#ladies who Brady

[luminouslywriting]

what do you think would be the reactions of the different men when they’re falling for a single mum? I think going with the time it’s more likely a young widow than a girl with a kid out of wedlock but who knows maybe John Brady just feels the desire to make an honest woman out of a poor girl at church who’s man ran off or Bucky takes to teaching his neighbors kid baseball because he sees their mom is stressed… just whatever guys you think would fit this

Nonny, this gave me actual brainrot so I hope you enjoy this so much 🥰🤍 as always, my requests are open and I don’t mind spam haha! More under the cut, cut for length, light spice sprinkled in:

Bucky Egan: (I had to run with the baseball idea haha)

-Absolutely the type of man who does not care about the past sexual history or life of a partner....and he's kinda looking for someone to date at the moment??

-But there's this kid on his block who's about six and he watches this kid attempt to throw a baseball every day and it just pains his soul because the form is awful and where is this kid's dad??

-So one day, he rolls on over to the yard of said kid and just starts offering pointers—he always wanted to be a baseball coach in his free-time and he just hasn't gotten around to it yet

-This sweet little boy makes him a deal that if Bucky comes over and teaches him how to throw a ball, lemonade will be made and given by you (his mom) and he will help Bucky paint his fence

-Bucky thinks it's a swell idea and it's at this surprising point to you that your son brings in the attractive war hero Bucky Egan straight to the kitchen and demands lemonade

-Well you and Bucky get to talking and you tell him that your husband died in the Pacific pretty early on in the war and your son has never really known a father

-That being said, it's a slow burn. He really enjoys getting to spend time with you and your son and he's afraid that he'll mess things up. But then your kid is inviting Bucky to dinner and you're telling him that it's no problem and you usually make too much food anyway.

-And somewhere along the way, he starts thinking of your house as more of a home to him than his own lonely home that he purchased. So naturally, this man panICS and has to call Gale and ask what he should do because he doesn't want to spook you or ruin the nice thing you've got going on.

-Gale definitely has to reassure him that if you both clearly want him there, then he should just go for it; Bucky deserves to be happy too.

-But he DRAGS his feet in the process....right up until your son accidentally calls him dad after hitting the ball with the baseball bat

-And then there's actual panic between you and Bucky and he's trying to apologize because clearly he's overstepped

-It would be at this point that you have to tell him that it's quite alright and you'd really like to get to know him more...because you like having him around and clearly your son adores him

-CUE THE FIRST KISS (first of many, might I add)

-It's the most darling domestic thing and he absolutely views your son as his son and he's never been so happy in his life

Gale Cleven:

-I think the most logical move here is that he finds you after Marge's passing. It was a short and love-filled marriage for them, but it was gone so quickly.

-He's devastated, naturally. And he doesn't really have anything left in Wyoming, so he sets out for Wisconsin.

-Now the thing about this is that John Egan has married Josephine Pitz—and Josephine Pitz's best friend is you. Your husband was a Marine during the war and died in action, leaving you with two little kids.

-You're doing your best but it's hard being a working single mom during the early 1950s.

-Cut to Josie and John setting this up just so

-Bucky makes the point that your car needs some work and you're a good friend of Josie's

-So this is how Gale Cleven is introduced to you—matchmaking via car-service haha

-Your two boys? Absolutely just wanna watch him work and wanna hear about everything that he's doing to the car

-But you're no fool and you know that Josie and Bucky are trying to set this up for the two of you

-So you just flat-out confront him about it and tell him that they're trying to be sneaky and that you're sorry he got caught up in their schemes

-But the thing is?? He's perfectly happy and used to their schemes. There's also the fact that this is the safest and calmest he's felt since Marge died.

-So he admits that he'd be willing to give this thing a chance if you are

-So it's a slow-burn for the two of you as you're trying to navigate around the fact that you've both already lost a partner and the fact that you have kids

-But he's so good with them and helps with the homework and genuinely just tries his best

-It's not a surprise to anyone when you're married a year later

Robert Rosenthal:

-On his way to the Nuremberg Trials, he meets you—a young lawyer who has recently just found out that you're pregnant (not that you're telling anyone that).

-You two become fast friends and he finds out that your husband was a British RAF Pilot who died. He's entirely sympathetic and sweet about the situation.

-The pair of you team up for the trials and it's amidst the preparations for the Trials that he finds you doubled over with morning sickness. This man assumes that it's the flu. Babe, it is not the flu.

-So a few weeks into you being sick and dealing with the trials, he's getting real concerned and you just have to spill the tea that you're pregnant.

-Not gonna lie, Rosie's heart shatters a little bit for you. It's not as if you want to leave the Trials to deal with pregnancy but you're also a whole ocean away and who do you have to rely on?

-Well he makes a promise that he's gonna help you through it

-And along the way, he's absolutely falling in love with you—with your dedication and kindness, the way that you're soft about the baby and continue to focus on work, and the way in which you're so determined to do everything entirely on your own

-He definitely very quickly makes you an offer that you're a little befuddled by

-The offer is marriage—and the thing is?? It's a damn good offer. You're a recent widow trying to do her job at the Nuremberg Trials, just found out you're pregnant, away from home, and have no support system

-So naturally you accept and this is a marriage born out of convenience and kindness to you....but there is so much affection and care.

-He's had feelings for you for a while and he's perfectly happy taking his time in the relationship and understands that you might not reciprocate the feelings in the same way.

-If nothing else, at least you'll be provided for, your child will have a father, and you'll always have a friend by your side

-It's at this point that your feelings start to develop because he's just such a good person and treats you so well and so clearly loves you

-The two of you are icons during the trials (Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal), and he comes back from Europe with a wife and daughter on his arm....and no, he didn't tell anyone so it was quite a shock to everyone.

John Brady: (Also decided to run with it haha)

-Listen, this man has a picture perfect plan for what he wants to have happen when he gets home from the war and that's all fine and dandy, but this man was NOT planning on you haha

-You faithfully attend the same church as he does and it's pretty obvious that you're pregnant.....

-But man the gossip is bad. And he's not one to listen to idle gossip and just believe what people say. But evidently your fianceé had run off when he found out you were pregnant and had taken any chance of a reputable life. It's ROUGH, okay??

-And the thing is, John Brady is out here just trying to do his Christian duty by seeing if you need any help over at your house....because he also passes it on the way to Church and YIKES, your yard is going through it

-It's the first time that someone just offers to do something nice for you??? You're so thrilled about it

-So he comes over that summer and does your yard work for you and you make little sandwiches and he gets to have lunch with you

-The thing is, you two get to talking and he finds out that you weren't even planning on having kids for a while anyway and it was YOUR former man who wanted to do the deed and refused to help out in any way. This is entirely a man's folly and has ruined things for you.

-Now he feels bad, he does....

-But he's not trying to make a move or anything. At the moment anyway haha. Instead, he invites you to spend some time with his sisters because you need friends anyway and they all have kids so they can help you know what to expect for pregnancy.

-Well it's all going great and he's pretty happy with the fact that you now have a support system and he's starting to make some waves in work. And then the yard is done and finished.

-And for some reason he's offering to help with the plumbing and the inside work too? It's definitely not because he's worried about you and it's definitely not because he's very very attracted to you in any way shape or form lol.

-I don't think anything actually happens until you're right ready to pop....at which case YOU kiss HIM because you're just real impatient

-And he doesn't get to respond to anything because your water breaks and he's taking you to the hospital

-So while you're in labor, this man is processing the fact that he MAYBE really really likes you and has already planned out the rest of your lives together, but that's BESIDES the point

-He still feels like he's taking advantage here....right up until you have a son and you name him Johnny because Brady was the only person that was kind to you during pregnancy and this man just melts on the spot, professes love to you—and tells you that he wants to take care of you for the rest of your life.

-Chef's kiss tbh

[therealslimshakespeare]

Bee, I’m so proud of us for writing a whole Post War Singlet Scenario before we even had the Inspo of these pics, I feel like their sudden appearance in my Pinterest feed is a sign to keep up the good work. @blurredcolour

[fortheloveofbritishactors]

Ben Racliffe chats with 1883 Magazines's Sydney Bolen about filming Masters of the Air, playing roles that matter, his Anatomy of a Scandal character, and more.

Ben Radcliffe - 1883 Magazine

[blurredcolour]

The Last To Know

[Series | In Progress]

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

Handpicked to fly with the first all-female bomber squadron assigned to the 100th Bomb Group, you are a calm, capable, and caring pilot. Volunteering after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, John Brady earned his wings in Georgia and his crew in Idaho. Both of you perform well under pressure, put your crews and the mission first, and share a deep love of music. Too bad you cannot stand each other.

Series Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Canon typical violence, Weapons, Death, Injuries, Gore, Angst, Suffering, Enemies to Lovers, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: This story contains an alternate universe where women have been allowed to fly in combat with the USAAF - in a very limited experiment. Brief references to Reader's family and backstory. They are a pilot and trumpet player. No physical descriptions or Y/N are used. If you'd like to be tagged, just add a comment to this post!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four [coming soon]

Part Five [coming soon]

Part Six [coming soon]

Part Seven [coming soon]

Part Eight [coming soon]

Part Nine [coming soon]

Part Ten [coming soon]

Masters of the Air Masterlist

[rosies-riveters]

Ben Radcliffe - by John Armour for 1883 Magazine

[sagesolsticewrites]

Love’s Light Wings - Prologue (“For stony limits cannot hold love out”)

John Brady x Juliet Thompson (OC)

Trapped in Stalag Luft III, Captain John Brady does his best to keep morale up, whether that be playing in the small dance band with the other prisoners or passing along the tidbits of information they catch with their hidden crystal radio. The letters they receive are best of all, though, and Brady is no exception— the letters from his girlfriend, with her ramblings about Shakespeare, home, and the goings-on of her high school English students, do more for his spirits than any saxophone solo.

Now he just needs to make it home to tell her… and hopefully ask her a very important question.

a/n: Here it is! The beginning of my darling Juliet's story. So excited for y'all to meet her, and a huge thank you to my bestie @winniemaywebber for letting me slip her OC Olive into this world! I love her so so much, y'all have got to go read the snippet Winnie posted for her story 👀 (and another huge thank you to Winnie and @ginabaker1666 for reading this over and over before I posted it 😅 love y’all!!)

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: none, I think? But please let me know if I missed anything!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

March 1944

“Mail call!”

Every soldier crammed inside the small hut perks up at the familiar shout, the one bright spot in the long days, weeks, months spent inside Stalag Luft III. 

“Murphy!” the man calls out, doling out letters to each man as their name is called, “Cleven!”

“Brady!”

John Brady looks up from his well-worn, dog-eared copy of Romeo & Juliet, eagerly grabbing at the wrinkled envelope.

A grin spreads across his face at the return address, the neat cursive as familiar to him as his own name.

Voices eagerly proclaim who they’ve received messages from — “It’s my mom!” an eager, sun-bright announcement, “Marge” in Cleven’s soft, reverent tones.

“Who’s yours from, Brady?” Someone asks, knocking him in the arm.

He fumbles to protect the letter and keep the fragile book balanced in his lap, trying to buy time to will the blush in his cheeks away.

“Juliet,” he says softly, thumb running over the seal of the envelope as he gently opens it, releasing a familiar, though faint, wave of gardenias and vanilla.

Demarco signals for the boys to give the people who’ve received letters some privacy— as much as they can find in the cramped quarters, at least— and Brady nods gratefully as he moves to his bunk to devour the words from his girl.

Juliet Thompson had begun writing herself into Brady’s world the night they met at a small bar in Ithaca, on a cool fall night during his senior year of college. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of the pretty dark-haired girl sat at the nearby table filled with Cornell students, and his Ithaca College friends had jeered at him until he worked up the nerve to go talk to her.

Her friends had quickly paired off to dance, leaving her alone at the table, which she seemed perfectly content with. One of them leaned down to whisper something to her as they left, their eyes flicking over to where Brady had been staring, and he quickly averted his gaze as she waved her friends away with a giggle.

Quickly downing the last of his beer, he began to make his way over to her table, accompanied by a few encouraging claps on the back from his friends. 

“Um… hi,” he had said, hands behind his back so she wouldn’t see how he was nervously wringing them.

“Oh!” She looked up from the book she had surreptitiously hidden just under the table, turning to face him with a smile, green eyes sparkling, “Hello.”

That bright smile was the beginning of the end for John Brady as he tried to remember how to speak.

“I, uh… I’m John, I just, er… wanted to come say hello?”

“Well, mission accomplished,” she laughed, and oh Lord take him now, how was her laugh even prettier than her smile?

“Very nice to meet you, John. I’m Juliet.”

“Juliet,” he said, testing the syllables on his tongue. They were as sweet as her smile. “As in… Romeo &?”

“Yes,” she had replied, her red-lipstick smile growing as she joked, “The cost of having an English professor for a father.” 

“Well I think it’s very pretty,” he dared to say, the risk well worth it to see her preen slightly at the compliment. 

He nodded to the book in her hands, “What are you reading?”

He’d never been one for books, but anything, anything, to keep talking to her.

“Well, as it just so happens,” she turned the cover to face him, letting him see for himself.

“Romeo & Juliet,” he laughed, “Very fitting.”

“Why?” She asked, arching an eyebrow, “Because we go to different schools?” She added a theatrical gasp as she continued, “Two houses, both alike in dignity… Are we destined to become star-crossed lovers?”

“I— no, no!” John had rambled anxiously, “I just meant— because of your name—”

“I’m teasing,” she assured him, patting the seat next to her in a gesture for him to sit down, “Apologies if I’m being presumptuous, but you don’t know much about Shakespeare, do you?”

He had admitted that he didn’t, no. His interest had always been music, he’d never paid much attention to his other classes.

“Ithaca makes sense, then,” she nodded, clearly knowing the history of how Ithaca College had started as the Ithaca Conservatory of Music, “What do you study there?”

“Well, I play the saxophone,” he had replied, “and I’m not quite sure what I want to do long term, but I’m working towards my Bachelor of Science, and I like the idea of being a music teacher.”

His heart had done a funny fluttery thing in his chest, seeing how she perked up at the mention of being a teacher.

“I want to be a teacher, too! It’ll be my way of getting to keep talking about Shakespeare once I’ve finished my English degree,” she laughed.

The conversation had flowed easily after that, and before he knew it his friends were waving to get his attention, ready to head back to the dorms.

He had looked at her apologetically as he stood.

“Sorry, I’d better…,” he waved in the general direction of his friends, “ but hopefully I’ll see you around?”

“Hopefully,” she’d said, adding with a grin “If you’re ever in Cornell territory, I’m usually wandering the bookstore on Green Street, especially on Saturday afternoons.”

Today was Thursday. Was that… an invitation?

“In fact,” she said, holding out her book to him, “here. If you get a chance to read it, you can tell me what you thought next time we see each other.”

The words stuck in his throat as his eyes flicked from her to the book, but he’d managed to eventually ask, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she’d assured him with that sparkling smile, adding with a laugh “I’ve got plenty of copies, this is just the one that fit in my bag for tonight.”

He had a thousand more questions, a thousand more things he wanted to know about this girl— How many copies? Did she always have a book with her? What time on Saturday?— but he could tell his friends were getting impatient.

“In that case… thank you, Juliet,” he said, “And I’ll try to get it back to you as soon as I can.”

“I look forward to it,” she grinned, “It was very nice to meet you, John.”

“It was very nice to meet you, too,” he said, and he had spent the entire journey back to the dorms thinking about the way his name had sounded in her voice.

Back in his bunk in a prison camp in Germany, he can hear her voice in his head just as clearly as he could that night, as if she were standing right next to him.

February 14, 1944

Johnny,

I know it will be long past by the time this reaches you, but what kind of girl would I be if I didn’t wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. Hopefully you boys find some small way to celebrate— if the band is still going, perhaps you could play our song? I’m sure I could hear it from all the way over here.

I haven’t done much celebrating myself, granted— I’m saving that for when you’re home, darling— but I surprised my students today with a discussion about ‘Much Ado’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’ rather than the grammar quiz they were expecting, which they seemed to enjoy. I believe one of the boys has a new sweetheart: he was very earnestly taking notes when ordinarily he’d be asleep halfway through class! He seemed particularly fond of R&J’s Act 2, Scene 2– the balcony scene, in case you do not recall. The look on his face as he heard “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep. The more I give to thee, /The more I have, for both are infinite.”…

Dad and Mama have gone for a night on the town— a bit of an early anniversary celebration on top of the usual Valentine’s Day festivities— while I’m off to pay a visit to your mother. I’ve been doing my best to keep her company since your father passed, and will do my utmost best to lift her spirits today. I know it’s difficult to get letters out, but do write her as soon as you can if you get a chance. It would do her a world of good, and I know it would be good for you as well. 

Oh, and do tell Benny that I’ve been keeping in touch with dear Olive. Fellow Shakespeare enthusiast aside, she’s been a true comfort— we have each other to lean on when we start missing you boys too much (though you know I’m always missing you, darling).

I hope and pray with all my heart that you’ll be home soon and we can spend our next Valentine’s Day together. While I adore Olive and your mother, ‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you’. Stay safe, my Romeo.

Sending all my love, a thousand hugs, and a million kisses,

Your Juliet

He reads and rereads her words, closing his eyes as he brings the paper to his nose to inhale the quickly-fading scent. With her being so far away he’ll take what scraps of her he can, the faded perfume, the heart after her signature at the end of every letter, but his mind can’t help but drift back to the last time he had her— on the train platform, just before he was shipped off across the Atlantic.

She’d sniffled, pretty green eyes welling up with tears as she’d forced a brave smile on her face.

“Write to me as often as you can, promise?” She’d said, smoothing out the lapels of his uniform, “I don’t care if you’re telling me what you had for lunch, I’ll wanna hear about it.”

“I promise, sweetheart,” he’d chuckled softly, thumb tracing under her eye to catch the first tear, “As long as you do the same. Keep me updated on what the kids think of our friend Shakespeare, yeah?” He’d bumped her nose playfully, hoping the inside joke would put her real smile back on her face.

And it did, for a moment, before there was a call of “All Aboard!” and her face crumpled and she had thrown her arms around him and it had taken every drop of strength to step away before they left without him.

“Honey,” he’d said softly, cupping her cheek as he took her in one last time, doing his best to memorize every detail— the dark curls framing her pretty, round face, her green eyes, the sweet floral scent of her perfume, the hand slipping surreptitiously into her purse to thumb nervously at the paperback she had inside— “Juliet. I’m coming home, I promise, pretty girl.”

“In one piece,” she’d sniffled, “Come home to me in one piece, please.”

“In one piece,” he’d agreed, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on her mouth. Pulling away just so their noses brushed, he murmured “Parting is such sweet sorrow—”

There was that smile again, and he couldn’t help grinning as she finished softly, “That I shall say good night till it be morrow.” She took a shaky breath as he stepped away, squeezing his hand tight, “I love you, Johnny.”

“I love you more, Jules.” He’d said, brushing a kiss to the back of her hand before he’d had to drop it to pick up his bag, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

The last he’d seen of her was her blowing a kiss in the distance as the train had pulled away, and him waving desperately, far past the point where she’d be able to see it.

He’d promised her he’d come home in one piece, and that’s a promise he intends to keep, even here, even now.

Home. When he thought of home before he met Juliet, it was always him with his parents at their little house in Victor, New York. But especially since he was assigned overseas, his idea of home isn’t so much a place as it is her. Her in his arms, her pretty green eyes lighting up as she rambles about Shakespeare, meeting for lunch in her classroom during her planning period, in the audience at one of his performances with the Army band… he wanted her to be his home, to be by his side ‘til death did they part.

Brady had toyed with popping the question in a letter— if they never got out of here, he wanted her to know that he wanted her that way, that she was his forever person.

But no. They were going to get out of here eventually, they had to, and he would do it properly— having asked her parents for permission, down on one knee, with grandmother’s ring— when she was back in his arms.

With that warm, golden thought settling to the back of his mind, he rolls back over to pass on her message to Demarco— with letters being few and far between, his friend will be happy to hear even the tiniest scrap of news about his girl.

[zevred]

I've Got You Under My Skin

john brady x gn!reader

john brady the man that you are... also this turned out a little more angsty than i thought it would be

wc: 1.5k

John Brady’s already annoyed before the band goes on for their set. He snapped a reed during practice, cut his chin while shaving, and now you’ve shown up for drinks with an irksome smile on your face. Dougie’s chatting you up and Hambone’s already bought your drink, and you’re laughing at something Blakely’s just said.

It’s always like this when you come to the bar and Brady can’t help but roll his eyes. When you come for drinks, you take the time to press your hair into curls and scrub the grime out from under your nails. You look sort of pretty, but Brady knows it’s a guise to cover up how venomous you really are.

The guys usually see you on the hardstand working on the forts with Kenny in your coveralls with grease smudged across your face. Sometimes you wear a white ribbon in your hair and it’s the most ridiculous thing John Brady’s ever seen. Even as his plane is in taxi, he sees that stupid silk tied into your hair. You’re the first and last thing he sees before and after each mission. When he lands and is forced to give his fort into your care, you always have some snide comment waiting and a forced smile on your face.

He gives you a sarcastic smile, and when his crew isn’t looking and Kenny’s inspecting the plane both of you drop the façade and glare openly at each other. You looked exhausted this morning, dark shadows stamped under your eyes, and you didn’t give him nearly as much energy as he’d expected.

“I hope your face gets stuck like that, Brady.”

That’s all you have to say and he’s still frowning at you, dark brows pinched close together. “You think about my face often?”

“I try not to think of you at all.” You look more deflated than usual, and Brady’s throat closes up. He’s still standing there like an idiot when you sigh. “Go away, Captain. There’s a lot of work to be done.”  

He thinks about it all day. The tiredness in your eyes. The way your shoulders slumped as you walked away. Usually, you’re annoyingly springy. He hates the way your hips move as you walk away from him, the way his eyes can’t look away, but this—your sullen retreat—it makes him sick to his stomach. You don’t call him Captain and you’ve never told him to go away. You’re on his mind during rehearsal when his jaw clenches, cracking the reed between his teeth. He’s remembering the purple of your eyebags when his razor slips. And now Brady’s watching you laugh with his friends like nothing’s wrong.

So, he’s already pissed when the band starts up and you peel away to dance with Hambone. He knows you’re just friends. Hambone laughed in his face when Brady tried to lecture him about the irresponsibility of relationships on base. Still, the way he’s swinging you around makes something nasty coil in the pit of his stomach. He hears your laugh over his sax and struggles to keep playing.

You dance like that for the first several songs of the set, twisting between Blakely and Hambone. Brady can see the flush on your skin and, just for a moment, he wonders what the feel of you would be like under his hands. He’s dreamt about it—and they’re terrible dreams—but they leave him with a nervous twitch in his hands and a bounce in his leg. He’s taping his foot now, to keep in time with the beat of the song, and he tells himself the tremor in his arms is from holding his instrument.

As the song reaches its crescendo, the music loud and consuming and overpowering, your eyes flick to his and they don’t move. Your eyes, big and searching, bore into him and Brady thinks you must be crazy to be looking at him like that while dancing with another man.

Maybe you’ve learned to read his signs of irritation—the tops of his ears have turned a fiery red, his nostrils flaring of their own accord—because you certainly know how to push him over the edge. Hambone spins you, and from your place tangled in his arms, you grin at Brady.

That does it for him.

Your smile is a taunt, a trap, and he knows it. But when the band finishes their last song and the vinyl takes over, he’s rushing for you, searching for you in the crowd. Brady finds you, crowded against the wall as Colonel Harding laughs at some terrible joke you must have made. It makes his eye twitch, seeing his CO lean close to whisper in your ear.

Brady reaches you as you give the Colonel an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Sir. I promised Captain Brady that I’d save him a dance.”

And then you’re looping your arm through his, smiling up at Brady’s flushed face, tugging him onto the dancefloor.

Brady nearly stumbles, his mind going blank at the feeling of your skin on his. He has no idea where your jacket has gone, and your sleeves are rolled up. Your bare forearm brushes against his wrist as you guide him through the crowd. His senses have narrowed to that point of contact and Brady wonders if you have freckles or birthmarks under the rest of your clothes. For just a moment, he imagines mapping all the lines and marks of your body—imagines knowing you beyond a brush of skin.

You stop, twisting to stand in front of him with that petulant, expecting look on your pretty face. “Are we going to dance, or are you going to keep staring at me?”

“I’m not staring,” he says, and his traitorous body clenches up as you inch closer to him.

You hum under your breath. “Could feel you watching me all night, Brady.”

His body feels like it’s on fire as you wrap his arm around your waist, clasping his other hand in yours. He shudders under your hands and says, “It’s cause you’re a horrible dancer.”

“Look who’s talking,” you scoff. “You’re stiff as a board. If you weren’t in the band, I’d think you didn’t know a thing about music.”

He pulls you closer by the waist, your chest brushing against his. Your cheeks are turning a lovely shade of pink and when he hears your breathing hitch, Brady knows—with no small amount of quilt—that little noise will linger with him far longer than it should.

He’s looking at you through that heavy-lidded gaze you detest so dearly and it’s not enough to be swaying in his arms “I’m sorry for being sore with you this morning.”

Your whisper hits the shell of his ear, your nose dragging up the line of his neck. It’s instinct, the way his hand flexes on your hip and Brady prays to God for patience, because he’s not sure how much longer he can dance with you like this.

“Cold is what you were this morning. Worried all day about you, and then you show up— flouncing around—,”

“I don’t flounce.”

He pulls back to glare at you. “I saw no shortage of flouncing between Blakely and Hambone.”

“You jealous, Brady?” Your hand slides up his shoulder to the back of his neck, dragging your nails over his nape.

It’s too easy to fall back into your arms, to curl his body against yours. His heart is pounding in his chest and he’s certain you can feel it where he’s pressed against you. He wants to scoff, to make fun of you for insinuating something so ridiculous, but the words catch in his throat.

You don’t give him the mercy of silence. “Can’t dance with you while the band’s playing, can I? Would if I could, Captain.”

You look up at him with a nervous smile—small and timid—so at odds with your usual daring grin, Brady’s desperate to reassure you. “I know,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer. “I know.”

With your face pressed into his chest, it’s hard to hear your next words. Brady strains to hear you over the slow music, the way his body muffles your voice. He catches the sentence, and it breaks his heart.

“I’m tired of cleaning blood out of B-17s.”

The music is quiet and the vinyl creaks as the needle skips.

“I’m worried one day it’ll be yours.”

Brady doesn’t know what to say. He’s a pragmatist and a Catholic; there’s no comfort he can offer you, no promise he can make. For now, the only thing he can do is hold you close and let the music wash over your bodies as the dancefloor empties. At the end of the night, when the record has stopped spinning and the stars have climbed into the sky, the only audible sound is the disquiet of your shared breath and the rhythmic pounding of your hearts.

[blakelysco-pilot]

Ben Radcliffe for Foxes Magazine

📸: Wanda Martin

[wexhappyxfew]

12. pushing a strand of hair behind their ear

For Annie and Brady please.

I love them soo much. And I adore your writing.

Also I hope you’re doing well and are having a great day :)

hello anon! thank you so much for submitting this prompt!! 🥹 it absolutely took a fairly cute direction in quite the circumstance (we’ll see what that means), so i hope you enjoy!! :) thank you for the love on annie and brady too! 😭 that’s so sweet!! they’re a joy to write so i hope this provides some goodness for them! YOU TOO ANON!!! i hope your day (and now weekend) is going wonderfully! please enjoy!!!

i found you again

(a/n): had a much longer version that this but….did not feel ready for that so, i shortened it up and made it work a bit more with the prompt and i liked how it came out so :) it is shorter than some of my other writings, but i hope to expand on it more in future postings haha! please enjoy!!

Annie slowly slid out of her bunk and moved through the tiny room towards Brady's bunk and got a look at his face, immediately shrinking a bit at the sight of him looking so safe, small and youthful in his sleep, reminding her of that last time they'd found each other side by side, the unknowing between the two of them, one of their last conversations face to face. And now….he was right there.

Annie reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a small shake. In almost an instant, he awoke and turned to her in the darkness and immediately reached towards her like he always used to do and grasped her arm. Always reaching.

"Hey, everything okay?" he whispered quietly, his voice a pin-drop in the dark.

"I can't get myself warm." she whispered back, the frustration behind her voice, flogged with a bit more emotion than she was going for and he immediately moved over the best he could in the cot and lifted his blanket up.

"Hop in." he whispered, a small smile on his face. Annie immediately sat on the edge and pulled herself into the bunk, wrapped in her own blanket and turned on her side, immediately becoming engulfed in Brady's chest, his bit of warmth and him. He let the rest of the blanket fall around her form and then he immediately wrapped his arm around her, pulling her shivering form to his own side, arm rubbing up and down, a bit of friction on her clothes, from him. Annie snuggled her head into his neck, where it seemed to be the warmest and let out a small sigh of relief at the bit of warmth that was finally entering her body.

"Better?" Brady whispered, warm breath tickling her neck, and she smiled and nestled closer and nodded.

"Much." she whispered, "Thank you." He smiled, and she shifted a bit, cuddling deeper, and then sighed at the immense amount of comfort that she hadn't felt in days, finally encircling her. Slowly, she brought up a hand out of the warmth of the blanket, and brought it to the side of his face, gently brushing her thumb over the bit of stubble on his cheek, the pleasant feel of him just right there, was comforting in it of itself. It was all she needed.

"So," Brady whispered, his voice somewhere next to her ear, "I never asked, after you were captured - what happened?" Annie shifted a bit and sat up, away from the warmth of his neck, and instead staring down at him, her thumb brushing his cheek, head resting on her hand, staring at those twinkling eyes.

"I was out of it for the most part," Annie whispered back, reaching up to brush some of his strands of hair from his face behind his ear, over and over, watching the sleepiness roll into his eyes, "between the knock to my head and the knee, the lack of food and water….I don't remember much aside from well…..the questioning. The staring." She met his gaze, watching quietly as he let his eyes linger over her face.

"What'd they ask you?" he whispered, his voice so low, all she really saw was his moving lips in the bleary darkness.

"Questions about everything. The 100th. About Birdie; newspaper clippings and such. About Buck and Bucky, about the Regensberg mission - my name was in the paper. Asked about home." Annie managed out, her eyes hardly leaving his own, "I didn't tell them anything. I told them my name, my number, my unit. That's it." Brady watched her and slowly brought up his free hand and brushed it against the bottom of her lip, lingering over the few scabs under her chin from the few scuffles with Germans and falls and punches.

"You?" she whispered back.

"The same." he whispered, "Lot of questions about the 100th - Buck especially. A few about you." She stared at him.

"I didn't let on a thing, though," he whispered, "I'd rather die than give away info about any one of us."

For a moment, they just stared at each other in a way that was far more intimate than anything else in the past few days, enough where her heart raced, and she suddenly felt consumed by his ever-present gaze on her own.

"Did they do anything to you?" he whispered, his thumb brushing her cheek again as her hands continued to prod his hair, "I swear to-", he looked at her, "Annie, if they laid a finger-"

"No, they didn't, not like that," she whispered, hand shaking against his face, "just shoves, a few…punches-"

"Punches?" Brady whispered, "Annie I-"

"John." she whispered, louder than she had wanted and quieted herself, shaking her head, "I'm fine, look-" her hand cupped his cheek, "I'm right here." He stared at her so longingly her stomach hurt, that yearning, that want, that desperate, reaching nature lingering between them.

"I know." Brady whispered, his hand grazing her neckline which was layered in blankets and clothing, "Just….if I ever see them doing anything, I'm jumpi-"

"John," Annie whispered, her voice soft as cream, "you don't have to do any of that now. It's just you and me. Right here." She reached out and took one of his hands, placing it on her chest where her heart was, hidden under skin and bone and overcoats. Brady watched her, like some sort of miracle and believed her. He let out a breath and swallowed.

Watching each other in their current circumstances was an art in it of itself - their hesitant, lingering gazes, the touches on one another's faces, the way her eyes evaded his, but always came back, their bodies so close, pressed against one another, but still distant.

Watching Brady now, he looked beyond exhausted, more than he ever did back at Thorpe Abbotts, and the more she continued that same, calming motion of brushing his strands of hair back, sometimes to settle behind his ear and sometimes to not, she watched his eyes grow more tired.

And in a sense, she got the idea it reminded him of when he was a child, when there was no war and his Ma probably tucked him in at night and brushed his hair gently until his eyes closed. And now, he was halfway across the world, in a P.O.W. camp.

"You need rest," she whispered softly, watching as he leaned a bit more into her touch as her fingers graced over his cheek, his eyes fighting to close, fighting the sleep, "it's okay." He watched her through half-open eyes and brought a hand to her neckline and watched her.

"I'm glad I found you again, Annie." he whispered, "I don't know what I'd do if I knew you'd gone down and didn't end up here." Annie stared at him, her world stilling around her and she couldn't help but lean forward and press a soft kiss to his forehead, before pulling back and cupping his cheek.

"Get some rest, okay?" she whispered, "I'll be right here." Brady watched her again and then nodded, that small smile on his face failing to disappear, as his eyes slides shut and his body finally seemed to relax.

You couldn't do that much here, you were always on guard, waiting for the next sound of explosions, or someone in the hallway, yelling, screaming.

Yet, here, he finally seemed to let go of all of that and sleep.

And until his breathing became deep and slow, she sat up, running a hand through his hair and letting him feel at home for once.

Even if that home was nowhere near here.

Even if home was this, right here.

[ptvstvrrr]

Made this a long long long time ago and I've been meaning to post it (can y'all tell I made this before downloading any episode past #4 LMAO)

[groovin2beats]

I need more John Brady things

Gifs of him in the bike race

Ficlets

Headcanons

More 👏🏻 Brady 👏🏻

[luminouslywriting]

How do you think the guys would react when one of their friends starts dating their sister? Like maybe she read in a letter that their buddy wasn’t getting any and decided to take matters into her own hands and strike up a pen pal-ship with them that becomes serious…

Imagine coming home from war and your baby sister runs straight past you to jump your buddy who she can’t possibly know

DeMarco?? As a brother? And Brady? As a lover?? I can see it now. LISTEN, I have thoughts under the cut, so buckle up kiddos haha! Reminder that my requests are definitely open and I don't mind spam :)

Cut for length, more under the cut, some light occasional spice haha:

-It doesn't mean to happen??? Like actually though?? Benny mentions in one of his letters home that a friend of his does not have a girlfriend and is feeling a little lonely at times

-And you, being the angel that you are, just take matters into your own hands

-So imagine Brady's surprise the week before he goes down in the Stalag to receiving a letter signed Y/N DeMarco

-There he is, going about his day, trying to get training in, and just minding his own business, and mail call comes and he has a letter?? He doesn't recognize the return address and he's a little baffled. But he's not about to turn down mail.

-So he opens it up and starts reading and it's this very sweet letter explaining that your brother mentioned he had a friend who didn't have anyone writing him and you were just going to fix that for Brady :)

-John Brady is many things—including flattered—but he's also like WTF?? Like where did this person come from, how old are you (is this allowed lol), and maybe it'll be nice to have a friend??

-So he writes you a letter back with these questions included and he fully means to mention it to DeMarco

-It's just that DeMarco goes down on a mission with Gale Cleven and there's nothing he can do about that

-And then HE goes down on a mission with Bucky Egan

-He honestly forgets all about it until letters to the Stalag start to arrive

-The thing about this entire situation is that he likes having a little something to himself? It's hard to get privacy and anything that's really 'yours' in the Stalag, and so these letters become an escape and a safe place for him

-He relies on your good humor and stories to get him through the day and all the while, he's falling in love with the person that you are without ever having seen you

-And it's the exact same situation for you

-Brady isn't stupid though, he burns all of the letters that you send him so that the Germans can't use anything against him when it comes to you

-So by the time that they switch Stalags again and again and he hasn't gotten a letter in months, he's already decided that he's in love with you and is going to ask you to marry him

-The only problem in this foolproof little plan of his is a short king with a dog named Benny DeMarco who will be absolutely furious about the turn of events that he has not been clued in on for over a year and a half

-So he figures that it's probably best to just....not mention anything until he sees you??

-LOL SIR NO

-But anyways, the war ends and the boys get to go home

-And Benny DeMarco is having a GREAT day. He's ready to see his family, his beloved little sister, eat some good chow, and sleep in an actual bed.

-He's fully prepared for the tears on the train platform and everything else

-What he's not prepared for is to see you run PAST him and jump into the arms of none other than Captain John Brady

^Actual footage of Benny DeMarco, seconds after seeing you and Brady kissing at the train station^

-So yes, he's baffled, bamboozled, shocked, dismayed, BETRAYED and majorly confused

-But after a whole sit down conversation about the letters and everything, he's super jazzed to be getting Brady as a brother in law and he's actually pretty happy about the whole thing

-But he absolutely turns to the younger siblings that you both have and warns them to never do something like this lol

-And yes, there may have been a fist fight that you heard about later between Brady and DeMarco, but it was never really that serious....just a protective older brother making sure Brady was good enough for you lol

[therealslimshakespeare]

the Brady Vibes are strong with these

[fortheloveofbritishactors]

Ben Radcliffe poses during a portrait session before Vogue World Event on June 23, 2024 in Paris, France

[blurredcolour]

The Last To Know | Part One

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

The 100th Bomb Group comes together for the first time with all five squadrons in Walla Walla, Washington. Naturally, not everyone will get along, but after you and Brady get off on the wrong foot, every subsequent encounter only seems to solidify your dislike of the man.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Attempted Groping, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: This story contains an alternate universe where women have been allowed to fly in combat with the USAAF - in a very limited experiment. Brief references to Reader's family and backstory. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5278

-------------------------

November 1942

You should have known better than to expect anything different, even out here on the nascent base of Walla Walla, Washington, the buildings still reeking of sawdust, their rough pine construction hardly weathered in the five months they had existed.

“…there won’t be any burial costs because, those broads’ll just drive themselves straight into the ground.” The snide comment, unoriginal in any way, flew from the proudly twisted lips of a tall brunette holding court at the corner of the operations building.

His cheek bones were sharp and angled like the beak of a bird of prey and you were careful to study his face, and the faces of those men gathered around him, laughing richly or listening attentively as, encouraged by their reactions, he continued to spew his misogyny, yet to spot your approach. Each face would have a name to assign to it soon enough, and you would be certain to spread the word amongst your crew that they were not to be trusted. Not the rickety blond of middling height with his head thrown back in bright laughter, nor the broadly built man with jet black hair, and bushy mustache to match, who was slapping the speaker on his shoulder. Not even the slightly shorter brunette with a pipe clenched between two rows of perfect teeth, expression somewhat difficult to decipher – it may have been amusement or a grimace, but he was definitely not walking away or speaking up.

“You seem to have stalled, Lieutenant.” The unmistakable Texan accent of Gertrude Thornton sounded at your right elbow, and you turned quickly to salute her.

“Ma’am, just taking in the sights.”

She smirked slowly, returning the snap of her fingers to her brow, the weak grey light of the cloudy day still highlighting the silver First Lieutenant’s insignia on her shoulders, a bright contrast to the gold Second Lieutenant’s bar on yours.

“The sea of mud and fir trees, or our reluctant comrades of the 100th?” Proceeding toward the ops building, and thus the group, without hesitation, you were forced to match her stride to continue your conversation.

Dark clouds, heavy with rain, scudded across the sky, promising this dry window would be brief. It came as no surprise when the collection of Second Lieutenants neglected to salute her, gawking instead as the pair of you brushed past them towards the door.

“Holy shit, that’s The Thorn.”

It was a good thing your back was now firmly to them, the eyeroll that overtook your features nothing short of inescapably exaggerated.

A pioneer of women’s aviation, Thornton was the only reason you, and the rest of the 280th Bomber Squadron, were training to serve in combat with the United States Army Air Forces. Dubbed ‘The Thorn in Congress’s Side’ by the media, courtesy of her incessant campaigning for a female’s right to fly alongside her male comrades, most just called her ‘The Thorn.’

To the two dozen of you who’d had the privilege of training alongside her in Randolph Field, Texas, earning your USAAF pilot’s wings, she was your champion and unquestioned leader. Even if they had assigned a man to lead your squadron.

“Has Dutch emerged with those crew lists yet?” Thornton’s question made you shake your head quickly, carefully navigating along the mud-slickened boards laid down to combat the ever-present muck below.

You were grateful for the boots and loose-fitting trousers of your training uniform, your skirted Class As safely tucked away in the bottom of your footlocker.

“No ma’am, I have not seen him yet.” You replied, looking up sharply hearing a chorus of raucous laughter sound as all six feet of the freckled, red-headed Dutch – Captain Leroy Barrett – spilled out of the ops building alongside a dark-haired, mustachioed version of himself. A rather stoic blonde officer, toothpick pursed between his full lips, followed behind, holding a promising stack of papers.

“Ah! Thornton!” Dutch hollered, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes as he turned towards the pair of you.

Throwing up a pair of simultaneous salutes, which the still-giggling men casually returned while their comrade did a more precise job, Thornton cleared her throat.

“Any success with the crew assignments, sir?”

“Yes, in fact, Buck would you be so kind?”

“John Egan.” The dark-hair Captain quickly thrusted out his hand as ‘Buck’ sorted through his papers, and Thornton shook it firmly. “I’m a real fan, Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to be flying with your squad.”

“Likewise, Captain.” She nodded, offering your name in introduction.

You offered a polite smile and firm nod as you shook Egan’s broad hand.

“You and your ladies ever need anything, don’t hesitate to come to me or Buck…including if your CO proves useless.” His grin was nothing but trouble, alarm bells immediately sounding in your head, but all the same something about him instilled a deep sense of trust.

“Gale Cleven.” Buck spoke up once he set a smaller sheaf of papers in Dutch’s hands, his grip not quite as firm as Egan’s but just as warm. “And Bucky’s all bluster. We’ve known Dutch since we were just cadets and either of us would trust him with our life any day.”

“A ringing endorsement.” Thornton grinned and took the stack of crew assignments from Dutch. “I’ll see to it that these are handed out amongst the squad, thank you very much, gentlemen.”

Parting salutes exchanged, the pair of you turned to head back to the women’s quarters. Glancing back over your shoulder, you were startled to meet the light blue eyes of the silent brunette, gaze flicking to his mouth as he parted his lips to pull the stem of his pipe free.

Egan’s voice suddenly echoed across the clearing, each man raising his head in turn as his name was called.

“Friedkin! Pratt! Larkin! Brady! You boys looking for something to do?”

Four names, four faces. Four men to avoid.

The barracks of the 280th squadron were five long, squat, wooden buildings relegated to an out-of-the-way corner of the camp, one set of showers and latrines for the entire population of one hundred women. By the time you and Thornton returned to dole out the crew lists amongst the pilots, your boots were slick with mud that splashed up your trousers – a far cry from the red dust of Texas, and a clear indication of what the greatest enemy to cleanliness would be here.

“Lieutenant.” Thorton turned to hand you a list with your very own name at the top, a thrill unfurling through your abdomen not unlike that which you had felt when she had first appeared along the fence-line of your father’s farm looking for the local crop duster who was unrivalled in her accuracy.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Oh don’t thank me, I just spoke the truth when Dutch asked me who I thought could manage it.” She winked one of her striking hazel eyes easily before proceeding into the officer’s quarters, calling out the rest of the pilot’s names.

The odds of making it here in the first place had been long, of even getting into a cockpit even longer if it had not been for your uncle’s early diagnosis of glaucoma and willingness to make you the successor to his business. You had never even dared to hope to be named as Pilot of one of the ten crews of the 280th – Co-pilot would have been more than tolerable. But you were undeniably delighted by this outcome.

Refocusing on the paper in your hands, you scanned down the other nine names on the list.

Co-Pilot: 2nd Lt. Andromeda Giannopoulos

Bombardier: 2nd Lt. Barbara Jones

Navigator: 2nd Lt. Regina Wilson

Flight Engineer: S/Sgt. Inez Veiga

Radio Operator: S/Sgt. Mildred Gaige

Ball Turret Gunner: S/Sgt. Minnie Jacobsen

Waist Gunner: S/Sgt. Dorothea Fletcher

Waist Gunner: S/Sgt. Velma Schroeder

Tail Gunner: S/Sgt. Juanita Torres

The name of your Co-pilot tugged a smile onto the corner of your mouth. Andie, as she had firmly introduced herself to you at basic training, had made you swear to never use her full name upon pain of death when you had accidentally come across some correspondence from her father – a first-generation sea sponge fisherman who had moved from Greece to settle in Tarpon Springs, Florida.

At least her secret remained safe with you.

The other eight women, most enlisted, would have trained at their various technical schools scattered across the continental United States and were thus unknown to you. For now. A few generous drops of rain splattered down onto the page, making you frown and quickly tuck it into your jacket pocket as you darted inside. Scraping the mud from your boots, you tucked your service cap beneath your arm and moved to find your cockpit mate, but suddenly found your path blocked by all five feet four inches of your closest friend, Constance Hart.

“Thornton didn’t call your name, but no one has you on a list.” She tilted her head, untameable mane of blonde curls swaying as she cracked her gum sharply between her molars. “I mean if you need a ride, you can always fly with me but…”

You watched her warm brown eyes narrow in suspicion as you began fishing around in your pocket before they shot wide upon your retrieval of your crew list.

“Hon, I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t just give us nine crews.”

The fierceness with which she pulled you into a hug drove home how very accurate Andie’s bestowal of the nickname ‘Lionheart’ on the petite woman really had been. In fact Andie was responsible for at least half of the nicknames amongst those of you with wings pinned on your uniforms and you fully expected that trend to continue with the enlisted girls as well.

“Well done to you, too, Lionheart. Though I do beg for mercy on your crew.” You pulled back with a smirk of affection, earning a loving whap on your shoulder as she giggled.

“You’re one to talk, try not to terrify them on the first day, hmmm?”

“If you’re going out there, take a raincoat.” You nodded as Lionheart moved towards the door and she waved back in thanks before you continued on in your search for your Co-pilot.

You found her tidying her rack, tightening the corners on her sheets with barely concealed aggression, and you swallowed in empathy. Andie had arrived at Randolph Field with only a few months of flying under her belt – had not even earned her civilian wings yet. Not at all unheard of for the men squawking about outside, but for this experimental squadron, Thornton had traversed the country to find women with experience who also met the strict USAAF age and physical requirements. She was green, young. If the hundred of you could make this a success, she would surely have her own plane before long.

“Hey there, Andie.” You spoke softly, watching her face snap up from her one-sided battle with her bedding, her gorgeous Mediterranean features making you feel extraordinarily plain as always.

“Well–” She let out a tremendous exhale and sat down heavily onto her cot, swiftly undoing all her hard work in one motion as the sheets wrenched from their corners. “– guess if it’s with you, it won’t be quite so terrible.”

Huffing a soft laugh, you nodded. “Look forward to flying with you too. What say you we go invade the rest of the barracks and find our crew?”

A small smile twitched onto her lips, a tiny spark that quickly grew into a blaze. Andie’s hand shot up, her fingers beckoning demandingly.

“Let me see that list.” She eyed you expectantly, a devious edge to her grin and you slowly surrendered it, watching her peruse the names rapidly. “Plenty to work with here…. Barbara? Crying out for a proper moniker, that one.”

Pleased she seemed to have found some satisfaction in plotting their nicknames, you watched her rise to her feet, walking towards the door together with your raincoats. Securing the cumbersome olive drab fabric around your bodies, naturally, brought the rain to a halt and you sighed deeply, shaking your head as you walked along the slick boards to the next building.

Two eager faces lifted from where they sat on the ends of their racks, the rest of the building already emptied as the other crews seemed to have collected their Navigators and Bombardiers. Glancing over Andie’s shoulder to confirm the names, you looked back to the hopeful women.

“Jones and Wilson?”

The speed with which they shot to their feet was nothing short of endearing and you nodded to them softly, offering your name. “Pilot. This is Andie, Co-pilot.”

“Nice to meet you, Babs.” She grabbed the hand of the willowy brunette Bombardier, shaking it firmly before turning to the Navigator with glossy dark hair and an hour-glass figure. “Gina.”

The women exchanged a curious glance and you shrugged softly. “Most of us have found it easier not to fight it, only seems to make her more determined. We’re just on our way to find the rest of our crew, care to join us?”

“Oh absolutely.” Babs gushed enthusiastically as Gina nodded with a polite “Yes, please.”

Your duo growing to a quartet, you thus moved onward, heading for the furthest of the barracks buildings. There you located the shortest member of your crew, Minnie Jacobsen, whom Andie gleefully dubbed ‘Mouse.’ It was had to deny how clever that particular one was. The pair of waist gunners, Schroeder and Fletcher – nicknames to come, apparently, were picked up in the fourth building. There you also found Torres, the tail gunner, who introduced herself as Nita, clearly in no need of Andie’s assistance.

The last two members of your crew were located in the barracks situated dead centre in the row, Flight Engineer Inez Veiga – thenceforth to be known as Ivy thanks to the amusing phonetics of her initials and Radio Operator Mildred Gaige – a simple Millie. Finding yourselves collected for the first time in an empty building, with its neatly spaced rows of beds and footlockers, cast iron woodstoves at either end for heat, you looked them all over slowly, feeling the gravity of this moment.

Their expectant faces turned to you, driving home how much they would rely upon you for direction throughout this endeavor.

“Ladies,” You nodded firmly, clearing your throat to steal a moment to pluck up your courage. “We have the opportunity to prove to our country, to the entire world, that a woman’s place can be in combat same as any man. To succeed, we have to fly faster, find our targets with more accuracy, and eliminate all threats to our squad without hesitation. Where they are satisfactory, we must be excellent, understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Came a chorus of sharp replies, though several sets of eyes betrayed the nerves lurking beneath and Lionheart’s warning against intimidation whispered back through your brain.

“The Army Air Forces have trained each of you in your role, you have proven yourself, earned those badges on your chests. I have every faith that we will make the finest crew they have ever seen.”

The smiles that earned brought a flutter of relief to your gut, solidified by Andie’s nod, before the sound of your name had everyone turning towards the door to see Ruby Keever eyeing you expectantly.

“Thornton is gathering the 280th in one of the classrooms, bring your crew.” She nodded firmly, ordering you as though she was not the same rank as you, before slipping back out into the once-again driving rain.

“Good ol’ Keener.” Andie chortled, earning more than a few laughs from her new audience.

“One of these days, Andie, I’m going to accidentally call her that to her face.” You huffed and affixed your cap onto your head before covering it with your hood, leading your crew out into the ugly weather.

After the excitement of crew assignments, the afternoon of lectures on decorum and the importance of the 280th as female ambassadors into the male-dominated world of combat was a stark change of pace. Having spent months in Thornton’s periphery, absorbing every bit of knowledge she saw fit to impart in your presence, not much of it was new, but she was a passionate speaker. And while some of it was tough medicine – fraternization discouraged, becoming ‘in the family way’ meaning immediate discharge, remaining civil and lady-like no matter what conditions were thrust upon you all – she still found a way to engage with each of the women gathered before her from all different walks of life.

“In four minutes I will be releasing you to enjoy your first meal in the mess. The enlisted women share their mess with men of the same rank while us officers are in a separate mess with those of our rank. I am not sure how things were handled at your various technical schools, but I recommend entering in groups, ensuring your lead and tail person are on alert for any…unwarranted attention.”

How things went in the mess had varied wildly in your experience. At first, it had been akin to running a gauntlet, swatting and dodging hands, procuring your food from the chow line to then retreat to the safety of assigned tables. Once the novelty of the female pilots had worn off, so too had the unwanted attention. It was honestly a matter of training your male colleagues. Desensitizing them.

“Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will begin training flights. To my knowledge, there are only fifteen B-17s on base at present, so there will be a rota drawn up that is fair to all squadrons. Those not flying will have classroom instruction or base duties. That is all for today ladies, thank you kindly for your attention.”

Smothering your disappointment at the typical Army lack of equipment, you parted ways with the enlisted women in your crew, watching fondly as they walked off in a tight group towards the mess.

“Lieutenant.” Thornton’s voice startled you for the second time that day and you bit back a curse at how inept you surely appeared as you saluted her. “Would you mind being our mess tail this evening?”

“Not at all, Ma’am.” You nodded, watching the officers flock toward her, patiently waving them ahead of you, including Lionheart who winked at you.

“You watching my rear?”

Rolling your eyes you shuffled after her along the somewhat drier boards, sliding your hands into your pockets for a modicum of warmth against the cool breeze that had picked up. “Safe with me, Lionheart.” You muttered, half in jest, half in earnest.

“’preciate it you know.” She giggled, stepping into the humid, bustling officer’s mess.

It was already packed, the men nearly all seated and tucked in, though all eyes were now raised to focus on your group. Stopping to pull the door shut against the wind, you were two steps behind Lionheart when you spotted the encroaching hand of some unknown Lieutenant, reaching to grab a handful of her rear end where she stood waiting in line.

Lurching forward to seize his wrist in an excessively tight grip, you turned to meet his dull brown eyes, wide as saucers.

“You’d be wise to keep your hands to yourself, Lieutenant.” You muttered coldly, tightening your hand about his wrist for emphasis before dropping it carelessly.

Turning your back to him, you met your friend’s startled face and offered her a wink. “Safe with me.” You whispered, pressing your lips together as she barely contained her giggles, quickly moving forward to close the gap with the end of the line.

“Cuddly as a cactus, that one.” The bitter voice of the would-be groper was almost inaudible over the general din of the room.

“Honestly, pal, you’re lucky she didn’t box your ears. Woulda deserved it, too; tryna to play grab ass with a lady you don’t know.” The scolding, delivered in a brash New York accent, almost made you look over your shoulder fondly. Somehow you resisted the urge.

Slowly undoing the snaps of your raincoat against the warmth of room, you looked to the side as it felt like someone was watching you. While you were aware more than several someones were, this gaze was somehow particularly aggravating…Meeting the blue eyes of that Brady from before, though he held a spoon between his lips this time rather than a pipe, his was expression just as indiscernible.

Lips hardening into a thin line, you firmly looked away, focusing intently on the way Lionheart’s hair had yet again escaped its pins to brush against the collar of her raincoat.

“You need to fix that mane before Thornton gives you a uniform violation.”

She sighed dramatically, twisting the errant locks up and ruthlessly shoving a few spare pins in to hold it. “Thinking of shaving it all off, what do you think she’d say then.”

“She’d probably have a stroke, I think.” You smirked and shuffled forward to grab two trays, handing her one once her hands were free.

“It would just be so much simpler though, wouldn’t it? I envy their haircuts, I do.” She muttered, collecting her mashed potatoes, thick stew, and pudding of a questionable consistency.

“Twice as many girls envy your hair.” You assured her. “Maybe you should start braiding it instead of using pins.”

Lionheart glanced back at you, eyes bright with the idea. “Say that’s a swell thought, wanna help me out with that tonight?”

“Sure, just keep your eyes front on the way to your seat, would ya?”

Settling into the crowded table, you allowed the conversation of the surrounding women to flow over you as you ate, suddenly realizing just how hungry you were. Despite the occasional lump, and the fact that it had not quite set, the pudding was a nice treat, a pleasant way to finish the meal before you all headed back to barracks to battle back the mud that had been tracked in throughout the day. Once your boots were polished to gleaming and set at the end of your bed, you worked with Lionheart to devise two braids to contain her hair that could then be pinned up off her collar.

Sliding, at last, beneath the rough sheets, the cumulative effort of the day allowed you to overlook the inconsistent construction of your mattress, sleep coming quickly.

The first morning of one hundred women attempting to prepare for the day using one shower house and one set of latrines was admittedly less than smooth, your eyes meeting Thornton’s several times in the midst of the uncontrolled chaos until she eventually had to send half the girls back to their barracks to finish their hair and makeup without mirrors.

“Keever, I need you to make a shower schedule. Half in the evening, half in the morning. Ten-minute intervals or we’ll never be on time.” She turned to her incessant shadow who was already bobbing her head eagerly and jotting down notes on a small notepad you had not even seen her procure.

Restricting yourself to brushing your teeth and a simple refresh in the sink, you returned to barracks to tidy your hair and dress for the day. You even had time to spare to help Lionheart with her new hairdo, which earned an approving nod from Thornton in the breakfast line.

As you were eating your cloyingly thick powdered eggs and toast, a ripple of groans began to echo across the room. Raising your head, you noticed stacks of papers were being passed around, reaching the ladies tables last. Scanning your eyes over the schedule for the next five days, you were pleased to see that the 280th was going to be flying that very afternoon – you could only assume the groans were from the boys in the 349th, 350th, or 351st as they would not have their chance until tomorrow or later.

That morning, while the 418th were breaking in the brand-new B-17s, the ambiguous words ‘base duties’ lay next to your squadron while the rest would be ‘enjoying’ classroom instruction. Base duties, as it turned out, entailed a lot of manual labor and organization of the piles of newly arrived equipment while awaiting your flight time of 1300. It was difficult to keep your eyes from drifting up to the surprisingly clear sky where the great looming shadows of planes enviably circled overhead, practicing their combat formations. You could only hope they 100th would soon have enough planes for all of you to be up there perfecting your hard-won skills…

Eating a light helping of the porkchops and rice at lunch, you were more than a little eager to get back into the cockpit, smiling warmly to the enlisted women of your crew as they waited eagerly outside the hangar.

“How’re we feeling ladies?” You asked as you, Andie, Babs, and Gina joined them.

“Well when I saw that list, I was fit to be tied Ma’am. Sure wish we could have gone up first, but second’ll do!” Mouse exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Second is certainly better than fifth.” You nodded in agreement and waived them inside the hangar as Dutch called for the squadron to gather round.

A large blackboard had been wheeled out into the empty space, a list of maneuvers to be practiced on the left and the last names of the ten Pilots on the right, all in an untidy hand.

“Alright ladies, listen up. Today’s flight will be below 10,000 feet, no masks required. We will not be carrying any ordinance, simply practicing combat formations and two, maybe three runs over the bomb range if time and weather permit. Just dipping our toes in the water as a squadron at this point.

I’ll be flying with Thornton in the lead, the rest of you will follow in this order. This is nothing new for any of you but the first time you are doing this with your crews – gunners you will be expected to take your positions following takeoff. Any questions?”

After a lull, several of the pilots shook their heads, feeling confident in having committed flying order to memory. Your plane would take off third, flying opposite Lionheart’s just behind the lead plane in the typical V-shape formation once assembled in the air. Dismissed to board and conduct your pre-flight checks, you were more than a little annoyed to find there was an audience of men lining the hardstands – clearly brimming with curiosity, and surely sharing Friedkin’s doubts about the entire squadron’s flying capabilities.

The hulking planes loomed ahead, bristling with machine guns, widely believed to be the safest aircraft in the sky. A ‘flying fortress’ that, thanks to the Norden bomb sight, could fly well above land-based defences. It was these very attributes that Thornton had weaponized in her battle against Congress and the USAAF, winning this experimental exception for women to fly into combat in this aircraft only. For now. The need to achieve their goals, exceed their expectations so that more progress could be made, was not lost on you.

Tossing your flight bag into the bottom of the aircraft, you gripped the sides of the hatch and easily swung yourself upwards, legs first, after it. Navigating through the cramped, narrow passages, you settled into the lefthand seat and affixed your throat mic and head set before nodding to Andie on her arrival. Running through the pre-flight checklist with her, you slid open your window to communicate with the ground crewman, starting up each engine one at a time before he pulled the chocks.

Rolling out to line-up on the runway felt like the most normal thing you had done in the days since you left Texas, wending your way up here on a series of passenger trains only to find yourself in unfamiliar landscape and a fresh crop of unfriendly faces. Thirty seconds after Lionheart successfully took to the air, you received the signal from the man on the ground, sliding your window shut and pushing up on the throttle as Andie rattled off the ever-increasing speed until the airlift swept the plane smoothly into the sky.

 It proved a beautiful day for flying, not too rough, not too many clouds. You and Andie began to build your cockpit partnership, and the hand-offs with Babs during the practice bombing runs were effortless. It honestly came as a surprise when Dutch called an end to the practice run over the radio, the entire affair having been so enjoyable, the squadron lining up for an even-more well attended landing. Sliding from your aircraft with a grin on your face, you noted the familiar faces of Friedkin, Larkin and Pratt, gathered conspiratorially, wearing broad smirks. That Brady fellow was there too, but accompanied by an unknown blond with glinting gold in his smile and a shorter man with tousled dark hair barely contained beneath his cap.

In fact, it seemed impossible to get away from that Brady fellow as, apparently a member of the 418th, you would have to endure his presence during classroom hours as well. Taking a seat as far from him as you could, flanked by Lionheart and Andie, you diligently focused on the instructor at the front of the room.

“Point of review, what is your best option if your engine catches fire?” The middle-aged Lieutenant Colonel raked his eyes over the class.

The answer immediately popped into your head, a steep dive to attempt suppressing the fire, but you hesitated to raise your hand. On more than one occasion, you had been advised to give other students a chance to answer. That perhaps you took up too much air in a classroom. And so you held your tongue, silently counting to ten.

You reached ‘eight’ before the instructor raised his eyes a few rows back.

“Yes, please state your name before you answer.”

“John Brady. Shut off the fuel and feather it, sir.” He spoke confidently, accent so mild as to be indiscernible.

You furrowed your brows as you disagreed and raised your hand immediately.

“Yes, name and answer.”

Giving your name, you swallowed. “I would put the plane into a steep dive to suppress the fire and level out once it was extinguished.”

There was an almost inaudible scoff emanating from the direction of one John Brady and you straightened in your seat.

“So that I could finish my mission, sir.” You added firmly, earning a nod of approval from the instructor.

“Fine answer.” He declared before belatedly adding. “Both of you. It was a bit of a trick question, as it would truly depend on any number of factors, which option you as the Pilot choose. However, it is important to remember that you have more than one at your disposal.”

Instruction continued for another three hours that morning, your fingers cramping from the extensive notes you added to the margins of your training manual. As you were dismissed for lunch, you waived off the pats on the back you were getting from your squadron-mates, collecting your cap from where it hung on the back of your chair. Standing stiffly, you turned to meet the icy glare of Brady, starting a little at the intensity of it.

The nerve of that man, to be caught dead in the company of men like Friedkin and his goons, and then to glare at you for providing an alternative answer in class? Narrowing your eyes in kind, you sharply turned to follow your friends from the room, entirely decided he was the worst that the USAAF had to offer.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

thank you to @xxluckystrike for her prompts - it's certainly been a while, but here's my response to the other one, since I couldn't choose between the two! (the first prompt is here)

sick -> gwen dastrup x john brady

Sweat-slicked hair plastered itself to John's forehead as he left interrogation, life jacket and parachute harness still hanging limply from his shoulders as he emerged into the afternoon sunlight, revelling in the feeling of warmth on his cheeks, savouring the feeling of simply being alive. The smell of fresh coffee hung thick in the air, meeting his nose with a welcoming inhale, anxious not only for the drink but the hand that delivered it.

The Red Cross women had set up their table as usual, handing out coffee and doughnuts to the returning aircrews. Always the same - always coffee and doughnuts, day in, day out. Brady could imagine one growing tired of the taste, but with Gwen handing them out, he knew he never would. He could always tell when she'd made the doughnuts that morning - he couldn't quite pin what was different about them, they just tasted better. But today was to prove disappointing.

Helen and Tatty stood alone, a marked gap in their ranks as he approached, brow furrowed. He could picture exactly where Gwen was meant to be, standing between the others, whisking up a fresh batch of coffee or stirring in the milk as requested. But she was nowhere to be seen. As John approached, Helen caught his eye, smirking slightly as she noticed his growing frown.

"She's out today. Sick."

"How did you-?... Is she okay?"

The two women stared at him for a moment, visibly suppressing their smiles.

"She'll be fine," Tatty shook her head, resuming her work as she handed out doughnuts to passing pilots. "When I saw her this mornin' she was hopped up on cough syrup and rambling about how she'd finally have time to read Beowulf," She chuckled, and even in spite of his concern, Brady couldn't help but crack a smile. That certainly sounded like Gwen.

With an appreciative uttering of thanks and an extra stolen doughnut for the road, he left the women to their work, striding purposefully towards the long rows of Nissen huts with a singular goal in mind.

Brow furrowed, Gwen sat hunched forward atop her mattress, eyes narrowed as she pored over the words filling the pages in front of her. Unbrushed hair scraped back into a loose plait, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the foot of her bed was littered with half a dozen books, each open to pages of interest. A faint, steady ache throbbed somewhere behind her eyes, the waste basket on the floor beside her almost filled with used tissues as she attempted to blink away the bleariness that muffled her thoughts.

A sudden knock at the door surprised her, flinching so hard that she nearly knocked the medicine bottle from her bedside table. Scrambling to her feet, the floor cold through her socks, she padded to the end of the hut, fumbling with the lock for a moment before she tugged the door open, taking in the sight before her.

"Oh, thank God," She sighed. John was grinning slightly nervously, paper bag clutched tightly in one hand.

"You expecting someone else?" He chuckled.

"No, no - just glad you're alright," Gwen shook her head, too addled to notice the faint pink tint that coloured his cheeks at this.

"You look pretty."

"I look thirty seconds away from death. You wanna sit down? It's a plague house, but you're welcome to come in."

John smiled, following her inside as she wandered back towards her bed, the edge of her blanket dragging across the floor as she went. He pulled up a chair, maintaining a somewhat cautious distance but still reaching across to hand Gwen a doughnut as she sat down, the mattress springs creaking beneath her as she nestled in among the pile of books she had accumulated. Taking a bite, he craned forward, trying his best to read upside down.

"What the hell is a... Carthaginian?"

"Someone from Carthage. Duh," She teased, speaking around the chunk of doughnut in her mouth as she tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"Oh, yeah, I'm the weirdo in this situation. So, like... what happened?"

Gwen shrugged. "Went out with Michael over the weekend - walked around some old castle ruins and then got a drink. Must've picked something up."

Brady felt his jaw clench, his shoulders tense. Captain Michael Fenton of the Royal Air Force. From the moment he'd first met Gwen, the pilot had been smitten, much to John's annoyance. He was rich and influential and could afford to get the time off to take Gwen to fucking castles. It had been a while since he had declared the man a personal enemy, but she continued to indulge his kindnesses, seemingly ignorant of his intentions.

"Sounds... good," He said tersely. Reaching for a tissue, Gwen was just in time to raise it to her face before she let out a sneeze, grabbing the bottle of cold medicine as she tossed the tissue into the bin. "How much of that have you had?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Gwen," John scolded, prying it from her grip before she could take a sip. "You're not gonna get better if you're off your head on this stuff. I need you back in action."

"D'aww, you miss me?" She joked.

"Absolutely."

"Well, I do make the best doughnuts."

"Exactly." He grinned as she let out a laugh, a little colour returning to the pallor of her cheeks. Even when she was exhausted and fogged from sickness, John Brady would've been damned to try and find anyone more beautiful. She sniffed, pausing for a moment before her expression contorted in distaste.

"You smell. By the way."

Bouncing up from his chair, Brady leant forward, their noses momentarily only inches from each other, the sheen of sweat covering her skin visible from up close.

"So do you," He spoke sweetly, bounding off towards the showers at the other end of the room. The other girls wouldn't be back for hours. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity. Gwen frowned in indignation.

"Hey!"