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venus-haze · 8 months

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Under My Skin (Black Noir x Reader)

Summary: Just when you think you don’t have a chance with Black Noir, an investor gala gives you a new opportunity to get under his skin.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request and also the song I’ve Got You Under My Skin. I’m so glad I’ve finally gotten a chance to write for Black Noir! Pre-season 1 where you’re in The Seven. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: None. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

The piece of paper on the table in front of you was mocking you. Black Noir had already won three out of the four tic-tac-toe matches you were silently engaged in during The Seven’s daily briefing, and with the way things were going, he was poised to win a fifth. With a huff, you drew a hopeless circle and silently slid it back to Noir.

“Nightowl,” Homelander said.

You looked up, bringing your attention to him.

“Great work on the team-up with Noir the other night.”

Noir slid the paper back to you, his tic-tac-toe win marked with a clean line, but he’d also drawn a smiley face.

You smiled. “Anytime.”

Homelander continued on, and you only half paid attention, your focus increasingly on the man sitting beside you. Even before you joined The Seven, you admired Noir for his stealth and prowess, something you aspired to. Upon your first team-up, it was clear your powers, most effective at night, complimented his incredibly well. Plus, he seemed to like you from the start, which put you in Homelander’s good graces most of the time.

Absentmindedly, you drew a little heart on the paper, feeling your face heat up when you saw Noir’s head turned toward you. He didn’t acknowledge the drawing, instead beginning a new game of tic-tac-toe. Embarrassment flooded your chest, blood rushing in your ears. You hoped he didn’t think you were being weird.

“Last thing…” Homelander said, reading off the agenda. “Oh yeah, investor gala this weekend.”

“Great, another ass-kissing convention,” Maeve mumbled.

“Can we make sure shrimp cocktail isn’t served this time?” The Deep asked. “I just feel like—“

Homelander’s jaw clenched. “Jesus Christ, do I look like a caterer, Deep? Am I carrying around a silver platter–”

After a few more moments of bickering, Homelander ended the meeting, not without everyone still grumbling under their breath about the gala. No one particularly liked schmoozing over rich assholes, but they made your lucrative paychecks possible, so it was a necessary evil.

You and Noir hadn’t finished the last round of your game, but when he left, he took the paper with him.

You sighed. You knew you had it bad for him, but it was tough to gauge his feelings for you when his face was constantly covered by his mask. Even when you blatantly flirted, he seemed unaffected by your advances toward him. Of course you’d fall for this mystery of a man, the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Your endeavor was starting to feel hopeless.

“So, when are you gonna make a move on Noir?” Homelander asked, walking out of the meeting room with you. “And don’t give me that ‘we just work together’ bullshit. The tension’s so thick I could laser through it.”

“You can laser through anything.”

He rolled his eyes, a slight smile on his face. “Look, there’s only so long I can take the two of you making heart-eyes at each other. I mean, get a room.”

“He makes heart-eyes at me?” you asked softly.

“Yes, so do something about it already.”

“Maybe at the gala. Everyone’s there to see you, anyway.”

“That’s true. No one would really notice if you and Noir weren’t there,” he said, before giving you a slightly painful pat on the shoulder. “Well, except me if you’re loud enough.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Thanks, Homelander.”

You never took his comments like that to heart. You knew you weren’t one of the more interesting members of The Seven, especially compared to the likes of Homelander and Maeve. It was a blessing in disguise, as you ended up stuck doing far less schmoozing than they did. Homelander could hide his disdain for whoever Vought wanted him to entertain for the evening, but on more than one occasion, you’d been on the receiving end of his rant about “pandering to the mud people.”

Noir always showed up to these events, despite not interacting with anyone unless it was to get food. Once in a while, you’d watch as someone tried to start a conversation with him, only to be ignored before awkwardly making an excuse to leave. At least he’d give you the time of day, silently letting you people watch with him, acknowledging your observations about the various guests with a nod, or on rare occasions, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly when you’d said something funny. You always felt especially accomplished then.

The night of the gala was only nerve-wracking because you were finally going to be forward with Noir and see where that got you, rather than your tentative approach in the past.

When you arrived on the floor where the investor gala was being held, you went through all of the necessary introductions as quickly as you could. Across the room, Black Noir was playing the piano, as he tended to do during crowded events. You’d asked him before where he learned to play, and he wrote simply on a cocktail napkin ‘My grandma.’ As much as he trusted you, there were still parts of himself that were guarded, carefully revealing pieces of his past to you, though you could never fully put the whole picture together. In all the years you were a member of The Seven, you weren’t sure you ever would.

His past didn’t matter to you. You were fond of the man he was, even if he didn’t reveal his whole self to you. Still, you wished you knew more. He didn’t seem to have any family, at least that he was in contact with. Then again, most of your teammates had complicated relationships with your families, yourself included. That one talent of his, however, showed that at one point there was someone he was close to, that he had a life outside of being a member of The Seven. You hoped the two of you could have that together.

Finally able to slip away from the people whose names you couldn’t be bothered to remember, you made your way over to Noir. He looked up from the piano, tilting his head a bit in acknowledgement of you.

“This party’s so boring.” You made a point to lean against the piano, letting the spandex of your suit highlight your body. “I mean, I can think of much better things you and me could be doing with our time.”

You weren’t sure if he was nodding along with your sentiment or the music. Ever so frustratingly difficult to read. Taking his response in stride, you sat down next to him on the piano bench. He didn’t stop playing, but he didn’t move away from you either.

“Will you show me how to play?” you asked.

He paused, the soft music stopping momentarily. With a nod, he shifted closer to you, placing his gloved hands over yours. You let him guide you, though your gaze was on him rather than the keys.

“You’re great with your hands, Noir,” you said. “I mean, playing piano, fighting criminals, I’m sure there’s more you can do, if you ever wanna show me sometime.”

No reaction. Maybe it was useless. Maybe Homelander was just messing with you. Maybe—

He rubbed the top of your hand with his thumb, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. It was something, finally some indication that he returned your affection.

“You wanna get out of here?” you asked softly. “I only came for you, anyway.”

He took your hand in his, the music from the piano ceasing abruptly again. He brought his pointer finger to his mouth, and you giggled despite his silent instruction to be quiet.

Glancing around, you noticed everyone else was preoccupied, mainly with competing for Homelander’s attention, as usual. The perfect opportunity for the two of you to slip away from the party with ease. Stealth was his speciality after all.

You let him lead you away from the gala and to an empty balcony on another floor of the tower. The city seemed to sparkle especially bright that night. Feeling bold, you rested your head on his shoulder, your hand still intertwined with his.

“I wish we could be like this more often,” you whispered. “You’re the only person I like spending so much time with. I think of you, and I—it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know.”

After a few minutes of silence, Noir moved away from you, reaching for something in his pocket. A folded piece of paper, the same one the two of you had been playing tic-tac-toe on just a few days earlier. He handed it to you, and you scanned the page before landing on the heart you’d drawn, finding he’d drawn another one around it.

“This is so high school,” you laughed, nevertheless taking his covered face in your hands and kissing him. “So, what do we do now, loverboy?”

He wrapped his arms around you, and you could’ve sworn you heard him sigh contentedly.

#black noir x reader #black noir #the boys x reader #the boys #the boys tv #the boys amazon

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lostloveletters · 6 days

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I Left My Heart in San Francisco (John Brady x OC)

Summary: John's heart feels a thousand miles and just as many memories away in Stalag Luft III.

Note: Title comes from the song, of course (you don’t have to listen to it while reading, but I listened to it while writing this). Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Fluff and angst, mostly introspective. Somewhat non-linear narrative, I guess.

“I won’t get any good if I don’t practice,” John insisted.

Woody smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “Alright, but you watch that pipe of yours. If I smell burning hair—“

He grinned, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You won’t, sweetheart, I promise.”

Woody braided her hair first thing in the morning, after hastily raking her fingers through it, tugging out any knots that formed overnight. By the heat of the afternoon, enough hair would come loose and stick to her sweaty skin that she’d have to redo her handiwork, already knowing to anticipate the black streaks of grease she’d have to scrub out of it at the end of each day.

Sometimes Holly would be around to give her an intricate and sturdy French braid, able to withstand sweat and hard work. But John had never braided hair before he asked to do hers one evening, and then with increasing frequency as time went on, desperately needing something to lose himself in.

She sat between his legs, still and patient as he ran his fingers through her wavy hair. He parted it in two sections, letting the waterfall of blonde flow down one of her shoulders while he gathered the rest of her hair, silken to the touch compared to the standard blankets and bedsheets they were issued.

A shiver ran down her spine when his fingers gently brushed the nape of her neck.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re fine, honey.” Her voice was soft, almost a low purr that echoed in his ears. He couldn’t remember another time when she called him honey. Usually just Johnny, which sounded wrong coming from other people, even jokingly, since it became hers, but he wasn’t sure how to tell her he liked honey too.

He carefully layered one thick strand of hair over the other until he finished a braid on one side. Looked good, but he knew at a glance he could do better. Woody braided her hair for utility, not just to look pretty, which was a bonus in his opinion, but not her priority.

He puffed on his pipe, shaking his head before setting it aside. “They’re not even. I’m gonna try again.”

“Go ahead, Johnny.”

John stroked her hair, thinking about how he wished they had met under different—better circumstances, where she wasn’t under constant threat of losing him. He used to figure that there was a proper way to get to a woman’s heart, the way god intended, or so he’d been told: meet a nice young lady, ask her father for permission to take her out on a date, get to know each other, bring her home on time. Rinse and repeat while trying not to get too handsy before getting a ring involved.

Then the war happened.

Then Woody happened, who probably wouldn’t have described herself as a nice young lady in the first place. No father to ask permission to take her out on a date. He wasn’t quite sure they actually saved anything for marriage (besides the having kids part, thankfully). He figured god would be flexible, all things considered.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“There’s a knot,” he mumbled, brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully pulled at strands of hair to free them from each other.

“When I was a kid, if I had a really bad knot I couldn’t get out myself, I’d just cut it with some kitchen scissors. My hair probably looked awful.”

He almost instinctively asked why she didn’t ask her mom to brush it out, but felt the slightest bit of rage burn in his chest when he caught himself and remembered. “I care enough about you to do this right.”

“You’re also pretty good with your hands.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I know so,” she said, “and thank you for always being attentive.”

“Are we still talking about your hair?”

“Oh, of course.”

He snickered, working on braiding her hair again. “Of course.”

Neither of them spoke of the future very much, but he knew he wanted one with her. Just wasn’t sure how to go about the discussion without scaring her off, if she’d even be open to settling down. Settling. The word weighed heavy in his mind. While Woody claimed no nostalgia for her native city, a sad fondness laced her voice when she spoke of it, of the excitement and freedom San Francisco had offered her when she needed those things most. Sometimes John wondered if Ithaca would be enough, if he would be enough when all was said and done.

He swallowed roughly. “Take a look and tell me what you think. Be as brutally honest as you need to be. I can take it.”

Woody half-turned to him, an amused smile spreading across her face. Made him feel like he was being let in on a secret the way her smile sometimes did. “You could make my hair look like a bird’s nest and I wouldn’t tell you.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before getting up. He followed, almost nervous as she inspected her appearance in the small mirror sitting nearby. She beamed at her reflection, turning excitedly to him. “Johnny, it’s perfect.”

She stood on her toes to kiss him, deep and real, the kind that made any lingering doubts dissolve. Her lips were soft, as if she put on lip balm before he got there. Everything about her was soft, except for her hands, always rough and calloused, but something would be wrong if he felt a smooth palm cradling his jaw, or gliding across the expanse of his shoulders, down his back to cling to him. But he was clothed. Or he thought he was. Lost himself for a moment before he found the sound of her voice again.

“Before I forget—” She slipped her hand into one of her pockets. “Here, I want you to have this. I don’t really have any other photos of me, but I wrote a little note on the back of it for you,” she said. Her cheeks flushed, eyes flicking away from him for a moment. “Just so, um, you know it’s yours.”

He smiled at being handed the photo, a little shadowy and out of focus, but her nevertheless. To Johnny, all my love and more, your sweetheart, Woody. She had drawn a little heart next to his name, Xs and Os after hers. “You look beautiful. Thank you, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of his nose brushing against her skin. “I’ll keep it with me.”

And he did. All the way to Stalag Luft III. Looked at the photo and tried to remember the feeling of her hair between his fingers.

He nearly tore Hambone a new one for taking the photo from his hands without asking, not that he would have let him touch it in the first place even if he had. While far from salacious, having other eyes besides his own on Woody’s photo felt almost sacrilegious. After all, he kept it in the same pocket as the St. Christopher card his mother had given him before he left for basic, its laminated corners curled from his incessant toying with it for reassurance. He hardly looked at it since they bailed. Patron saint of travelers. Some good St. Chris did him.

Buck stepped in and got John his photo back before the situation could escalate further. But the cat was out of the bag. As if it even mattered then, anyway. He did take some pride in everyone’s shock at him and Woody managing to keep their relationship under wraps for nearly four months.

He didn’t expect it to come up again, but he wasn’t exactly expecting Bucky to be alive either. In the midst of Bucky's bittersweet reunion with the other members of the 100th who’d been taken prisoner by the Germans, it was mentioned among the updates everyone was clamoring to give him after he relayed what he could muster of how he survived and ended up there.

Hardly relevant, but Bucky fixated on it after John let one small detail slip out.

“You and Woody? How the hell did I not know this?” Bucky asked.

“No one knew, except for Holly,” he said.

“Holly knew?”

“It wasn’t my idea, but Woody tells her everything. Told her about us the night you two made the bet on that baseball game.”

“That was back in June!" Bucky exclaimed, a strange combination of disbelief and slight betrayal that felt almost out of place compared to everything else going on. "She’s known for four months and didn't tell me?”

“Woody swore her to secrecy or something.”

Bucky shook his head. “You sly dog. Under everyone’s noses…” Clapped him proudly on the shoulder. “Good on you, buddy.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Don’t expect any details,” Murph mumbled.

“I’m not telling any of you about my sex life.”

“But there was one?” Bucky asked.

He sighed, resisting the urge to glare at his friend, who up until a few hours prior, he wasn’t even sure was still alive. “We didn’t sneak around for four months just to hold hands.”

Even if that was all they’d done, his relationship with Woody wouldn’t have been any less important to him. Still, it was nice to have actual experiences to pull from, build fantasies that could get him through some of the lonelier nights when he wished he were with her, just about anywhere in the world but Stalag Luft III. The four months that were all theirs became his lifeline.

Four months. Maybe that was long enough for him to ask her to marry him. After writing to his family, that’d be his first order of business. Woody already had his heart, so he’d promise her everything else on top of that he could think of. Let her point anywhere on a map and take her there on a month-long honeymoon. Move all the way out to San Francisco with her. If she said ‘no’ or sent the letter back unopened, at least he could say he tried.

He laid back on his bunk that night, doing his best to ignore the shouting outside. Like the night guards did it on purpose to keep them exhausted. Closed his eyes. Kept her photo pressed against his chest. Tried to remember what her hair felt like between his fingers. Silk compared to the threadbare blankets the Germans gave them for the rapidly approaching winter.

“I won’t get any good if I don’t practice,” he insisted.

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “Alright, but you watch that pipe of yours. If I smell burning hair—“

He grinned, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You won’t, sweetheart, I promise.”

#john brady x oc #john brady #masters of the air x oc #masters of the air #mota x oc #mota #mota fanfic #hbo war #hbo war fanfic #hbo war x oc #ch: woody

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sar-kay · 7 months

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Is being skinny worth it ?

To that one skinny friend who always complains about not being able to get fatter. She finally succed but freaked out, saying she wanted to go back, when she realised she has the same weight as me,

To that one skinny hot girl I saw get so much attention even tho she's a bitch, to the boy who respectfuly obssesed over her for years, to the boys who would listen to her for hours, to the social opportunity it's giving her,

To my family who never missed an opportunity to comment about my food, to them who would applause me for eating so much when I was yougner but told me straight i had an fat ass when it started to show on my grown body, to them saying i should stop wearing thight clothes bc my fat shows, went mad at me bc I couldn't bring myself to do sport, then congrats me when i lost weigh then told me i should eat more,

To my boyfriend, a living thinspo, who is always simping for the tall skinny girls or for himself, for congratuling me when I lose weight while telling me he'd be sad if i'd lost my tummy, while calling my thights ugly bc the fat is falling, while reminding me my neck is getting thicker, while a tiny waist is the first thing he notices on people (obvio he's lying ab my body). To him telling me I'm too heavy for him to lift, or i'm the fatest of his exes, to him looking so uncomfortable when he tries to compliment me,

To every classmate being irremediably kinder to the pretty girls, to all their love stories being with the stereotypical hotties, to them treating me like 'one of the boys' and talking about fucking them in front of me, (i didn't want to know that), to every human noticing pretty girls (yes they're skinny) and remembering them as pretty/hot women, giving them fucking free respect,

To every women telling me they wish they'd be skinnier, putting effort into it but failling, crying when they gain weight, for praising the skinny girls, to women braging about their fast metabolism, laughing at thick girls, shaming girls for gainging weight, shaming morbid obese poeple like it's not a fcking deasese,

To the hope of a better life when i'm skinny, to easier social life, to people dreaming about me while i don't even know their names, to my boyfriend liking me and to my friend reminding me i'm skinny in everyway they can, to my family congratulating me, to opportunities opening up, to people listenning to me, to younger me who tried so hard to go away from thoses stereotypical ways of thinking but made me pay the price, i want the weight drop to be a symptom of life getting better, i want to be better

It is worth it

#disordered eating thoughts #ed not ed sheeran #egospo #anorex14 #@na trigger #tw disordered eating #4n4 #i wanna be weightless #ed bllog #tw ana diary #4n0r3xia #4n0rexic #ana shit #ed vent #not pro fucking not pro #i tried being fatty and happy but oh well #give me attention

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xbreakyourbackformex · 2 years

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No but you know what sucks?? I am in recovery and I can't find a single other sect of the internet that is as obsessive as ED Tumblr. I don't want to calorie count anymore but I still want the "new month new me" "here's a list of 50 goals I want to achieve by the end of this month" "every day I am striving towards perfection" bullshit. I don't want to see thinspo anymore but I want to read the eating disorder fueled "imagine" paragraphs that were written like the beginning of a Wattpad story that plagued 2010's Tumblr. I don't want to be sick anymore but I am still obsessive. I want to still be perfect and have hyper control of my life, I'm just okay with being thick while I do it. I'm not fat anymore but I can't let go of the romanization of being and striving towards perfection.

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3knecrotic · 9 months

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I looked at my body in the mirror and frowned at the tummy I have. I sucked in my gut and felt a little better, then adjusted my skin and gut until I hit a form I appreciated.

I switched between that pose and my default pose in the mirror and noted how funny how much thinner I was. It was a sort of "this is Cartoonishly weird." Moment. Anyway.

I noticed my preferred, thinner, pose looked. Softly sculpted? Like at first I was only focused on my silhouette but then I focused on my Textures.

My pose made my stomach look almost chisled? The edges were soft rolls on my skin, nothing too sharp, but my stomach was very clearly divided into these neat, pretty little Sections. Abs

I thought of my pose, then, less like "sucking in my gut" and more "tensing/flexing my muscles."

I looked back to my default form with chub then back to the pose and noted in my Head it reminded me of men who seem very heavy weight, traditionally considered fat or have a gut or thick arms, but that fat Can Bench Press You?

And I process. This is just me flexing. And I'm fucking Fine. I Look like all those pictures online I'm Not supposed to compare myself to but Do. I Am My Goal.

But when I relax my stomach, I miss it. But then it hits me.

Photos are only snapshots. A 3 second period of a person caught in one frame. Flexing can be held for longer, for sure.

All those thinspos I see and pics of pretty people I compare to? The second those 3 seconds are up they look Just Like Me.

I am the inspiration. I am Gorgeous. I am Physically Defined.

But I'm also soft and round and squishy and cute.

Fuck thinspos, I'm boutta rock Both sides in this bitch!

#dk speaks #thc rambles #ohh this is a Power High im on rn UGh

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thinlittle-princess · 8 months

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I wonder how many people at my college are suffering from the same thinking I do. I know one of my professors does- truly my thinspo. I wonder if I triggered her and I felt so bad.

I was wearing a sweatshirt 4 times larger than I needed to in order to hide myself and also because I was so cold even though it was almost 90 outside. She asked people to raise their hands if they had lunch- sort of question to break the ice. Everyone raised their hands except me. She asked why I was the only one after class and I said that I was only in the mood for coffee. She asked me what kind and I said black. She asked me how I could stand being in a thick sweatshirt when it was scorching outside and I said it was because I was cold.

She gave me this look, like she knew. The sadness in her eyes was something that I see in the mirror every day when I look at myself. I looked at her bag that she had on the table and it was filled with Celsius energy drinks which are only 10-15 cal and Coke Zero. I noticed the hollowness of her cheeks and could see her collar bones protruding out with the particular shirt she was wearing.

She knew and I knew that we were one of the same yet we could never say it out loud. She is what I idealize and I was what terrified her.

I think I triggered her just from how much of a whale I am and I feel horrible for it.

#pro anything #anna #pro miaa #an0r3c1a #disordered eating thoughts #tw ana diary #tw restriction #notprojustusingthetags #⭐️ving #depressing shit

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prettylittle18 · 1 year

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intro to me and my ed <3 *5/2/23*

I had a pretty bad ed a couple of years ago and was 120lbs at one point which was the smallest I ever was during it (I've always been on the bigger side) I eventually got out of the ed mindset and on top of that got on birthcontrol making me gain a crap ton of weight. here I am about 4 years later weighing 200lbs and hating myself more than ever. sadly I think having an ed is what's best for me and I miss the community of girls being pro ana. im all for recovery when someone wants it. but right now it's not what I want.

I've been struggling with my eating habits again for awhile now whether it be binge eating or fasting. I decided to make a new blog to share my journey and other things :)

5/2/23

CW: 200lb

GW: 180lbs

UGW: 120lbs

my starting measurements

5/2/23

Breasts :109cm

upper tummy : 93cm

lower tummy : 122cm

waist : 119cm

hips : 116cm

left thigh : 65cm

right thigh : 66.5cm

left calf : 44cm

right calf : 45.5cm

left upper arm : 35.5cm

right upper arm : 35.5cm

left lower arm : 26cm

right lower arm : 28cm

neck : 34cm

my goal on here is to always be 100% honest judgment or not. I'm always here to chat with people going through similar

starting body pics

#disordered eating cw #eating disoder recovery #bing3 eating #eating disoder trigger warning #proanaa #ana e mia #tw ana relapse #tw ana diary #anorexies #tsporn #thick thinspo #biggergirl #chubby

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applesaucegays · 10 months

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scrolling through thinspo is so fun.. like yes i love it. but then i remember that i have rolls n my thighs are thick and i wanna kms. but yk..

#tw self destruction #vent #ana trigger #disordered eating thoughts #tw ana shit #tw ana trigger #tw disordered eating #bully mia #disordered eating mention

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venus-haze · 1 year

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Why Don't You Do Right (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: You’d known him as Ben, the asshole rich boy whose family employed your parents on their estate just outside of Philadelphia, the mean streets that you grew up on, not him. When he returns from Europe to adulation and ticker tape parades in response to his heroic exploits during the war, he’s not happy when you echo his father’s sentiments about his praise being unearned. As time goes on, you find your own professional exploits make you begrudgingly more sympathetic to him, especially when you unexpectedly run into him again before the 24th Academy Awards.

Note: Reader is a woman, but no other descriptors are used. I don’t know how I feel about this fic, I guess I kind of left it open to another part. Soldier Boy’s background is so interesting even though we get so little of it in the show, I wanted to go ahead and explore it more from the perspective of someone who knew him back then. I decided to go with the last name Conway since as far as I know, the show doesn’t give Soldier Boy a canon last name. Feel free to picture any DILF of your choice as Ben’s briefly appearing father. Do not interact if you post thinspo/ED content or are under 18.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Period typical (and Soldier Boy typical) misogyny. Morally gray reader. Dacryphilia, slapping, spitting. Some dubcon elements. Complicated and toxic relationships. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Over two decades’ worth of catharsis rushed through your veins as you eavesdropped on the heated conversation taking place in Cliff Conway’s office, his son’s voice steadily rising while his own remained cool and nonplussed. The steel magnate wasn’t your favorite person, but he kept your parents employed during the depression when so many of your classmates’ families were out of work. Your father worked as one of half a dozen chauffeurs on staff, your mother a cook, though you didn’t see much of either of them growing up, as they spent most of the week living in the servant’s quarters on the estate while you lived with your grandparents in their small South Philly apartment.

It never failed to make your blood boil that Ben saw more of your parents than you did. You could remember taking a swing at him when he called your mother “mom” not long after he got kicked out of boarding school. You had made the trek to the Conways’ estate after a long day of your apprenticeship with a local seamstress, enraged to see Ben sitting in the kitchen, joking with your mom who you got to see twice a week if you were lucky. Though it was years ago, the betrayal when she angrily shooed you out of the kitchen still felt fresh.

When you were older, you discovered that Ben clung to your parents since his own were unimpressed and disinterested in him. In contrast, Cliff lauded your ingenuity in working hard at your apprenticeship, building up clientele, and opening your own shop. Of course, it helped that he would drum up business for you among his wealthy friends, having you custom-make his suits and his estranged wife’s evening gowns for the high society events they masqueraded as a happy couple at.

In fact, you’d been in the man’s office for a fitting when he received a call that Ben had shown up unannounced, wishing to speak to him. He had shaken his head as he dismissed you with a wave, instructing you to stick around the mansion until his conversation with his son was over. ‘It won’t be long. I don’t have anything to say to him,’ he had assured you.

So you stood with your ear pressed against the door, the men’s muffled voices traveling through the expensive wood grain, a thick, dark mahogany that turned visitors into vampires seeking permission to enter, impossible to sneak in or out of without concerted effort. Being his father’s only child didn’t make Ben exempt this unspoken social ritual that Cliff enforced. Perhaps he thought things would be different for Soldier Boy.

“What do you want me to do? Congratulate you for taking a shortcut?” Cliff said, his tone even. “A real man doesn’t take shortcuts.”

“Compound V isn’t a shortcut—“

“I tried with you, Ben. I really did, and somehow you ended up with no work ethic, no sense of purpose. Instead, you think you can cheat your way to greatness.”

“I signed up to fight, and I did,” Ben retorted, his voice wavering, “in Normandy, in Belgium—“

“On Hollywood sets where you fool around with movie stars and play pretend. Believe me, I’ve had my fair share of starlets, but I didn’t get ticker tape parades or national holidays for it.”

Ben scoffed. “President Truman said I’m a hero—“

“No, the boys who came back and haven’t had a good night’s sleep since, the ones who didn’t come back at all, they’re heroes,” he said. “You, Ben? You’re a disappointment. I’m ashamed to even call you a Conway.”

Your hand flew to your mouth. In your dealings with Cliff, you had an idea about his feelings on his son’s fabricated exploits, noticing the newspaper pages with photographs or even mere mentions of ‘Soldier Boy’ crumpled in his wastebin. You knew none of the stories were true, anyway, not when Ben’s anecdotes about growing up in Philly were almost carbon copies of yours, from the fights to the laughter. It was all a lie, and no one would back you up even if you went public with it. No one but Cliff, anyway.

The whole situation had been odd from the moment you saw Soldier Boy in a newsreel before a Gary Cooper movie. Despite the helmet and mask that obscured his features, you’d recognize Ben anywhere. As much resentment as you harbored toward him, you’d have to be blind to ignore how attractive he was, thinking it was a shame that his striking green eyes and pouty pink lips were imprisoned in black and white. He spoke to the camera, proud and confident, the hot-blooded, all-American hero with the strength of a hundred men. The living, breathing embodiment of the American spirit was nothing if not an excellent liar, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted.

What really threw you for a loop, however, was the lie whose tendrils arrested the minds of your fellow countrymen. Soldier Boy was born great, blessed by god with these superhuman abilities that he used in the fight against evil and anything that threatened the American way of life. His very existence proof of divine intervention in the land of the free. No, you’d wanted to argue, he’s just Ben, and he cheated.

As you heard shuffling in the office, you slipped away from the door and into one of the nearby parlors. Despite spending so much time in the Conways’ mansion in your youth and then in a professional capacity as an adult, it never ceased to amaze you how many rooms were in the place. Some of which, like the one you decided to lay low in, served no other purpose than to display the family’s ornate possessions—Persian rugs, imported chaise lounges, commissioned artwork, vases and statues from places you weren’t even sure you could point out on a map. It was almost sick how the objects in that room alone were worth more than what you’d ever make in your life.

You couldn’t privately lament your financial woes for long, as despite your efforts, Ben noticed you ambling around the room as he stormed out of his father’s office. He stopped in his tracks, rerouting his direction to join you. The costume he wore certainly wasn’t awful, and from a quick glance you could admire the effort that went into putting together such a vital aspect of his persona. Still, it wasn’t him, no matter how hard he tried.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he mused, his voice low as he took you in.

You gave him a curt nod. “Ben.”

“You and my old man are the only ones who call me that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the only thing about you that’s real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, I understand the ‘scrappy young fighter from the rough streets of Philly’ is a lot more sympathetic than ‘spoiled rich boy who wants to feel special.’ It’s the part where you stole my life that really gets me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Ben,” you said. “You’re a fraud, even your father says so.”

“I’m a fucking hero, sweetheart. You’re a washed up old maid who’s lucky I’m even looking in her direction,” he said, shooting his insult back at you.

It stung every time you were reminded of how many people thought there was something wrong with you for choosing your career over marriage. You’d have been offended by his words if it weren’t for the cheek twitch that gave away just how bothered he was by your statement. His tells were few, but they were distinctly his, and in the years you’d spent orbiting the spoiled brat turned man-child, you’d learned to recognize all of them. He was fundamentally insecure, always trying to prove himself to his unimpressed father and failing every single time. It seemed Soldier Boy was no exception.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your face, backing you into a wall. You knew whatever he’d been shot up with had made him strong, but you weren’t expecting the steel grip that encased your jaw, one squeeze away from turning it to dust. He could do it, and probably would if you pushed him enough.

“What’re you doing here anyway? Don’t think I didn’t see you slinking out of my father’s office like a fucking whore,” he asked, releasing your jaw to drag his fingers across your lips, smearing your lipstick onto your cheek.

“I was in the middle of fitting Cliff for a new suit before you showed up,” you said, your voice quivering as you tried to compose yourself.

“Cliff? My mother hasn’t even called him Cliff in years,” he scoffed. “Jesus, the old man gets on me for taking a shortcut, but you’re just fucking your way up to the top, aren’t you?”

Impulse overtook your reasoning as you spat in his face, an acidic combination of satisfaction and terror wrestling in your gut as he stood frozen in shock, your saliva dribbling from just below his eye down to his chin. It wasn’t like you’d justify his insinuation with an answer, regardless of its validity.

Suddenly, you felt stupid for taking the bait. Ben’s bite was always worse than his bark, practically trained by his father’s neglect to be desperate and snarling so that it was impossible to be near him without his foaming mouth claiming his pound of flesh. He had been jilted by his father yet again, becoming the world’s first superhero only to be told he was a failure for it. You, on the other hand, received his father’s praise and approval in kind, the street dog treated as pedigree.

He wiped away the spit with an open hand, and in the same instance landed a harsh slap across your face, leaving your cheek stinging with the force he used. Fat tears clouded your vision and rolled down your cheeks as you trembled under his unrelenting gaze.

“I fucked every USO broad I could get my hands on, and none of ‘em could cry as pretty as you can,” he whispered, the barbs of his taunt cushioned by the cruelest lilt of nostalgia.

You’d seen how you looked when you cried before, having locked yourself in your fair share of bathrooms after being brought to tears by his words growing up. Your face always contorted, pained and puffy as tears fell from your red eyes, snot dripping from your nose. You never cried neatly, it was always raw and painful, your grief clawing its way out from deep within you. He liked that, though, the mess, the tangible evidence of how sensitive and vulnerable you were compared to him.

How greedy, to have the adoration of the American public and it still not be enough, to trek to Philadelphia just to get affirmation from his father and now, you–as if you mattered, as if Vought and the military gave a shit what you thought of Soldier Boy. He cared, though, enough to take out his anger twofold on you for having the audacity to be favored by his father.

“No one can make me cry like you can,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your tears.

You had fucked him once, or more like he fucked you, a few days after he got drafted and his parents unexpectedly threw him a farewell party. People are creatures of habit, and the circumstances, even the room were almost identical to that night you stumbled back into the party–mascara absolutely ruined, your legs too weak to dance, and the taste of his cum spoiling the expensive wine that was being served. You didn’t have illusions of any sentimentality behind the encounter. There was a decent chance he wasn’t going to make it back home, so you both seemed to figure ‘why not.’ With the self-loathing that had crept up on you as the night went on, you almost hoped he wouldn’t.

That didn’t stop you this time from letting yourself kiss him back when he pressed his lips to yours. His lips were soft, his hands too as he cradled the cheek he smacked, the contact causing you to gasp in pain. His other hand was on your waist, holding you steady in place. You were sure you couldn’t move if you tried, but you didn’t bother, allowing his tongue in your mouth. Part of you wanted to bite him, for spite and to see what would happen, if he could even feel something like that, but you decided against it when he brushed his thumb against your sore cheek again. He’d use any excuse to pull more tears from you.

You put your hands on his, hoping he could at least feel you trying to push them away. “He’s waiting for me.”

“‘Course he is,” he sneered, gripping your waist a bit tighter before releasing you.

The room was silent for a few moments before you said, “See you around.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bet on it, sweetheart.”

As soon as he stormed out of the room, you could feel yourself breathe better. You hurriedly ran into a nearby bathroom to straighten out your appearance before returning to his father’s office, giving a courteous knock before hearing a muffled ‘Come in!’

The ashtray was considerably more full than when you’d left, and the cigarette between Cliff’s fingers was steadily smoldering down to a nub. You figured it best not to ask him about it.

“What took you so long?” Cliff asked.

“Ben and I were just catching up.”

His eyes landed on your bruised cheek, and his tongue darted out from between his lips. “Alright. I suppose we should get back to it, then.”

Nodding, you went over to your bag in the corner of the room, searching for the measuring tape you’d been using while trying to ignore your patron’s burning gaze you felt on your back. The irony wasn’t lost on you that like your parents, your livelihood depended on him. You wondered why Ben so desperately wanted that same fate.

By 1952 you’d gotten married and promptly divorced after less than a year and a half of marriage, moving to Los Angeles and setting up shop there not long after the deaths of your father and mother in quick succession. Both decisions took you out of Cliff Conway’s good graces, though your reputation and talent preceded you. Within a few months of opening your new shop, your clientele had expanded to Hollywood stars, and you had to hire a handful of employees to help run the front end of things while you toiled away at your sewing machine most days. As awards season rolled around, you found yourself turning away customers as you simply didn’t have the time or resources to handle them all.

Plenty of people you’d never expected to see in person came into your shop, but you were particularly taken aback a week before the Oscars when a no-name starlet bleached hair and what you could assume was equally bleached teeth came ambling in with Ben–no, Soldier Boy, right behind her in the same costume he had been wearing the last time you saw him in 1945. The two of you made eye contact, and though he gave you the slightest smile, he made no other effort to indicate he knew you. Discretion, she was the jealous type.

You’d found the starlet’s dress, pointing out the customizations you’d done based on her request. She beamed at you before disappearing into one of the dressing rooms with it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said.

“Me either, ‘til Darlene mentioned the shop name, same one as back in Philly.”

You shrugged. “Things aren’t so bad out here. Fresh start after the divorce, ya know?”

“You seeing anyone?”

“No, but you are.”

He scoffed. “She’s an easy fuck, besides MGM is paying me out the ass to bring her as my date to the Oscars.”

“Congratulations on the Best Picture nomination, by the way,” you said.

You had seen the movie, his fabricated life story, but the rage you felt upon seeing him seven years prior was no longer existent. He’d cemented his place in American history on lies, and there was nothing you could do about it. Besides, you felt too old and far too busy to let yourself get mad about things like that the way you used to.

“I think we got a pretty good shot of winning,” he said. “It’s all about who you schmooze, and I doubt Gene Kelly’s got a company like Vought sending blank checks and gift baskets to the Academy.”

“You never know.”

His response was interrupted by a squeal, though you couldn’t tell until the girl shuffled out of the dressing room whether it was in horror or delight. To your relief, it was the latter, an almost painful looking smile plastered across her face as she posed in her dress for Ben.

“So? Isn’t it perfect?” she asked, nearly glaring at Ben for not complimenting her quickly enough for her liking.

“Goddamn honey, you look like a million bucks. They’ll start casting you instead of that Marilyn Monroe girl.”

You nearly snorted. Marilyn wasn’t all that well known, but she had the makings of a star, and the kindness that made her one of your favorite customers as opposed to the more demanding clients that would come in and expect you to drop everything for them. It was almost painful watching the starlet fawn over herself while trying to pull as many compliments from Ben as she could. What a floozy. Then again, you hadn’t done much different when you were first starting out in your own career.

Finally, when it seemed like she had enough of herself, she retreated back into the dressing room to change.

“You know, I’m staying at the Roosevelt.”

“That’s nice. They have a great bar.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink later, then?”

You nodded your head toward the dressing room. “She won’t have a fit?”

“She’s got a place with half a dozen other MGM broads,” he said. “She can cry on cue, but it’s still not as pretty as when you do it.”

You narrowed your eyes a bit, considering the implications of his proposal. The judgment you’d made on him years ago came back to you, he’s just Ben, and he cheated. Though not on the same scale, you supposed you had too. Besides, Los Angeles wasn’t Philadelphia, both of you could get away with a lot more here than under the watchful eye of his father.

Grabbing the nearby receipt book, you handed him a pencil and pointed to a blank receipt, his conspiratorial tone rubbing off on you. It was odd, him speaking to you as if you were old friends or partners in crime, even. You’d never considered him like that, the differences in status made apparent to you from an early age. Even still, you certainly weren’t America’s hero.

He scribbled the room number and reservation onto the paper. “It’s under a fake name.”

“Alright, maybe I can get there before midnight. No promises,” you said, flipping to a new page just as his date emerged from the dressing room, her Oscar-night gown back in the protective bag you’d provided.

The dress had already been billed to MGM, though you knew by now it came out of whatever stipend the production company gave her, a move meant to make up-and-coming stars seem more important than they were in hopes of catching the attention of the right people. She had to know her chances were slim to none on her own, it was for everyone. For a moment you felt a bit bad for being so quick to judge earlier, even if you didn’t particularly like her attitude, she wasn’t the only one trying to claw her way to top billing in a uniquely cannibalistic city. In the nearly two years since you’d opened the shop, it stopped surprising you when certain clients wouldn’t come in anymore or would come in months after whatever event you’d styled them for to sell their dresses back to you to make rent.

Ben glanced at you one more time before the starlet eagerly dragged him out of the shop, onto the next pre-Oscars errand. Funny, him putting up with a day of bullshit just to see if you’d be here. Maybe he’d find an excuse to blow her off now that he did what he’d set out to do. You looked at the clock on the wall and then to the unfinished orders laying on your sewing machine or draped over mannequins. There was no way you’d make it to the Roosevelt before midnight, and you weren’t sentimental enough to feel particularly bad about it.

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #the boys x reader #the boys #soldier boy the boys #the boys amazon #the boys tv #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #the boys soldier boy

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lostloveletters · 1 month

Text

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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