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therealslimshakespeare · 1 year ago

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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foreingersgod · 9 months ago

Note

can we get something about Caitlin like after a big win of hers and her girlfriend is on court with Caitlin being all over her? think like Taylor swift and travis after the Super Bowl

Miss Americana & The HeartBreak Prince(ss) . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: even if caitlin’s the center of attention, she can’t help but focus on you

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

caitlin had been preparing for this game for months, it felt. there seemed to be endless trainings, camps, and practices just to get her ready for this moment. of course, every game to caitlin was huge, but this? this game would mark the end of her collegiate career, would give her a championship title if iowa could pull it off.

and they did.

with a massive lead of 10 points, caitlin being the top scorer of the night. they had won effortlessly and earned the championship title.

you had watched from court side all night to see your girl play. you had been to every game to support her, but you typically resided farther into the crowd to stay reserved. but recently, with more and more attention falling on caitlin, you’ve become a major hit with the media. once caitlin became a well known basketball star, everyone was curious to know all about her life outside of the sport. this included the age old question: “who is she dating?”

very quickly, you were bombarded with attention. fans commented on her posts about you, interviewers asked her about her girlfriend, everyone wanted to know all about caitlin clark’s biggest cheerleader.

you really hadn’t minded all that much. the questions and inquires about you came across as sweet in your eyes, you were actually quite flattered that all these people wanted to get to know you. but even then it still had its downsides. upon caitlin’s managers request, you were to be in the eye of the public with caitlin as much as possible. this meant doing things like sitting court side for every game even if you didn’t particularly want to. caitlin, of course, loved the idea. she jumped at any opportunity to show you off and talk about you whenever she could. so to her, it was no problem.

once the game had ended, your hands red from clapping and cheeks sore from cheering, you watched as the team celebrated together. watching your girl hold that trophy with the biggest smile on her face was the most heartwarming thing. you let them have their moment before anxiously stepping onto the court to meet caitlin. perhaps it was the excitement from the win or maybe it was just the pure eagerness to see her, but you were practically running across the court to get to her.

“cait!” you shouted from a distance, trying to catch her attention from across the floor.

she spotted you in a split second. caitlin would recognize your voice from anywhere. quickly, she handed the trophy off to someone else, excusing herself from the conversation to go over to you. you met half way, caitlin scooping you up into her arms causing you to balance on your tip toes. her arms locked around you, nose burying itself into the crook of your neck, taking in your scent.

“hey baby” her lips curled into a smile that you could feel again your jawline.

“you were absolutely amazing” you maneuvered to take her face into your hands, admiring her face. sweat and messy hair included, she looked so radiant and beautiful. you pushed up the bill of her championship hat and brushed stray hairs away, allowing yourself to take in her full appearance. “I’ve never been so proud of someone in my life!”

“you don-” she wanted to protest humbly, but was rudely interrupted.

it was like a swarm of bees. interviewers and cameramen surrounded you, lights flashing and microphones being shoved into your faces. many of them were shouting incoherent questions all while trying to grab your attention. your sweet moment was ruined, it was time to face the crowd.

“caitlin, tell us about your big win!”

“is this your girlfriend? caitlin, over here!”

“the fans want to hear from the new it couple!”

they were all shouting, trying to get an ounce of attention from her. you could tell by the look on her face that she just wanted to ask them to leave, but you also knew she would rather endure the exhausting interviews than tell anyone ‘no’. so she swung her arm around your shoulder, causing you to stumble into her side, to keep you close to her.

“it was a really great game…” she began talking about the game, all the interviewers listening attentively.

caitlin spent quite a bit of time giving run downs and talking strategies for the game, letting people ask her questions about what it felt like to be in the spotlight. the whole time, though, her arms never left you. she would occasionally rub your arm to ease the anxiety of having all the cameras on you, maybe sometimes move down to your waist just to pull you in even closer.

you sort of zoned out, putting yourself in autopilot to avoid panicking over the lights and shouting journalists. nothing caitlin said to any one of them you really heard, but somewhere in the sea of questions, you heard your name.

“and who’s this here with you? is this YN?”

suddenly, you were back in the game, completely engaged in the conversation. you looked over to see caitlin smiling down at you with the most goofy grin.

“yea,” she said “yea this is my girlfriend, YN”

you looked out into the vastness of the cameras, all of them pointing at you, as you proffered a small smile. it was still a process, getting used to being the center of all the madness.

caitlin continued before anyone could ask you something, knowing you weren’t ready to answer any questions quite yet.

“she’s the one i owe all this to,” her arm squeezed you, reminding you to take a deep breath and relax “she’s by my side day and night, giving me all of her support. i wouldn’t be anywhere without her so for that, i dedicate this win to her”

leaning down closer to your level, caitlin’s hand cradled your jaw to pull you in for a gentle kiss. it caught you off guard realizing that she was openly being intimate with you in front of everyone. but you trusted her judgment, letting yourself relax into the kiss.

of course, everyone went crazy, all happy that they had media coverage of the popular couple.

this was going to be all over instagram tomorrow.

after a few more questions and a several pictures of you two standing side by side, they dispersed to pester some other players. it was finally just the you and caitlin again, able to have a moment to yourselves.

“getting a bit risky with that kiss, huh?” you draped your arms over her shoulders.

“had to let everyone know how much i love you s’all” she shrugged, pressing another delicate kiss to your forehead. “i’d never pass up an opportunity to show you off, you know that”

“i do” you said, smiling at her. despite all the chaos around you, people still buzzing with excitement, confetti still lingering in the air, endless fans, it still felt like just you. just you and caitlin immersed in each other. “i love you so much”

“i love you a thousand times more”

#caitlin clark #caitlin clark x reader #iowa wbb #wcbb #wcbb x reader #foreingersgod

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greynatomy · 1 year ago

Text

football or football?

lucy bronze x reader

lucy won the very close poll.

been seeing the whole taylor swift and travis kelce thing on tiktok and got this idea.

this became longer than Iithought it’d be. was supposed to be a ficlet. oh, well.

let me know what you think!

-grey

———

For the past two weeks, you’ve been trending on twitter. At first you don’t know what it’s about, but your publicist caught you up saying how there’s a footballer — American footballer — who keeps mentioning you in interviews and on his podcast. It was honestly getting pretty annoying, not just to you, but also to your very jealous girlfriend.

You’d both decided to keep your relationship private, with you being a popular musician and your girlfriend being a top footballer in the league. Except, the media has been labeling your relationship as friends, best friends who support each other. Never once has there been an article where you both are speculated to be dating.

You’ve both been fun with it, being able to not have to hide anything, but with the whole Travis Kelce using your name to stay relevant to the media, your girlfriend is getting fed up.

“I don’t know why he keeps bringing you up? Not once have you mentioned him on anything. ‘The ball is in your court?’ Like what does that mean?” Lucy rambles.

“Honestly, I’m getting tired of it too. I’ve been so busy with touring that I didn’t even know about it until Sarah told me.” You reply, cuddling up to her on the bed, your head on her chest.

“Did Sarah tell you what you should do?”

“Sarah’s pretty much fed up like the both of us so she said it’s up to me. She doesn’t care if I tell him to fuck off, I’d do it anyway without telling her.”

“Didn’t you say he invited you to a game?”

“Yeah, he did. Why?” You we’re getting skeptical with the way Lucy has a smirk and mischievous look on her face.

“Don’t you think it’s time for us to come out, no?”

“Been together four years. Probably long overdue.”

“Well you better tell him that you’d love to accept that invitation, with a plus one of course.”

“I’m liking the way you think.”

———

Now a week later, you and Lucy were dressed up in red, arriving at Arrowhead Stadium. Lucy had a red England bucket hat on that she took off your head. You were being escorted to the friends and family box by security, running into people who recognized you. One hand holding Lucy’s the other waving to people as you passed.

Walking into the box, you were met with lots of people, Travis’ mom was the one to come and greet you.

“It’s nice to meet you Mrs. Kelce.”

“Oh, please call me Donna. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a big fan of your music, been wanting to meet you ever since Travis said that you’d both started talking.”

“That’s so nice of you, thank you, but unfortunately all the conversations your son had with me are one sided. I’ve never once entertained anything he said. The only time I’ve texted back was to tell him I’d love to attend a game. Never been to an American Football game before.”

“Really? My son said you guys were getting along.”

“Unfortunately for him, we haven’t. But I’d like to introduce you to my partner Lucy.”

“Oh, it’s very nice to meet you as well Lucy. I’m sorry if my son cause any trouble between the two of you.”

“It’s no worries at all. Excited to watch the game.”

“You’ve got an accent. Where are you from?”

“From England.”

“Yeah, I’m a sucker for accents. But let’s not let the situation get in the way and enjoy this game.”

———

liked by fan1, fan2 and 23,749 others

ynupdates yn seen at the kansas chief’s game

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fan1 NO WAY SHES THERE

fan2 MAMA KELCE IS WITH HER

fan3 is ynvis real?!?!

fan4 is everyone gonna ignore lucy bronze right next to her

———

The game just finished. Everyone is cheering as the Chief’s won a game at home. You and Donna hug each other close, jumping up and down. Lucy was actually awestruck by all the people celebrating their team winning, thinking back to all the times fans of hers and her team celebrated like this.

Moments after, you follow Debby to the hallways, no doubt leading to her son. Travis comes out freshly showered and changed a bit after, going straight to his Mom for a hug. Then he turns to you opening his arms out for a hug, so you give him a side hug, not wanting to be mean. Cameras click nonstop towards the two of you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you.” He says to you.

“You as well. Great game you played out there.”

“Thank you. Wanna go somewhere more private so we can hear each other better without the prying eyes?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He leads towards the exit, you following behind him, your hand holding Lucy’s tightly, who Travis hadn’t acknowledged at all. Exiting towards the garage where his and your cars are parked, you relax a bit, relieved to be away from the cameras. Lucy walks a bit off to the side to let you two talk, but still close enough to hear, in case he says something he shouldn’t.

“Im glad you accepted my invite.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ve never been to or seen an American Football game.”

“American Football?”

“Well, yeah. The U.S is the only one that plays this sport. Football is played throughout the world.”

“Wow, you’re gonna be like that?” He says, thinking you’re flirting with him by saying his sport isn’t widely played.

“Be like what?”

“Never mind. But I just wanted to ask if you wanna hang out right now? Get to know each other a bit more.” He steps closer towards you, but you step back.

“I’d have to decline. My girlfriend and I have to get back to England. She’s got a couple Football matches coming up.”

“Girlfriend?” Travis is shocked by the information. “I didn’t know you were even with someone.”

“I’m surprised no one knows. They see two girls and automatically think they’re best friends or something. But, no, been with that girl right there four years. It was very obvious.” You wave Lucy over. “Travis this is Lucy Bronze, my girlfriend—”

“—Actually fiancé. Proposed a couple weeks ago, so there’s still some getting used to. It’s nice to meet you mate. Heard you’ve been talking ‘bout my girl pretty often past few weeks.”

The look on Travis’ face is laughable.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, we’re very private people. But now that you’ve met my girl after being all up in her DM’s, you’d stop using her name to stay relevant yeah? ‘Cause it’s making you look desperate.”

You didn’t interfere. You’re stood off to the side, a proud look on your face.

“Yeah, of course. Never again.”

“The last thing you should talk about in that little podcast of yours is a public apology using her name for fame like many men have in the past.”

After a moment of Lucy staring at Travis she speaks up again. It was a bit funny how intimidated he looked at Lucy, seeing as she’s almost a foot shorter than him

“Well, mate, we best be off. I’ve got some Football to be preparing for, my girl by my side always. Best of luck to you. Hope you find someone that isn’t taken.”

With that, she takes a hold of your hand, leading you to the car. You give him a little wave, leaving him speechless in the middle of the parking garage.

———

liked by leahwilliamsonn, lucybronze and 10,375,829 others

yourinstagram Thank you travis for the invite! Had a lot of fun at my first ever American Football game with my Fiancé. Congrats to you and your team on the win! #KansasCityChiefs

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lucybronze very different from football for sure

↳ yourinstagram very different

leahwilliamsonn where was my invite?

↳ yourinstagram you didn’t get one

↳ leahwilliamsonn rude

fan1 SHES ENGAGED

fan2 ynvis isn’t real thank god!

fan3 OHMYGOD ITS LUCY BRONZE ALCJHD

fan4 this is a very polite way of saying ‘keep my name out your fucking mouth’

#woso x reader #greynatomy #woso #woso imagines #woso imagine #lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader

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harrysmimi · 5 months ago

Text

A Moment In Time

Synopsis: One where Harry's Swiftie daughter finally gets to meet her favourite and see her perform live.

Here's Pt2 to this after 1.5years | More of my work

It was a random Wednesday day and Harry and Moon at Harry Lambert's studio.

They were going to The Eras Tour!!!

Moon was ecstatic would be an understatement to say. She wanted a green folklore dress like Taylor's to wear at the Wembley Night three. So her dad found the very next person to reach out to for a custom dress for his little princess.

"It twickles!" She chuckled as Lambert took her measurements, making sure to leave quite a margin as she is a growing kid and the show was a month and a half ahead.

"Yeah? Does it tickle here?" Lambert tickled her tummy a bit making her burst into laughter.

Then later Moon went out with her dad on a little lunch date. She wanted Fish and chips and that's what she got.

......................................................................

It was finally the concert day. Moon was already hyped up for everything. They even went merch shopping. They couldn't find anything in her size except for nail charms there.

Moon carried along her VIP pass on a lanyard too long for her and her noise cancelling headphones which matched her dress. Yes, her Papa bought her VIP tickets.

The show kicked off and they all danced, sang and had a great time all together.

Moon was particularly ecstatic when she saw she was matching with Taylor with the very similar Folklore dress. Taylor of course noticed it during her 22 set.

"Mummy look!" Moon showed her mum how Taylor danced during August, using her cape sleeves like wings just like her favourite.

Harry's fans there were particularly in awe of the little girl. Surprisingly, they did not take pictures of her or any sneaky videos. They were all very respectful as YN and Harry have kept their daughter away from the lime light.

Moon was over the moon one can say when she saw Taylor wearing the same dress as hers during August. "Mummy she's wearing the same dress as me!" The little girl screamed in excitement asking her mother to pick her up so she could have a look at her favourite performing on the stage well.

"Yeah!" YN cooed as picked up her girl and propped her up on her hip.

.........................................................................

It was the end of the show and Harry was guiding his girl back out when Andrea, Taylor's mum stopped them.

"Hi, Harry." She greeted him, "Taylor said she would like to meet your daughter at the back stage now."

Moon was all tired and a bit grumpy already as she clung on her mother, still with her noise cancelling headphones on and her bunny close to her chest. She had no idea what was going on as her mother and dad took her back stage. Taylor was there, still in her Midnights body suit.

"Moonie look who's here." YN cooed to her daughter softly, making the little girl pick her head up to look at her favourite.

"Hi little one!" Taylor said softly.

"Taylor!" It was like Moon had two shots of espresso all of a sudden when she saw Taylor, she was quick to jump in her arms with a bear hug.

"Oh you're so sweet!" Taylor hugged her back. "I like your dress. It's so pretty."

"Yeah, it's like yours!" Moon said she looked down at her dress.

"It suits you better I can say." Blondie said. "Your dad told me how much you like my music, that means so much to me."

"Yes, I like Love Story, Me, and Lover!" Moon listed out a few songs she likes. "Papa wikes to sing it to Mummy and me sometimes."

"Awe that's so sweet, isn't it!" Taylor chuckle softly. "Thank you for listening to my songs." She hugged the little girl again.

Taylor gave Moon so many gifts. Harry made sure to inform Taylor that his daughter is a big fan of hers. Taylor made the meet much so special with custom merch for Moon.

A little 22 hat, and a small Junior Jules shirt, with a pair of black jean shorts, a few tour hoodies made in her size and few sizes larger so she can grow into them. A few friendship bracelets for her, which Taylor made herself. And a few candies and chocolates, which Taylor made sure with her parents first before giving it to her.

"I made these myself for you." She helped Moon wear the bracelets.

And little did Taylor know, Moon had a few gifts for Taylor too.

"Mummy the gift, pwease!" She looked up at her mother. It was just a little cat with a picture Moon drew herself and a friendship bracelet too.

"Oh my gosh! You made these?" Taylor was in utter surprise. The little bracelets said, 'Moons BFF" and "Bestie" respectively. "You drew this?"

"Yes!" Moon exclaimed, "dunno if you would wanna wear it but I made it." She added shyly.

"Of course I want to wear it." Taylor instantly put on the bracelets, "oh and I love this picture so much!"

"Yeah? This is Moon and this is you!" She pointed at two stick figures with yellow hair, one with blue eyes and one with green eyes. Stick figure Taylor had a black mic in her hand. "And it says, I wuv your swongs and I admire you so much!" And it said the same thing indeed in messy and colourful writing.

"You are amazing." Taylor hugged Moon again, she was a bit emotional to say the least. "I am gonna cherish this forever, thank you so much. You are such an amazing artist."

"Thank you so much." Moon blushed shyly making everyone chuckle.

"You wanna take pictures together on my Polaroid?" Taylor asked. Moon of course said yes.

Taylor kept one with her and gave one to Moon with a little message on the back.

It was the best night for Moon.

YN only hoped she could remember it when she grows up, but her parents would forever remember the same for her. Moon spent three hours with Taylor that evening, they had dinner together later that night.

Moon definitely thought Taylor was going to be her best friend forever and ever that she asked her to call her whenever she is free, surprisingly Taylor agreed to that. That made Moon ever more happier.

....................................................................................

Moon was fast asleep in the car when they all got home, she was exhausted.

It was the next morning when her dad surprised her with her favourite breakfast, which was pancakes with her favourite fruits.

"Mummy." She walked up to her mum in her office with sleepy eyes for cuddles.

"Good morning my baby." YN was quick to pull her up in her lap.

"Mornin." She mumbled. "What are you doing Mummy?"

"I am just taking care of a few things baby." She explained to her.

"Oh." Was her only reaction.

"Are you still tired?"

"Mhmm." She nodded and nuzzled closer to YN's chest and tried to sleep again but she could smell the delicious pancakes her dad was making in the kitchen. "Pancakes?"

"Yes, Papa is making Pancakes for you." YN shared, "do you want to go brush your teeth and your hair and eat pancakes?"

"Mhmm." She seemed a bit upset and YN didn't know why.

She let her daughter be for a while as she helped the little girl brush her teeth and hair before they headed out for breakfast.

"Hi my loves. Good morning." Harry chirped as he went and kissed his wife first on the mouth and then his princess. YN set her on her high chair as she went to help him.

"I don't know why she seems a bit upset." She whispered to her husband.

"No, why?" He seemed puzzled about it.

"I don't know..."

Harry went to his daughter with a plate of pancakes, he had made a little smile face the blue berry jam and cut up little strawberry hearts for the eyes, syrup and extra fruits on the side.

"Hey princess what got you so upset?" He cooed to her, "did you see a nightmare?"

"No." She mumbled, "I saw we went to see Taylor and there were a lot of her friends there, she gave me so many gifts."

"Oh baby you thought that was a dream?" Harry tried so hard to hold back his chuckle.

"Mhmm." She looked down at her plate with sad and teary eyes.

"Oh no, can I share something with you?" Harry asked making her look up at him, "it was all real my darling. Here." He walked up to the coffee table in their living room to get the basket of goodies and the Polaroid.

The instant smile on her face put her parents heart into ease.

"It all happened, really." YN assured her. "We took off the bracelets because we didn't want you to scratch yourself in sleep." She gave the little girl the bracelets.

And she was happy again.

They spent the rest of their day watching movies and preparing and making an elaborate dinner to invite Grandma Anne and Aunty Gemma.

@vrittivsanghavi @buckymydarlingangel @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @sleutherclaw @melllinaa @michellekstyles @sunshinemoonsposts @marialikescherries @onlyangelrain @supersanelyromantic @haarrrys @originalsoulcollector @lomlhstyles @im-an-overthinker @tenaciousperfectionunknown @stilesissaved @allthelovehes @sunshinemoonsposts @harryssky1 @sofia-faustina @stylesfever @reputationolivia @kittenhere

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perseephoneee · 2 months ago

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decorating the tree [ficmas day 5] [jj maybank x afab!reader]

↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist ↳ ficmas 2024

author's note: college!au jj where the pogues are happy and treasure didn't ruin everything haha! i'm not crying you are.

playlist:

slide -- goo goo dolls

christmas tree farm -- taylor swift

groovy xmas -- the linda lindas

Christmas was always a bad time not having a job.

Your Mom got let go from her job the day after Halloween; corporate bureaucrats pretending it wasn't ageism and sexism fueling that decision. You remember the anger and fury at the lack of justice. You got a job the day after. It was the only way to afford tuition until your Mom got back on her feet.

Getting a job as a waitress was fortunate. What was unfortunate was that it was at the diner where JJ Maybank worked.

It's not that you didn't like JJ; he could just be an acquired taste. Also, he made your job a living Hell.

You had to wonder if anyone had tested him for ADHD when it was so obvious he had it. Sure, he was probably the best cook in the place, but he constantly tested your patience with pretty much everything known to man. Running behind on orders, changing them to taste 'better,' flirting with customers instead of working, etc. You were wondering how you hadn't stabbed him yet.

"JJ, I swear to god, if you don't give me that order—"

"Gotchu princess," JJ scurried out to the counter, sliding a steaming plate of eggs benedict across the counter. You glared at him. "What?"

"Don't call me princess," you scowled, taking the plate. He just smiled.

"Got it, princess."

You wanted to scream as you marched away, heading to deliver your order. You apologized for the delay as you prepared yourself for more customers. You wanted to crawl under a table when you saw the rest of JJ's posse come into the place. JJ immediately ran out from the kitchen to greet them and set them up at the best booth in the house. You didn't care enough to argue.

Ten minutes later, and probably five orders behind, he returned to his workspace. He had antlers on his head.

"Do I want to ask?" You drawled, looking up from your notepad.

"Kie got everyone Christmas hats. I'm a reindeer."

"Oh really? I thought you were Santa Claus," you replied, ripping the paper and slapping it on the counter. "Eggs florentine with a side of bacon for table four."

"Did I offend you or something?" JJ asked, leaning against the counter. You raised a brow.

"You're always kinda mean."

"I don't hate you," you smiled, but you didn't think the smile reached your eyes. You walked away before he could respond.

You finished your shift at 9pm, your muscles aching from the winter rush. You sat on the curb outside while you waited for your ride. It was cold, but you welcomed the frigid air over the stifling diner. Footsteps sounded behind you, and you turned to see JJ. He spun his keys around his fingers.

"Wanna ride?"

You were in his car a moment later, although the car was generous. It was a giant ball of junk that happened to roll around. Your roommate was too tied up to grab you, and you really needed to get home to work on homework anyway. JJ seemed like the best option. Although, he still wore his stupid antlers.

"Did you grow up around here?" JJ asked, one hand on the wheel. You bounced your leg.

"Kinda. Two hours away," you murmured. "Did you?"

"Nah, I'm from the Outer Banks," he grinned with that toothy smile you resented loving.

"So, why move out here?" You shifted in your seat to look at him better.

"Kie and Pope were going here, and John B and I managed to swing a scholarship," JJ said nonchalantly, even though you knew how big of a deal it could be. "Plus, I wanted to get away from my Dad."

He said the last part was more of a cough. You glanced at him, noticing the tension in his jaw. You don't say anything about it. JJ shakes it off, looking your way.

"We're having a little Christmas shindig if you want to come over. It's this Saturday."

"I don't know," you squirmed, sinking into your seat.

"C'mon, princess. It'll be fun," JJ begged, sounding like a puppy dog. Your mouth was set in a firm line. "Please?"

"I'll think about it," you replied. You wouldn't go, though. You never cared much for Christmas. Your response seemed to placate JJ, though, and it came just in time for the car to pull up to your apartment. You pushed open the passenger door, hopping out. "Thanks for the ride," you said.

“No problem, babygirl.”

You glared at him.

"I was trying something out."

"Just stick to my name," you sighed, but JJ still called you 'princess' when he wished you goodnight.

The problem with JJ was he was incapable of letting things go. He spent the rest of the week harassing you about the party. You kept brushing it off, giving him 'maybes' instead of affirmatives. By Friday, you had fully intended to come up with an emergency that got you out of it. You were brainstorming excuses when his friends came in. For once, JJ was focused and busy with food preparation, so you proceeded to seat them at their usual table.

You didn't have a problem with JJ's friends, even if they were loud and sometimes gave you a migraine. They always tipped and were polite, and that's pretty much all you can hope for as a waiter. They greeted you warmly as you returned to take their order.

Despite having eaten here many times, Pope was still deciding what he wanted to have.

"Hey, are you coming to our Christmas kick-off?" Kiara asked, smiling at you. You blinked.

"Uh, I don't know…"

"If you're worried about it being not a big crowd, it won't be. Just us," Kiara quickly added, thinking your aversion was to large gatherings. Although you hated large gatherings, that wasn't why you were avoidant.

"I think JJ invited me to be nice, and it sounds like it's more of a…"

"We could use another Pogue, plus JJ really wants you there," Kiara smiled before glaring at Pope. "Can you hurry up and order already?"

"I'm evaluating my options," Pope mumbled. He looked up at you. "What are the specials again?"

"What they always are," Kiara groaned. She ignored him to focus on you. She also had puppy dog eyes, and you were wondering if it was a requirement of the group to be massive guilt trippers. "It'd mean a lot to him," she said softly, and you didn't have the heart to turn her down.

"I'm ready now," Pope nodded before placing an order for his usual. You left before Kiara could strangle him.

You had to close that night, which meant cleaning up after the sign had been flipped. You didn't realize JJ had also stayed to clean the kitchen until he joined you in wiping the tables. You worked in silence.

"My Dad left around Christmas time," you murmured, continuing to clean. "It's always kind of a bitter time of year." JJ stopped to look at you, and you thought it was the first time you'd seen him completely still. The words hung heavy in the air.

"Christmas was one of the few days my Dad didn't hit me," JJ replied. Your breath stilled. "As a kid, it felt like a present…"

"But as an adult…" you trailed off, already guessing the answer.

"It feels like punishment."

You didn't push him for more, and he didn't force you. You both finished cleaning the space and locking the doors. You didn't push back when he offered to drive you home again.

The drive was silent but not uncomfortable. The radio played Christmas songs, and you both watched the open roads to your apartment. You hesitated to get out immediately when you pulled up. JJ's fingers tapped on the wheel.

"We can remake Christmas at the party together…if you want," JJ breathed, uncertainty in his voice. You softened.

"Okay."

He perked up but was still somber as he drove away. You were, too, but you weren't alone in that feeling. It made it more worthwhile. You felt like you had a storm cloud constantly around you, and for the first time, someone didn't try to paint on a silver lining. They just stood with you under the rain.

You didn't know what was appropriate for a holiday party, so you settled on a lovely black dress and boots that never got to see the light of day. You also baked cookies and Snickerdoodles because they were your favorite. The boots pinched your heels when you knocked on JJ's door. John B opened it with an "I'm with stupid" holiday sweater with the arrow pointing upwards. It jingled when he moved.

"Hey! You made it. Come inside," he smiled, ushering you in. The home looked like a holiday aisle with a lot of lights strung up. There were Santa's and snowmen figurines everywhere. The surfboards that were in their rack off to the side were also covered in lights. The smell of roast chicken permeated the space, but the biggest thing was a tree barely fitting the room. You felt relief that Pope and Kiara were dressed semi-nicely as well; it was only JJ and John B wearing awful sweaters. JJ's had "meet me under the mistletoe" with the arrow pointing downwards. There were even LEDs attached.

"I brought cookies," you said sheepishly. Pope immediately took the plate out of your grasp, looking ready to eat the cookies and the plate whole. You kept your comments to yourself. JJ bounded up to you.

"Welcome to Poguelandia! We're decorating the tree," JJ pointed at their misshapen masterpiece.

"I can see that. What's Poguelandia?"

"We're pogues, it's an Outer Banks thing," John B shrugged. "And this is our home, so it's Poguelandia."

"Got it," you smiled, not really getting it at all. You followed JJ to the tree, sitting down on the ground next to an assortment of ornaments. Many were handmade, and some looked like actual trash. You picked up one that was just a picture of JJ bent over. "Really?" You raised a brow.

"I'm really proud of that. Actually, I'd appreciate it if you kept your harsh comments to yourself," JJ grinned, taking it from your hands and putting it on the tree.

You worked back and forth like that, you commenting on some of the ornaments and JJ explaining them perfectly rationally. You also learned more about the other Pogues. You were discussing sea turtles with Kiara when a timer went off, and JJ rushed to the kitchen for dinner. You excused yourself and followed after him.

The kitchen was just off the living room. Counter space and a pot rack were the only things that divided you from the main area. Still, it felt private. When you walked in, he was taking what looked like an amazing roast chicken out of the oven. The smell of herbs and melted butter coated the area.

"Smells good," you commented. JJ set the chicken down, taking off his oven mitts and turning to you. You crossed your arms. "Thanks for having me."

"Thanks for coming," JJ grinned. You liked seeing him smile. He turned back to the oven to grab one of the other dishes. Apparently forgetting he had already taken off his oven mitts, he immediately winced from the heat. You rushed forward and caught the dish before it dropped, setting it on the counter. You hissed from the burns on your hands, and JJ looked at you in concern. "Shit, I'm sorry I–"

"It's fine, it's fine," you breathed, even as part of you wanted to scream from the pain. JJ went to one of the cupboards to grab a first aid kit, immediately pulling out some ointment and bandaids. You let him bandage you, feeling every callous on his hands as he stroked over your burns. "This makes up for Christmas, by the way," you murmured.

"Yeah? Even with the burns?" JJ chuckled, taking some gauze and wrapping your hands. You noticed he seemed to do it on autopilot.

"Even with the burns."

You could see every fleck of stardust in JJ's eyes from this proximity, every smile line and imperfection that represented him. He was still one of the prettiest things you'd ever seen. He noticed you looking, smirking as he finished your bandage.

"All better," he whispered, picking up your hand and kissing its palm where the burns were. You sucked in a breath, eyes wide as he stepped closer to you. You could feel his breath on you, the scent of cinnamon and fresh air overflowing your senses. You saw him part his lips, and you wondered what they would feel like on yours.

"Just kiss her already, fucking idiot," John B called out, having spied on you both. He muttered the last part. Kiara and Pope joined in with their chants, and before you could utter an excuse, JJ was pulling you in by the waist and kissing you. Your hands dropped onto his shoulders as he dipped you down. He tasted like summertime, which now might become your favorite season. You only broke apart for air and because the rest of the pogues were catcalling.

"I knew she was one of us," Kiara said to Pope. You both ignored her, though, staring and smiling at each other.

"Happy holidays, JJ," you murmured, brushing some of his hair away from his face. He just grinned.

"Happy holidays, princess."

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #obx #outerbanks #my writing #ficmas 2024 #ficmas

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roseghoul26 · 10 months ago

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Chapter 1: In A Faith-Forgotten Land

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny Author's Note: welcome to my first ever non-oneshot fic! hope you enjoy! Chapter List

The first time you met Arthur Morgan, you had quite literally crashed into the man.

It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal; you would’ve just said your apologies and went on your way, never to see each other again. And that’s what would’ve happened, if it wasn't for the fact that it was in your house, during the middle of the night, while he was trying to rob you.

You were no stranger to robberies, your house being a prime target for thieves; it was secluded, sitting in the rural area between Rhodes and Saint Denis; it was rich-looking, with three visible floors and a basement; and it had low security. The last issue you had tried many times to get resolved, but to no avail. Maybe this time you’d get your husband to spend the extra money for guards.

Normally, would-be thieves would be too loud as they entered, alerting either you or your husband of their presence, and he was able to scare them off before they could get their hands on anything.

This time, though, you hadn’t heard a single thing. The only reason you were downstairs in the kitchen was because you needed a glass of water. In the darkness, the only source of light being the candle in your hand and a few oil lamps outside, you hadn’t seen the form of the man, bumping straight into him as you rubbed sleep from your eyes.

The two of you stood deathly still, watching each other with bated breath. You hadn’t made a noise, even though the smart thing to do would be to start screaming your head off. Something about this felt… different, for some reason. You slowly brought up the light, making sure to not startle the intruder, just in case he had an eager trigger finger.

You weren’t able to gleam many details of the man, mainly because of the low light, but also because a bandana covered the lower half of his face. He had medium length hair, the color indiscernible, and he wore a simple blue button up and a pair of jeans. The most interesting thing you saw on him, though, was his hat. It was visibly well-loved, the leather ripped and worn from years of use, and you were able to make out a clear bullet-hole on the rim of it. A piece of rope wrapped around it, the material frayed and barely hanging on.

It was when you opened your mouth to speak that he moved, bringing a finger up to his covered lips in a hush gesture. “Don’t scream,” you heard him mutter. Whatever voice you were expecting the stranger to have, it certainly wasn’t that. It was low, gravely, with a pleasant drawl that had you shivering. Or maybe it was the cold. You were only in a nightgown, after all.

You shook your head fervently, creating wind that threatened to blow out the fragile flame of your candle, trying to express to the man without opening your mouth that you were in fact not about to cry for help. He seemed to relax at that, but it was difficult to tell what he was feeling, the only gauge being his eyes and hard to read body language.

“So,” you began, holding your free hand up reassuringly when he tensed up again, expecting you to go back on your word, like any sane person would do. “So,” you tried again, “what do you need?” You made sure to keep your voice as quiet as possible, not wanting to alert the other person in the house.

The stranger cocked his head, rightfully confused by your question. You confused yourself with your own question, but it was the only way you could think to proceed the conversation. “I ain’t quite sure what you mean, miss.”

“You're in here for a reason, so what is it? What do you need?” When you were met with silence, you were starting to get impatient. Hell, all you wanted was a glass of water and to go back to your warm bed, but now you had to deal with a stranger in your house. You half-debated just leaving him to his devices and dealing with the consequences in the morning. It’s not like you cared about the expensive items in your house; they didn’t even belong to you. “Money? Food? Shelter? Or are you here to extort Mr. Kerrigan?” You added with a chuckle, but only you seemed to find it amusing.

When he continued to stare at you like you’d grown a second head, you sighed. “Look, if you aren’t gonna say anything, then you should leave. He could wake up at any minute, and he isn’t going to be so nice about this.”

That seemed to do the trick, pulling him out of whatever deep thought he was in. You watched his eyes dance around, before he slowly started to back away. You saw that he was wearing spurs, which made his silent entry that much more bewildering. “You don’t gotta-”

Your name being called had you both freezing, and you saw him bring his finger up again. Turning your head to look up the staircase behind you, you were able to see the silhouette of your husband at the top, glancing down at you with hands on his hips. You heard him call out your name again, annoyance evident in his voice. Even without the attitude, it was much less pleasant sounding than the strangers, but now it was downright irritating. Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you responded with a soft hm?

“Everything alright down there?”

Glancing back over at the intruder, your mouth gaped uselessly as you tried to come up with an excuse that would keep him upstairs. The man stood ready to bolt, not quite sure what you were about to say. “Yeah,” you stuttered out before he got even more annoyed. Your husband, Hans Kerrigan, was someone who did not wait for an answer. “I, uh, stubbed my toe,” you offered lamely, not sounding confident even to your ears.

Turning your head back to the staircase, you half-expected to see him descending, but were pleasantly relieved when you saw him still standing at the top. “You sure?” He questioned, and you nodded, even though you knew that he wouldn’t be able to see it.

“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll be back up in a minute.”

After a moment of tense silence, you heard him sigh. “Alright. Just be quiet.” With that, his figure disappeared, and you let out a breath of relief. Turning your head back around, you were surprisingly disappointed to find empty air. For a moment, you stood there, fully convinced that you had just imagined the whole scenario.

The fading scent of gunpowder and tobacco told you that it was real.

Bewildered, you went to the front door, testing it with a few quick turns. It moved easily, no longer locked like it was hours prior, and you were sure to fix it. The next rational thing to do would be to plant something behind the door, because the intruder clearly would be able to lockpick it right back open, just as he had done the first time.

Instead, you turned back toward the kitchen, continuing out on the task you had originally set out to do. You were definitely not as thirsty as you were minutes ago, but you still poured a small glass just for the sake of it, and you set down the candle on the counter. Sipping slowly, you couldn’t get the man out of your head, for multiple reasons. The most obvious reason was that he had broken into your house, so of course you were going to be thinking about it. But you would be a liar if you said that there wasn’t something… alluring about him. His voice was already plaguing your mind, and there was an almost kindness about him that you weren’t expecting that had you replaying the events in your head.

There were so many things that he could’ve done to hurt you, but he didn’t. Not once did he reach for a weapon, remembering now the gun belt hanging loosely from his hips. Not once did he seriously threaten you, only telling you to not scream for help. Not once did he make any move to restrain or hurt you, keeping his space. You knew that it was crazy that something like that would be the epitome of kindness for you, but it wasn't like you were seeing it anywhere else. He was probably the nicest interaction you’d had in the last year, maybe even longer. God, did you enjoy the company of the man who broke into your house?

Having long since finished the small cup, you set in gently on the countertop, the glass ringing out with a soft noise. Not quite ready to go back to bed, you made your way to one of the windows that lined the front of the house, glancing out into the night-filled yard. Trees swayed in the wind as you gazed over the yard, and it looked undisturbed, the only sign of life being a small skunk that skittered across the grass. After closer examination, however, you were able to see a light trail of footprints in the dirt path leading to the front door, one set heading toward it and another moving away. You hoped that the wind would carry them away by the morning.

A couple minutes of watching out the window turned into several, your mind preoccupied with thoughts of the man. It was only when a cold draft from the window hit your body, causing you to shiver. Right, you were only in your nightgown. Running your hands up and down your body, you tore yourself away, quickly making your way back up the stairs after grabbing the candle.

Skipping the first room that greeted you when you reached the top, you opened the second room’s door slowly, extinguishing the candle's flame with a puff of air. Your bed greeted you, and you were able to see the shape of Hans under the covers, back facing your side of the bed. Stepping softly across the wooden floors, you slipped under the silk sheets without making any noise. The bed shifted under your weight, and you froze, waiting to see if you woke the man beside you. When he didn’t stir, you settled in fully, still warm from when you were laying in it earlier.

You really did try to fall asleep, trying to think of anything besides the stranger, but you found yourself going back to him in your mind. You really shouldn’t be thinking about him this much, but you found yourself not caring. This was the most interesting thing to happen in a while, so you were going to enjoy it while you could.

As you tossed and turned in your bed, you were eventually able to fall asleep, your dreams luckily free of the stranger. Yet one thought rang through your mind the entire time.

You needed to see him again.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Rhodes was a quaint town, red dust painting every surface available, and contained a few businesses that provided a livable amount of money for the town.

You hated it.

It was definitely a quaint town, old-fashioned in every sense of the world, stuck in pre-war ideas and mindsets. The dust was irritating, staining anything remotely light a deep russet red, which took hours to get out. And the businesses there would be fine if they weren’t blindly loyal to the Gray family, and showed nothing but contempt for outsiders.

You would’ve liked to stay home today, as it was far enough away from the godawful town that you didn’t have to deal with it, but here you were, stuffed into a tight carriage with your husband across from you. He needed to run into the town today, needing to talk with the bank there about something you weren’t quite sure about. He purposely kept you out of his business affairs, claiming that it was no talk for a lady.

You knew very little about your husband’s job, besides for the fact that he was very wealthy and very powerful. You also knew that he ran some kind of distillery of sorts, but that’s about it. Whenever you asked, he shrugged you off.

So you had kept your mouth shut when he woke you this morning, bringing you to accompany him during his short trip. Like normal, you had gotten ready on your own, Hans disappearing into his office. You had felt a strange calling to wear a blue dress today, and you kept your hair free of any pins and ribbons, not quite wanting to put the effort into your appearance today. You were tired, but you hadn't been able to remember why.

It was when you had headed downstairs, past the locked door of his office, that you remembered. A large, dusty footprint dirtied the kitchen floor, which you normally kept pristine. It had all come back to you then like a wave, the strange man in your house. His voice, his demeanor, the clothes he wore, everything. With a gasp, you had quickly swept away the mark with your stocking-covered foot, most likely dirtying the garment, but you didn’t care. You just had to get it out of sight before Hans came downstairs.

You had barely managed to make it disappear before you heard the creak of the stairs as he descended them, an indiscernible look on his face as he regarded you. After exchanging your usual morning pleasantries, and after you had made him a cup of coffee, the two of you had set out , boarding the carriage that he had hired for the house. Even after two years of marriage, you still hadn’t wrapped your head around the sheer amount of money Hans had.

Tucked into Ringneck Creek, your house was surrounded completely by thick forest and shallow water, with ample amounts of wildlife that were enjoyable to watch. The natural formation of the ground had been altered, though, when the house was built, having created a path that connected it to the main road, but it was still quite a ways from it. It made the ride to towns that much longer, though.

So now here you sat, fiddling with your bag as you watched the passing greenery.You had about a ten minute ride to Rhodes, and about twenty to the bigger city of Saint Denis, so you settled back into your seat, your husband staring out the window in a similar manner, as there was never much to talk about between the two of you.

It was crazy to you, that you’d been married for only two years, because it sure as hell felt longer than that. And it wasn’t like you had a choice when it came to marrying the man across from you. Your parents needed the money, at risk of losing their entire tobacco industry that they created, so they had married you off to Hans Kerrigan, the rich businessman who’d been a bachelor longer than you’d been alive. He needed a wife, and they needed money, so it was an easy decision, one that you had no say in. Archaic, yes, but necessary.

Hans Kierrigan was at least twenty years your senior, with silver hair to account for his age. He wasn’t completely unattractive, no, but he certainly wasn’t your type, one big reason being how much older he was to you. A thick beard covered his lower face, and you had yet to see him without it. He had dull, steel-colored eyes, and his brow was always furrowed, like he was constantly deep in thought.

He wasn’t a terrible husband, but wet paper had more personality than him. He only cared about one thing, that being money, and trying to talk to him was like talking to a wall. You think you’ve only heard him crack one joke during the entire time you’ve known him, and it was when he was absolutely hammered. He provided for you, keeping your necessities fulfilled, and sent monthly allotments of money to your family to keep them afloat. In return, you remained loyal to him over the past years, you looked after the house, took care of him when need be, and were expected to bear him a child, which proved to be a more difficult task than imagined. You were also expected to keep up public appearances, Mr. And Mrs. Kerrigan the talk of towns, the American Dream couple.

He wasn’t mean, having never raised a hand to you or screamed at you, so for that you were grateful. He never touched you, quite frankly, and when the two of you were intimate, he would limit contact as much as possible.You knew that other girls in similar situations couldn’t say the same, so you counted your blessings, no matter how small they were.

However, just like any man, he had his flaws. He wasn’t a person to wait for things, expecting to receive them on a golden platter, and he never took ‘no’ for an answer. He was also extremely controlling, some days worse than others, and you always needed his permission before doing something. You wanted to go into the city? He was accompanying you, limiting you to certain areas. You wanted to send a letter? He was reading them, making you re-write them if he didn’t like the content. You wanted to learn how to garden? That time he had laughed in your face, and you never asked again.

Needless to say, you weren’t happy. You felt trapped, lonely, and like your life was coming to a complete standstill. You had dreams and aspirations before this marriage. You wanted to inherit the family’s business, you wanted to go to school, you wanted to travel the world. Hell, you had wanted a true relationship with someone, never having one before Hans. And now those dreams were buried in the dirt, rotting. You almost envied them.

The only moments you found yourself feeling some semblance of joy was when Hans went away, which happened quite frequently, and for long periods of time. During those days and weeks by your lonesome, you felt like you were able to move more freely, and you did things that he normally wouldn’t allow. You snuck into the city under the cover of the night. You had a little garden hidden behind some trees, where he was never going to find it, because he never explored the woods surrounding the house. If you had people to write to, you would’ve sent them countless letters. But even all that couldn’t combat the loneliness that you felt. It’s teeth sunk into your heart, poisoning everything you did with a melancholic venom.

But if your family was thriving, then you would force a smile on your face every morning. The eldest of ten siblings, it was your responsibility to make sure your family would have a successful future. If halting your own life meant everyone else got to continue with theirs, then you’d stay. But you missed them, not having seen them since the day your father had approached you with the marriage certificate in his hands and Hans trailing behind him. You knew they had moved houses soon after you got married, so if your husband would even let you send a letter to them, you had no idea where to send it to.

But you knew that they were well, which was all you needed to know. Sighing lightly, you felt Hans cold eyes on you, forcing you out of your thoughts. “What’s wrong?” He asked, the question coming from a place of habit rather than care, and instinctively you felt a smile force its way onto your lips.

“Nothing’s the matter,” you lied, and it sounded more confident than your lie last night. “Sorry.”

Either satisfied with your answer, or he simply didn’t care that much, he nodded, before returning to glance out the window. Every conversation with Hans felt scripted like that, and it was exhausting. Refraining from sighing again, you joined in looking out the window, you were startled to find the familiar shapes of Rhodes outside, the journey being pretty much over.

It only took another half-a-minute before the carriage was coming to a halt outside the bank, which was on your right. On your left you saw a prison wagon drive past, with two men on horses accompanying it. It wasn’t unusual for there to be a prison wagon in town, a lot of bounty hunters picking up work from the Scarlett Meadows Sheriff’s Office. What nearly caused you to stumble in surprise as Hans helped you out of the carriage was a familiar hat adorning the driver of the wagon. Yet again, you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him, and Hans’ voice halted you from following the stranger with your eyes.

“I’ll be in there for a bit,” Hans explained, gesturing to the bank. “Go ahead and wait for me right out here.”

“Could I run to the store? I need some things for dinner tonight,” you felt the lie tumble from you before you could stop it.

Well, it wasn’t a complete lie, you did need to buy some supplies, but it definitely wasn’t what you were expecting to do today. He seemed to buy it, relenting after some thought. “Alright,” he started backing away toward the bank, “meet me over here when you’re done. Don’t take too long.” He paused for a moment. “You got enough money?” He asked, nodding to your bag which you held in one of your hands. It was kind of a ridiculous question, but you nodded anyway. Without another word, he walked into the bank, finally leaving you to your lonesome.

As quickly as you could without drawing attention to yourself, you crossed over to the store before avoiding it completely. The men had all dismounted their rides, their horses hitched up on to the post outside of the office. A group of four men stood at the base of the stairs, deep in conversation. The only person you were able to recognize was Sheriff Leigh Gray, who was partially facing you as he talked with the three unrecognizable men.

At least, two of them were unrecognizable.

That familiar hat became even more clear as you approached. It looked even more worn in the sunlight, the brown leather turning a sandy tan in certain spots. The owner of said hat had his back to you, but you were still able to hear his voice clearly. It was just as you remembered, gravely and low and you could listen to it for ages. You couldn’t help the smile that graced your lips as you approached, and you forgot how nice it was to have a genuine one. Your wish of seeing him again was happening faster than you thought it would.

You realized you had no idea what you were going to say to the men, causing you to second guess what you were doing. It’s not like you could go up and say Hey, weren’t you in my house last night? Luckily Leigh saved you from having to come up with anything, his concerned expression turning to a welcoming one as he finally saw you.

He clapped one of the men he was talking with on the shoulder, who had longer black hair that fell to his shoulders, slicked back with pomade. “You remember me tellin’ you ‘bout the Kerrigans?” The men gave partially-interested noises in response. “Well,” he gestured to you with his free hand, and the black haired man followed where he was pointing, turning around to face you completely. He was richly dressed, wearing something you’d see your husband wear, not a bounty hunter. Weird.

The other man also turned. He also had brown hair, with a thick beard similar to Hans’. He was chewing on a piece of straw, and you watched him play with the repeater in his hands, antsy. The only one who didn’t turn to you was the man with the hat, but you heard him hum inquisitively to Leigh as you halted a few feet behind the group.

“Let me introduce y’all to Mrs. Kerrigan.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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autisticlenaluthor · 8 months ago

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Hi, my name is Rory, I’m going to the Eras Tour in Amsterdam on July 5th and if you guys could somehow help me get this to @taylorswift / @taylornation - it would mean so much to me

Three years ago, I went from being perfectly healthy, to watching my body and my health rapidly deteriorate. My entire world got turned upside down— I lost the ability to eat, drink, and even stand for more than a few minutes.

I don't remember much from when I first got sick. But I know I listened to Mr Perfectly Fine on a loop almost every day because it was the only song that could capture how I felt. I've known and loved Taylor's music since I was six-years-old and first heard the album Fearless. i remember the first song I ever heard (love story) like it was yesterday; but somewhere during that time, her music became like therapy for me.

Since 2021, I've been diagnosed with three incurable diseases. two of these are rare, and one is predicted to only get worse with time. I've spent countless days inpatient on the peds floor receiving treatment, tests, and surgeries. And through all of it-- I've leaned heavily on Taylor's music.

My mom bought our Era's tour tickets last summer during the Europe pre-sale. I was in the hospital at the time and immediately told all of my nurses, doctors, dietitians and basically anyone who came into my room, that a year from then, i'd be seeing taylor swift. Whenever I could get out of bed, I was in the playroom with my child life specialists, making friendship bracelets to give out to other Swifties at the show. The thought of going to the Eras Tour singlehandedly kept me going through the hardest time of my life. And it's kept me going ever since.

Months later, I was hospitalized again, right before the release of 1989 TV. I'd been admitted the day after seeing The Eras Tour Movie in theaters (I was in theater 13, row 13!!) and I remember being so relieved that I hadn't had to miss it.

I had become known by most of the nurses as "the Taylor Swift girl” and the night before another procedure, I stayed up until midnight with everyone else so I could listen to 1989 TV. Hearing those songs-- I felt the happiest I'd been in so long. I felt normal again. I was sick and I was alone but I was connected to every other person who'd stayed up with me and that feeling was indescribable.

Taylor gave that to me, and so much more.

Over the course of my journey, I've listened to Sparks Fly to keep me calm while my doctors inserted feeding tubes down my nose. Whenever I have to be put under anesthesia, I have a nurse put her music on shuffle so I can listen to it as I fall asleep. When I had my big surgery in December, the last thing I remember was Bad Blood playing in the OR and saying "this is a funny song to have surgery to".

All of this is to say, Taylor has given me strength and hope during the worst part of my life, and she continues to do so. Her music is truly everything to me and getting to go the the Era's Tour is already a dream come true on it's own. And if it's possible - being able to receive the 22 hat and give Taylor a friendship bracelet would make all of that pain feel worth it. It would mean everything to me.

if you could reblog this and tag @taylorswift and @taylornation I'd appreciate that so much!! thank you to everyone whose read this far, and everyone whose shared this <3

EDIT: I’m going to be in section 119, row 20, seat 11

also if anyone is interested, I included some pics of the mentioned moments below the cut!

seeing the eras tour movie the day before having to be admitted, and then making friendship bracelets for tour in the hospital

the mirrorball is hung in my room for good luck

the bracelets i’d started making in the hospital, right after getting the tickets

and the day of the 1989 TV release - id stayed up until midnight to listen to the album, and then had my anesthesiologist play ‘Style’ for me to play while they put me out for my procedure

#taylor swift #taylornation #the eras tour #swiftie #chronic illness #the tortured poets department #ttpd #1989 taylor's version #speak now taylor’s version #fearless taylor’s version #red taylor’s version #taylor swift eras #boost #rare disease

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kedsandtubesocks · 1 year ago

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dance away your cowboy blues

Country Singer!Joel Miller x F!Reader

summary: who knew the man with the voice of an angel could break your heart this bad?

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, modern/no outbreak AU & Joel has both his daughters, exes to lovers with eventual husband!Joel, angst followed up by good sweet fluff, concert venue, light drinking mention, Joel being stubborn & bad at feelings, hints of spice, fools in love, reader is addressed as ‘honey, darlin,’ use of song lyrics in fic, Pearl Jam & Taylor Swift song mentions, soft & heartbroken!Joel, lovesick!Joel

word count: 6k

a/n: here we are - the last installment in our ‘Let’s Rodeo’ series & I’m so incredibly grateful to finally make it here, also this is my mini tribute to our boy and his SAG award! The main song Joel sings is this one and I highly recommend! Thank you to my forever babe @the-wild-wolves-around-you for letting me scream about plot holes & aiding my Joel brainrot, @tightjeansjavi for always being down to chat about Joel, and to @lowlights & @ahauntedcowboy for being my ever guiding forces for this series, thank you all… And finally to you reading this, thank you so much ♡

A year ago, Joel broke up with you on a warm early spring morning.

He arrived at your apartment, sat you down and shattered your world. You felt every range of emotion as he simply stood there like a man of steel.

So upset and angry, you wanted to rip your heart out and throw it at him.

Then later that week you found out his record was officially getting picked up and you crumbled.

Ending your relationship simply because he was about to step into true proper fame - you never took Joel to be a man so somberly callous. However, you began wondering if that’s what fame sometimes did to people.

When curiosity gnawed too hard, you’d Google him or even check Spotify. Simply catching glimpses of how big he’s gotten sent you spiraling. Last Thanksgiving, your favorite aunt threatened to lock your phone away when she found you upset in the bathroom after discovering Joel was performing at the Dallas Cowboys holiday game.

From that point on you refused to even check any amount of social media or update on him.

A few clunky first dates and a couple of ghosting experiences later, you’ve now decided to simply work on yourself and embrace the selfcare of being single.

It’s why when your best friend called you earlier today eagerly explaining how her parents had extra tickets to the Rodeo tonight, she playfully teased how she knew you didn’t have anything planned for this Saturday night.

You almost hung up on her, but you excitedly scrambled to get ready.

Now the smell of fried foods, popcorn, and beer cloud the air. The fairgrounds hold a chaotic but controlled lively energy. You never knew so many cowboy hats could exist in one space.

Once you meet up with your best friends' parents, you’re transported to a whole new area you never believed could exist during a rodeo. Lux and cozy, the VIP lounge gleams with its elevated experience. You knew your best friend’s mom worked for the construction company managing the arena. You just didn’t realize how big of a hookup it was. The VIP tickets allowed for full premium dining along with a couple of free drinks.

More importantly - it came with the best concert seats.

“In the dirt” is how they’re described because the tickets are literally stationed on the floor, in the dirt of the rodeo stadium, right by the stage.

Ecstatic and bubby energy now fills you. The food being served is divine and you gladly enjoy the free various drinks.

“So wait, did we figure out who’s performing?” You ask curiously while you lounge taking advantage of the nice seating area.

“Uh, I think my dad said it’s that band named Midland is performing today.” Your friend answers but then is quickly pulled away to meet more of her mom’s coworkers.

You’ve never heard of the band, but for a free concert you’re open to enjoy some live music.

It’s a trait you gained from Joel.

Because of him you grew to love music performances, the energy that comes with hearing the band, being among the hum of the crowd. The trips around Austin seeing not just him perform, but enjoying other concerts with him, let you appreciate and admire live shows.

Waiting for the concert allows you to enjoy some of the actual rodeo event. But the main performance of the evening soon arrives.

“You kids go enjoy! We’re getting a little too old and are just gonna stay back and enjoy the free food.” Your best friend’s mom grins with a wink.

The ticket advertisement wasn’t joking when it said close to the stage. The ground level truly sits on the dirt floor. The arena swallows you whole surrounding you like a strange fishbowl. A small crowd already lines the front railing closest to the stage. However sneakily you find a nice open spot by the side that gives a clear sight to the stage.

Even if you don’t know the band, giddiness bubbles in you electric.

You take in the massive general admission floor section already packed full. The band must be popular. So you take plenty of pictures and happily enjoy the time with your dear friend.

The lights dim and excitement crackles in the air. The stage lights up. The large backdrop screens on the stage flutter to life beginning to showcase different picturesque black and white shots of Texas.

Midland, you remember, is a city in Texas so the images make sense. A low strum of a guitar begins playing. The melody dances soft but in a quick beat, a hypnotic tune trying to rev up the crowd.

The tune brews up its intended magic that you even get swept up in the anticipation. The sound gets faster and the strumming is rather simple but so striking.

Then the music stops. Suddenly the lights of the entire stadium shut off. Wild galvanized screams erupt.

The lights brilliantly dance forth back to light. They all focus now on the performer who, like magic, now appears on the stage with the rest of the band.

And the lead singer is Joel.

Your knees almost give out.

Dressed in the most dangerous plaid green button up, it so simple yet beautifully compliments him. More grays pepper his beard and highlight his tousled curls. The brilliant stage lights bask him in a heavenly glow.

Your soul momentarily leaves your body the minute his voice sings his first note.

Instantly your best friend whips towards you panicked. She rapidly screams asking if you’re okay as she apologizes over and over.

“My dad must have gotten the dates wrong! God I should’ve fucking doubled checked or some shit!” She cries deeply apologetic and hurt.

You earnestly tell her it’s not her fault and it’s alright. It was just an unfortunate mixup.

“Do you wanna leave?” Your friend leans closer to you. Her eyes shine understanding and considerate. “We didn’t pay for these tickets and I promise you my parents will completely understand. We can say fuck it and bounce.”

You haven’t even completely processed it’s Joel. It’s like your brain went cloudy and now blinking out of the fog, your eyes return to the stage.

Joel isn’t an extroverted man. He’s reserved, quietly charming, even holds a gruff but poised grace. But right now, he’s an absolute sun on the stage. He’s radiant, naturally swaying to the music while singing his soul soul.

Maybe it’s the piece of you still horribly in love with him, or just the curiosity to see how this goes, whatever it is - you shake your head no.

“We can stay.”

Your best friend’s eyes go wide as saucers hearing your answer.

“Are you sure?” She presses and you nod your head.

“Yeah, let’s stay. Afterwards we can laugh about how old he’s gotten.” You laugh bitterly about him looking more aged even after a year.

When truthfully the stronger wrinkles around his face, the vibrant grays, all of his aging only intensifies his striking looks.

A canyon wide sized hole rips through your heart.

The song flutters to an end and the crowd claps with a thunderous roar. With a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder your dear friend nods then turns back to the concert.

You pray this isn’t the worst decision you’ve ever made.

Then Joel speaks.

“Howdy everyone,” his voice is still so devilishly thick and smooth as a shot of moonshine. His accent does his home state proud. The crowd absolutely adores him, screaming loud just hearing him speak.

“Thank y'all for comin’ out tonight. I’m Joel Miller and m’here to sing y’all a few songs.” So simple, casually eased, and it’s so Joel.

His gruff southern charm made you fall in love with him so fast and now it’s a unique brand of magic charming everyone under his spell.

Joel strums a few notes, rapidly shifting the tune and transitions into the next song.

You now fully soak in Joel.

He seems otherworldly, a god of music reincarnated as a Texan cowboy. You think back to the days sitting in his living room and listening to him play. You were honored to see that side of him, to hear him strum to life so much magic.

During the holiday’s Joel’s daughters, Ellie and Sarah, would often pester him to sing silly songs. He’d grumpily obliged but you knew he basked in their attention and love.

He loved to sing. You always knew he was destined for the stage like it was woven into his veins.

You still remember the day one of Joel’s acoustic performances blew up online gaining so much attention. The excitement and absolute joy you felt then still lingers in the corners of your heart. Although, those feelings have been gathering cobwebs.

There’s of course a bitterness seeing him, but also, an unbearably small twinkling pride knowing he’s here living his dream. The song finishes and again the stadium rumbles in applause.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” Joel asks and your heart jumps hearing his voice again.

The crowd cheers back at him.

“Good good, let’s keep it goin’.” He yells back and then strums the guitar sharp.

That’s when the stage slowly starts moving.

It’s slow but with the surprise purpose to look out to the entire crowd. For some reason you almost laugh thinking of that man, who couldn’t even remember how to FaceTime on his ipad, on a full rotating platform.

However, the lyrics start and you realize he’s singing a heartbreak ballad.

If you’re going out with someone new, I’m going out with someone too…I won’t feel sorry for me, I’m getting drunk but I’d much rather be somewhere with you…

It’s hard hearing him now with how exhilarated the crowd screams at the stage moving. But you try to hear how the rest of the song unfolds.

At the chorus, your throat tightens.

I can go out every night of the week, can go home with anybody I meet, but it’s just a temporary high… ‘cause when I close my eyes, I’m somewhere with you

The words sting every inch of you, but you believe it has to be just a simple heartbreak story and isn’t about you, isn’t directed at you. Yet the words feel like sharpened edges of a broken mirror that seem to reflect every moment of your time with him.

Then the stage rotates to your side of the floor.

There’s no way he can see you or will even spot you. There’s a whole crowd stretching before him. You’re just a fish in a sea of fans.

Joel continues strumming, allowing his voice to so beautifully carry the emotion.

The stage, in its slow movement, is now front and center to your line of sight. Some girls at the very direct front of the railing scream and wave frantically at him.

A small smile tugs at Joel’s lips as he waves back. Joel’s eyes scan the rest of the crowd -

And that’s when he spots you.

Quickly, you rationalize he could be staring out behind you at someone else alongside the side railing.

But Joel’s eyes even narrow trying to focus more. Your gaze stays on him, like something inside of you refuses to waiver.

His eyes flicker with realization then turn into full moons.

He knows it’s you.

Joel continues singing the chorus but emotions cloud his face. His brows are furrowed hard, almost confused like he’s trying to really comprehend what’s going on.

You understand. You’d be so confused too if you were in his position. You’re still even baffled as to why you stayed in the first place.

The stage starts shifting back to the main center direction

But Joel cranes his face to the side, refusing to have his eyes leave.

His focus stays on you.

It’s obvious enough that your best friend now shakes your body.

“Is he staring at you?!” She tries to whisper but she ends up partly screaming.

You think maybe it’s a hallucination.

Yet Joel’s deep inky eyes stubbornly stay locked on you as he sings now.

If you see out on the town and it looks like I’m burning it down, you won’t ask and I won’t say… but in my heart I’m always somewhere with you…

Your world twists warped, melting into a sea of so many emotions you can’t stay afloat.

Joel finishes his song and the crowd enthusiastically cheers. Yet, it sounds muffled as a numbness crawls over you like a thick soupy fog.

You should leave. You need to. But you’re here now. And decide to see the end of this. If he’s singing about someone lingering within him, then you might as well make true to those lyrics.

Joel lowers his face for a moment and shakes his head. The mic faintly picks up his cough of a disbelieving laugh and your heart sinks.

“Alright folks, let’s jam.” He announces composed and brings his guitar to life.

He’s beautiful walking around with it. Strums effortlessly until he shifts from one guitar, his classic, to a more sleek all black styled one.

Joel lets the music and band take over while he makes the switch. He also leans in to whisper something to the stage hand.

Then as if nothing, Joel steps back into the limelight and illuminates the stage.

He walks around freely now that the stage stopped rotating. The current song is lively with a great beat and you hate how badly you want to bounce around to its infectious sound and the way Joel’s voice elevates the tune.

Caught up in the melody, you don’t notice until it’s too late. Joel walks over to the side of the stage directly facing you.

The guitar carries a large piece of this song’s bridge allowing his eyes to flicker across the crowd.

Until they return to your gaze. Stuck in his stare, Joel suddenly cocks his chin towards you.

Most of the crowd around you screams at his simple action. Even your best friend yells out a loud ‘holy shit’ but you stay quiet.

Not knowing how to react, all you do is stupidly shrug.

It’s awful, not even the best reaction you can give.

But Joel barks a laugh, a true laugh that thankfully happens at the tail end of the song, but your knees go weak.

You made him laugh.

On stage.

Heartache finds its way back into your system fiercer than ever and it poisonously tastes of adoration as well.

Joel transitions into another song. This time moving around the stage more towards the other side.

Yet, either his eyes flicker back to you, or he ends up walking to your section.

A part of you wonders if he’s doing this now to mock you, almost showing off how good he is knowing you’re here. You don’t believe Joel would be that heartless, but you hate how that option still lingers.

“He’s been walking over here a lot.” Someone even behind you even notices.

“Well he is old.” Someone yells back. “Maybe he’s just trying to keep his joints in shape.”

You almost want to snap back that he’s looking damn good for his age and in good enough shape that he kept you bent like a pretzel for practically a whole weekend, but you swallow back the protective bite.

You simply go back to enjoying the show, and it’s fantastic. You can’t deny that. Joel is a performer, keeps the crowd focused and engaged. He isn’t showy or dramatic but takes control of his presence on stage.

You think of the days seeing him at small bars around town, sitting on a stool playing till his heart's content.

Then he booked Stubb’s in Austin and when you watched him own that stage - you knew this was meant for him.

You’re reminded of that so vividly tonight.

“Alright, gettin’ to the end here.” He announces and the crowd sounds heartbroken.

“I know, i know,” he coos back soft and low. “But just wanted to say y’all have been lovely.”

So many shrill shrieks crack in the room and you almost roll your eyes.

Your best friend snickers beside you. “Gotta give it to him, man can work a room.”

She’s right of course. Though it’s still so surprising for a man grumpily reserved and introverted at times.

“This next one I hope maybe some of y’all will know.”

He strums the cords to Pearl Jam’s ‘Alive.’

What gained Joel traction online was his renditions and covers of various songs. He added his own country twang and twist to all the songs he covered.

Pearl Jam happened to be one of Ellie’s favorite bands. A hollow nostalgia rip through you, thinking of the two girls you miss.

The crowd ignites recognizing the familiar rock ballad now turned into the tune of a country song by Joel’s touch. He owns the solo and his husky voice melts into the lyrics beautifully.

Under your breath you sing along. You used to sing along when you cooked breakfast at his place or during drives with him and the girls.

It’s a beautiful fondness, yet one still barbed and so aching.

The song ends with the intense but small burst of fireworks that has the stadium cheering. You even clap.

“Appreciate y’all.” He addresses the crowd. “That’s a one of my daughter’s favorites so always means a lot when I get to play it.”

A smile you can’t fight tugs at your lips at the mention of Ellie.

“Now my daughters, they’re like night ‘n day.” Joel continues and your heart fills up so overwhelming fast for those girls.

“One of them, like I said, loves some Pearl Jam. Now my other daughter…” Joel pauses.

“She’s a big fan of someone by the name of Taylor Swift.”

The crowd absolutely explodes and you think you even feel the arena shake. Sarah honestly was a big fan and Ellie loved to tease her about it so much.

“Normally for this next and final song, I’d play ‘‘shake it off.’” Joel had a few songs of hers that he covered. That one was a fan favorite.

“But tonight, I'm itchin’ to play somethin’ else.” He continues.

You even perk up curious.

“So let’s end this on a high note, yeah? Sing along if you know this one.” Joel concludes.

Then the drums begin and the song bursts to life.

The stadium swims in a dizzying frantic energy.

The way Joel sings, he’s pouring his heart out. He’s memorizing. Utterly heart wrenching.

This is the finale, the end of this strange unreal dream you’ve wandered into. You wonder if he feels it too.

The song’s chilling bridge comes and Joel walks to stare directly at you.

I thought I had you figured out, can’t breathe whenever you’re gone. Can't turn back now, I'm haunted…

His eyes never leave yours.

The lyrics sear through your heart. You think about screaming the song to back him. He’s the one who left, the one who’s ghost lives among your ribs.

Then Joel hits the final high note, lets his voice carry the powerful finale, and the crowd roars in earth shaking excitement.

It’s magical, magnetic and utterly devastating in both the best and worst ways. Another few sets of indoor fireworks go off and the show ends.

Joel wishes the crowd a beautiful night and you’re left in a tangled web of emotions.

Your best friend immediately turns to see if you’re okay. While the crowd starts leaving, you and her take a moment. Out of the edge of your focus, you notice a crew member of the arena approaching the side of the rail. You don’t think anything of it.

“Excuse me,” until that crew member stands in front of you on the other side of the barrier.

Blinking absolutely confused you turn towards the man.

“I’ve been asked to escort you backstage.” He explains and your best friend gasps.

You wonder if the ground opened below and dropped you into a free fall.

Quickly you stammer out that you couldn’t. There's no way. Maybe the man must’ve mistaken you for someone else.

“Mr. Miller said you’d say something like that.” The crew member says reaching into his pocket to hand you something.

It’s a keychain.

Not just any keychain, but the one you gave Joel.

It’s a cartoon armadillo, dressed up as a cowboy, holding a guitar. When you first saw it you immediately thought of Joel. His daughters got a kick over it, giggled at how cute it was, and your heart had bursted when you saw it constantly among his keys.

Now the worn little cowboy creature sits waiting for you. It’s sweet marble like eyes stare up at you like a day hasn’t gone by since you gave Joel this.

Your best friend gasps, maybe not fully recognizing the keychain but understanding the significance.

You ask the crew member if your friend can maybe accompany you backstage, but he shakes his head a sad no.

“Then I…I can’t.” You shakily breathe out.

“Yes you can!” She interjects. “You gotta at least hear him out!”

You turn to her and find determination fiercely burning in her eyes as she nods.

“But what about you? I don’t want you or your parents waiting around for me.” You urge.

“Don’t worry about me or especially about them!” She reassures, even offering to wait for as long as you need.

You’re grateful, unbearably so and embrace her tight.

“You call me if he gets stupid. I don’t care backstage or not, I’ll go get you.”

You laugh watery at her well meaning threat and thank her. With a quick sweet goodbye, you follow the crew member along the rails until exiting.

The walk out to the backstage area fills you with a hurricane of emotions. What else could Joel say to you? A part of you wonders if he’s going to be cruel about this, having you simply show up to his dressing room just to laugh so arrogant and smug about how wonderfully famous he is now.

No, Joel isn’t that type of man.

Or you hope fame hasn't warped him into that type of man. Arriving at the green room door, your heart races loud in your ears.

The crew member knocks and before you can compose yourself, Joel opens the door.

He’s bathed in the golden amber light of the backstage room. It highlights all those grays again but also illuminates more of the time passed on his face. More winkles line against his eyes and when he fully stares at you, you wonder how different you might look in his eyes.

A jackrabbit like urge rushes over you to maybe flee, call your best friend to come get you.

“Thanks for comin’,” he mutters out. “Was worried ya wouldn’t show.”

You want to bitterly joke that you didn’t want to, but the armadillo keychain you hang onto holds the truth.

The door closes leaving you and Joel alone. Awkward stale air chokes the space.

You simply keep your attention on examining the room. His classic weathered jacket rests thrown over the couch. The rider is stacked with so many classic Joel snacks like his favorite jerky, popcorn, and even a few familiar favorite treats his daughters love.

Then your eyes catch the mug on the counter and you grin softly.

It must be filled with Joel’s classic drink - chamomile and ginger tea with honey for his throat.

“It’s…yeah. That’s it.”

You didn’t even realize you said anything out loud until Joel replies casuing your heart to jump. Finally your eyes find his.

It's a curse that your greatest heartbreak is this handsome. Exhaustion weighs in you and feels ancient, like if you carry the sum of so many lifetimes before.

“So…You wanted to talk to me?” You speak first, trying to keep yourself strong.

“I…uh yeah.” Answering so cryptically, his shoulders deflate. “How ya been?”

“Good.” You answer simple, curt almost.

There’s too many things that could’ve slipped out if you said anything more. Like how you selfishly kept one of his shirts and hate that the smell of him on it has faded like a wistful memory. Or how you can barely listen to Dolly Parton or Johnny Cash anymore because you’re reminded of Joel singing along to their songs.

So you turn the conversation back to him.

You ask how the girls are and Joel perks up, eyes shimmering with fatherly pride.

“Good, yeah they’re good. Uh, Ellie’s playing softball for the school again ‘n Sarah’s busy with student council. They’re still just bossin’ me all around.”

“As usual.”

You both say the same line at the same time and it chokes you up.

Joel inhales and his lips press tight, a hard line. The air tightens. No one says anything and now annoyance, frustration and maybe even a bit of panic claw at you.

“Joel, why am I here?” You ask him again.

Sighing, so weary and tired, he looks down.

Feels like ages pass between you and him. The faint noise of the stadium leaks into the room muffled.

You think of your best friend waiting and of your own heart waiting to end this.

“Look, it was good to see you,” you half lie. “You did great, hope you and the girls take care”

You turn to walk out.

That’s when he blurts out your name and you stop.

“I miss you.” He exhales.

“Miss ya so g’damn much. Every fuckin’ day.” He mutters.

When you turn back around, he stares at you unwavering. You don’t know what to say.

“Seein’ ya out in the crowd…thought m’heart was gonna give out.” He barks a weak laugh.

“Almost stoppin’ the fuckin’ show just to make sure it was you… y’look beautiful as ever.” His eyes haze over slightly, almost nostalgic.

Suddenly a heated spark rips into your chest, jagged edged and angered.

“You broke up with me.” You snap, voice already raw.

“I know,” Joel nods. “Worst damn decision of m’life.”

Your lips tremble. Everything hurts like a live wire is burning up your veins.

“Then why? Why did you do it?” You croak. You want to scream, maybe even storm out and not even give him the chance to speak.

“What? Did Mr. Big Country Star hate having a partner that wasn’t famous too?” Venom leaks bitter and poisonous in your mouth, choking your throat.

“Y’know god damn well that ain’t it.” He snarls back hard.

“No actually I fucking don’t know Joel.” You reply with a fierce bite. “You so conveniently left out any real damn reason why you were breaking up with me.”

“I said our paths were going in separate directions.” He glares hard at you now.

“And that’s about it!” Your voice raises and you hate it.

The tears come quicker than you hoped for and you hate that more.

“No real explanation,” you exhale, wanting to stay as calm as you can. “You couldn’t even give me that…what else am I supposed to think?”

Even dabbing away your tears, your composure is slowly slipping.

“I couldn’t do this to you,” he breathes out and it’s broken. His eyes are shimmering obsidian pools.

“This life, all the fuckin’ mess that comes with dating someone in the limelight, I couldn’t just throw that on ya.” He explains and the truth rings out a quiet hum.

“And you didn’t think to talk to me about this?” You whisper out now hurt. “Joel, I thought we were a team.”

“We are- were.” He slips and corrects himself fast. “I just knew if we fuckin’ talked about it you wouldn’t have understood.”

“Understood what?” You’re frustrated and it leaks into your voice.

“That I didn’t want ya fuckin’ hatin’ me!” He finally screams the weighted truth.

Stunned quiet but still slightly confused, you ask Joel what he means.

Pain travels across Joel’s handsome face as his jaw clenches hard.

“This shit…it takes away a lot.” He croaks out. “Hell I’ve even missed things with the girls. Didn’t want ya sacrificin’ your life or wakin’ up one day and realizin’ how much you’ve lost ‘cause of me…couldn’t let myself do that to you.”

Your chest aches like a rocket got shot into you. You’re angry he took that chance for you to decide, but you understand.

Joel never wants to be the cause of pain to others, especially those he loves.

He agonizes so much over his decisions and how corrupting he believes he is. When in reality every action he takes you know simply stems from his endless deep devotion to keep those he loves safe.

His decision to end your relationship was him, in his own frustrating Joel way, trying to keep you safe. Even if it was from himself.

Your lips tremble and you cuss bitterly hard under your breath.

“You damn stupid man.” You hiccup. “I didn’t…I don’t care what life fame would’ve given me with you. I would never resent you. For better or worse I just wanted a life with you, that’s all I ever wanted.”

Through a few sobs, you wipe the tears fogging up your sight.

Before you can see it happening, strong sturdy arms suddenly wrap around you and shock you breathless. Curled in Joel’s arms, it’s like a sad coming home party and you cry even more.

“M’so sorry, my darlin’.” Joel whispers against your forehead.

“I hate you.” You don’t. Even on your hardest days, you never could.

“I know, hate my fuckin’ ass too.” Joel replies.

His arms squeeze you tighter.

“Never stopped lovin’ you. Never will.” His voice wavers and now your arms wrap around him.

“You left.” You whisper back so small while tears continue to prickle in your eyes.

“I know honeydew, ‘n I’ll never forgive myself for it.” He replies fiercely like a strike of lightning with its bright force. “Been a fuckin’ mess without ya. Tommy would be the first to agree and the girls too.”

You absorb his words, basking in the safe haven that is Joel. Hours, maybe days pass just in his arms.

“Please forgive me, baby.” He whispers hoarse against your head.

You nod a soft yes.

Because even the part of you that wants to yell and stubbornly say no knows the ultimate answer is, and always will be, him.

“Of course…I love you.” You mutter half dazed against his strong chest. “Love of my life.”

Pressed so close to him, you feel how hard he swallows and his arms squeeze you impossibly tighter against you.

He says your name and you hum out a soft noise.

“Marry me.”

Your eyes, which have sort of glazed over, snap open wide.

“What?” You mutter out, maybe think you misheard him.

“Marry me.” Joel repeats himself.

You practically squawk like a confused bird and scramble in his arms.

“Joel Miller, you can’t be serious?!” You shriek through the tears still lingering in your voice.

Your face snaps up to him. His face is composed, almost serene in a way as he look at you with molten eyes.

“Serious as that g’damn ring I bought ya.”

His words are a mumble but so soft and unwavering. Your soul leaves your body like you were thrown into a cold lake.

“You what?” You stammer out.

“Y’heard me.” He nudges his chin to you. “A ring. Bought it after you dropped everything to go take care of the girls when they got sick.”

Too many emotions overwhelm you and the tears return with a vengeance.

Joel, like a steady man in the storm, places his warm hand on your face to gather you back into his embrace. He places the softest kiss to the side of your head.

“We gotta have a chat about discussing your feelings with me more, Miller.” You manage to chide him through your tears.

“I know.” He mutters against your skin while he continues softly kissing you with utter tenderness. “‘N I’m not lettin’ ya go again.”

You squeeze him hard, trying to burn his memory into your arms worried you’re going to wake up and find this is just a heartbroken hallucination.

“Baby,” he begins.

“Hm?”

“Stay with me for the night.” He urges. “The bus got plenty of room-”

“Ooo, is this what you say to all your groupies, Mr. Miller?” You tease with a snort.

“Behave.” His hand playfully squeezes your hip but his underlying somber tone even with his chuckle ignites a familiar heat brewing in you of the times he’s reprimanded you like that before.

“No groupies.” Joel reassures you. “Only you sweetheart, only ever gonna be you.”

His words flutter into your heart and make a nest there.

Gently you draw back to stare at Joel. Your hand moves to his face, aching to just touch him. Even in his arms you’re waiting for him to vanish from your touch as if he’s a figment of your wrecked heart, a ghost of lovers past haunting you now.

But his stubble tickles against your palm. Running warm as usual, his face feels like a soft morning sun. Your thumb strokes his cheek and his eyes close, melting into your hold.

Gently you place a soft kiss against the corner of his lips.

Joel now tilts his head so he can deepen the kiss before you can even draw away.

It’s not a consuming passion that you expected. No frantic fierce clash of lips or an overflow from a year passed between you two.

Instead it’s a soft welcome home. It’s a kiss you’ve given him when he’s come home late or when you leave for work.

Because his blood, his soul, you believe are simply stitched into the very fabric of you. It’s like a piece of you is returning back to you, or maybe back to your other home with him.

“So you gonna stay with me?” He mumbles against your lips.

“I don’t know Miller, you haven’t even offered to sign anything for me. What kind of famous country singer are you?” You smirk against his lips.

He laughs, hearty, a true wild deep one sweeping you into its joy.

“Hell yeah I’ll fuckin’ sign something for ya, our marriage certificate.” He snaps in classic grumpy Joel fashion and you almost think about dragging him to a courthouse.

You text your friend a million apologies and even take pictures of all the signed merch you’re bringing back to her.

Now in the cocoon of Joel’s cozy bed on his tour bus, among the warmth sheets, you hold the ring up in the dim light inspecting it. Because of course your secretly romantic man kept the ring with him.

“You sure you weren’t keeping this around for someone else?” You ask.

“Fuck no.” He growls low. “S’yours…only yours.”

From behind his arms slide around you and you’re encompassed by his swallowing presence. His beard scrapes against your shoulder.

“If ya don’t like it, can get ya another one.” He mutters casually but hesitant softness peeks out from under his gruff tone.

“It’s perfect.” You reassure him.

It’s the ring Joel got you then and it’s the ring you want now and always will. You even tell him that.

The kisses places on your bare shoulder whispers of his devotion.

“Honey.” However, his voice now is hesitant and makes you pause on your ring inspecting.

“I gotta ask…but do ya have my armadillo keychain?” Joel asks with an utter somberness.

You burst out laughing and it shakes your body.

“Honeydew, I’m being serious!” He growls out. “Want that lil’ fella back!”

Wheezing with giggles you lean back against Joel, floating so blissfully floating in renewed adoration.

Twisting in his arms your lips find his.

“Tryin’ to distract me ‘cause you lost him, huh?” He mutters.

You snort, shaking your head.

“No I just love you so much, you dumb cowboy.” You tell him.

“Your dumb cowboy. For better or worse.” He vows, kissing you back firmer now.

“For better or worse,” you nod breathing into him.

In this carved out slightly cramped space it feels holy, sacred, chapel like. You’re even afraid it might be gone tomorrow morning. However, the ring on your finger is the steeled reassurance it isn’t going anywhere.

But, just in case, you gather this glory and Joel into your arms with the promise of never letting go.

#my heart is so full and I can’t thank yall enough I wish country singer Joel could perform for you personally in your living room #let’s rodeo fic series #country singer!joel miller #Joel miller x reader #Joel miller x f!reader #Joel miller fic #Joel miller fanfic #Joel 🤎

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