#Sergeant Benny
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
queen-daya · 9 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Hunter Being Omega’s Dad -> Retrieval
114 notes · View notes
im-no-jedi · 2 years ago
Video
tumblr
Benni claimed this mission was impossible, and Hunter took that literally 😏
550 notes · View notes
sarroora · 3 months ago
Note
Dibble being a grill dad is something I never thought I'd need. I can see this now; one summer day the sergeant comes down to the alley for a surprise inspection, and hears a ruckus. Given that Dibble has a day off, he'll just inspect in his stead, He turns the corner... and sees Dibble, clad in cheap sunglasses, horrible multicolored shirt, tan shorts and wearing socks with flip-flops. Working the grill, surrounded by the cats he's supposed to be keeping in line. Beautiful.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
"Want me to throw another slab on the grill, sarge?"
--
(@digo3d someone loved your grill dad HC and they should lol)
12 notes · View notes
xxanaduwrites · 6 months ago
Text
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ a residue series installment ˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
honey, are you comin’?
previous part: sweet talkin’ | from the hive: session 1
✎ elementary-teacher!reader (miss.honey) x biker!benny 🏍️
summary: in which benny finds honey again. this time near a honeycomb, hopin’ for a taste on the road ;) (p.s.: if you were wonderin’, yes — the title of this was so inspired by måneskin)
warnings: not much of anything besides some minor talks of cruelty towards children, peeps being judgmental as hell, & smoking. they’re subtly flirting here basically. it’s cute! that’s really it. x
author’s note: oh my goodness! you have no idea how STUNNED i’ve been by all the love miss.honey!benny have been getting so far. fully was not expecting this. deadass wrote sweet talkin’ for fun. no thoughts, head empty type beat. just wanted to thank you honeys so so much. i can’t thank ya enough i fear! i literally still can’t wrap my head around this, but i love you all sm & can’t wait to share more with you! 🍯🐝🫶
word count: 2.7k
💌 requests are open, send ‘em honey 💋
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
Another unbearable wave of heat managed to remain the very next day. Your students squirming against their metal chairs, antsy as ever for a reprieve. And so were you too. Thankfully, it just so happened to be your turn as fellow recess monitor with one or your fellow co-workers, Miss. Margie. Marge just so happened to be a newly breaded fresh faced teacher just like yourself. You enjoyed her company, more so than the older teachers who were rather cruel to the students. Especially when they did something wrong. Marge wasn’t cruel so to speak but she was a tough cookie, putting her foot down when needed. You two as a duo were rather perfect for the school grounds. You as the comfort go to when a knee was scraped, and Marge as the tough love go to when a particular student needed a stern talking to.
You worked well together, and it showed. Your relief was rather prominent when you stepped out the back door near the playground. An immediate swarm of giggles and chatter from small voices buzzed about, and you couldn’t help but smile as you adjusted your eyes to the sun, protected under your heart shaped sunnies. It didn’t take you long to find Marge who was already planted near the monkey bars with her arms crossed over her chest like a drill sergeant. Considering her father’s status as a war vet, by no means was it shocking to you or anyone else for that matter to see her in such a state.
“Hi Margie,” you greeted her once materialized next to her. “How’s it goin’?”
Margie's clear concentration dropped at the sound of your voice. “Oh no wonder,” she commented without looking at you. Her brows shot up in genuine intrigue.
Your honey coated lips parted in confusion instantly. “Huh?”
“Your three o’clock, Hun.” Margie tilted her head to the right subtly, directing you to her line of sight. A sight that made your heart curl into itself in a warm beat. Right behind those chain-linked fences that kept the kids contained was Uncle Benny. Yet, today his status as Uncle appeared to be rather amiss. Instead of Johnny’s car flanked near the curb, he was leaning against a neat Harley Davidson. The same one you saw him on that mornin’. You figured he was dropping off the girls or somethin’, but your curiosity got the better of you when you saw Mrs. Davis with them instead.
Now in the no parking zone, he stood out like the sorrest of thumbs. Practically a puzzle piece thrown into the wrong box. With no thoughts behind those pretty blue eyes of his besides you.
“That biker of yours stood up like a torpedo as soon as you walked out,” your co-worker added.
You took a moment to adjust your glasses, moving them to the tip of your nose to get a better look. Sure as shit, you weren’t having a heat stroke. It was really him. He was still here. Had he been out here since the mornin’ or left to come back? And if he was here for you like Margie said — why? You were certain he wasn’t much of a fan of you the day prior.
“He’s — He’s not my biker,” you mangled out, words twisting off your tongue as butterflies danced around your tummy.
Margie snorted. “I hate to break it to you, Hun. Lookin’ like he is now.” She paused a moment, shifting her footing as she spotted a youngin’ running roughly across the pavement, almost banging into another student. “Hey — watch where you’re goin’. Don’t push it Mikey!” She reprimanded before fixing herself upright and asking you, “What was all that about yesterday anyways?”
“What y’mean?” You questioned, not quite sure what she was going on about.
“You know — lettin’ the Davis girls go with ‘em. Caused a bit of an upheaval with the parents apparently. Heard all about it in the break room this mornin’. Doesn’t sound like Principal Rubs is real happy about it either.”
Your ears couldn’t believe what you were hearing. What business did the parents have putting their two cents in about somebody else’s family members? As for Principal Rubin, well, she was Principal Rubin after all. There wasn’t much to it there. The damn woman was a stickler with the sprinklers yesterday after all. Never a ball of fun as far as you were concerned.
“Why wouldn't I?” You challenged, becoming rather defensive.
“The guy pulled up like a maniac all greasy and shit. Almost gave everyone a heart attack,” Margie reasoned, her features churning in disgust.
You knew if he was some clean cut military guy in full uniform, she wouldn’t have made a comment at all, which kind-of pissed you off. Sure his clothes were lookin’ as if they hadn’t seen a washing machine in a cycle of days, but hey — what did that have to do with character? There were plenty of people who gave this outward canvas of perfectionism, far off from who they truly were deep down inside. You knew that, and you saw it every single day within the cruel clusters of your modern society. You saw it in the faces of your Ma and Pa when you didn’t fit the supposed mold they were trying to conform you to.
“So? He’s their Uncle, Marge,” you countered, defenses climbing high. “Did you ever think that maybe the man was runnin’ late? Worryin’ about the girls. That’s why he was speedin’.”
Margie sighed. “Not with that Vandals shit on his vest, but whatever you wanna believe, Hun.”
It went quiet between you two then. A clear indication that this conversation wasn’t gonna get the two of you anywhere.
“I should go talk to him,” you announced, snapping the awkward silence in half. There was no denying that you were now suddenly eager to find out what all this was about.
“Yuh should. If you don’t I will, and I doubt that will end well,” she joked, her eyes sparkling in amusement. Oh and she was right about that. Knowing Margie, you knew the idea of her approaching Benny would formulate a recipe for disaster.
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the mental image of such a scene. But also — you were utterly glad for this newfound banter popped open from a bottle of tension. “Alright Colonel, I’ll be back,” you quipped, before heading across the playground.
You could feel his eyes burning across your form on your journey to the edge of the property, your tummy flipping again in a bit of nerves and excitement. A part of you felt somewhat disappointed when you found yourself coming to a halt — stuck behind the monstrous fence that separated you from him, while another was glad for some security. You weren’t quite sure what his motive was, but knew it couldn’t be anything bad. He was just sitting here, smoking and minding his own business. Well — minding you.
“The girls don’t get out of school for another few hours, y’know,” you said matter-of-factly, eyeing him through the grates of the fence that reminded you far too much of a honeycomb.
He didn’t say much of anything, just raised a brow as you as he took one last drag of his cigarette. You watched as he put it out against the pavement, amongst a garden of other buds with his boot. Your suspicions were coming into fusion then, the realization that he’d been planted here for as long as your delusions imagined.
What could he possibly want from an innocent elementary school teacher like you?
He reached for that packet of Marlboros in his vest pocket all over again, clearly on a chain smoking spree. “Y’want?” He asked, stopping in his tracks. Those lean fingers of his calloused to the bone holding out a fresh cigarette in your direction. A cigarette that he’d been saving for you just in case.
You looked around for a moment, not quite sure what to do. The coast seemed to be clear though. Margie looked busy with some of the kids. Had a cluster of ‘em around her with her finger wagging about in every which direction. With her eyes no longer trained on Benny and you, and your form more than halfway across the school yard, you figured it wouldn’t hurt. Besides, you were having a day and could really use a cigarette. “Sure.” You shrugged nonchalantly.
Benny re-adjusted his stance, shoulders straight as he sauntered the sidewalk to meet you against the fence. His rough knuckles brushed across your polished ballet slipper fingers as he passed you the cigarette though the honeycomb, a sweetness shooting up your arm in an instance. You left it sticking out for a moment so he could light it up for you, and you could feel his hot breath fanning against your face. The casual interaction felt rather intimate in the moment, and you were more than happy when you got to take a step back on your first drag.
“Thanks,” you voiced your appreciation as he popped a fresh cig against his lips, now lighting up his own. You couldn’t help but notice that he had a sweet little freckle etched into his bottom lip. No wonder he had beautiful lips, you thought.
Surely, they’d be sweet to the kiss.
Jutting your hip out, you tapped your foot against the dry grass in impatience. “You stalkin’ me or somethin’?” You ripped off the bandage then, getting right into the real stuff. It was too hot out to sugarcoat anything any longer. Plus, the more you stood here the more Marg would get curious, and you’d be caught slacking on the job.
His lip curled up to the side naturally, just like it had yesterday when you introduced yourself to him. “Ain’t a stalker,” he confirmed, re-pocketing his lighter.
You found his candid response refreshing’. Naturally a honey rumblin’ laugh tumbled out of you “Good to ‘ear. My co-worker y’see ‘round over there?” Flicking the residue on the end of your cigarette out of the way, you pointed at her simultaneously. “She thinks ya are. Doesn’t appreciate the loitering.”
He shook his head then, long pretty eyelashes fanning his lower lids as he puckered his lips against the cig. His eyes squinted across the campus for only a second until his gaze landed right back on you. You in another denim overall number with a whole new canvas of embroidered fun. This time, knowing that you were gonna be out in the yard come afternoon, you opted on a classic jean overall. There was always the possibility of having to kneel on the grassy ground or near the sand pit, having to scoop up a youngin’ that refused to leave the playground. You learned your lesson rather quickly within your first few months of teaching. Tripping over yourself in such a situation left a tear in your favorite skirt. A skirt you still frowned about every time you found a certain piece in your closet that would make the perfect pair.
Funnily enough, if Benny knew of such a thing he would’ve made sure the same exact piece of clothing was at your doorstep and back in your closet before the thought crossed your sweet little mind.
But you didn’t know that. Not yet, that is.
And Benny — well Benny wasn’t payin’ as much attention as he would’ve liked to what you were sayin’, and he wasn’t quite interested in Margie anyways. His interests lied with you, and in his defense, the sight of you in your heart shaped sunnies wasn't helping the cause one bit. It was hard to take you seriously when you looked that stinkin’ cute. Made him wanna put you in his jacket pocket for safe keeping. And hell was he itching to just drive his bike right through the fuckin’ fence to break the barrier between you two. He was still beatin’ himself up for not taking your hand when you offered it to him yesterday. Hence why he was here, stakin’ you out. Hoping to fix his mistake.
Because the last thing he ever wanted to do was fuck this up with you.
Instead of enertainin’ your comment or makin’ a move to leave upon your far from subtle hints, far from linear to your own wishes, he changed the topic completely. “What time y’get outta ‘ere?”
You took a long drag of your cigarette, to calm your anxieties. The smoke circled ‘round your face for a moment before it traveled across the fence, reachin’ for Benny. Ironically, it was as if the smoke mirrored your desires of clinging onto the man in front of you. “‘round the same time as the girls, a little after,” you replied, curiosity adding, “what’s it to ya?”
“Wanna go for a ride?” He inquired casually. As if he was just stoppin’ by and hadn’t been sitting here for a good three quarters of the school day waitin’ for you.
The simple question spilling from those pretty lips of his made you melt in an instant. If it wasn’t for the obvious heat as a buffer to such a state, your mind would’ve found him as the culprit. “Where?”
“‘round.” He shrugged, not offering much of a plan. His casual demeanor remained concrete to his form.
An innocent smirk stretched across your face, blooming the apples of your cheeks and creasing the plane of your forehead. Now you were the one to flex amusement against a cylinder wedged between honey glossed lips. Now Benny was the one to be somewhat grateful for the honeycomb — if you will. Cause if the fence wasn’t there, he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He’d have your honey gloss all over his lips, tasting your sweetness without a second thought. Without caring about Margie or the students on the playground. Without caring about anyone really, but you.
Always you.
Perhaps anyone else would be rather suspicious of a plan with really no plan at all. Sure Margie would need a bulleted itinerary on fresh stationary, color coated and attached to a clipboard respectfully. But you — no, you appreciated his carefree mentality. It was peaceful in comparison to the stressing atmosphere that surround you on a daily basis, dotting on the kiddos in your classes, worryin’ constantly about ‘em.
Two could play this game, you thought.
Just at the end of your cigarette, your pretty fingers reached between a ring in the honeycomb, motioning it back to him. “Would ya put this out f’me?” You asked sweetly, mascara coated lashes batting about behind those obvious heart eyes of yours. “Don’t want the kids to find it in the grass.”
“Mhm,” Benny hummed, finding your concern for this children too fuckin’ cute. How could he ever say no to a sweet thang like you? He just couldn’t.
Your fingers grazed his as he took it from you, a touch that you found yourself thanking your faith for allowing you to bask in again.
This time he not only put out his cigarette, but yours too in the garden of buds that would blossom into a metaphor. A metaphor that had you joining his crew. Becoming a part of the club, joining his family, and fulfilling your wifely duties of planting a seed or two more along the way. Growin’ Benny some baby honeys of your very own.
Your lack of a reply to his offer didn’t sway him by any means, only fueled his fire tenfold. Turning on his heel then, you couldn’t help but frown, thinkin’ your hesitance turned him impatient and over the prospect completely. Especially when you watched him mount his bike and rev the engine, ready to ride away without another word. But Benny — no he still had somethin’ to say, and he was gonna say it alright. “I’ll see ya out front after school, Honey.” He decided, “I’ll be waitin’.”
The sound of your nickname rolling off his tongue — as smooth as honey sliding down your throat in a soothing tea — was all you needed to make your decision.
With your fun little backpack — straps resting against your shoulders — absolutely decked out in pins and keychains alike, you’d spot him at dismissal, and he’d be waitin’. Waitin’ for you to come. Wonderin’ if you were comin’.
Askin’ himself ‘Honey, are you comin’?’
Of course you would. You always would with Benny, no matter what.
And when you mounted his bike, your body molding into his like you were made for him, and your hands wrapping around his waist, Benny’s mistake proved to be no more. Suddenly, everything felt right in the world.
Right because you were one step closer to being his honey.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
hi-ya, i hope you enjoyed part 2! there’s so much more to come. expect a from the hive 🎙️🐝 installment real soon :)
also to note, my requests are open for any miss honey x benny cross works + any convos about these two in general. don’t be shy honey, i’m all for yapping in the asks.
+ don’t forget to comment if you’d like be added to “da bee hive” (my version of da tag list)
smoochies. all da love xanadu 💋
da bee hive 🐝
@nervousnerdwitch
@sunnbib
@rose-deathman
@austinbsblog
@thegabbyh
@jihyowrrld
@bellesdreamyprofile
@superemobitch
@m00npjm
@imusicaddict
@astrogrande
@alana4610
@cynic-spirit
@mariaenchanted
@themorriganisamonster
@real-lana-del-rey
@ateliefloresdaprimavera
@harryandhishairclip
@themorriganisamonster
@alexa4040
@returntopresley
@imladrisofabookdragon
@madisonmontgomeryxoxo
@zablife
@superstarcherrycolagirl
@nerdy-novelist017
@anqeliclust-recs
@imladrisofabookdragon
@thatoneweirdgirl17
504 notes · View notes
hellishjoel · 7 months ago
Text
uneasy hearts weigh the most
7.3k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog
Tumblr media
summary: Benny hosts the party of the year where broken pieces of Frankie's past are unearthed. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), smoking and drinking alcohol, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.), house party, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), swearing, pet names, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, vivid writing of a mental disorder [capgras syndrome] and an accompanied nightmare, descriptions of violence against a parental figure, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers) A/N: I know this has been in the works for a while and I thank you for your patience! special shoutout to @thetriumphantpanda who beta'd this for me!! I owe her a 100 grand bar now! listen to the song uneasy hearts weigh the most and I'll kiss you on the forehead
Tumblr media
Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers. “Do it again,” he mutters.  You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles.  “Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration.
The last time Francisco Morales saw his father was when he was punching his face in. 
It was a blur. 
Blood splattered across his face, neck, and shirt. His fist was crimson, his knuckles ached. But he couldn’t will himself to stop. 
Frankie would draw his arm back, using as much force as his little twelve-year-old body could muster, and plunge his whole body forward as he landed another hit. He couldn’t stop himself from crying, even when he was at his angriest. 
Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying? 
Frankie’s dad wasn't exactly father-of-the-year material. More like a drill sergeant with a drinking problem. When things got tough, he’d ditch his family for drugs and booze and only ever circle back when money turned to dust. 
His mom was falling apart before his eyes. His younger siblings were fearful because their mom, who was supposed to take care of them, couldn’t, and their father, who was supposed to love them, hurt them. 
Frankie was the oldest; he felt an obligation to protect everyone. But what can you do when you’re not even five feet tall?
If his father hadn’t been so strung out that night, Frankie wouldn’t have been able to tackle him to the ground like he did. He wouldn’t have been able to pin him down by fisting his ratty t-shirt and hit him like he did. As hard as he did. As many times as he did. 
Then, his father lay lifeless. Frankie blinked away his tears and let out a shaky sob. He got scared because he thought he had killed him. After all those puny hits, he laid limp. He wasn’t smart enough to know that he had just passed out from the drugs in his system. 
Frankie was so torn because how can you hate someone you’re supposed to love? How could his father leave the family he was supposed to be the foundation of? 
The Texas Department of Family and Protective Services intervened not long after. And he doesn’t like to think about it, any of it. 
Not growing up, not his family, nothing. 
But now he’s staring at a letter from his father. It’s his handwriting; the slant in the L’s, and the hook of his Y’s. Slightly smeary, written in pencil with eraser shavings damn near burned into the lined paper. He wrote this letter over and over again, trying to author the right words, to say the right things. 
Frankie’s heart stops, and all the memories rush back in a flood. It hits him like a fucking hurricane. 
Tumblr media
Tommy’s Diner settles after its Friday night dinner rush. The hour before closing was always erratic, putting together to-go orders and ushering stacks of dirty plates from the tables to the back sink. 
Your shoulder blades collide with the swing door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the diner, using the force of your body to swing it open as you balance the ceramic plates in your arms. 
“Sorry, Lou. Just a few more.” You mutter tiredly as you set the stack beside the teenage dishwasher, hearing him sigh loudly before putting his earbuds back in place. He wasn’t one for many words. The most you knew about him was he listened to cringey, whiney rappers. 
You close your eyes for just a moment and lean back into the counter, craning your back and feeling each vertebrae realigning with anguish. Tina called in sick and you offered to work a double to pick up some extra hours this week. Besides, on days you didn’t work with Frankie, you were more… productive. 
The hum of customers gradually subsides, their chatter tapering off until the bell above the door chimes, signaling their exit. It’s nicer like this, when you don’t have to be the charming server who keeps up with all of their conversations from table to table. Especially after pulling a double, and your brain feels like it might melt. 
The staff worked diligently throughout the rest of the night, tidying up the tables and floors, not letting up until the countertops gleamed, the coffee pots shined, and the strong smell of cleaning fumes mingled in the air. 
You grow a fond smile thinking about spending the summer with Frankie. He adores being outside far more than you do. It’s impossible not to imagine how stupidly sexy he would look with his skin glowing a golden tan and a pair of sunglasses sitting lazily on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Loose, flowy shirt and a pair of shorts. Curls lost to the wind. 
He talks about taking you on nature walks through his favorite trails and driving you further out of your nowhere town so you can stargaze at midnight. Or maybe you could hit the beach and spend your days under the sun drinking margaritas and Coronas. 
Summer could change things for you. 
Admittedly, you’ve been fantasizing—romanticizing. You think about him even when he’s not around. You miss the home you’ve made on the open side of his bed, where you’d curl around his orange tabby cat with his arms circled around your waist. 
Worst of all were the nights you were back at your place, where there was no one around to cook you dinner or dish out goofy conversations. Having to snake touches over your own body, over the curve of your belly, and sinking your fingers past your panties where the only remnants of Frankie is you muttering his name at the peak of your orgasm, wishing it was him showering you with his affections rather than your fingers or toys. 
God forbid you enjoy solo sessions anymore because Frankie has totally ruined that for you. It wasn’t as fun knowing you had a brown-eyed, curly-headed man across town who would beg on his knees given the chance. 
Anyway. Enough of that. 
You count the till’s cash, level out the profit, and put it all in a small bank bag before your manager, Carla, tucks it inside the safe. The metal keys on your carabiner clip jingle upon flipping the lock, the cool night air tickling your skin as late spring shows its face under the velvet night sky. 
A truck rumbles up the drive, and you know the signature death rattle all too well. 
“What are you doin’ here?” You lean against the driver's side of Frankie’s truck once he pulls up to you, your sneakers shifting gravel, his mouth tilted in a smirk. He leans past the truck’s frame and kisses you, cradling the back of your head to keep you against him. 
“Mmm,” he hums against your mouth, tasting cherry chapstick as he glides his tongue across your lower lip. “Get in. Benny’s having a house party.”
Eyes narrowing, you run your thumb up his beard scruff and gently scrape your nails down the dark hair. “I need to go home to change. Plus, I need a shower. I smell like grease, and I have grime under my nails.” 
“Fine, I’ll take you back to your place. I can wait.” 
A breath stalls in your lungs, eyes unblinking as you stare at him for a moment. 
Frankie has yet to visit your place — your dungeon, a basement-level one-bedroom apartment made up by a measly excuse of a kitchen and a tiny living space. You’re by no means embarrassed of its appearance. You’re rather clean, and you’ve made it as homely as you possibly can with bright-colored rugs and wall art. But it was sort of your final boundary. He was literally about to pass the threshold. Master the final boss. 
He’s let you have your space and never pushed you. The least you could do was say,
“Okay.” 
A contagious grin catches his lips, pulling you closer by the hand still cradling the back of your head, and he takes you in for a few more slow kisses. 
A car’s honk and bright lights jolt your heart, and your eyes squint until the flashers go down on the car Frankie has parked in.
“Can you two lovebirds hurry it up?” your manager, Carla, yells from the driver's seat of her rust-red 2006 Honda Civic. “You’re blockin’ me in, Francisco.”
You purse your lips with embarrassment, heat flushing the back of your neck. Carla was going to find out one way or another that you two have been sneaking around. She knows everything about everyone. 
“Hey, sorry, mama,” Frankie nods as she shakes her head slowly, mouth tainted with a smirk. 
“I’ll follow you back to your place,” Frankie whispers and you nod shyly, wrapping around the front of his truck and letting him tail you home. 
Tumblr media
Frankie takes two steps at a time down to your basement-level apartment. His boots thump against the cold stone, and you push the front door open with the force of your shoulder. 
His eyes drag along the different pieces of the apartment that make you, you. Soft blankets that drape along the back of a loveseat accompanied by little, fluffy pillows, different pairs of sneakers sit stacked beside the front door, and a small table for two holds random clutter in the criminally tiny dining room. 
He follows your lead and kicks off his shoes, watching you unfold into your natural routine: you drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and your fingers are already tugging a black hair tie loose. He trails you down a narrow hallway, squinting as you turn on the harsh overhead lighting to the bathroom. 
Out of your clothes without a second thought, Frankie can’t help but laugh at the way you fling your bra past his head, tunneling down the hallway and landing in what he presumes is your bedroom. The shower curtain is something abstract, most likely purchased from the Target down the road. 
“I’ll be quick if you wanna wait outside,” you offer, body shielded by the curtain. 
Frankie shrugs, eyes glancing to the toilet opposite the shower.
“I don’t mind waitin’. Wanna tell me about your day?” Frankie asks, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. He sees you fight away a timid smile and slink behind the shower curtain. The beads of water hit your body and change the tune inside the bathroom. He can tell each time you shift and twirl. It takes you a moment to become acquainted, but you retell the details of your day in a sweet lull. 
“I, uh, I usually listen to music when I shower,” you admit between the spray. 
“Oh, so you want me to start singin’?” Frankie asks with a smirk, to which you quickly shout no! 
It doesn’t stop him from breaking into a pitchy rendition of a song by the Bee Gees. 
After a fit of laughter, you both settle down, and Frankie is back to smiling at the sheer, cheaply-made shower curtain. He can see your silhouette dance under the shower head, gathering your hair and rising out the suds, grabbing a loofa to scrub away the worst of the grime from Tommy’s Diner. 
Holy shit, Frankie thinks, you smell like heaven. Oh my god, he likes you. It hits him like a bullet to the chest, the impact rippling through his veins and making his heart beat so loud that it rings in his ears. It’s a silent reminder that feeling things are beautiful when they are about you. 
The bathroom grows steamy, fogging up the glass of your medicine cabinet mirror. His skin grows clammy and his knee starts to jump in anticipation. 
“I’m almost done!” Your voice sing-songs as he slips off his jacket, his eyes still cast upon your body beyond the curtain. He’s in love with the way your body moves, fluidly and without intention. You’re just taking a shower and he thinks you’re beautiful. 
Just as you’re about to flip the water off, the curtain rings screech to open. 
“Frankie,” you breathe, eyes falling to his exposed tan skin. No other words come to mind other than another breath of his name. 
His lips attach to your neck, slow but faltering. Like he’s searching for the one spot to push you over the edge and join him in oblivion. 
The tension in the air rises as the water cascades down his back and soaks his dark curls. His frame, large and broad, protects yours as his arms circle your waist like wild vines.
Your eyes slowly fall closed, lips parted as your head eventually tilts back and rests against the shower wall. It exposes more area for Frankie to explore, his palms kneading at your lower back, arching your torso into his own. 
His teeth skim along your skin, the steam already forcing your flesh to glow and rise under the growing pressure of his hunger for you. 
He begins to navigate a new path, his lips finding purchase above your breastbone. Your fingers start at his biceps, feeling the strong muscles protruding underneath. He’s so unbearably handsome, and you can’t believe his body is fitting in the small shower stall with you. 
Finally, a heavy breath slips, something that resembles a moan. After that, he’s starving for you. 
The teeth that were once just grazing your skin, now nipping and sucking. His hands fall lower down the curve of your ass, squeezing and lifting as you gasp into his ear. You're dripping with arousal that sits achingly between your legs. 
You place a slender hand over his more muscular one, guiding it between your legs and gently cupping your mound. 
“Please,” you whisper, like the only thing Frankie needs to hear. 
He paints your mouth in a wet kiss, drowning any better judgment that may have resided. 
Intertwining your feelings together, the steam buckles heatedly in the small space. 
His fingers curl in your hold, swiping between your folds and feeling you. There’s a whimper let out against his ear, nipping at his lower lip once his fingers push past your threshold. 
And he groans. 
You’re so fucking tight, so fucking perfect for him. His forehead lays against your temple, your nose brushing against the coarse hair of his beard. Frankie sinks his fingers into you, knuckle-deep, and leaves you squirming under his hold. His fingers are so thick, it’s a bittersweet symphony the way your moans mingle in the air.
He’s got you cornered in the shower, body pressed against the hot mold. Two fingers move fluidly inside, stretching your core and stoking the burning embers that rest low in your stomach. 
“There,” you breathe, gasping as he adds more pressure to one spot that makes your legs nearly collapse out from under you. He still has you locked with an arm around your waist, holding what’s left of your presence. 
He’s skilled, his thumb finding your clit, and you want to scream at the way his fingers are long enough to fuck into you and massage your aching pearl at the same time. He’s the only one who can make you unfold like this.  
“Christ,” he mutters into your ear as he feels your walls desperately clench around him. “You can take another, can’t ya, baby?” 
His brown eyes melt you, waiting for your confirmation. You sigh weakly but ultimately nod. It’s all you can think about. 
He groans as he works a third into your entrance, and it burns, the way your pleasure mixes with the pain. 
You wrap an arm weakly around the tops of his shoulders, nails etching into his skin in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself able in his arms. 
“Fuck, Frankie,” you whine, long and bratty almost. You’re so close already, he knows just how to get you to the brink. 
You tingle at his touch, your muscles going numb as he fucks his fingers at a now unrelenting pace within your tight core. 
He works you to the edge, feeling the tick of the timebomb slowly begin to set off inside you. 
With all the energy you have left, you swing your leg up and hitch it on his hip. 
He looks bewildered for a moment, shocked eyes meeting your own as you rest your shoulder blades back against the shower wall with enough room to move your hips. You begin rolling your core down onto his fingers and he makes a noise resembling praise. 
Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers.
“Do it again,” he mutters. 
You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles. 
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration. 
He watches your body with fascination, Frankie’s eyes obsessively taking in your movements. His lips are quick to bow down at your alter, lips latching onto your exposed nipples that perk up in his mouth with all the attention. It makes a tingle shoot down your spine, only making your hips move faster as you fuck yourself down onto his fingers. 
Frankie kisses down your body until he’s sunk down onto his knees, damn near growling as your hips grind against his awaiting mouth. He latches his lips to your clit and harshly suckles, causing a high-pitched whimper to leave your mouth. 
You’re so close and he knows it, he can feel your thighs trembling under the heat of his palms. It’s the only thing holding you up at this point. Weaving your fingers into his watered-down locks, you grip them tight and keep Frankie close. 
He chuckles lowly, eyes flicking up to yours and seeing the desperate look cast over them. 
“You wanna come?”
Like he even has to ask. 
“Please,” you say, desperation leaking from your voice as you feverishly nod. 
Frankie tsks playfully, humming lowly against your clit. “Love when you beg for it, sweetheart.” 
Frankie circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, making out with your pussy and lapping away at your sweet juices. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move with more precision. 
You can feel your muscles contort as he starts to massage your spongy sweet spot. It’s enough to make your jaw drop and heat to spill down your spine. Your fingers clench his curls tighter between your fingers, holding him against you as your orgasm finally breaches. 
The leg hooked onto his shoulder shakes with each uneasy wave of your orgasm. The shower’s heat leaves you breathless, crying out in pleasure as your body shudders. 
Frankie smirks as he slowly loosens his fingers from your entrance, taking each finger into his mouth, one, two, three. His tongue swirls around each digit before he inches your leg back to down to the shower floor, planting your feet on solid ground before he stands and twists the shower’s handle. 
It only takes a few seconds, but the high of your orgasm and the heat of the shower makes you lose your sense of self. Your legs tremble and your hands feverishly grip Frankie. 
The ringing in your ears slowly fades away as he snaps the handle on the shower, letting the room calm into gentle silence. 
“Hey, hey,” he whispers as he wraps you in his arms, feeling weightless as he talks you down. “Wow,” he breathes, “never had a woman faint from how good-”
“Stop,” you laugh breathlessly, peaking your eyes open, and seeing the glittering haze of the handsome man in front of you. Water droplets run down his face, cascading down his neck and gliding horizontally across his shoulders. 
“I like hearing you talk about your day.”
Innocent eyes meet his own and you nod. “Okay.”
Tumblr media
Frankie wasn’t joking when he said his friends threw a house party. They threw a goddamn party. 
After winding down a long gravel road about thirty minutes out of town, you arrive at a two-story classic country home. It’s surrounded by acres and acres of green grass and tall trees in the distance. The most action this house has seen in years is most likely deer or coyotes. 
And now it was seeing the house party of a lifetime. 
“Frankie,” you breathe out in disbelief once he parks his truck in the grass and kills the engine. “Whose house is this?”
His mouth tilts in a smirk as he peers forward up at the house, not sure if he’s staring at the long string lights that reach from one side of the home to the other, or the drunkards climbing onto the roof. 
“Will and Benny’s, after their grandfather passed away. Pretty sweet, huh?” 
The crunch of a beer can under your shoe is the first thing you hear, other guests quick to park their vehicles and rush inside with cases of beer on their shoulders. The echoes of the partying inside could be heard from the dirt driveway, Frankie wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he escorts you in. 
A chorus of people bump against your shoulder as they step outside, laughing hard and obviously tipsy. 
“What is this place?” You mutter in slight amazement and curiosity. 
“Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” Frankie whispers against your ear, making a tingle slip down your spine as you playfully nudge your elbow somewhere between his ribs.
He walks you through the living room, easily the most filled room in the house by the looks of it. All the furniture has been pushed aside and a band resides at the forefront of all the chaos. The lead singer and guitarists stand on the sitting area of the recessed mantle. The cheering rings in your ears and the bass thumps through the floorboards, electrifying everyone’s bodies to move and dance. 
Off the dining room is the kitchen. You can’t really tell how modern or outdated it is due to the sea of people making drinks. Frankie reaches through the hoard and retrieves two beers, popping the top off yours and slipping the cold bottle into your hand. 
“Thanks,” you mutter as you clink your bottle with his. 
Aside from the noisiest parts of the house, there were chill places where people were talking and sharing ideas or the latest things that were happening in their lives. You try not to laugh as a woman swaying in a hammock accidentally falls out, landing with a thud. Thankfully, her friends in the bean bags below caught her with bellows of glee. 
“Best part,” Frankie whispers to you as he opens the door to a nearly pitch-black room, only lit by two lanterns at the very front of the mostly wood study. People are sat on the floor, whispering and shushing each other as you and Frankie fill in quietly towards the back.
“And now, may I present to you, Santi, the Significant!”
Your eyebrows furrow as Santiago steps in front of a white flashlight’s spot, bowing ridiculously as everyone laughs. 
“Santi the Significant?” You whisper as Frankie chuckles quietly and nuzzles his nose against your temple. 
“He thought Magnificent wasn’t spectacular enough, or kitschy.”
“He performs real magic? Isn’t that kind of…” At the risk of offending one of his best friends, he fills in the blank for you.  
“Nerdy?” Frankie snidely smirks and shakes his head. “Works better than you think. Watch.”
You're skeptical about the magic act, but you can't help but be impressed as the confident Santi pulls roses from his jacket sleeve and hands them to the most eligible ladies in the audience, eliciting gasps and enthusiastic applause.
“No way,” you shake your head as Santi continues a few close-up magic tricks, enough to keep his drunk audience convinced. After a few more card tricks and cheesy jokes, the crowd applauds and whistles.
“That’s all from me today, folks. If you want my number, please see me after the show.”
“Dear god,” you mutter, hiding your face in Frankie’s shoulder. “How is this working?” You ask as a group of young women circle Santi with praise and lusty eyes. “Should I go ask for his number? I was pretty wooed back there.”
Frankie tuts as he ushers you out of the study. “Absolutely not.”
Tumblr media
The entire night thrives on high energy with a constant flow of surprises. The decor of pink plastic flamingos and a surprise disco ball is making this everyone’s night one to remember - as long as the guests don’t drink too much. 
You’ve let Frankie go to mingle with his friends while you keep an intoxicated Benny at bay sitting at the top step of the staircase that looks over most of the party. 
“Quite the bash, Benny.”
“Thank you, m’lady. You’re enjoying yourself?” He slurs and sways, even while sitting. 
“I didn’t even know this many people our age live around here.” Your head rests against old yellow wallpaper, the design mostly faded and lightly curling at the floorboards. Your finger plays with the exposed edge, fighting the urge to tear it off or keep peeling it. 
He hums and throws an empty beer bottle behind his shoulder, hearing it clatter against the wall. “The best distraction for someone like me is people. I like people. And everyone needs a good distraction.”
You narrow your eyes on Benny curiously, the disco ball flashing along the bedazzled beads hanging around his neck. “Distraction from what?”
Benny seems like a very happy person, but it’s moments like these that reveal one's vulnerability. He slowly shakes his head with a very telling smile, gently squeezing your shoulder as he sighs. “It’s okay,” he slurs, “it’s why our friend group gets along so well because we all need distractions.”
He speaks so knowingly, almost like a prophet speaking in riddles, so you decide to amuse him. 
“Yeah? What about Frankie? He needs distractions too?”
Benny hums and points at Frankie down below. You peer through the wooden balusters, seeing Frankie mix and mingle with a drink in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He takes a hit and sputters up a cough as he laughs at what his group is saying, making you smile. 
“Frankie… is a very special case. He’s uh,” Benny’s eyes droop, his head resting on your shoulder as he closes his eyes and relaxes with your presence. 
“He’s what?” You whisper, reassuringly running a hand up and down his back. 
Benny lets out another sigh, breath reeking of alcohol. “You’re a good distraction for him. ‘Nd I don’t mean a distraction like a bad thing. You’re… You’re very good for him. He’s had a hard life and y’know, I’m sure he’s told you. But now he’s happy again.” 
Your heart hammers in your chest and you’re afraid Benny might be able to hear it. The large grandfather clock standing by the front door chimes, and you can’t read the time from this distance, but by the multiple rings, it must be midnight. 
And before you can stop him from spilling, Benny shares maybe more than he should. 
“Y’know with his dad. His whole family, really. His mom has capybara… no, not capybara syndrome.” Benny pauses to laugh before finishing. 
“Capgras syndrome? She just wasn’t all there when he was growing up and she didn’t get the help she needed until later in… in life. Frankie was just a kid and all of his siblings were, y’know, younger than him. Plus his dad wasn’t around to help her, drunk asshole that he was probably wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”
You stare straight ahead, watching your happy goofball down below with a new view.
“So his mom was there but not really there. He hasn’t seen his dad in years, but now, he’s back around and sent Frankie a letter or some shit. I don’t know what about. But everything has just sort of sucked for him for a long time.” Benny scoffs and lays his forehead against your shoulder, muttering now. “Especially that damn letter. ‘Nd his damn dad. But you know about all of this already.”
No, you didn’t. You’re stunned into a soft silence, the hand on Benny’s back slowly falling. 
“This party and you, good distractions. But Frankie told me he started having nightmares again.”
Suddenly very awake and alert, Benny sits up straight and looks you in your eyes. “Don’t let him drink too much tonight, okay? He’ll start spiraling if he thinks about this shit too much. Keep… keep being a good distraction.”
Benny pauses and clenches his stomach, his face turning a little pale. “Fuck,” He mutters as he quickly shifts onto his knees and crawls up the opposite side of the staircase, pushing himself to his feet and rushing towards the bathroom.  
The buzz of the party slowly fades, like the sound of snow falling outside. It’s a silence that isn’t silence at all. Everything falls into slow motion, the confetti falling and the disco ball gleaming all halting mid-air. 
You weren’t supposed to know this much, or Frankie would have told you if he wanted to. But now as you stare down the staircase to Frankie, seeing him throw his head back in laughter, it’s hard to imagine someone like him had a past like that. 
Benny was drunk. Maybe he was mixing Frankie up with someone else? You didn’t know why, but instead of your usual instinct to flee, one of protection starts to come over you. 
“Hey,” Frankie breathes out with a big smile, his eyes glazed over and a little red from smoking as he watches you step down the staircase. 
“Hey,” you say with little to no masking of your emotions. 
He tilts his head adorably and rests his hand on your hip, pulling you in closer to him. “You alright?”
After nodding quickly with wide eyes, you know it’s more important for Frankie to believe nothing is wrong. 
“Yeah! Yeah, all good. Do you think we could head out soon? I’m getting pretty tired, worked a double and all.”
Frankie smiles and pulls his truck keys out of his dark blue jeans, doing the responsible thing and putting them into your very capable hands. “If you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s go.” 
Tumblr media
He’s cross-faded for sure. At one point on the drive home, Frankie hung his head out of the passenger-side window and stared at the stars, giggling, as the wind whipped his face. But he never let go of your hand. 
 The exhaustion from the night seems to hit you both once you return to the comfort of his apartment, a small orange fluffball hopping off the couch to run his body against your lower calf. 
“Hi, Leo,” Frankie whispers, squatting down to gently scratch the cat’s chubby cheeks. 
After stripping your clothes and turning on his television in the bedroom, the lull of a sitcom settles him into slumber. You lay with Frankie in bed, his arms slung low around your waist and his head nuzzled into your chest. He snores quietly as Leo curls up between you two. 
Sleep seems to escape you, because every time you close your eyes, you picture a young Frankie with a tortured past. A shit father, a not all there mother. How was he so seemingly pieced together as an adult? 
With one hand gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp, you use the other to search capgras syndrome on your phone. 
The National Institutes of Health describes it as, the most prevalent delusional misidentification syndrome and is characterized as a delusion of doubles. Patients falsely believe that an identical person has replaced a person close to him or her… CS symptoms may result in intrapersonal and interpersonal conflicts, along with poor social relationships. An individual with this kind of disorder is prone to self-harm and violence. There are also implications for the patient's family, as the stress on the caregiver and stigma-related stressors could further compound the issue.
Clicking the lock on your phone as fast as you can, you shakily sigh and wrap your arms tighter around Frankie. 
It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard of and Frankie was at the center of it all. It felt like your stomach bottomed out thinking of what he had seen. 
Was his mother ever violent with him? Or to herself? 
And this letter from his father that Benny mentioned, what did it say? 
You manage to exhaust yourself to sleep, but it doesn’t last long. 
Tumblr media
Frankie sweats bullets, his body rustling against the bedsheets that now make him feel confined. His heart hammers against his chest and pounds in his ears. 
These dreams would be just dreams if they were happy, but there’s nothing happy about what he sees. 
On a stormy night, his mother cries. The sobs fill the house, his younger sister fears it’s a ghost by the shaky howling that sways down the hallways to their bedrooms. 
“It’s okay,” his uncertain voice reverbs as he fluffs her light pink princess pillow and tucks a lilac quilt over her small body. He smiles convincingly and closes the doors to his closet. 
He walks alone down the dark hallway, his eyes anxiously peering from left to right. He spies his father downstairs drinking alone at the dining room table. The glass bottle shimmers as lightning strikes outside. 
Is he passed out or impossibly still? 
His mother lets out another wail. 
“Goddammit,” his father curses to himself, shaking his head and finding a coat from the closet before slipping outside and into the rain. 
It���s okay, Frankie thinks, because it’s easier to take care of her when he’s not around to intervene.
With a breath of relief, little ten-year-old Frankie walks downstairs and gets a glass of water. He’s so scared, his hands won’t stop shaking. No matter how much he tries to fill his lungs with air, the shaking doesn’t stop. Dribbles of water slide down his hand and wrap around the outside of his tiny wrist. 
He follows the cries with hesitant steps, lightly pushing open the door to his mother’s bedroom. 
“Mom?” He asks into the dark, his voice soft and squeaky.
“No! No, get out!” Her cries have turned to yelling, scrabbling up to the top of the bed and flushing her back against the bed frame. 
“It’s me, mom, Frankie,” he whispers, slowly walking forward with an arm extended with the water. 
She lets out another wail and shakes her head, causing Frankie to lurch back. He thinks the lightning strikes and the thunder booming outside is scaring her, and all he wants to do is soothe her panic. 
“D-do you want some water?” He asks as she sniffs, her wide and unblinking eyes enough to keep him awake at night. 
In a wake of reality, she wipes her face and whimpers. “Is that really you, Francisco?”
His bottom lip trembles as he nods feverishly. “Yeah mommy, it’s me.” Can’t you see it’s me?
She slowly lowers the covers that she had previously clutched to her chest, nodding slowly. But then she freezes again, horrified, unconvinced. 
“I-It’s not you.” She says with uncertainty, shuddering at another clap of thunder. 
“Momma,” he whispers as he moves closer, reaching out and touching her arm as he stands at her bedside. “Drink some water, momma.”
He offers the glass, her eyes shifting from Frankie to the glass and back. 
“No-no! Your smile is bigger! That’s not my Frankie, his smile is bigger! Stay away from me!” She yelps, harshly smacking the glass of water out of his hands. Frankie jumps but can’t pull away, the grip of her hand wrapping around his wrist burns. 
“You need to stay away from me, you hear me? Stay away from my family!” 
Frankie tries to pull away, his own tears sprinkling along his eyes as he yanks yanks yanks and finally he’s free, running out of her room as adrenaline pumps through his little body. He quickly closes her door on the way out, sobbing erratically as he runs to the safety of the staircase, black funneling around his imagery. 
Tumblr media
Frankie’s eyes pop open, feeling the tight hold of your arms like the one of his mother. He shoots up and pushes your arms off, seeing your sleepy eyes tiredly open. 
“Frankie?” You whisper, soft eyes meeting his own.
Fear still possesses him, it was overwhelming like a heavy weight sitting on his chest. It was all-encompassing, his manifestations of terror and panic being linked to the feeling of being chased by something from his past.  
“It’s me, it’s me!” He shouts, his throat feeling like something was clawing at it. 
You nod your head and reach out for his arm to which he instinctively rips away from you. 
“It’s me!” He shouts again, causing Leo to scurry off the bed. His stomach felt uneasy, dread pounding a dent into his head. 
“I know it’s you, I know it’s you, Frankie,” you breathe out, pushing yourself up fully as you take his hand and reassuringly squeeze.
He swallows down an impossibly large lump in his throat, catching his breath seems impossible. He couldn’t escape it, overwhelming helplessness nesting itself deep inside. It’s always the same nightmare or similar variants from his childhood. He used to think that he had blocked them out, shoved them away to a teeny tiny part inside him, locked away inside a vault. But recently, they’ve been coming back in swarms. 
The reality that his nightmare is over suddenly hits him and his back slumps weakly. Like a human no longer possessed, his physical existence slowly turning from mush back to something concrete. Suddenly, a sense of relief washes over him. It wasn’t real, he was safe, he was with you. 
“Frankie, you’re crying,” you whisper, slowly moving your hand up to wipe away the streams on his cheeks. 
Frankie’s shaky hand holds yours, tight, and brings it to his heart, letting you feel the impossibly strong beat. 
“Fuck,” he breathes out, putting his head in his hands, “I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry,” he quickly shakes his head, feeling his body subtly relax from the strong heat that was tingling from his head to his toes. 
“It’s okay, you’re safe now, it was just a bad dream.”
He knows now and he nods, but he still feels lost between his past and his present. 
He shouldn’t have drank as much as he did, and he certainly shouldn’t have smoked. He knows that now, but he was hoping it would help him sleep, keep him at bay until you were gone in the morning. But now you were here and he felt so exposed, his open wounds now out and in the open. 
Please don’t run. 
“I’m sorry,” he says on repeat as you slowly run a hand up and down his back, his body leaning into yours and nodding; he needed this, he needed you. 
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you whisper, “can I hold you?” You ask so sweetly, your voice dripping in kindness lined with concern. 
He’s already nodding as you gently wrap your arms around his broad torso. He puts his arms over yours and sighs weakly, his fingers interlocking with yours. 
Comforting energy exudes from you, the thing he desperately needs the most right now. Your soothing voice is nothing like his mother’s anguished cries, breaking him into reality with the honey drip of your sweet whispers. 
“A nightmare?”
Frankie nods and closes his eyes, wiping the stray tears that still fall down his cheeks. 
“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he tries to laugh, but it just comes out wrecked and thick from crying. 
Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying?
Your chin rests on the dip of his shoulder and he can feel your slow breaths against his back. He aligns his wrecked breaths with your calm ones, your bodies slowly becoming in sync.  
He’s so tired. He wants to close his eyes, but every time he does, he sees the flashes of lightning outside his mothers window and hears her untrusting words. 
It’s not you!
You sit together like this for fifteen minutes and he’s becoming grounded again. He strokes the blankets and relaxes the clutching hold he has on your hand. 
“I’m gonna get a cold washcloth, you’re burning up.” You whisper. He doesn’t want you to go, but he knows it will help - something his mother never understood. Help was good. 
“Leo wants to sit with you,” you whisper as you round the bed, Leo already leaping up onto the bed and circling himself between Frankie’s parted legs. 
“Sorry buddy,” he whispers, his voice raw and still shaky, but no longer feeling like he was choking on the air his body was desperately craving. 
With hazy eyes, he watches your body move in his bathroom, the light making his eyes squint. Your soft legs tucked under his large t-shirt was a sight. He was definitely here again, in the present. 
Tumblr media
Benny had warned you, but nothing could have prepared you for that. But again, your usual feeling to run wasn’t here, because Frankie really fucking needed you right now. Your own concerns about this relationship were pushed aside. He needed comfort and reassurance, love where there wasn’t any before. 
You soak a washcloth in cold water until your fingers turn numb under the streaming faucet. Squishing out the excess, you return to his bedside and gently dab at his neck. His honey-amber eyes have never looked so dark and lifeless. 
He blinks slowly, he must be so tired. Frankie rests his hand on your upper thigh, fingers sinking into your plush flesh. He’s trying to ground himself, you think. A reminder that this was real. 
“It must have been really scary,” you whisper as you bring the washcloth up to his rosy cheeks, then to his temple and across his forehead. “Does this feel good?”
He nods and squeezes your thigh reassuringly. “Really good.”
“Okay, baby.” You whisper, running the washcloth slowly down both of his arms. The cooling sensation should help him fully awaken. You rest the washcloth on the back of his neck and rest your hand on his now cool cheek. 
His words ring through your ears, begging to be heard that he was real, that it was him. It was a dream about his mom, it had to be. 
He lets out a breath of relief, smiling weakly. “You must think I’m insane.”
He grapples to find the right words, and you think it’s best to come clean. 
“Benny told me,” you whisper, seeing his eyes harden at your truth. “About your mom, Frankie. Is that… is that what your dream was about?”
He sits impossibly still, but something in his gut must condemn him to tell you the truth. “Yeah, it was.”
You nod and run your fingers delicately across his cheek, giving him a reassuring smile. “You can tell me what you want when you’re ready. But it doesn’t scare me off, and I don’t think you’re insane.” 
An exhausted breath of relief mingles between you both and he agrees. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. 
“My dad, he sent me a letter and the nightmares started again,” Frankie whispers, brokenheartedness laced in his words. 
You press a gentle kiss to his lips, one of understanding. 
“I wanna read it to you in the morning.”
You give him a tight-lipped smile, nod, and kiss him again.
After making Frankie a sleepytime tea in his favorite mug, he settles back into bed. He was so vulnerable tonight when he really had no other choice. He falls asleep with his ear to your heart, and his arms wrapped loosely around your hips. 
You stay awake and watch the television for as long as you can, hoping the comforting vibes of a sitcom will calm your racing heart. Gentle fingers draw shapes over Frankie’s back and you share a look with his cat. One that said you were both in this together. As the sun slowly slips across the horizon, your eyes finally close knowing this night of terrors is over. 
Tumblr media
Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog
291 notes · View notes
zepskies · 2 months ago
Text
The Honorable Choice - Part 3
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 
Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.
AN: The last chapter! Hold on, it's about to get bumpy...
Disclaimer: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.
**Pronunciation guide at the end!
Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU
Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack
Word Count: 5.7K
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Protective Dean, survival situations, smut (mutual masturbation, fingering, and more), angst, and fluff.
🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist
🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!
Tumblr media
Part 3: Worthy
They travel together for two more days. Dean isn’t really a talkative man, but inevitably, he finds himself speaking to fill the comfortable stretches of quiet plodding across the grasslands.
He tells her about growing up on his family’s farm, where his father was firm but fair, and a larger-than-life presence when Sam and Dean were kids. His mother though, she was the only one who could ever go toe to toe with John Winchester and win.
“She tamed him,” Mila remarks with a smile. Dean’s lips quirk in response.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckles, “but he knew he couldn’t pull a whole lot of shit with Mom. She’s a real pistol when she’s gotta be.”
Talking about them makes his heart heavy and sobers his mood, so he deflects with other stories, other chapters of his life. 
He talks about going through basic training alongside Benny Lafitte. As privates, Dean pranked his friend by filling his lumpy old pillow with raw eggs and chicken feathers. In retaliation, Benny swapped Dean’s morning coffee with actual dirt and hot water. Their boyish games escalated until they were nearly kicked out of the military.
Dean managed to smooth things over though. He’s always had a way of charming people, even the gruff Sergeant Major, Bobby Singer.
Mila admits that she and her cousin Šóta used to sneak out of the village when they were younger. He taught her how to climb trees, how to fight and protect herself, and how to ride a horse astride, like a man. He was the only one who ever encouraged her to have the “free mind” her mother dreamed about.
The more she confides in him, her eyes sparking with life and her hands gesticulating along with her words, the more Dean listens.  
Tumblr media
On the third day, it’s nearing mid-afternoon when Dean slows Baby to a stop. After miles and miles of forest and grassland covered, they’ve finally approached a large, wide river. Mila stops beside him.
“My tribe lives beyond the river,” she says, “but the current is strong now.”
Dean looks over at her. A question he hasn’t wanted to ask crops back up. He feels that now is the time to voice it.
“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”
Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.
“I will protect you,” she says.
Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.
“Mila…”
“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”
Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.
He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he really doesn’t have many options. It’s either take his chances with her tribe, or become a vagabond. He’s not sure how long he could survive in wilds of the West alone, especially while trying to dodge military patrols.
In the past three days, it’s taken Dean all that time to come to terms with a simple fact. He’ll likely never see his brother again, or his mother. It’s a pain that cuts into him deeply, down to his bones. It stings behind his eyes.
But if he only has two choices, then he at least wants to make sure Mila gets home safely…even if that means he won’t be.
He’s come this far. If his career is worth the price of what he feels is right, then his life is worth it too.
With that decision made, Dean expels a long, somewhat faltering breath. He locks away the rest of his uncertainty, his apprehension, and even his grief. He hides it deep inside, where she won’t see it. 
“All right, the current doesn’t look too bad over here,” he says, pointing to farther north along the river. “The horses can make it.”
Mila nods in agreement. She still looks uneasy, though she tries to hide it too. She ventures ahead into the river. Dean follows close behind.
The water is shallow at first, but it all too quickly gets deeper. The horses plod over the river stones and vegetation under the surface, and the humans are led deeper, until they’re submerged into the water up to their waists.
It’s good that Mila rides that giant mustang; if she were on a mare, like Dean, she’d already be sunk up to her shoulders. Baby’s a big girl, to be sure, but Mila is nearly a foot shorter than him, with a smaller frame. He watches her carefully as she makes her way ahead of him.
That’s why he’s able to act fast when Mato slips, dunking Mila under the water. She gasps and tries to cling onto him, but the current is fierce. It pushes Mato down the river no matter how much he scrambles and kicks at the water, braying wildly in distress.
Shit! Dean tugs sharply at Baby’s reigns and strives to catch up to them. He grabs Mato’s reigns and pulls and pulls, until he and Baby are able to drag him to the other side of the river where he can get a foothold with his hooves.
Mila is starting to fall off his back. She struggles to cling on while the river pushes at her, with her wet hair falling in her eyes. Dean leans back as far as he can to try and pull her up.
“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” he calls out, even though his heart hammers with alarm.
She reaches out for his hand in turn. Just as his fingers begin to close over hers, a wave from the current crashes into her. A short scream tears from her throat after she loses her grip on Mato’s neck. Without her weight, he’s able to pull himself back up onto the bank along with Baby.
Damn it! Gut-wrenching alarm spears Dean into action. He leaps down from Baby and removes his gloves, his hat, and his uniform jacket, so he can dive into the water. Thank God he’s a strong swimmer.
Mila seems to be too. She carves through the water against the current the best she can and tries to keep her head above the waves, but Dean can see it’s a losing battle. He manages to grab hold of her arm, and then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close. Both of them work together to try and cling to any passing rock or low-hanging vine as the current sweeps them out toward an ultimate end.
A waterfall.
Of course. Goddamn it. Dean doesn’t know how steep it is on the other side, and he doesn’t want to know. All he’s trying to do is keep himself and Mila above the water.
She hooks her hand around a sharp rock. It bites into her hand, making her cry out, but she clings to it for all she’s worth. She holds onto Dean just as tightly, even though the current wants to take him. She tries to pull him closer, close enough for him to get a hold on the rock as well.
This time, it’s Dean who loses his footing. The rocks slip beneath the soles of his feet when he attempts to gain some leverage.
A shout of surprise escapes from him when he fails, and it gets swallowed up by water rushing down his throat.
“Dean!” Mila yells, for the first time using his name. The last thing he registers is the fear in her eyes—afraid for him.
The river takes him over the edge of the abyss, and he falls.
Tumblr media
He never expected that he would get to open his eyes again, let alone to the sight that greets him. Mila’s familiar face, framed by the dark, drying waves of her hair, is bright with firelight. It dances in orange-gold across her features. Her eyes are warm like rich molasses when she looks down and finds him awake.
She smiles in relief.
He realizes that he’s lying on soft grass with his head pillowed in her lap. She’s taken off his boots and half of his white undershirt; she tore one of his sleeves to wrap around a mercifully shallow gash in his shoulder.
The horses are drinking from the river nearby, with a pile of apples split between them. There’s a fish roasted over the fire, but all Dean cares about is the way her fingers are running through his hair. She sings a soft song under her breath while she passes her other hand over his injured arm without touching it.
He doesn’t understand the words, but he thinks she might be trying to heal him. He’s heard plenty of stories about the Sioux people, most he’s taken with a grain of salt. He does remember Cas saying that their healers are different from doctors.  
Dean’s never given their hoodoo much thought, but right about now, he hopes it works.
“Mornin’,” he croaks.
Mila’s relieved face becomes touched with amusement.
“It’s night,” she says. “You slept for a long time.”
Dean wants to sit up and take an inventory of his injuries, but he can’t make his body move just yet. He’s too tired and bruised. He also likes being in her arms. He likes her fingers in his hair, now moving to his cheek. He sighs through his nose in contentment as her thumb drifts over his overgrown stubble. 
“Thank you,” she says. Emotion is thick in her voice.
Dean meets her eyes again, and he smiles. He raises the back of his hand to touch her smooth cheek, gently. He lets his fingers glide across her tan skin, down the column of her neck. Her breath hitches.
She takes his calloused hand in her slender one. Her long hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder, almost like it’s shielding them from whatever is left to come for them beyond the forest. Dean wraps an ebony strand around his finger, just to feel it fall loosely again.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.
Mila graces him with another smile from her lips. He wants to know what they taste like.
“I guess you are pretty, for a White Man,” she says teasingly.
Her fingers trace his brow, his jawline, even the tip of his chin. She seems to be avoiding his plush mouth, even though her gaze keeps dropping there. Dean pretends to frown.
“Sweetheart, that’s not the way you talk about a man,” he says.
Her brows raise. “No?”
“Handsome. Strong. Toothsome, if you will,” he says, enjoying the way she begins to blush. “That’s what you wanna call a man.”
“Toothsome. I don’t know this word,” she admits. “Am I supposed to eat you?”
Dean resists the urge to say the first incorrigible thing that pops into his head. Instead, his body shakes with laughter.
It’s difficult at first, all his muscles pulling at him in protest, but he raises himself into a sitting position. He cups Mila’s cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Her lashes are dark and long. They move when she looks up at him. He knows the look in her eyes, wanting, desiring, but also unsure of what she should allow him.
Dean leans in slowly, giving her time to decide.
She tilts her face up to his. He noses at her cheek, his eyes falling closed along with hers.
He finds her lips with his own on instinct and feeling alone. Soft and tender movements, testing, asking.
She answers him. Her fingers tangle in the front of his tattered shirt as her lips begin to move against his. Dean wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her against his chest. His other hand glides down her arm, down her side and along every soft curve. Her clothes are still damp, and so are his.
“It’ll be faster to dry our clothes if we’re not wearing ‘em,” Dean rumbles. His voice is deep with desire. He presses kisses along the side of her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck and shoulder. He earns her pleased hum, her heavier breaths, and her fingers once again in his hair.
“I can’t,” she gasps. She says something in her native tongue, too fast for Dean to even register. He slows down so he can meet her eyes.
“What was that?” he asks. Her face falls, and she starts to trip over her words.
“I am not…how you say, married. I have to be…”
Dean smiles ruefully, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Chaste?” he offers. She nods, her brows furrowed. Her grip on his shirt tightens.
“Yes,” she says. “In the eyes of my people, it is…”
“I get it,” Dean says. When she still seems conflicted, he presses a kiss to her forehead. 
“Really, I understand,” he says.
His problem is that he stares into her eyes too long, and at her kiss-swollen lips. He dives back in for another taste.
This time, he’s a little less gentlemanly than he promised. His tongue sweeps along her lower lip, begging entrance. She makes a sound of surprise, but she opens up to him. Her gentle hands slide up his chest to hold his face, and her thumbs stroke his cheeks. He holds one of her wrists to keep her there as his tongue dances with hers. She tastes like the river, and like salty tears.
Had she cried for him? How long did she sit with his body, waiting to see if he would wake up?
Despite those worrying thoughts, Dean knows this feels right. More right than he’s ever felt.
It’s harder than he might’ve imagined, but he still pulls away, before he won’t be able to stop himself. Mila pants for breath. She seems to feel she should let him go, but also doesn’t show any sign of wanting to. Smiling, Dean caresses her cheek one more time before he turns to the fish she roasted.
“This looks good,” he says, clearing his throat. “What kinda fish is this?”
With a sigh, she attempts to steady herself and moves to join him by the fire.
Tumblr media
That night, Mila dreams.
She dreams of wings, white and beautiful. She hears the cry of an eagle before she sees his great wingspan take off in flight. He soon finds his mate, and they dance together in the sky. 
When she wakes, the fire has gone out and it’s still dark in the night. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s safe. Finally safe.
And she’s lying securely in Dean’s arms.
She’s no longer conflicted when she stares up at his face.
She will bring him home to her tribe, and she will explain. If they still don’t welcome him, then she prays for the strength to keep to her honor. Because now, she begins to realize…
Her heart has already chosen.
Tumblr media
“Kimmímila, what have you done?” her uncle asks in the language of their people.
He is Tahatan, Chief of their tribe.
Mila’s father, Chatan, and her cousin Šóta have tied Dean Winchester to a post in the center of the Chief’s large tipi. Dean kneels with his head bowed in respect, even though he keeps sneaking looks at Mila to try and gauge what’s happening. He doesn’t understand a word of any of it.
“You’ve brought this outsider into our village, this White Man!” Tahatan shouts, his voice deep and resounding.
Mila steps forward, despite her mother’s embarrassment and her father trying to grab her shoulder. For the second time in her life, she defies her father for what she believes is right. The first was to rescue a member of their tribe—because even a horse’s spirit should not be broken by greed.
“Uncle, I’ve told you the story, though you don’t want to believe it,” she says. “Dean Winchester saved me when he could have killed me, or worse. He defied his own people. He is dead to his own people, for me, and because of me. You may think they lack all honor, but this man is different.”
She looks over at Dean, and he meets her gaze. He wears an anxious frown as he looks between her and the chief, but she has a feeling that his fear is for her, not for himself.
She kneels beside him, then looks up at her uncle with all the stubbornness she’s ever possessed in her life. She feels it’s led her to exactly this moment.
“And we are one,” she says. Nerves trill up her spine as she says it. She predicts the way shock falls over the room. The way her father curses out loud, angry. The way her mother covers her mouth in dismay. The way the Chief takes a step back, tilting his head at his niece.
“You would take it that far?” he asks.
Her face doesn’t change. “It’s already done.”
Tahatan is beside himself, both angry and perplexed. He goes back to his chair of wicker and wood that lies centered in the room. He drops heavily into it. After a long while, in which he thinks in silence…he releases a heavy sigh. He gestures for his brother and his son to untie Dean. The men do so, but they don’t let him go free. They force him to stand and bring him forward to kneel again before the Chief.
“Dean Winchester,” Tahatan says.
“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.
“You prove yourself to be a man with honor,” he says in English. “Kimmímila has chosen you. She claims you have chosen her in return. Do you deny this?”
Dean glances over at her. She bites the inside of her lip, a bit worried about how he’ll react. She’s not sure he completely understands what Tahatan is telling him, but he nods, regardless.
“No, sir. I don’t deny it,” Dean says.
“Then, you will be allowed to stay, and live among us,” Tahatan declares. "We will see for ourselves what you are. We will see if you are worthy."
Dean gives a nod, crossed with a bow of some kind. He obviously isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to do, but he does say thank you. Mila wraps her hands around his uninjured arm and helps him to his feet. She smiles at him to let him know that the worst is over. He blows out a breath in relief.
“Is that it?” he whispers. He expected more of a thrashing, if he’s honest.
“Almost,” she replies. The two of them stop short before her father, Chatan.
Dean straightens up and holds out his hand. “Sir.”
Chatan glances down at the white hand extended toward him. His gaze raises back up to Dean. 
He grunts in acknowledgement, but he turns on his heels and storms out of the tipi. Her mother comes forward next. She examines Dean from all angles. She takes his face in her hand, somewhat squishing his cheeks, so she can look deeply into his startled eyes.
She seems satisfied by what she finds, and she lets him go. Afterward, she takes Mila’s hand and heaves a deep sigh.
She kisses her daughter’s hand and says nothing else, leaving them to find her husband and calm him down.
Dean turns to Mila with a look that says, please tell me that’s it.
She smiles more genuinely.
“Come,” she says.
Tumblr media
She leads him by the hand out of the Chief’s tipi and through the village. Dean takes in the rows of other tall, cone-like structures covered in buffalo skin, as well as all the faces that turn to stare at him in a mix of curiosity, wariness, and even fear. Some of them whisper to each other, taking their children by the hand and keeping them close.
Dean’s still on guard himself, even when Mila takes him to a smaller tipi. It’s been closed up for a while now, by the look of it. Weeds have grown right outside the entrance. 
“This one’s yours?” Dean asks.
She pauses, giving him another small smile. “Ours.”
Dean raises a brow. Ours. Really?
She opens the flap in the front and beckons him inside. There’s still enough daylight to shine through the outer lining. Inside, his gaze flits over the old pile of stones in the center for heating, clothes folded in the corner, some cooking pots and utensils, paintings on wood and clay, and a couple of beaded decorations. Buffalo skin bedding is laid out on the other side with a couple of soft looking furs. 
Son of a gun. Dean doesn’t even blink as he processes it all. He’s in a damn tipi. This is really about to become his life.
Shaking his head a little, he forces himself to focus on Mila. She’s his anchor, and she seems to sense that he’s reeling. She guides him to sit beside her on the bedding, holding his hands in hers. After a moment, he reaches up to tuck a curling strand of hair behind her ear.
“You didn’t get in too much trouble because of me, did you?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No. My father and uncle are very similar. Strong to anger, but it is quick to run out. At least with me.”
Dean thinks he understands. Short fuse, quick fizzle.
“There is just…one thing,” Mila says. Her eyes fall away from his, like she’s embarrassed. He squeezes her hands.
“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing. It gets her to look at him again, but she seems worried to tell him.
“To convince my uncle to let you stay, I told them that we…” she trails, trying to find the right words in English. “That we are married.”
Dean’s brows raise high. His heart trips up faster. Okay, “ours” makes a lot more sense now.
“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hurt—”
“Sweetheart,” Dean says, cupping her cheek. Even with the hammering of his heart, he grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s where this was going anyway.”
In fact, this is a best-case scenario, as far as he’s concerned. He leans in to kiss her, and it doesn’t take long at all for her to sigh in relief, melting against him.
“We’re married, huh?” he asks. “No ceremony? No white dress?”
“We are bonded,” she replies, nodding as she meets every one of his kisses. “Or, we will be.”
She tugs him closer and revels in the feeling of his hands beginning to roam her body, sliding down her waist, her hips and thighs.
“Guess that means we have to seal the deal,” he grins. His lips drift away from hers to burn a familiar path across her cheek. He takes to nibbling her ear, making her flinch and laugh as it tickles.
“Seal-the-deal. What does that mean?” she asks.
Dean chuckles lowly in her ear. “Oh, I think you know.”
He guides her onto her back, over the comfortable mess of furs. He wants to take his time exploring every inch of soft, tan skin, but he first sweeps her hair away from her eyes, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. She smiles up at him softly.
“Do you regret?” she whispers, reaching up to touch his chin with two slender fingers. “Do you regret helping me?”
Dean considers her question. He knows he’ll carry his family in his heart until the day he dies. His brother, his mother, the memory of his father. Benny and Cas, even Jack, and so many others.
It’s already a heavy burden, but he had always been prepared to lose his life on the battlefield, in service of his country. At least this way, he gains a new life. 
“No. Never did,” Dean replies. “Not even once.”
He bows his head toward hers, and he proves it to her. His lips capture hers, fueled by passion and wanting. Mila’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. Maybe without her realizing it, she implores him to let go of the weight heaped on his shoulders.
When he begins to bunch up the hem of her dress, she sits up to help guide his hands. Her quickening breaths mesh with his as the first layer of clothing drops beside the bedding. His tattered shirt joins her dress, along with pants and shoes and boots, until all that’s left is skin against warm, bare skin. He lays on his side right beside her and explores wherever she lets him begin.  
“Beautiful,” Dean murmurs, as his lips follow the column of her neck, down between her breasts. Her breaths rise to meet him, especially when he begins to toy with a dark, pebbled nipple. Her fingers slip through his hair, and his name falls from her lips. He palms one breast while kissing and gently teasing the other, exploring sensitive flesh and grazing her sensitive fleshwith his teeth.
“No man’s ever touched you?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.
She shakes her head, her fingers gripping his hair tighter as his lips and tongue move against her skin.
“No,” Mila gasps a reply. Her hand slides down the back of his neck, and the more he teases her, her nails soon create faint red lines down his back, her thighs squeezing together. She feels a throbbing ache at the very center of her. Despite her inexperience with men, she knows what it means, and she knows what she wants.
Dean’s mouth drags away from her breast. He pulls back so he can meet her eyes. A smile curves his lips, and he takes one of her hands from his shoulders. 
“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asks. He guides her hand down her body, brushing over a wet, sensitive nipple, down her stomach, and between her legs. This time, Mila nods in answer. She stares up at Dean with eyes like molten honey. He leans in to kiss her neck.
“Show me,” he says.
She shudders at the depths in his voice. It increases the flood of wetness she already feels, even before she slips two fingers between the folds of her sex. She gathers some of that slick and circles it over the source of her pleasure, the small nub above her entrance.
Dean takes his hardened length in his hand. While she writhes by her own hand, he drinks her in with his eyes. A soft groan falls from his lips as he pumps himself a few times, sliding a thumb across the weeping head of his cock.
He can’t be a spectator for long though. He nips tantalizingly at her neck, creating a zing of added sensation across her skin. She whimpers, though she tries to stifle it, her knee bending further.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dean says. “Let me hear you.”
He releases himself and replaces her hand with his own. He slips two long fingers inside her drenched entrance, earning a gasping moan from her. She latches onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. She whispers fervent things he doesn’t understand, but it only spurs him on.
His thumb circles insistently over her clit as his fingers pulse inside her. Her hips buck a needy rhythm against his hand, until her thighs begin to shake, and her inner walls squeeze even tighter around his fingers.
“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he pants gruffly against her cheek. “Let go for me.”
Warmth snaps and floods from her throbbing core, and she cries out near his ear, her nails biting into his skin. Her release coats his fingers.
Mila drops her head back against the furs underneath her. Her chest rises and falls quickly while she tries to catch her breath, her eyes tightly shut. Dean surprises her with a soft kiss.
“Mila,” he prods. He wants to see her eyes again, so pretty and wanton when she comes. He veers away from her lips to kiss her cheek, and then the other side of her neck. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”
She huffs a small laugh. Opening her eyes, she gestures to her bare body. “This is not enough?”
Dean’s lips tug at a smile. He shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, no.”
He shifts over her, finding his place between the cradle of her thighs. His elbows come to rest on either side of her head. She feels trapped by his body, even as she welcomes his weight and the feeling of his arousal, long and heavy and hard, trapped between their bodies. This man fills every corner of her world in this moment.
“If I’m your husband now, that means I get all of you,” he says with a grin. She gazes up at him, both in blushing amusement and affection.
“All of me,” Mila repeats. She takes his face in her hands and brings him closer, until her lips are a whisper from his. “Then I want all of you.” 
Dean chuckles. “You sure about that?”
She smiles in satisfaction, and her lips claim him this time. One kiss turns into many, each one mounting in passion and desire. Dean groans into her when she begins to touch him. Her hands are soft, but direct in their seeking; they caress his shoulders, run down his chest and stomach, and then, more tentatively explore the now painfully hard length of him pressing against her.
He makes a grateful sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his cock, squeezing gently. His fingers bury themselves in her hair.
“I want all of you,” she says, this time a plea and a demand all at once as she strokes him.
Dean nods in agreement. He’s come this far. He can do that for her too.
He spreads her thighs a bit wider and encourages her to adjust the angle of her hips for him. His hand glides down her plush thigh and gets a healthy grip. Then he slides his hand under hers and guides his cock through her folds, first just holding himself at her warm, wet entrance.
He manages to wait for a second, in order to meet her gaze. She’s already holding onto his arms tightly, like he’s become her anchor. Her thighs wrap around his hips and beckon him closer.
Slowly, he pushes inside. He takes care in how he works her open. She winces at the sting of his girth stretching her, but his fingers once again massage her clit, stroking her arousal back into a keening flame. He swallows her gasps and moans as he bottoms out inside her, fully sheathed. Tears prick at her eyes, but not from pain.
Mila’s dream flashes like a waking vision behind her eyes. Wings take flight, along with the gleam of a golden beak and a sharp eye.
She blinks, and the image disappears. She’s left with the man who has become hers, making love to her with every stroke of him deep inside her. She presses grateful kisses across his neck and shoulder, wherever she can reach while she clings to his strong arms.
The thick head of him brushes a sensitive place over and over, one that tightens the coil in her lower belly and makes her core tremble again with warmth, until her body convulses against him, pulsing in pleasure, gripping him tight from the inside. Mila’s fingers clench in his hair just as tightly as her release hits her in a powerful wave; even her voice becomes lost to it.
Gritting his teeth, Dean grips the soft flesh of her hip and chases his own end. The way her inner walls choke his cock, he has no choice but to come hot inside her, his spend mixing with her own release. A strangled shout tears from his throat.
He has to brace himself before he crushes her. With his forearms resting on either side of her head, he lowers his forehead against hers. Her legs slip from where they’ve been tightly molded to his hips, her feet meeting the floor. Eventually he slips out of her. He watches his seed drip out and create a mess on the dark furs. The sight of it satisfies something primal deep inside him.
Later he’ll ask her about washing up (and about supper), but for now, he just turns onto his back beside her. She inches toward him, and he raises an arm so she can splay out against his side. They both lay there for a moment in the quiet, just catching their breath together. It marks the end of a long journey, and yet, the start of one too.
Mila turns to raise onto her elbow. She reaches over to wipe the sweat from his brow in a tender touch. Dean smiles up at her. He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm.
“I could get used to this,” he says.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she laughs softly. “Yes.”
Her hand moves down to his chest, over his heart. She sobers as she considers her people, and how much trust has yet to be bridged—not only her own father and uncle, but the entire tribe. When she led him through the village, they called him wašíču.
Fat-taker. Greedy White. Not one of us.
“It will be hard for you here,” Mila says. She worries it will be too hard for Dean.  
He just squeezes her hand, earning her attention through tumultuous thoughts.
“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Dean replies. His usual confident charm is infused in his smile, but she has a feeling he’s just trying to reassure her.
Sensing she’s not convinced, Dean reaches up to hold her cheek, guiding her to look at him and not the floor.
“Listen. I made my choice, and I’m sticking it out, come hell or high water,” he says.
Mila’s brows knit together. “Hell-or-high… What does that mean?”
Dean sits up on his elbow along with her. He takes her chin between his fingers and meets her gaze.
“It means if you want me, you’ve got me. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along,” he says.
A smile slowly lightens Mila’s face. She tilts her chin up to meet him with a kiss.
“I will be with you,” she says. It’s a promise.
Dean smiles back.
“Good,” he says. “Because that’s just about all I need.”
Tumblr media
AN: There we have it, friends. 💜 I really, truly hope you enjoyed this mini series! To be honest, I have more ideas for this little world (like how Dean might try to assimilate into this culture), but I'll leave it to you guys to let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading.
Until then, I would love to know what you thought of this chapter! 
Pronunciation Guide:
Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew")
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Join Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Series Masterlist
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Tumblr media
Series Tag List + Dean W. (Part 1):
@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms
@foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @roseblue373 @this-is-me19
@emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91
@sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @kaleldobrev @spnwoman
@thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28
@adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka
@chevroletdean @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24
@ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley
@sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @mimaria420
@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @ajjustice
@ades106 @my-stories-vault @cevansbaby-dove @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof
@tmb510 @skyesthebomb @syrma-sensei @harleycao @king-of-milf-lovers
@pizzagirlxnsfwx @justsom3onesworld @beskarfilms @lunaticgurly @artemys-ackles
@malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester @jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean
@violetlilysunshine @traiitorjoe @tsofo26 @k-slla @jackles010378
@deanbrainrotwritings @urfav-tz @alwaystiredandconfused @torchbearerkyle @mrlonelycat
@deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70
@aylacavebear @liopleurodean @brujaporfavor @xiphoidbones @xsophianicolex
@jays-bonnie-on-the-side @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @ghostslillady
Tumblr media
126 notes · View notes
therealslimshakespeare · 13 days ago
Text
|| Strip Search
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Summary: having been tipped off by some inner informant, one of the German officer’s attempts an inspection while the women are at their showers- an altercation ensues.
Warnings 18+ contains mild spoilers: despite the title no such search actually happens, however there’s also an array of other hard things in here. Such as, reference to past rape and medical experimentation, brief suicidal ideation, unwanted pregnancy, violence, threat of strip search, death of a guard dog.
Thank y’all for your patience while I worked at this, it’s got a lot more action than I’m usually comfy with so it grew me, hope it is also enjoyable for you. 🥰 and to miss Christi who helped me overcome my writers block
Edited by my exhausted little eyes, have mercy and lemme know if changes are needed
Circa: Feb 1944, previous fic
Maureen is pleased with how faded the bruises are as they wash. It’s late February, water is frigid, there’s no towels still and yet they finally have showers.
For some it took months for their bruises to fade and Maureen took morbid, officerly interest in their progress. For herself the cuts on her own hips look like jagged white bolts of lightning, harmless tokens of a past no longer of consequence, her hands are marred, mildly misshapen with sickening little pits where there should be nails. But they work.
Gale’s twin cuts on his cheeks have turned purple and remain. He had finally told Maureen of them, how they came to be, a week after Benny already had. One for flak, one for honor. He had kissed her after, as if testing whether she’d want him still. His cuts remain and so do the long winter nights she fights not to panic in, but the want remains, for both of them. It is oddly strong in this tired place.
Lu’s face looks smudged most days but it’s the dusky circles under her tired young eyes and nothing more, nothing fresh, her jaw a clean slate once more. Her breast is jagged and lumpy when she runs the soap over it but no longer hot to touch. The Mercury salve that Maureen forced on her day after day must have done its job. It glittered when they did it under a bulb, Maureen and told her to think of it as war paint, silver on bronze, Lu had broken her first grin in weeks and never fought it again. Even mentioned it when Maureen hadn’t gotten to it that day. It’s jagged but it’s not infected.
One of the sergeants has a swastika cut into her hip, she tried hiding it at first but Maureen has watched during showers as it faded from vibrant crimson to a dull, resigned lavender. Just like Gale’s cheeks. Just like everything in this camp, it’s grown tired and worn and pale.
Except for Ida’s child. Maureen is sure her Colonel’s ruse has not worked, skulking in the corner of showers, always wearing her coat, never mentioning the pains and the hunger and the vomiting -Maureen is pretty sure most of the other women know; they simply don’t speak of it. Smith knows; sweet Lu gives Maureen looks as if asking her to help Ida somehow, as does Gale. Bucky and Brady look at her like she’s a threat. Maureen was once hopeful, then she went mad, now she’s tired. Not even the cold showers hold the capacity to make her feel sorry for herself any longer. She’s too tired for that.
No, instead she watches the bruises, she watches Ida and guards her with her own pale, wane and goose-pimpled body. One little barrier of flesh between their officer and the rest. It’s futile and Maureen finds herself sickly fascinated by watching Ida’s form do anything but shrink in this dismal place. Week after week, same shivering soaking in this damp and gritty shower room but the change is always spectacular.
Miraculous. Sickening.
Ida’s hipbones stick out as always, her hips as lean as a boy’s, but her once meager chest is now swollen into plush handfuls that any starlet might be proud of, the effect is ruined by the caved in hunger of her pronounced sternum.
This, her officer, has grown grotesque.
It did not hit Maureen quite so hard before. She had been scared and aggravated and jealous just as Ida’s symptoms had been vague and nebulous. Looking at the terrifying gnarled dome of Ida’s abdomen, Maureen finds herself sickened by a very sudden rush of reality. It is her own worst fear, to be forced to carry a child made in such evil, to have some entity take up residence inside oneself and leach all vitality and strength from her. For one’s own body, one’s shell to be a threat without any consent from that very being. Today Ida looks unmistakably with child, it is not the bloat of hunger or the curves of a more endowed woman, she is emaciated and yet she is enlarged.
And Maureen knows the thing is not swimming dead in there, Bucky Egan lays his hands on that distended stomach nightly and coos in the privacy of the bunkroom about kicks and flutters as if it were a thing to be celebrated. As if he were its father, as if Ida wants it at all, as if it won’t be shot along with its mother as soon as it’s discovered. Or given to the dogs.
Maureen feels her chest squeezing close to unbearable, it’s not a hard thing to do when so very cold. Blood clots form, hearts enlarge. She finds cold discourages nausea. Nothing like a cold pack to the belly on a hot day, a bottle of bubbly pulled straight from the ice pail and held to the throat. Her stomach is settled, her heart constricts.
They have plans, her friends, both the ones who call it a child and the ones who call it “the current most pressing issue.” They have radios thanks to Smith and Gale and maps and provisions. Fritz the guard, by Maureen's own daring and cajoling, has proven an utter subvert, they have papers forged by the Poles and stamped by Fritz. They look legitimate, they look official, they make out Bucky and Ida to be a farmer and his wife. The time to dare is any day now, and Maureen knows it’s not a moment too soon for Bucky’s mental stability, for Fritz’s job security and for Ida’s likely travail.
Maureen is glad of it, she is glad to have aided it in a small way. She’s sick all the same, since it is all so futile. She is late to help and she is sorry for it, but her mind is unchanged.
At night she dreams of Sergeant Forsyth bleeding out on the cement of the prison floor, mauled to death by the dogs, just out of reach of her friends behind bars; every night Maureen dreams of Forsyth and she dreams of Lu’s torn breast and every night the memory mangles itself into imagination until it is of this child.
A Brady. A German. A child. The current most pressing issue. Torn to pieces. Why waste a bullet.
And still, Maureen cannot bear to think of Ida having to push out the child of one of those men. Not even safe and remote in the Polish woods somewhere with Bucky Egan happily receiving the spawn from between her legs.
Those men and their cruelty will haunt her even then. Maureen used to be jealous of the woman, angry at her recommended demotion from pilot to bombardier, grateful she was not so stubborn or so sober herself. Nothing in the world could make her jealous of Ida Brady now, not when looking at the still mottled skin, marred and scarred by the very hands that made that thing, that grotesque belly.
Ida had gotten into a fight earlier in the week. Maureen wondered and Brady accused her of purposefully trying to harm herself. For all her offers of willingness to help, to abort, to erase, Maureen had no real concept of how to execute them even if accepted. She had not been in the end, and her relief was as strong as her worry. And now Ida had turned to this.
“It’s a life and it’s mine.” Ida had told her, and somewhere along the way Maureen had forgotten the woman might think that, and loath it all the same. When someone jumps off a bridge, warms the bath and slits their wrists, writes a note and closes the garage, they don’t deny it’s life. That the life is theirs. They just can’t bear it anymore.
Looking at Ida, freshly bruised and with a belly so taut the outline of her child’s positioning is in stark relief, Maureen can now so easily imagine her unable to take it. It is grotesque, it is Maureen’s worst nightmare, it is hard to look at it or acknowledge but here it is, large and real and possibly will be gone soon. And Ida is having to bear it.
Maureen wonders if she’ll ever even see her colonel again. Bucky either. Or if they’ll show up in the states when it’s all over with a blonde little girl in tow. Bucky insists it’s a girl -John Brady looks at him with utter grief each time.
Ida says nothing those times. She has come to say less and less. She still speaks to Smith when needed, she will tell Bucky to not be rash, she huddles with her brother and they make each other snicker but there are no other words she finds or uses these days unless it is to ask Maureen her worthless opinion.
Otherwise, Ida Brady has gone quiet.
Except for when she sings. Softly and always a little sad lullaby of a song, folksy and homesick. It makes many of the boys fall asleep. It makes Maureen cry with a pillow smothered over her face and Gale’s hands squeezing her forearm comfortingly. It brings Jack and Bucky’s lungs out of disuse to make a harmony. Crank sometimes, too. It’s the saddest thing in all the world.
“If you miss the train I'm on
You will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
A hundred miles, a hundred miles
A hundred miles, a hundred miles
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
Lord, I'm one, Lord, I'm two
Lord, I'm three, Lord, I'm four
Lord, I'm five hundred miles from my home
Lord, I'm five hundred miles from my home
Not a shirt on my back
Not a penny to my name
Lord, I can't go a-home this a-way
This a-way, this a-way
This a-way, this a-way
Lord, I can't go a-home this a-way”
“When are you going to try for it?” Maureen asks her now, hushed voice still echoing loudly in the tiled place, poor water pressure hardly making a splash amongst the line of showers. She should wait to ask in privacy, to respect the delicacy of the escape plans, but she cannot bear this quiet or the gingerly tolerance that has grown up between them lately.
“When the full moon wanes.” Ida answers, only her eyes flick up, wary but searching and she instantly adds. “I wish you could come.”
There were not enough papers or chances. Gale is staying, too. Maureen is less happy with that assurance than she was a month ago. She wants Gale out now. She was mad then at his risks, she is scared now at his resignation. She wants them all out before they die here.
“I want all of you out.” Ida’s voice says it at the same moment, it cracks but not from emotion, she sounds ill. Most of them have some sort of congestion from the cold.
The woman hates being the center of so much risk and expense of life, hates being a jeopardy that requires so much sacrifice when she is the officer, the ranking one who should be last to leave the ship. Maureen thought she’d find that more validating, instead her chest hurts and she will, perhaps, be missing her friend soon. Mourning her, grieving even.
Maureen decides to say what she wanted to say when she thought they were going to die, lined up in the muddy square of Ravensbruck, before survival, religion and bellies, the ever increasing madness of forced proximity along with resurfaced memories and dotted amnesia all drove Maureen to become ugly and bitter. “You’re a rock.” she mumbles the compliment to her colonel as she splashes her armpit free of the burning lye.
“I want you all out.” Ida repeats so guiltily Maureen has to harden her heart not to grow worse than tired and become snappish, it hurts so very much. She was going to be better, she promised Benny that. She thinks of his lies, how good he is with the nice ones.
“We’ll get out. Just you wait and see.” she says, they both know it’s lies, they both know Ida and Bucky will likely be shot a few yards out the gate, and no one will follow, “And your brother’ll be the first one I haul out by the scruff of the neck. Trust me.”
“You’ll look after him, won’t you.” Ida asks but it’s not a question; it’s a compliment even if she knows they won’t get out, she knows Maureen cannot prevent what happens to him anymore than Ida herself has been able to, “You always were so brave that way.”
Brazen. Crude. Liberal. Those are qualities Maureen did not anticipate being called upon for triaging hurt men. Boys that she liked, respected even, boys she wanted safe and not even aware of such cruelty. Jack’s bruises do not fade with the others, they start small but grow ugly and larger day after day along his forearms, needle holes festered and lips gone violet. He won’t let Maureen check anywhere further, she wonders if he’s let Ida.
“You know I will.” Maureen swears, because she will try, “Buck said the Kommandant was inclined to intervene.” she adds hopefully and all it does is send the most wretched look across Ida’s face. Lateness in these cases is too late, Maureen would know, she thinks of her own brother, his innocence and his spark and a little late was too late to really matter.
“It’ll be better when I’m out.” Ida rehearses to herself. She sounds so much like Jack in these moments it makes Maureen’s skin crawl. “He’s doing so much of this so we can -can have supplies.”
To escape, to live in the wilderness, to raise a child on the edge of the world.
Maureen comes alongside her, wondering what she’d have liked someone to say to her the day she found she had to protect her brother from her uncle, from her priest, and even her father in some small way. When she found out and yet couldn’t ever seem to manage it like she wanted, she had cursed her mother then, for being gone and she kept on cursing her and the specter of her in every woman since, stranded ever since with the guilt that gnawed where a beating heart should be. “You’ll make good on his trust, Colonel.” she squeezed Ida’s hardened bicep under the spray, an arresting comfort, because Jack was different from Lance and he wasn’t a kid and he wasn’t Maureen’s to fuck up, “You’ll get out of here and we’ll close ranks and he’ll be fine. He’ll make it, too.”
“You been playin’ poker with Smith again?” Ida turns her face to her, hair grown out just long enough to cut across her forehead and temples in ink-like slashes, “You’re getting awful good at bluffing.”
Maureen grins back, “Always was sir, just lost it for a bit.”
Ida regarded her for a minute with a half endeared look Maureen realized with a jolt she had not seen since Thorpe Abbots, not directed at her at least.
“Sorry about your cheeks.” Ida muttered, almost bashful.
Maureen’s hands flew up to her cheekbones out of instinct, the bruises from the book long gone and the incident left behind over a month ago. It was like Ida to let things bother her months later; when Maureen tried imitating her in that exercise she found herself utterly exhausted. “Even, like that,” she nodded to Ida’s swollen belly, “you hit harder than the gestapo.”
Seemed like a good thing to say, the way the remorse left Ida’s face and a wry look of pride warped her lips briefly. She looks painfully like her brother with her swan neck strained in the cold and the chopped length of her hair flopping into her eyes.
“You should let me trim up your hair before you go.” Maureen realized, her hand gingerly darting out to rake the hacked off locks back from her eyes, only to hesitate at the last minute in unsurety if the familiarity was welcome anymore.
Ida simply leans her forehead into Maureen’s palm and the world settles alright and forgiven in her chest: trust.
“Make it one of those chic little cuts?” Ida suggested.
“Chicest farmer’s wife this side of the rhine.” Maureen agreed, “You’ll have everyone wondering why you settled for that oaf, Egan.”
There was the saddest flash of mirth on her face for a brief instant. “Tell me straight then-“ Ida began with a crease to her brow that promised a talk about logistics, but just then a commotion outside drew their attention.
It was not uncommon for whoever was guarding the door to have a spirited bit of chirping with any hapless passersby, sometimes an argument over shower times with some batch of men who didn’t care about giving the women privacy, or worse, a full on altercation over the same. There were no locks on the inside of the drafty room, making the boys’ guarding presence essential, and so far, always effective. It was Crank and Demarco on duty today, and Maureen strained to hear their words as their voices rose outside, more than typical.
“You finish, I'll go look.” Maureen muttered, patting Ida’s arm and going to dress as her paltry shower was in fact complete.
She was shrugging on her sweater, great coat in hand, when she pressed her eye to the slat, a gust of northwestern wind and the sight of guards on the steps giving her a shock. Benny wasn’t letting them by, and that was the only reason they weren’t in here already, and that reason could be put aside with a shove or a bullet. She sees one of the krout officers reach for his sidearm as he goes up the first step, toe to toe with Crank on the second, and that was all Kendeigh needed to swivel round and yell at her girls to dress. She can see their miffed and startled faces, too morosely caught up in their cleanliness to even notice the impending danger. Most of them are stark naked, except for the few who are trying to use the few flight suits left as towels. Ida doesn’t even turn off her tap, she charges towards the hooks on the opposite wall and Maureen realizes the farce is quite over, every single girl here has seen that belly now.
She puts her eye back to the gap in the slats. Crank is closer than last time, his sleeve almost by her eye on the other side of the wall, she guesses he’s trying to hold onto the door handle. Benny is in an officer’s face, baiting death. It’s not a situation that will last peaceably for many more seconds. There’s side arms out, a dog straining at the leash.
Maureen feels a rustling by her side and she could have guessed who it was before an accented voice mutters beside her, “How’re we going to secure this.” Sanchez is shrugging on a coat while keenly eyeing the wooden loops this side of the door, loops usually capable of holding a board as a lock, one on each door, sliding a beam through makes it impressively strong. But like all things in this place, security is absent, there’s no beam, no pole, no nothing, the wooden rings are empty and without the presence of their securing beam they look mockingly like handles.
“Doors open in.” Maureen reminds her. It’s not an excuse, they’ll have to find a way to lock them, keep them closed, they both know that.
Crank can’t hang on when he’s been shot.
That’s a cold truth that simply settles and Maureen once again tastes the feeling of going up, of sitting in the glass nose, rocking her eye against the rim of the bombsight, bruised cheekbones from the jarring turbulence of deathly flak bursts; it's foggy, faint and nostalgic but it’s an enjoyable cocktail nonetheless, one she’s missed: bold flavors of action hitting the tongue, washed down by responsibility, afternotes of terrified vitality.
“They’re onto the belly.” Sanchez is saying, listening to the useless argument Benny is holding with a pistol pointed at his chest, buying time like only a man that brave and that smart can.
The belly, Sanchez says -it’s not a baby here. That’s what Maureen had been trying to say before. She feels like she and Sanchez might’ve been real tight in another life. As is, they're about to die together trying to keep shower doors shut a little longer so that Ida can get shot a little later.
There’s a gunshot outside. It goes through the eaves of the roof and Maureen doesn’t really think when she decides to thread her arm through the wooden rings and makes a fist. Crouched towards the room, and half starved into willowy thinness, she gets the whole limb through there, one wooden ring at her shoulder, another right above her elbow. Her back to the door. Arm as a beam. She saw a picture of a princess doing this for the royal nursery when she was a precocious child, raiding her aunt's library. It comes to her now. The impulse. It’s always fucking childhood, everything she does these days is some gut impulse from some fucking childhood memory.
Sanchez looks at her like she’s mad, then grips Maureen’s wrist with truly maniacal determination. She gets it, Maureen thinks with relief. Sanchez will hold onto Maureen’s arm when they push, and it won’t last long but it’ll be something. “It’ll snap.” Sanchez observes, staring at Maureen’s strained elbow.
She feels the first push of someone trying the door, expecting less resistance. It’s just a cursory push. Maureen braces her back and gets ready for pain. She’d handle it better if half the girls weren’t still naked and panicking.
Including Ida, who’s only managed her trousers and shirt, belly utterly obvious beneath some man’s borrowed drab. It makes Maureen froth with anger.
“No!” Is all Ida says when she notices Maureen’s bizarre configuration as human barrier, rushing at her in horror, “you let me out and I’ll give myself up.” Ida is saying and Maureen cannot believe she’s not gotten her fucking coat on yet. “I’m who they want.”
Maureen thinks she laughs. Because the idea of trading Ida for months in here without Ida is a good joke. The logic of the escape doing the same somehow doesn’t settle. Maureen’s only feeling is rage, her impending sacrifice of a good arm is likely to be in vain if her colonel doesn’t put a fucking coat on soon. Real soon. There’s a pounding on the door at her back.
They’re giving them the courtesy of knocking. Next they’ll shoot at the door. Sanchez actually looks ready to take Ida up on this stupid fucking martyrdom. Her grip loosens on Maureen’s wrists, looking relieved that she doesn’t have to serve as one half of this gruesome, human lock.
“Fucking hold on.” Maureen snaps at her, and Sanchez does, after throwing Ida Brady a look that suggests she is to blame for this and she’d happily serve her on a platter to the thugs outside. That’s about all Maureen’s fuzzy, battle primed mind needs to give her steel in her madness; they didn’t get this far, they didn’t fall apart and glue each other back together, they didn’t befriend German guards and allow German doctors to hurt their best just to roll over when they got tested. “Nobody gets searched, nobody gets handed over. We said not again.” She looks past Ida and directly at Lu Smith, who is actually visibly shaking she’s so scared, and still half naked, but her eyes look like they’re of the same mind.
That’s Maureen’s ticket, she can count on Lu wanting to die with her rather than go through it again. Rather than hand Ida over. “Smith,” he grits out, “get the colonel’s coat. All of you, the hell is wrong with you? — get your fucking coats on.”
Vaguely she can hear the German officer on the other side telling her to let them in, that he can hear them talking in here. That it’s just a customary inspection. She feels Sanchez tighten her grip on her wrist and wonders from afar how many places along her arm will break from this. If Gale will come out to see what all the commotion is about. If the Kommandant ordered this or if this is one of the guards' ideas of being a proactive subordinate.
There’s the rattle of the door behind her back. A push and mounting pressure.
Foggy, fuzzy, somewhere between waiting for it to be over and waiting for it to calm down, because being over never meant it didn’t still hurt, it will hurt just as bad for a few minutes after- Maureen learned that quickly, she learned to stay away after the pain, long enough for the tearing reality to hit less, and so she waits. She’s good at waiting for it to be over. And when it’s over she’ll feel it then, that heady rush of coming back into the body, that nerve wracking and tingly feeling of being aware again and mad as hell about it. It dulls the pain, it collects a terrible collateral of innocent bystanders, but it's better than remembering the thing itself. Until then, she waits and gets ready to float away. And if she screams it’s all lost in the gunshots and Sanchez’ yell and the commotion of everyone else who doesn’t want this to happen.
She hears the crunch, that part she can hear and she can feel others around, finally some fucking help, other girls throwing themselves at the door, pushing back, giving just a tiny bit of room for Maureen’s nerveless arm. They’re all in their overcoats, the ones piling on the door, stepping between her skidding legs, shoving their shoulders into the wood alongside Sanchez. Maureen thinks if she was really here for this, she’d be feeling pride. It’s nice to not be alone, it’s nice to have a pack, it’s nice to know she is not alone in feeling feral and discontent with this sorta of death. This is how she wanted to go in the yard in Ravensbruck when all her friends stood quietly in line and all but allowed it to happen- if that had been the plan. This time she’s not alone, there’s girls with their teeth barred and arms that are braced and solid as steel in their desperation. Dying alone isn’t just about numbers, it’s about mentality, too. It feels rather like when the fort got toasted, knowing they were done for but all of them done for together and none of them wishing otherwise. It was worth staying in a nose-diving B17 to be together rather than jump and die alone in the wide blue sky.
Maureen hears the shot.
She doesn’t know how it is but the ones that hit somehow have a peculiar ring to them, like they’ve got an invisible decibel attached that heralds their purpose. This solitary shot, amongst a load of lead thrown at them was made to strike home. Sergeant Abott, Maureen thinks it is, slumps down beside Maureen, looking unharmed due to the layers of her greatcoat, but her hand pressed to her hip tells where the damage was done. She looks more angry than pained but she doesn’t get to her feet again.
“Sweet Jesus, they've got a gun to Crank.” -Maureen doesn’t know who says it but it explains the sudden lack of agony. She tells herself not to come back yet but the curiosity nags. Cowards! -of course the German fucks would abandon an unlocked door with a bunch of girls behind it to put a gun to a stray Captain’s head.
Dimly through hazed eyesight, Maureen can see Ida speaking to Abbot who's now on the floor, they’re interrupted by Sanchez and then those two go at it, crack for crack and Ida’s rank comes out on top.
Everyone is in their coats. It’s the only comfort for Maureen when Lu Smith grabs hold of her unharmed shoulder and begins to pull her away from her death spot. “Shh, shh we’re gonna bargain it out.” Lu tells her as she tries to fight against the unwanted rescue but Sanchez has abandoned her too, Maureen’s wrist is limp and unheld, hardly attached to her when it threads back through the wooden rings, and Lu keeps ahold of it as it slinks out, boneless and revolting even to herself.
“Kendeigh, hang on.” Ida tells her through the fog that comes when reality tries to come back too soon, and Maureen wants to beg her not to do this, not to give herself up after all this.
Fuck’s sake, Brady, let some sore sucker die for you for once.
Laying on the floor, with Lu’s gentle hands holding her mangled limb together, Kendeigh feels the whipping rush of weather when the door opens, it shouldn’t feel so close to betrayal to see it thrown wide but it hits that way anyway. There’s about five guards on the step, sideways in her line of vision, and Benny is telling Murph, who must be somewhere out of sight, to “go get Cleven. Now!” Maureen’s curiosity regarding the Kommandant is relieved- he isn’t there. It’s just some rogue officer and his little minions, chomping at the bit to invade them at showers.
“What is it that you needed us so urgently?” Ida is tall enough to be toe to toe with the officer on the threshold and it takes the pressure off Crank who’s poor threatened head gets set free. “You’ve shot one of my girls.”
“You resisted inspection.” He returned.
“Because you violated agreed conduct.” Ida shot back. “We were showering.”
The man shook his head, “Others do not get immunity from random searches. Why should you?”
“Because we have been guaranteed such.” Ida was saying as Maureen drew up her legs from beneath her and made a go at kneeling, aided by Lu’s hand at her back.
Demarco had shifted closer on the steps and Maureen met his eyes, the way he clocked her injuries and searched Lu for the same, back down to Abbott who did not rally from her place on the floor. “Smith,” Maureen gritted out, “put some pressure on Abbott’s hip.”
Maureen stood up with difficulty, her entire arm a mass of throbbing flames that hung too limp and heavy from her shoulder, she staggered briefly before one of her girls righted her.
“Egan is comin’.” Benny added to the argument Ida and the officer were having. “Clarke will be right behind. Let’s all just- fucking cool it.” he suggested, pointedly at the German whose position was growing more precarious as attention gathered outside the showers.
The German chose not to cool it, with the short calculation of a very petty and none too bright man, he slipped the leash on his dog before Maureen could even blink. The vicious thing bounded in and latched onto the first overcoat it could focus on, snarling and yanking with its steel jaws, ripping the heavy wool and exposing fragile flesh beneath. Before any of them could do more than jump, Benny was on the dog, hand in his collar like the snarling thing was his own pet, his knees aimed in a devastating strike on its under ribs. The animal gave a wheezed howl from the breakage and let go of its would-be victim, jaws snapping wildly at Benny who was just out of reach.
“The hell is goin’ on?” Egan’s sudden presence in the showers and his bellowed demand shook the group. “Put that fuckin’ gun up, put it up. The hell is goin’ on here?” he addressed the German officer, who stood there with his pistol still half out of his holster and his eyes darting from Bucky’s towering form to the trapped dog beneath Benny’s knees.
He rallied, briefly as if remembering suddenly who was prisoner and who guard, “Inspection.”
“Not durin’ showers, ya don’t.” Bucky volleyed back. “Been agreed, ya little over eager beaver. Shot two of my girls over this?”
“M’not’shhhot.” Kendeigh tried to assure but it came out thick and slurred and likely lost under the noises of Benny’s exertions and the dog’s dwindling whines. The overlapping talking was cacophonous, echoing and surreal in the tiled room. The wind that had been so frigid seeping in through the gaps now poured in through the open door and froze the puddles ‘around the drains as they swirled. Maureen couldn’t feel her arm anymore, she couldn’t feel much of anything.
But Ida was still standing there, right within reach, her coat on, Bucky next to her. It would be alright.
For today.
“The doctor was given a lead-“ the officer protested.
“You obey the doctor now?” Bucky snapped back and before that line of reasoning could be continued, the sound of jackboots crunched outside and the Kommandant himself came in view, Colonel Clarke beside him, lockstep as if mutually offended by this breach of order.
Maureen watched the two German officers level back and forth, their men watching, Hans part of the newly arrived party backing up the commander. The officer’s pistol was returned fully to its holster.
“A misunderstanding.” The Kommandant assured Colonels Clarke and Brady in turn, his observant gaze taking in Abbot and Kendeigh’s bloodied hands and Benny still retraining the snarling dog. “There are rumors, our doctor is concerned. Female issues, ja? Pregnancies. I trust none of you would be so stupid?”
He looked over the women and there was, as if by joint consensus, a violent shudder passing through them in denial.
“Your government fixed you, no doubt.” The Kommandant looked satisfied with his own assurance and it made Lu shoot Maureen a hazed look of shock. “So there will be no trouble, ja?”
“We won’t strip.” Maureen croaked. “If that’s what the inspection’s about. We won’t.”
An irritated look crossed the Kommandant’s face, as if he found the subject more unsavory than truly concerning. “It will not be necessary. This was carried out without authority. Those not needing medical care may go. You-“ he pointed to her specially, “should see our doctor. Her too.” -to Abbot. “Unless you protest even that?”
It hung there, a dare and a challenge. Ida’s face blanched briefly; the doctor an ever sore subject in this place but to Bucky, who had as little awareness of the rumbling subterfuges and threats from the doctor as the cat under their shack, it seemed a perfectly plausible choice. Maureen saw him look at her with exasperated expectancy and steeled herself with his own naïveté. If she refused, it would look bad for them all. If she went, even if the doctor proved himself interested not just in catholic school boys but in used up debutants too, it would in a way be working for them- proving her to be truly infertile. Barren as the ground outside, stomach flat as a pancake. One girl searched, it was better than pushing the point, it would buy Ida time.
“I need a doctor.” she agreed with a grin, trying to flap her crushed arm for emphasis and finding she had very little motor skills left. “Abbot worse.”
“Good.” The Kommandant looked cheered now Bucky had ceased to glower with all the rage of a fury unleashed, the matter resolved with a single clap of the man’s black leather gloves, “Hans,” he addressed the boy, “put that dog down. Colonel Clarke, there will be damages to be paid.”
Maureen watched Benny turn his face away, hand shaking in the collar when Hans' tall boots stopped short of the half dead animal. A single shot ran out, the wheezing whines stopped. “C’mon Lu, it’s over.” she heard a Benny mutter to the girl as he got up with a stiff grunt, sounding like he himself wasn’t so alright either.
“Kendeigh-“. Ida muttered low, sidling up to her, hand on her unmaimed shoulder and a deep concern Maureen had only associated with Gale brimming in her eyes, “That d-“
“I need that doctor.” Maureen croaked back, assuming her meaning, “Abbot even worse,” she repeated, “who’ll you send with her? Smith? Nah, Ida, I’ll go. Fucking testicular humanoid of a surgeon doesn’t even care about us women, you know that. Be fine.”
“I was going to say,” Ida pressed on, eyes looking very steely hazel and even a little gentle under the film of what might have been tears had Maureen any surety in her own foggy observances left, “that door business? More insane than your flying that Stearman under the bridge in Boise.”
Maureen’s world fuzzed a little harder, training memories and the mellowed thrill of a dared stunt coursing diluted but present through her veins, “Oh.” she felt drunk with it. “Oh that.” she knew her face was splitting in a smile, it was a traitor like that, always when Ida was being earnest.
“Stupidest, bravest, fucking idiot.” Ida gripped her once bruised cheeks and shook her with each saying, lean musicians’ hands, hands that could pull a bomber from a nose dive, hands that had wrenched open a jammed door, “I’ll have some of that hooch for you when you get back.”
The thought of liquor and the warm relief it promised made Maureen think life half worth the living again. Poor Abbott could use some, too. Unharmed but oh so cold with her white skin and violet veins and lips of iris blue, Maureen could only think of Ida, how it might tint her cheeks if she had some. She wanted that for her. “Y’shou’d try some.”
Ida gave her a smile, sad but agreeable, like she was thinking of a longer game plan than Maureen could imagine. “Maybe I will.”
💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.
@ab4eva
@stylespresleyhearted
@crazypassionatelove
@josieb100
@self-destructinganimal
@kittykat786
@gojosbabyma
@b17boys
38 notes · View notes
trekkiehood · 1 month ago
Text
I Wore The Mask Up High (MotA Fanfic)
Ao3 link
Rating: T Words: 3.7k TW: Canon typical violence, Panic attacks, threats of assault (very mild)
Summary:
“Buck!” The shaking brought just enough clarity for him to hear his name. “Gale!” This time shouted directly in his ear. He flinched away and only then realized how accelerated his breathing had become. “Breathe Gale. Come on.” --- Gale's mask finally starts to crack after a run in with some guards. Bucky is there to help paste it back together.
Authors Notes on Ao3
"I wore the mask up high on a daylight run That held my face in its clammy hand" - The War Was in Color by Carbon Leaf
Buck felt the tension before he saw the crowd. As he wormed his way through the uneasy prisoners he heard the murmurs and eventually the angry shouts be lobbed at one of the guards. 
He had no idea what this lieutenant was upset about but he was about to get himself shot. The German sergeant took a step forward and Gale knew they were already working with borrowed time. 
“Lieutenant!” He barked, making it to the front of the crowd. “Stand down!” It didn’t matter what the argument was about. It didn’t matter who was right. What mattered was keeping the guards from using their guns or fists on one of his men. 
The man, a boy really, they seemed to get younger with every shipment of prisoners, didn’t listen, rearing his fist back. 
Gale didn’t have time to think, he grabbed the boy’s wrist, yanking him away from the guard. The lieutenant fell back and was caught by a few of the guys who had gathered around “Get him to his barrack, now.” he ordered the first man who dared to make eye contact with him. 
They nodded, pulling the stunned man back through the crowd. Buck had only managed to take a single step before he felt a hand grasp his left arm. He fought the initial urge to fight back, freezing instead. A gasp ran through the men at the same moment he felt the cool barrel of a rifle level against his right temple. A second guard had joined and apparently wanted an example. 
Gale didn’t move. He barely breathed. But he saw the men before him and knew he couldn’t risk showing fear right now. He had to focus on keeping the men calm and not getting shot. A few men broke away from the group and he could only imagine they were running to grab the Colonel. Hopefully he could get here before things escalated even further. 
Finally, he slowly held his free arm out, palm forward and clear. His left arm was still tightly grasped by the initial guard and he didn’t want to risk being accused of an act of aggression. He wasn’t sure what to do. There seemed nothing to do except to wait and see the outcome of his fate. The Germans were speaking to each other and maybe he could have picked up some of the words if he wasn’t so focused on keeping his breathing even. 
A commotion had broken out and Gale wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Then he saw the cause. Bucky had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, followed closely by Benny. His eyes blazed with anger but that wasn’t what Buck saw. Gale saw the fear. The panic. The grief.
Buck watched him, begging with his eyes for him to not do something stupid. He should have known better. With a growl, Bucky lunged forward. DeMarco grabbed him around the waist, yanking him back and frantically whispering something in his ear. He wasn’t sure what Benny was saying but after a final shake, Bucky stopped fighting to get free and was released.
All his attention had come to rest on Bucky. He should have known better. Gale couldn’t hold back the surprised grunt when his left arm was twisted backwards and pressed against his back. The guard was going to break his arm. It may not even be intentional. Gale hated how weak he had become. How fragile, brittle, his time in the stalag had made him. He could feel the bones wanting to give under pressure.
The anger sparked in John’s eyes, he grit his teeth and seemed to be using every ounce of control he had left to not lunge forward. Benny’s hand snaked up, grasping hold of Bucky just in case that self control broke.  
Another hand gripped his upper arm in a bruising hold, bringing his attention away from his friend and back to his current predicament. “You are very pretty, ja?” The words whispered accompanied by the hot breath on his neck caused Gale’s mask to slip, if only for a second. His breath caught, eyes seeking out Bucky. “We could have so much fun with you.” A small pause, the crushing grip on his wrist tightening. “But shooting you now would also be fun. Such difficult decisions.” 
Something in John’s face shifted and Gale knew he had to reel in his panic, control himself. Bucky couldn’t come in guns blazing to save him. Not this time. But he would try. If Gale couldn’t manage to tamper the panicked glint in his eyes… 
He couldn't show weakness. He had to bring his breathing back under control. The guard behind him laughed at his obvious distress. 
Slow breaths. 
In through the nose for four. 
Out through the mouth for four. 
Don’t look at Bucky. 
In through the nose for four. 
Out through the mouth for four. 
Look anywhere else but at Bucky. 
“Entscheidungen.” The man with the gun said with a chuckle. He may have brought his breathing under control, but he couldn’t hide his pounding heart. Not from the man who pressed up against him. Holding him in a way that made every fiber of his being want to lash out. 
Buck wasn’t an idiot. He knew how some of the guards looked at him a little too long. It made him cautious to walk alone in less populated areas. To avoid one-on-one interactions with any of the guards, just in case. 
But now there was no avoiding it. The thought lingered in the back of his mind that this whole ordeal had been planned, strategized. They knew he would stand up for his men. Goad any kid into a fight and Gale would be there ready to play peacemaker. Ready to take the fall and whatever punishment they deemed fit. 
Against his will his eyes returned to Bucky. He didn't know what his own eyes said, felt too disconnected from himself to control anything except the steady breaths he had to force, but he saw Bucky's jaw tighten. 
He tried to beg with his eyes. Plead with him to not do anything stupid. To not let Gale’s fate dictate his own. But he knew Buck wouldn’t listen.
John’s eyes only blazed with fury and a desperation that scared Gale. It would spill over soon. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. 
“What is going on here?!” 
Buck’s eyes flicked away to where Colonel Alkire was marching towards them with authoritative steps. A few men followed behind, clearly out of breath, but not stopping until they personally saw that Major Cleven was still alive. 
Nails dug into the flesh in his arm, but the Germans remained silent. 
“Well?!” The Colonel demanded again, now standing only a few feet to their right. “I assume you have a good reason for treating one of my officers like that?!” The Colonel tried not to throw his weight around unless it was unavoidable, trying to save it for when it was really necessary. Buck was thankful that he was deemed necessary. 
“He should learn to watch his tongue.” The sergeant behind him hissed, but released his arm. 
Gale’s breath caught at the sudden change in position, but he steadied himself, slowly bringing his left arm up to match the right. In doing so, his weight shifted, causing the barrel of the gun to be pressed more firmly against his temple. 
Fine.
 If they were going to kill him, better for them to do it quickly. With one bullet. He had no interest in living out the war in some Kraut hospital or having to be put down like a dog. 
All eyes were on the Colonel, but when Buck’s eyes flitted away he saw that John was only looking at him. Their eyes met and Gale knew with sudden certainty that the second the gun went off, Bucky would be dead too. DeMarco’s hand wrapped around his arm wouldn’t be able to hold him back. Nothing would be. 
A riot would break out. Chaos. More men would die.
The Colonel knew that too. 
He stepped forward until he was at Buck’s right shoulder, inches from the man with the rifle.His voice was low, but held no room for disagreement. “If you pull that trigger I won’t be able to control them. Neither will you.” 
“Lass ihn gehen.” The sergeant behind him did not sound happy as he ordered his friend to let Gale go. 
“Nein, das ist unsere Veränderung. Er gehört uns!” 
Buck’s German wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But he understood enough. It wasn’t the “no” that had his eyes breaking from Bucky’s to watch the Colonel’s response. It was the, “He’s ours.”
“Then you can explain to the Commandant and the Red Cross why there was a riot that took out half your prisoners. If you survive it. Because you’ll be the first one they go for.” It was not the normal imposing voice of the Colonel, but one that commanded the same respect. He wasn’t bluffing. They all knew it was true.
The only answer was the same voice from behind him, “Gehen!” 
A harsh pressure on his back had him stumbling forward. The sharp stinging on the side of his head flashed and then went numb with the intense ringing that seemed to come from inside of him. His knees failed and his outstretched arms were the only thing that kept his face from losing the war with gravity.  
For a moment it was like living in the space between a heartbeat. The world, still around him. The only sound, blood rushing in his ears and his own labored breathing. He blinked, hearing muffled voices grow louder. He should know what they were saying. The pisces felt meant for him. But he couldn’t comprehend any of it. A warm sticky substance was dripping down the side of his face, gathering in the corner of his right eye, but he didn’t think his shaking arms would be able to reach up and wipe it away. Or if they would be able to hold him up for much longer. 
Then the world came screeching into a painful clarity. A hand was on his back, words all around him. So much light and color and sound. It was like he was trying to focus a camera while the radio played at full volume.
He was surrounded, his men having pressed themselves between their fallen major and the Germans. The claustrophobia warred with a deep gratitude and love for them. 
“Buck!” The shaking brought just enough clarity for him to hear his name. “Gale!” This time shouted directly in his ear. He flinched away and only then realized how accelerated his breathing had become. “Breathe Gale. Come on.” He thought it might be nice to just lay his forehead against the ground. Yeah. That might be nice.
No. 
Right. 
Breathing first. 
Gale closed his eyes, letting his head drop slightly. 
The grip on his shirt tightened, but he ignored it, focusing on slow breaths. He couldn’t break down. He couldn’t let his men see him like that. He couldn’t let the Nazis win. Not today. Not ever.
“Alright,” He said quietly, shaking his head. His voice was calm if not as strong as it normally was. His breathing was under control now and the ringing in his ears had died down. “Alright. I’m okay. I’m okay, John.” Gale began to push himself up, Bucky quickly moving to help him. Someone else was there too, on his other side. Normally he would push away the help but he wasn’t sure he would have been able to get back on his feet without it. As soon as he was standing, he shook away his friends. The first step almost caused him to stumble. “I’m alright.” He assured them, stepping out of their reach. Needing to prove to himself and the others that he could stand on his own. The adrenaline was wearing off. He needed to get to the barracks now or he wasn’t going to make it. 
But the crowd around him was getting louder. Angry shouts mixed with conspiratorial whispers. He couldn’t let this happen. Couldn’t let his men die for him without cause. 
“Alright!” He shouted as best he could above the crowd. The ones closest to him turned but the rest didn’t seem to notice him. “Alright, fellas, listen up!” A few more looked at him, but it wasn’t until Bucky let out a shrill whistle that all eyes turned. He gave his friend a small nod of appreciation before addressing the crowd. “Everything's fine. I’m okay. Nothing happened. Go to your barracks and cool off.”
“You’re bleeding!” Came a shout from the crowd. 
Gale's hand came up to where he was only just starting to feel the sting of the cut near his hairline. “Just a scratch.” He said confidently, even though he had no idea what had happened or how it had gotten there. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, and you are too. Now cool off before something does happen.” 
This time the murmurs seemed discontented, but not on the verge of a riot. Good enough. 
Buck decided to set the example, turning towards his barrack. A handkerchief was shoved in his hand by someone, probably Benny, and he held it up to his face. Bucky was close on his left side and Gale was glad as he felt the last dredges of adrenaline start to fade. Not wanting to appear weak in front of his still frustrated men, he carefully reached out and hooked two fingers into Bucky’s belt loop. It steadied him enough without giving away his current state to the rest of the men. It was also about all he could manage, his arm screaming at him with every small jostle and movement. His fingers felt clumsy and stiff. 
John stepped closer, hand coming up to grip the back of Gale’s shirt. He should push him away, reassure his friend that he was fine and didn’t need the help. But he did need the help. His hand was trembling too much to make the handkerchief of any use, so he dropped his hand, tightening the grip on the cloth as it rested by his side. 
The last several feet from the yard to their own room faded in and out. The only thing he seemed to be aware of was his inner monologue.
In through the nose for four. 
Out through the mouth for four. 
In through the nose for four. 
Out through the mouth for four. 
It was the same rhythmic pattern he would follow before a flight. Or after a bad one.
He blinked and found himself sitting on the bench seat next to their table.
“What can I do?” He heard Hambone say but it sounded like it was from a long ways away. Like he wasn’t even in the room. 
“Keep the rest of the guys out. Send them to the rec hall or something, just don’t let them in here.” That was Bucky. He sounded intense. Buck should probably snap out of it and get him to calm down. “Benny, get some water.”
Gale blinked and found Bucky in front of his face. “Buck? Hey Gale, you with me?” 
He wanted to say yes. He knew that it was technically the correct answer. But he couldn’t get his tongue to move. He also suddenly found that he couldn’t breathe. 
It wasn’t until now, in the relative quiet and privacy of the barracks that he realized that he had been scared. Freaking terrified. And his body was just now giving him permission to fully react. 
He’d been scared before. He’d had bad flights. Lost men. Gotten shot down. Captured. Then the rest of Bucky’s crew had arrived but as the days trudged on, no word on his best friend.  He’d been scared before. 
But nothing like this.
He didn’t know what had happened. What had clicked. Felt different. But it was. 
And he couldn’t breathe. 
“Gale, come on, look at me. Look at me!” 
He obeyed, finding Bucky’s worried eyes boring into him. 
“Hey,” His right hand was taken, the handkerchief falling to the floor, and pressed against Bucky’s chest. “Hey you need to breathe for me. Come on, in for four, you know this.” 
Buck blinked, but he could feel the pulsing of Bucky’s heart and the controlled rise and fall of his chest. 
Right. 
In for four. 
Out for four. 
His forehead found Bucky’s shoulder, finding comfort and stability,
In for four. 
Out for four. 
It was like a rhythm. 
Like flying. 
In for four. 
Out for four. 
“Here.” 
Gale flinched back, head jerking up to find Benny holding out a cup of water. 
Feeling steadier than before, Gale untangled his hand from Bucky's, taking the cup in a shaky hand. 
“I got it.” Bucky said softly, retrieving the water. “Go get the doc.” 
“Bucky-” Gale began to protest, but Benny was already half out the door. “I’m okay.”
“Sure you are.” 
“It’s just going to make them worry.” 
“Well maybe they should.” 
Gale’s eyes met Bucky’s and the concern he saw there opened something in his chest. 
“Here.” 
Buck reached out, grabbing the cup, but John didn’t release it, helping to guide it to Gale’s mouth. 
“I’m sorry.” He said after pushing the water away. 
“Don’t. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
A small quirk to his lips. “You weren’t even there when it started.”
“No but it doesn’t matter. It was a power play. They wanted to intimidate us.” He reached down and grabbed the handkerchief, dipping it in the water. Then looking directly into Gale’s eyes. “It didn’t work.” He wasn’t sure if that was an observation or an order. 
The cloth came up and began to wipe away the blood. 
“When did I hit my head?” He cringed at his own words, knowing that it further reinforced the fact that he was far from okay. 
“The Kraut with the gun.” The pressure used to wipe away the blood increased, but Gale didn’t react. “He wouldn’t let you go. Even when the other one told him to. The gun was so tight to your head it left a dang circle imprint.” 
“It scraped me when I fell.” 
He grunted affirmatively. “Most of the bleeding has stopped now. It don’t think it needs stitches but it’ll probably scar.” 
What was one more souvenir from paradise? 
They sat in silence after that. Buck slowly felt more like himself, Bucky slowly swiping away the blood. It wasn’t necessary. Gale could do it himself. And the medic was on his way. But it really wasn’t for him. John didn’t do well without something to do. 
“What did they say to you?” 
“Hm?” Gale hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until he was opening them again.  
“The guard. He said something to you. What was it?” 
A whooshing sound came from somewhere and he could feel his heart rate pick up. 
He let out a breath, hoping it was disguised as an amused laugh. “Nothin’ important.” 
“Come on Buck, you need-” whatever he was going to say was cut off by the door opening. 
The camp medic wasn’t a trained doctor. If something was really bad they could go to one. But it was easier to keep things in house. To avoid the aid station and keep things off the official records. 
“Let me see.” He said without preamble. Bucky moved to sit beside Gale on the bench, the doc taking his place. After examining his head, he nodded. “Shouldn’t need stitches. If it opens up or you start having head trouble let me know.” 
“Check his wrist.” Bucky chimed in and Gale had almost forgotten about it. It had remained unmoving since arriving back in the bunkroom. 
The doc frowned, taking the swollen hand in his own. 
“It’s not broken.” Gale was quick to note. He’d had broken bones and he knew this wasn’t one. A sprain maybe. But more than likely just a straining of the ligaments. 
“It’s hard to tell with all the swelling. Hopefully it’s just bruised. Can you move your fingers?” Gale found himself relieved when the honest answer to that question was yes. 
The medic sighed. “I can wrap it but I don’t have anything to give you for the pain right now. Hopefully the Red Cross packages will be here soon.”
“That’s all right.” He hardly felt the pain right now he was so tired. “I’ve had worse.” 
Bucky made a noise beside him, but Gale was too focused on not falling asleep to decipher it. 
It was a struggle, but he made it through the doc’s ministering. 
“Try not to use it too much. Get me if it worsens.” The last part was directed towards Bucky. 
“Benny, see the doc out.” Was Bucky’s answer. 
Gale’s lips twitched at the eyeroll given in response. 
As soon as the door closed, John was on his feet. “Alright, here we go. To bed.” 
“I’m fine.” But he didn’t even believe himself. Come to think of it, he wasn't completely sure the words came out of his mouth.  
He was moved to his feet and was glad that someone else was doing all of the work. Gale was flying all engines feathered. 
“Sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow.”
Gale grunted. There was nothing to talk about. It was over now he was fine. 
But sleep. Sleep sounded good. 
His head hit the pillow and he was already halfway gone. 
“You're not allowed to die.” 
The words were spoken quietly while a think blanket was suddenly covering him. 
“Just… just don't die.” 
He wanted to answer the words. Respond to the words they weren't supposed to say out loud. 
He wanted to tell Bucky that they'd be fine. That they'd both make it out. 
He wanted to make him promise that if Gale did ever die he wouldn't follow. 
But his mouth wouldn't move and wrist was starting to hurt and there was still a strange ringing in his ears. Maybe all of that could wait for the morning. 
Notes:
I rambled about fic ideas here if you're interested :) Please let me know what you think!
39 notes · View notes
itstheheebiejeebies · 6 months ago
Text
youtube
The Benny DeMarco Cut of MotA for @ktredshoes
if you have a request or want to be tagged for any of my edits send me an ask. don’t repost, reblogs appreciated. all of my edits can be found here
My Ko-fi is here  and my Redbubble is here if you’re interested in supporting me and my creations
Taglist: @fromcrossroadstoking @inglourious-imagines @easynix @alienoresimagines @sammy-1998 @blenalela @punkgeekcryptid @wexhappyxfew @lovingunderratedcharacters @a-beautiful-struggle-of-life​ @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @vintagelavenderskies @mavysnavy @angels-fall2 @snafus-peckuh @alejodi0nysus @sydney-m @shadowsandmoonlight @mrseasycompany @gutsandgloryhere @ourmiraclealigner @johnny-martin-is-mypeanut @tvserie-s-world @serasvictoria @alyxzanderthebored @sergeant-spoons @labarboteuse @mysticaldeanvoidhorse @i-dont-like-bullies @silverspeirs @satan-incarnate-666 @footprintsinthesxnd @hopefuldreamers-world @executethyself35 @bcofl0ve @ktredshoes @fandommkopf @caffeinated-fan @spinteresting @prettyinlimegreenboots @latibvles @tuungaq
58 notes · View notes
thewhimsyturtle · 11 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
I don't care what the calendar says, every day between Christmas and New Year's is a holiday! And holidays require extra treats and snuggles!
18 notes · View notes
mercurygray · 2 months ago
Note
For the build-a-fic prompt list: can I request 6, Q, 𓆉/𓅨 for Fred or 12, B, 𓃓 for Cordelia, please? Thank you!
--lestweforget5
Thanks for the prompt @lestweforget5! I've had this idea in my head for a while regarding the Shot Down AU, which you can read the first part of here. I just needed a little nudge (and a day off) to get it down on paper.
12: “try and eat, if you can. it’ll make you feel better.” B: grief 𓃓 : at work, far later than you should be
Trigger warnings: A non-graphic conversation discussing a (possible) sexual assault.
If she was younger, she'd have tried to hide under this blanket they'd given her, if she could. But hiding wasn't going to help much here, even if the fear was just the same as when you were five. Worse, even. She knew how bad it was - and she had a pretty good idea of how much worse it could get.
Cord pulled the wool closer around her shoulders, still trying to take everything in. The last week had been a bit of a blur, too many split second decisions and faces and changes of scenery and none of it anything that made sense. And finally a leather chair in a nicely appointed office, and a well-turned out officer with beautifully combed hair, offering her a cigarette and asking, with a smile, the same question everyone kept asking every single time they saw her - what is a nice American girl like you doing here?
Here - a field near the Weser river, a police station, with a sergeant making urgent calls to his superiors, wondering what to do, the polished office of the Luftwaffe adjutant, being presented a beautiful open silver cigarette case, a prisoner of war camp for downed American airmen. And everywhere she went, everyone staring in a way she could never hope to hide from.
The car had dropped her at the front gate, one of the guards opening the door for her like this was a state dinner and not a stalag. (The officer in the front seat was still smiling. She was going to hate that smile forever.)
A familiar voice from along the fence. "Callaway? Cord Callaway? Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here?"
She hadn't known whether to collapse or cry. One familiar thing was all she needed, even if it wasn't the familiar thing she longed for. (It had been silly, to think he'd be here. It was a big war.) "Same thing as you, Crank."
Some wiseass along the fence line straightened up. "Is that a girl?"
"Christ almighty." Crank read the crowd and quickly grabbed her arm, quickly throwing his hat over her head. "Let's get you out of here."
Here - a small bunk room with an unfinished wooden table, several benches, and a small stove giving off very little heat, surrounded by men she had, until an hour ago, only been able to hope she'd see again. The curtains were drawn and Benny DeMarco was fussing with a pot of water on the stove trying to make a cup of tea and everyone was silently shuffling around trying to take up as little space as possible.
Everyone except Bucky, anyway.
She didn't know what she'd been expecting, or if she'd even been expecting anything at all. But he'd come breezing in asking about new arrivals, his temple swollen and purple, stopped cold when he saw her, and then turned on his heel and walked straight back out. The last time she'd seen him had been in a hotel room in Knightsbridge, naked and smiling at her across a pair of very flat pillows, begging one last kiss, joking that it should have been him that was leaving for work, that he'd find something to do with himself until she came back, that his train was a late one and they'd have time for dinner.
They didn't have time for dinner. After work had never come - only a note about something coming up, and an earlier train, and now, again, she had so many questions. Why did you leave why didn't you stay what happened to your face Bucky what have they done to you does it hurt why won't you speak to me look at me stay with me where are you going God what have I done.
Another group of faces appeared in the door, and Cord stood up on instinct, seeing the silver eagle on a garrison cap and the way the others followed him into the room, her arm snapping just so.
"At ease." He almost looked impressed. "I'm Colonel Clark - I'm the ranking officer here. I'm here to welcome you to Stalag Luft Three."
"Lieutenant Cordelia Callaway, sir."
Clark nodded and looked around at the others. "Usually we get a little bit more advance notice when there are new arrivals expected, but I think given the circumstances they may have wanted a surprise. I think these gentlemen all know that usually you'd start in the leadership block for processing."
"I thought it'd be better to get her straight inside, sir," Crank said, standing up. "Before the others started something."
Colonel Clark nodded. "Probably wise. I understand you all know each other."
"That's right, sir." That was Gale. "She's one of our traffic control officers, back at home."
"That may be, but it doesn't explain what she was doing on a plane." Clark's patience sounded thin.
"She was a pilot before the war, sir, a derby - "
"-And is she going to speak for herself at some point here, or are you gentlemen just going to keep talking for her? I assume she has her own voice." Clark fixed Cordelia with a clear-eyed gaze, and when he spoke again, directly to her this time, his voice was softer. "I seem to recall there was a Callaway at Wright Patterson for some time. An engineer in their advanced aeronautics research division. Had a daughter who also flew some speed tests."
"That was me, sir. Wilson Callaway is my father."
"They're not stupid, so I assume they asked you about all that already."
Cord swallowed, remembering the long, long wait in the cell, the whispers outside the door. You're not on any of the flight rosters for the plane you were found with, Miss Callaway. How are we to know you are not a spy? There is an article in the Dayton paper about a Cordelia Callaway joining up, and how her father is proud. I am to assume this is you. We are aware of Wilson Callaway's work on alloys - his latest paper was a triumph. A shame it could not be published as it should have been in the better scientific journals. I wonder what kind of father lets his daughter do such dangerous work. But then girls are more expendable than boys.
"Yes, sir." She could feel the temperature in the room drop the same way it dropped when someone talked about classified intelligence sources or Norden bombsights. "I …haven't been involved in my father's research for a while now. Anything I know is old news."
"Do you want to tell me what you were thinking assigning yourself to a gunner position on a bombing run when the official policy is that women don't fly combat missions?"
"I wasn't, sir." The truth, cold and real. "Thinking. And I wasn't tail gunning." That was true, too, and it felt important that he know that. The Germans hadn't been interested in that. "I was front seat. A man was sick and got sent in, and Jacobs didn't want to fly with the guy they were going to send instead. And I wanted to do something, sir." Her voice hitched. "Ten days ago, all my friends were dead."
Clark nodded. "Did anyone touch you during interrogation? Sexually advance or assault you in any way?"
"Jesus, Colonel." Demarco's voice was biting.
"I have to ask so it can be reported to the proper authorities, Captain, " Clark shot back, "And I need to be direct. If something has happened the Red Cross and the Army will want to know." His voice came back down a level. "Please answer the question, Lieutenant."
Everyone was still staring, but no one knew where to look. Cord swallowed and looked the senior officer square in the eye. "No one touched me, Colonel, or assaulted me." A couple of them touched themselves, but not me. I don't speak German but I know what a dirty joke sounds like. And I think by now I know the word for whore. "The worst they did directly is to not address me by my rank, even though I was wearing insignia. And they talked about taking away my uniform, but decided against it. I think it was too much work to find me a skirt."
"They don't think much of women in trousers here," Clark allowed. "Well, I don't have to tell you you've put us in one hell of a position, Lieutenant. There isn't a procedure for this, or accommodation. The Army might have gotten facilities for you but what I have here I have to share among a thousand men. There is no privacy, no guarantee of safety, and no locked doors. When they left you at that gate they made their position on the subject pretty clear - they don't care."
"We've got her, sir." Gale's voice was all calm waters. How did he do that so well?
Clark nodded and glanced around the room. "I'll have a runner come back later to fill out a card for the Red Cross, so your father will be notified. And we'll get you a cup, utensils, see what we can do about some warmer clothes. The others can fill you in on food and sleeping arrangements and the latrine rotation."
He and his group left, and the room seemed to sigh. Cord still didn't want to look at anyone, the question itself still invasive, vulnerable. Did anyone touch you? Were you assaulted?
"Someone say there was a baseball game later?" DeMarco's voice sounded too bright, and the others were too quick to join him, almost the entire room shuffling back outside until it was just her and one other person. (They had been exchanging glances, above her head, a silent consensus that she needed to be alone.) A hunk of what might have been bread appeared at her elbow, grayish-brown and uninviting. "Eat something," Gale suggested, once the room was empty. "You'll feel better. They do that to everyone who comes in."
"Ask about being raped?"
"Well, that …is a new one," Gale allowed. Cord was all tension and coil, angry, frightened, still trying to fight and also to hide. I'm an officer and I know how this works, Gale. I listened to Red's lectures even when I knew I wouldn't need them. I know I'm supposed to be able to tell the Colonel the last disposition of the war in England. I know I'm supposed to have news, that he's supposed to ask me if I learned anything while I was outside, if I had any papers with me, if they learned anything from what I said. But he hardly asked me anything.
And the man who said he loved me didn't ask me anything at all. Maybe he'd forgotten that, the way he'd whispered into her hair as she was falling asleep- I love you so much. But she hadn't forgotten. Hell, it was half the reason she was here. "Gale, what happened to Bucky?"
He took a breath. "I'll let him tell you," he said, as casual as he could be. "There's some tea, here, if you -"
"He's not going to tell me, he wouldn't even look at me." Wouldn't even stay in the same damn room.
The pilot sighed. "Give him time, Cord. It's…a lot to take in. It'll take a few days. Right now he's…angry."
"Angry at me."
"He was angry when he got here," Gale assured her. "He's angry at himself. He's good at that - you know that." He glanced at the stove, moved the kettle off to the side. "We'll make it work, Cord. You know we will. Now eat that, and when you're done eating I'll… give you a tour."
When they returned from their walk the room had changed - games put away and plates out on the table for dinner. At one place there was a knitted cap, laid out carefully, like a talisman. "Bucky thought you could use that," Frank offered, glancing over the top of his book. "Until we can cut your hair, anyway. Said you could have his bunk, too - 'cause it's got a view of the door."
Cord traced the lines of the knitting, and glanced over at the bunk she'd been told earlier was Bucky's, the wooden frame just those few precious inches longer than the rest. The blanket she'd been using earlier was already there, neatly folded. The man himself, of course, was nowhere in sight. How small the world gets - a knitted hat, a hotel bed. Why do you think I got into that plane, Bucky? It was the only way I could say I love you back.
21 notes · View notes
reallylilyreally · 8 months ago
Text
Fic masterlist
Here be a full accounting of my fic endeavours (ReallyLilyReally on AO3)
Masters of the Air
second string (series) (Canon era, Brady/DeMarco)
nine mothers sons
John Brady should have been a fighter pilot. Or a music teacher. Or anything apart from this.
2. breathe through the bruises
John Brady goes home. He picks his life up. He tries. It's not enough.
3. better than flying
John Brady has everything he needs right in front of him, for the first time maybe ever.
4. in tune, in time
Keeping Johnny steady becomes something Benny does without thinking about it. It’s easy, comes natural, simple. They make a lot of sense, standing next to each other, and most days that’s all it takes.
proximal damage (series) (canon era, Blakely/Douglass, Everett Blakely/Margaret Blakely
at your heels (canon era, canon compliant, Everett Blakely focus, minor Blakely/Douglass)
He's a god. He's a motherfucking bomber pilot. He's a genius with a B-17. He's the king of the god damn world. He's got a fort full of the best men in the airforce, and he's getting them back to England.
He's gonna give them a miracle.
2. at your feet (canon era, James Douglass focus, minor Blakely/Douglass, minor Douglass/Helen)
Jamie Douglass has stopped pretending he isn't in love with his pilot.
It would probably be the thing that killed him, if the Germans weren't definitely going to get there first.
say it (like we're coming for you) (canon era, canon divergent, MotA/BoB crossover, Clegan, Winnix, Winters/Nixon/Talbert, Brady/DeMarco, DeMarco/Speirs)
companion piece to say it (like you'll come back) by @euph0riacc, follows the plot from ch2 from Easy's POV:
What would happen if Bucky got sick during the Stalag march? What would happen if Easy Company were close enough to help?
Band of Brothers
go farther in hope (series) (canon era, multiple ships) (joint project with @escrivoir)
all the strangest things keep happening (Canon era, Winters/Nixon/Talbert) (joint project with @escrivoir)
After Sergeant Floyd Talbert and Lieutenant Lewis Nixon meet for the first time, two things become immediately clear:
1. They're both hopelessly in love with Lieutenant Dick Winters, and they both know it.
2. He will never, ever love either of them back.
The above becomes the fundamental truth of their war, and to give them credit, they make the best of it. For a while, at least.
2. the sound of a soul in tune (canon era, Muck/Penkala/Malarkey)
It's a war story. It's a love story. It's something.
OR
Skip Muck, Alex Penkala and Don Malarkey, Bastogne and beyond.
Pulling heartbreak out of hats (series) (Canon era, Winters/Nixon/Talbert)
Break everything but patterns
If he’s completely honest with himself, Tab thinks the worst thing about Bastogne is that Dick isn’t there enough. It’s also the best thing about Bastogne. Dick doesn’t have to go through it with them.
Tab would follow Dick anywhere, he thinks to himself more than a few times, but he’s very glad that these days Dick isn’t going many places too dangerous. Of course, that just means that Tab’s going dangerous places without Dick to lead him. Tab and everyone else.
2. Like that's something we could be
If he’s completely honest with himself, which he isn’t much, Nix does his best to avoid thinking about Floyd Talbert. He’s got more than enough going on without having to analyse the vague, floating guilt that comes with thoughts of Bunny. He does pretty well ignoring it, and then the idiot nearly drowns and all bets are off.
Alternate POV to 'Break everything but patterns'
3. Moving backwards (just to move forwards)
If they're completely honest with themselves, they've got much bigger problems than whatever just happened in that foxhole, but it doesn't mean they're not still thinking about it, despite everything else.
Follows 'Break everything but patterns' and 'Like that's something we could be' - multiple POV
4. Let's call this the calm
Now they really are being completely honest with themselves. It's all on the table. The war is over and all they have to figure out now is the rest of their lives.
5. A universe that you can live in
There's months to wait, but they've been through worse.
6. Little better than the one
The men they were are an ocean and a continent and a whole god damn war behind them. The men they are now are new, sort of, and everything they fought for is stretched out ahead of them. Some of it's obvious, and some of it is not.
7. Tough luck (Luz/Speirs)
It's not like George Luz had anything better to be doing, once the war was over, than following various members of his company backwards and forwards across the country. He's a paratrooper, he goes where he's needed.
In the desert again (series) (AU - Iraq War, Winnix)
A compass and a weapon
It's a three-day mission. Simple, straightforward, over in 52 hours or less, and then Nix will be back, in camp, safe and sound, with a man who's refusing to admit is in love with him, and 100-odd paratroopers, most of whom are placing bets on the outcome of this little melodrama. It should have been nothing. Should have been simple, straightforward, over in 52 hours or less. That's not what happens.
2. Cannot win this war
There is something surreal about the way the tour continues once they have Nixon back. It feels like his return should be the end of it, that now they’ve retrieved him they should all be heading back stateside. They’re not.
The Man on the Mountain (Canon era, gen)
If you look at it closely, this isn't actually just Leibgott's story, or Webster's. No one seems to realise that.
Once upon a time, three men drove a truck up a hill to kill a bad man.
The Pacific
If you try sometimes you just might find (series) (AU - Iraq War, Hilldane, Sledgefu)
The Long Roadtrip Home
The phone rings one night, and peace and quiet has to wait. No Marine left behind.
2. Beyond the usual
In the end, they don't share the details. It might be an epic love story, but it's theirs, and there's something sacred about it, after all that.
3. We are trying to accomplish something
OR: The Jones-Haldane guide to not letting your epic love story kill your boys
4. Nice day for a
When the crisis is over, the AAR is finished, and the Epic Love Story has been laid bare, there are things to be done. Some of those things include weddings.
5. Waylaid
Sledge writes a letter. He never gets a real answer, not one written down, but it doesn't seem to matter.
Companion to The Long Roadtrip Home
38 notes · View notes
swifty-fox · 5 months ago
Note
Hiii! I love your priest!Gale fics! (I have reread them way too many times 🙈💗🙈) Are you working on part 4? Can't wait for the angst in it
am i ACTIVELY working on them? No I got really caught up in kfak verse!
Right now I',m ending out the chapters of my brady/benny fic. Then finishing Bikeriders smutfic because its ALMOST done (part 1 at least)
and then after that it will be LB part 4
But plans for it are some rough angry car sex (consensual) and maybe we'll get John's backstory
a snippet for you:
“You’re really hitting me in the ‘yes daddy harder’ places with that face you’re pulling right now,” John says, swirling his finger through the over-complicated mess of a coffee in front of him.
It tasted awful, but he ordered it just to see if the kid behind the counter could actually pull it off.
Chick continued to keep his ‘yes daddy harder’ expression, which was in fact a look of profound exasperation and disappointment. And didn’t really awaken anything in John, but he found it plenty amusing to see the way the older mans eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“I could have you thrown in jail today if i wanted, you know,” Chick Harding takes a sip of his own soy latte, “I could make up a reason, I hold your life in my hands.” 
“That’s a misuse of power and a miscarriage of justice, and also you like me. I’m your favorite little POW just admit it.” 
“Someone’s going to pop you one in the mouth, mocking veterans like that.”
John spreads his hands wide in a dont shoot the messenger sort of gesture “hey, I can claim it. My great gandpops was a POW. Got his flight jacket and everything hanging in my closet. This is my history.” 
“I think I should arrest you.”
John grins at him.
“You been meeting with Brady?” Chick asks, setting his coffe down with a pleased hum, begins folding his utensils wrapper accordion style until the cheap paper has become nothing more than a little square. It’s the same thing he does every time, restless fingers the only betrayal that the parole officer wasn’t just a robot.
Which John already knew was false. He’d looked the guy up the moment he’d had access to internet again. Had a neatly sealed Juvenile record and an exemplary military record which meant the guy was both secretly interesting and also probably a little batshit.
“Every couple weeks just like those fascist fucks tells me too. Just like i meet you every six weeks and we pretend I’m in need of babysitting and you pretend you’re not hoping that college boy will finally write his number on your coffee cup.” John leans forward on his elbows,the table creaking under his weight  “I could do it for you, if you’re too shy.” 
Chick doesn’t give him the satisfaction of blushing, but John can see the way his sholulders straighten slightly.
“He even looks like me a bit too. Curly brown hair,” John smooths his fingers across his mustache, “ the sexy landing strip. You sure you’re not displacing some sexual attraction?”
“You are the devil incarnate. That barista means nothing to me.” 
“You shouldn’t be so grumpy, meeting your favorite little felon.” 
“Only person around here that seems grumpy is you, Egan.”
“Me?” John stretches, tilting his chair back with one foot until he nearly topples backward, “Whay’ve I got to be grumpy about? I’ve got a shitty dead-end job, a dying grandma who, by the way, isn’t actually even my grandma, and i’ve got to check in with some middle aged drill sergeant with a thing for some guy who looks like Sean Cody’s next up and coming.” 
“I don’t know what that even means.”
“Oh you so do.” John smiles.
21 notes · View notes
wexhappyxfew · 5 months ago
Note
IM HERE !! give the people (me) ❛ promise me you’ll still be here when i wake up. ❜ for… Margie and Benny! :)
HI POET!!!!!! thank you *so* much for sending in this!!! it is highly appreciated in my lil corner of the world and terribly sorry it has taken me quite some time to get to as well!!! my summer has been so chaotic and busy - but! we are here now!!! THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT!! I ATE IT UP!!! and plus benny and margie are both just being absolute sweethearts here! set in the time period where margie takes a nasty hit in Silver Bullets and it basically sends everyone spiraling. here's a look at the first night she's awake :) enjoy!!!
it was a wonder
Tumblr media
(a/n): margie and benny being the sweetest peaches out there around each other, despite margie's clear and evident pain and benny's want to take all that pain away from her. absolutely. sobbing. them them them. anyway......im surviving the end of an internship so please enjoy my rare appearances here and there lmao. AND -- please enjoy for the margie x benny enjoyers!! <3
Despite being so far from the States, she almost felt like a small child again. In the way of, when she was sick, her mother and father doted on her life incessantly in a way that had made her for more loved than ever.
Caring for someone at their worst. Despite anything else.
Margie hadn't moved in over a day after coming out of the coma - at least they had said it was a coma. The nurses and the Doc hadn't been entirely sure what had been going on but assumed her body had been defeated after the prop blast that had exploded on top of the turret.
Everything hurt, her vision felt a little fuzzy still, and there was a persistent, deep ache in her shoulder and hip area that made her entire right side feel like it was entirely detached from her body.
"Here we are." Margie looked up and found one of the nurses - Charlotte or Charlie, one of the sweetest nurses there was on base - coming towards her with a plate, piled with eggs and toast, despite the fact it was nearly 2100. Margie couldn't fathom anything more than simplistic food on her churning stomach and was grateful for the sight.
"Plain scrambled eggs, some toast with some butter, should settle your stomach," Charlie said, settling on the edge of her bed with a smile, "how are you feeling?" Margie gratefully shifted her head with a weak smile and nodded.
"Thanks, Charlie," Margie managed out in a hushed whisper, voice hoarse, "I'm doing okay." Charlie gave her a knowing look and Margie dropped the facade.
"Do you have any more pain meds I can take?"
"I'd eat something first," Charlie said with a gentle smile, her face glowing even when she'd clearly been working all day, "we can give you a stronger dosage without you feeling queasy. Eat up, and then I can give you some more. That stuff from earlier should be wearing off soon anyway." Margie looked to her and nodded, shifting a bit uncomfortably and evidently with twinging pain. Everything hurt. That's just what it was at this point. All over.
"Sir, visiting hours are over." a loud voice called from the edge of the Med Bay - it was Virginia Stellhorn - one of the older and more experienced nurses on the ward, who clearly was not enjoying someone trying to disrupt her rules at this time of hour. Margie turned her head a bit to see a figure entering through the doorway and an angry looking Virginia Stellhorn behind him.
That being Captain Benny DeMarco.
"It's 2100, sir! Our patients need their rest, not all this ruckus-"
"I understand." Benny said turning to her as Charlie curiously peaked at Margie with a raised brow. Margie instead couldn't turn her eyes away from the sight of Benny there. "I just need to speak with a Sergeant M. Harlowe."
"Harlowe's in an immense amount of pain and would evidently not enjoy the likes of someone bothering her at this hour, now, would you please, sir-"
"Just for a minute." Benny said, quickly, "I….I visited and she wasn't awake yet, so-"
"Ginny!" Charlie called standing to her feet with Margie's plate of food, "I think Sergeant Harlowe wouldn't mind a guest, even though it's pretty late. It'd probably help her feel better, too." Margie watched as Benny turned to Charlie and then looked behind her. In an instance, Benny's face lit up with a smile and he raised a hand as if to wave.
If Margie's arms weren't wrapped, with one in a sling, she would've waved back. Instead, she attempted the weakest attempt of a smile that there was and watched as worry dawned his features.
"Charlotte Tarvers, we have rules and regulations to follow around here-"
"I know that, but-"
"Margie!" Benny was calling, moving past the two nurses, eyes set on Margie specifically as he hurried over, slowing down as he got to her cot in the lantern-lit darkness.
As he came to a pause there by the side of her cot, his eyes caught on her legs. Her one leg was covered with the blanket - completely fine - her other leg was wrapped in a makeshift cast, piled with ice along the sides, wrapped tightly and firmly. His eyes slowly crawled past her chest where she wore a loose button up, exposing the wraps around her stomach, slightly bloodied and stiff as she had shifted, before they traveled to her wrapped wrists and arms and shoulders. Her one arm slung in a sling, hands bruised and cut and covered in bandages.
It was a wonder that by the time his eyes had risen to her face, she was smiling - trying to convey the message that she was alright, she was fine, she was alive. She had a nasty cut along her chin, but Charlie had rewrapped it in the morning and she had said it was already healing nicely.
Margie was trying to stay positive. She was determined to get back out as her crew's flight engineer - she wanted to get back to Silver Bullets. Benny slowly took to crouching by her bedside, watching her with those big brown eyes, focusing solely on her face.
"Hey." he said quietly, a smile perking up on his lips.
"Hi." Margie said quietly with a smile, "Someone's quite the eager-beaver." Benny stared at her, the corner of his mouth poking up, eyes filled with a tinge of relief - as if to say, she was okay, okay enough to still make light-hearted jokes. Benny let out a chuckle and shook his head before leaning up against the side of her bed, looking at her with soft eyes.
"Kennedy told me you woke up today, wanted to at least visit before I bedded out," he said quietly, "sorry about the surprise and me, well, barging in back there." Margie grinned at him.
"Don't be sorry," she said with a wider smile, pained slightly as she shifted, "I'm glad you're here. You're quite the sight for sore eyes anyway." Benny tilted his head with a small smile and nodded to her.
"That bad, huh?" he asked her, his voice dripping into a suddenly slightly worried and serious tone, "A face like this?" Margie let out a laugh, before wincing and cringing slightly at her side, her one arm that wasn't as battered going to her ribcage.
Clasping a hand over the bandages, she uncomfortably shifted, before looking at Benny who sheepishly looked at her before looking to where her hand was covering.
"You okay?" he asked her, a tinge of nervousness to his voice, "Beside the….." Besides the obvious, she thought. She nodded.
"Yeah, yeah," she said, "I'm fine. Honestly. I'll heal up in no time. Get back out to Silver Bullets. I'll be flying soon - I know it." Benny gave her a look - he wasn't convinced.
"You'll heal up first before any of that." he said, giving her a smile, "And make sure you can both walk and have full function of your shoulder, too, alright?" Margie smirked at him.
"Since when did you become so worried about me, Doctor DeMarco?" she asked with a chuckle, wincing again at her side twinging, noticing a tender look cross his face as she took to staring at him.
"Hearing that you were knocked unconscious thousands of feet in the air because of a Kraut prop blast isn't the most comforting thing." Benny said to her, catching her gaze. Margie let out a small breath and then attempted a small smile. If she didn't know better, she could see the tension releasing a bit from his shoulders and the stress lines on his face, loosening up a bit when he was finally sitting there with her.
"What have you been up to since you woke up?" he asked, eyeing the plate of eggs and toast, along with the small bucket beside her, "Eating I hope?" Margie shrugged and then glanced at the plate of food, stomach turning.
"Trying," she said, "stomach's a bit funny-feeling, but it's probably a bit of the pain-meds, too, so….and Charlie's been great. So. Yeah. Afraid not much." Benny watched her warmly before slowly reaching up a hand and trailing her rather poor-looking blonde hair behind her ear, her sweat-lined forehead hot to the touch as he gave her a smile. He did that again, the touch so welcoming to her body that she was sure if he continued doing that, she'd fall asleep.
"I'll visit everyday, you know," he said quietly, and she stared up at him with a smile and shook her head, "you know I will, silly."
"You don't have to. You have other things going on."
"And this is one of those things." Margie smirked at him. He grinned.
"C'mon, let's get a bit of this in you," Benny said, retracting his hand and moving to the plate, sitting on the edge of the bed before facing her, "we'll go slow. I know your stomach isn't doing the best so, better we take it bit by bit."
"You sound like my mom." Margie said with a wincing chuckle, noticing his face brightening, "Listen, I was home sick a lot. Too many times I took the chance of going out without a coat, ya know? Lake Michigan was cold in those winters - all that wind and snow. Shoulda listened."
"Honored to be in place of a woman like that then." he said and picked up the toast, "Here." Margie looked between the toast and Benny's eyes and then took a small bite. The butter actually tasted really nice.
"Good?"
"Really good, thank you." she said, taking another rather eager bite and then looking up at him as she swallowed the piece down, "I've never loved bread more, I'll be honest." Benny got a laugh out of that as she took another bite.
"Remind me of that again when Christmas rolls around."
"Huh?"
"That you like bread. I'll buy you a loaf."
"Really?" Benny chuckled.
"I'm only kidding," he said with a smile, before meeting her gaze, "but I'd get you a bread loaf if that's what you really wanted." Margie let out a laugh, going to grab at her side again as she looked to him and smiled again, smaller this time.
"The way to my heart, Benny, truly." she said and she noticed Benny looking at her more fondly than he ever had, but took to taking another bite of the toast instead, relishing the feeling the felt good inside her. Actual food inside her stomach that didn't leave her feeling crappy.
The eggs were slightly less appetizing, as they made her stomach turn a bit, but she took down her fill and washed it down with water, all with the dutiful help from Benny who sat by her side and spoon-fed her bit by bit with that quiet smile on his face.
By the time Benny had returned the plate to Charlie and had come back over, Margie could feel herself fading. She felt bad - Benny had come to visit and all she had done was say she was okay (she clearly wasn't), eaten (in which he had spoon-fed her), and now half-fallen asleep (she was telling herself it was fine). Benny came and crouched by the side of her cot again and slowly leaned forward to pull her blanket further up over her body.
"Thanks, Benny." she said quietly, eyes half open as she looked over at him, tucking in the sides and grinning at her.
"I'm your……friend. Margie, it's what you do." he said with a smile, a bit of hesitancy, "Now, you focus on healing up. With food in you, get some rest and focus on taking it easy."
"I fear I'm not one to take it easy." she said with a joking tone. Benny watched her and quirked up a grin.
"Would you for me?" Margie let out a quiet laugh.
"Maybe for Lieutenant Bradshaw."
"Bradshaw ain't here right now." Margie laughed softly again, wincing at her side.
"Then that's a no." she said and Benny grinned at her with a quiet look. Margie watched him and then felt the smile on her face drop.
"Can I tell you something, Benny?" she asked him quietly. Benny's concern was never one he masked well and within an instance he was nodding and coming to sit on her bedside again.
"Hit me."
"I don't remember it happening. The hit I took." she said quietly, "I remember one minute I was there. The next, waking up today. I….Kennedy said I was talking a bit when she pulled me from the turret, but I don't…." Margie's eyes welled with tears and that was all it took Benny to lean forward and gently wipe the few strays tears away.
"Don't worry yourself thin on it, Margie," he said quietly, "just focus on getting some rest. You just need some time to heal up. Don't think on that too much, okay?" Margie looked at him, his warm hand pressed there on her cheek and she nodded.
"I'm tired." she whispered and he nodded with a smile.
"Focus on getting some rest." he whispered back to her, "I'm right here. Nothing bad's gonna happen." Margie watched him.
"Promise me you'll still be here when I wake up?" she whispered back to him, "Please?"
"I ain't leaving, Margie." he said quietly. Margie slowly nodded at his words, his hand there on her cheek and drifted off, fading into a black abyss of slumber.
And when she came out of it next, her eyes focused on what was at the foot of her bed - the outlined figures of Judy, Kennedy and Bessie and then looked towards what was next to her. There, curled rather uncomfortably on a chair, was an unconscious Benny DeMarco.
If there was anything Benny DeMarco did, he kept his promises.
And he was there when she woke up.
Right there.
"What's he doing curled up like one of those Renaissance statues?" Kennedy said with a chuckle, coming over to Margie's other side and wiping at the hair awkwardly splayed against her face, "How you feeling?"
"Good, good," Margie said with a small smile, "Benny just….kept me company last night. Came to visit. Almost got in trouble."
"He's a sweetie, isn't he." Bessie said with a grin, looking to Judy who watched Margie with shining eyes.
"A real sweetheart, for sure." Judy said, "That chair isn't doing him any favors though." The four girls chuckled, Margie wincing again. It told her a lot about a guy who would sit in a chair for the night, next to her as she lay in a cot, half-alive, looking like she'd just been pulled it felt, from six feet under. And in Margie's mind, someone's actions were always louder than words.
Always.
26 notes · View notes
basilone · 7 months ago
Note
for the one word prompts... here to request "surprise" with... imogene and rosie? x - @softspeirs
Thank you so much, @softspeirs, for sending me this! I'm sorry it took a day and an age to fill. 😅 But I hope this will be a good treat for you and the rest of us Rosie-lovers!
swear I thought I dreamed you
The base has been abuzz since the early morning hours.
It’s no longer a surprise to Imogene when this happens. It seems that every so often there is news that cannot remain behind closed doors for long, which spills out onto the grounds and travels all the way to the hardstands. When there is a new shipment, the ground crew’s preparations are always observed by several members of different flight crews. When there are new girls coming in, either as flight crew or as Clubmobile hopefuls, it’s got Tatty up in a tizzy so much that Imogene’s got no hopes of keeping up with her.
Lately, there’s been other news too. About two fronts moving ever closer to Berlin, meeting up and interlinking at last. About guys being smuggled out of Europe, back to the States. About camps being liberated, even, which seems to Imogene like something one might only be able to do at the end of a war. When you’re winning – if you still know what victory looks like – and very close to bringing all the living home.
She’s not sure what the buzz is about this time. She’s been up since before dawn, because Darlene had gotten it into her head that she wanted to check on another plane in the middle of the night. Darlene’s been doing that a lot lately – checking once, then checking again – and Imogene doesn’t really have the heart to ask her outright why she’s avoiding Meatball this much. Whether it’s to do with DeMarco, who’d confided to Imogene he wants to marry Darlene after the war, or with Lottie, who’d been curled up around Meatball in utter misery for the better part of a week or two before crashlanding in Europe herself.
Imogene sighs. Casts a critical glance at Meatball, who’s looking mighty sorry for himself just outside the Clubmobile wagon. Just last week, some farmer had stopped by to complain that Meatball had somehow gotten his dog pregnant. Bloody chicken thief, the man had snarled to Imogene’s barely contained laughter. Always sticking himself into trouble, that one, miss. She’d almost replied just like his owner, because Benny DeMarco had been rather fond of inserting himself in complex situations too, but had thought the better of it once the kids had begun yelling excitedly about puppies.
“You know what you did, mister,” she tells the dog all the same, biting back a smile when Meatball’s guilty look increases tenfold. “Chasing after chickens, getting a lady dog pregnant, acting like you are above the law”– really, she’s almost convinced that week with Lottie made the dog worse –“doing things that would make a regular fellow lose his rank over here real quick. You’ve been demoted, Sergeant Meatball.”
She chuckles to herself as she busies herself with the next round of coffee. Soon enough, the base is going to calm down enough to remember that they would very much like a cup of that. Imogene had opted to stay behind – waving Tatty and Helen and the rest of the girls out, saying she’s got it covered – because, well, there’s not going to be much of anything new. It’ll be another crew coming in, or another young man bailed out by another country’s resistance, or a new shipment that will be enough to end the war for now. Someone needs to provide the fresh coffee in light of all that excitement, which…
Imogene swallows thickly. Her eyes sting a moment as she attempts to recall where on earth Helen put the milk this morning. She struggles to recall Helen’s breathless excitement, with the little nods to their actual work hidden beneath a layer of joy that Imogene can’t bring herself to feel right now. By all rights, she should have stepped away from the coffee too. Shouldn’t have thought she could just be on her own with this, not when this was always something she shared with one man in particular. Early morning coffee. Sometimes a long conversation. Sometimes just the regular thank-you and a joke, with his smiles crinkling at his eyes and her feeling giddy for the rest of the morning.
Don’t get attached. It’s something she tells the new girls every time, even when some of them have their hearts set on not listening. For the love of God, smile at them all you like and flirt if you must but don’t start thinking this is going to last. Because it doesn’t, really, not when so many of these men fade away in the skies over Europe never to be seen again. You can’t afford the heartbreak when you’ve got a job to do. And that’s why she’s here, scrubbing out coffee pots and trying to remember where the milk went, busying herself with work while the rest of the base seems beside itself with excitement. She could miss the end of the war like this, for all she knows, and it’d still not feel like a relief to have it be over. It won’t stop the ache in her chest.
“Shush, Meatball,” she admonishes as the dog begins to yip and howl just outside the door. “Damn huskies and your yelling,” she mutters when Meatball’s high-pitched sounds turn into whines, “always got something to say, don’t you, just like DeMarco could never shut up a day in his life once he got excited… Will you please stop?!”
“Sorry,” comes a new voice, just behind her. She’d just as soon think Meatball had started talking – and she had lost the last of her marbles – except… except she knows this voice. “I think he can smell all the food on me.”
She drops the towel, and the pot, and forgets all about the milk. Takes a deep, shuddering breath – hands flat on her work station, heart thundering through her chest – before she’s got the heart to turn around.
The noise that escapes her when she sees him is enough to put Meatball to shame.
“Rosie,” she whispers, bridging the gap between her work station and the door within seconds. “Rosie, is that really… Oh, it is you”– and she is crying now, unable to swallow back tears the way she’s been doing for weeks –“it really is you!”
His arms wrap around her as soon as she embraces him. His chuckle lands warm in her ear, reverberating through his chest until she can’t tell if she’s hearing his laughter or his heartbeat. Her hands are creasing his uniform, folding around his jacket, and she’s crying still because it feels like hugging someone who came back to life. Because this is Rosie, voice shushing her but not admonishing her over her tears, arms tightening around her like he’s okay with her never letting go.
“Hello Imogene,” he murmurs, lips moving against her hair. “Spare me a cup?”
She sniffles loudly at the familiar question. “Yeah, of course, I’ll make you something fresh,” she replies, voice a little muffled through his jacket. “Didn’t… Didn’t think…” Didn’t think I’d see you again, she almost says, even though they’ve been told he survived his crash in Berlin. Imogene dabs at her eyes as she leans back a little. “H-How was Russia?”
Rosie’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “Did you know you’re the first to ask?”
“Am I really? What, no debrief for the Major?” she replies, feeling slightly flustered because she went and called him Rosie instead of Major like she should have done earlier. “You’ve flown all this way, surely someone thought to ask?”
“They asked plenty.” His hands linger on her shoulders. “But nobody asked how it was, not really,” he muses out loud, one thumb rubbing circles on the spot where she mended her uniform at least thrice. “They like to sing. Their jokes are worse than DeBlasio’s”– impressive, considering how often she has seen Stella Lombardi bury her head in her hands in mock agony lately –“and they really do drink vodka like water. They were very kind to me.”
“I have heard,” she says, stepping away from his touch with some difficulty, “that their women actually hold your rank, Major.”
“Some do. It’s… different from here.” A shadow passes over his face. Colors his eyes with darkest midnight. “All of them would fight to the death rather than become prisoners. I… I have begun to understand why.”
Imogene sucks in a breath when the shadow somehow lingers in his gaze. “Major… Rosie,” she says, feeling woefully out of her depth, busying herself with the coffee brew so she won’t have to look at him, “you are not in that place. You are not fighting for your life in this moment with me, unless you think my coffee will knock you on your ass.” She snorts at the thought. “You’re just here with me, okay? I know that isn’t much in the gra–”
“It is,” he interrupts. “After… I…”
“What?” she asks, turning to find his gaze has moved to the floor.
“I kept thinking I needed to remember all of it. Not because it was so important,” he says wryly, mouth curving up into the semblance of a smile, “but because you weren’t there to see it. And I wanted to… to come here.” His eyes meet hers. “Tell you all about it over coffee.”
She smiles. “I’ve got time.”
“Good, because I can’t find the words,” he quips, eyes crinkling into a smile that doesn’t fully warm his face.
“What’s this? Major Rosenthal, lost for words?” she teases, fingers tapping on the table now that she’s waiting for that coffee to finish brewing. “That’s all right. I don’t think I’m much for grand conversation. Still recovering from the surprise that’s you walking in after so long.” Her laugh is a little bit sheepish. “I’m sorry about hugging you, sir.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re n-not?”
Her fingers stop tapping only because his hand finds hers. “Imogene.”
Her eyes fill anew with tears. She lets out a shuddering breath as he squeezes down and interlaces his fingers with her own. “R-Rosie,” she hiccups, wiping at her cheek with her other hand. “I just missed you loads. That’s all.” She braves a smile. Always keep that smile going, even when you feel like falling apart. “I really, really missed you.”
“And I you. So, no, Imogene, I’m not very sorry about that hug.”
“Okay,” she chuckles, “I’m not really sorry either. But it would be considered improper, of a sort. Not that anyone on this base still cares about that, what with the many love affairs happening, but…” She inhales sharply. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of floozy.”
“A floozy,” he laughs, now, rich and amused warmth coloring his tone. “Not a word I’d ever think of when it comes to you.” His voice lowers into a conspiratorial whisper. Light dances in his eyes. “And I think about you all the time, you know.”
Imogene glances down at their intertwined hands. Decides she won’t pinch herself, not today, not over something that feels like a liminal space between dream and reality. She is going to take this on faith. Belief got her this far – belief in something better, belief in him – and courage might give her the rest.
“You’ve never left my mind,” she whispers back, and lets her forehead come to rest against his. “Not for a single second. Never. You’re always the first person I look for in the morning.”
“You’re the last person I want to see,” he murmurs back, lips brushing her cheek before his breath fans out warm over her mouth, ��before I fall asleep.”
“Ro–”
His mouth slots over hers so gently she muffles a cry against his lips. Warmth spreads through her when his hand brushes her cheek before coming to rest on the side of her neck. And he’s pulling away, except she doesn’t let him, except her mouth finds his again before he can move away, except she wants to kiss him and not come up for air for a long time. He’s laughing – she’s kissing his smile, the corners of it – and she’s laughing too – nudging affection against his skin any way she can – and it feels like nothing else on earth when his arms wrap around her and pull her close again.
Home, she muses, like love – and she knows that’s what this is – is where my heart is.
28 notes · View notes
canadianfangirl-95 · 6 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Choose One. 
Triple Frontier character x f! reader
Don’t talk to me this was supposed to be a drabble but idk how to stop. No description because this literally feels like I took 4 pages out of a book and threw them down with no explanation.
No specific TF character is the love interest, choose one of them as your fave and enjoy the angsty ride. No description of reader, nicknames Black Widow and princess.
Warnings- mention of smutty stuff but pretty tame, Tom being an SOB, swearing, drinking 
Word count- 2700  
The evening air in the small South American town you were based in was growing cooler as the sun had set. You were seated, squished between two of your teammates, Frankie and Will, while Benny and Santi sat on the floor of the common area building, leaning against a small coffee table. Each of you were putting back beers like they were the last on earth, and just enjoying each other’s company. The conversation had swiftly changed to the favourite subject of the group, Santi’s love life.  
Will commented, “I think we all know the biggest slut around here is Pope. Didn’t you hook up with Tara from scheduling last week? She was only here for 3 days, and you still managed to get her into bed.” he said, leaning past you to give Santi a shit eating grin. 
The group let out a boisterous laugh at Santi’s copious infidelities. He threw his hands up conceding, “Hey laugh it up, if I’m gonna be teased for getting laid the most I will gladly take it.”  
Benny interjected, “Honestly, considering Black Widow is one of the only women at this base, I can’t believe she isn’t the one who’s getting laid the most.” He pointed at you, to which you shrugged and brought your cold beer to your lips with a smirk. You had your fair share of base affairs, but every guy you had tried out failed to truly satisfy you the way you needed, so they didn’t stay on the roster very long. Besides, they were only ever a distraction from what you truly wanted but couldn’t have. 
Santi nodded along, “Yeah why are you hanging out with us all the time when you could be getting it on every minute of the day?” 
You chewed the inside of your cheek in thought before responding, “Maybe that’s the thing, there’s not a whole lot of fun when it’s just like a guaranteed thing. I at least want to work for it a little, cuz in all honestly, I think with all single men considered, you guys are only one’s at this base who haven’t tried to sleep with me.”  
You let out a chuckle as the group went quiet, each of them looking at one another with an embarrassed look on their faces. Frankie’s ears grew red underneath his curly brown locks and baseball hat. You immediately noticed the way Santi downed the rest of his drink and Benny and Will exchanged a knowing glance.  
Your eyebrows furrowed with confusion at the sudden change in demeanor. “What’d I say?” 
 Frankie leaned in and shook his head, “Nothing, you didn’t say anything wrong.” 
“Okay, well then why does it feel like something just happened?” You questioned.  
Benny went to open his mouth but was quickly slapped on the arm by Will, causing him to look away from your gaze toward the dull beige ceiling that was adorned with water stains.  
You perked up in your seat between Frankie and Will on the old leather couch, “Okay, now you guys are freaking me out, what’s up?” 
The air grew thicker as Santi finally turned his attention back to you with a huff, “Widow, now don’t shoot the messenger here,” he said putting his hands on his chest to speak as earnestly as possible, “but when you joined the team, Tom made us all promise not to sleep with you.”  
Your mouth dropped; you had been a part of this team as their sniper for 8 months. Four of the guys had welcomed you with open arms, but not Tom. He had been nothing but a pain in your ass since the moment the Sergeant introduced you. You still remember the day vividly. Being transferred out of your old team after months of belittlement by the macho muscle heads you had been paired with. Each of them had welcomed you with a smile and worked hard to form a personal bond with you. Except for Tom of course, he immediately started calling you princess and continued the belittlement of your previous squad.  
Before you could speak, none other than Tom entered the common area room you were all seated in. Blood boiled to the surface as you rose from your seat and started towards him. Meak calls of protest rang out behind you from the group of men, but it was pointless. Your red face was met with his equally aggressive facade.  
Stopping mere feet in front of him you crossed your arms and raised your head high, “You son of a bitch who do you think you are deciding who I can and can’t sleep with?” You said with a strong tone.  
Tom’s eyebrows popped up with shock, he looked over your shoulder to the four men all seated with their heads down. He smirked and turned his attention back to you. “So, they finally told you huh? That’s fine, it was the right decision then and it’s the right decision now.”  
“I have worked tirelessly for this team for 8 months, and yet you still only have ever seen me as a,- a sexual thing and a fucking distraction. You’ve never seen me as the same as anyone else here on this team.” Heat rising in your voice with each matter-of-fact word.  
Tom scoffs and crosses his arms, “Don’t get all self-righteous on me princess. You’re no better than any of us when it comes to sexualizing your team. As if you haven’t thought about each and every one of us here. Even me I bet; you seem like you’d be into a little hate sex.”  
You stuttered, “In your fucking dreams Tom-,” 
“No, actually, in yours. Don’t think we haven’t heard you. We all share that bunk house.” His voice lowered to a seductive whisper, and you took a deep swallow.  “You really think we haven’t heard the deep breathing, the slight moans, the creak in the box spring, all coming from your bed late at night. Or maybe you wanted us to hear it. Maybe while you do it, you’re thinking about what would happen if one of us heard and decided to slide into bed with you. What would happen if one of us finally broke that boundary, offering to finish you off. So, before you come at me, claiming I only see you as a sexual thing, why don’t you think about how many times you’ve gotten off thinking about one of us in these 8 months.” 
Your body shivered and your hair stood straight on your arms. His words cut through you like a knife, as you knew that most of it was true. The four men behind you were some of the most attractive men you’d ever met and were kind to boot. Of course you had thought about them, who wouldn’t, but it was none of Tom’s business, nevertheless.  
He looked up in thought, enjoying your stunned moment, as the rest of the guys held breaths and chewed fingernails, desperate not to get pulled into the situation. “You know, I told the Sergeant that I’d be willing to make it work with you, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s about time you transfer to another base where there are less, what did you call it? Distractions.” he said pointedly, staring into your eyes with fire.  
You glared back at him, considering your options. Finally, an idea sparked, and you were willing to try it if it meant you would be staying on this team. Not just to continue being a thorn in Tom’s side, but to stay with the guys you had developed so many feelings for. Especially the one you had felt your heart tug toward for months now. Pulling your stern look into a sly smirk, you take a step inward and drop your arms to your sides, caging Tom in with your body to the point that he was doing his best not to touch your chest with his crossed arms. “You know Tom, you actually missed the beginning of this conversation. In which I informed the guys that besides them, every other single man on this base has tried to sleep with me. Give that some thought, and then accept the fact that, I’m not going anywhere.” You bite your lip and step back, turning your back on him and returning to the seated area where the group was sitting. You decided not to make eye contact with them as you collected your drink and phone. Turning swiftly on your heels you started towards the door, calling out just as you were about to exit, “Don’t wait up for me boys, got some business to take care of.” You declare with a wink, flipping your hair over your shoulder as you leave.  
Tom turns his head away from the door and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Is the Sergeant single?” he asks with a deep breath out his nose.  
Nodding his head, looking down at the cool white tile flooring of the room Will responds, “Yeah, got divorced last year.”  
“Son of bitch, isn’t that fucking great.” Tom exhales. “What the fuck guys?” he asks, turning his attention to the men and opening his arms wide. 
Santi’s mouth gapped, “Us? What about you? You’re the one that came up with that misogynistic rule and that fucking violating monologue.” He pointed towards the door you left from, exasperated by the situation.  
Tom waved his hands authoritatively, “You know what, I don’t wanna hear about it. We have a meeting at 8 tomorrow, if she’s not there, she’s out and I don’t care who she’s slept with. I’ll personally escort her stateside if I have to. All of you get some shut eye.” He turned and bound out the door, slamming it closed behind him.  
A chill fell upon the group as they released the breaths they were holding, unsure of what was to come.  
Benny scratched his nose and said in a low voice, “I thought I was the only one.” 
Frankie crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back asking, “Only one for what?” 
He shrugged, “Only one to hear her. Have you guys?” he asked, looking between the three uncomfortable faces around him.  
Santi let out a groan as he stood from his seat on the floor, “We all do it man, keeps us sane. Just supposed to ignore it.”  
Frankie and Benny shared an agonizing glance and stood, all of them retreating to their bunks in silence. Each of them lay there awake, wondering if you were going to come back that night, and when the clock chimed for midnight, they knew they had their answer.  
In all honesty, sleeping with the Sergeant wasn’t something you were expecting would be happening. He was actually quite handsome with a Kevin Costner vibe to him and showed you a good time. Plus, you certainly wouldn’t have to be worrying about Tom medaling in your assignment now that you’ve got his boss wrapped around your finger. When you arrived back to the bunk house it was empty, all of the team had seemingly already left for the morning assignment meeting.  
“She’s gonna be here.” Frankie said sternly, leaning against a desk, bracing his hands on the cool wood top as Benny paced in front of him.  
“I don’t know man she was pretty pissed last night.” The younger man stated, scratching the back of his head and looking sheepishly at the door.  
Will and Santi sat at the desks lined up in the room, arms crossed and giving each other worried glances. Benny startled as Tom entered carrying his clip board of the assignment run down. He glanced around the room and smirked taking notice in your absence.  
“Well, if princess isn’t here in let’s see,” he pulls his wrist to his face to analyze the time on his watch, “30 seconds I guess we’ll be looking for a new sniper again. Shame really, she was a good shot, just couldn’t shut the fu-,” 
“Morning, gentleman, and Tom.” You say as you skip through the open door, brushing past Tom and taking a seat on the desk beside Santi. Crossing your arms and legs and providing Tom with a pointed stare. The rest of the men looked to one another with utter shock and fear of your boldness.  
Tom gave a strong huff, “Just on time, late night?”  
“Late night, early morning. The Sergeant says hi by the way.” You say with a wink.  
He bares his teeth and shifts on his feet, “Alright, I’ve been thinking about our little issue here. I may have over stepped.” He puts on a sly grin and your defenses only triple, unsure where this false change of heart might be coming from.  
“You’re right, you and the guys here should be able to sleep with whomever you want. So, by all means, choose one.” he says, squaring his shoulders with confidence. 
Your eyebrows pop up in confusion, “Choose one?” You repeat.  
He shrugs and gestures to the men, “Yeah, choose one. Clearly you want to otherwise you wouldn’t have thrown such a fit. I’m a reasonable guy, but I do still think it would be a bad idea for you to be toe curling with everyone here. So, as a compromise, you can have one of them.” 
You take a deep breath, considering his proposition. Glancing around the room at the four men, they all look at you with desperate faces. Your eyes meet with the one you’ve been falling for all this time and a shiver runs through your body as his eyes burn into you with desire. All that’s been unspoken between the two of you slowly bubbling to the surface as you both consider what Tom has said. This whole time you thought he wouldn’t be interested. Wouldn’t want you the way you wanted him. Knowing now by the look on his face, the only thing truly keeping the two of you apart was the juvenile rule Tom had thrust upon him. His eyes said a thousand words. I want you. I’ve wanted you this whole time. Choose me. Love me the way I love you. You’ve thought about it a hundred times. What it would be like to finally take his face in your hands and pull him close in for a kiss. What it would sound like for the words that hung in your throat to finally spill out and for him to say the same. How it would feel to have his hand skate up the back of your uniform and settle on the small of your back before falling desperately into the sheets. 
Your daydreams and pining were suddenly cut short when your attention was brought back to the clearing of Toms throat. You shift your weight on the desk, “Interesting proposition Tom, I’ll have to think about it.”  
He grits his teeth, “Oh come on princess, I think you should give us an answer right now. Don’t wanna leave the guys hanging. They deserve to know who is gonna get the absolute pleasure of the Sergeants sloppy seconds.”  
You shake your head and roll your eyes at his derogatory comment, “You had the night to think about it Tom, I think I deserve the same.”  
The group looks to Tom, awaiting his answer. He takes a scan of the room and sees the stern faces. Nodding confidently, “Once again, I’m a reasonable man. We’ll talk tomorrow. Today, we have a day trip to take, and I want everyone focused anyway.” he says, snapping his knuckles on the clipboard in his hand. 
As Tom drummed on about the plan, you stole your last weary glance at the man you longed for, that you may finally have within reach. The one you’ll choose and will choose you, everyday for the rest of your lives. 
18 notes · View notes