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blurredcolour · 5 months ago

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In My Blood | Part Four

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

You and Curt find a lot more than shelter for the night in Langon, but as your affection for one another only grows, you cannot help but start thinking about the fact that you are also nearing the end of your journey.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Weapons, Spy Craft, Fear, Alcohol Consumption, Smoking, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

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: 5974

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The rumble of a car engine brought your feet skidding to a halt, the scattering of gravel atop cobblestones carrying you further into the open than you intended. Curt’s hand wrapped around your wrist, hauling you back between the buildings for cover. You had been so very close, just two streets away from ‘Victoire’s’ home in Langon after creeping your way into town through ditches and alleyways. The sharp beam of a flashlight cut through the dark, ruining your night sight, making you blink furiously as you and Curt retreated further from its threatening glare.

As he pulled you around the back of the squat, brick building, pressing against you protectively, your breath hitched in your throat at the mortifyingly intense reaction his closeness evoked from your body. A shiver cascaded from the crown of your head down to the tips of your toes, leaving stiffened nipples and clenched thighs in its wake. Welding your lips shut, you forced slow, measured inhales and exhales through your nose, waiting for the sound of the car and its probing searchlight to recede, only risking a careful glance back toward the road after a good two minutes of silence. Even then, after extracting yourself from Curt’s distracting albeit shielding stance, you insisted on backtracking slightly before attempting a different approach to Victoire’s house.

Mercifully, you managed to reach her back garden with its now-empty planting beds and small shed without further encounters, knocking at the door loud enough to be heard inside but not arouse the suspicion of her neighbours. The curtain covering the small square of glass in the wooden door fluttered slightly in the darkness before the faint scraping of a chain lock being released was followed by the ‘click’ of a deadbolt. The door swung inward slowly as Victoire, a young woman not much older than yourself, appeared, swaddled in her house coat with something clenched in her hand.

As she began to step outside, forcing the pair of you to shuffle backwards out of the way, you and Curt shared a look of confusion before quickly following her in the direction of the shed. Gingerly manipulating the padlock, she carefully opened the latch and then the door for you.

“I am sorry, but the house is fully occupied.” She whispered and you nodded, clasping her hand in gratitude for any shelter she could offer, no matter how humble, before slipping into the drafty building full of empty pots and smelling of damp soil.

Taking a moment to get your bearings, you chose to slide to your suitcase beneath the potting bench before carefully moving several larger pots and gardening implements to open up enough floor space for yourself and Curt to rest for the night. The sound of the door sliding home, followed by the ‘snick’ of the padlock, made you glance back over your shoulder. The sight of Curt pulling the generous wool coat from his suitcase, the garment that you had acquired at great cost back in Beverst, barely discernable in the dark shed, made your lips curl fondly. At least he would be warm tonight. Settling onto the rough wooden floor, propped up against the wall, you swallowed your hiss at the sharp cold against your bare legs.

“Here.” Curt whispered once his suitcase was stowed next to yours, shuffling down to sit beside you, hip and shoulder pressed against yours in the limited space as he draped the coat across the pair of you.

Your eyes snapped from the dark navy fabric up to his face, inhaling sharply to find him so close, nose almost brushing his. “Curt…” You murmured softly in gratitude.

A grin of satisfaction unfurled on his features as he huddled closer to ensure you were both properly protected from the elements. There was a palpable tension between you, an electricity shimmering across your skin that made your lips part in an attempt to take in more oxygen and quell the swimming sensation in your head. Curt’s expression grew more serious, his eyes tracing along your face towards your lips, a motion like a caress that gnawed insistently at your self-control until you felt yourself lunging forward to crash your mouth against his.

A noise of surprise escaped him, only to be muffled by your lips before you felt the warmth of the coat fall away from your shoulders as his hand fought its way free to cup your cheek and pull you closer. Your lips parted with a sigh of relief, a motion which Curt quickly took advantage of, tongue swiping teasingly at the gap but never properly sliding into your mouth. Not until an indignant whimper sounded in the back of your throat, only to be rewarded by a thorough kiss that had you clinging to his shoulders until you needed to pull back to gasp for air.

You could feel the curl of his smile as he trailed his lips across your cheek to whisper, “can’t kiss a girl and not even know her first name.”

The feeling of his damp lips brushing against the curve of your ear made you shudder yet again, affection and want thrumming through your body with each beat of your racing heart. Shifting to press your lips against his ear in turn, you barely breathed your true name, a lance of fear as well as the thrill of being known rocketing through your gut. He repeated it with a soft sigh, sending your teeth sinking into your lower lip before you kissed him once more, a fierceness at hearing it tainting your actions as your hands delved into his hair, ruining the hold of the pomade he had put into it hours ago.

The heat of Curt’s palm slid down your neck across the front of your sweater to caress the swell of your breast and you hummed, arching eagerly into his touch while simultaneously growing frustrated with the awkward positions your found yourselves in. Shifting carefully, you swung your leg over his to straddle his thighs, the coat falling behind you, completely forgotten. His hands squeezed your hips warmly as you pressed a soft kiss to his lips only to pull back and begin painting kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Mapping the raised scars you could feel but not see in the darkness. After an initial huff, Curt hummed contentedly, tilting his head to offer more flesh to you as he resumed kneading your tender flesh with both hands.

Feeling your hips buck in response as you pressed a moan against his neck, he dropped one hand to your lower back, pulling your hips flush with his. The press of his hardening cock against the apex of your thighs sent your lips colliding with his once more, rocking experimentally, to your mutual pleasure – a melding of moans against your tongue. You were addicted to the way he made you feel, a woman fully alive, under your own name. Not ‘Marie,’ the fragile shell who internalized every secret and nurtured every wound.

And even though the friction of his length through his trousers against the thin barrier of your underwear made your eyes clench shut and breath shorten to harsh pants, still you wanted more. Hands sliding between your bodies, you began to work at the fly of his trousers, feeling his tongue flick at his lips, desperately trying to wet them.

“You sure?” He rasped and you eyed his silhouette a moment, swallowing roughly.

The reality of your situation was bleak, and while this was most definitely outside the bounds of propriety, the truth of it was you were either going to die or, by some miracle, make it back to England. To a world of strangers who did not, and never could, understand the truth of what you had faced. What you had endured. None of them would ever be like the man before you, would have shared the same dangers and trials. So the answer was rather easy.

“Yes.” You breathed emphatically and made quick work of freeing his cock, sealing your mouth against his neck as his blunt fingers pulled aside your underwear to slide through your slick folds.

Working together, you shifted up onto your knees to guide him into your warmth, your shaky breaths pouring into his gaping mouth as he stared up at you, brows furrowed in pleasure. Hips settling snuggly atop his, your teeth clacked against his in your desperation to smother your moan at the feeling of him seated fully inside you. Curt’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you rocked forward before you tensed your thighs to begin working your hips up and down his length, his head falling back against the tongue and groove wall, jaw slack.

Heavy sighs of your name tumbled from his lips, tone reverent and dream-like as he watched you with half-lidded eyes. Despite the fact that you remained fully clothed, to be called thus left you feeling practically laid bare before him. A pang of longing struck you, wishing you could see him better, see the flush on his cheeks. For now, the warmth of his skin beneath your hands would suffice. Was proving more than sufficient in combination with his prayerful use of your name and the fact that he was lasting far longer than the last man you had been intimate with – some pretty popinjay outside Sarah Spencer-Churchill’s debut ball who had cum within a few moments of being allowed up your gown. All told, it was a heady mixture that was making your thighs shake with the effort to drive the pair of you towards climax.

The sudden shift brought on by the bend of his knees made you gasp, planting your hands on his shoulders to avoid smacking your chin against his. You had barely stabilized yourself before his fingers curled into your hips and he began to thrust up into you insistently. A cry of sheer delight flew from lips, unfortunately only half smothered by his solicitous mouth, but thankfully it did not interrupt his exquisite rhythm, nor seem to arouse suspicion outside. Toes curling in your shoes as your nails dug into the leather of his jacket, it was not long before you were hurtling over the precipice into orgasm, clenching around him ruthlessly.

The feel of his sticky, hot release drew aftershocks of pleasure from you as you slumped against his chest, utterly spent, entire body rising and falling as his chest heaved beneath you. Curt tender kisses feathering along your temple and cheek pulled soft giggles from you, making you lift your head to press your lips against his warmly. As the flush of the afterglow slowly ebbed from your skin, the wind whistling through the gaps in the shed’s construction began to steal the warmth from your body, making you shiver yet again.

“Hold on, gorgeous, let’s get you warm.” Curt murmured softly, breathing returning to normal as he helped you rearrange your underwear before re-assembling his trousers.

Tucking you close into his chest, he gathered the coat once more, bundling the pair of you beneath it, making you hum in comfort as you burrowed your head beneath his chin. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he murmured, “sleep” and you found no desire to argue with him.

The next sensation you were aware of was the sound of the padlock rattling outside, a sure sign that Victoire had returned to summon the pair of you – hopefully for breakfast. Shafts of weak light filtered through the numerous gaps in the shed walls as you forced yourself awake, reluctantly but quickly emerging from the warm cocoon of Curt’s arms. Rain was gently but steadily pattering against the roof as you managed to settle onto the floor at his side, the pair of you presenting a quite proper sight to your host as she popped her head in.

“Come inside, there is food, and you can clean up.”

“Thank you, Victoire.” You smiled sleepily as Curt stirred beside you.

Collecting your luggage, you both followed her through the icy drizzle into her warm home that seemed devoid of all guests, only young son playing with some toys on a blanket in the kitchen where she had set out a breakfast hash of canned corned beef and potatoes.

“You spoil us.” You murmured as Curt dug in with a bright if clumsily pronounced ‘Merci,’ making you struggle against the urge to smile fondly.

“You received the worst accommodations last night, therefore you get the best breakfast.” She insisted, pouring two cups of hot coffee substitute which was bitter but warm. “Things seem busy as of late, am I right, Marie?”

Nodding as you swallowed your mouthful, you pointed down the hall as you saw Curt’s plate was empty. “Bathroom is first door on the right, you go ahead.” Turning back to Victoire you sighed heavily. “Incredibly busy, and more dangerous.” You replied in French.

She hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip from her own stained and chipped mug. “I hope you are being safe out there.”

“As much as I can.”

Her son let out a squeal of delight as he crashed one wooden car into another, drawing an exhausted smile from his mother. “At least he will never know.” She murmured, standing to ruffle his hair warmly before cleaning up from breakfast.

Curt returned from the bathroom, clothes changed and freshly shaved.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmured and took your suitcase to do the same, stripping bare to take a bath in the sink with a borrowed washcloth.

Changing the bandage on your nearly healed arm with supplies from your luggage, you then slid into a fresh outfit. Retrieving a silk scarf from the depths of your suitcase, you secured it atop your hair, both as protection against the persistent rain, and to make yourself less recognizable to anyone who might be looking for you. You certainly hoped they were still searching in Bordeaux but were not about to be unnecessarily cavalier about it. You also retrieved the last of your cash reserves from the envelope secured in the zippered portion of your suitcase, transferring it to your handbag. Things really must be coming to an end if this was all you had left.

Stepping back into the kitchen, you felt Curt’s eyes on you, assessing for a moment before he stood from where he had been entertaining Victoire’s son on his blanket. Watching curiously as he shrugged from his leather jacket, that fond smile from earlier stole its way across your face as he pulled on the wool coat – the length of it stretching to his knees and the cuffs covering his hands – before he flipped up the collar, obscuring a great deal of his face but legitimately appearing to be simply warding off the elements. In countless ways he had proven himself to be the easiest of your charges, practically a natural at sneaking his way across occupied Europe, despite your initial sense of his inability to shut his mouth. You were going to miss him.

Doing your best to ignore the way that made your stomach plummet, breath snagging on your emotions as you tried to inhale, you turned to Victoire to wish her farewell.

“Thank you again for the shelter and incredible meal.”

“My pleasure, as always, Marie. Best of luck to you both.”

“You and yours, also.” You nodded firmly, collecting your things.

Curt, as soon as he finished rolling up the overly long sleeves of his coat, did the same, nodding to your host before the pair of you headed out into the rain, shoulders hunching as a natural barrier against the wind. It was a fifteen-minute walk from Victoire’s house to Langon Station – a long building of pink brick and white stone, much more understated than the rest of the stations you had visited thus far on your journey. Damp and tired, you were unspeakably grateful that the Nazi officer on duty barely glanced at your papers, waving you onto the ticket counter where you were relieved to learn that trains were indeed running to Toulouse today.

Once again, the train in service was small, with no private compartments available. Wedging yourself side-by-side with Curt, you pinched the inside of your cheek between your teeth, doing your utmost to ignore the way it felt utterly different to have his body pressed against yours. Rather than sleeping, a glance over at him revealed that Curt was leaning against the window to watch you quietly, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Bowing your head under that love-struck gaze, you swallowed roughly, trying your very best to remain focused on the final leg of your journey for which you were responsible. With numerous stoppages, some on sidings to allow freight trains to pass, some for absolutely no clear purpose, as well as one transfer at Agen, it took nearly the entire day to reach Toulouse.

While it gave the pair of you the opportunity to thoroughly dry out, it also left each of you feeling remarkably hungry by the time you reached ‘Françoise’s’ apartment. As the door swung open, the sight of her cloud of snow-white hair, barely contained in a semblance of a style despite numerous pins, with her shadowy black cat Charbon weaving himself around her ankles, was nearly enough to make you collapse with exhaustion and relief.

“Ah, come in.” She whispered and ushered you both inside quickly, casting a glance around the hallway behind you before firmly shutting the world out with an extensive number of deadbolts and chains. “Marie, welcome. Who is your friend?”

“Curt.” He smiled, setting down his suitcase to offer his hand, which Françoise eyed a moment before shaking with an unusually strong grip for a woman in her sixties.

“You both look ready to fall asleep, go rest and I will find something to feed you.”

“Bless you, Françoise.” You murmured, leading Curt down a short hallway to point out the washroom and showing him into his room. “You can sleep here, keep the curtains closed and your voice down.”

He nodded, eyeing you a moment, but a persistent meow interrupted anything he may have been about to say.

“Yes, Charbon, you can come have a nap with me.” You smirked. “Rest well, Curt.” You turned, the cat trotting happily in your wake into the room next door, hopping up onto the bed expectantly.

You took a few moments to remove most of your clothing before slipping beneath the blankets and fell deeply asleep to the sound of an enthusiastically purring cat. Waking to a stew of beans accompanied with thick slices of a coarse bread, you and Curt devoured all that Françoise could set before you, chatting briefly over cups of tea before you all turned in for the first solid of night of sleep you had enjoyed in weeks. Charbon, of course, spent the night with Françoise who slept with her door open to give him free run of the apartment. Enjoying showers and a filling breakfast the next day, you turned to Françoise to begin planning the last and most physically demanding portion of your journey.

“I will make contact with the Ponzáns, would you be able to acquire two rucksacks for us? We will have suitcases to leave in return.”

Her black eyebrows, hand drawn with a makeup pencil, jumped nearly to her hairline. “Two.” She echoed flatly before retrieving a cigarette from a tarnished silver case. The scent of bitter German tobacco filled the air, a vivid reminder of why you had given up the habit. “Marie, you are leaving.”

It was not a question, but you nodded in answer all the same.

Her mouth twisted in displeasure, the scarlet of her lipstick interrupted by the cracks of age. MI9 liked to call her eccentric, you simply viewed her as a woman who had lived a full life and refused to let the expectations of age dictate how she ought to continue to live now.

“A great loss.” She sighed with an exhale of smoke through her nostrils, tapping the ash into a crystal ashtray, one of many that lived on every surface in her apartment. “Well, it will do no good dwelling, you and I must get to work. I am sure they will ask for a great price to ferry you, however.”

You grunted in agreement, all too certain that Pablo’s eyes would light up in an hour or so. “Hopefully it is not be the crown jewels.” You sighed and a rattling laugh burst forth from her throat.

“Might very well be, Marie.” Her hand with its dry, paper-thin skin patted at the back of yours before she leveraged herself to her feet. “Now, Curt, have you ever washed a dish?”

“No, ma’am, but I am not above trying.” He replied, wrenching his eyes from you and following the woman to the kitchen.

Collecting the dishes from the table, you set them on the counter in the small kitchen before heading to your room to collect your handbag, ensuring your knife and gun were both readily available within. Pausing in the doorway, you took a moment to enjoy the sight of Curt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in the dishpan as Françoise provided stern guidance at his side.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” You said gently, nodding as both of them turned back to you quickly.

“See you soon, dear.” Françoise nodded.

“Be safe.” Curt said firmly, eyeing you intensely, surely in a bid to communicate his desire for you to return without injury, covered in blood, or having shot someone else.

“That is the plan.” You replied reassuringly before slipping back out, pleased to find the rain had ceased.

The walk to the bookstore was remarkably pleasant, though the crisp autumn air drove your hands into your pockets to keep warm. Stepping inside, the bell chiming overhead, you nodded with a friendly smile to the man behind the counter. You did not know his name, nor he yours, but he was a friend of the Resistance. A conduit for the Françoise Line to reach the Ponzán Group to guide downed airmen across the Pyrenees. And now, hopefully not at too great a price, yourself as well.

Perusing the shelves for a time, reading the synopses of a few books before putting them back, you walked up to the counter once you were certain the store was empty.

“Good afternoon. I was wondering if you had any books on Saint Christopher?”

As you spoke, the rack of comic books on display at his elbow caught your eye, the illustration of a boxer prominent on the cover. Momentarily distracted by the thought that you should purchase a copy for Curt, you huffed inwardly at your schoolgirlish distraction, looking to the shopkeeper as he replied.

“That’s a good question. I might have a few options in the back, one moment.” He slipped out from behind the counter to lock the front door before leading you into the back room and down a set of stairs narrowed by stacks of boxes, knocking on the door before it swung inward to reveal Pablo himself.

“Well, well, if it isn’t you.” He nodded dismissively to the shopkeeper before turning back inside the rather well-appointed secret office. Shutting the door behind you, you settled into the seat opposite him as he tilted his head. “What can we do for you and your English friends, Marie?”

“Passage for two across the mountains with proper winter clothing for one and accessories for the other.” You replied cooly, showing that you were unaffected by his attempts to intimidate you.

“Boots too? What sizes are we talking about?” He tilted his head probingly.

Exhaling slowly. “I am not interested in playing games, Pablo. I need the winter clothing. The airman needs just the accessories. I believe he wears an American size 8 or 9 for his boots?”

His eyes glittered hard in the light of the candle on his desk, gaze narrowing greedily. “Run into a spot of trouble with the Vichy, Marie?” He taunted, putting on an infuriatingly poor impression of your upper-class English accent, the one you spoke with thanks to your mother’s tutelage. “Or was it the big bad Gestapo?” He sneered a little before grabbing a piece of paper, writing out a terrific sum of francs and a list of weapons before referring briefly to a leather notebook in his breast pocket before adding a set of coordinates. “Payment and drop location. We will confirm once we have been in receipt.”

“Right.” You replied tersely, tucking the slip of paper into your bag before standing. “Give Francisco my regards.”

“Oh I will, Marie.” Pablo grinned darkly, tenting his fingers as he watched you exit his office.

Climbing back up the stairs, you paused at the counter to purchase a newspaper, grabbing the comic book just as shopkeeper was about to give you the total and passed over the requisite number of francs for both. Taking a moment in the corner of the shop to slide the rather offensive list of demands into the paper, you tucked your purchases under your arm and headed next to a café where you would be able to pass along the Ponzán group’s order to a runner for the wireless operator in the area. Glancing at your watch, you confirmed it was just before noon, and tried not to smile as the young girl was seated in the back corner at her usual table.

Snagging a seat by the window, you ordered a black coffee and perused the comic book, pleased to see that it was most definitely the story of a boxer. Coffee finished, you deposited your payment on the table and made your way towards the bathroom, casually setting the folded newspaper on the girl’s table as you passed by before stepping into the single-stalled washroom. After flushing, you took a moment to tidy your appearance, taking a few breaths before opening the door and retrieving the empty and turned newspaper from the corner of her table, no other patron or staff person even glancing in your direction.

It was a tense walk back to the safety of Françoise’s apartment, being sure to take a circuitous route and triple-check that you were not being followed, before making your way up the stairs just as the woman herself was returning with the two requested packs. Drawing her keys from the pocket of her worn fur coat, she unlocked the numerous deadbolts before ushering you inside. As she locked up behind you, you bent to scoop up Charbon, going to Curt’s door to knock quietly.

“We are back.” You spoke softly through the wood.

It slowly creaked open, and he smiled in relief as he laid eyes on you. “Success?” He murmured and you nodded.

“It is arranged, we shall see if the price is a pill that can be swallowed.”

“For your luggage.” Françoise’s arm thrusted a rucksack between the pair of you, startling Curt before he took it with a nod of thanks. “You two probably need to do laundry now?”

“As always, you are correctly.” You set the cat down, ignoring his meow of protest as you took the other bag. “I can do that. This,” You held the comic out to Curt, “is for you.”

He took it with his other hand and smirked slowly. “Boxing…you remembered.”

Françoise shook her head and trundled down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve the laundry supplies, giving you no chance to discuss your gift to him as you gathered dirty clothes from both suitcases and worked with your host to scrub and rinse and wring for the rest for the day. Once the apartment was sufficiently strung with clothing hung to dry, intimates mercifully relegated to your respective rooms, there was dinner, and then a hushed game of poker at which Françoise mopped the floor with both of you.

The pattern continued thus for several days, Françoise keeping the pair of you busy with chores as you awaited news of a successful drop. Every evening, she would outdrink and outwit the both of you at cards, making you grateful you were only gambling with tokens and not real money. All communication with Curt was forced to be bland, sanitized, safe to be overheard by the English-speaking and ever-present woman whose apartment you were sheltering in. Only brief moments of intense eye contact across the round dining table, covered with its mended lace tablecloth, or a brushing of hands as you worked together in the kitchen to wash and dry the dishes, revealed there was something much more to the pair of you than simple traveling companions.

Retiring to your room after your third night of defeat at cards, you were feeling restless, thoroughly empathizing with animals held in cages against their will. Normally you would be out, walking the streets of Toulouse, scavenging, acquiring, making connections. But now, as a wanted and known person yourself, you too had to stay indoors as much as possible. You had always tried to be patient with your charges but had never truly understood how it felt to be in their shoes until now.

Turning your unsettled energy to more useful pursuits, you set the rucksack on your bed and carefully began to transfer the remnants of your suitcase into it, pausing as you came across the small tin of gun oil, cloth, and bore brush bundled inside a set of thick woollen socks. Setting it on the desk to your right, you finished your task, setting the empty suitcase by the door to turn over to Françoise before changing into your nightgown, a light summer affair without sleeves. Sliding a cardigan overtop of your bare and finally bandage-free, you retrieved your pistol and knife from your handbag settling in to clean your weapons.

Ejecting the clip from the pistol, you stripped it down before working with the bore brush to clean the barrel before applying a few drops to lubricant it. Turning, then, to the action, you ensured it too was cleaned and lubricated before you reassembled the weapon before moving onto your knife. You were nearly finished polishing the blade with a few drops of gun oil when your door suddenly swung open, making you jump to your feet.

“Easy, gorgeous.” Curt whispered, quietly closing the door behind him before turning the handle to let the latch slide home. “Just me.” He stood there clad only in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.

Releasing your knife onto the desk with an exhale of relief, you tilted your head in silent question, watching as he quickly closed the distance between you.

“Can’t stop thinking about you.” He sighed, sliding his arm around your back to pull you close as he kissed you deeply.

Your hands quickly rose to cup his cheeks warmly as you returned his kiss, hoping you convey you were suffering the same, despite your inability to speak at the moment. Guiding you backwards one step at a time, you were saved an uncomfortable collision with the wall as his free hand leaned up against it, ensuring your comfort as his mouth devoured yours. Hands sliding to cup the back of his head, you bit your lip as he began to nip and suck his way down your neck, humming against the expanse of skin exposed by your nightgown. As he encountered the set of buttons trailing down the front of your sleepwear, his fingers began to work at opening them, one by one, hand delving beneath the thin cotton to cup your right breast.

Sighing heavily in delight, you writhed against him, gnawing on your lip savagely as he circled his tongue around your nipple before sealing his mouth around the hardened bud. Curt seemed to be on some kind of personal mission to test your ability to remain quiet, well aware of that open door just down the hall, of neighbours through the adjoining walls, as he fought with the hem of your nightgown to trail his fingers up the outside of your thigh. Eyes meeting yours with lust-blown pupils as he found no underwear blocking his target, he cupped your mound as his mouth shifted to torture your left breast, forcing you to clamp a hand over your mouth as he parted your folds to apply mind-numbing pleasure to your clit.

The hand still clinging to his hair gripped hard as his middle finger slowly slid deep inside you, a sharp ‘merde’ escaping against your palm as you bucked, and he hummed happily against your sensitive flesh. The feeling of his ring finger joining the insistent thrusting, his thumb continuing its circling pressure, had your head rolling back and forth against the wall, desperately trying to swallow your sobs of pleasure or at the very least smother them against your hand.

“C’mon gorgeous, let me feel you.” He panted against your sternum, pleading once more with the addition of your name before pressing his lips against your skin hotly.

Hips bucking sharply against him, you were helpless not to oblige, clenching rhythmically around his fingers in release. Working you through it until he felt your body slacken against his, Curt then pulled his digits from you carefully, only to make a show of slowly licking them clean, your thighs pressing together quickly as your heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. The instant his mouth was free, you grasped his jaw and pulled him in for a hungry kiss. Pressing closer, he began to slide the hem of your nightgown high above your hips. Sensing his intentions, you quickly reached out to push down the waistband of his boxers, lifting one leg to wrap about his hips.

Pulling back from your lips, his eyes bore into yours as he rocked forward, driving his length home into your warmth. Eyes rolling back into your head, you clung to his shoulders but gasped as he suddenly hiked your second leg to wrap around him, pinning you against the wall with a cocky smirk before beginning to thrust in earnest. Drowning your moans in frantic kisses against his lips, you clutched and pulled at the straps of his undershirt, heels digging into cheeks of his ass. Body already sensitive, and his pelvis grinding so enthusiastically against your clit, it did not take long for you to climax once more.

A squeak flew from your lips as he quickly pulled from your body, sliding down the wall slightly as he deprived you of the sensation of his orgasm, his cum spraying across your lower abdomen instead. Though you supposed it was for the best in the end. Lowering one trembling leg and then another, you reached up to grab a clean handkerchief from its position on the drying line nearby, lips twitching fondly as he insisted on taking it from you to gently wipe your skin clean.

“Woulda come sooner…” he smirked briefly but soldiered on, “but that damn cat kept gettin’ in my way.” He finished with a huff.

“Charbon?” You giggled breathlessly, reaching up to smooth his hair which you had put into such disarray. “He is harmless…”

“What does that name mean, anyway?” He asked, crumpling the handkerchief into his fist.

“Charcoal.” You replied quietly, fingertips tracing along his cheekbones affectionately.

“I’ll turn him into charcoal if he tries to keep me away from you again…” He muttered gruffly, lips pressing against the pads of your fingers as they strayed too close to his mouth.

Your eyes widened at the threat against the cat’s life. “Curt!” You admonished half-heartedly before you pressed your face against his chest to smother your resulting laughter.

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Read Part Five

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick #curt biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #mota smut #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #mastersoftheair #masters of the air

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footprintsinthesxnd · 6 months ago

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Chapter 11: The Wire

Gale Cleven × Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: As the girls realise their fate is sealed for the remainder of the war, Gale makes his last flight of the war.

Collab: A Pair of Silver Wings by @major-mads

October 1, 1943: Sagan, Germany

Two days.

Two days of squalor, of the constant smell of human excrement, of pure hell. They’d stopped a few times to pick up other prisoners, prolonging the journey deeper into Germany. When the train car door finally slid open, its occupants shielded their eyes as the bright morning light shone into the car. Frank, Hope, and Ruth remained in the corner, unable to stand when the harsh commands to do so echoed through the air.

“Up!”

The airmen did their best to follow the order, but their weakened bodies slowed their movements, angering the Germans who began roughly pulling them from the train. Once the dozens of legs surrounding them stepped toward the exit, Hope clambered to her feet, her legs shaking as she helped pull Ruth up. They shared an anxious glance while Frank grabbed their jacket sleeves and led the trio toward the door behind the other POWs.

“Stay close,” he stressed, looking to each of them for confirmation. “We’re not gonna get split up this time, alright?”

It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the blinding light of the sun they hadn’t seen in a few days as they jumped down from the train, mud squelching beneath their boots. Hope could feel her heart pounding in her chest as her dark eyes scanned their surroundings. Her eyes fell upon the dark pine forest in the distance. She wondered if they always built camps surrounded by forests because it was easier to get lost if you tried to escape. The loud slam of the car door caused her to turn, noticing the hard faced guard standing at the front of their group.

The guard at the front of the group motioned toward the path with a yell. “Walk! Now!”

Ruth’s eyes widened in panic as they started walking. “Do you think they’re gonna kill us?”

“No,” Hope replied quietly, offering her friend a forced smile. She honestly didn’t know what the Krauts had planned for them but she wasn’t about to give Ruth more to worry about. “They wouldn’t transport us this far just to kill us.”

Though Ruth nodded in tentative agreement, Hope’s own doubts lingered, a silent weight pressing down upon her. The uncertainty of their fate was almost unbearable, each step forward carrying them deeper into the unknown.

Where were they going?

How long would they be there?

Would they ever see their loved ones again?

They could feel the filth clinging to their bodies with each step down the path. The mud, sweat, blood, and disgusting muck from the train car coated their clothes. It was far worse than any conditions they had experienced as nurses. The women prayed for a shower or just somewhere they could clean themselves of the grime painting their skin. After almost two weeks, the pain in Ruth’s arm dulled into a throb with every movement, and thankfully, Frank’s ribs were much the same. Hope’s bruises were beginning to fade and the deep gash above her eye had slowly closed. She still hadn’t talked about what happened to her in Dulag Luft. How could she explain it?

The path through the forest stretched on for about a half-mile before they reached the edge of the treeline. As they emerged from the forest, the sight before them stole their breath away. A vast clearing spread before them, dominated by a sprawling complex of buildings, huts, and sheds. The entire area was encircled by a pair of menacing barbed-wire fences, their twisted coils glinting ominously in the sunlight. Along the perimeter, wooden guard towers loomed tall, manned by German soldiers armed to the teeth with rifles, machine guns, and searchlights.

Frank’s jaw clenched as he took in the formidable sight, his mind racing with grim possibilities. “Looks like our new home,” he remarked, his tone laced with bitterness. “Real cosy.

Hope’s hand found Ruth’s, squeezing it tightly as their group approached the large main gate. Hope opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by a loud siren and the gate creaking open. As they walked through the gates and beyond the perimeter of barbed wire, prisoners flocked to the sides of the walkway, scanning the new arrivals for any familiar faces. They wore frayed and mismatched uniforms, many of them hanging loosely on the men’s slender frames. Some were dressed in American uniforms, further down the line were men dressed in British RAF uniforms but they didn’t all speak English. Hope thought she could make out Polish, or maybe Czech. Some called out to friends they recognized, their excited laughter lifting the atmosphere just slightly. Others murmured in disbelief when they caught sight of the women, their expressions filled with shock and pity.

“Can you believe it? Women here…” one muttered from where he leaned against the wire.

“Poor things,” the man beside him replied sadly. “Leave it to the Germans to make women POWs. I wonder what unit they’re with.”

Among the pitied glances were men whose eyes lingered on Hope and Ruth with a disturbing intensity. It was clear that some hadn’t seen women in years, and their unsettling stares sent a chill down the girls’ spines. Frank shot a warning glare at anyone who dared stare too long, his protective instincts kicking into high gear as he trailed closely behind them.

“Welcome to Stalag Luft III, ladies! This place is going to eat you alive.”

Hope turned to see who had spoke and her eyes fell on a man ahead of them, his sunken face bearing a smirk. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes and red sores sat along the corners of his lips. Hope had never seen a man in such desperate need of medical care but there wasn’t much she could do for him here, without any supplies. She wondered how long he had been here to end up in such a fate. The thought struck her that maybe this was their fate too.

Was that her future? To end up like him?

Frank’s voice behind them cut through the buzz of the crowd. “Ignore him,” he said, sparing the man a pointed glance. “He’s just a bitter old timer who’s been here too long.”

Hope nodded in agreement, her grip on Ruth’s hand tightening slightly as they continued past the wire, further into the camp. They were led into one of the buildings and lined up before being searched for any items considered contraband. Thankfully, their Luftwaffe searchers were more respectful than the soldiers who found them after the crash, patting them down without allowing their hands to linger.

Once the search was complete, they were fingerprinted and photographed, reminding the trio of their arrival at Dulag Luft. Thinking back on that day, Hope couldn’t help but wonder where Bob Wolff ended up. He was the only piece of home they had… the only tie to the small corner of East Anglia the women held so dearly to their hearts. The thought was pushed from her mind when a neatly folded pile of two thin blankets, a rough mattress cover, and a straw-filled pillow was thrust toward her. Hope’s heart sank at the sight of the pitiful bedding, knowing it would offer little comfort in the cold nights ahead. They were slightly nicer than the ones in Dulag Luft and the girls tried not to think about the infestation of lice they probably harboured.

In line before her, Ruth blinked away the tears filling her eyes as she was given a small package filled with eating utensils and toiletries. She clutched the scratchy towel close to her chest, struggling to hold it all with one hand. At the final stop, a man held out her new “dog tags,” her prisoner of war number stamped into the shiny metal.

Hope stood behind her, taking her own tag next. Her number read 2982. It was a far cry from her serial number, one that she’d been proud to quote. Now she was reduced down to just a number rather than a human being.

Hope joined Ruth against the wall, and Frank soon made his way over to them, and before they knew it, their group of about 30 Americans was led back through the camp to a gate leading into one of the many compounds on site. Hope and Ruth’s eyes scanned the large area, taking in the dozens of men walking around, some returning to their blocks after swarming the wire a few minutes before.

All eyes flew to the gate behind them as it shut, sealing them into the compound for the foreseeable future. It was like a finally deafening bang that saw their future sealed. Hope wasn’t sure what the future held for them, but after the confinement in Dulag Luft she knew that Stalag Luft couldn’t be as bad, she had her friends for a start. They would get through this together. Beside her, Hope could see Ruth beginning to lose her cool. Her shoulders sagged under her ragged breaths and she knew that she’d begin to spiral if she didn’t step in.

Hope passed her things to Frank, giving him a knowing look to which a sympathetic smile spread over his lips. She reached out to grab her shoulders, reassuringly squeezing them. “Rue, it’s okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and calming. “We’re gonna be alright.”

Frank stepped closer to them. “Take deep breaths, Ruth. In…and out.”

Hope saw Ruth tightening against the growing panic attack. They had been a common occurrence when she’d first joined them as a new nurse. Hope had feared at one point that she might not make it as a flight nurse. After a few moments, her breathing evened out and the panic passed. Frank and Hope sent each other a relieved glance, thankful the anxiety strike didn’t progress into a full-fledged attack. It wasn’t the first panic Ruth had around the pair, and Hope was surprised she hadn’t had one since they went down. In her eyes, it was long overdue.

“Welcome to the lovely South Compound,” a commanding voice called out to the group. “I’m Colonel Goodrich, and I’ll be your Commanding Officer during your stay here.”

Goodrich was a tall man with dark, curly hair. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke. The colonel’s sharp gaze swept over the faces of the men before him, assessing their conditions. But it was when his eyes landed on Ruth and Hope that his expression shifted, a flicker of surprise and concern crossing his features. He hesitated momentarily before gesturing to the shorter man beside him.

“This is Major Dodson. He’s going to assign you to blocks.”

Dodson stepped forward and began to lead the group toward the dozens of buildings across the clearing. The trio started to follow but froze when Goodrich’s voice filled the air.

“You three. Hold on a moment.”

The rest of the group murmured among themselves as they followed Dodson to get their bunking assignments, leaving Hope, Frank, and Ruth standing alone before the Colonel. He approached them with his hands in his pockets, his demeanor serious but not unkind.

“I apologize for singling you out, but we’ve never had women here. I thought maybe it was one thing the Germans wouldn’t do, but here we are…Do you need medical attention?”

Hope exchanged a quick glance with Ruth and Frank before replying, “No, sir. We’re alright, just a bit banged up from the crash.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, his gaze lingering on the blood and cuts marring Ruth’s face and the grimy appearance of all three of them. “I see. What outfit are you with?”

“806th MAETS,” Frank replied.

“Ahh, so you’re flight nurses, I’m guessing.”

Hope stuck out her hand. “Yes, sir. First Lieutenant Hope Armstrong,” she gestured to herself. “This is my counterpart Second Lieutenant Ruth Morgan, and our pilot Captain Frank Martin.”

Goodrich shook each of their hands and offered the women a kind smile. “I hate you two are stuck here, but I’ll do what I can to help you out. I imagine you’d all like to clean up a bit. Major Dodson can arrange private showers for you, Lieutenants. It’s cold and might not be the Ritz, but it’s better than nothing.”

The thought of showers, of getting clean perked Ruth up, and she nodded once at the man. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Goodrich glanced at his watch before taking a breath and walking away, motioning for them to follow. “I’ll take you to your assigned block. This compound has only been open a few weeks, so there’s a lot of empty rooms.“

The air inside the block was musty, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the chaos and constant vigilance they’d endured the past few weeks. The Colonel stopped before a door and turned to face them.

“This building is relatively quiet,” he explained, looking down the long hallway at the few men entering their room further down. “You’ll have this room to yourselves. It’ll give you a little bit of privacy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, and Hope could tell he wished he could do more for them, but this was the best he could do. ”Dodson will be back soon to take you to the showers. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With that, he turned and left them standing in front of the door to their room, staring at the wood blankly. Frank took a deep breath and opened the door. The space was dimly lit by a small window, casting long shadows across the room. Triple-decker bunk beds lined the walls, each one with a thin straw mattress that looked as disgusting as the ones in their Dulag Luft cells. A single table stood in the middle of the room.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Frank remarked, dropping his handful of things to the table with a thud.

Hope nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on the bunk beds. “At least we have a place to rest.”

Ruth was the first to choose a bunk, opting for the lower bunk farthest from the door, and Hope chose the one beside her. Frank decided on the bunk above Hope. It reminded Hope a little of being back home with Hugh. As young children he’d had the top bunk and would often ‘accidentally’ drop things on her in the night. Her heart ached for her brother. He always knew what to do and always knew how to make light of a situation. She could use a hug from her big brother right now, and Gale… she tried not to think of Gale as she set about making her bed before sinking down onto the stiff mattress. She could see the exhaustion clearly on Ruth’s face and she pitied the young teacher. She was sure this wasn’t what Ruth had envisioned when she’d joined up to help.

“That man,” she whispered, blinking away tears that stung her eyes, “The one at the gate…”

“What about him?” Hope could see the tears slipping slowly down Ruth’s cheeks.

“His eyes…they looked so hollow, so hopeless. I-I don’t want to end up like that.”

Hope sat on the edge of Ruth’s bed, placing a hand on her arm. “Hey, you won’t. You’ve got me. And you’ve got Frank. We’re not going anywhere.”

As Hope stared into her friend’s glistening eyes, she hoped the woman couldn’t see through her. That she couldn’t see the terror that possessed her every thought, every moment, every dream since the door of her cell slammed shut at Dulag Luft. It was no secret that they were at the mercy of their captors who could do anything they wanted, and Hope feared it was only a matter of time until the Germans took advantage of it.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, through the thin walls, and Hope’s heart skipped a beat. She could see it now: a German shoving open the door, dragging her and Ruth out by their hair to do unspeakable things to them. But when three quiet knocks filled the air, she furrowed her brows.

Germans wouldn’t knock.

The women watched with bated breath as Frank slowly approached the door, shooting them a warning glance that seemed to say, ‘get ready.’ Before he opened it, the visitor spoke on the other side, their voice muffled through the wood.

“It’s Major Dodson. I’ve arranged some showers for y’all.”

Hope let out a soft exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing as Frank shook his head and opened the door. Quickly blinking her eyes, Ruth tried to clear any sign of tears from her face before he could see. Dodson stepped inside, smiling kindly at the two women sitting on the bed. If he noticed the blonde’s red-rimmed eyes, he didn’t comment on it.

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenants.” He nodded at them, then turned to Frank. “And you, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dodson held out a bundle of clothing to him. “Here are some fresh clothes. I found the smallest ones possible for you two, but-”

“Thank you,” Hope interrupted. “I’m sure they’re fine, sir.”

“Grab your stuff and follow me. I reckon y’all are chomping at the bit to get clean. I know I was when I arrived.”

His accent held a slight southern twang, and Hope raised an eyebrow at Ruth, who instantly noticed and perked up, feeling a little bit at home. They each gathered their basic shower pack and towel quickly, following the Major out of the building.

Hope could feel Frank’s large hand pressing against the small of her back, a comforting reminder of his presence and an action he had done so many times before.

She smiled up at him, and he returned to sentiment. It occurred to Hope that in another life she may have ended up with Frank, they’d spent so much time together in such close proximity that something would have probably happened if it hadn’t been for their unwavering friendship.

“You alright?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and she just shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Hope?” Frank stopped her for a moment, brushing the lose strands of her dark hair away from the large gash on her forehead. His thumb knocked the wound and she winced, moving to follow after the Major. Frank caught up with her in a few strides, his arm coming around her and pulling her into his side.

“I’m not ever letting you out of my sight again, Hope. Not ever.”

It was a promise that she knew he might not be able to keep. Frank meant well but if the Krauts wanted her then they would have her, and there was nothing Frank would be able to do.

Dodson directed them around the corner of a block to a much smaller concrete building, resembling the shower building at Dulag Luft. The krauts sure weren’t original with their POW camp architecture, that was for sure. As they reached the door, the Major spun to face them.

“There are no curtains, so-”

“You two go first,” Frank interrupted, nodding at Hope and Ruth.

“Alright. There’s only one entrance, so Captain Martin and I will stand guard while you two are showerin’. Sound alright?”

Hope and Ruth held each other’s gaze for a moment before thanking him and stepping inside. The room was dark and damp with a row of sinks on one side and a few showerheads on the other. A couple of benches lined the middle, and they set down their packs and towels, exchanging another brief glance before turning their backs to each other before starting to undress.

Hope peeled away her B-3 jacket that clung to her body. She hadn’t removed it since the crash and the leather was now worn and looking far less presentable. Next camp her overalls, peeling the olive drab, blood-stained cloth from her body. The feeling of the cool air hitting her exposed skin caused goosebumps to raise upon her skin. She shivered, her teeth chattering.

“I can’t wait to get this thing off,” Ruth groaned, casting a longing glance at her arm, the splint’s once pristine bandages now a disgusting brown. “I can’t wait to get this thing off. I can’t even shower cause it’ll get wet.”

“How’s it feeling?” Hope asked sympathetically from behind her. She knew how annoying a splint could be. She’d broken her arm when she was climbing trees with Hugh as a child and the whole ordeal still haunted her.

“It still hurts, but it’s better than before.”

“And how long has it been since you got the splint?”

“Barely a week,” she sighed. “The nurse said 6-8 weeks.”

Hope paused, thinking it over for a moment. “I’d have to agree with her. Five more weeks, Rue.”

“Great.”

Silence again filled the small room and Hope gathered up her dirty clothes, piling them at the end of the bench. She pulled the contents from her overall pocket. She didn’t unfold the pictures, she didn’t dare. She wasn’t sure whether she’d ever be able to face Gale’s smiling face. How could such a happy memory live on in a place like this?

She moved quickly to the shower as Ruth finished undressing. She pulled the lever and allowed the frigid water to run down her exposed body. She gasped, closing her eyes as she stepped beneath the shower. Her head turned down as the water covered her body. The water around her feet grew dark, a mixture of mud and blood that had caked her body disappeared into the drain.

She rubbed the rough, tan cloth over her pale flesh, trying to ignore the purple, green and yellow tinted bruises that covered her body. The water stung at the scraps and cuts across her arms but she ignored it. The worst pain was her fingers, the sore blunt ends of her nails from where she had clawed at her cell door. They had scabbed over but now weeped once more.

She hated to think what she looked like. Her eyeliner had long since worn away and she’d always thought she looked pale and ill without a little bit of blush to give her some colour. Although her appearance was definitely the last of her problems at the current time.

She rubbed the cloth over her thigh, following the line of the deep, purple scar. It hadn’t healed well, the flesh remained raised and prominent. It was something that always made her doubt herself, her abilities, yet it was something that Gale assured her made her ever more beautiful. She was a fighter, she didn’t give up easily and it showed the sacrifice she had made to help others.

Silent, salty tears made their track down her cheeks at the thought of him. He was so far away now. So far from her.

She thought back to her shower at Thorpe Abbott, when Gale’s warm arms had supported her as she washed away her blood. His hands never once roaming too far but his fingers had trailed up her sides, rubbing comforting circles on her exposed flesh. The way his plump lips had pressed against her shoulders, his teeth grazing the smooth flesh. He had loved her so much, and she had loved him. She still loved him. It was one of her favourite memories, for that was all it was now.

She turned off the shower, shaking the memory that had so vividly haunted her. Gale’s memory didn’t deserve to be bought to such a place as this.

The final dregs of water stopped dripping, leaving the bath house deathly silent. Hope shuffled over to the pile of clothes that she’d left on the bench. She rubbed the rough sacking that substituted as a towel over her body, ignoring the way it sandpapered her skin. She longed for her scented soap that Hugh had bought for her birthday. Now she smelt of hay and a faint smell of sweat, still an improvement of how bad she had smelt prior to her shower.

Ruth was still deep in thought, bent over the sink. Hope didn’t utter a word, instead pulling on the ‘fresh’ clothes that Major Dodson had bought them. They hung on her small frame but she pulled the clothes on regardless, tucking the shirt into the oversized trousers and buttoning up the jacket.

She began racking her fingers through her dark, tangled locks, pulling at the strands and wincing as small clumps of hair pulled out between her fingers. She wrapped up the wet hair, pulling it into a bun and replacing the pins she had in her overall pocket. Her hand came to rest on the dog tags around her neck, the new and her old tags. Her index finger ran over the familiar engagement ring. She’d kept it tucked down in her overalls in Dulag Luft, she couldn’t bear to have it taken from her again.

She picked up the pictures next, placing them carefully in the top pocket of her new jacket. She still couldn’t bare to look at them, maybe tonight when she was on her own but not now.

Drawing in a sharp breath, she turned to see Ruth pulling on her own clothes. Her blonde hair was a tangled, wet mess and Hope sympathised as she watched her friend trying to pull it out of her way with one hand.

“I’ll plait it for you later if you’d like.”

Ruth had still been deep in thought and she looked a little startled but nodded in agreement. “Please.”

The girls finished in the bath house and joined Frank and Major Dodson outside.

“I’ll lead you back to your bunkhouse,” Dodson suggested and Frank nodded in agreement. “I’d like to think the men here are better than the Krauts, but some of them have been here so long that…” he trailed off.

“Thank you, Dodson,” Frank added, “I’ll have a quick wash up and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush, Frank. Ruth and I are just going to settle in,” Hope confirmed, linking her arm through Ruth’s, their eyes meeting for a brief moment.

Dodson had long strides and the girls struggled to keep up with him as he marched back across the camp to their bunkhouse. Hope and Ruth slipped in the mud and clung onto each other, the last thing they wanted was to end up covered in mud again.

Dodson opened the door to the wooden house for them and led them inside once more. “Do you girls need anything? Anything at all?”

Ruth flopped down onto her bunk with a sigh and Hope shook her head, “No, I think we’re good thank you, Major. I think we just need some sleep.”

The Major nodded, sending Hope a soft smile before he closed the door gently behind him. Now they were alone, Hope moved to sit next to Ruth. She began to run her fingers through Ruth’s damp locks, causing her friend to emit a long, satisfied groan.

“Sit up, Rue, I’ll plait your hair.”

The blonde obliged, sitting up as best she could without hitting her head on the low bed above her. As Hope moved her fingers through her hair Ruth sighed once more, finally feeling a little more relaxed. She’d been so uptight since they had crashed that she’d barely taken a moment to breathe.

Hope stayed silent behind her and Ruth turned to look at her friend, noticing the few tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

“Oh Hope, what’s wrong?”

Hope shook her head firmly, wiping the tears away quickly, “I’m fine, I promise, Rue.”

Ruth knew better than to believe her stoic friend but she knew pressing her on the subject would only cause Hope to close up further.

“Dodson seems nice,” she changed the subject, hoping she may be able to distract Hope from whatever was plaguing her.

She hummed in agreement but continued to run her fingers through Ruth’s hair. Grabbing the thin comb from her shower pack, Hope did her best to detangle the mess of blonde before her.She didn’t really feel like talking. The events of the past few weeks had finally caught up with her and she felt as though she might burst with the pent up emotions.

“I wonder what the guys are doing now?” Ruth replied absentmindedly as she tugged at a loose thread on her bedding. “What do you think they’re doing?”

Hope thought for a moment, trying to imagine the boys back at Thorpe Abbott. She honestly wasn’t sure what they would be doing but she knew Ruth was trying her best to make conversation.

“Hugh’s probably annoying John in some way and Gale’s probably trying to keep the peace.”

Ruth chuckled as she imagined Hugh bickering with John like two spoiled children. She could see Gale now, running his hand through his blond locks with an exasperated sigh.

“Poor Gale,” Ruth chuckled, “At least he’ll be good at breaking up fights if you guys have kids.” She was trying to be positive, to think of the future but from the look on Hope’s face she knew her friend was struggling.

Pulling her head away from Hope’s hands she pulled her into a tight hug, squishing her face into Hope’s neck. She could feel Hope relaxing a little beneath her touch.

Hope couldn’t help but relax as Ruth’s body collided with her own. It was one of the few things that still made her smile. She wasn’t sure what the coming weeks and months would hold for them, but at least they had each other.

October 8th, Thorpe Abbott AAF base, 06:00

It was mission day. They all knew it, even before the light went on and they were woken up early in the morning.

Gale and Hugh had been up for hours, sipping coffee atop ‘Our Baby’s’ wing as they watched the sun begin to slowly creep up from behind the trees, embracing the base in the warm glow.

John was in London on the trip he had planned with Ruth. He’d asked Gale to accompany him, but understood when Gale declined. He didn’t feel like spending his days leave trying to keep a drunk, grieving John under control while he still had so much of his own grief to deal with. Instead he stayed with Hugh and the pair leaned on each other for support.

“Gale?” Hugh asked, his dark eyes searching Gale’s face while the other man continued to stare blankly across the handstand. “Gale, there’s something I want you to have.”

Gale watched as Hugh rummaged in his A-2 jacket pocket, fumbling and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and several crumpled pieces of paper. He smoothed out one of the sheets before folding it in half and pressing it into Gale’s outstretched hand.

Gale looked up at Hugh questioningly, not daring to open the paper.

“I think this is the one,” Hugh sighed sadly, “This is the one that will get me.”

“You don’t know that,” Gale argued, shuffling closer to Hugh, and wrapping his arm around the pilot's shoulder. “You can’t say that.”

“Hope asked me to keep those safe,” he motioned to the paper in Gale’s hand. “But seeing as I don’t know what’s going to happen I thought you should have it.”

“What is it?” Gale asked, his throat tight and he couldn’t bring himself to open the paper.

“It’s her wedding vows, she never liked being original so she wrote her own. She told me not to read them but I couldn’t help myself,” Hugh took a shaky breath before squeezing Gale’s hand and standing up on the wing. “She really did love you Gale.”

Gale watched as Hugh climbed down from the wing, making his way back across the handstand. Staring down at the paper in his hand, Gale couldn’t find the strength in him to open it. He pushed it into his pocket, alongside Hope’s picture and letter. He’d read it later once Bremen had been a success.

Hugh found his eyes finding Gale’s across the handstand, sharing a single nod before Hugh moved to climb up into the cockpit. His co-pilot sent him a sympathetic smile and Hugh tried to ignore the talk amongst his crew. Some didn’t think he was fit to fly after losing Hope, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. It was a conversation he’d shared with Harry and Rosie that had given him the courage to climb back into the cockpit.

“You’re sister was an amazing woman, Hugh,” Harry spoke up, staring sadly into his beer. “She was a damn good nurse and I considered her one of my best friends.”

Harry’s dark eyes were tearful as he looked over at Hugh, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t really get a chance to know her very well,” Rosie added, his moustache turning down in a sad frown. “But from everything I’ve heard I’m sure I would have liked her very much.”

“You would,” Hugh interrupted, licking his lips as he inhaled shakily, “She was my better half. She saved my ass more times than I can remember…” He trailed off, unable to find the right words in the bustling pub to describe how much his sister meant to him.

Harry, sensing the tension in his friend, shuffled his chair around the table so he was beside Hugh and Rosie.

“To Hope! May she always live on through us.” He raised his glass in the air and Hugh and Rosie followed suit.

“To Hope.”

Hugh smiled, started his preflight checks with the photograph of Hope and himself at Dye’s party stuck to the control panel.

“This one’s for you, Hope.”

Gale didn’t know whether to take this as a coincidence or an omen, but this wasn’t how he planned to start the Bremen mission. One of the magnetos wasn’t working and despite Gale’s never-ending faith in Ken Lemmons, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe this was happening for a reason.

“What are you trying to tell me, Hope?” He mumbled to himself, glancing out the window to catch a glance of Lemmons from his spot on the wheel.

Demarco was comparing from his seat, soothing about pulling the plane over but Gale shook his head, remaining positive and grinning at Demarco

“Believe, Benny. Believe.”

Gale’s bright eyes fell into the control panel, smiling at the three pictures he’d placed lovingly along it. Hope and himself at Dye’s party, Hope and Meatball and Hope, Hugh and himself on one of the girls' visits to Thorpe Abbotts. His heart ached and he drew his hand to his chest, fumbling his dog tags at feeling instant relief as his index finger ran over the familiar gold bands, relishing in the comforting, smoothness of the ring. It was something he’d found himself doing more and more often, running his fingers around in a spherical motion, repeating, repeating, repeating until his heart rate slowed and his chest no longer felt so tight. He knew that wherever Hope was she would be looking out for him.

“Hey Buck, you with me?” Demarco chuckled, grinning at Gale who merely looked at him, dazed. “Lemmons has only gone and done it. We’re up.”

Gale nodded, re-engaging with the present and preparing the Fort for lift-off. He’d never felt more sure of a mission before, but he knew this one was going to be big and despite the nervous feeling bubbling inside him as the plane left the tarmac he knew he’d be alright because Hope would be with him.

Tags: @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @blurredcolour @artlover8992 @b00ks1ut @xxluckystrike @hockeyboysarehot @groovin2beats @kmc1989 @ginabaker1666 @hesbuckcompton-baby @beebeechaos @forsythiagalt @prettyinlimegreenboots

#on a wing and a prayer #masters of the air #hbo war #gale cleven #john egan #hope armstrong #ruth morgan #mota #masters of the air oc

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asksearchlights-archive · 3 months ago

Note

"EXCUSE ME?!"

searchlights X eyefestation kismesis

"I wish."

#the toxic yuri #searchlights shares

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nachocheezos21 · 2 months ago

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[New Prison.]

[Word Count]: 1063 words // [SLIGHT GORE MENTION!] // [REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!]

The sounds of bells jingling alerted the team for what to expect ahead. It alerted them in warning as they trekked forward with a faint, yet golden glow acting as a guide. No one knew where the bells were rung, nor who (or what) it’s coming from — all they knew was that it saved them from the dangers of the deep waters.

That was one of the things that they never bothered to find an answer for. Regeneration is another topic.

They all remembered the first time that one of them got their heads munched off by Z-283 — the Angler — due to the lack of a hiding space. Not enough lockers, nor were there any cubicles for them to hide either. Many of them, obviously enough, were shocked to see their fellow expendable’s head missing — blood seeping through the cold cracks of the Blacksite from the neck. A few were unbothered, likely having seen and desensitized to the gore before them, and shrugged it off as another loss…only for glowing, yellow particles emitting from the corpse itself did they all freeze in place.

It didn’t take long for their teammate’s head to appear once more. The particles mimicked and morphed into the original head, and each layer began to unravel; from the brain, to the skull, to the muscles, and soon, the skin and hair. And after blinking for a bit, they woke up once more as if they just took a quick nap of sorts. Naturally, everyone else was confused — not to mention how…unnerving it was to watch a friend return from the dead.

But soon enough (thanks to trial and error), everyone learned that they all possessed this, not just one. However, even with this newfound information, they were still cautious. After all, they haven’t learned the full extent of their abilities. Who’s to say that it wouldn’t betray them after reaching this far?

The Blacksite still had dangers lurking in every dark corner. They could not stop; they must keep pushing forward.

After reaching the end of the Ridge and fixing the External Repellent Cannon (while subsequently avoiding the Searchlights present in the area), the Yore Expendables would soon board the submarine waiting by the dock — a testament to everyone and their soon-to-be pardoned sentences. It was an understatement that the team was tired, but at the very least, the Crystal was safe in their possessions.

The star could only wonder what they’d expect to see once they reach the surface. After all, they all had come a long way; what once were foes turned into allies, all helping one another to reach the same goal. The fennec fox next to him reacted enthusiastically, clasping their hands together as they shared ideas, with the space pilot and the toymaker soon joining alongside them. It was surprising to see these people, despite the troubles that they have faced, react with high spirits as they all awaited for what was to come up on the surface. The rot could only stay silent as his hands fidgeted with a coin — far from the rest of the team as he contemplated on what to do once they all got out of this whole ordeal.

Meanwhile, the researcher and the biologist just kept only to themselves; quietly discussing what they’d realistically expect from Urbanshade. They’ve both worked under the company, albeit in different divisions and sites — they know about their inner workings. But with how almost everyone seemed so excited to return to their somewhat normal lives, it seemed to be best if they’d keep their theories to themselves. After all, none of them had heard the familiar bell chime.

With a surprising thud as the submarine emerges from the water, the backdoor opens and in comes the guardsmen, detaining everyone and confiscating the Crystal. The Yore Expendable would soon be familiar with the cold metal around their wrists (and the muzzle on the fennec’s mouth) as they awaited for…whatever honestly happens next.

Two guards, a worker in blue with a folder in their hands, a caretaker, and an old man on a wheelchair arrived at the scene. The man in the wheelchair was…interesting — wheels made out of tank treads, with an inbuilt chamber for whiskey and scotch like it was the only thing keeping him alive. It’s a miracle, really, if you could say it as such. The guard, who had held onto the container, made his way over to the old man, showing him the Crystal. And after the quick inspection, the old man nodded in approval — a smile etching onto his wrinkled lips — before muttering a thank you to the team, and soon introducing as Mr. Shade himself.

As the team was about to be escorted out of the bay and into one of the company’s military vehicles, the worker on his left knelt down and whispered something into Mr. Shade’s ear. Information that was given to him not too long ago, but now things began to click as his tired eyes recognised one of his colleague’s children among the crowd. That’s right; HQ had already provided him with information about this…set of Expendables. Their inability to die due to golden, floating orbs that seem to regenerate any and every missing limb in each death, before passing it off as nothing.

If Urbanshade got their hands on this regenerating property, who knows how much money they’d be able to profit from this. Maybe even revolutionize and perhaps weaponise this ability — a starfish and an axolotl could grow out new limbs, what is stopping humans from doing the same?

With a click of a tongue, Mr. Shade then changed his direction: ordering this group of Expendables to be transferred into a nearby Blacksite. This was then met with an angry call from the prisoners before him, protesting against being relocated to a new prison and that they instead earned their right to be free. Their cries were loud, but did the old man listen?

No. Not when there was a potential profit involved.

They were soon shipped off to a new home. One that could not bring comfort, and one where they will be treated like rats in an experiment. Like how the Saboteur was once treated, despite his innocence.

Welcome to Urbanshade, Yore Expendables — now officially signed as Z-257.

[Notes from the author//artist]: OH MY GOODDD I FINALLY FINISHED THE INTRO-ISH POST !!!!!!!! SPECIAL THANKS TO @trojanhorseleftbackhoove AND @windthescorpionfanatic FOR PROOFREADING THIS MWAH /pos !!!!!!!!! credits to @windthescorpionfanatic for the original document and concept, and with several others who had contributed to this ily all mwah .:}

SO YEAH I FINALLY DID IT GUYS !! MY FIRST (actual) FIC !!!!! this has been stuck in my head for way WAY too long, and so i went to finally write it. from here on out, stuff related to z-257/the yore expendables will be under the tag below if you ever wanna check that out idm. the actual mock document wasn’t made by me so i won’t be posting it without my friend’s permission. hope the fic did it justice tho bc AGRGRAGRGAGRG anyways i’m off to listen to the new yaelokre single!!!

#my artcho #z-257 #z-257 – the yore expendables #cw: slight gore mentioned #pressure #roblox pressure #pressure roblox #urbanshade #pressure fic #pressure au #pressure oc #roblox pressure oc #(does this still count as an oc if it’s me and my friends?)#roblox #roblox oc #fanfic #fanfiction #original work

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just-horrible-things · 6 days ago

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'Verse: Resistance, co-author @whump-sprite AU: Chewtoy Timeline: a ways in the future, Connor and Ari have been with the Resistance a while

Fun facts, this was actually originally plotted for a different scenario, but that's like... an AU of an AU of an AU or something and I haven't shared any of it on here so it wouldn't make sense to anyone. It works pretty well with Chewtoy so I've written it for her instead.

---

Sacrifice

The world slows and stops as Peyroux twists and falls. The same way it slowed and stopped when she fell off the roof of the community center as a child, leaving her suspended in the air. The way it stopped when she once thought Riven had actually shot her.

There’s no time to react, no time even to form a coherent thought, but all the time in the world to feel the sick weightless drop of the end of everything.

She can see the spray of his blood suspended in the air like a film in slow motion, like maybe time will never move again.

And then the moment is gone and everything is moving too fast again, a kaleidoscope of deafening gunshots, raised voices, smoke and searchlights and the taste of blood.

She sees Taryn, dragging Peyroux into cover with a gesture. She sees the whites of Taryn’s eyes.

Ari should be helping. She should be fighting. The wound in her side is not so bad it's not bleeding so fast that she couldn't be fighting. She should be helping Taryn. She should be doing anything but lying on the floor cowering but they’re going to take her back and she can't remember how to use her limbs, she can barely remember how to breathe.

The rattle of gunfire again. Screams. The feds are killing someone else and Ari shouldn't be glad but all she can think is not me, don't see me, don't take me. She thinks of the gun on her hip. Shame rolling in her stomach, she thinks of using it on herself.

Connor would be gutted. Connor would understand. … wouldn't he?

Taryn is holding the blood inside Peyroux’s body. He took several hits, she wouldn't be able to do it with just her hands, but her magic covers his body like a constellation.

Ari should be helping. She should be fighting but what good would one more handgun do against their rifles when she can't even shoot straight?

Quiet. Maybe wounded sounds but she can't tell, the gunfire was too loud. Voices, yelling to be heard through ear plugs and the ringing in their ears. Checking in with each other, coordinating. Another shot. More quiet. Ari is trying so hard to stifle her breath but she can't stop gasping.

“Over here. I saw one go down.”

They’re coming her way. Terror roots her to the dusty concrete, paralysing her lungs. They’re going to catch her and all she can do is cower on the floor and beg the world not to see her like she’s five years old and afraid of the dark.

Boots stalk into her field of view. For a second she is sure she is absolutely sure that she is looking at Riven but he’s dead. It’s not Riven, of course it’s not Riven. But it might as well be. They’re going to see her any second now they’re going to find her.

No. The path he’s on will take him past her. They’re going to find Peyroux, and Taryn. He’s the one they saw go down.

For a second, a clarity she didn’t know she was capable of cuts through the panic. If they get Peyroux, they win. The state will get their way, they’ll dismantle the Resistance, they’ll kill and torture whoever they please and no one and nowhere will be safe. They’ll win.

In the same moment, the thing Ari has to do is crystal clear. It’s not even a choice it’s the only feasible course of action and it doesn’t matter that it scares her so much she’s going to be sick. Her life isn’t important. If she dies screaming it isn’t important. It won’t change the world.

She crawls. She lets go of her side, feeling the blood flow through her fingers, and drags herself across the floor by her elbows, knowing full well that the motion will draw attention to her position. The world is spinning around her. If she’s lucky she’ll bleed out before they get her into a black site.

She drags herself away from Peyroux and Taryn, towards the crates ahead of her like she’s trying to get to the better cover.

“Target spotted.”

Ari retches, tasting acid at the back of her mouth. Crawling isn’t a choice any more it’s a desperate futile scramble away from the man behind her. Trying to keep his hands off her just a few more seconds, just another breath, just another instant no no no please –

She screams when he stamps down on her leg. More from terror than pain, she only barely feels it. She twists, kicks at him, misses. He clocks her hard in the head with the butt of his rifle before she can get her gun off her belt, and prises it out of her hands while she’s reeling.

“Got her,” he declares with satisfaction as the cuffs close round her hands.

She loses consciousness, briefly, when he hefts her over his shoulder. The pressure against the gunshot wound is enough to black her out. When she comes to, the feds are retreating. She breathes lungfuls of cold outside air no longer full of smoke.

How long was she out? Did they sweep the place before they gave up? Did they get Peyroux? Did she achieve anything or should she just have shot herself?

God she wishes she just shot herself.

She can’t lift her head to try and find out, she can’t do anything but retch through the pain. It sears through every part of her, burning spots into her eyelids, and it’s only going to get worse, it only gets worse from here, she has signed herself up for hell and she should have done something else, anything else, why did she think anything could be worth this?

She doesn’t want to be a hero.

They haven’t even brought a van, they dump her into the trunk of a car. She blacks out again a second before the lid slams shut and plunges her into darkness.

It feels like the closest thing she'll ever have to safety again. She hopes it never opens again. She'd gladly starve in here. Die of thirst in her own shit. Better than what they'll do to her.

It feels like forever before they even start the engine. She tries to treasure every second but she is hyperventilating into the darkness and her lungs burn and she wills herself to bleed faster and she cannot feel anything but stark electric terror.

When they finally pull away, she keens, a pitiful drawn out sound that she cannot even feel in her throat let alone begin to stop.

With her hands cuffed behind her back, she can’t stop herself sliding around on the turns, knocking her head on the sides of the trunk. She barely feels it. She can’t feel anything past the well of twisting painful fear in her belly and chest, lungs on fire, heart pounding like it’s trying to explode. Her limbs, her skull, even the throbbing bullet hole in her side, all of them feel distant, wooden, like they belong to a distant dream.

Somewhere in the back of her head a hysterical little part of her is picturing a doll in a dryer, tossed about wildly at the whim of the machine as the car throws her this way and that.

The car stops too, too soon. Maybe she was unconscious again. Maybe she’s missed some of the last few precious minutes of not-agony left in her life. She sobs. She cannot breathe. She cannot breathe.

The lid is thrown open. The light is blinding. She hears herself making terrified incoherent sounds. They bend down over her and she tries to cringe away from grabbing hands and there’s nowhere nowhere for her to go.

“Ari, it’s okay, I got you.” “T-Taryn–?” “Yes it’s me, I got you.”

The cuffs fall away from her wrists. Dizzy, uncomprehending, Ari reaches up towards the witch, towards a world that doesn’t make sense but carries the all-important promise of not torture. Did she hit her head?

Taryn picks her up in her arms like a child and Ari clings as hard as she can, sobbing into her shoulder. She doesn’t understand. Please god let this be real don’t let this be a delusion.

“Fuck, is that your blood?” Ari tries to answer, but her voice only makes another incoherent little sound. She nods instead. Almost at once there’s pressure over the wound in her side. She gasps at the sudden hot-knife pain, but it’s no more than she was already gasping.

“They would have killed Daniel if they found him,” Taryn says. “Thank you.”

Ari has nothing to say. She didn’t want to do it, she regretted it as soon as she’d done it, she’s not a hero, she doesn’t want to be. She couldn’t say anything if she wanted to. She can’t stop herself sobbing.

“Hey. Hey. You didn’t think I’d let them have you, did you?” Shame is a familiar heat in her skin. She feels sick. She shakes her head no, and tries feebly for an excuse. “God –” she manages, “-- I – too close.” Taryn’s arms are still round her. Taryn is authority. Taryn is safety. It’s so painfully childish but Ari wants her to never ever let go. “You were really brave. Let’s find Alex and fix this, okay?” “‘Kay,” Ari manages to mumble.

She doesn’t feel brave. She feels like a fucking coward. She knows she did a brave thing, it was terrifying, but it doesn’t feel real. All that’s real is the suffocating, paralyzing terror. The way that all the muscles in her body stopped working as soon as they got the cuffs on her. She didn’t even try to fight back.

She can tell by the movement that Taryn’s carrying her. She doesn’t care enough to lift her head and find out where. She’s surprised how soon a door opens. Where are they? It doesn’t matter. Taryn’s not running. Somewhere safe.

There are voices, getting closer. She tries to stop just fucking sobbing. They didn’t get her, she’s safe, she’s fine. She needs to pull herself together. Taryn sets her down on the end of a bed. Reluctantly, Ari lets go of her. She tries to stay sitting, but Taryn pushes her down onto her back. She supposes she has been shot.

It feels like only seconds before Alex is at Taryn’s shoulder. Ari tries to force a smile for him because she knows he worries, but the muscles of her face aren’t responding. “Gunshot wound,” Taryn tells him, “left lower abdomen.” “Oh, Ari, I’m sorry.” “S’okay,” she mumbles. “Not my first time.”

He puts a hand to her stomach, and the pain instantly dulls.

“Thank you, Alex.” “It’s not fully healed. Don’t move too much yet. I’m sorry, they’re still bringing people in…” “I know. Thank you.” He squeezes her hand. “Thank you,” he says. “Taryn told me.” Ari bites hard on the inside of her cheek to stop herself breaking back into tears.

And then Alex is gone, hurrying off to the next bed. Ari ought to follow him, she’s supposed to – no, wait, he told her not to move. Her head is spinning. He dulled the headache, too, that she didn’t even realize she had until it was better, and now her head feels weightless without it.

Taryn crouches beside her, in the narrow gap between the beds. She puts a hand on Ari’s shoulder. “You thought I’d let them have you,” she says. Ari wants to refute it. She doesn’t think she convincingly can. She makes a vague little sound that isn’t a yes or a no. “Look at me.” It’s a suggestion not an order, she does know that, but her head still snaps up before she has a chance to decide whether she wants to or not. Taryn looks her dead in the eyes. “Over my dead body,” she says solemnly.

Ari swallows and nods. It doesn’t feel real. If it’s true it shouldn’t be. She isn’t anyone important. “You could’ve been dead,” she points out. “I wasn’t sure.” “Then someone else would come get you.” It’s meant to reassure her. But she knows it’s not true. People get taken all the time. It doesn’t matter if they’d want to save her. They want to save everyone. She’s just so, so lucky Taryn was able to catch up.

#my writing #verse: resistance #au: chewtoy #chewtoy!ariadne #taryn morgen #alex morgen #(briefly)#daniel peyroux #(very briefly)

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nerdragenewvegas · 6 months ago

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I have so, so many thoughts about the kind of world shifting impact that a female Courier backing the Legion would have. I saw a discussion about this on tiktok and everyone in the comments was saying shit about the Courier's influence leading the Legion to change their policies on women, or her influence leading them to allow women of her choosing into battle or whatever. But I really, really believe that's idealistic and wishful thinking.

Now, I'm not saying that they'd throw a collar on the Courier. Assuming Caesar's alive and well, I don't think that'd even cross his mind. Caesar is a brilliant PR man, he understands how to control people and he's designed the Legion to operate on belief, and that belief isn't religion or even a shared political belief -- it's myth, because Caesar can control myths. He gets to write the history. He gets to tell the stories and decide which ones are important.

We see examples of how myth works in the Legion. Despite being an otherwise pragmatic and practical faction, the Legion uses myth to plug holes, to erase doubts. It's used sparingly and effectively.

Caesar himself is mythologized - he's the 'son of mars,' his founding of the Legion is legend in itself. He's raised up by those in the Legion as an expert strategist, a genius, an expert at warfare. But once you start digging into the Legion a little from the inside, you learn he's about as smart as anyone else. Sure, he's book smart to a point, but he's arguably about as smart as anyone with a foundational education could be if given access to the right literature. We learn that while he has a foundational understanding of warfare and strategy, he's far from an expert; in fact, he left most of that up to Joshua Graham, which cost them the First Battle of Hoover Dam. In matters of strategy, it's extremely clear that Vulpes is the real genius. The Legion is running rings around the NCR using guerilla tactics and espionage headed by Vulpes, victories like Searchlight and Nipton, and if the Courier sides with the Legion, Operation: Racket nearly cripples the NCR stationed on and around the Strip during the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Caesar's strength is his people skills, his ability to manipulate, to understand how to effectively assemble people and control a mob until it's a well-trained army. Speaking of Vulpes, the furry fox femmeboy has mythology of his own. Caesar is eager to tell you the story of how Vulpes rose above his station, breaking rank and showing exceptional talent and tenacity (and a willingness to secure a victory for Caesar at any cost, including a certain execution for breaking ranks and disobeying his superior.) The Desert Fox, hand picked by the Son of Mars, who spared him from an execution and instead saw fit to declare him his frumentarii. (okay this turned into an essay so there's a cut here I'm sorry)

The greatest and most notorious example of Caesar creating myth, though, is in Lanius. We hear so much about him before we ever lay eyes on him -- I'd actually argue that we spend more time hearing about Lanius than we ever do speaking to him or even occupying the same space as him. If Vulpes is the knife, Lanius is the hammer, brutal and violent and frightening and loud, and Caesar wants everyone to know that. Lanius is feared all over the Mojave; few who lay eyes on him survive, but the stories are so prolific in how they impact those who hear them that it's accepted that an encounter with Lanius is most likely an encounter with death (or something worse, in some cases.) Once again, hand-picked by Caesar, chosen specifically by the son of Mars for his martial superiority but also for his brutality, his well controlled and channelled rage. To be full of rage is one thing, but to be able to effectively harness and direct it? That is something rare, and something Caesar noticed immediately. He is large, visually frightening, a dominating presence with a voice to match -- and, to the surprise of most players on their first run, he's far more intelligent than anyone gives him credit for. In fact, Caesar seems to leave this out when discussing him, almost deliberately. Lanius can be cruel, vengeful, terrifying, a 6'11" nightmare of a man, but intelligence? Intelligence implies there may be reasoning with him, that he may show mercy, that he is not controlled by a blood lust -- and that doesn't fit in with Caesar's myth.

And that's what's most notable about the myth of Lanius -- that it's weaponised. Where Vulpes and Caesar's mythology is to elevate them within the Legion and command respect and loyalty, Lanius' myth also serves to frighten the enemy. The tribes surely hear about Lanius long before the Legion arrive to assimilate them, and you'd be a fool to resist when you know that the Legion meets resistance with Lanius. The NCR soldiers on the field may think Caesar is just an old man who's full of shit and that Vulpes is just another twink who chose murder instead of therapy, but Lanius? They've all heard about Lanius. They've seen the reports. They've heard the stories about how he crushed a trooper's head in his fist like it was a mutfruit, how a First Recon sniper saw it from miles away and didn't even need her scope to know it was him because he's so fucking huge that he's almost as big as someone in power armor. Caesar was faced with a humiliating defeat, one so monumental that it threatened the foundation that his Legion's army was built on, and he needed to not only ensure his men would hold none of the doubts that Graham may have sewn with them, but he needed the NCR to know that as fierce as Graham was, he was hardly a loss to the Legion because his alternative is far, far worse. (And this is without going into how Caesar used myth adversely to defame Joshua Graham and ensure that the loss of the first battle was the fault of an individual and nothing else that could shake the loyalty of the men.)

So when it comes to The Courier, what is her use once Hoover Dam is won? Caesar has an interesting situation on his hands -- to simply treat the Courier as he would any other amicus or ally would raise questions. The women would get ideas of their own, and some of the men may start to ask questions about what else women may bring to combat; and they may just be questions, but questions are extremely dangerous when you're running an operation like the Legion. Questions quickly become discussions, which turn into arguments, which turns into infighting and dissent.

Caesar could always assimilate the Courier, offer her a good position as an officer's wife (maybe even his own) simply as a political arrangement. She would have her freedoms without conflicting with the Legion. She could act as a good example for other women living in Legion territory, 'be a good woman and demonstrate your loyalty and you, too, can find a good match who'll treat you far better than the women who resist. If you're as lucky as me, your husband might even allow you your freedoms and lavish you in gifts and luxury.' Simultaneously, the Courier could act as a promise to the men, 'be loyal in your service to Caesar and your victories will be rewarded with a wife as honorable and exalted as the Courier, a strong woman who will bear strong children and bring honour to your bloodline, not to be shared with other men like a slave, but reserved for you and you alone.' But the burning question here is if the Courier would want that, if she'd even consider agreeing to it. It's such a loaded proposal that even asking it is a gamble. Caesar has learned what this woman is capable of and while he wouldn't say that he fears her, offending the woman who all but secured victory in his campaign for the Mojave is not a good idea. She may not be able to burn the Legion down herself, but the men know she exists and have fought beside her and can and will bear witness to her works -- and this is not someone Caesar wants talking shit about him, because that word will eventually travel back to his men, which, again, results in questions.

As for allowing women to participate in battle in her honor? The problem there is that women being barred from combat isn't because Caesar takes issue with it -- it's purely practical concern, part of his commitment to minmax, the practice of ensuring maximum efficiency, of securing maximum payoff, of wasting nothing, including a womb. Anyone can stand on a frontline and try to stick some dipshit from California with the point end of a spear, but bearing children? That is only something that women can do, and it's a biological limitation that Caesar cannot change. You put a man in combat with the understanding that he's likely to die -- if he doesn't? That's a bonus. To put a woman in that position is not to just waste a combat unit, it's to waste a uterus, it's to waste potential children, future legionaries that are needed to replace the ones you're losing in combat. The Legion has just gone through a major war campaign and they need to replenish their numbers desperately. Will women be ruled out of combat forever? Maybe one day, when birth-rates are stabilized and the population is sustainable -- Caesar isn't a fucking idiot, he's probably more than aware that by excluding women from combat, the Legion is missing out on women who are potentially just as capable as Vulpes or Lanius. But until then? It's unlikely to be something he thinks he can afford.

So what option does that leave? Throw a collar on her and have her dragged to an auction block if she won't assimilate willingly and without complaint? He knows better than that -- she'd either radicalise and organize the women into a violent rebellion (or suicide pact) before she even got out of the holding pen, or murder whoever won her the second he gets his dick out. And that's without going into the question of how the men would react to seeing The Courier, The Courier who chose the Legion and did all that for them, in a slave collar like any regular fucking woman from some deadshit tribe. To sacrifice so much, to fight to hard and be so loyal and not be rewarded but enslaved? What kind of message does that send, even if the Courier's does have ripe ovaries?

The Courier would need to be an exception to the rule -- the same way that Vulpes was an exception to the rule when Caesar chose to spare him from execution, the same way that Lanius was an exception to the rule when Caesar chose to reward an exceptional warrior rather than make an example of a disobedient tribal conquest. When Vulpes became an exception, he became a myth. When Lanius became an exception, he became a myth. To make The Courier a myth is to elevate her above the other women as an exceptional creature, something so very above them that she is the one case where keeping her off the field would be far more of a waste than not putting a child in her. It would send a clear message to his men that this woman is unlike the others, hand picked by the son of mars, and you are to listen to her as you would Lanius or Vulpes. The Courier is not to be disrespected, disobeyed or touched. If even a woman can rise above her station and become a hero of the Legion with a coin minted in her honor, what excuse do you have? The Courier chose to be exceptional, and your own position or failure to thrive is born of your own choice to not excel as she or Vulpes or Lanius has. To be exceptional is a choice, and that is why Caesar hand picked the chosen he did -- because they understood that.

The Courier becomes myth, an both an example of potential and an example of the unattainable at once. Something so exalted that for the other women to think they could achieve the same to rebel would be unrealistic, that the men would dare not assume themselves worthy enough to be entitled to her the way they may be any other woman in their midsts, be it as a conquest or a concubine or even a wife.

So, no, I don't think Caesar would change the rules for the Courier. I think Caesar would do as he did for Vulpes and Lanius and use exceptionalism to simultaneously keep the status quo while also making it perfectly clear that while those rules apply to everyone else, they don't apply to the Courier.

I think about this a lot.

I know this is unhinged I'm sorry I'm just sitting here rambling like a nutjob while I wait for this thing to download.

#fallout new vegas #new vegas #caesar's legion #rant #god this just goes on and on #character study i guess #i think about this so much it's actually concerning

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