#nate mann fanfiction

[therealslimshakespeare]

Nine Times she thought she was, and the once she actually was #1

Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.

Warnings: very few, still, typical warnings apply, 18+, discussions of a past rape and fear of intimacy

Requested? ☑️

Circa: October 1945

Mother held up a very frilly, decidedly see-through garment with a bashful grin, bridal boutique exclusivity and the comparative privacy of the dressing room making her as cheeky as a Catholic housewife ever dared. That was Robert’s effect on everyone, it seemed, he was so solidly wonderful, so obviously perfect, his mere attention so great a compliment that becoming his wife? —everyone rightfully gave Ida no peace over how fortunate she was. Her mother more than anyone, after watching the blood sport that was their courtship, egging on one declined proposal after another until at last they were here, a week out and assembling a hasty trousseau for an even hastier wedding to be followed by a lengthy overseas assignment.

Together. Nuremberg.

“You’d like Germany in the fall.” he’d told her.

It made one’s head spin, as did the very notion of donning that toilet paper excuse for nightwear. Maureen had not needed to be told, one grunt from Ida over the phone when a trousseau was mentioned was enough: “I’ll send you a portmanteau or two”, Maureen had concluded easily, without even needing to be told why. She’d also sent along perfume, rich and woodsy with just enough vanilla that Ida felt almost a bride in it. Ida worried such deep consideration was perhaps the product of the Clevens’ own marital struggles and adjustments to peace, but that was not her concern.

“Mother.” Ida begged now with a laugh, mildly unused to such familiarity with her parent, or with such liberal inclinations.

“You’ll be married Ida!” her mother responded, pleadingly happy, “If that’s not the time for it, when?”

When indeed? That hung like a thundercloud over this whole marriage and yet Rosie had set his face to the storm and welcomed it. “So long as you’re doing the ruining” he had blithely responded to her dire predictions for marital misery in his promising young life. Companions, he had declared them

-companions didn’t wear things like that.

“I- I don’t think it would suit me.” she fibbed, thumbing at a sensible set of mulberry colored silk shorts instead.

“My dear, think of him a little.” Mother meant well, words that would make Ida bristle were said so kindly and with such good intent she could only wince while deflecting them.

Ida gave her a curt nod before slipping behind the curtain and shimmying into a slip, very much like the ones she already owned with a pretty little trim of lace around the decollege. Dove gray and striking with her complexion. She already owned and wore such a piece often, the idea of wearing it next to him sent her stomach plummeting, suddenly she saw herself as he might, boyish limbs and the slight swell of breasts leading to a trim waist and only moderate hips; she was flat and tall —it still felt too clingy.

Mother’s voice startled her on the other side of the drape, “Here’s that other size you wanted.” she offered and Ida drew back the partition. Mother stood as if aghast in admiration.

“My beautiful girl.” her voice grew thick with emotion and Ida too felt a lump in her throat at the thought of how many years had been robbed from them, first by the seperation and then by the war, they might have had many such outings and none of them so burdened. “You’ll be irresistible in that.” she said it with such pride and Ida tried so hard to cling to that as her world grew cold and her fingers and lips with it, creeping doubt and pernicious terror raising itself at last at the sheer loneliness of not even her own mother having any idea what horror such a compliment evoked. “Ida, Eye Eye, what’s wrong? My sweets what’s wrong? What did I say? Sit, sit! -there, Ida, darling.”

Ida did not realize she was crying until she was sat on the pretty velvet bench beside the mirror, sobbing like a girl in her mothers arms. “I don’t want to be irresistible.” she tried to explain through her sobs, “I don’t want to tempt him at all.”

Confused as she was, mother did not argue the rightness or wrongness of temptation and desire within marriage. She just held her daughter like she had wanted to when her father died, when her plane had been downed, when they sent her away to Florida so someone else could feed her and she came back more pilot than woman. “Alright, then you don’t need to.” Mother said instead and it brought Ida such relief a new flood of tears were unleashed, years of pent up grief and disgust flowing out of her. “Be yourself. You’re precious Ida, never meant other than that.”

-see how ugly you have now become? the Kommandant had asked her before shearing her hair.

Crumpled against her mother, red faced and quite unimpressive, she wished she were even uglier for once. Poor Robert. She had warned him.

Gaining some composure back, Ida pulled herself away and squared her shoulders, allowing mother’s arm to stay loped around them. She did not deserve to be rebuffed after such kindness. “Mother,” Ida found her voice sounded gravelly and distant even to herself but needs must, “in the war, after I was downed-“ she chose her words carefully, eyes fixated on the most unoffensive thing in the mirror, mother’s sensible brown shoes, she had long debated whether to ever even tell her,, “-I think you know, or have heard or, but, there were things…done to me…that I cannot…easily forget. Robert knows, there’s no, no um, defrauding? no defrauding happening, I have told him, he knows. But I, I don’t want -I don’t want to be irresistible.”

Ida had watched the face of her brother process what had been inflicted on her, Johnny had watched her body swell with lurid proof of it, he had wrapped the bloody product of it in the only white garment left in the camp and buried it with last rites and a muttered Ave. A shroud of innocence for a life conceived in anything but.

Ida had no appetite left to watch a mother’s face when she learned her daughter had been violated.

Mother was now the one who cried, and Ida numbly felt the burgeoning impulse to hold her in return. Awkwardly but with growing surety, she lifted her arm and tucked mother’s smaller frame to her chest, holding her shuddering shoulders, “My brave child.” mother managed in grief, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’d do anything to take it away-“ it was a natural sentiment and Ida had grown to feel herself quite unnatural for not regretting the course of duty that had placed her in such jeopardy. “Robert is -he is a good man,” mother could not grieve for herself a full minute without returning reassurances, “I wouldn’t let a lesser man have you. But now I know— no one else will do. He will be good to you and if he is not, your father’s house is always yours.”

Ida had never doubted it but to hear it vocalized, to hear it with a recently unburdened heart, the last of her terror calmed to only simmering nervousness, and with the purchase of the demure mulberry shorts, it set her lightly on her last week of singlehood.

That night, the night of her wedding, Ida brushed her teeth alongside Rosie and splashed her face alongside her husband like she had with dozens of men hundreds of times in the shower rooms. Nothing remotely off there. Nothing until she closed the door on him, he to don his pajamas in the suite and she to don them in the bathroom, then the anxiety struck lethal and sharp.

“Don’t fail me now.” she muttered to her nerves as she tried her utmost to efficiently step into the sensible mulberry satin shorts after pulling off the sensible and smart wedding suit she’d been wearing.

She stalled at the door, trying to prepare herself for anything on the other side of it. Robert greeting her with excitement despite all their talks to the contrary of trying anything tonight, or any other night in the near future. Robert hitting the whiskey and passing out pleasantly only to forget his promises in the middle of the night. Or somehow worst of all -Robert lying in bed stiff as a board while waiting for her to shuffle under the sheets already and lay beside him. What then? shut the lights out like two senile dotards? That could hardly be borne, despite how dreamy he made it sound to have celebate sleepovers and chaste companionship. She’d rather take matters into her own hands tonight and pull him bodily inside than endure such stiltedness.

When she opened the door and spied him, nothing could quite prepare her. But then again, surprise was hardly the predominant sentiment. It was gratitude at being right. For deep down in all her doubting she had anticipated him taking her by such pleasant surprise she would never guess it -but never to be confounded.

Prim and homely in his flannel cover and blue pajamas, hair still immaculately lacquered except for where her voracious kisses had done them harm, sat Rosie on the suite carpet, cross legged before a meticulously stacked tower of wedding presents. Beside him was an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries.

“You absolute dreamboat.” she accused in a gush, hand over her gaping mouth.

Robert’s eyes flicked up, blue and warm all at once, and those smile lines carved their way deeper into his cheeks. “Come on,” he held up a neatly wrapped present, “I can’t guess this one by shape and it’s driving me nuts. Let’s get it open so I can sleep.”

When they had gone to sleep, Ida had imbibed so much champagne and indulged in enough kisses she was foolish and pliant. She wiggled her eyebrows when he rolled beside her, close enough to heat the cradle of her thighs; Robert had only laughed warningly and rolled off. When she woke to sunlight streaming into unfastened drapes, warmth near her but not pressing against her, and Rosie’s dark mustache aglow with amber flecks, she was rewarded for her good faith. The curls had come to harm in his sleep and she pushed them off his forehead to wake him.

“Morning.” she whispered.

His smile was dazzling, somehow even more so with his puffy eyes and his loose, drousy lips catching against her palm, “Morning, Mrs Rosenthal.” his voice tickled her, “We’ve got a boat to catch.”

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[rosienthal]

looks like daddy loves the story so much he decided to read the rest of it after the kid's asleep.

[love-studying58]

SURPRISE!!!!!!

A sneak peek into my fictional series ~ Defenders of the Sky

This snippet is told from Major John Egan’s point of view. This is not the first chapter.

Word Count: n/a for this post.

Author’s Note: All ideas are my own. I will be adding a consistent playlist of songs before each chapter for nearly all the characters I write about. Each chapter will consist of different point of views; multiple perspectives will be present depending on plot events.

Warnings: There will be future mentions of war, extreme slow burn, swearing, death, mentions of POW and concentration camps, nazi guards, historical inaccuracy/timeline inaccuracy, mentions of abuse, PTSD, a soldier’s mental anguish, killing, man/woman relationships, hurt/comfort, pov first person, language, mutual pining, gore, angst, alcohol, smoking, military terminology, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, death, violence, debilitating mental thoughts, eventual smut.

Thank you for all your requests. I am making an effort to write everyday, so patience on your part is greatly appreciated. I do not want to promise an eventual deadline for completion, but will keep you guys updated.

I do not own HBO, Band of Brothers, The Pacific, or Masters of the Air, nor do I own any of the characters. I mean no disrespect toward any of the actors on this show.

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged for upcoming posts. 🏷

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A rough voice accompanied by a tap on my shoulder rouses me. I groan inwardly, squinting beneath the unremitting beam of light. My whole body is tight from lack of sleep.

“Come on, Major. Breakfast is at four-thirty. Briefing at five-fifteen.” Of course, another mission. I hate the unexpected.

A momentary frisson of annoyance runs through me as I roll onto my back, “I’m up,” I mutter, dismissing the officer until he departs and the harsh, inciped, white light weakens.

I casually position my left bicep under the pillow and close my eyes again, but I know its imperative I get to the briefing as soon as I can.

My head feels thick because of drink, still. The enticement of dancing among young women and the ability to have as many drinks as I preferred felt to congenial. 

Thoughts of two nights prior flood my senses; my dance with Susan.

I liked her, particularly because of her attractive features; her dark mid-length hair and fanned out eyelashes. Her amber-flecked eyes were ones I could drown in. 

Are you sure you like her, just for that matter? The thought is morose. Have you ever liked a woman for more than her features? Was I ever honest, though?

The sobering truth is inconsequential; I’d rather find a distraction and swallow back a few drinks in order to keep my mind halted for a few hours. It’s because of this war. This war. Maybe it could be temporary. War is normal now, Egan, I surmised.

I notice a few of the other men are also awake; the rustling of cotton sheets and disgruntled murmurs are familiar to me now. Our mission won’t end unless our own plane gets blown apart or we land behind German lines; the frailty or mere occurrence of either happening, few cared to discuss.

Watch it, Bucky, Buck Cleven’s voice echoed in my head. He had been staring slightly at me with his usual, calculated, appreciation that night. It’s one dance; not a lifetime. I was too drunk at the time to apprehend what he meant; if it nuanced at teasing, I couldn’t decipher it. Buck’s personality very seldom suggested humour. She might not fancy you. Not even a wry joke.

My senses felt too relaxed and obstructed by the faint stupor of the alcohol. I had responded to him anyways, telling myself I could dance with her if I wanted to, Ah, come on Buck, for once, leave the dancing to me tonight. You’re too involved with Marge to have any fun.

Cleven had watched me, indignant, grinning with easy noncompliance.

I smirk. Good old Buck. Trying to deter my persistence; the only man I know who has a picture of his girl, Marjorie, in his left breast-pocket. Keeps her photo on the dash of his B-17. The only man who decides to dance with Meatball when he could be waltzing with some American Red Cross woman.

Cleven was like that; polished, a man of integrity, one who kept his word. A reliable friend. A friend more than a mere acquaintance.

[whamcitycomedy]

HELP i never actually watched tanking mann before and I’ve been losing it over nate/joe, the poor british guy they left alone in the void talking to himself for like 30 minutes, and then the realization that he is in fact multiple-time fanfiction showdown costume contest winner joebotnik, hit me like a train

[therealslimshakespeare]

Hello love!

Could you please give a sneak peek of the day Rosie proposed to Ida and how she reacted?

Thank you !

Proposal #1 -for there were many

Thank you for this sweet request, how I adore these two and being given the nudge to finally dig into their fledgling dynamic. Thank you for your patience as I scribbled this out over weeks

Warnings: pretty fluffy, next to none besides a tiny bit of suggestive thoughts and a vague reminiscence of sexual abuse = brief thought process that being alone with a man is courting violence

Rosie x Ida

Date: fall of 1945

This apartment had hardwoods, cherry with perfectly straight painted crown molding and a fireplace. The city screeched and buzzed out the windows, a dizzying drop downward.

“Two doors down, you said?” she asked Robert again, not having in any way, shape or form forgotten how close his apartment was to this prospective new home of hers. It was downright scandalous, and Ida found herself half enjoying that, the look of affronted decorum the bellkeep gave them when Robert snagged the keys to show her -unescorted- the rooms for lease.

“Yeah, two down on the left.” Robert was leaning against the kitchen counter and watching her unproductively trail her fingertips over the hallways paint job. “We could go in together on it.” he added, and that sort of voice of his made her shiver. In a nice way, a panicked sort of nice. When Robert Rosenthal tested the limit it was always with finesse. “Or you could check mine out. It’s got a better fireplace.”

Ida was rusty at flirting but banter she knew. She stalwartly kept her back to him lest those blue eyes make her foolish and continued to stroke the paint. “Does it have hardwoods, though? Mm?”

“I’ve got hardwoods.” his voice had reached a new low and Ida’s spine was alight from it.

She hardly recognized this creature toeing the line with him, inviting scandal, enjoying a man in pursuit, asking to see his apartment. What did she hope to inspire? Presumption? Ruination? Violence, even? There were so many reasons not to enter a bachelor’s apartment alone, and yet Ida asked, “May I see them?”

Robert never denied her anything. That was what was intoxicating about him. Nothing of himself was off limits. Poor behavior and bad decisions? He halted them in her as unwaveringly as her father but of himself? He was a wellspring of generosity. “Of course.”

His apartment was beautiful, if a little bare. Cluttered more than homey, records and case files scattered about but it was clean in the ways that mattered. And it smelled of him, his soap and his cologne and whatever invention he used to maim his curls into submission. She had treasured those scents on his scarf and now she had a whole location to breathe him in. It was staggering.

Robert watched her in his space the same as he had in the empty one, closely, yearningly, from a distance. For Ida to have come at all meant a great deal, she’d told Egan as much in excuse for not going and he’d told her in return she was ready. And here she was, feeling very rash, very torn and not at all like an intern reviewing prospective housing in a new city.

It was never going to be just that. Not with Rosie. She knew that and it terrified her.

“Want coffee?” He offered, breaking the stillness, that’s something she loved about his company, the way he never had to fill the space with more than what they brought to it. “You’re here now.” he cajoled and was already scooping grounds before she gave him a shy nod.

“Coffee would be lovely.”

He hummed as he filled up the pan, tinkering around in a not fully sterile kitchen. It had elements and food products and Ida was glad to see he was taken care of. “Choose a record.” he told her as she spaced out, intrigued beyond reason at the rolled up sleeves along his forearms.

“What?” she startled.

“Put on a record.”

Out of mischief alone she put on Tommy Dorsey. They’d had arguments over this, but he shouldn’t have owned any of he didn’t want her to play a jest. The pumping beginnings of Sunny Side of the Street began to tug into melody when she felt him, so close it would have been reason for spooking except she caught his approach in the reflection of the great glass windows, it was growing dark outside and she was still here and he was making her coffee and his hand on her waist suggested he intended to dance with her.

They were very good at dancing together. She loved their easy flow, missed the feeling of his strength with every spin and turn, his shoulder during a sway, agile hands when he tossed her off. He’d never asked when they were alone. The intimacy was unlike anything she’d ever felt as the coffee gurgled in the background and Dorsey’s trumpets blared and Rosie Rosenthal swayed her beneath his hands and a heavy lidded gaze.

“—Grab your coat, don’t forget your hat but leave your worries, leave ‘em on the doorstep, life’s sweet, just direct your feet to the su-sunny side of the street—“

Ida folded her hand over the soft fabric of his shoulder and laid her cheek there, knowing with a lesser man she’d be asking for trouble. Robert had some in store for her, but not the sort to dread. “I’d make a great to do about this if I didn’t think you’d just up and leave a nice dinner in the middle of my speech—“ he began to talk and she closed her eyes, just breathing him in and feeling him move her in tiny steps along his living room rug. Perhaps his mother had picked it out for him. Ida liked his mother and she liked Ida and she had told her to look after her soon in that grand apartment building. Robert couldn’t budge her from Brooklyn— “so I’m doing it now and I don’t want an answer right now either. But Ida, you know, y-you know this is coming and I’ve got to say it. I want you to marry me.”

Maybe she knew but still, it was startling. She felt her eyes smart and that alone was a surprise, not a sort of response she anticipated of herself. She screwed them shut all the tighter and pressed her cheek nearer to him. He knew so much -how could he ever want this.

“I’ve applied, Ida, to be an assistant council. For the trials over in Germany.” his voice was professional, gentle, she tried to breathe, “The way I see it, you haven’t even begun exams yet, you’ll learn more as my assistant over there than a whole year here floundering without contacts. It wouldn’t be a waste even on the professional level, you know? But that’s not all, you know it’s not all.”

“Robert.” she breathed.

“If they accept me that’s a year apart, that’s me over in Germany and calling you every day and it being too many hours apart and-“ he sounded genuinely panicked himself at the thought, “there’ll be censors and I’ll only get to tell you about the bratwurst I had for breakfast and how we really did a number on the architecture and -Ida, I don’t know about you but I can’t do it. I can’t be without you that long. The you, I mean the you I call and I know and who sorts my day out every evening with your laughs and anecdotes. Ida think on it.”

Oh she’d only ever hoped he felt the same but now he did, it was the most dreadful thing. Because he was right and that was always hard to argue with, but he also seemed genuine and that meant when she declined him he’d only be hurt, genuinely hurt. “I could go, Robert,” she thought it out, “and there’d be no need to marry.”

He shook his head, vehemently and she didn’t have to raise her own to know his eyes were wild and blue, “No, no stay or go I’ve gotta marry you, Ida. You’re it.”

“You like what we have?”

“It’s everything to me.”

“Then let’s not ruin it.” she begged. “It’ll be horrible and awful and if you think you can manage it now that’s all very sweet but one day you’ll not feel the same, and when you do then I won’t be able to take it. I’ll hold you to it, I’ll tell you I told you so. I can’t look the other way, I’m not that sort but you’re young and why won’t you? And I won’t stand for it. Don’t -let’s not ruin it, Robert. You’re too dear to me.”

He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his, smile lines crunching as he tucked his chin, she loved when he directed her like this. God she loved it. “I’m not wanting to ruin anything.” he replied levelly, “I’m trying to preserve what we have. I want this forever, Ida, forever. This, just this. Doesn’t ever need to be more, I want this.”

The record had begun to skip. “You know so much-“ she choked, “why would you ever want-“

“I love you.” it was always that simple, “And I won’t ever not. And you’re no charmer so you know when your boys and your girls love you it’s for you and you don’t doubt them and I don’t deserve that either, you’re everything good and right and what I believe in, and I wanna wake up next to you in Nuremberg Germany or Victor, New York and I wanna be reminded I’ve got a reason to go on and I wanna slip in beside you at the end of the day in our pajamas and tell you what justice we’ve done and who we’ve locked up -Ida, look me in the eyes and tell me you can do without me. Even if you can, I can’t without you. I can’t. I want you. Think on it, please sweetheart; think on it.”

He was thumbing tears away now and his own cheeks seemed to glisten. “I can’t promise you anything.” she cried, “I don’t even know if I can sleep next to you.”

“Then we’ll buy matching sofas.” he argued, “Or the adjoining apartment.”

“That’s not a wife, that’s a roommate.”

“That’s a wife -a companion.”

“A companion? What are you, ninety five? Did you have mumps as a child, Robert? Is this where this is coming from?”

“Ida, I don’t expect a damn thing from you. You know it. I think you know it.”

“Yes, which is perturbing.” she hit back, “And if you think I will progress faster with someone breathing down my neck and tapping their foot in impatience -you’re more fool than I thought.”

“This, Ida.” he was implacable, “I want this. What we have right now.”

She pulled away from his embrace, realizing how long she had allowed his arms to cradle her after their dance had ended. How heatedly they had begun to discuss this, how close he was. How handsome he looked, how well he argued—“Arguments.” she scoffed, “You want arguments?”

“I wanna marry you.” he grinned back.

“Ah yes, no see,” Ida took to pacing, a habit picked up from him and there's the rub, “that’s where we differ. Marrying me would be quite the mistake and ruin -well I can’t take credit for your life, I don't think I’ve that much power, but I do think I could manage to ruin a decent portion of your late twenties and that would be most unfair for a man of your standing and…sweetness.”

“S’long as it’s you doin’ the ruining.” Rosie rejoined lazily from his steadfast position atop Till Death Do Us Part Hill. “How ‘bout that coffee?”

“I didn’t agree to anything!” she chased after him as he ambled into the kitchen, his back looked so broad in this domestic scene.

“And I didn’t ask for an answer.”

“You’re infuriating sometimes, Robert.”

“You called me sweet five seconds ago.”

“Case in point.”

“You’re going to love law school, Ida. They train you to snap professionally, you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”

“Truly insufferable.”

“You’d like Germany in the fall.”

“Robert!”

“Here’s your coffee; black, one sugar.”

“You remembered.”

“Ida. Please.”

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[rosienthal]

Blue

a Rosie Rosenthal drabble

"Robert... I-I don't think we'd work out together," your voice breaks. You couldn't hold your tears any longer.

Rosie reaches the closest sofa to support his weight. Your words bug him in a way that they sting his chest under that blue shirt, legs wouldn't stop trembling he decides to sway impatiently.

"What do you mean?" his voice cracks. But even when his tone quivers slightly, he tries to be gentle. Like he always does.

Your heart sinks so fast you couldn't let out a voice, barely a whisper, "I've tried my best to calm myself down everytime you're out for a mission, but I'm so anxious it hurts me."

Rosie looks at you, eyes full with worry and sadness. Those clear blue eyes that you adore, but right now blue doesn't suit his pretty face.

You hate making him blue.

"I understand."