visceral response to his presence, his proximity stirring emotions that I had never felt before.
Jouno's genuine interest in me only deepened these sentiments. Whether he was leaning in to catch my words or taking the time to teach me things without a hint of condescension, it created a unique connection. Unlike others, he managed to impart knowledge without making me feel inferior or foolish.
"You're too cute trying to figure things out," He blatantly says with a smile and heat rushes to my cheeks, and I find myself instinctively hiding my face in my hands as if shielding myself from the intensity of his gaze and the implications of his words.
Amidst the laughter that followed from Jouno, he didn't let up. Instead, he seized the opportunity to playfully nudge me further out of my comfort zone. "Aw, don't be shy now," he teased, his tone light and teasing. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, but your blush is absolutely adorable."
"S-Stop," I muttered, my voice a soft plea, attempting to evade Jouno's lidded gaze. His teasing persisted, his words like a gentle, relentless cascade that only intensified the heat in my cheeks.
"See," he teased once more, his tone playful. "Too cute."
Before I could muster a response, his hand cupped my face, tilting it to meet his gaze. The directness of his touch caught me off guard, and the proximity of our faces heightened the intensity of the moment. I felt the heat on my face reach a new level, and my heart began to race.
"May I?" Jouno asked, slightly tilting his head, and my eyes widened at the implication in his question. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation as I slowly nodded my head, my response barely a wordless gesture.
"I need words, darling," he insisted, his mouth now inches away from mine. My breath caught, and the lump in my throat made it challenging to form a coherent response.
"Yes," I whispered, the word escaping me in a hushed admission. Jouno, seemingly satisfied with my verbal consent, closed the remaining distance, pressing his soft lips against mine.
His kiss held a tenderness that caught me off guard. The world around us blurred as the connection deepened, each heartbeat echoing the newfound intimacy between us.
Jouno pulled away, I let out a shaky breath, still in shock at the unexpected turn of events. However, before I could fully process the situation, his lips pressed against mine once more. This time, a surge of intensity accompanied the kiss as his tongue slipped into my mouth, causing me to gasp in surprise.
I instinctively placed my hands on his chest, seeking stability in the midst of the swirling emotions. The kiss deepened, and the world around us seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his lips on mine and the rhythmic beating of our hearts.
I found myself surrendering to the moment, the initial shock giving way to a cascade of emotions. The heat of the kiss ignited a fire within, and any reservations I may have had melted away in the shared intimacy.
Jouno's body towered over mine and my hands gripped tightly against the red uniform we were assigned to wear. I didn't know how we got here but I was sitting on the desk of our client, my legs wrapped around his waist as Jouno's hands trailed everywhere over my body and I was too in shock to even move.
I felt a cool hand travel up the midst of my thigh causing another breathy gasp to leave my glossy lips, which by now, the clear gloss that I had on would have definitely disappeared by now. "Can I touch you, pretty?" Jouno breathes sighs into my mouth.
"Please," I sigh into his mouth and one of my hands moves to entangle itself in his dual-coloured hair. Giving the strands an accidental tug when Jouno presses the kisses deeper into my mouth, he lets out a moan into my mouth, and my cunt throbs at the sound, wanting to hear more.
"I'll make you feel so good, pretty."
His hand moved further up my thigh and his thumb made its place on my sensitive clit making me whimper into his mouth, causing him to smirk at the action. I squirm agasint him as his thumb presses and makes endless circles around my sticky bud.
"Look at you, writhing agasint me," He whispers into my neck, breaking away from the kiss, leaving hot and sticky wet kisses over my exposed skin on my neck. I bury my head into his warm chest and he lets out a chuckle before speaking once more.
His free hand that had explored my body, squeezing my plushy tits and thighs, playing and tugging at my sensitive, perky nipples had moved to slide up my neck. Jouno's grip agasint my neck had caused me to look up at him and he too had flushed cheeks. "There we go," He teases. "I got you looking at me, pretty."
I tugged myself closer into him and his hard prodded at my clothed pussy making not only I moan but Jouno let out a moan as well. "You like this, don't you?" He questions teasingly, grinding his bulge into my soaked pussy.
"Ngh," I whimper out breathless. "'M do."
Feeling a coil in my stomach get tighter I bury my head back into his chest embarrassed, but also wanting to feel closer to him. My clothed cunt throbs agasint his hard bulge and I knew he could feel it too. A string of moans left my throat when he started to play with my clit faster, my legs tried to close but were stopped by his body in between my legs.
"You're getting close, aren't you, pretty?"
"Jouno, please," I whimper out.
"Of course you can, pretty," Jouno moans out. "You're doing so good for me, how could I not let you come?"
His praise tipped me over the edge, throwing my arms tightly around his neck as a whimper ripped from my throat and a guttural moan left Jouno's mouth as he came. He brought his finger out from my skirt and I pulled away from him breathing heavily, my eyes catching sight of the wet patch deeply painted on the bulge of his pants.
"You're cute when you come," Jouno teases finally and I place my head in the palms of my head embarrassed when I see Jouno lick his come-stained fingers with his tongue.
"I'm going to pretend that I didn't walk in on this," Tecchou's voice calls out from the door.
Do not copy, steal, modify, etc.
Relogs and like are appreciated.
M A S T E R L I S T | BSD MASTER LIST
Requests are open :)
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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 7
Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |-| Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11
AO3
Summary: As they continue their stay at Coombe House, Rosie and Frankie find themselves ever more drawn to one another
Warnings: Language, mild injury description (blood), tension that makes me want to rip my own eyes out??? i think that counts
Word Count: 3.5k
Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58
The chirp of crickets filled the air, a warm afternoon breeze blowing the grass this way and that as the Riveters played in the river, laughing and shouting as they splashed one another from the comfort of their rowing boats beneath the glow of the midday sun. People had warned Rosie about the temperamental British weather before he'd left Brooklyn, but it seemed the heavens had made an exception for their trip. Considerate, really.
Frankie had laid out a picnic blanket on the grassy slope overlooking the water, a half-eaten packet of crackers and a battered copy of The Young Visiters lying in her wake, the book so well-worn that its cover was halfway hanging off. The only problem was that Frankie herself was nowhere to be found, and Rosie sat quietly beside her blanket like a dog awaiting its master, thumbing the corner of his book, unable to finish a whole page without looking around for any sign of her.
The sound of footsteps muffled by the soft ground caught his attention, craning his neck to watch her bounding up behind him. She was wearing a stark red blouse and a pair of shorts that ended just above the knee, and for a moment he had to stop himself from staring at her legs as Frankie crouched beside him. Letting out a grunt, she tucked her feet beneath her as she sat down, holding out the teacup she had been carrying. "Here. Drink this."
It didn't even occur to Rosie to question her demand until he had upturned the cup, a foul, acrid taste stinging his tongue. Swiftly spitting whatever the disgusting liquid was back into its cup, he spluttered in revulsion. "What in God's name is that?!"
Frankie guffawed, a pink flush tinting her cheeks. "Pappy got distracted and accidentally poured his juice and his coffee into the same cup."
"So naturally you had to bring it straight out here to make me drink it?"
"Of course," She nodded as if it were obvious, rolling over to lie on her stomach, feet crossed over and swinging back and forth in the air. "In my defence, I'm only here so that I'll feel better, and that did work."
Rosie couldn't help but smirk, even in spite of the bitter taste that coated his tongue. Pilfering one of her crackers, he turned back to his book, shaking his head in silent, teasing disapproval. He assumed she had taken up reading herself, but instead, she began letting out a low, tutting sound, shaking her head. "Fuckin' horse riding?"
Putting down his book once again, he frowned down at her. "I thought you liked it here - are you still complaining about 'rich people hobbies'?" He raised a hand in quotation, mimicking her own words.
"I just don't get it," She continued to shake her head, watching the riders with narrowed eyes. "I mean - buy a bike? Cheaper. Don't have to feed it. Bikes also don't shit all over the place - I almost stepped in some on my way over here." The distaste was thick in her tone, and he couldn't help but smile, even as he scoffed in disbelief.
"You're so biased."
"I just don't think you have to spend obscene amounts of money to have a good time - if anything, I'm frugal."
"I can see that - you've read that book half to death, the poor thing."
"I think it's funny. At least I don't read depressing books about poor people dying like you," Frankie chuckled, jabbing a finger at his copy of Of Mice and Men. "Not exactly therapeutic."
"She's so judgy!" Rosie declared, lying backwards in the grass beside her blanket so that they could actually see each other's faces. A grin was plastered across his face, stuck still as he looked up at her - at the way the corners of her eyes creased when she laughed, and how her smile was always ever-so-slightly lopsided. She stared back at him, a twinkle in her eyes as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Hi," Frankie spoke sweetly.
"Hello."
It was silent for a long moment, their eyes locked, gentle smiles creasing their cheeks. Rosie felt the sudden urge to lean in.
"Hey, Frankie!" Bailey's voice rang from down in the river. He raised his head to look down the hill to the water, where Pappy was whispering something too quiet for him to hear, seemingly telling off the younger pilot for his interruption.
Frankie missed this part, too busy scrambling to her feet so she could descend the slope, anxious to hear what Bailey had to say. Rosie sighed, his head lolling back into the grass. Sometimes he was glad he was such a peaceful man, otherwise he swore he could've wrung Bailey's neck.
"Yeah, what's up?" She asked as she reached the edge of the water, the breeze blowing her hair out of place. Bailey paddled closer, ignoring Pappy's glare as he muttered his response to a conversation she hadn't heard the rest of.
"What? I'm allowed - he doesn't get a monopoly just because he fancies her," The man frowned, looking up at her with a smile as he approached. "Tennis rematch this afternoon?"
Frankie pushed his first statement out of her mind with a shrug. "Absolutely. Prepare to be destroyed," She grinned, shaking hands on the deal.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Bailey and Frankie were both equally dreadful at tennis. His serves barely ever made it across the net, and she frequently tripped on her own feet whilst scrambling to return the ones that did. They spent most of their matches yelling at each other in frustration, and the staff at Coombe House frequently had to tell them off for disturbing the other residents. But the pair were determined to get a single good game in before the end of their stay.
They'd been going for an hour. They had made no more than four successful passes in all that time, and at some point Frankie had skidded on her knee, grazing the skin and leaving a thin rivulet of blood running down her shin. "Fuck!" She yelled, just clipping the ball with the edge of her racket as it zipped past her, hitting the fence with a thud.
"You sure you wanna keep going?" Bailey called from across the court, eyeing the wound on her leg as she scrounged for the ball, which had rolled under a nearby hedge.
"I don't wanna stop until we get a proper back-and-forth going," She shook her head, wiping dirt off of the ball onto her shorts as she poised for another serve.
Rosie wandered the path past the tennis courts, his footsteps crunching against the gravel, altogether too distracted as he neared the end of his book to notice the chatter rising over the hedge before a familiar voice let out a whoop. Using his thumb to mark the page, he descended the stone steps leading down to the courts, spying the pair on the furthest of the three, tucked out of the way of the other players. They had finally gotten a rhythm going, letting out wordless exclamations of joy whenever they managed to successfully bat the ball back across the net, laughter mingling with the incessant sound of rackets colliding with the ball.
"Hey, you got it!" He cried, teeth bared in a grin.
"SHUT UP!" The pair yelled simultaneously, desperate not to break their concentration. Rosie chuckled, his smile fading slightly as he noticed Frankie's injury, the top layer of skin on her right knee now a bright patch of red, blooming with blood as it pooled in droplets on the surface.
"Gotta keep it up Rosie, I'm winning!" Bailey declared gleefully, sending the ball spinning back towards Frankie, narrowly missing the net.
"You're winning?" She cried, diving forward to return it, almost losing her balance but managing to clear the net. "Are you fucking blind?!"
"Hey, Frank, are you ok?" Rosie called, thumbing the corner of his book. Another line of blood had begun to seep down past her kneecap.
"It's nothing," Frankie sent the ball spinning towards Bailey, but he was just too slow, and it soared past his head into the shrubs. She let out a shriek, racket held above her head in victory. "See! I win!"
"Alright, alright," Bailey shook his head in defeat, crouching down to rummage for the lost ball. "Just go clean yourself up, it's distracting."
"Thank you," Rosie agreed with a nod. She held her racket out to him as he approached, and he accepted it without a second thought, only realising after a moment that he had no idea what to do with it. But by then Frankie was already at the top of the steps, peering down at her bloody knee. "C'mon, let's go in," He said as he caught up, discarding the racket upon a nearby bench, his palm skimming across her back as he guided her towards the house.
As nasty as the graze appeared, Frankie appeared completely unphased, a testament to the roughhousing games she had played as a girl. They made their way through the halls of Coombe House, the staff shooting her a few sideways glances, largely in fear of having to clean any blood out of the antique rugs. He followed her up the main staircase and through to their corridor, making a beeline for the shared bathroom at the end of the hall.
Frankie entered without a word, perching herself on the edge of the porcelain bathtub and hiking up her leg, leaving a muddy footprint on the clean, white rim as she attempted to pull out a few tiny stones with her fingers.
"Stop it!" Rosie seized her wrist, wrenching her hand away and shooting her a confounded look as he crossed towards the sink to wash his hands.
"I can do it," She whined, throwing up her hands.
"Not after trying that shit - you're banned from trying," He shook his head, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Frankie almost snorted with laughter at how serious he was taking their present situation. Rosie took a moment of silent consideration before leaving the room in search of a first aid kid, and she let out a long sigh, tapping her foot impatiently against the polished wood floor.
By the time he returned, there was a white towel crumpled on the floor, stained scarlet by the blood she had wiped away with it. "Who raised you?" He scoffed, crouching down on the floor in front of her, tossing the stained towel aside.
"Speaking of, you should meet my dad," Frankie grinned, kicking off her dirty shoe and placing her foot in his lap as instructed. "You'd like him."
Rosie began to disinfect the wound, carefully removing the debris, and she fought the urge to wince at the stinging sensation. "I'm sure I would, he raised you," The words came forth faster than he could process them, and for a moment he paused, one hand hovering above her injury, the other gripping the bare skin of her calf to keep her from moving. Their position wasn't compromising per se, but it wasn't exactly proper either. Nevertheless, the sudden thought of someone intruding on them made him squirm, and he got up to lock the bathroom door without a word.
Frankie's brow raised at this, the sudden, deliberate movement raising all sorts of questions. "God, this is taking an interesting turn," She blurted, internally cringing at the type of subtly-suggestive jokes the boys she used to work with in the garage liked to make.
He turned back to look at her. "... Were you just flirting with me?"
"I think so, yes."
Rosie frowned, considering this very seriously as she searched his expression for some indication of how he felt. "... Hm." Without another word, he resumed his place in front of her, beginning to dress her knee.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Frankie was almost irritated, but she could feel the sweat clamming his palms as they touched her bare skin and suddenly he wasn't as calm as he seemed. She fought to hide her smirk as he finished dressing the graze, nodding in satisfaction at his work. "There." His voice was quieter than usual, unsteady.
"Thanks," She spoke hurriedly, her perch on the edge of the bathtub becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Pushing herself up to stand, Frankie bent down to grab the blood-stained towel off of the floor. "Oh, I'll clean that before it stains-"
"No, that's ok, I can do it," Rosie assured her, seizing its other side. Neither of them was quite looking the other in the eye.
"You sure? I mean, it's my mess, I really don't mind-"
"I'm sure."
Frankie nodded slowly, letting her grip on the towel slip away. "Alright then," She turned to the door, unlocking it with a click, and by the time Rosie looked back to where she had been, she was gone. His heart had been thumping in his chest, too fast for comfort, and only once he was alone could he heave in a long, steady breath to slow it down. Glancing down at the floor, he chuckled.
She had forgotten her shoe.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Steam filled the bathroom, rising to the ceiling and coating the windows in a film of grey as Rosie sank beneath the hot water, revelling in the feeling as it covered him completely, the feeling of warmth seeping through his skin as if it wished to take rest within his very bones. He splashed a handful across his face, blinking away the droplets on his eyelashes as he let out a sigh, leaning back against the side of the tub.
Frankie had spent almost all of last night's dinner talking about her tennis match with Bailey, hardly sparing him a second glance. He knew he shouldn't have taken issue with it - she was friends with all of the flight crew by now - but he found himself staring, as if waiting desperately for her to meet his eye. He hadn't seen her at breakfast at all. She deserved the lie in - that's what he told himself. But it was becoming increasingly impossible for Rosie to think about anything else.
The bathroom door swung swiftly open and shut, and he slid downwards until the water reached his chin, desperately trying to cover the most indecent parts of himself. He could've sworn he'd locked that door. It was almost midday, but Frankie was still in her pyjamas, brow furrowed as she read the newspaper she was holding in one hand, a glass of orange juice and a cigarette steadily burning away in the other. By the look of her, she hadn't realised he was there at all, taking a seat upon the closed toilet lid as she used the light of the windows to read by.
“Morning,” She spoke nonchalantly, such a calm acknowledgement of his naked presence that it was almost more jarring than the intrusion itself. For a moment Rosie could do nothing but gape, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish as he searched for something to say.
"... Do you mind?"
Her gaze flitted away from the newspaper and met his eyes for a moment. He shrank farther below the surface of the water, praying to God she couldn't see anything below the rim of the tub. Her expression showed no recognition of what he was referring to. After a moment of silence, Frankie shrugged. “Nothing I haven't seen before.”
“It's everything you haven't seen before!” Rosie cried, almost bolting upwards again before remembering what was happening.
"No, but like. In general," She was peering back down at her newspaper, finishing off her juice. Her cigarette was almost entirely burnt out, but she took one last puff before tossing it into the empty glass as if it were an ashtray.
He blinked slowly. "Frankie. Why are you here."
"Sun's on this side of the house," Frankie replied as if it were a normal answer to give - as if her room didn't have electric lighting, as if she weren't sitting a mere ten feet away from his nakedness. Even in a bathroom as huge as this one, it was making him nervous. She seemed to be able to sense it. "D'you want me to leave?"
"Yes. I think so."
She nodded, standing up to go, her eyes still locked on the paper as she made for the door. Before he even knew what he was saying, he spoke. "Wait."
Frankie looked up, smiling slightly at the way his head peeked over the edge of the bathtub, his cheeks flushed bright red. "You don't have to... if you don't want to. I mean, as long as you're not lookin'-"
"I didn't come in here with the intention of staring at your arse, Captain," She shook her head, chuckling as she returned to her perch.
"Why did you?"
"I told you. Good lighting."
He shook his head. It sounded like bullshit to him. But if it was the story she was sticking with, Rosie wasn't going to keep prying. "Just throw me a towel, will ya?" He shook his head, reaching an arm out to catch it as she tossed one across the room from where they had been stacked beside the radiator.
Frankie kept her word, turning her back as he rose out of the still-warm water, wrapping the towel around his waist as a single, wet curl dangled in front of his face.
"Uh. Frankie?"
"Hm?"
"You're sitting next to my clothes."
He'd left them folded in a pile on the floor where they couldn't get wet, which just so happened to now be right next to her feet. She bent down, snatching the pile and holding it out to him, her gaze still purposely fixed on her reading. But as he reached out to take it, his belt slid from atop his shirt, landing on the floor with a clatter.
"Shit," Frankie muttered, and the pair moved to retrieve it simultaneously. She caught a glimpse of him and for a moment she froze, her face heating up and turning a fierce red. "Uh, no, this is weird, I'm just gonna... go."
Leaping to her feet, she began hurriedly making to leave, gaze fixed on the door handle to prevent it from wandering anywhere near him. Rosie nodded hurriedly, attempting to shrug on his shirt whilst still holding up the towel with one hand. "I'm sorry," He blurted, although what he was apologising for he couldn't quite say.
The moment he spoke, she turned on her heel, tossing her newspaper onto the floor. She'd been back and forth across that room so many times she was starting to feel dizzy. Or maybe it wasn't that. Her heart was beating too fast for her body, and she let out a huff of air as she crossed the room towards him, taking his damp face in her hands. Rosie's chest rose and fell over and over as he stared back at her, their noses almost touching from the closeness.
She wasn't sure she'd ever seen eyes so... blue.
His breath hitched in his throat as she tilted her head upwards, their lips in line with one another's. He'd barely have to move to kiss her now, warm breath fanning his cheek.
A knock came at the door, and Frankie pulled away so fast it was as if she'd been electrocuted, unable to breathe as she waited for whoever was outside to speak.
"Sergeant Bevan?" The voice of one of the staff members came, a warm, American lilt to her greeting. "There's a call for you downstairs."
She swallowed hard, her throat so dry it hurt. "I'll be there in a sec," Frankie called in return, her words shaky. Pausing for a moment, entirely unmoving, she broke the stillness with a firm nod, reaching for her stuff as she stepped towards the door.
"Frankie, wait," Rosie whispered, moving to follow, careful not to speak loud enough for the woman outside to hear. "Just wait a sec, can we-"
"I need to go," She met his eyes, and for a moment he was drowning in the sheer indecipherable nature of her expression. Her thoughts had always been a mystery to him, and now was no different.
He stepped behind the door as she opened it, obscuring himself from the view of anyone outside, fighting the urge to reach out to her as she left. The door closed behind her with a gentle click, and then he was alone, the room feeling suddenly twice as large and empty as it had before. Rosie let out a deep breath, pressing his forehead against the wood with a faint thud.
"... Dammit."
#masters of the air#masters of the air oc#masters of the air fic#rosie rosenthal#rosie rosenthal x oc#mota oc#mota fic#frankie x rosie#oc: frankie#pappy lewis#charles bailey#fic | i'm your man
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