#trumpet lady x lips

[rottedbrainz]

Went through an old sketch book before it got thrown into the box where it will never be seen again until a few years.

So here's a doodle dump of doodles that probably would have been forgotten about. :)

Some doodles contain characters that belong to @palettepainter Lottie and Terri.

[cherriecove]

Fine Line Between Duty and Oaths (Part 7)

Gwayne Hightower x Targ!Reader

Summary: The second born daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma is just as brave, beautiful and stubborn as her older sister but cannot deny her growing love for a certain red haired knight who just so happens to be a dear friend's brother. Cherrie's Note: The Valyrian may not be correct i used a translator, please let me know! Use of she/her, mentions of injury with some descriptions, birth, death and child death. Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

The atmosphere of the tourney was electric, filled with the clamour of cheering crowds, colourful banners, and the resounding clash of metal on metal as knights battled in the lists. You sat in the royal box, your eyes flickering between the spectacle in the arena and the uneasy glances exchanged by the lords and ladies around you. The Queen was in the birthing bed, and though the event was meant to celebrate her labour and the anticipated birth of a new royal heir, an undercurrent of anxiety was palpable. 

Your sister, Rhaenyra, sat beside you, her posture rigid, her face tight with concern. Despite her efforts to appear composed, the tension between you both was tangible. The cheers and festive air of the tourney seemed overshadowed by a growing sense of unease.

Leaning towards Rhaenyra, you whispered in Valyrian, "Ziry dōrī nykēda, issa mandia?" She’s not well, is she, sister?

Rhaenyra's lips tightened as she gave a small shake of her head, replying softly, "Ñuha prūmia iātykes. Rāelagon īlva sīmonagon." My heart is heavy. Let us hope she is strong.

The trumpets blared once more, signalling the next round of jousts, but your mind couldn’t fully focus on the tournament. The clash of steel and the roar of the crowd felt distant, drowned out by the growing dread gnawing at your heart. As the tourney continued, your eyes instinctively searched for Gwayne in the lists, a fleeting distraction from the heavy weight of worry for your mother.

Just as the next match was set to begin, a runner entered the royal box, breathless and pale. He knelt before your father, King Viserys, whispering something urgent in his ear. The King’s expression darkened immediately. Without a word, he rose and departed, his absence now noticeable. The lords and ladies exchanged anxious glances, the festive mood dipping. Your hand gripped Rhaeynera’s tighter.

The air was heavy, but the crowd quickly erupted into excited cheers as your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, rode out onto the field, his dark armour gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. The Rogue Prince's reputation preceded him—brilliant in battle, unpredictable, and dangerous.

Next came Gwayne, his green and white banner fluttering proudly as he took his place on the field. A pang of pride mixed with apprehension tugged at your heart. Gwayne was a skilled knight, but Daemon was something else entirely. You glanced at Rhaenyra, her expression mirroring your unease, though her fondness for your uncle was no secret to you.

The joust began with a thunderous charge, both knights hurtling towards each other with lances aimed true. The first clash sent a tremor through the stands as Daemon’s lance splintered against Gwayne’s shield. Both men remained upright, but the raw aggression in Daemon’s attacks was unmistakable. With each pass, his strikes grew sharper, faster, and more brutal. Gwayne held his ground, but Daemon’s relentless assault began to wear him down.

On the fourth pass, disaster struck. Daemon’s lance struck Gwayne square in the chest, the force of the blow sending him crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. You leapt to your feet, heart hammering in your throat. The arena was a blur of noise as the crowd cheered, oblivious to the danger.

“Gwayne!” you gasped, gripping the edge of the railing.

Rhaenyra’s hand shot out to steady you. “Stay calm,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with worry.

Maesters and squires rushed to the field, but you could already see how Gwayne lay motionless, his armour dented, blood seeping from beneath his breastplate. You cared little for propriety or the eyes of the crowd as you hurried down from the royal box, your heart racing.

By the time you reached him, Gwayne was conscious but clearly in pain. His face was pale, his breaths shallow, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. The maester bent over him, assessing the wound as you knelt by his side.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached for his hand. “I’m here.”

He managed a weak smile, his eyes finding yours through the haze of pain. “Princess...we need to stop meeting like this,” he murmured, his voice strained but laced with a flicker of humour.

Tears stung your eyes as you squeezed his hand, managing a dry laugh. “You’ll be fine,” you whispered, though fear gnawed at you. “You’re going to be fine.”

The maester worked quickly to stabilise him, instructing the squires to carefully lift him from the field. You followed closely, ignoring the rest of the tourney, your thoughts consumed with worry for Gwayne and the dread hanging over your mother’s labour.

Hours later, as Gwayne was being tended to in the keep, word came.

Rhaenyra found you in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She didn’t need to say the words—your heart already knew.

“The Queen... our mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “She’s gone.”

The shock hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. The world spun, the walls of the keep closing in around you. Rhaenyra’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Both of you clung to each other in shared grief, tears flowing freely.

The news of your mother's passing weighed heavy on your chest, a burden too vast to comprehend in that moment. Rhaenyra's arms tightened around you as your legs threatened to give way beneath you, both of you trembling with the shock of the loss. The Queen—your mother, who had been so strong, so regal—was gone, swept away by the very event that was supposed to bring joy. The child she had laboured to bring into the world, the son your father had so desperately wished for, lay in his cradle, struggling for life.

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled away from Rhaenyra, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Anger mixed with sorrow, and your thoughts darkened. Your father’s obsession with a male heir has cost you your mother. You could not suppress the bitter thought, no matter how much you wanted to. It felt as though this had all been for nothing, as though her life had been sacrificed in a desperate attempt to fulfill his need for a son.

Rhaenyra, too, looked stricken, her usual fire dampened by grief. She shook her head slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was all for him... for a son." Her eyes flickered with hurt as they met yours. "Father... he never stopped, not once, even though Mother could hardly bear it. He would have kept trying, no matter what it cost her."

You felt the sting of tears once more, biting your lip to contain the sobs rising in your throat. Your father’s love for your mother had been real, but it had been overshadowed by his desire for an heir—a boy. A son to sit on the Iron Throne. The ache in your chest swelled, a painful, gnawing sorrow. “She was more than just a vessel for a son,” you murmured, voice breaking. “She deserved more... she deserved better.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her lips tight with unshed tears. "I know," she whispered. "And now she's gone, and all he has is..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as if she couldn’t bear to complete the thought. The child, the boy, was innocent in all of this. It wasn’t his fault, and you both knew it.

Together, you made your way to the chambers where the babe lay. Despite the hurt in your hearts, you could not bring yourself to blame him. The baby boy, your brother, was a tiny, fragile thing swaddled in silk. His breath was shallow, his tiny fists curling and uncurling with each laboured exhale. The sight of him stirred something deep within you, a love that overcame even your deepest grief. He was so small, so helpless. He had taken your mother from you, but it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked to be born into this world of crowns and kings.

Rhaenyra stood by his crib, gazing down at him with a mixture of sorrow and tenderness. "He's beautiful," she whispered, her hand hovering over his small form as though she feared touching him might cause him more harm. You nodded silently, your heart aching for the brother you would barely get to know. His tiny breaths, each one a struggle, filled the room with the sound of a life hanging by a thread.

Without thinking, you reached down and gently stroked his cheek. His skin was soft, warm, and beneath your touch, he stirred ever so slightly. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of your lips. "He’s a fighter," you whispered, hoping, praying that somehow he would survive.

Rhaenyra’s voice was thick with emotion as she added, “He shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to live. He’s only a babe.”

The silence in the room was heavy as you both watched him, two sisters standing on the precipice of a shared grief that neither of you had wanted. The baby’s breaths slowed, becoming more and more laboured as the hours wore on. His little body, too frail for this world, finally gave in, his chest rising one last time before falling still.

The room was eerily quiet in the wake of his passing. You felt Rhaenyra’s hand slip into yours, her grip tight as tears streamed silently down both your faces. Your mother, your brother, gone within the span of a day. It was almost too much to bear.

The day of the funeral arrived, shrouded in the somber rituals of Targaryen tradition. The Red Keep was draped in black, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and the solemn hush of mourners. The Queen and the babe-prince were to be laid to rest in a ceremony befitting their royal blood, their bodies to be committed to the flames, as was the Targaryen way. The funeral pyre stood on the cliffs outside the city, overlooking the sea—a place of both beauty and sadness.

The sky was grey, clouds swirling ominously overhead as the dragons circled above, their low, mournful cries echoing across the cliffs. You stood beside Rhaenyra, your hand clutching hers as the ceremony began. Your father, King Viserys, stood at the forefront, his face a mask of grief and regret, though you couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness you felt towards him. His love for your mother was evident in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes stared blankly at the pyres, but his relentless pursuit of a son had led to this moment.

The fire was lit, the flames licking hungrily at the wood piled beneath the bodies of your mother and the babe. The Queen’s face, serene in death, was still as beautiful as you remembered. The small form of your brother lay beside her, the two of them consumed by the fire. The smell of smoke filled the air, and the heat from the flames washed over you, though it did little to thaw the coldness in your heart.

You watched as the fire rose higher, its crackling roar swallowing the prayers of the septons and the low murmurs of the gathered lords and ladies. As the flames claimed the bodies, your mother’s soul and that of your little brother were sent to the gods, to join the legacy of your ancestors.

The dragons let out another mournful cry, their wings casting shadows over the cliffs as they flew low over the flames. You closed your eyes, a silent prayer forming on your lips, hoping your mother had found peace in whatever world lay beyond.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened in yours, and you turned to her, both of you finding solace in each other’s presence. The funeral was a blur, but the bond between the two of you had never felt stronger. The pain of losing your mother and brother was a shared burden, one you would carry together.

And as the flames died down and the sky grew darker, you both knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

[viaoverthemoon]

Behind Closed Doors

Thank y'all for all the votes!

Let me know if you all would like more, in which I can possibly post it in parts on here!

Leon Kennedy x Fem!Reader (Medieval Universe)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Summary: Your family's kingdom is under attack and Leon's family offers protection. Everyone thinks this is your first time seeing Leon ever since your betrothal. If only they knew...

Tw: MEDIEVAL TIMELINE AND SPEECH, some characters not from the RE-verse/they will be in later parts if y'all want it, mention of battle and injury (not detailed), fluff, SMUT, but it's kinda soft, p in v sex, unprotected sex, virginity loss, minor description of pain, fingering, orgasm denial(?), sorry the smut is long as hell, BUT ITS WORTH IT PROMISE, Sudden ending

18+!! NSFW!! MDNI!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!!

Enjoy! <3

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The nature of the Kingdom of Duevaula is certainly not what you were expecting it to be.

People spoke of the lands as though it were surrounded by fires, commoners walking around subdued by chains are constantly guarded by cruel soldiers.

Instead, healthy trees grow far and wide around the kingdom, children running in the streets laughing as older kids chase them with no malice. Soldiers patrol the area, but most of them look carefree, conversating with locals and playing with the children.

"Sister? Are you alright?"

The voice of your sister pulls you from your thoughts, eyes drifting to the 12-year-old at your side as she places a hand on yours. "Yes, Nara Vella. I'm fine."

Of course, she sees right through you. "Are you certain? I know the events that took place at home may have been-"

"Nara... That is enough. Thank you for asking, but I am fine."

Nara Vella scrunches her nose, about to say more but the carriage comes to a stop and a trumpet blares.

"We're here."

You listen as The Herald announces your parents, the king and queen of The Kingdom of Islandia, but your heart can't stop pounding.

You and your sister rise just before your carriage door opens. Since you are the first born, your name is announced first.

"Announcing the firstborn Princess of The Kingdom of Islandia, (Y/N) (L/N)."

You stop out of the carriage accepting the footman's outstretched hand. All eyes are on you as your navy-blue skirts brush against the concrete, but your eyes are on one person alone.

Your sister is announced behind you, and you step forward to the man infront of you.

You drop into a curtsy. "Your highness."

He bows deeply. "My lady."

Your eyes meet his, the light of a secret hidden in your gazes. He offers an arm, and you accept it, walking with him behind both of your parents.

Prince Leon.

You were betrothed to him at the age of 6, back when your kingdoms were butting heads, resulting in a feud, and needed a way to end the hostility between them. 13 years later, everyone thinks this is the first time you've seen each other since. But it isn't.

Leon had first sent you a private letter when you were 13 years old, requesting your presence at a hidden lake that rested in the middle of your parents' territories. Your heart had raced, excited for a new adventure in life, and you immediately rushed to meet him there.

You've been seeing each other there for years, playing in the waters, having picnics in the soft grass, feeding each other strawberries and chocolates, and reading in silence. Just enjoying each other's presence.

You shared tiny kisses at the lake a few times, but never went any farther in fear of what could happen if anyone found out you'd lost your purity.

You smile at him and lower your voice. "It's been too long since I last saw you, your highness."

He hums, placing his hand on top of yours. You both know it's only been 2 weeks, but who's counting? "Yes, my lady. Far too long. I was beginning to forget the feeling of your soft lips against mine..." He lowered his head, brushing his lips against your ear. "Perhaps, when we are alone, you could remind me?"

☆

Hours later, you and your family sit in the dining room with the Kennedys. All parents, along with Leon, had been locked away in the war room for hours, discussing ways to save the Kingdom of Islandia after it was attacked by another kingdom that sought revenge against your father, the king.

You'd all barely escaped with your lives, most being unscathed, but you, your mother, and your personal guard Jill, hadn't recovered from a couple injuries. Your sister brings up this fact during dinner.

"If it wasn't for (Y/N), I would've been walking around with one leg instead of two!" She dramatically waves her hands around as you try to shush her, your cheeks turning red with embarrassment.

"Nara Vella! Mind yourself! We do not speak of those events at the dinner table!"

She merely giggles, whispering an apology before returning to her plate. You sigh, about to turn back to your own food, but you feel a pair of eyes on you.

You glance at Leon from across the table through your peripheral, noticing his frown.

'Are you alright?' He mouths. You smile reassuringly and nod, raising a brow and offering a teasing smile.

'Worried about me, your highness?'

He only rolls his eyes, seemingly looking at his plate but peeking up at you through his lashes. 'Always, my lady.'

☆

You sit in your chambers after dinner, trying to sew a tear in the dress you'd worn on that fateful night.

It had been washed and dried, but it suffered damage from sword and arrow grazes. And you couldn't just let it be ruined. It's one of your favorites, a gift from your mother when you finally came of age.

It held far too many memories.

A soft knock comes from your door and, suspecting it was your sister, you call to it. "Enter."

You become frustrated with the sew, accidentally pricking your finger with the needle. You curse, yanking your hand away and to your mouth.

Admittingly, the stitch is not the only thing that has you frustrated.

After the feast, you'd tried to get Leon's attention so the two of you could find a moment alone. But he was instantly pulled away by his father, who began to speak of kingly duties and war experience.

You knew that talk would take a while.

"Nara Vella, I am truly not in the mood right now. This damn stitch is going to be the death of-"

"Is this how you speak when I am not around?"

You yelp, spinning around and dropping your materials.

Leon, your betrothed, leans against your chamber doors.

He smirks at you, approaching you at a slow pace.

"How did you- I thought your father would have you occupied for a while..." You stand, wringing your hands and shifting nervously, trying not to pay any mind to his predatory gaze. He offers a teasing smirk.

"I have my ways," He steps into your space, his chest nearly touching yours, and lifts a hand. You immediately relax, nuzzling your cheek into the palm of his hand.

He hums and you sigh, relishing in the presence of one another. "You're certain? That you are not hurt?"

You sigh, placing your hand on top of his. "Yes, Leon. I really am fine."

You feel him let out an exhale, his shoulders dropping in relief. "Good. Because if anyone left lasting damage on you, I'd take the throne right now and declare-"

You smack his chest, glaring up at him. "Leon! You will not declare war on a kingdom any time soon!"

He only throws his head back and laughs, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "Alright! Relax, my lady. I only jest..." You huff a breath through your nose, staring at his deep blue eyes and wide smile.

These were the moments you truly missed.

While the both of you tried to keep visitations strictly scheduled for once a month, it was pure torture to be away from him that long.

You inhale his air, a deep, husky scent of forest mixed with wildfire.

"I have prayed and waited every night to be in your arms again. I had never known this would be the reason why..." Your other hand grasps his shirt, holding onto him so tightly one would think he might disappear.

"Dreadful circumstance or not, I finally get to see your face again..." Leon raises your chin, your eyes shifting between his eyes and his lips. "And you, finally get to remind me of your taste..."

You could swear sparks fly when your lips meet.

Hot, searing passion colliding to create a love that is hidden behind closed doors. His fingers comb through your hair, your fingernails scratch against his loose sleeve shirt.

His tongue brushes against your lips and your heart leaps, your lips instinctively opening. A gasp comes from those parted lips. Your back arches and Leon chases you, hand lowering to grip the silk material of your robes.

He parts from you all too soon, dipping his head and placing wet kisses along your neck. A moan escapes your lips and the both of you freeze, a pause filled with red hot tension.

Your nails dig into his shoulder, breaths coming out in short, quick gaps. "Perhaps-... Perhaps we should stop..."

"We should..."

And yet, no one moves.

You swallow, throat feeling tight. "If my mother-... If our families ever found out about this-"

His head leaves the crook of your neck, eyes gazing down at you with powerful determination. "They won't."

Your breathing shakes. "But- When that time comes-"

His hands grab your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him. "They. Won't." His thumb strokes your bottom lip, blue eyes burning. "Do you trust me?"

Your answer is immediate. "Of course."

His lips twitch. "Good. Then know, that they will never know. And we will never be separated."

His confidence brings forth your own.

You know this decision is a big one. A lady handing a man her virtue is something that with bind her to him forever.

And while you hate the hold that purity has on the ways of society... You know Leon is the only man you would ever give yourself to.

Your eyes widen, a desperate gleam shining in them. "Take me, Leon."

☆

Your naked body shines in the moonlight, every curve and crevice on display for him, and him alone.

Leon stands at the foot of your bed, staring down at you with hazy, lust filled eyes.

You'd both stripped each other of their clothes in record time, a cluster of rushing hands and pitiful whines. You try not to stare at his... rather intimidating manhood, that stands tall and hard as rock. Albeit, he stares at you without shame.

His eyes rake over every inch over your body, starting at your ankles. Then moving to your legs, then your hips, your stomach, breasts, lips and finally your eyes. His bright blue oceans of eyes had turned into a deep dark sea, leaving you panting and burning.

You open your arms, reaching for him. "Well? Do not stand there and stare..." You somehow keep your voice steady, the whimper in your throat begging to be released.

He smirks, jerking himself a few times, before placing his hands on the bed and crawling toward you.

You hesitate, and then spread your legs. He settles between them, hot palms landing on your thighs and causing the skin to be set ablaze.

Your heart pounds in your ears, breathing turning heavy and legs shaking.

You're afraid. Excited! But afraid.

Many of the older ladies had said that their firsts were blissful, yet excruciatingly painful. But others said it was not as bad as it seems.

This left you with uncertainty, gooseflesh rising on your arms as you try your best to keep your emotions at bay.

But of course, Leon reads you like an open book.

He caresses the soft skin of your thighs, thumbs moving in small, calming circles. "You have nothing to fear, (Y/N)." He leans down, running his nose over your cheek. "Of course, I would never do anything to hurt you. It is never too late to stop-"

He barely gets the words out before your hands harshly grip his biceps. "No! I mean- um... I want this, Leon. More than anything." Your grip relaxes and you offer a reassuring smile.

He smiles back at you.

The heavy atmosphere returns when he leans down again, lips skimming your throat as his length nudges your sensitive ball of nerves.

You nearly jump out of your skin; a sharp gasp leaves you.

Leon feels your nervousness, and, luckily, knows just the cure.

A hand creeps down your body, getting lower... lower...

Until rough, calloused fingers slip between your folds.

A loud moan is quickly cut off by his lips.

Hopefully your guards aren't paying too close attention to your chambers...

Your knees bend, eyes clenching shut as Leon swallows all of your noises. His fingers work slow circles of pleasure into your clit, the sensation one you've never felt before.

Much like getting too close to a hot fire in the blazing cold of a harsh winter, it warms your insides and leaves your outside wanting more.

You throw your head back, the back of your fist flying to your mouth as you try to hold back the sounds your throat nearly let's burst out.

"Hah... Leon-..."

His name rolls from your tongue as a soft whisper, words stuttering off into a sharp inhale as his fingers graze over your soaking hole.

Your other hand grips the soft sheets, body giving in as he completely takes control. Your eyes lock with his.

He's deep in concentration, breathing shallow and sweat matting his blonde hair to his forehead.

Gaze lowering, you see the angry red color of his girth. It throbs, begging for attention while trying its hardest to sit still and look pretty.

"Nuh-uh. Eyes up here, princess." Your glossy eyes snap back to his, mouth slightly agape and brows pulled together. Leon smirks, pleased with your expression. "You can make that up to me later. But this moment, is for you."

His other hand gently removes your hand from your lips, soft sighs coated in ecstasy falling from them immediately.

The pressure builds as you roll your hips to meet his fingers. He slowly slides a finger into you, watching your expression as it shifts. He keeps another finger working on your nerves, so the one inside only adds to the pleasure.

You cry out when he adds a second one, now feeling a slight sense of discomfort, but still pleasure. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, mumbling praises. You're surprised by the sound of his voice, slurring slightly as if he'd indulged in a tin of ale.

"Good job, princess... Doing such a good- hngh~... Does that- feel good, my lady?"

Your body seems to like the sound of Leon, if the new wave of slick was anything to go by.

You feel the knot in your lower stomach tighten, your moans raising in volume as your back arches. You feel something coming. Not sure what it is, but your legs begin to shake. You wait in anticipation, every thought focused on the new stage of euphoria this feeling was going to bring... until Leon completely pulled away his hand.

You gasp, eyes snapping open. Your body falls limp as you catch your breath. "Wha-... Why-"

"I hope you do not mind if I become a little selfish, my lady..."

Your eyes snap to him, sitting up on your elbows and ready to reprimand him for denying you of your bliss, but your words are blown away.

Leon sits up on his knees, manhood curved upward in his hand as he strokes the length. Wet, sticky liquid leaks from the red tip, veins protruding from every angle.

Your air is taken away, leaving only enough to let out a sharp exhale.

"But... I want you coming undone only on my cock."

You eye him, switching between his eyes and his... cock, before nodding slowly. "Okay... Okay, Leon."

He leans down again, pressing wet kisses on your neck and cheeks, as his length glides between your folds. "I will not move until you're ready..." And then, he begins pushing himself inside.

Your nails dig into his shoulders with a gasp. His hand grips the pillows as he grunts. Both of you release soft noises of pain, holding onto each other as he continues to slowly enter you.

You hold back a scream when he finally bottoms out, doing your best to relax as to not hurt him anymore. You feel his soft kisses on your face as he apologizes continuously, hand roaming the skin of your waist as the other rubs circles into your clit again.

After what feels like forever, the pain slowly subsides and makes room for pleasure. Your grip on his shoulders loosens. You instead put them around his neck, digging your hands into his hair. "I'm ready, Leon... You can move-"

His hips snap against yours without warning.

You cry out, clinging to him as he begins to thrust into you at an animalistic rate. He grunts with every thrust, caging your body in as he loses himself.

"I have waited so long-. Please, please forgive me, sweet angel-"

Heavy panting and the smell of sex fills the air, the sound of skin meeting skin resounding within the room. Your moans and pleas do nothing to teeter the wild and rough movements of Leon's hips. He growls into your neck, holding your hips to keep you from getting away.

The knot is seconds away from snapping, but it feels stronger than it was before. Different even... Almost like you need to run to the pot. You feel overwhelmed, pushing at Leon's shoulders. "I can- I can't! It's too much- Ah! Leon-!"

The band snaps.

You scream, toes curling and back arching.

Your body pushes out a wave of liquid, most likely soiling your sheets. The feeling burns you inside and out, tensing all of your muscles and leaving you weak and trembling. You pant heavily, body still jerking from Leon roughly thrusting into you.

The after-bliss you'd once felt begins to feel uncomfortable. Overstimulated, you claw at his biceps in hopes of getting his attention.

He groans when he hears you whine. "Almost- Almost there-"

His thrusts get sloppy, his cock hitting somewhere so deep that it somehow prolongs the burn. You bite his collarbone to keep from screaming again.

It would seem that was his final push, as he pushes deep inside of you, releasing a low, husky groan and throwing his head back.

You watch as his entire body shudders, his grip on your hips tightening so much you're sure you'll have bruises in the morning.

A warm rush of liquid flows into you, seeming to be a never-ending flow as Leon falls limp, landing right beside you.

You'll definitely have to bribe your guards in the morning.

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Whoops!

Sorry for ending it like that! If you guys want this to have more, let me know! I'll pick it up from here!

Let me know what you think!

Hope you enjoyed! <3

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

[blurredcolour]

The Last To Know | Part Three

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

The 100th should be nearing the end of its training, receiving its certification for overseas combat. However, as you and Brady both know - man plans, god laughs. Obstacles, however, sometimes present hidden opportunities for connection.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Plane Crashes, Minor Original Character Death, Vomit, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Alcohol Consumption, Tobacco Smoking, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Musical and Flying Inaccuracies, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

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

Word Count: 6135

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

December 1942

“Any news?” Thornton asked as she sank down into the empty chair opposite you.

Shaking your head, you lowered your eyes to the faintly steaming mug cupped between your hands, trying to calm the hopeful race of your heart. You had thought, in vain, she might be bearing word of Brady’s crew. “No Ma’am.”

She hummed in disappointment, settling back in her seat as she tossed her cap onto the tabletop, carelessness betraying her fatigue. In all honestly, you should be in bed. You, Thornton, and every other person loitering around the Officer’s Club this late on Christmas Eve.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Lieutenant.” She murmured, straightening her jacket as you took a slow slip of your drink.

Correction – this early on Christmas morning.

“You, too.” You sighed, the pair of you offering tight-lipped nods to Matthews, the barman on duty, as he delivered a cup of coffee for Thornton without prompting.

The forecast that afternoon had been clear skies, no reason to doubt the practice missions slated for the 418th. Not until the planes began returning within an hour or two of take off, bearing reports of abysmal weather – little to no visibility, high winds, heavy snow. All but one plane had returned by sundown.

It was not unheard of for things to go awry during training. Plenty of statistics outlined the dangers of just learning how to fly a B-17, never mind taking it into combat. But this would be the first for the 100th.

As to what you were doing here, participating in this vigil – that was certainly more complicated. A question you were not entirely equipped to answer. All you knew is that you had found it impossible to consider turning in the for night with the status of his entire crew unknown. Croz had proven himself a humble gentleman, Hambone more of an enigma, while Hoerr seemed polite enough – holding doors for any lady who crossed his path, no matter what her occupation.

Perhaps it was the question mark that hung over the fate of those ten men that left you feeling so unsettled, seeking the company of the likeminded in the brightly lit, uncharacteristically quiet Club. The sound of the door closing lifted your, and everyone else’s, head, your heart leaping into your throat as Flescher stepped into view. The entire crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting on the 418th’s CO to speak, until Bucky sidled up behind him grinning broadly.

“Crash landed in Wyoming, all ten of ‘em are shaken up but fine.” Egan crowed, basking in the cheer of delight that went up from the collected officers.

Exhaling in relief, you sank lower in your chair, taking a deep sip to finish your drink as Matthews was quickly put to service pouring celebratory shots.

“That’s my cue.” You nodded to Thornton, standing wearily, feeling suddenly fatigued as the nervous worry that had been keeping you awake rapidly leeched from your body.

“Not staying to celebrate?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m already up way past my bedtime, Ma’am. Merry Christmas.” You repeated with a nod, setting your empty mug on the return cart before sliding around the perimeter of the room to avoid getting ensnared in any raucous celebrations.

The night air was cold, sending your hands diving into the fleece-lined pockets of your jacket, breath misting from your lips as you made your way back to barracks. Getting ready as quietly as possible, adding a few more pieces of wood to the stoves before shuffling towards your bed, you turned to the rack beside yours as Lionheart whispered your name.

“Yeah?” You replied just as quietly.

“What’s the word?”

“Safe in Wyoming.”

“Mmm that’s good.” She murmured, voice laden with sleep as she turned over, falling still as she was soon unconscious once more.

Sliding onto your mattress and pulling the blankets right up to your chin, you swallowed tightly as you found yourself wholeheartedly in agreement. It was good that they were safe. Every single one of them. Even that irksome Brady.

They were back on base within two days, a new plane arriving for them just one day after that – war production had vastly improved, even in the last two months. They returned to a Group in the midst of packing up to move to yet another base, another phase of training.

Sioux City, Iowa was your next home, located at the convergence of the states of Iowa, South Dakota, and Nebraska. Arriving the very first day of 1943, the only warmth was in the greeting from the local ground crew, the 100th’s having split off to Kearney, Nebraska to receive their next phase of training separately. The temperature was all of nine degrees, the cold of the wind gnawing at any exposing skin and laying down thick sheets of ice on the runways.

Despite hygiene regulations requiring space between beds, everyone in the barracks found it a great deal warmer to sleep as close to one another as possible, cots pushed together, huddled under as many blankets as could be found, some even resorting to their high-altitude gear to get comfortable. The deep freeze held Iowa tight in its grasp and did not let go for the first week of January. Aircraft engines refused to start, more than a few personnel were injured due to slips and falls on the treacherous ice lurking beneath skiffs of powdery snow or deceptively coloured as black as innocuous concrete.

The 100th found itself grounded at the mercy of mother nature, the vast majority of your colleagues revelling in the proximity to the city and its numerous USO dances. You, yourself, found the lull in activity and purpose tedious.

Burying your nose into the fleecy collar of your flight jacket after yet another failed attempt at a practice mission, you parted ways with your frostbitten crew. The invitation to spend another afternoon in the women’s make-shift club poring over the haul of fashion magazines Nita had procured on her trip off base make your stomach turn and you eagerly pointed your toes towards the hangar to see what the boys in the ground crew were up to. While you might not be able to get up into the air today, you could at least spend time with experienced technicians and perhaps learn a thing or two.

Pulling open the heavy man-door, you stepped into the slightly warmer space where the sounds of repair and idle chatter bounced off the metal roof and walls. There were a few other officers in attendance, most likely longing to be in the air, same as you, but stuck here on the frozen plains with nothing better to do than watch the men in grease-stained coveralls dissemble engines and work on the guts of the machines they normally flew in.

There was one man, off to the side, with several open cans of paint, carefully working on some nose art on a rather spotless looking aircraft. Raising a curious eyebrow as you found painting to be a rather optimistic endeavour in these temperatures, you found your feet carrying you in his direction, peering over at the tail number. ‘42-300071’ you noted with a slight huff. Brady’s new plane, of course. At the sarcastic exhale, the unfamiliar man looked up to you quickly and you stepped closer to address him properly.

“Pretty sure you’ve got the lettering wrong there, Sergeant.” Your lips twitched playfully, watching him pale nervously as his eyes darted back to the three-quarters finished ‘Skipper.’

“M…Ma’am?” He squeaked out nervously, drawing the attention of several passers-by.

“That should most definitely read ‘Brady’s Crash Wagon.’” A grin snuck its way onto your lips as the hangar erupted with laughter, a rather perturbed John Brady stalking around the nose of the plane to eye you in annoyance.

Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, lest you burst out laughing, you could not help but notice that his cap was pulled low on his head, pushing his ears out slightly, giving him the appearance of an overgrown field mouse. Raising a shoulder in a half-shrug of nonchalance, you continued on your way towards an engine stripped of its parts, crouching down to watch the technician hard at work on one of the gears – a tiny yet integral piece.

“You’re a real cut-up, Bo Peep.” Egan beamed, clapping you on the shoulder playfully, driving that laugh that had been stubbornly hovering in the back of your throat past the barrier of your lips as you straightened to face him. You could not help but notice the faint-hearted laugh he produced, the fact that the expression did not quite reach his eyes.

“You ok, Major?” You murmured, referring to him by his recently promoted rank.

His eyes met yours, studying you for a moment before he nodded and offered a wink. “Just fine, Bo Peep. Stay warm, huh?” He patted your shoulder again before moving along, leaving you alone with your confusion and growing sense of unease.

A glance back over your shoulder at the flushed face of Brady, surrounded by his bright-faced comrades as they watched the final touches being put on the nose of his plane provided no insights. Bucky’s uncharacteristic moment of solemnity became did not become more understandable until Thornton cornered you a few days later with the news that Wing was reticent to certify the 100th for overseas combat. The lack of flying days here in Iowa, combined with the limited planes available at the outset in Washington, capped off with the disorderly transition from base to base – including one particular crew’s detour to Minneapolis to send a message via wrench dropped out of a machine gun port…well it had all raised a lot of doubts in the minds of your superiors.

“How bad are we talking here?” You murmured, leaning in closer as a few girls filtered by towards the showers. “A complete failure of the experiment?” Your throat clenched painfully around the words, feeling more than a little queasy at the thought that after months of hard work, you might be packing it up to head home anyway.

“Dutch doesn’t foresee it being quite so dire, just promise me you’ll keep your nose clean, Lieutenant. We’ve been perfect thus far, now we must be simply flawless.”

“Understood, Ma’am.” You nodded quickly, parting with a sharp salute, hurrying toward the Mess Hall to dig into some breakfast.

The warmth on the breeze, a sudden turn in the weather, was a hopeful sign and one that did allow you all to get back into the air. Your efforts to arrange Deep in the Heart of Texas for the 280th’s band to play for Thornton on her birthday, in honor of her home state, also proved an excellent distraction. While the vast majority of officers had absconded off base for one of the ubiquitous USO dances, you had taken up residence in the corner of the Officer’s Club, taking the record player hostage as the Ladies Club did not have one on this base. With your one purchased copy of the score, and multiple handwritten versions spread out on the table before you, Matthews groaned as you set the needle on the outside of the record to play the song yet again, wanting to read through the clarinet part you had just written out.

“I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll buy another drink in a moment and improve your sales for the night.” You glanced back over your shoulder at him apologetically, startled to meet the blue eyes of Brady, leaning up against the bar.

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” Matthews huffed good naturedly and you jerked your focus back to the task at hand as the voice of Bing Crosby, playing significantly quieter than usual, still managed to fill the basically empty club as your eyes traced along your penciled in notes.

As the song came to end, you lifted the needle, the tuneless scratching of vinyl ceasing, as you tapped your pencil against your lower lip in thought. The arrangement seemed fine in all honesty, but fine was most definitely not what you were aiming for with your birthday tribute to the inspiration for your entire squadron. Pulling the score for the trumpets closer you exhaled heavily, once again debating about which instrument ought to be carrying the melody in the second verse when a voice startled you from behind.

“Saxophones ought to be stepping out there.” Brady murmured thoughtfully, ice clinking against the side of his glass as he took a sip.

Shoulders stiffening nearly to your ears, you glared down at the page before you. “Of course you would say that; you spend all your spare time with a reed in your mouth.”

Huffing a little, he settled down, completely uninvited, in the chair to your left. “Look here, horn lady,” his annoyingly elegant finger jabbed into the sheet music, “you’re overlooking a powerful and impactful instrument that would add dimension to this section.”

Wrenching your eyes from his insistent digit to his stubbornly set face, his jaw jutting slightly forward, you began to regret referring to his mouth earlier as your eyes were tempted to drift there. “You forget that I only have two to rely upon.” You countered quickly, trying to distract yourself.

“Only takes one good saxophone to steal the show.” He replied with a minute smirk, slowly sipping his drink and making you grit your teeth before pulling the scores together.

Using your eraser, you made his suggested changes for the second verse, putting the saxophones in the spotlight and the clarinets on harmony, before setting it all in front of him. “You listen, I’ve stared at this far too long.”

Standing quickly, you set the song to play once more before stalking over to the bar, intent on fetching the drink from Matthews as promised. Assuming the lean Brady had occupied a few minutes prior, you were pleasantly surprised to see him still sat at the table, diligently reviewing the music before him as the song played. Paying and tipping Matthews handsomely as you accepted your beverage, your lips parted in surprise as Brady went to the lengths of setting the song to play again.

“Christ almighty, there are two of you now.” Matthews groaned bitterly and you shot him yet another apologetic grimace.

“Sorry, Matthews.”

“Whatever, just…I’ll be in the back doing stock if anyone needs me.” He sighed dramatically, tossing his towel over his shoulder and disappearing through the doorway behind the bar.

Returning to the table slowly, you swallowed to find Brady jotting down his thoughts on the back of a spare sheet. Resuming your seat carefully, so as not to disturb him, you froze slightly as he suddenly turned his gaze to you.

“It’s a fair start–” He began and so did your struggle to actually listen to the rest of what he had to say rather than immediately fight back defensively.

Though it utterly galled you to admit it, he made numerous good points. You had heard he was a professional musician, had done his degree in music, played with Bunny Berrigan. Hell, you had seen and heard him play yourself at that holiday concert. And his acumen was showing here again, right now. Swallowing your pride, as much as it painfully scraped its way down your throat, you forced yourself to take his advice, to make the changes. Until it came to your substitution for the claps during the refrain.

“I say keep them with the horns, but don’t play these notes, actually clap – you’ll get the audience to join in.”

Your pencil halted in place above your score, head jerking up to look at him. “You’d reduce us to percussion.” You said flatly, tone dripping with disbelief.

Sighing impatiently, he leaned back in his chair crossing his arms. “Fine, someone needs to clap. Your bandleader?”

Raising both your eyebrows, a laugh of disbelief escaped you. “Keever?! Oh that’s rich she’d…” your voice trailed off as you imagined her displeasure. How annoyed she would be at such a lowly job and yet how easily explainable it would be. A dark grin of delight tugged at your lips, and you nodded firmly, grabbing the clarinet score and making a special note, just for Keever.

“Once more, to be sure?” He asked around the pipe now clenched in his teeth, and you nodded firmly, laying the parts at an angle between the pair of you as he set up the record to play one more time, the heavy thud of a box being dropped on the bar sounding from behind you.

The pair of you glanced back to see Matthews disappearing back into the stockroom, muttering unintelligibly under his breath, before turning back to look over your handiwork, nodding along quietly as the song played before you leaned back with a sigh of relief.

“That’s it.” Brady nodded, turning off the record player, curls of smoke trailing from his lips.

Nodding as you finished the dregs of your drink with one deep swallow, you moved to assemble your papers into order, blinking as he held out the record for you to tuck away into its sleeve. Not quite capable of offering words of thanks to the man, you opted instead to provide a deep nod of gratitude, packing it away and heading out for the night.

The band had a week and a half to perfect the piece, using every available moment to practice. The unfinished pool, construction halted for the winter, proved to be the perfect space to keep the endeavour secret – though both yourself and Keever found it much harder to explained prolonged absences to Thornton. After one too many close calls, and one rather intense exchange involving a remarkable amount of perspiration for January in Iowa, you found it necessary to employ the assistance of Egan to keep her off the scent. The man proved more than eager and up to the task at distracting her with inane drabble or outright chaos as the situation warranted.

He was with her right now, distracting her with some meeting along with Dutch, Cleven, Kidd, Flescher, Alkire…at least you were desperately trying to convince yourself that was all it was – and not the dire news you had been praying would not come to pass. Andie shouted your name, drawing your eyes from the blur of music stanzas in front of you to where your Co-pilot was setting down a large slab cake with the assistance of Lionheart.

“Here??” She called again and you gave her the thumbs up through the clouds of balloons and streamers – the decorations having reached astronomic proportions under Bucky’s insistence.

Turning back to warming up, your attention was once again snagged by actions on the floor as Dutch hurried in with Cleven, sliding his blunt fingers into his mouth and giving a sharp whistle. “She’s two minutes out! Places!”

There were times when you questioned the military training of the members of the 100th, but this was not one of them. With surprising efficiency, all of those gathered, including the enlisted women with special permission to enter the Officer’s Club for the evening, quieted down and assembled along the sides of the room emptied of furniture to allow for the extra bodies. You barely registered the opening of the door before a great cheer when up, Keever turning to the band expectantly. Holding the opening note of Happy Birthday for a few beats until the crowd took the cue, she signalled with a bob of her head to proceed with the rest of the tune, the band playing as the crowd eagerly sang to the blushing woman as Bucky guided her to the over-sized cake on the bar.

There were more cheers, which then tripled in volume once she blew out the candles and then, at last, came time for your surprise. Taking a moment to wipe the sweat from your palms onto your olive drab skirt while the attention of the crowd was elsewhere, you took a steadying breath as Keever turned back to begin Deep in the Heart of Texas. As you had assumed, there had been a great deal of push back from her regarding the refrain claps, but you had done an admirable job selling her importance of that role as bandleader. And watching her eyes light up upon taking in the force with which the crowd executed those claps along with her convinced you that it had been worth it.

Damn that John Brady.

Shuffling from the bandstand to thunderous applause at the end of the song, you smiled to Matthews gratefully as he cued up the record player, revellers taking to the dancefloor as you moved to find your instrument case to pack up.

“Lieutenant.” Thornton’s voice cut through the din as her hand landed on your shoulder with a squeeze. Turning to face her warmly, your eyes widened as she pulled you close in a warm embrace. “Thank you.” She said emphatically in your ear.

Pulling back with a quizzical look on your face, she cracked a small smile.

“Egan.” She clarified and you shook your head with a smirk, feeling the expression leech away as her face fell solemn.

“Ma’am?”

“It’s not dissolution but…more training. A month at least.” She leaned in, confirming that the meeting had, in fact, not been a ruse.

Setting your mouth into a grim line, you exhaled deeply through your nose, nodding once to show you had heard her even if you did not fully understand the reasoning. Parting from you with one final squeeze of your shoulder, you turned to wend your way through the raucous crowd, punching the door open into the frigid night, forgetting all about your case. You were about ten steps away from the building when you heard Brady calling your name.

Turning back sharply, you saw him jogging over to you, trumpet case in hand. “It was good.”

Snagging it from him roughly, you gulped. “Not good enough.”

“What are you talking about?” He tilted his head, acutely resembling a bewildered puppy.

Casting your eyes around the desolate exterior of the building and finding only the ghosts of your exhales hanging in the air, you swallowed. “We’re not getting certification.”

His gaze hardened. “Your scores are perfect.” He muttered, tone soured by what you could only assume was envy.

Brady’s reply wrung a bitter laugh from your aching chest. “I could turn water into wine, Brady, and they would say it’s because I can’t make beer. Besides, they’re not going to certify one crew, one squadron even. It’s the whole Group or nothing.”

“Damn.” He grunted. “Do you know how long?”

“A month, at least. Just pray it’s not in this desolate ice field.” You shook your head, leaving him alone in the freezing night.

It was not. At least not for the 418th and 280th. Two days after Thornton’s tainted birthday celebrations, you were on the move once again, to Boise, Idaho. The semi-arid conditions there brought a return temperatures in the forties and regular training flights without the same biting cold of Iowa. It did little to lift the spirits of the splintered squadrons, the 349th, 350th, and 351st scattered hither and yon, the entire Group’s future feeling utterly precarious despite Thorntons assurances that it would not be a permanent separation.

Certain men, of whom Pratt was the most vocal, were more than happy to lay the blame at the feet of the women of the 280th, but in comparison, both on paper and in the air, your squadron was unquestionably outperforming any other as the calendar turned first to February and then onto March. Temperatures rose, the spring rains came to the Treasure Valley, and Blakely married his Sioux City sweetheart, shipped in by train for the occasion accompanied by Hambone’s wife.

You had been learning more than just their names during this prolonged period of training in exile, finding that not only had the weather thawed but so too had some of their reticence to interact with the ladies of the 280th as equals. That was, of course, not to say that things did not remain frosty between you and Brady – no, that friction would most likely never resolve, but perhaps the pair of you might be able to function as colleagues.

March 29 dawned warm and remarkably humid, sending your eyes suspiciously skyward to assess the seemingly innocent clouds scudding along briskly in the stiff breeze. Halting your steps on your way to the Mess Hall, you planted your hands on your hips and furrowed your brow, doing your best to ignore the way Andie was snickering at you.

“You trying to give Stormy a run for his money?”

Shaking your head with a sigh, mostly at yourself, you put one foot in front of the other to continue onward toward breakfast. “Weather’s off, that’s all.” You shrugged and held the door open for her to make up for delaying her meal.

With a nod of thanks she stepped into the Officer’s Mess, usually filled with a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces here in Idaho. In a way it had been a blessing your squadron had been sent along with another – it limited the number of unpleasant encounters with each new Group rotation, watching some other bunch of men making their way through training more expediently than the 100th also had the added benefit of forging deeper bonds between your two squadrons. The Mess was quieter today, however, the members of the 393rd Bomb Group off on an early morning mission. They would surely be moving on next week and the question on everyone’s mind was, would you also get that chance?

It had been a cramped stay, with no spare buildings for the women to make their own club, no time or space for the band to practice. The desire to get certified and get into combat was searing inside everyone by now, it was just a matter of convincing Wing that you were truly ready. Bellies full, crews were assembled and loaded onto transport trucks after the briefing. Dual squadron bombing run without ordinance was the order of the day, but you found your eyes narrowing in on the clouds beginning to grow vertically over the valley as the heat of the day increased under the influence of the sun.

“If the weather allows…” You muttered under your breath to yourself as you jumped off the truck in front of your plane, which the girls had lovingly named ‘Ice Box’ thanks to the cold temperatures you all endured while flying inside it.

“Ok, Stormy.” Andie sassed, happy to assure you she had overheard your pessimism before she slid aboard, making you roll your eyes as you followed.

You wished you had not been right. In fact, there were a lot of things you wished went differently that day.

Take off was rough, the plane buffeted by cross winds and turbulence that had even the seasoned members of your crew questioning the wisdom of their generous breakfast. After much discussion between Blakely and Thornton, the squadrons pushed higher to try and find a smoother altitude above the clouds. The problem was the clouds only continued to bubble and boil higher and higher into the stratosphere, seeming to chase your aircraft.

Glancing out the small window to your left, you frowned as there was no friendly flat-top to these clouds, apparently nothing to limit their towering heights. Listening to nothing other than the sound of your own exhales echoing harshly against the rubber of your mask, you bit off a curse and made the decision to call the lead plane of your squadron to express your concern about the obvious storm clouds.

“Zoot Suit three to Zoot Suit lead.”

“Go ahead.” Came Thornton’s reply, tone perfectly even.

“I’m thinking these storm clouds are more dangerous than they look.”

“Zoot Suit three, same conversation occurring in our cockpit, standby.”

Exhaling slowly, both relieved that she agreed and yet tension increasing now that your sense of apprehension was validated, you nearly missed the bolt of lightning that jumped from one cloud to another in front of the nose of your plane. The thunder, however, was inescapable, the airframe of your B-17 rattling with the proximity of it.

“Well!” Andie huffed. “Think that oughta convince her.”

You were about to reply when a forceful updraft caught the underside of the left wing, driving the plane towards the underside of Biddick’s fort above you, cockeyed, but at such an acute angle you were increasingly at risk of stalling out and sliding backward into the 280th’s formation behind you.

“Shit.” You hissed before barking out to the crew. “Hold on!”

Grasping the throttles, you split the right backward and the left forward, trying to drive the left wing downward as you pulled on the yoke to bank clear of any other planes. The engines whined at the sudden and disparate demands, but thankfully complied, the aircraft spiralling down and away from causing any harm to those around you. Gritting your teeth against the force of the turn, you fought to level out once you had dropped clear, shooting Andie a grateful look as her hand joined yours on the throttle and you pulled on the yokes together.

Chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath, the adrenaline was still singing through your veins as Thornton’s voice came through your headset.

“Zoot Suit lead to Zoot Suit three, everything all right down there?”

“Levelled out now, yes Ma’am.” Your voice was embarrassingly thin but nevertheless audible.

“Zoot Suit lead to all Zoot Suit pilots, Charlie, Delta, Eight, Niner, Alpha, Echo.”

Heaving a sight of relief as she called out the scrub code for your squadron, you remained at your lower altitude, watching the 280th peel off and descend before moving to join their tail as they headed back to base.

“Red Meat lead to all Read Meat pilots, following suit.” Came Blakely’s call shortly after was very validating to hear, though the derisive snort emanating from Pratt made your grip tighten painfully on the controls.

“One dumb girl can’t control her plane and we have to scrub?” He remarked snidely across all the channels, making your blood boil.

“Red Meat six, you have been given the order to scrub, you will turn that plane around or I will take it up with Flescher the moment we land.”

Instinctively looking over your shoulder told you nothing, nothing visible but empty sky from your vantage point, but from the sounds of it, Pratt was continuing on along the mission route, through the thickening clouds and almost persistent thunder.

“Coward…” Was the last transmission, a cruel barb that made your very skin crawl as you would have happily defied that label being applied to any person in the air at the moment, even if it cost you your life.

No further arguments exchanged, you were left the assume that Pratt had complied. Rain opened up, an obscuring curtain of water that nearly hid the runway from view. Mercifully, you were not the first to land, relying on those that found the ground safely before you to help guide you out of the unfriendly sky. Taxiing to your hardstand, you were in the process of removing your flying helmet when Pratt’s plane, being batted about in the wind as though it was crafted of paper, made your breath catch in your throat. Lightning tore through the sky once more, that clouds having since coalesced into one solid wall of black behind him, making the mighty flying fortress appear small.

The sight of an updraft snagging his plane, an occurrence not dissimilar to that which you and your crew had narrowly escaped, sent your heart plummeting, your eyes sliding shut in resignation as the aircraft was thrown helplessly higher into the sky before arcing viciously towards the ground. The resulting cacophonous boom of the explosion, distinct from thunder, had the ladies still sheltering inside the bomber crying out in terror.

“Who was it?”

“Oh god we gotta go help them!”

“No one coulda survived that…”

Yanking the helmet the rest of the way off your head to remove the headset from your ears, you pressed your thumb between your eyebrows to fight off the intense wave of nausea threatening you. The bitter taste of bile was in the back of your throat, creeping higher, and you struggled to take calming breaths as the storm continued to rage outside.

There was not a kind bone in that man’s body, but you had not wished him death. Not even after he accused you of incompetence, nor each and everyone of you of cowardice. Wrenching the sliding window of the cockpit open you stuck your head out the side to lose the remnants of your breakfast, warm rain pelting your face in the process, washing away the evidence.

Retreating back to your seat, you looked to Andie startled as she held out a handkerchief, by some miracle keeping all commentary to herself for once. Quickly drying your face, you tucked it into your pocket with a nod of thanks before wending your way back toward the hatch, coaxing the wide-eyed, shocked girls from the plane and into the covered crew truck to be ferried back to the briefing hut.

That interrogation felt a lot less like practice, Dutch making a beeline for your table and leaning in closely to listen in on your description of the evasive action you had taken, followed by your crew’s collective description of the crash.

The entire room felt muted, everyone’s voices lowered, hushed, like you were already attending the funerals of those eleven men – Pratt’s crew and their experienced observer – who had fallen out of the sky trying to land in the storm.

Maybe if Pratt had turned around when Blakely ordered, he could have beaten the brunt of it. Or maybe there had been nothing that he could have done.

You were starting to feel sick again, excessive perspiration accumulating beneath your flight suit, driving you to open it halfway. Rising quickly to your feet as soon as you were dismissed, you stepped outside desperately to gulp in the fresh air, finding it smelling sweet and feeling cool now that the storm had passed, taking all the humidity with it.

“Bo-peep!” Blakely called out and you turned to see him standing off to the side with a few pilots from the 418th, sharing matches to light their preferred delivery methods for their precious tobacco.

Swallowing hesitantly as he waved you over, you took another life-saving breath of restorative air before moving to join them, more than a little curious at the invitation.

“What did you do before all this?” He asked, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear to light once the book of matches reached him.

Furrowing your brows slightly as you looked from him to Biddick, then Brady, it slowly dawned on you that this was some odd form of acceptance into the group. Tucking the piece of gum you had been fervently chewing to overcome the taste of vomit into your cheek, you shrugged.

“Crop-dusting, mostly, odd jobs in the winter.”

His brown eyes widened slightly as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke up and away from you. “You flew before joining up.” It was not a question, more of an ‘aha!’ statement.

Nodding slowly, you tucked your thumbs into the corners of your pockets. “Almost two years.”

“How’d you get out of that updraft?” Brady’s blunt question cut through Blakely’s moment of revelation, drawing all eyes onto him.

His fingers were tightly grasping the bowl of his pipe, eyes fix firmly on you.

“Yeah, you didn’t even clip the lady beside you, spin out, stall, nothin’.” Biddick shook his head in disbelief.

Bowing your head slightly under the intense scrutiny and praise, you shrugged humbly before taking a breath, trying to remember what you had even done. It had all been instinct. “Split the throttles to overcome the punch to the left wing, took her down in a sharp turn, then Andie and I levelled her out together.” You spoke slowly as each motion came back to you.

“Well, hell, you be sure to tell me anytime I need to stay away from a cloud alright?” Blakely smirked and you laughed softly in surprise.

“Will do.” You nodded in return.

You felt comfort in the sudden levity, in the grins they sent your way, the claps they landed on your shoulder. You had earned their respect, even if it had taken nearly five months, and it meant a lot.

Even if Brady was staring at you silently with his striking blue eyes, his pipe clenched between his teeth.

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

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel, @beingalive1, @phyllisthefirst, @bcon24, @louzello

[achaoticeternal]

Yes please write a part 2. If you don’t mind could something happen there that endangers strongreaders life and Aemond prevents.

check out part one here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Favor of All

AEMOND TARGARYEN X STRONG(VELARYON)!READER

summary: once returning to king's landing, you and your mother watch aemond win a tourney and a favor word count: 942 warnings: tarcest? dangerous situation?

“His first tourney!” You look between Aegon and Helaena in shock at what they’ve told you. 

“We can hardly believe it either,” Aegon rolled his eyes when he noticed how overly excited you and the princess were, “Is my eldest sister joining us?”

Shaking your head at Aegon’s lack of enthusiasm, you scoffed at him before taking a glimpse out the window of the carriage, “My mother is in the same carriage as the King and his wife.”

Aegon didn’t acknowledge your reply, but it didn’t matter. The carriage had come to the halt for the royal arrival at one of the great amphitheaters of the city. Aegon stepped out before either you or Helaena, and did not even offer a hand to assist. Instead, two eager boys (most likely the third or fourth son of some lord ) came to help the young ladies out of their carriage. 

Immediately, you were all ushered toward your setting today. Instead of sitting in the typical noble box, the Hand had made a request for the King to be seated toward the center so that he may watch Aemond from a better vantage point. 

You currently sat to the left of your mother, Rhaenyra, as she was on the left hand of her King father. Helaena’s lady-in-waiting sat on your other side, and you began to make polite conversation with her.

Together, you laughed and giggled until a caller came approaching.

“My Princess!”

You turned to see who beckoned you and met the gaze of a violet eye and long hair neatly braided away from his face.

“Uncle!”

Aemond stopped before the gate where you were eye-to-eye with his horse. You pet the soft hair of the creature and you glanced up at him.

“So now you'll compete in tourneys?”

“You know I don’t really give a shit about this,” Aemond chuckled with a playful smirk, “But it is my duty to perform such tasks.”

“Mmhmm… I’m sure you can’t stand the attention of all the ladies wishing for your affection,” You teased the prince while biting your lip.

“There is only one who has my affections,” Aemond wistfully produced a red and white rose, presenting it for you to take, “my princess…”

You sniffed the flower gently, looking bashfully up to the man, “You have my favor… May the Warrior guild your blade, and may the Mother watch over you.”

Aemond nodded and turned back toward the starting end of the joust. In place of the King, Alicent and Rhaenyra stood together and gave the welcome of the tourney. Soon enough, it all began with men and horses colliding, fighting each other with a determined grit. 

Soon, the Prince started his first joust. While you cheered loudly for him, he simply won with ease. Many champions and fools were bested by Aemond, and all you could do was cheer wildly for him. In the final event for the day, Aemond came to your on his horse once more. 

“My dear niece, you and your prayer have been quite the good luck charm for me to day,” His eye flickered from Rhaenyra, back to you. He scanned over your face, and offered a smirk, “Might I have your favor, princess?”

With a great grin, you turned to the side table and grabbed your braided favor. You pressed a soft kiss to one of the flowers before placing it onto his baton. With ease, you guided the favor down the shaft, eyes never leaving his. 

“My favor is yours,” Your heart beat had picked up rapidly as you felt the eyes of the public upon you. Yet you didn’t care, too entranced by Aemond. 

Your hand eagerly gripped your mothers as you watched the joust begin between the finalists. Aemond looked as if he was charging into battle, while the other lad seemed to have an ego for getting thus far in the competition. The trumpet sounded and both men charged at the other. It was a swift motion, but Aemond easily knocked his competitor off his horse. He continued to turn his horse backed around, as the other man equipped himself with a bow and arrow. The man fired three shots at Aemond, yet none of them came close to striking the prince. He fired another arrow, however it refocused on course of the booth. 

Your eyes went wide, and you felt the hands of your mother go to grab and tug you out of the path. Before you could move, the arrow struck with a great thud. Aemond had stopped the speeding arrow with a piece of his shattered shield. He looked from the man, who yielded, and then back to you with great concern in his eye. 

“Are you well, my lady? Unharmed?”

“Thank you, my prince. Your speed and agility have done the great service of protection,” Your hand clutched over your heart as you spoke with a nervous laugh. 

“I am simply glad that you are well,”Aemond gently grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles.

A warm blush came to your cheeks at his actions. You felt the eyes of your mother look over the scene before her with a great itensity. Something had suddenly shifted in how she saw Aemond and his behavior toward’s her daughter. Rhaenyra finally saw just how Aenond was with her daughter as Daemon was with her. It warmed her heart, knowing that someone cared for her daughter as much as she did. 

Later, she would speak to Alicent about a betrothal, but now she simply allowed you to seek the affections of your prince.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

hope you enjoyed!

[senka-mesecine]

Ok now, you told me to be annoying with asks so I'm gonna (sorry not sorry💟)- how about this weird idea. Could you write a little something about O'Neil walking in on something he shouldn't have witnessed, maybe he walked in/overheard his sargerooney being particularly sweet with reader? OR Something better or something way worse than that? 😈 I'll leave that choice up to you. And Red being the way he is, he puts that image in his little keepsake box so he can pull it out the next time he's gonna need a favour or something. You totally don't need to write this, I've just been thinking 🫡💟 love ya!

The Angel, Huh?

Robert Barnes x Reader (Feat. a Meddlesome O'Neill). @woman-with-no-name

―

This was the only time in centuries anyone's seen Robert Barnes on R&R

Only time O'Neill has seen him, that's for sure.

Should've been a day marked in the calendar in red like a national holiday.

Up there with Thanksgiving.

Getting that cocksucker to stop fighting and go on a fucking break was like getting flies off of shit on a hot summer's day, which is why Red figured the whole situation caused so much...well...uh...universal uproar; even though nobody had the balls to actually be loud and open about it unless they wanted the attention of the man of the hour himself, which was always a bad idea. So, conspiratorial murmurings it was. Thing is, boys were talking and when boys talked, Red had the habit of listening and eating that crap up. Supposing he was curious himself and in any other situation, he figured he'd ask Chiefrooney about it himself, but as things stood...Barnes actually hung up the old magazine for three whole days and that was so shocking, Red wasn't sure how he'd vocalize anyone of his questions in the first place. Maybe why he was waiting for him at the hotel's front door, catching him exit, all of this, this whole situation, so strange Red found himself lighting a cigar, feeling his hand shake. A venue for military personnel in Hawaii, he might've slightly abused the fact that he knew which room Bob stayed in and he might've just, in equal measure, done some eavesdropping in the hallway. For all but five seconds, but still. Honestly, what he heard made him nervy. The man out of the hour busts out of the hotel's front door sauntering down the stairs still in his military fatigues and Red nearly jumps at the sight; Barnes was the only man alive, possibly, on vacation still in his green slacks, admittedly, with his sleeves rolled up --- a sign of relaxation or as close as Bob would allow himself to get to it. Red gleeful digs his teeth into his lower lip looking down at his own get up. He had one Hawaiian shirt and one pair of bell bottom jeans he intended to wear them to their maximum capacity these couple of days, admittedly, in the company of his bucket hat; a precaution against the sun. The contrast was just something, is all. Like they were headed to two entirely different places.

Sarge looked like he was off back to war.

And Red like he was about to order some Mai Tais on the nearest beach pier.

-"Hiya there, uh, Bob! Enjoying the break, huh? Enjoying the weather, huh? Seeing you out of the jungle is like seeing a fish playin' a trumpet. Can hardly believe it myself, uh-oh."-

He calls after him, rambling, keeping up pace, practically running after the man who didn't intend to stop; he was certain Bob noticed him but choose to tactically ignore him, stubbornly marching forward, down the street. Didn't even do as much to throw him a mean as shit, judgmental side-glance to appraise what he was wearing. Nah, nah, he wasn't getting off the hook easily. Something was going on here.

-"Why don'tcha take a picture, Red. It'll last'ya longer."-

Is all Bob says, not even looking back at him, just adamantly walking forward.

Red takes a long drag out of his cigar, feeling a wicked smile creep forth.

Now was his chance.

-"So, that her, Bob? That the lucky lady, huh?"-

Red feels himself grow emboldened, teasing deliberately and he swears he's never seen a man halt in his tracks so abruptly, so suddenly, doing a seamless turn on his heels at the very second the words were spoken, like an angry bull about to impale him on his horn in the middle of the street. All the playfulness evaporates and O'Neill's face to face with Barnes, and even in the mellow, warm sun of Hawaii, Bob still looked frightening as all shit, the vista doing nothing to soften his demeanor or features, perhaps causing them to seem even sharper than usual in a space that was so very open, wide and as light as this; like placing a piece of artillery in a flower garden. Especially now, when his buttons were clearly pushed, his eyes positively shark-like. Oh, so Red guessed correctly; what got Bob away from active combat was a woman. Story as old as time. He came to Hawaii for R&R to meet up with someone. You. He's sure heard some funky noises from behind that hotel door, uh-oh. But, judging by Chieferooney's reaction? It was confirmed. Was official. The O'Neill investigatory skills never fail.

-"What's it to you?"-

Bob questions and it was Red's turn to feel cocky.

Doesn't even bother dipping the ash hanging askew from his cigarette. He just lets it fall to the ground on its own because he didn't intend to miss a second of this. He wiggles his eyebrows. Taunting.

-"I don't know, angel, you tell me, huh? Huh?"-

Red cocks his head and he doesn't even have a solid moment to properly gloat.

At the mention of that moniker, Barnes jumps, piercing through his personal bubble.

Red's hands come up, defensively, as a shield.

He stands his ground against the one man tornado, but, holy shit, geez.

What's this? Kill O'Neill season!? Kill O'Neill the Cupid? Batshit.

-"Hey, hey, hey, easy there, tiger!"-

He jitters, only partially joking and on the other side, very seriously so, feeling his body shake. Last thing he wanted was Bob getting genuinely angry. Didn't matter if they were surrounded by palm trees, pina coladas, civilians and servicemen on a break, he knew the man would flat out throw him into the nearest magnolia bush and kick his ass, leaving him for dead in a nearby sandy ditch, baby. All of this had a humorous side to it, admittedly. Lucky for Bob O'Neill was as big of a love expert as he was. -"Got'cha real riled up, didn't I! Heh-he!"- Red chuckles into his own chin as Barnes holds his gaze for a couple of seconds to drill the point home that he wasn't in the mood, only to turn back and around and continue going where he was going with all the determination in the world. All Red could do was follow. What, they served for as long as they did together and he wasn't even going to tell him who you were!? C'mon. -"You know, I knew there had to be a reason because I told myself; Bob leaving The Nam voluntarily!? The Bob I know!? That fella'!? Uh-oh, uh-oh, ain't no way! No way! There gotta be something there! An agenda!"- He rants away, doing so to the outline of Bob's back as the man practically marched on in front of him in wide strides, not seeming terribly pleased even though his face was entirely turned and even though he wasn't exactly saying anything. Some of the guys didn't really believe that Sarge was here with them in the first place; they told him he was full of shit. Making crap up. Some of them devised entire conspiracy theories he was downright here to kill someone; covert Ops mission, blacklisted and all that. From the higher ups. They made bets on it. But, Red? Red discovered the real truth. Like Red knew he would. Catching up with Bob, or rather, feeling Bob allowed him to catch up with him, Red takes this as a sign he's allowed to make another joke. -"And now I know what it is, Sargerooney. The agenda! Yeah."- He quips, finding Bob gruff. Gloomy. Giving him a dark stare once they halt on vaguely desolate part of the coastline, in the relative shadow of the hotel; balconies and windows lining its facade. He catches the Sarge staring in that direction with a gaze he could only describe as unfathomable.

He was a little too quiet and intense. Even for Bob.

Red imagines you being kept behind lock and key on the other side of one of those balconies and it seemed so in line with the Bob he knew the notion sends a chill down his spine.

He knew what would cheer the man up and diffuse the situation. He pulls out a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, along with a lighter. An olive branch, of sorts. Offering a cigarette. Offering to light it too. To his shock, Robert Barnes hesitates, not accepting the gesture immediately, body as rigid as a rock, eyes travelling between the box and O'Neill's face, still seeming like he was ready pounce back into a fighting stance any minute, his thick, meaty fingers half-coiled, like a claw. Like all he lacked was the grip of an M16's handle around them and the momentary absence of his firearm while on vacation was like the feeling of a phantom limb after the actual flesh has already been cut and amputated. Red gulps heavy and loud.

Chief was pissed.

-"C'mon, Bob, uh, don't be like that."-

Red whines, feeling his lip shiver. What? Was this relationship that serious then?

Bob, in love!?

Geez, man. For Pete's sake. Gotta be a cold day in hell.

And here he thought it would be great blackmail fodder. Casually, in a joking way, between compatriots and all that. When he wanted extra privileges and perks. He just felt that strategically brining up the fact Robert Barnes had a girl he was soft and sweet on and who he referred to as angel behind closed doors was so crazy that Sarge himself wouldn't want the story to grow legs and start running, but by the looks of it --- it was gonna be Red who's gonna have to start running soon, the vice grip around his guts subsiding only when Bob actually decides to have mercy and reaches out, taking a single cigarette out of the white box and popping into his scarred, scowling mouth, without saying thanks, without saying anything actually, waiting the zippo to do its thing. Desperately in want of forgiveness and in equal measure fascinated with everything going on, like someone who just stumbled upon a rare insect, Red's hands shake as he apologetically and with clumsy speed brings the lighter's fire close to the filtration's tip, watching it erupt into embers and smoke. Most cocksuckers grow mushy when they get all googly eyed over a broad, but if anything, Chief only seemed to grow even scarier.

-"Your secret's safe with me, uh-oh."-

Red reassurances nervously, shaking his head vigorously, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Bob won't always be in such a foul mood and that he'll still be able to collect a favor, sometimes, occasionally, when the time is right. But, geez, you must've been really something to get Sarge so tense, huh? Part of him growing more curious by the second, the other side of him borderline daunted by the prospect of you. Another question bites him in the ass like a red ant there and then, unbidden, whirling around amidst the tempest of his desperation, curious and anxiety.

So, did Bob and Missus Bob need a best man or something?

The inquiry remains unasked, and they stand on the pier smoking together in silence.

[crystalofmoon19]

I would like 2 request a Manolo x Maria bedtime fluff with optional nsfw.

A bedtime, huh? Well, I can work with that, I took certain liberties. I hope you like this one-shot of María and Manolo!

Night Of Passion - Manolo x María (The Book Of Life)

Synopsis: After a long day, the young couple was preparing to rest, until the passion of the night makes them both want to show the brand new flame of their love.

Warning: Smut below!

It had been a while since Manolo and Maria were happily married, Manolo decided to follow the path of music by becoming the musician of San Ángel and Maria had decided to take charge of the town library, but seeing how her father was already thinking about retiring; Maria wanted to take her father's place as the leader of the town and everyone was okay with that.

Although it was a great responsibility for Maria, she knew that with the help of Manolo and her loved ones it would be easier to cope with it, which is why she was reading a book about leadership and diplomacy. Shortly after, Manolo entered the room with his guitar still in his hands while Maria just smiled at him with her bright smile.

“How was the presentation tonight, Manolo? Did Pepe tune his trumpet again?” .- Maria asked jokingly while she gave Manolo a kiss on the cheek.

“You know he always does it, but the presentation was incredible, mi amor!” .- Manolo responded, kissing Maria on the cheek while he placed her guitar next to her.

“I'm glad to hear that, Manolo!”

“How was your day at the library, Maria?”

“It was simply wonderful, I discovered a lot more history about our town and I have seen that there are more people interested, especially the little girls. They want to be the heroines of our town, Manolo!” .- Maria said, happy with her progress, taking another of her books and leaving it in her place.

"I think so! They have felt inspired by you, Maria.” .- This time Manolo hugged Maria from behind her surrounding her with his arms and she hugged him back.

“You are a unique and unrepeatable woman, Maria.”

“And you are the sweetest man ever, Manolo.” .- Maria turned to where Manolo was to give him a kiss.

“Si, Manolo?” .- Said the beautiful lady, barely recovering from the previous kiss.

The young couple gave each other a sweet kiss on the lips. At first it started out as a chaste kiss, but the more they deepened their kiss, their passion increased. Maria messed up Manolo's hair and he placed his hands on her waist. He was about to kiss Maria's neck until he stopped for a moment in the heat.

"Maria?"

"Can I…?" .- Manolo let his actions speak for him as he let his lips roam temptingly along Maria's neck. Which made her lose her breath for a moment.

“Manolo, I…!”

“I know I shouldn't touch more than I should, unless you give me your permission, that's why I ask you, mi vida... Would you like to have a night of passion with me, Maria?”

Maria bit her lip thinking about what to say, she wanted to give in to her wishes but she still hesitated about what she should do, Manolo noticed the tension in his wife. He decided to stop pressuring her, so he sat her down on the bed to massage her shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was make Maria feel nervous about this. He wanted them to enjoy it both equally.

Maria calmed down with Manolo's touch and couldn't help but let out a moan, which made her cheeks blush, but for Manolo it was music to his ears.

“What do you want, mi amor?”

“Manolo, I, I…”

Manolo's strong hands ran over Maria's shoulders and back, causing her to melt under the touch of her beloved. Resisting was becoming increasingly difficult but Maria knew that she could trust Manolo.

“Manolo, I… I love you!” .- Maria finally said, giving Manolo a kiss that he took as a sign to move forward.

“It's okay, mi amor, mi corazón!” .- Manolo began to kiss Maria's neck from behind her, to which she responded by letting out beautiful moans. Before this, the musician slowly tried to take off his wife's blouse while he touched her breasts.

“Manolo, wait!” .- Maria said out loud and Manolo immediately stopped, to which she gestured for him to leave her some space.

“I can do this by myself. Besides, you should do the same too, you're not the only one who wants to have fun tonight.” .- Maria said while she laughed and urged Manolo to take off her clothes just like her. To which he could only laugh in the same way.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Sanchéz.”

In this way, Maria took off her blouse along with her long skirt and her boots, leaving only her white underwear, Manolo, for his part, had taken off his suit and black pants along with his shoes and was only left with his boxers. Manolo faithful to his wife, decided not to see her until she told him.

“Manolo~”

"Si, Maria?”

“You can look now~” Maria said seductively and when Manolo looked at his wife with only her underwear on he couldn't help but blush and drool a little at the sight. Clearly that made him hard in his pants.

“Maria, mi amor…”

“Si, Manolo?~”

"You look so beautiful. More beautiful than ever, you look like an angel, my angel.”

With this Manolo kissed Maria again this time with much more intensity, to which she responded with the same passion, so much so that they both fell into bed. At a faster pace, Manolo began to bite Maria's neck, leaving marks and making Maria moan louder. With his strong hands, Manolo took Maria's breasts and began to caress them.

Manolo, casting a glance at Maria and obtaining her consent, slowly removed her bra, revealing María's breasts to his eyes, to which he quickly kissed Maria's right breast while the other pressed it with his hand. This made Maria moan again and spread her legs wider for Manolo who was on top of her.

Manolo sucked Maria's breast and left a small mark with his teeth. Maria, far from feeling bad, brought Manolo's head closer to her chest. Her lover, noticing this, sucked the other breast, leaving another mark while he held the other one with his hand. Maria was so pleased with this.

“Are you enjoying this, my life?” .- Manolo asked while still pampering Maria's breasts.

"Oh! I love it, Manolo! I want more!" .- Maria confessed, blushing on her cheeks, excited by the pleasure of the moment.

"More? Listen to what you want more and I will give you more!” .- Manolo said, biting Maria's chest with his teeth while his fingers caressed her clitoris over her panties. Which made Maria squeal.

“Manolo!~”

The musician lowered himself from his wife's breasts until he reached where her panties were, again he gave Maria a look asking for her permission and when he obtained it he slowly took off Maria's panties, she herself helped by raising her legs and now she was completely naked before him.

“How do I look, Manolo? ~” Maria said again seductively while she caressed her husband's face.

“You look so divine, mi reina, mi esposa, mi amor.”

Manolo did not think twice about starting to gently caress his wife's clitoris with his fingers, he made some circular movements there which earned Maria a moan, with that Manolo decided to put one of his fingers in Maria.

“I'm going to put some fingers in for you, Maria.”

“Si, si, Manolo, si!~”

With this, Manolo introduced a finger into Maria's vagina and that made her blush in her cheeks and moan louder. As soon as she indicated to her husband that she was accustomed to the sensation, he introduced another finger and made Maria close her eyes for a moment just enjoying the pleasure while Manolo worked magic with his hands.

It was no mystery to anyone that Manolo, being a guitarist, was very skilled with his hands, especially with his fingers. So to please his wife, he continued caressing her clitoris with his fingers while with the other hand he introduced his fingers opening his wife's vagina and lubricating her. Maria, for her part, only limited herself to moaning while her hands clung to the bed sheets.

The more Manolo opened Maria, she opened her legs more and more, to which he took advantage of her to take his fingers out of her and instead use his mouth to please his wife. He used her tongue to lick Maria's clitoris and went down from her to put her tongue into her vagina, to which she gave a cry of pleasure as he brought Manolo's head closer to her.

“Manolo, Manolo!~”

The guitarist continued to pamper his wife's clitoris more and opened her with his agile fingers. She was already very close to reaching her climax, so she placed her legs around Manolo's shoulders and he responded by bringing a hand to one of Maria’s breasts.

“Manolo, I'm close! I'm gonna…!"

"Do it, mi amor! Come for me.”

“Manolo!~”

Maria finally came on Manolo's face and immediately began drinking from her wife as if he were the thirstiest man in the desert for her. Maria could only mess up Manolo's hair while she had the rush of pleasure from her.

After a few moments of recovering, Maria indicated to her husband that she would remove herself from her place once she removed her legs from his shoulders, since this time she was the one Maria wanted to have control.

“That was amazing, mi amor.”

“I will always be happy to please you, mi vida.”

“But now it's my turn to please you!”

“Maria what-?” .- Manolo did not give her time to continue because Maria had changed her position where she is now below her husband and gives him a seductive look while with one hand she took her husband's boxers

“Maria, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure I want to do it, and you're not the only one who likes the idea.” .- Maria could feel the erection that was forming between Manolo's boxers with her hands, so she slowly lowered his boxers until he was as naked as her.

Maria made a flirtatious expression when she saw the precum that Manolo's cock already had and made him blush on his cheeks. The beautiful lady moved her husband's cock between her hands, it was a good size and she didn't think twice about putting it in her mouth.

While Maria's lips were on the tip of Manolo's cock, she placed her breasts around his cock and began to slowly rub them, earning a moan from Manolo.

“Maria, please!”

“Isn't it fun when you're provoked?~”

"Mi amor!"

“Don't worry, amor mío, I'll take care of you.” .- With this she rubbed Manolo's cock with her breasts and continued pampering his cock, filling it with kisses, licks and when she was safe enough; Maria decided to take Manolo's cock with her mouth.

Surprisingly Maria managed to take all of Manolo's cock in her mouth, which left him breathless for a second, she too had been surprised at how far she had gone; but when she got used to it she started moving her head and made her husband moan again.

"Maria!" .- Manolo, intoxicated by the pleasure of the moment, brought his hand to the head of his wife and brought her closer to him.

Maria showed a lot of passion and energy, even though she was on the floor while Manolo was sitting on the bed, she still sucked his cock as best she could. Manolo was beyond ecstatic about this and couldn't ask for more. But he was already very close to his liberation.

“Maria, I'm close!”

Maria didn't say anything but gave Manolo a determined look that prompted him to cum in her mouth, and that's what he did as Maria's mouth was filled with Manolo's semen and she did her best to drink it all while Manolo gave a moan of pleasure.

When Manolo recovered from his release, it didn't take him a second to help Maria get up so that they were both in bed.

“You are so wonderful, mi amor.”

“You are so amazing, Manolo.” .- Maria said, giving her husband a quick kiss on the lips before placing herself near her husband's member.

“Are you ready for the next round?” .- Maria provoked with her seduction while she sat down and placed Manolo's cock in her vagina.

“For you always, mi vida.”

With one last kiss on the lips, Maria pressed her vagina on Manolo's cock, riding him and after a moment in which they both moaned, Maria began to move her hips to ride Manolo, which caused him to lose his breath. for one second.

Maria continued giving Manolo sits while he set a rhythm with her hips and her breasts fluttered. Manolo, for his part, took his wife's hips with his hands and also moved his own. They both moaned when Manolo's entire cock was in Maria.

Little by little they began to have a faster pace, Manolo's thrusts became faster as did Maria's sit-ups, both were very close to finishing.

“Maria, if you want you can-!”

"No! I want you to cum first, mi amor!”

Manolo did not give him time to respond when Maria gave some much stronger sentons that left him breathless, yet the guitarist did not give up and responded by giving some faster thrusts which made Maria moan.

“Manolo, I-!”

“Let's do this together, Maria! I’m here with you!" .- Manolo took Maria's hand while they continued in the act and she responded to her gesture by smiling at him but it didn't take long for her to reach her orgasm.

“Manolo!~”

With one last thrust, Maria came on Manolo's cock and her fluid leaked around him, giving her a moan. Shortly after, he also came inside her, making them both moan.

After a few moments Maria fell on the bed next to Manolo and he immediately pulled his wife to him and hugged her in his arms; to which she leaned against his chest.

“I love you, Manolo.”

“I love you more, Maria.”

Manolo took the sheet from the bed and covered them both while they fell asleep to the sound of the night.

[fastlikealambo]

I’m autumn girlie, I’m a lonely bisexual, here is a sneak peek at something I’m working on, hope it doesn’t suck. 

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Robin Buckley || Robin Buckley x Black!Fem Reader Sneak Peek

Summary:Over the course of a three day fall festival, Robin Buckley attempts to ask out the most beautiful girl in Hawkins. 

Day One: The Corn Maze Incident.

“You could try this new invention, Robin, it’s called talking.” Steve grumbled, more or less shoving their paper tickets at the maze attendant. Robin pretended not to hear him in favor of yearning for you, the pretty girl in the corduroy skirt not six feet ahead of them, so close  Robin could put her hand in the back pocket of that corduroy skirt if she wanted to.

Robin wanted to, so, so, badly.

“Town pariah Steve, town goddamn pariah. So I think I’ll yearn from afar until college and or until I die, whichever comes first.” Robin retorted, watching you disappear into the maze, an excited smile on your face, making those brown dimples sparkle in the afternoon autumn sun.

“She rented Desert Hearts, she’s totally got one foot in the fox den.”

“What does that even mean, Steve?”

“Foxes, lady foxes, Buckley.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means, Steve.”

Somehow in the middle of her yearnathon, Robin lost Steve in the maze,  which was fun for about five minutes but the autumn sun started feeling a little like a summer sun and Robin was starting to regret the sweater she was wearing and longed for the cotton t-shirt beneath.

A quick look around the quiet corn was enough confirmation for Robin to do a quick change, vanishing into the sweater to pull it off.

Sudden quiet laughter and the feeling of a breeze around her boobs confirmed to Robin’s horror that she had grabbed both articles of clothing instead of one.

Robin had no chance to give into the looming embarrassment when two warm hands rushed up against her stomach, pulling the shirt down to free Robin from her sweater prison. If Robin’s cheeks were aflame, then she was a fucking supernova when she got a look at her rescuer.

You.

You with your big brown eyes and soft brown skin and full lips were two inches from Robin’s face. You were looking at her lips, she was looking at yours and in this corn maze, Robin was going to do it, any minute now, she was going to ask you to get cider sometime.

Any minute now. 

“Are you okay, Robin?” You asked, a concerned smile on your face as you picked a piece of hay out of her hair, not so subtly wanting another excuse to touch her.

Here goes nothing.

For a girl who’s mouth moved faster than the speed of sound, the words become toffee in Robin’s mouth, sticky and slow, too slow.

Robin gave a tiny nod instead and you couldn’t help but pout just a little, wanting to hear that roaring fire of a voice.

Your friends grabbed you by the hand, leading you fast and far away from heavenly faced trumpet extraordinaire Robin Buckley with an awkward wave goodbye, a wave Robin for some reason only known to God herself, decided to return with a salute. 

She saluted you.

“There you are, where did you go?” Steve asked, bursting through a nearby patch of corn, eyebrow raised at his friend who had become the world’s first lesbian scarecrow, just standing there frozen in autumnal gay panic. 

“She said my name, Steve.” 

That was it.

Come candy apple or cider donut, Robin Buckley was going to ask you out if it was the last thing she did. 

[haveanotherkpopblog]

Once Upon a Dream

Preview

Pairing(s): Byun Baekhyun x Fem!Reader, Park Chanyeol x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Royalty!AU

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: Mild Language

Masterlist

Once upon a time, in a far away land known as Ellesmere, there sat a palace. The palace sat tucked into a mountain side, watching over the whole kingdom from its perch. Red, black and gold covered the ceiling, walls, and tables inside the palace. Nobles and courtiers danced around the ballroom as beautiful music mingled with their laughter and talking, creating a harmony you could only wish to hear. Whispers flew through their ears of bets on who the Prince, whom the ball was being held for, would choose as his bride, his future queen.

The doors to the ballroom swung open and two of the contending ladies stepped through. One of noble breeding, the other from a humble background. They made their way down the steps, arms interlocked as the music swirled around them. One turned to the other, a rueful smile on her face as she took in her competitor, her friend’s, appearance.

“You look so beautiful. The Prince won’t be able to keep his eyes off of you,” she said, a bittersweet tone to her voice as she bowed her head. She smoothed the creases of her dark green dress. It shimmered under the pale light of the chandeliers with every step or turn she took. Her dark curls sat high on her head, kept out of her face unlike her usual mane that bounced without restriction.

“Ha!” A cold, chilling laugh turned the pair’s attention towards yet another competitor. A young woman stepped up to them, her fiery gaze upon them. Danger and power radiated off her like heat from the sun. She wore a dark purple with light grey undertones. Her violet hair sat in a pristine bun at the nape of neck. She looked every bit the noble lady she’d been raised to be.

“He might like the way she looks, but when it comes to choosing his future queen, he knows who’ll be able to handle ruling at his side.” The humble maiden smiled a sweet, genuine smile that stabbed the miser’s heart.

“May the best woman win,” she said. The purple-haired noble pursed her lips, looking down her nose. She spared the other lady a fleeting glance before she gave a smile back.

“I plan to.” She turned on her heel and marched away, her hips swaying with each step. The women shook their heads as they watched her walk away.

A loud trumpet blared, drawing their attention to where the herald would be announcing the Prince’s arrival. Their hearts pounded in the chests as the realization dawned on them fully that tonight was the night that lives would be changed, for better or worse. Sweat formed on the brow of the fair maiden as she did her best to steady her breath.

“Here he comes.”

The Prince, young and handsome, stopped before the ladies, offering them each a deep bow. His brown locks, usually free to bounce and dangle as they pleased, had been combed into a perfect side part, giving him the usual Prince Charming glow. He turned to the humble maiden, entranced at how her eyes shone like diamonds under the soft light of the chandeliers.

“May I request this dance?” he inquired.

“Absolutely.” She bowed, slipping her hand into his waiting hand with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He gave her a grin, leading her to the center of the ballroom.

Another waltz began, and they glided around with complete grace. The other nobles and guests seemed to disappear while time stood still between as they gazed into each other’s eyes. Her gown swirled around them with each twirl as she glided through each step with practiced ease, as if she’d been dancing her whole life.

“Just to think, a few months ago, I didn’t know the first steps to a waltz,” she mused with a thoughtful smile.

“And now no one would ever know that you weren’t born into this life,” the Prince replied. His face grew solemn the longer he stared at her. “I hope you never regret coming here.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, surprised.

“Well, so much has happened and…” The Prince trailed off as the song began to wind down. Yet, the Prince could not bear to pull himself away from her--not quite yet. “I need to talk to you.”

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her heart beating out of control at six simple words. The Prince sighed.

“It’s been impossible to get even a moment alone with you these last few days, but I need to know--”

“Ahem!” Both she and the Prince jumped. They looked over to see the purple-haired nobel. She didn’t spare the young maiden a glance as she batted her eyelashes at the Prince. “Your Highness, may I be so bold as to cut in?”

“Oh, of course,” the Prince said, startled, and somewhat disappointed. The young maiden placed a soft and delicate hand on his elbow.

“We’ll talk later,” she assured him.

“Yes.”

As the Prince glided away, the young maiden made her way to the side of the ballroom, where she spotted a familiar and comforting face. He stood brooding against the wall, his arms folded over his chest as he took in his surroundings. When he spotted the young maiden, his jaw hit the ground. He called to her, unable to believe his own eyes. She let out a gentle laugh, surprised as well.

“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” she said. Servants of the palace walked by them, holding trays with savory food that tickled their noses. She snatched an hor d’oeuvre off a passing tray, popping it into her mouth before others had the chance to see. He nodded his head towards the Prince, oblivious to her previous actions.

“He insisted.” He turned to look at the young maiden. “I guess I should congratulate you.” The young maiden turned her head, furrowing her brows. “You look exactly like one of them. I guess you are one of them, now.” His face darkened as he turned away from her. “This time tomorrow, you might be the future queen. And then our lives are going in very different directions.”

The young maiden followed his gaze to the dance floor. The music was swelling as the guests laughed and drank with each other. Courtly gossip and political satire circled through them like water in a noria. She gave a soft smile, using a gentle hand to turn his attention back to her.

“If I’m chosen as the Prince’s bride, I’ll still be me,” she said. He gave her a rueful smile, looking down at her dress.

“Looking at you now, it’s hard to believe that.” His face turned serious once again, staring off past her shoulder at nothing in particular. “This place has a way of changing people, and some of us liked the girl you used to be. You know that, right?”

“I promise, I’m still the same me, even under this fancy ball gown.” She started grinning, nudging him with her shoulder. “If I ever get too cocky, just remind me that the first time we met, I was taking out garbage and waiting tables.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Feels like so long ago, now. Can’t believe it’s only been a few months.

“Yeah, but after everything that’s happened, it feels more like…”

[reddaddyriotspebble]

I’ve never posted anything I’ve written before but I’m very proud of this scene and I wanna get some feedback? Also not beta-read so please be nice, thanks ❤️

The Dancer and the Dragon

Synopsis:

When Lord Rikon Stark arrived in King’s Landing with his only daughter and heir to Winterfell Lyanna Stark, Prince Aemond thought nothing of it. One night, while searching for his drunk of a brother, he came upon a small gathering of peasants surrounding a bonfire. Among them was a young woman, about his age, barefoot and dancing around the blaze with a smile as though she had not a care in the world. The next day in court he stood silently by his father’s side as the trumpets blared. “Presenting Lord Rikon Stark and Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell!” His eyes darted to the entrance of the throne room and focused on her face, the same one he had seen the night before lit up in the flames. Can Aemond contain his curiosity about this woman who shirked all the rules of Lords and Ladies? Or will Lyanna find a way to burrow into his stone heart?

Aemond Targaryen x House Stark OC

Aemond waited up patiently through the night, waiting till the right moment before he called for his guard that was always placed outside his bedchambers. “Tell the servants to wake Lady Stark and tell her to wait in her chambers.” He said, his usual smirk painting his lips as he turned back to look out his balcony as he waited. When enough time had passed he dressed himself and left his quarters, ordering his guard to stay at his post and to let no one into his chambers.

“My Lady Stark.” She awoke to the sound of a small voice. Her eyes cracked open and saw a woman, older than her but as gentle as a small child. “Yes?” She squeaked out, her voice cracking from the sleep. “His Grace Aemond Targaryen as requested we wake and dress you, My Lady.” She said, a sweet smile on her face. Lyanna perked up from her sleepy stupor at the mention of Aemond’s name, though when she saw how dark the sky still was she grew curious. “Did he say why?” She asked, sitting up and brushing the hair out of her face. She shook her head “No, My Lady.” She said, turning toward the wardrobe as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Which dress would you like to wear today, My Lady?” She asked, waiting for her to approach her wardrobe. She looked over her dresses, the ones from home and the ones she had acquired since arriving in Kings Landing. She grabbed one of her black dresses from home, the familiar fabric soft against her skin as she was laced into it. She quickly brushed out her hair, pulling it back into a loose braided crown and letting the rest flow over her shoulders and down her back. She sent her servant away and waited under the waning moonlight, the gentle breeze cool against het skin, till she was shook from her thoughts by a knock on her door. She sat up off the ledge of the balcony and made her way into her bed chambers “Come in!” She called, expecting it to be another servant sent to fetch her. When the door slowly swung open she couldn’t contain her smile at seeing Aemond on the other side. “Your Grace…” she curtsied, bowing her head formally as she heard his footsteps echo into her room. “Lady Stark.” He greets, stopping a few feet in front of her. She stands back up straight and met his gaze, the smirking smile she had grown so fond of greeting her. “I would like to take you somewhere, Lady Stark.”

He said simply, stepping to the side and stretching his arm toward the door. She eyed him with playful suspicion but followed his lead. “And where is it you’re taking me, Your Grace?” She asked as they continued down the halls of the Red Keep, Aemond avoiding the main halls in favor of the less-guarded ones. “That would ruin the surprise, My Lady.” He said, a playful lit in his voice. She felt her smile widen as they soon reached a dead end with a large portrait of King Viserys. “And a portrait of your father is the surprise?” She questioned, chuckling a little. Without a word Aemond approached the portrait and pushed it to the side, revealing a secret passage. He turned back to Lyanna with a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “You are full of many surprises, Your Grace.” She said, ducking her head under his outstretched arm to enter the passage. “I’ve lived in this place my entire life, I know every way in and out of the Red Keep… Lyanna…” he said, dropping the formalities now that there was no chance of prying eyes and ears. He grabbed a torch and some flint from the ground, striking the stones a few times before the spark caught and the torch blazed to life, lighting their way. They walked in silence for a while, enjoying that the paired echoes of their feet against the stones and the comfort of each others company till she saw a small break in the darkness. “Aemond, where are we going?” She asked as they approach the opening and she watched him douse the torch in a bucket at the exit of the passage. “Just wait.” He said, stepping onto the lush grass that greeted them as they left the confines of Kings Landing.

She followed closely behind him, looking out over the Narrow Sea at the way the dimming stars reflected in the water from time to time as they continued through the grass till they got to a dirt road. “Kings Landing is so beautiful… so clear…” she remarked, seeing a large hill in the distance. Aemond slowed for a moment, looking back at Lyanna’s gentle smile and felt one of his own tug at his lips. “Only you could see passed the problems of Kings Landing to find the beauty here…” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice as Lyanna turned back to him, her smile widening but her face turning away shyly at his comment. “How much farther?” She asked as their pace quickened by Aemond’s lead. “Almost there…” he said, looking at the large cave in the distance. Lyanna looked at him curiously but continued without another protest. As they approached the large cave entrance, a feeling of nervousness washing over her body thought there was seemingly nothing causing it. “Aemond?” She questioned, catching his attention and he stopped. “Do you trust me?” He asked, reaching out his hand. She looked between his hand and his bright blue eye, her heart skipping a beat as she slowly placed her hand in his. He gave her a small smile, his hand closing gently around her delicate fingers as he turned to face the dark cave, the only light being the sparse torches on the walls.

Lyanna followed close behind him, a strange sound echoing in the distance as they continued into the cavern. When the entrance was far behind them Aemond stopped, halting them both, a loud rumbling echoing menacingly throughout the cave. “A-Aemond…?” She questioned, her hand gripping his tighter as she gazed at him with wide eyes. He smirked a little at her trepidation “Trust me, Lyanna…” he said, loud thuds shaking the cave. Lyanna swallowed hard and felt her body begin to shake, right as she felt a rush of air blow passed them. Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as, from the darkness, a large scaly nose moved its way into the light of the torches.

Aemond felt her fear and slowly walked behind Lyanna, switching hands that held hers as he took his place behind her, holding the back of her hand in his palm. “Try to stay calm, and don’t look away from her….” he said lowly, his lips mere inches away from her ear as he held her hand up the way he was taught to command dragons. Lyanna took a deep, shaky breath, the heat radiating off Aemond from behind her seemed to calm her nerves as more and more of the dragons face emerged from the darkness. “Repeat after me…” he said, his free hand resting lightly on her shoulder, “Sagon gīda, Vhagar.” Lyanna kept her eyes fixed as she was instructed and took a small breath. “Sagon gīda, Vhagar…” she said, her voice barely audible above the growling of the dragon before her. Aemond chuckled a little, his breath tickling the shell of her ear and sending shivers down her spine. “Louder, Lyanna… Command Vhagar…” he said, eyeing his dragon carefully. Lyanna took another deep breath, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Sagon gīda, Vhagar.” She said more authoritatively. Vhagar heard the command and growled louder, rearing her head back a little. “Rijībagon, Vhagar...” He whispered against her ear again, sending another shiver through her body. “Rijībagon, Vhagar.” She commanded, her voice louder and more stern. Vhagar snarled, letting out a small roar as she fought the command. Aemond felt Lyanna flinch at the sound and reassuringly rubbed her shoulder gently. “Again…” “Rijībagon, Vhagar…!” She commanded sternly, reassured by his small, affectionate act. Vhagar looked her down for a moment, as if contemplating if she would listen or not, but slowly bowed her head and closed the gap between them, pressing the tip of her nose against Lyanna’s palm.

Lyanna gasped as her eyes widened, lighting up in the darkness of the cave for Aemond to see. He gazed at her excited face, a warmth washing over him and pulling a gentle smile to his lips. He knew she could do it. She turned her sparkling eyes his way and flushed when she realized how close their faces were, her eyes darting back to Vhagar. “Vhagar is a female, correct?” She asked, slowly rubbing her hand against the rough scales of her nose. “Yes…” he said, watching in slight amusement at Lyanna gently stroking the nose of the largest dragon in all of Westeros as if she were a dog on the street. “How do you say “good girl”?” She asked, earning a quiet chuckle. “I don’t think she knows what it means.” He said, watching in amazement as Vhagar seemed to press her nose harder against Lyanna’s hand. “If you tell her enough, she will.” She said, her attention completely captured by the creature leaning into her affection. Aemond felt that warmth again, as if his heart that had been hardened with rage and vengeance all these years was melting in his chest, like it was really beating for the first time. “… Sȳz riña…” he said, his attention completely on her. Lyanna smiled wider and began to gently scratch Vhagar’s large scales with her nails. “ Sȳz riña, Vhagar…” she cooed, letting out a small laugh of triumph.

Aemond savored this moment, burning it into his memory before he let go of her shoulder and hand, coming around to her side and grasping the hand that wasn’t dolling out pets for a dragon. “I think you’re ready.” He said, a playful smirk decorating his face. Lyanna looked over to him, her hand on Vhagar’s nose stilling. “Ready for what?” She asked, wondering what else he could possibly have planned for this unforgettable early morning. His smirk deepened, “You’re going to ride her.” He said, his smirk deepening. Lyanna froze for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise. “R-ride Vhagar?” She questioned, disbelief dripping from her words. Aemond nodded, his eye crinkling in amusement. Lyanna thought for a moment, considering protesting against his plan, but instead she met his eye and eyepatch with her own. “You’ll be with me?” She asked, finally dropping her hand from Vhagar’s nose and earning a disapproving snort from the dragon. “Of course.” He said, his hand that gently held hers tightening slightly as if it was a promise. Her eyes darted down to their connected hands and back up to his eye and nodded, a nervous smile pricking at her lips. She would have sworn she saw a twinkle in his eye before he turned and led them both to where they would mount her. “You’ll step there, then there, then there, then you’ll grab onto the mount and pull yourself up the rest of the way.” Lyanna nodded along with the instructions and let go of his hand to hike up her dress just enough that she would be able to climb Vhagar. As she placed her foot in the first spot, she tried to hoist herself up but almost fell off of her completely. Without thinking Aemond quickly grabbed both sides of her waist and held her steady, only realizing once she got her footing where he had been holding her. Lyanna blushed hard in embarrassment as her fumble and even harder when Aemond wrapped his slender hands around her waist. “Thank you…” she said quietly, turning her focus back onto the task at hand. She placed her other foot where he had instructed and was finally able to climb up, with some struggle, and finally mounted Vhagar with a triumphant gasp. Vhagar seemed to notice it was Lyanna on her back and let out a small roar of approval, or so Lyanna interpreted. Aemond followed suit, climbing easily onto her back and situating himself on the saddle behind Lyanna. “Hold here.” He said, grasping her hands and placing them on the handles of the saddle and placing his own next to hers on the same handles.

Vhagar began moving without a command, crawling her way to the mouth of the cave and into the waning darkness of the morning. Lyanna’s hands gripped the handles of the saddle tightly, calmed only by the warmth she felt from the man behind her, hugging her close to his body in one of the most intimate ways she knew of. “Hold on tight…” he warned, tensing his body around hers as he felt the familiar feeling of Vhagar beginning to take off. As she beat her large wings, Lyanna let out a small shout of fear, earning a quiet chuckle from the man behind her. He leaned into her ear, inhaling her scent like she were the sweetest flower in Westeros. “Sagon gīda…” he whispered into her ear, goose flesh erupting over her skin in response. Lyanna felt grounded, protected, safe in his arms as Vhagar pushed her large form off the ground and into the dawning sky. Aemond watched Lyanna’s face as her look of worry became one of joy, her hair whipping over his shoulder as he leaned to the side. “My Gods! Aemond! This is amazing!” She shouted over the deafening sounds of Vhagar’s wings. Aemond smiled at her fondly, the look of elation that was spreading across her face more calming to him than milk of the poppy, more infectious than Greyscale, and warmer than the fire from Vhagar herself. Once they were high enough, Aemond pulled on the handles of the saddle, halting Vhagar in place. “Aemond?” Lyanna questioned, vaguely noticing the sky getting brighter around them. “Just wait…” he said, knowing this would be a moment she would never forget. Within a minute the first rays of sunlight peeked above the horizon, reflecting in the Narrow Sea and creating a beautiful combination of orange and blue with yellow illuminated around the few clouds in the sky. Lyanna gasped at the sight, her eyes gleaming in the light of the morning sun as Aemond’s eye fixed on hers. “My Gods, Aemond…” she whispered, tearing her eyes away and finding his face close to hers, watching her every reaction. “This is unbelievable…” she said, sounding almost breathless at the beauty in front of her. She turned back to the sunrise, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen…” she said, awestruck. Aemond chuckled a little, “It’s the second most beautiful thing I’ve seen…” he said, his normal playful smirk tugging at his lips. Lyanna turned back to his face, her own face flushed from all the excitement. “Aemond…” she said quietly, her eyes shimmering with admiration. Aemond let go of one of the handles and tucked a knuckle under her chin, angling her face upwards toward his a bit. Without a word, Lyanna slowly closed the gap between them, closing her eyes and pressing her soft lips against his. Aemond gazed at her face as their lips connected, drinking in the sight before him like it was the finest wine before closing his as well. They felt like the only two people in the world and in that moment, they were.

Sagon gīda, Vhagar - Be calm, Vhagar

Rijībagon, Vhagar - Obey me, Vhagar

[loveshotzz]

Hello, hello, so, I love Eddie (don't we all?) But I know you take requests for Steve too...I just rewatched season 3 and I'm just craving some nerdy/naive Steve? I feel like we've all made him out to be this suave and dirty man, but I need Steve falling in Nancy's window, Steve playing a fake trumpet, Steve yelling too loudly, "Ahoy ladies! I didn't see you there!"

So maybe something where Steve is just absolutely clumsy and dorky, knocking things over and flustered by readers charm and confidence? Needs to be told what to do and will gladly do it, but he's going to make you laugh while it's happening.

If you're not into writing it or have NYE and other WIP that are filling your time, thats a-okay, I just love your style of writing and thought I'd throw it out there!

Sending love, good writing vibes, & all the Eddie/Steve thoughts your way! 💕

I’d write anything for you! But we’ve talked and there’s just something about a Scoops Ahoy Steve that’s irresistible. I hope you enjoy this <3

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, suggestive Innuendo’s and a very flustered Steve under the cut. Pretty SFW but still my blog is 18plus.

You’ve had crush on Steve Harrington for as long as you could remember. It started all the way back in middle school when he shared half his PB&J with you having accidentally forgot your lunch at home.

Even through out high school the feelings you harbored never changed, but with your lack of interest in the hierarchy of the popular crowd you decided admiring from a far was for the best.

Steve wasn’t the person he presented himself to be around them, even you knew that. Waiting patiently for him to get the bump on his head he needed, there was a part of you that was grateful when Nancy Wheeler showed up. After watching him chase her around for the better half of year the opportunity to take your shot finally presented itself after you both had graduated.

It was the Scoops Ahoy uniform that really did it for you, it humbled him in a way he needed. Working at the mall yourself, you’d spend every lunch break watching what used to be the King of Hawkins become a bumbling mess around women. There was something charming about the way he never gave up, day in and day out you watched him desperately try to find someone to help him get over Nancy.

Finally one night after your shift you walked passed the food court, glancing his direction you noticed he was behind the counter alone. Legs dangling with a look of pure boredom on his handsome features.

Feet faltering you stop before you can get any further. Taking your bottom lip between your teeth your eyes dart between the boy on the counter and the double glass doors of the entrance. The mall was practically empty at this point in the evening, with only an hour till close the families of the small town of Hawkins were already tucked into their homes.

Turning on your heal you descend towards the ice cream shop determined to be the one that finally makes him forget about Wheeler.

It takes Steve a minute to notice you walking towards him, but when he does his eyes widen and he’s snatching off his sailor cap as quick as he can. Jumping off the counter a nervous hand runs through his infamous locks, trying desperately to tame them before you get to him.

“Ahoy!” Steve coughs in his hand nervously when he sees just how beautiful you are up close. It wasn’t like he didn’t know who you were, he just couldn’t remember the last time he was this close to you. “I mean, um, yeah hi, I don’t know why I just yelled that at you. The mall is empty, you can clearly hear me. You’re standing right in front of me.”

The fact that you had Steve a rambling mess without even speaking a word yet only adds to your confidence.

“Ahoy Sailor.” Planting both hands on the counter you lean in with a sweet smile enjoying the pink that suddenly flushes his cheeks.

Licking his lips, his eyes go big at your obvious advance. Puffing his chest out a little he tries his best to put on a confident front, but the way your eyes were roaming his body was making his brain short circuit.

“What brings you to uhh my vessel of flavor?” With a hand on his hip he pinches the bridge of his nose, even he knows how stupid that was. But it was too late, it already left his mouth.

Stifling your giggle, you act unfazed by the bad pick up line. You’ll let him have this one.

“Hmm, I don’t know. What do you suggest Captain Harrington?” Dropping your voice lower when you say his name you turn towards the ice cream flavors. Running a finger along the glass as you move, never breaking eye contact with the glazed over hazel ones in front of you.

Clearing his throat again the blush from his cheeks spreads down to his neck, running another hand through his hair he meets you on the other side of the glass.

“Depends on what you’re in the mood for gorgeous.” Flashing you the kinda smile that makes your knees weak, it was your turn to blush.

“Definitely something creamy.” Biting your bottom lip you look up at him through your lashes. “And salty.”

Steve’s jaw drops at your lack of subtly, but your confidence has him so flustered he doesn’t know what else to do but keep playing along. Feeling his blue shorts tighten he pushes himself closer to the counter desperate to hide how badly you were already effecting him.

“Something creamy and salty? That’s my-“ Clearing his throat again, all of the tension starts to make him feel like it’s closing. “That’s my kinda gal.” Laughing nervously Steve focuses in on the Ice cream flavors in front him, refusing to meet your hungry stare as he does his best to try and calm himself down.

“Butterscotch, I like butterscotch.” Tapping your nails on the glass lightly you want his attention again.

“We happen to have the best butterscotch in Hawkins.” Steve finally musters enough strength to meet your gaze again and god, he wished he hadn’t. The way your eyes are trained on him makes the bulge in his shorts grow even more.

“Can I have a sample Stevie?” You can’t help but notice the way the nickname makes him bite his lip.

“You can taste every flavor on my ship if that’s what your heart desires.” His words are smooth when they come out, but when he reaches over to grab a spoon his elbow hits the ice cream scoop next to him sending it crashing to the ground.

The sound of the metal hitting the tile echos loudly through out the mall. Scrambling to pick it up, the pink tint in his cheeks turns a deep red when he sets it back down on the counter.

“I just hate when that happens.” Throwing a wink his way you can’t help how much you’re enjoying this.

“Hah, yeah, those metal ice cream scoops. Menaces I tell you.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, reaching back over he finally gets a hold of the tester spoon he had set out for.

With a trembling hand Steve scoops the caramel colored ice cream, sucking in a sharp breath as your finger tips brush against his when you take it from him.

Making a show of eating it like a popsicle, your tongue darts out first collecting the sweet treat before your lips wrap tightly around the end. Humming lowly you close your eyes enjoying the way the sugar coats your mouth.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve breathes louder then he intended. “You’re doing this on purpose aren’t you? Like I can’t be imagining this right?”

Opening your eyes, you see his torn expression. Lips spreading into a smile around the spoon you let it fall from your lips with a small pop.

“Doing what on purpose? Hitting on you? I thought that was obvious Harrington.”

[pellucid-constellations]

A Correspondence of Obligation - One

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader (Royal AU)

Summary: Obedience, duty, pristine smiles—raised as the princess of an oppressive kingdom, you knew nothing else. Your father signed your life away at the ripe age of five, black ink bleeding into a contract between nations, fate cemented with the flick of a quill. So when the time came to fulfill the promises you were too young to make, you expected much of the same in the land of Brookshire. But Prince James had other plans, as did the enemies looming outside the castle walls.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: None!

a/n: This is clarified in a later chapter, but just to make sure no one is thrown out of their reading of this fic—Steve is the readers “cousin”, but they hold basically no blood relation. He is considered a duke of Hyland, but their relation is very far removed. I only did this to make him a royal in her court :) Enjoy reading and let me know what you think!! ♡♡

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

~~

Riding in a carriage always gave you a terrible headache. The wooden slats on the walls groaned each time rickety wheels mounted the rocks and the roots of the forest. Trees flew by in blurs, but just slow enough to catch your gaze and leave you dizzy. And with each huff of the horses you felt yourself growing more and more agitated.

How could you not? You were roused out of bed this morning before the sun had even greeted the sky. They shoved you into a corset before the birds began their song outside your window. 

All for a man—as was everything in your life. 

“You could at least attempt to look excited,” Natasha sighed, an arched brow raised at you from across the carriage. 

You blinked at her, pulling the book in your lap up to your chest, unable to read it with the jostling in the cab. You knew bringing it would be pointless, but ever since Steve had gifted you with The History of Brookshire for your twenty-first birthday a while back, the pages rarely left your grip. “And are you excited, Lady Natasha?” 

“Are we truly resorting to titles, Your Highness? Are you that upset with me?” 

You thumbed at the corner of the novel, pressing the pad of your finger into the worn paper. You were never really upset with Natasha. Disappointed, yes, but you knew your request last night was a far fetched notion; just the whims of a silly girl, desperate to break away from her own fate. 

“Perhaps I am upset,” you admitted. “But you know better than anyone that it is no fault of your own.” 

Your lady in waiting reached across the bench, grabbing your hand in a soft grip. “I do not think it will be all that bad. Prince James is said to be a most benevolent man. There are no stories of him that would warrant us running away in the night.” 

You bit your lip and turned to the window, embarrassed. You wondered how long she would hold that over your head. Once your tears had subsided, the two of you had quite the laugh in your quarters the night before; the thought of you trying to survive in the woods was truly comical. Natasha was resourceful, but not enough to keep a princess alive for very long. 

“Well I hope those stories ring true.” You kept your gaze fixed on the castle slowly coming into view—stories of cobblestone high, glittering waters at its base, rolling hills of juniper grass in the forefront. Maybe you would paint it if the dread in your stomach wasn’t all-consuming. “Because if they do not, this life will be more bleak than it already is.” 

“You know I would let no harm come to you, princess.”

“It is not harm I am afraid of, Natasha. I can handle harm.” 

There were trumpets in the distance—close enough to make out their melody but far enough away that the horses’ hooves still took precedence in the space. Your announcer must have made it to the castle already. Maybe the prince was standing outside, awaiting your carriage with his hands firmly behind his back, a smile made for the monarchy permanently impressed upon his face.

Maybe he wasn’t. 

“I am simply afraid that I have let myself down in hoping for the impossible.” 

~~

The people of your kingdom had never greeted you this way. Flowers were flung at the ground below the horses, the trumpets you detected earlier were loud from behind the glass windows of your carriage; children danced and women held their hands over their hearts as you drove past. 

It was jarring how much the people of Brookshire seemed to love their future queen when they had yet to even meet her. It was as if the mere sight of you sent them into a frenzy, as if you were a rare gift bestowed upon them. 

It was nothing like the half-hearted glances you received back home, your loyal subjects treating you like an ornament that was displayed on holidays and placed on a shelf for the rest of the year. But you had grown accustomed to those looks; you learned to look to the ground when entering rooms with your father, to not stray too far from the castle unless completely necessary. 

You fiddled with the tulle lining your dress, knocking your heels against the bench as the carriage wheels rolled over cobblestone instead of forest shrubbery. Perhaps you should be smiling and waving to those on the street overrun with joy at the mere sight of you. But if you were being honest—and in a completely unladylike turn of phrase—you felt like you were going to vomit. 

“Natasha, perhaps you could pretend to be me. I will act as your lady and you can marry Prince James,” you rambled, plucking up the courage to spare a glance outside. “Yes, I think that would be a wonderful idea. No one knows what I look like. Here, I’ll give you my crown and if they ask about the dress we can just say—” 

“Princess,” Natasha interrupted, a smirk covering her tinge of worry. “I hate to inform you of this, but your cousin tells me that Prince James knows exactly what you look like.” 

You reared back, eyes wide. “And how would he know that?” 

“Do you remember the portrait Steven had done for the drawing room? Have you ever gone to look at it?” 

“I do not go in the drawing room.” 

“I know.” 

“Forgive me,” you gaped. “But am I to believe that Steve just gave Prince James a portrait of me without him asking for it? That is so embarrassing, I feel as if I am actually going to be sick.” 

Natasha scoffed, leaning back into her shaking seat. “All this time and you still do not believe that that man is half in love with you already,” she mumbled. “No, Prince James asked for one. He had it commissioned actually—said he did not want something too many others had seen.” 

“Oh, I’m sure those were his exact words.” 

Just like every time you had this conversation, Natasha dropped into a softer tone. “Not every man is like those in Hyland.” A long sigh, deep within her chest. “I wish you had had more experience before this. Met more people maybe—men like Steven.” 

The carriage jolted just as you opened your mouth to quip back, and that argument was lost on your lips instantly; you couldn’t even recall the words as they drowned in the anxiety that now bubbled in your throat. You had to steady yourself on the window when the door swung open. 

The air here was warm and inviting, wisps of citrus on your lips as the breeze filtered through the door and hit the back windows. Honeyed rays lit up your knuckles, glinting in the gems on your fingers and uncovering the layers of your gown that were seemingly unnecessary here. And at the base of the carriage was a hand—a single, gloved hand that you knew belonged to a squire waiting to help you down and begin your new life. 

You took a dubious glance at Natasha, who simply gave you a reassuring nod and one of her famous smirks before gathering the train of your dress for your exit. She always had too much faith in you. With one last, harrowing breath, you collected your wits and slid your hand into the squire’s. 

It was instantaneous—the relief. 

Your home of Hyland had two, very distinct, places in your mind. There was the place with iced over streams and lilac skies. A breeze that froze your cheeks, but in a comforting way; like being kissed by frosted lips and caressed by silk that had stayed out in the snow overnight. Owls that came out when they weren’t supposed to and hail that crunched under soles even when the ground was marble instead of grass. There was the place your mother raised you, a haven where you and Steve knocked over logs and slid on frozen lakes. 

But then there was the place that took up a larger portion of your memory. Dark corners and whispers you were meant to hear. A fur coat casting a shadow over your frame, always reminding you that you weren’t needed yet, that you wouldn’t be needed until you were gone. Lessons that hurt your hands and heels that hurt your feet. Doors with too many locks on them and voices—so many voices—telling you that you weren’t to touch them, that the locks were there to keep you safe. 

And maybe Brookshire would afford you much of the same. Maybe the beauty of this kingdom would become second to the treatment you received. But for this moment, however fleeting it was, you decided to pretend that there would only be one place in your brain for Brookshire—the place with glittering gravel and temperate skies. 

“Princess, you must move forward if you would like your dress to follow you,” Natasha all but snickered. 

You quickly shuffled forward on the steps of the carriage, leaning heavily on the squires hand in an attempt to stabilize yourself. “Sorry, I’m terribly sorry,” you mumbled, glancing up at the boy with apologetic eyes. 

“Oh, uh, that’s okay—Your Highness, I mean. That’s okay, Your Highness,” he blushed, shifting eyes not quite meeting yours. “I’m Peter—sorry, I’m not supposed to talk to you. Ignore me, I’m just supposed to help you down.” 

“You can talk to me. I am not going to get you in trouble.” 

“Oh! Oh, okay well, uh, hello.”

“Hello, Peter,” you giggled. None of the squires back home were interested in talking to you. Peter’s slight blush and awkward stammering was a nice change of pace. “It was nice to meet you.”

He bowed with clumsy arms and clinking armor; a proper bow, unlike the head nods you were used to. Natasha was guiding you away before you could allow yourself to tear up and you were thankful. Crying within the first five minutes in your new kingdom was probably bad for image purposes. 

“He was certainly excited,” Natasha teased. 

You sent her a look, but that was all you were capable of as you rounded the carriage and met the crowd. It was time to be ‘on’ as your father would say; time to create an image of a strong front within the crown. You were to smile, but not too much. Nod politely at those who looked the most excited and accept flowers from the children even though those flowers were instantly passed to your father. 

Just what you’d been doing since your mother fell ill. 

And you did it without fail, but you couldn’t help the fleeting glances you kept making toward the castle steps. You counted four people there—the king, the queen, Steve, and a knight. Unless Prince James was playing dress up, he wasn’t there. 

You knew it shouldn’t hurt this much. If anything, you should be excited that you were finally right and Natasha was wrong. That never happened. But the small blinks you took up at the empty spot on the stairs were each a painful jab to the gut, and suddenly, it didn’t feel very good to be right. 

“He said he was going to be here,” Natasha muttered. “Something must have come up. He would not miss this.” 

You let out a sigh. It was covered with a smile. “I am not upset.” 

“You are. And that is going to drive him insane.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus on Steve’s bright smile just a few feet away from you. You could pretend this was just a visit with Steve in some strange court he was residing in. Yes, that made this entrance a lot easier. 

You took your time to greet and bow to the king and queen—George and Winnie they told you to call them. A surprising introduction to be sure. Even your father made you call him by his title, especially in public. George and Winnie had smiles that were much more welcoming than anything your father could even attempt to pull off, so maybe there was a difference there. Perhaps the apple just fell far from the tree in this family. 

A quick bow to Steve and a parting wave to the crowd and you were being ushered inside, welcomed by more formal talk in the entryway. Steve promised to show you around the castle and the king and queen apologized profusely for their son’s absence before leaving themselves. It wasn’t until you could no longer hear their heels clicking against marble that you let your posture shift. 

“Well, shall we go and see the dining room? Princess, I know that you enjoy beautiful views and the window there—oof.” 

You slammed your body into Steve’s before he could continue his speech. Your arms wrapped around his neck as his laugh reverberated in your chest, and then he was picking you up in your formal dress, hugging you in the same way he’d done since you were children. 

���I’ve missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder. “Hyland felt so empty while you were gone.” 

Steve released you, setting you down but keeping you at arm’s length with a pitiful expression. “I’m sorry, y/n, you know I hate leaving you there. But as a duke you know I have to respond to invitations to court.” 

“Well, yes, I understand that. But is there a reason you were gone for so long? Court proceedings only take a few weeks.” 

“Things went a little differently here,” Steve smiled. A genuine smile, one he didn’t usually display when he talked about his title. “Buck—Prince James’ court feels more like a family. They kept asking me to stay and the prince had so many questions about you and time sort of got away from me.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Are you telling me that you’ve been enjoying your time in court, Steve?” 

He gave your chin a fond tap. “I dare say I have. And I know you will as well.” 

“Of course,” you agreed, because you had already had this discourse with Natasha; there was no need to hash it out with your cousin as well. 

And so, Steve showed you around the castle. A spring castle, he called it, with sprawling hallways and wide-open windows to let the sunlight in. The dining room had the beautiful view he hinted at before, a glittering ocean laid out for one to enjoy while they ate at the table with deep tawny tones. A library with shelves that needed a ladder and a polished ballroom with art from every age. 

Natasha commented on the fields just outside the stables, and Steve gave her a knowing look. The training grounds, he called them, and she could visit once you were more settled in. Steve was one of the only people in Hyland that knew Natasha could fight, other than your father and his closest guards. A woman fighting was frowned upon there, but your father had made an exception if it meant keeping you safe. So he could marry you off of course. 

“Will she be safe to train here?” you asked, lip between your teeth in a way that would get you an extra fifteen lines in etiquette lessons.

“More than safe,” Steve assured. “Many women here make up the king’s guard.” 

You took a step back at his words, Natasha’s hands coming out to steady you when you ran directly into her. “They are allowed to do that? Prince James does not find it offensive?” 

His smile was sad. “Y/n, the way you were treated in Hyland—it wasn’t…typical. Your father had an unusual way of dealing with his grief.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“I know you don’t, but James will help you to see. He talks about you so often, y/n—about all the things he wants to do with you. You should see the room he has set up for you. There is a door that leads to the—“

“Please don’t do this,” you interrupted. “Please don’t act like this is something it’s not.” 

You watched as his face fell, the realization that you weren’t going to budge set deep in the worry lines on his forehead. He couldn’t help the way his shoulders slumped as you fidgeted with your fingers at your waist—a nervous habit, one Miss Austeen hadn’t been able to make you stop. He recognized it easily; the action was a near constant fixture back in Hyland. 

Natasha decided to cut in. “Perhaps this is a discussion for later. After y/n has had more time to get acquainted with the prince. Right now all she has is an idea of him and all of the words we keep throwing at her.” 

Steve sighed, but you had had enough of the awkwardness in the hall. With a frustration you usually reserved for the passageways between the walls of your home castle, you quipped, “Or, perhaps, this is not a discussion to be had at all. I know how royals operate. If Prince James was truly the man you say he is, then he would have made the time in his ever-busy schedule to at least say hello to me upon my arrival. A prince has the ability to move around meetings. He is only everything I expected and I do not appreciate the two of you—“ 

“Did I miss her? Steve, help me put this jacket on, quickly. I can’t miss her arriving.” The new voice in the hall echoed behind a quickened pace, and you spun to find it attached to a man, struggling to fit his arms into a military jacket. 

He hadn’t seen you yet; his long, wavy hair fell into his eyes as the material finally shrugged over his shoulders, but he still kept his face down, straightening out his belt and boots. 

And then he looked up. 

Every portrait you’d seen of Prince James hardly did him justice. His eyes were the blue you’d seen through acrylic many times before, but no artist had ever been able to capture that comfort in those cobalt hues, the easiness that settled into the irises and trailed out, encapsulating him as a whole. His hair was long and luscious as the stories went, but with a hint of boyishness to it as wrapped behind his ear and bloomed around the frame of his face. And he was tall—a lean kind of tallness, a strength hidden behind coats and formal wear. 

Your lips parted when he spotted you. Your eyes widened when he gaped. A whole lifetime of hearing his name, of seeing his picture in the halls of the gallery, and now here he was. Maybe you should have said something, been proper, but with words evading you, that seemed to be impossible. 

“My god,” Bucky whispered. His grip around the handle of his sword tightened. 

A beat of silence followed. Steve shifted off of the wall he was leaning against and Natasha came to stand closer to your side. You still said nothing, and thought that maybe you would never be able to say a single thing again. How could a man so beautiful ever be the things you thought him to be? 

Bucky cleared his throat and removed his gloves with a slight tremor, tucking them into his pocket. “I apologize,” he stressed. “I was caught up with the children in the village by the time I heard the music. I never would have missed your entrance willingly, My Princess.” 

You blinked. The first thing this man—a prince—had said to you, and it was an apology. You couldn’t recall the last time anyone of power had apologized to you. Another pause, and Bucky took a cautious step forward, his posture fidgety. 

“I understand if you are upset with me. Your first impression and I am already making mistakes.” 

“I am not upset,” you quickly assured. A practiced response, because it wouldn’t really matter if you were upset anyway. “Steven was just showing me through the castle. I was not expecting you until tomorrow. For the walk.” 

A clear lie that burned your lips as it left them. You were very much expecting him to be the one to guide you around his home; after all the letters you assumed he was going to be tracking your every move, enraptured by your presence. But you didn’t tell anyone that. Because Bucky, above all else, was a ruling monarch—not a boy in love with you. 

It was silly to let your mind wander to impossibilities. 

He reared back anyway, concern evident in the way his jaw flexed. “For the walk—princess, forgive me, but do you only plan on seeing me when we are meant to court? Because I can assure you, I will not be able to survive that.” Another half-step to you, this time taking your knuckles into his grip. He ran a thumb over the skin. “I have much more planned than simple walks around the garden. And I have no intention of solely seeing you in front of an audience.” 

“You want to see me… without an audience?” You voiced your confusion aloud, throwing Natasha a bewildered look. Even Steve had to request an audience to visit you back home. The audience was mainly Natasha, but the formality was still there. 

“I want to see you in every capacity I am able. If you are comfortable, of course,” Bucky smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your hand. 

You blinked at him, lashes fluttering in the most obvious way. The tug in your chest was back, the one that only seemed to leave you breathless after one of the princes’ many letters. He still held your hand in his, but even that small point of contact was sending you reeling and you needed to gain some footing if you were going to pull yourself together; if you were to protect yourself as you’d done for years, you had to maintain your front. 

“I have had a very long journey,” you began, straightening out your back. 

Natasha caught on instantly. “The princess will need a bath and a long rest before there is courting of any kind.” A steady, familiar hand on your shoulder. “If you do not mind, we will be seeing you in the morning, Your Highness.” 

“Of course,” Bucky affirmed, but his eyes never left your face as he spoke.

Those eyes followed you down the hall as well, burning a hole in the back of your head and lighting a fire beneath your skin that you wished would dwindle the farther you got from him. But it seemed with just the introduction, the whisper of his lips across your hand, your heart was making decisions that did not line up with your brain. 

Before the door to the hall clicked shut, a few words fell through the cracks of the wood. “I told you to take it easy with her. Is that what you call easy, Prince ‘every capacity I am able’?” 

“Well, excuse me, but I had no idea that she was going to look like that. Your portrait artist is terrible, Steve. Really, truly terrible.” 

~~

Silk sheets on your legs, a window that looked right out to the ocean, moonlight pooling at the base of your curtains; you couldn’t sleep with so many thoughts bouncing around in your head, so you took in your room instead. 

Steve had said that the prince picked it out especially for you. You weren’t sure where the small details were, other than the door that led right into Natasha’s quarters, but you found your accommodations to be far from lacking. They never were when you were titled. 

Natasha had made quick work of getting you to bed earlier, brushing your hair and ripping the corset from your body in record time. You knew she could sense your discomfort, your need to lay down for a while and process the events of the evening. That didn’t stop her few, sporadic comments about the prince—how he was achingly sweet and so romantic for requesting to see you outside of courting hours. 

So, you reminded her, like any normal couple that wasn’t joining two kingdoms with their arranged union. 

She gave up after that, but you knew she would simply carry on tomorrow. 

With a huff, you slapped your palms against the comforter. It was much lighter than any you had at home, certainly appropriate for the weather here in Brookshire. Perhaps you could learn to knit the way they did here, with the stitches farther apart to allow the breeze to touch skin. Or maybe Natasha could learn if they wouldn’t let you. She would surely pass the information on to you if you asked her to. 

A knock pulled you out of your mundane train of thought, sparking anxiety as you laid on a new bed in an unfamiliar castle. It wasn’t a harsh knock, but you only knew a handful of people here. You had a guard, didn’t you? Even in a place like Hyland, a guard was always standing at your door. 

Another knock, this one even more timid than the first. You swung your legs off of the side of your bed and shook your head to collect yourself. The stone floor nipped at your bare feet, a reminder, maybe, that this could all go terribly wrong if you didn’t make the smart choice and wake Natasha next door. 

But then a voice spoke from behind the heavy wood, and your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Princess? Are you awake?” 

You hadn’t meant for the words to leave you, but in your surprise, you quickly asked, “Prince James?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was just—do you mind opening the door?” 

By some instinct, you reached for the handle almost instantly. Your hand froze on the metal. “I shouldn’t,” you replied, the words meeting strong wooden doors. “It is past appropriate hours and I am not even wearing a robe.” 

A small laugh from the hall, a brush at the door. “What if I turn around? I promise I will not look anywhere but the wall.” 

“Why even open the door at that point?” 

“To hear you better.” 

“Are you struggling terribly now?” 

“Well—no,” he paused. Part of you feared you had taken this conversation too far, until he chuckled again, breathily. “But I cannot fit what I have for you through the crack under the door.” 

With furrowed brows, you trained your eyes down to the light that snuck through the gap above the floor. There wasn’t much room there, only enough for a piece of paper or a small book. 

“And what is it that you have?” 

“Steve tells me that you enjoy surprises. Was he wrong?” 

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “Steven’s idea of a surprise is a frog snuck onto my plate at breakfast.” 

Bucky’s laugh was full this time; the sound left a tightness in your chest. You hadn’t let go of the handle just yet, and your heart was once again making terrible decisions, urging you to take a small peak outside. 

“I promise I do not have a frog,” Bucky continued. You heard him take a few steps in the hall. “I’m not even facing you anymore. I’ll hold it out and you can grab it and it will be like I was never here.” 

“And you will not surprise me by turning around?” 

“I would never trick you, princess.”

You glanced up at the ceiling with a prickle of agitation. Natasha had made it clear that you needed time to rest before the courting period began, but here the prince was, knocking at your door as if he knew you were having trouble sleeping. He was making it very hard to separate your outlandish hopes from your realistic ideations, to settle your racing heart for long enough to remember the entire reason you were here. 

You weren’t in this court chasing love; women in your position never had that luxury, especially women from Hyland. But maybe the prince thought differently. Maybe he had been the one writing you letters and asking for your portraits. 

You turned the handle. The door echoed in the hall. 

Prince James stood a few paces away, his back turned and his tunic slightly askew, holding a mug in his right hand. He had no formal wear in sight, his hair was slightly mused, and you had the sneaking suspicion that perhaps he had just gotten out of bed as well. 

“This is hot chocolate,” Bucky explained, after a few silent moments. “I did some research on Hyland and many sources claimed that it is a popular drink there. I figured you might want something from home—on your first night here.” 

The marble in the hall was even colder on your feet than the stone in your room, but you braved it anyway; the heat of the mug was enough compensation in itself. Your fingers brushed the back of Bucky’s hand when you pulled away. His arm fell to his side with a slight flex. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, once you were back in the safety of your doorway. “You did not have to do that.” 

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to. Please, if you ever want for anything while you are here, you just need to tell me.” 

You thought about asking him to turn around. 

That was definitely something you wanted. 

“Goodnight, Prince James,” you replied instead, but his posture didn’t slump at the missing words. 

“Goodnight, My Princess.” 

[pherelesytsia]

Secret Girlfriend,

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Thomas Shelby, a man of many secrets, can no longer keep one of his most guarded secrets hidden after his girlfriend is in danger.

Warning: Angst, Gun, Fluff.

Word Count: 2.1k      

Thomas Shelby Masterlist

The day was waning, and the first stars ruled over the land. Lights flickered. Candles lit up the darkest corner of the tranquil bar. Eyes as sharp as daggers wandered through the rows of countless of tables. The dark-haired Shelby witnessed the men losing themselves in the depths of the glasses filled with golden liquid.

Music boomed, drowning falling words, the laughter and the triumphal screams as cards collided with the round table. Trumpets echoed, mingled with the sound of guitars and a piano, filled the barely decorated bar in the middle of the town. Three singers in long dresses sang delicate tones and again and again, the words of Eyes of Blue fell. Loving words fell. Couples danced. And men gathered strength and asked for a dance of the lady of the heart. Wooden panelling covered the bare brick wall. Glasses were carried on trays through the rows of tables and handed to the women and men seated at the round tables.

Motionless, the man dressed in a dark suit sat in the far corner of the bar surrounded by his brothers, sipping from the half-full glass. His finger tapped against the glass filled with a golden liquid. His keen eyes travelled across the tavern, the bar, and Thomas wished he could be in London, somewhere where nobody would know him. Thomas could no longer stop the smile, almost threatening to grin as he looked in the direction of the woman who polished the glasses. No ring graced her fingers, but Thomas was certain the ring he had given Y/N a few months ago was hanging from her neck, sure she was using the ring as a pendant. Her well-shaped lips were coated in a dark shade of crimson. The short curly hair played around her face, kissed by the glow of the candles. Thomas Shelby barely regretted never telling anyone about his girlfriend of more than two years, but tonight was one of those times he wished Y/N could sit by his side, desired to rest his hands on her body and enjoy the night with the love of his life instead of his brothers.

Gazes nearly met.

Thomas raised his glass high and Y/N lowered her eyes. A reddish hue tinted her cheeks. Y/N couldn't face him, missed him dearly, yet she didn't dare say the words resting on the tip of her tongue. The nights were lonely but Y/N understood the words full of fear and the eyes of tears, but although she knew all this, her heart shattered into dozens of pieces as Thomas was distant, avoided her like a deathly plague. Y/N smiled faintly. Faint memories returned. They met secretly after midnight when no soul was awake at the flat Thomas had bought or found themselves in each other's arms in a distant part of the country where they were sure no one would recognise the Shelby.

Thomas loved his girlfriend from the deepest depths of his heart. The beating organ wasn’t cold, he could feel love, but he showed no emotions, knew exactly what would happen if he dared to make a wrong move, what would happen to Y/N if the wrong ears heard that he had fallen for someone.

Dooming clouds no longer clouded his gaze. His eyes of light blue sparkled in delight.

Y/N danced through the rows of people, laughed and smiled. The hem of her dress rose and fell. Thomas looked after his girlfriend and saw the ring she carried around her neck, witnessed the gold glistering in the dim light of the old tavern. Men laughed, talked to Y/N who answered with a friendly expression of her ageless features. Thomas gulped, wanted to feel love, to let words escape and forbid the men to dare to flirt with his darling.

Suddenly he felt the need to rise from his seat and wrap his girlfriend of over two years in his arms, but the burden resting heavily on his shoulders forced him to stay dressed in a coat of silence. Thomas wanted to dance with her all night long until his feet bled and the soles of his shoes were beyond repair. Thomas hoped the day would come. He watched over Y/N like an eagle circling over the fields. He remained calm, tried to ignore the glances of the men directed at her, saw the lips forming words, was aware they were asking for a dance, wanted to dance with the woman who had never danced with anyone except her boyfriend. A smirk graced his features, heard Y/N as she denied in a friendly tone and left the four men at the round table alone.

A cold gust entered the bar.

Men in dark suits streamed into the old tavern. Y/N swallowed noticeably, looked at her two colleagues as they shivered and exchanged quick words. Switly Y/N moved forwards. A quick prayer escaped her lips. The faces were vicious. Wrong words would be fatal. The coats were long, and Y/N thought she could clearly make out the shape of a pistol each of the men seemed to carry. She noted the stern glances, but Y/N ignored them, knowing exactly who was staring at her and trying to dissuade her from what she had to do as the waitress of the bar.

Thomas noticed the fear, the stress in his girlfriend's widened eyes and he wanted to rise, to let her know nothing could happen to her in his presence. He pressed his lips tightly together. Loudly he placed the glass he had been holding in his hand and let himself fall back. His fingers twitched and his dominant hand kept moving to the pistol he always carried at his side. The mask of coldness and disregard resting on his features crumbled. Arthur and John immediately noticed what Thomas was doing. Something changed in his eyes. Quietly, her name passed his lips. Thomas clenched his hands into fists. Y/N´s name escaped again and John thought he heard the name of the woman who always took their orders and remembered how he had once wanted to dance with her, remembered his brother's reaction and the words of a bloody fool, hadn’t noticed the engagement ring on her hand.

Feeling strong enough Y/N faced the new guests. The stench of cheap wine and whiskey enveloped the men like a cloak. A slight, yet nervous smile graced Y/N´s face as she clasped her hands in front of her body and put a mask of confidence on.

            "Good evening gentlemen, I am sorry to inform you but sadly we are fully booked for tonight. You have to make a reservation. I beg your forgiveness but we have no more tables for this many people." Y/N said in an apologetic tone.

Smiling Y/N fervently hoped the words would be enough, that the men would be on their way, would leave the bar, but the wicked men stopped and the expression filling the eyes of different colours, let her know she would regret what she had said.

            “There is a place.” said one of the seven men in long coats and stern features.

            "I am sorry but this is Shelby's table, I am not allowed to offer you this place, you would have to wait until the gentlemen are on their way home and this can take a long time. The Shelby's are regular customers and the owner of the bar would certainly not appreciate if I treat them unfairly. I hope you understand, but I can offer you a seat here at the bar until a table becomes available." the young woman offered in a slightly nervous tone.

The words fell on no ears. Wordlessly, the men walked past Y/N, leaving her behind with quick steps and headed for the table they wanted to claim as theirs.

The brothers sat up straight, looking unimpressed at the men who were trying to intimidate them with sternness and anger. Arthur shifted; his hand rested on his gun. No words escaped and the three men laughed low. A mischievous grin spread across Thomas´s lips, laughing silently but the widening grin was carried away by the next gust.

“Dove, bring us a drink.", "As I told you, gentlemen, this table is occupied and sadly I cannot offer you another seat." a soft voice broke the silence.

Urgently Thomas stared at his girlfriend, tried to silence her, saw the anger in the look of the man whose belly resembled a hump, wanted to force Y/N to leave the bar with quick steps, knew how dangerous these men could be. The man on the right turned around and faced the young woman in the long dress. Like a wave, the man rose in front of Y/N and looked condescendingly down at her.

            "Boss I'll take care of her; she's getting on my nerves." the light-haired man sneered.

            "If you dare touch me, the police will be notified of your misdemeanour. The patrons of this bar come to the bar to have a carefree evening and not to fear danger and gun." Y/N answered in a stern tone.

She chose her words wisely, feared Thomas would get hurt, knew the men in dark suits belonged to a gang. Y/N stood tall, knew if Thomas would rise the hall would resemble a battlefield, knew it well, had seen it once too often, had tended the deep wounds adoring his skin.

            "Go ahead and take her out, show her the city, the fresh air of the alleys will surely do her good." the other one sneered.

Chairs almost collided with the floor. A shiver danced down her spine. The man looked up in confusion, feeling the cold material digging deeper into the flesh. The cold silver reflected the candlelight.

            "Touch my girlfriend you fu*** bastard and you will rue the day you were born. Take care of them." thunder echoed.

Eyes widened, heard the words spoken by the man who was feared like the night. He stood tall. Lightning reigned in his eyes. Dark shadows arose from deep slumber. Thomas wanted to pull the trigger, clasped the cold material of his gun firmly, but he did not.

            "Arthur, John escort the gentlemen out, I will take care of Y/N. Come, dear, I'll take you home," Thomas said in a gentle tone.

Suddenly his voice changed, turned soft, like the whisper of the wind, lovely and delicate. Thomas didn't let go of the gun, watching the colour slip from the faces of the men who had stopped talking. Arthur and John rose and nodded, carrying out the order Thomas had given. He wanted to follow his brothers but he knew that his girlfriend needed him more than them. Thomas led the way, ignoring the curses piercing through the calmness.

Fear gradually drained from her body. Hands rested on her body. Y/N smiled, smelled his perfume, the smoke of cigarettes mixing with expensive whiskey.

            "Are you staying with me tonight? I don't want to be alone." Y/N breathed weakly.

Thomas did not reply and with his gaze, he signalled the singers to continue where they had stopped and immediately, they continued. Questioning gazes no longer rested on them and laughter ruled again. Gently Thomas clasped Y/N´s trembling fingers, guided them to his mouth and breathed a delicate kiss on her knuckles. Loving words full of adoration caressed her heart. Y/N no longer feared. A protective cloak rested on her shoulders.

            "Today we will sleep at home. You won't live there anymore. Now everyone knows you belong to me. I will not leave you. But how could you put yourself in danger? Do you know what could have happened if I hadn't been here?" Thomas wanted to raise his voice, was angry, couldn't believe what his fiancée had done, but he remained calm.

Faintly Y/N smiled. He didn't need to hear an answer, read it in her eyes telling him she had done it because of him, wanted to protect him from harm and death. Gently, Thomas placed her trembling hands on his chest above his heart, then placed his on her back and pressed Y/N tightly against his body. In his embrace, Y/N felt safe and sound. Loving words slipped. Thomas gazed at his brothers who disappeared through the door into the night, saw the expression in Arthur's eyes and knew he had much to explain, knew which questions would come, but now Thomas did not care. In a protective gesture, Thomas laid his palms on his girlfriend's lower back. Eyes met and Thomas noticed how the fear faded away as Y/N became oblivious to the world.

Taglist:

blyanyan fckmini Talessandra9792 1-800-coffee millies0bsimp marvelwhoreunfortunately alessandra9792 smailaway summertimedepression alldaysdreamers elliaze mystic-gnome

kathrinemelissa tedpicklez daynaelizabethclairereynolds

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The Last To Know | Part Two

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

As training progresses, you and Brady only continue to find new areas in which to compete which one another - both in the air and on the ground. Your distaste for one another grows at the same pace as your reluctant respect for your talent as pilots and musicians.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Alcohol Consumption, Tobacco Smoking, Class Disparity, Allusion to Death in Combat, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

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

Word Count: 7530

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Fools. He was surrounded by incompetent fools.

“If you don’t get a move on Croz, you’re gonna be dead!” Brady’s Bombardier, Hambone, shouted across the tarmac.

He watched the dark-haired Navigator execute the most inelegant slide down the fuselage of the plane onto the wing before hopping down to the ground. Hoerr, his Co-pilot, sucked his teeth in dismay as he eyed the stopwatch in his hand before following after him. With a heavy sigh, Brady turned his head to see you and your crew exchanging high-fives, all ten of you the first to reach your designated safety zone across the runway from your aircraft.

“Winners of our crash-landing drill, folks!” Their instructor shouted as Brady executed his slide and jump to the ground with efficiency, jogging up to who Crosby just barely made it to the chalk circle drawn on the blacktop.

Sniffling against the chill of the morning, he glanced over at their final time in Hoerr’s hand, shaking his head. “We’ll definitely be practicing that again.” He huffed and tucked his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his sheepskin.

It wasn’t that third place amongst twenty crews was a poor showing – the men had done rather well for their first timed trial. The issue lay with the fact that you continued to effortlessly outperform him. Impress the instructors, earn accolades, seemingly outsmart him. All while looking that attractive in a flight suit. While looking at him that icily.

“Well done ladies.” Croz panted, flapping his crush cap in your direction in some semblance of a wave as you led your crew towards the trucks waiting to take you to the Mess for lunch.

As you offered the man a polite nod, Brady cleared his throat, begrudgingly adding on his congratulations. “Yes, well done.”

Your eyes snapped to his coldly, the physical impact of your gaze nearly making him flinch.

“Guess we’ll survive anyway when I do crash my plane, huh Brady?” Your voice was filled with a venom that he was quite certain was unwarranted, the comment seeming to have come out of nowhere.

“Personally, I don’t plan on ever putting my crew in a position where they have to enact this drill.” He snapped back defensively, hackles raised, watching your beautiful mouth twist into a wry smile.

He really needed to stop using those dangerously pleasant adjectives when it came to you.

“Man plans, Brady…” You taunted before continuing on your way, the obedient line of women behind you each shooting him a haughty glare as they followed in your wake.

“Yeah, yeah, God laughs.” He bit off angrily, fishing out his pipe in search of something to busy his hands with.

A long, low whistle sounded to his left and he lifted his eyes to meet Hambone’s glinting smile. “She sure don’t like you.”

Brady’s lips twisted in distaste at the accuracy of that statement, but any response died on his tongue as the sound of an encroaching engine overtook the airfield. While the 280th and 418th had been putting on a show for the visitors from Wing, Cleven had offered to take the newly repaired plane of his squadron member, Hollenbeck, out to test its replacement engines while his Lieutenant completed some base duties.

The fact that the normal roar of the plane was significantly muted had everyone turning to watch the B-17’s approach. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sun, pale but obstinately returned to the sky after the wet welcome the 100th had received with Walla Walla’s entire annual rainfall in the span of five days, Brady’s brow furrowed deeply to see three engines feathered. His heart all but stopped when the fourth fell silent, propellers twirling idly in the slipstream as the aircraft glided across the runway.

Cleven could not be more than twenty-five feet off the ground as he cruised above the control tower, the collective jaws of all those gathered below gaping open as the brass hit the deck on the observation balcony. With a graceful, yet eerily silent swoop, the plane turned to line up with an open stretch of runway before seeming to float down to a gentle landing. Cheers of relief and reverence erupted from all around him as members of the ground crew raced out to check on the status of the engines when, to everyone’s collective shock, they began to start up again one-by-one. As Cleven smoothly taxied toward his hardstand, Brady shook his head in awe at the man’s sheer audacity.

If he was hoping to make himself stand out in the minds of the higher-ups from Wing, he undoubtedly achieved it.

“Brady, you coming for chow or what?” Hoerr shouted and he nodded quickly in reply, following the group onto their transport truck for the Mess as he tucked his forgotten pipe back into his pocket.

The normally crowded Mess Hall was quiet – two squadrons off on training flights courtesy of the additional thirty-five B-17s that had arrived from the Boeing factory in Seattle over the course of the last several weeks. He assumed they would return soon enough to endure the stringy chicken drowned in mayo to form what the Mess officers were claiming was chicken salad, served on thick slices of bread. Lucky them. Settling at the table with the officers of his crew, he forced the sandwich down quickly before savouring the crisp, tart apple that accompanied it, eyes involuntarily following you through the chow line. It seemed someone else was on rear guard today, freeing you to chat with that blonde Pilot, Hart.

The pair of you seemed close, from what he had seen. And it appeared he had been watching too often and noticing far too much.

“Tough as a ten-cent steak, that Thornton.” Curt’s New York accent pierced through his cloudy thoughts from the table behind, the man’s voice always discernable amongst the crowd. Particularly when he spoke your name next, making Brady’s ears focus more intently. “…pretty sure she eats a bowl of nails for breakfast and spits ‘em out as tacks for lunch.”

Brady could easily imagine the man’s impish grin as the table roared with laughter, though he himself could find no fault with his words – much as that galled him. Next to Thornton, you were by far the toughest in the 280th and he found, despite your personal incompatibilities, he would probably not hesitate to fly on your wing.

Setting down his apple core once he had picked it clean with precise bites, he settled back to produce his pipe and tin of tobacco, methodically packing his pipe before striking a match to light the dried leaves slowly. Absently listening to the rest of the conversation around him, he reflected on the fact that they would be moving onto the next phase of their training soon. The next base. Rumor had it they were shipping out to Utah, the actual desert, rather than this arid smudge between the forest and the mountains.

Aside from the arrival of enough planes for every crew, there were interesting developments on the ground as well – discussion of a Group band. According to their Group CO, Alkire, every Group had a band. Brady had already written home requesting his family send his saxophone and clarinet in anticipation, his reputation as a performance musician well known amongst his squadron. What remained uncertain was if it would be a fully integrated band or not. There were…differences of opinion amongst the various factions involved.

‘The calibre of talent drawn from five hundred rather than four hundred would surely be higher.’

‘Would it not encourage fraternization with them spending so much more time amongst one another?’

 ‘Big bands don’t have women.’

‘The numbers would surely be impressive if we let them join.’

‘They gotta take that over now, too?’

‘You’ll write them off before you even hear them?’

Smoke curled from his nostrils as Brady exhaled heavily, as-yet undecided where he stood on the subject, not that anyone was asking for the opinion of a Second Lieutenant. The cacophony of the 349th and 351st squadron’s officers arriving for lunch, looking tired but satisfied after their extended flight, interrupted his introspection and had him rising to his feet.

“Gonna go grab our flight plan for this afternoon.” He muttered to Hoerr who offered a nod before turning back to Hambone’s animated story about the acquisition of his gold teeth.

Walking along the boards which had aged markedly under the heavy use of their Group since their arrival earlier in the month, Brady stepped into the Ops centre, nodding to a few of the pilots from the 418th, including Pratt whom he had given a wide berth in the past few weeks. Pressing himself into an empty spot along the wall, he watched quietly as Flescher and Dutch pored over neatly typed sheets with Alkire – most likely the flight plan he had come in search of.

The whine of the door hinges raised his head, and that of every other man impatiently waiting with practiced expressions of patience, and Brady felt his throat clench in a reflexive swallow as you stepped into the dwindling free space, utterly alone.

“Hey there Bo Peep, lost your sheep?” Pratt quipped, chuckling in delight at his own cleverness, reminding Brady just why he had parted ways with the man after too many similar instances.

The grim set of your mouth at the resounding laughter from the rest of the Pilots in the room opened a pit in his stomach. Confirmed to him that you were just as aware as he that the nickname was going to stick with you for the rest of your career in the USAAF. If only your Co-pilot had seen fit to give you one earlier, as some kind of defence.

“Ah, Lieutenant.” Dutch’s booming voice cut through the racket like a hot knife through butter, beckoning you over to the open doorway into Alkire’s office. “Here are the flight plans for the 280th. See to it all the ladies have one, we’ll assemble at the hangar in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Your reply was calm and professional, seeming otherwise unaffected by the wildly unfitting moniker.

If anything, you reminded him of some sort of ice goddess – perfectly molded from hard, frigid material. Not a sweet, tender character from a nursery rhyme.

The 418th’s CO, Flesher, stepped forward and passed out the rest of the pages, Brady accepting his flight plan with a sharp nod of thanks, before he followed you out into the cool, bright afternoon to get on with his training, trying his best to drive you from his mind.

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

December 1942

The salt flats of Wendover Field, Utah felt endless, the arid landscape stretching far beyond the horizon, even during flights. There was no hint of lush deep forests capping mountains or slanting towards the sea here as there had been in Washington. And the differences did not end there. Whereas Walla Walla had greeted you with rain and temperatures in the high forties, Wendover was ceaseless blue skies and temperatures ten degrees cooler. Despite the fact that the 280th’s fifteen-chair all-ladies band was endless practicing holiday tunes, it made it difficult to truly feel in the holiday spirit.

There would be no white Christmas here, contrary to the wild popularity of the Irving Berlin song of the same name that had come out that summer.

Stepping into smoke-laden air of the officer’s club behind Keever, you tucked your cap beneath your arm, notebook clenched in hand, prepared for a difficult negotiation. Williams, leader of the 100th’s official all-male band, stood to wave the pair of you over to a table in an out-of-the-way corner. A table that was heart-droppingly also occupied by John Brady. Sighing a curse as you navigated your way through the couples dancing to records on the cramped floor, you assembled what you hoped was a neutral expression and almost cut Keever off in your determination to take the seat opposite Brady rather than beside him. Anything to put as much physical distance as possible between you and that man.

Offering Williams a quick nod of gratitude as he pushed in your chair, you took a moment to study the club. Rank certainly afforded you entry here, as often as you could want, but you found you preferred the quieter atmosphere of the ad hoc women’s club. There was no rank in there, no bar, just an odd jumble of mismatched furniture, books, magazines, and records. It was a place where you could just be, rather than this crowded party-like atmosphere, brimming with music, chatter, and gambling.

“Thank you, ladies, very much, for agreeing to go over your setlist with us, I think it would be in all of our best interests if there’s no overlap when we play on the nineteenth.”

“Completely agree, Williams.” Keever planted her elbows on the table aggressively. “Given that you have the privilege of larger numbers, might we have first pick? White Christmas.” She named the year’s most popular song without even waiting for the go ahead, pinning him with her beady, challenging glare.

Flipping open the notebook, you retrieved a pencil from your uniform pocket and looked between the two of them as Williams sighed heavily, casting a glance in Brady’s direction.

“We’ve been practicing that one pretty heavily.” Brady replied slowly, clipped tone betraying how dearly he wanted that song to fall onto their set list.

“As have we.” You replied flatly, raising your chin slightly.

Williams tapped his lips pensively before glancing at a folded scrap of paper in his hand. “If we give you White Christmas, we get Jingle Bells.”

Keever arched an eyebrow slowly, not glancing in your direction once. You found it terribly frustrating as you would have liked to impart to her how much that loss would hurt the horns in particular.

Eventually she nodded firmly. “Agreed. Next…”

Licking your lips slowly before pressing them together tightly, sealed like an envelope, you began a new list in your notebook under the heading entitled ‘Final’ trying to take satisfaction in the fact that you would have the song of the season, at least. With each passing exchange, it became increasingly apparent that you were only there to take notes for Keever. She was completely uninterested in your opinions, never once consulting you as she continued her adversarial negotiation with Williams.

“Well, Williams, that it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Keever offered a hand to shake across the table once the eight-song setlist had been secured.

Without waiting for you to finish writing down the final agreed-upon title, she promptly departed, leaving you to collect your items.

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.” You offered a polite smile, rising to shake Williams’ hand just as two warm, broad palms landed on your shoulders with a cry of glee.

“Bo Peep!” Bucky’s voice was much too loud for his proximity, making you squint slightly at the force of it.

“Captain.” You nodded warmly. “I was just –”

“Sitting down. I’m buying you a drink. No, you too, Brady.” There was a dismissive wave across the table and the man in question froze before sinking back down into his chair. “Whatever you were all doing was far too serious. What’ll you have?” The rosy-cheeked man raised a dark eyebrow once he had exerted enough pressure to coax you back into your seat.

“Soda will be fine, thank you, sir.”

“Quit that, it’s Bucky. I’ll be right back with a soda for Bo Peep and a whiskey for the rest of us.” He winked before meandering to the bar.

“I apologize, Lieutenant, it seems you were spotted.” Williams shook his head and you laughed ruefully.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time, stepping into his kingdom.”

The clatter of glassware announced Bucky’s return, the soda slid in your direction before the whiskeys were doled out, the eager Captain taking over Keever’s vacated seat.

“To sunnier skies.” He lifted his glass and the three of you leaned in the clink yours against it, taking a slow sip of the fizzy liquid before settling back. “So what were you all meeting about anyway?”

“Holiday concert.” Williams answer.

Bucky’s eyes lit up and he looked to you quickly. “If you ladies ever need a singer, I am at your service.”

Movement across the table caught your eye and you shifted your gaze to see Brady shaking his head firmly behind Bucky, making you raise an eyebrow.

“Do you sing well, Captain?”

“Not a note, Bo Peep, but I sing with passion.” He laughed brightly and your eyes widened at his self-depreciating honesty before you could not help but joining in his laughter.

“Noted, sir.”

“When is this concert again?” Bucky leaned back, setting his quickly emptied glass onto the table.

“Friday after next.” Brady replied, long fingers once again busily packing that pipe of his.

Bucky whistled dramatically. “Sure your band’s gonna be ready, Williams?”

“Absolutely, sir.” He replied with a firm nod, taking another miniscule sip of his drink. “They’re a fine group, coming together well.”

“And the ladies?”

“Most definitely, Keever wouldn’t let it be any other way.” You smirked and took a deep swallow of soda.

“Well I’ll be there with bells on…and warmed up.” He winked dramatically before standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I’m going to go find some more trouble before I hit the rack, I’ll see each of you bright and early tomorrow.”

Parting with a chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ you took one final sip of your drink before excusing yourself, trying not to trip over your own feet in your desperation to get out of there, eager to return to the peace of your barracks.

The next day found you sitting beneath the shade of your plane’s wing, seeking shelter from the insistent afternoon sunshine. You shook your head at Andie’s third sigh in as many minutes.

“Your dramatics are not going to make our passengers arrive any faster.” You teased, nudging her shoulder with yours.

Today’s practice mission involved live ordinance for both air-to-air firing of the machine guns and a bomb run – coordination with the target aircraft was extensive, but so, it seemed, was the temptation of ice cream in the Mess.

“Just eager to get wheels up is all, you heard the boys from the 418th, closest thing to real combat they’ve experienced they said.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, trying not to recall the way Brady’s eyes had been alight as he and his crew animatedly recalled their flight. Who would have known that man actually had warm blood flowing in his veins.

To assess your crew’s performance, several experienced aerial gunners and a bombardier would be joining you, if they ever chose to set down their dessert spoons, submitting a score to Dutch at the end of the flight. You were quite frankly as anxious as Andie to get this show on the road, but did your best to remain outwardly calm, taking in the mood of the rest of the girls.

Mouse was reenacting some amusing scene from the enlisted personnel’s club, playing both parts of a dancing couple, much to the amusement of Ivy, Millie, and Nita. Babs and Gina, ever diligent, were bent over the mission plan, the latter spreading a few maps on the blacktop for them to confer upon. Fletcher was set slightly apart, knees bent, working away in a small notebook with long smooth strokes of her pencil. Tilting your head, you were almost convinced she was sketching when the sound of an approaching jeep had Andie leaping to her feet with a triumphant cry.

“Finally!”

Pulling yourself to your feet you shuffled forward to meet the three men as Andie shouted back to the crew.

“On your feet…you too, Fletch!”

You barely resisted pull of a grin as the Right Waist Gunner finally earned her nickname, you waited for everyone to slide onto the aircraft before inverting your way aboard last.

As you started your engines, you watched the C-47 take off with its outdated target aircraft in tow, letting the routine of preflight checks take over the urge to focus on the fluttering in your stomach. The day was beautiful, the atmosphere incredibly smooth and friendly as you climbed to 30,000 feet, everyone affixing their oxygen masks before you began to follow Gina’s charted course.

The sight of the C-47 as it came into view at one o’clock high made your heart lurch with pride, your breath hitching in your throat. Taking a steady breath, you forced yourself to call it out calmly.

“Target aircraft ahead, one o’clock high, save your ammo until we come alongside. Remember not to shoot the Sky Train, ladies.”

The deafening sound of the Browning machine guns as they opened up was an entirely new experience for you, your eyes drifting to Andie’s to share an intense look. The pair of you were thus far only accustomed to the friendly thrum of the engines keeping you aloft. The shattered peace was a sharp reminder that this was no mere plane – it was a weapon of war.

“Ladies that is one destroyed plane….” Andie crowed with pride as she pressed her left temple against the window to eye the wounded craft. “Practically shredded.”

“All credit to Schroeder on that one, Ma’am, fairly certain she landed the bulk of those rounds.” Fletch’s winded voice came through your headset.

Despite the mask covering the lower half of her face, the glint in her eyes told you Andie was grinning wickedly as she turned back to you. “You mean Shredder.”

Allowing the crew to share a laugh, you then requested quiet to confirm the heading with Gina, turning on the autopilot for the bombing run, pleased with Mouse’s gleeful feedback that the target was ‘smashed to smithereens.’

Twilight had just settled across the base when your wheels bumped down onto the runway, taxiing to your hardstand with the assistance of a ground crewman bearing a flashlight. Tired but satisfied, particularly with the excellent score your crew had received, you dismissed the enlisted ladies to go find what was left for dinner in the Mess Hall, massaging your tender cheeks as you walked with the three other officers to your Mess.

“Suppose we’ll get used to those masks eventually.” Babs muttered, red triangular indent very evident on her lily-white skin.

“Can only hope so.” Andie nodded in agreement, gripping her chin to crack her jaw.

It was a satisfying soreness, you thought, born of productivity. Of purpose. And if contributing, doing your part, brought you pain? So be it.

The next ten days passed in a blur of primarily flying and then practicing – either with the band or alone at the edge of the base – in your free time. It felt as though you had just finalized the setlist with Williams, Keever, and Brady yet here you were, setting out folding chairs around the perimeter of the gymnasium with space for a dancefloor in the center, the audience scheduled to arrival in less than two hours.

“Keever really likes to leave everything to you doesn’t she.” Lionheart called as she approached down the aisle, reaching for the next chair to help.

“If I had known what being co-leader would mean” You shook your head ruefully. “But you, ma’am, aren’t even in the band. You should be enjoying your evening before this whole thing happens – for better or worse.”

Her responding giggle and persistence in assisting you eased a great deal of tension in your shoulders.

“If I help you, you can listen to my proposition while we work. It’s a win-win, honestly.” She grinned mischievously, making you raise an eyebrow. “Oh don’t, it’s nothing awful just – I got us that pair of passes to go into Salt Lake City for the weekend.”

The chair in your hands landed on the wooden floor a little harder than you had intended in your shock, staring at your friend openly. “That’s…Dutch has only given out a dozen weekend passes since we formed up in Walla Walla, that’s incredible!”

“Didn’t take much convincing, just a little reminding of how well we’ve been doing. Now, in return for this incredible feat, I need to ask you a favour.”

“This is the proposition part.” You smirked as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, nodding apprehensively.

“My parents would hunt me down and murder me if I go into town and don’t stop by, but I just cannot bear the thought of facing them alone. Not now, not after I finally…got to grow up and…well be me. Please say you’ll come with me. Be my buffer.”

You could count on one hand the number of times Lionheart had mentioned her parents, and the level of detail included in those conversations had been even less. Her father was a businessman of means, currently involved in several grocery stores across Salt Lake City called ‘Crystal Palace Markets’. Her mother was a glamourous woman who had been utterly perplexed by her choice of propellers and fuel tanks over beauty parlors and a husband. It was no wonder she felt the need for someone on her wing at dinner, and while you were not entirely certain your presence would help the situation, you were not about to abandon her.

“You’re safe with me, Lionheart.” You nodded warmly, earning a bright grin and a squeeze about the shoulders before the pair of you returned to the task at hand while plotting the rest of your destinations during your forty-eight hours of freedom.

 “Well if it isn’t the worst shepherdess Bo Peep, yet again without her sheep, and that toothless Lion.”

The snide tone told you immediately, without needing to turn around, that the speaker was your least favourite member of the 100th – Friedkin. You loathed him deeply, found nothing redeeming nor capable about him whatsoever, and thus chose to not even acknowledge his existence. After you continued working for several moments, no response or glance in his direction offered, a huff of annoyance escaped him before the sound of his footfalls retreated, the slam of the exterior door signalling his exit.

Looking over your shoulders, both you and Lionheart confirmed he was truly gone before she sighed.

“I’m sure you resent that horrible nickname…”

A heavy exhale gathered in your cheeks before falling from your lips. “What I resent, honestly, is the implication that my crew are lambs being led to the slaughter. They are tough, intelligent, competent women – some of the finest the USAAF has to offer. I don’t care what they call me. Frankly, I’ve been called worse, but I cannot stand how it frames them.”

A clatter amongst the music stands sent your eyes rocketing towards the stage to see Brady moving around up there, distributing sheet music. “Lurking around like some ghoul, Brady?! Listening in on private conversations…” You snapped, annoyed by the fact that he surely overheard something so personal.

Even several rows back you could see the tick in his jaw, the furrow of his brow in response to your outburst. “Just doing my job, Lieutenant. Perhaps you shouldn’t say things you don’t want others to hear in the middle of the gymnasium!” He retorted sharply before rigidly continuing on with his task.

Clenching your fists at your sides, you could taste the venom on the tip of your tongue, the feel of Lionheart’s hand landing on your elbow making you jump as she startled you.

“We’re all done here, let’s get you something to eat.”

Nostrils flaring with the force of your exhale, you nodded after a moment, following her out to eat a small dinner before returning to the barracks to change. Your Class A uniform was waiting for you on the hook at the head of your bed where you had hung it last night to draw out any wrinkles. It had been quite a while since you had found occasion to wear it, though you supposed you would be wearing it all weekend now that you were headed into the city.

Uniform changed and hair tidied, you grabbed your trumpet case from its safe storage beneath your cot and hurried to the gymnasium where the 280th’s band was warming up. Being the smaller of the two groups, you also had the dubious honor of being the opening act for the night. Despite the fact that you were not the last the arrive, at least five members were later than you, Keever still looked prepared to murder you as you stepped into the change room.

“So glad you could join us, get warmed up.”

Offering a bland smile and a nod, you set about unpacking and warming up, giving sympathetic looks to those who arrived after you as their greetings were even less friendly. Once the entire band was fully assembled, there was just enough time to run through a few scales together before a knock on the door signalled it was time to go on.

“Don’t embarrass Thornton or the squadron.” Keever snapped before marching toward the stage.

“Some pep talk.” Maisie the trombonist muttered, and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother a laugh, filing out.

A remarkable number of people had already gathered, the crowd mainly composed of folks from the 100th, including the ground crew, but you also recognized Wendover’s base personnel mixed in, too. Occupying the centre block of seats on the stage, you focused on Keever’s expectant face. Due to the lack of musicians, she was pulling double-duty, conducting and playing clarinet. Somehow you thought she did not mind playing at the front of the group, in the spotlight. You were more than happy to stand amongst your brass section, a couple of trumpets and trombones, and one lonely French horn to keep you company.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for joining us for the 100th’s first holiday concert! Without further ado, I give you the 280th’s Ladies of Song.” Keever spoke into the mic at her left.

Oh so the band had a name now. And not a very good one. Perhaps the sparse applause accompanied by the snarky howl of ‘Let’s do this Keener!’ would help convince her to change it to something better.

With a deep breath she raised her clarinet, the rest of you following suit with practiced precision before Keever gave a firm nod, launching the band into the opening number of Deck the Halls.

Music had been there for you even longer than flying, a place of escape where your mind could wander, where dreams would unfurl. It was easy to lose yourself in the setlist, building on the increasing momentum of applause from the audience, the 280th’s poorly named but very talented group winning them over with sheer skill. As you turned your music to the score for White Christmas, you were surprised at how quickly it had flown by. Surprised further still by the number of couples on the dancefloor.

“With that, folks, we’ve come to our finale. Thank you very much for your warm reception and we hope you stick around to watch the boys play, too. While we won’t be very likely to see one here in Utah, please enjoy our White Christmas.” Keever preened under the murmurs of delight and exuberant applause, basking a moment before turning back to the band to cue the song, drawing out the end of the song with a dramatic finish.

As you were taking your bows, you glanced to the wings to note the men were already waiting there, bunched along the edges of the stage out of sight of the audience, watching with their hands on their hips or crossed defiantly. And naturally, in the thick of it, was Brady. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you collected your music folder, leaving the one already set out on each stand before the show by the very man himself, and shuffled past him off the stage.

Doing your utmost to ignore how well his Class As fit his frame, how tidy his hair looked without the interference of his cap, and especially how perfectly his cologne suited him, you escaped down the steps backstage. Pausing a moment to empty your spit valve in a trashcan, you returned to the changeroom to pack up your trumpet as the strains of Jingle Bells began to fill the halls. Debating with yourself a moment, you sighed before stepping into the back of the gymnasium to lean against the wall and listen in. They sounded frustratingly good – and not just because of their numbers, but they had actual talent. Setting your case on the ground at your feet, you surrendered to your curiosity and stayed for another song, and then another.

The audience had grown larger now, every seat taken, the dancefloor packed, and standing room quickly evaporating. The ladies may have had the best song of the night, but no one was going to remember your set by the time this was over.

And then Brady stood up to play his solo.

For a man who did not say much, other than snipes and jabs, he seemed utterly confident with that saxophone in his hand. Each note was flawless, was landed upon impeccably. The instrument seemed to yield entirely to him and by the time he sat back down half the women in attendance were surely in love with him while the men were whistling and cheering appreciatively. Swiping your case from where it rested on the wooden floor, you spun on your heel to exit into the crisp night air, silence abruptly enveloping you as the exterior door swung shut in your wake.

Damn that man.

You were still thinking about that solo as the train jostled across the desert toward Salt Lake City the next morning, Lionheart napping on your shoulder as you stared out the window unseeing. How utterly inconvenient that he was that talented.

Buildings began to dot the landscape before growing into clusters and clumps before suddenly you were on the outskirts of the city itself, the Conductor announcing your stop was next. Nudging your friend awake with your shoulder, the pair of you collected your small flight bags and moved towards the end of the carriage, preparing to disembark.

The Rio Grande Depot was impressive with its high-arched windows and countless services, one of the largest stations you had found yourself in to date.

“C’mon, let’s get rid of these bags so I can show you around.” Lionheart grinned, tugging on your wrist, pulling you along the polished floors into the bustling downtown.

Despite the fact that her family lived in the city, she had insisted on booking a room with two twin beds at a hotel near the station, the front desk clerk accepting your luggage even though the room would not be ready until after three. Yanking you back into the street you were then treated to a personal tour of Lionheart’s hometown, eating lunch at her favorite restaurant, lingering in the record shop where you purchased a copy of Heart of Texas – Thornton’s birthday was next month, and you were formulating plans. Spotting a music store, it was your turn to drag her inside, buying a pad of blank sheet music as well as a few performance pieces for the 280th’s band.

By four o’clock you were both tired and footsore, eager to return to the hotel to rest and freshen-up before dinner at six. Sitting on the end of the narrow bed in your slip, you were flipping through one of your new acquisitions from the music store as Lionheart was soaking in the bath with the door open.

“Mother said she would send her driver, so we won’t have to worry about catching the streetcar to the house.” She called out to you.

Blinking several times as you struggled to process the level of wealth your friend seemed accustomed to, you nodded slowly. “How considerate?”

A peal of laughter echoed from the tiled room before splashes told you she was finishing up. She emerged damp and glowing, wrapped in a towel, to have you tame her hair into braids before the pair of you slid into fresh shirts under your uniforms. Straightening your tie, you could only hope your appearance would suffice in the intimidating atmosphere.

Looking up at the Tudor mansion as you climbed from the back of the chauffeured car, you were convinced it would not. Lionheart hesitated at the door, almost reaching for the handle before opting to ring the bell – suddenly a stranger in her own home. How would you behave if…no, when you returned home? It was a difficult scene to imagine now, especially when you were utterly unsure when the chance might even present itself.

A middle-aged woman in a black dress opened the door, smile splitting her tired face as she gasped. “Miss Constance! How good it is to see you!”

“Betsy!” Your friend replied warmly, quickly embracing the woman, whom you were quite certain was not her mother, before dragging you closer to introduce you. “This is our housekeeper, Betsy. Known her my whole life.”

“Please to meet you miss, now come inside the both of you.” She collected your caps to hang on hooks by the door. “Mrs. Hart is just finishing up upstairs, Mr. Hart will be back from the office any minute now. I’ll fetch you some drinks while you wait in the sitting room.”

Doing your best to take in the rich wood panelling and lavish decorations while also keeping up with the pair of women chattering away as they led you through a maze of hallways, your jaw dropped slightly as you arrived in the grand sitting room anchored by an enormous Christmas tree.

“We Harts don’t joke around when it comes to the Holidays.” Lionheart laughed and sank onto one of the velvet couches, coaxing you to do the same with a firm pat of the cushions.

“Did you grow up here?” You asked in a hushed tone as you sat with more care, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs neatly as you sat on the plush couch beside her.

“Mmm father had this house built when I was…ten, I think? Before that we lived in a much more normal house.” She laughed easily.

“Now, Connie, don’t go belittling your father’s accomplishments.” Mrs. Hart’s voice carried into the room before she entered, clad in emerald-green to match her striking eyes, though you could see where Lionheart got her golden mane from.

You stood quickly as she swept into the room, quite certain her earrings alone were worth more than your annual pay.

“Thank you very much for having me, Mrs. Hart.” Your well-trained manners dictated you greet and thank your hostess immediately.

“Nonsense, it’s my pleasure to meet one of Connie’s friends. She’s always writing about you in her letters. Let’s be friends too, you must call me Temperance.” Her red lips stretched into a smile that appeared friendly, but her teeth reminded you a of a predator.

How Lionheart had survived a childhood with this woman was beyond you.

The sound of the front door closing firmly had Mrs. Hart smoothing her hands down the front of her dress nervously before she moved to the sideboard, fetching a cut crystal glass to fill with amber liquid from a decanter at the ready.

“That’ll be father.” Lionheart whispered as you hesitantly sank back down. “In a mood sounds like.”

Betsy’s return with two glasses of lemonade was a welcome sight, the tart liquid giving you some courage before the patriarch of the Hart family strode into the room. He wore a severe but exquisitely cut black suit and crisp white shirt, his dark hair graying at the temples, brown eyes scanning over the pair of you quietly before coming to rest on the pilot’s wings on Lionheart’s chest.

“I’ll admit I found the entire proposition preposterous at the outset…” He sighed, barely acknowledging Mrs. Hart as she set the glass in his hand. He took a deep sip before continuing. “But there you are, Lieutenant Constance Hart, Pilot of your own B-17 crew.”

A barely audible exhale shuddered from your friend’s body as she nodded once in confirmation of the fact.

“Cook made roast beef for you, and apple pie…” He sharply raised a finger as her jaw dropped in shock, the beginnings of the word ‘how’ forming in her throat. “It’s best left unsaid how I’ve accomplished your favourite meal, Constance, let’s just enjoy your achievements.”

“Yes, father.” She replied quietly, gulping down nearly half of her lemonade as he announced he was going to change for dinner.

“Well!” Mrs. Hart gloated as she perched onto the settee perpendicular to the couch. “That went better than expected, wouldn’t you say.” She tittered, before suddenly clasping her hands together. “Oh! Before I forget, I got you girls some Christmas gifts.” Springing from her chair, she hurried over to the tree to fetch two parcels.

Setting the smaller one in your lap, you found yourself looking to her startled. “Mrs. Hart, I apologize I didn’t come prepared, I…”

“Now none of that, it’s just a small token of the season, go on.” She nodded and sat down on her perch once more, eagerly watching you unwrap it.

Lifting the lid on the box you unveiled, you found yourself gasping for the second time that evening to find the distinct blue teardrop bottle of Evening in Paris perfume. While you had owned a few dime store versions of the scent, the genuine article had always remained out of your price bracket.

“Mrs. Hart–”

“Temperance!” She laughed in playful admonishment. “Oh I’m so glad you like it! You and Connie may be out there taking on the world but it’s important to never forget that you are women first.”

“I am unspeakably grateful, thank you so much.” You nodded firmly, cradling it to your chest.

“Now you, Connie, go on!” Mrs. Hart nodded eagerly, watching her daughter unwrap a velvet hinged box that opened to reveal a diamond fringe necklace and matching pair of earrings. “Those will look divine with that blue satin dress of yours, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely, mother.” Lionheart put on a bright smile and nodded firmly, though you did not doubt for a moment that she was also questioning the practicality of such a gift during a war.

Mr. Hart returned in a more casual suit just as Betsy stepped in to announce dinner was served. The food was immaculate, most certainly the best you had tasted in your entire life, and went a long way to making Mrs. Hart’s litany of society gossip more tolerable.

“Oh and you remember Victoria? James and Edna’s girl? Married one of those Mormon boys before he shipped out, though that’s hardly avoidable in this town. I would not be surprised if there’s a baby on the way in that household too!”

Mr. Hart seemed perfectly practiced at tuning out that which did not interest him, occasionally engaging Lionheart or yourself with questions about training or life on base, but as soon as dessert was cleared away, both of her parents drifted off to their respective lives – Mr. Hart to his study, Mrs. Hart to get ready for bridge night.

“Let me show you my room and then we’ll get out of here.” Lionheart muttered, grabbing her newly gifted jewellery.

You followed her up the grand staircase to the second floor, cradling your precious perfume, into to her perfectly preserved bedroom. The bed was neatly made, photos of her with a variety of planes tucked into the edge of the mirror. She walked over to the polished oak dresser to pull open the top drawer, sliding the velvet case in alongside numerous others of a similar nature.

“I was someone else when I left this room. I’m going to be entirely different again when I come back next time.” She sighed as she slid the heavy wooden drawer shut.

“It’ll be waiting here for you, all the same. No matter who you are.” You offered quietly and she sat heavily on the frilly duvet.

“And if I don’t come back to it?”

Frowning, you stepped closer to grab her hand. “Won’t do you any good to think like that, Lionheart. Your room, your family, your whole life will be waiting here for you. You just have to focus on doing your job and coming back to it. Don’t let the doubts in.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet yours before she clasped your hand with both of hers and squeezed tightly. “Don’t let ‘em in.” With a firm nod and one more squeeze, she rose to her feet. “Now let’s get the heck outta here before my mother finds someone to marry us off to.”

The return of her mischievous grin brought relief as it broke the ominous gloom of the previous moment and the pair of you dashed down the stairs and out into the night to enjoy your last twenty-four hours of freedom.

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

Read Part Three

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel, @beingalive1, @phyllisthefirst, @bcon24, @louzello

[queridopascal]

Will you maybe elaborate on Javier Peña singing along to Kool and the gang? 🙏🏼

Continuation to this post 💜

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warning: just pure fluff and domesticity

(The gif is just for reference)

Would you ever get used to coming home to Javier Peña cooking shirtless while he sings along to funky music?

No, you would never.

You lean against the doorframe of the kitchen and admire him. He looks relaxed, stirring whatever he’s got in that pan, probably some sautéed mixed vegetables judging by the delicious smell that lingers in the room.

Oh, yes, it's Ladies' Night

And the feeling's right

Oh, yes, it's Ladies' Night

Oh, what a night (oh, what a night)

He sings it all, back singers and trumpets included. You suppress a giggle and shake your head, moving your gaze lower until it settles on his ass. The tight jeans he’s wearing hug it perfectly, and the dark color of the denim enhances the golden skin of his back, creating a perfect contrast. The view makes your mouth water.

He sways his hips to the rhythm, left and right, adjusting the kitchen towel he has over his left shoulder since it was threatening to slide down and fall on the floor.

Tapping your feet along to the music, you let him have his private concert for a few seconds, then Javier turns around - to take a plate you suppose - and the moment your eyes meet, the widest of smiles spreads across his face.

“You like the show, baby?” he asks as he strides towards you. How he is not getting flushed for having been caught in the act of singing and dancing really baffles you; if you were in his shoes, you would have probably become embarrassed in a matter of instants.

You nod, letting him wrap his left arm around you to pull you in for a quick kiss.

“Chili flakes?” you ask as you pull away, tasting the spice from his lips.

“Yeah,” he grins before chasing your mouth to kiss you again, “those veggies needed some flavor.”

“You seem... really happy, Javi.”

“I am.” he murmurs as he removes the kitchen towel from his shoulder and loops it around your back, tugging at the ends to pull you closer once again. “And I love this song, it always puts me in a good mood.”

“I can see.” you nod as you caress the nape of his neck, playing with the short hair there.

“Wait,” he shushes you, making you listen carefully, “here comes the best part.”

This is your night tonight

Everything's gonna be alright

This is your night tonight

Everything's gonna be alright

His grip on the kitchen towel loosens, and you feel the fabric slide past your back and your legs and hit the floor as his hands come to rest on your hips, making you sway with him. You clap your hands in time with the song as you both sing along, and Javier is all smiles, to the point that his dimple makes an appearance.

He laughs and giggles, his eyes crinkle with happiness while he dances with you, hips and feet moving together and never missing a beat.

When the song comes to an end, he simply looks into your eyes and lets out a contented sigh. Javier loves all these moments of domesticity, he had never danced in the kitchen with someone before, but with you, everything comes so naturally.

“Dinner’s ready.” he tells you as he hugs you tighter, resting both hands on the globes of your ass and giving them a playful squeeze.

You raise on your tiptoes and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

***

tagging some blogs that I think may like this: @toomanystoriessolittletime @boliv-jenta @theorganasolo @lovesbiggerthanpride @kteague @beskarboobs @castleamc 💜

[mysticaldeanvoidhorse]

Forged in Love

Hephaestus x Aphrodite!reader

Page break credits @firefly-graphics

Master list

Part 3

taglist: @streets-in-paradise @floraroselaughter

taglist open :)

     There you are!  Athena greeted you as you walked up to her.  “Artemis and I were just discussing her latest hun.t”

“Hello Aphrodite”  She greeted you kindly.  You knew she was Zeus’ favorite and for good reason. She was kind and uncomplicated.  All she wanted was to hunt with her ladies, and who could blame her?  She was free from the politics that threatened to drown you on Olympus.  If you were being honest, you envied her freedom.

“Hello Artemis, how was your hunt?”  You asked.

“Very interesting, I- oh I see father signaling me I cannot keep him waiting much longer he has been anxious to talk, excuse me.”  You smiled at each other and as she walked away,

“Athena you will never believe what happened.”  She looked unsurprised.

“Did another god try to get under your dress again?”  She took a sip from her glass smirking.

“Ugh thankfully not yet but Hera talked to me” That got her attention and you proceeded to tell her about it all.

“Are you serious?  That is surprising.  She tolerates me at best, we just avoid each other.”  Athena said.  “But maybe she means it, after all, you are alike”  You proceeded to talk about it until the trumpets finally sounded signaling the beginning of the evening.

“Here we go, Zeus will have a speech let’s go.”  Athena grabbed your hand and led you into the main area where all the gods were gathering.

     Once gathered in the main area, you and Athena settled into what would be an interesting speech.

“Welcome, gods, goddesses, and anyone in between”  A few nymphs were around, but most were glorified help, as some went around filling drinks with more ambrosia.

“As we all are well aware, this is a special night to honor the fall harvest, which is the handiwork of Demeter.  We have no need of this, but the mortals do and when it is plentiful, we all are honored”  How like Zeus, to try to insult while praising, as he cannot stand not being the center of attention even for a moment.  You and Athena made quick side eyes at each other as many others did as well.  You couldn’t see Demeter but only assumed she was tight lipped.  She always seemed to be put out about something, but you never saw her in a setting where Zeus wasn’t around so maybe that had something to do with it.

“Now, as talented as Demeter is, she had some help”  The crowd murmured a bit knowing what he was alluding to.  “Please come up here Demeter”  She walked up the steps to him with the poise she always possessed but you could tell from her stiff body language she did not want to be up there.

“Now sister, I know how hard you work and no one wants to diminish that”  You fought hard to stay expressionless knowing that it was very important to do so, but knowing he probably had no idea how much work her job was.  “But before we toast her good fortune, we must acknowledge another pivotal person to this good fortune.  Persephone, please join us”  Everyone strained their heads to get a better look at the new goddess walking up the stage.  More than likely only Hermes had seen her before because he delivers messages to Demeter’s realm.  Some even went as far as growing a bit to see over heads.  You tried to look as well, but it was useless so you watched the crowd and noticed a strange look on the god of the underworld’s face.  Was it fondness?  You hadn’t seen him look so kind towards someone before, he always seemed uncomfortable to be in the public eye.  Zeus resuming his speech made you focus again.

“Persephone, you grow more beautiful every day”  He smiled, putting his hand on her back.  She smiled in return but you could tell she wasn’t overly excited to be up there.  But who could blame her?  She must know she was just a pawn in the feud between the other two on the stairs.  But she held herself well and you respected her for it.

“Thank you for your contribution to your mother’s work.  Now everyone, raise a glass for the two goddesses we honor tonight”  Everyone did so.

“To Demeter and Persephone, the goddesses who make the mortal world continue”  He raised his glass.

“To Demeter and Persephone”  Everyone responded.  

“Now before I let you enjoy your evening,” Zeus continued after everyone took a sip from their nectar, “I have something to honor you with.  Hephaestus, if you please.”

Now this grabbed your attention.  Hephaestus was a god who never came to any events which added to his allusion.  You heard the rumors of him, son of Hera who was completely mutilated and deformed, ugly, doing everyone a favor staying out of sight etc.  You knew rumors were based on some truth but knew there had to be more to it.  So like the other drama consumers, you strained to catch a glimpse.  The little that you saw was a solidly built man, who hid under a long cloak, and longer black hair that fell around his face, hiding it.  He walked up the steps, and pulled out a long wrapped object from his cloak.  He bowed to Zeus, nodded to the goddesses and walked back down.  In doing so, you caught a glimpse of his face.  Strong, chiseled jaw, hardened expression and the most beautiful brown eyes you had ever seen.  And you would know beauty.  You swore you made eye contact and your breath hitched.  That was weird, the last time that had happened was eons ago when you were a young goddess and had just met and been flirted with by Ares; when you didn’t know he had one line he still uses to this day.

“Thank you”  Zeus acknowledged the retreating figure.  “If you will,”  He handed the wrapped object to Demeter who began to unwrap it.  The crowd oohed and ahhed when they saw a beautifully ornate cornucopia, made out of a metal you couldn’t identify.  You noticed that when she touched it a certain way, it would fill with wheat and empty again.  Only one god could have made such a beautiful gift.

“You must thank Hephaestus for the beautiful gift Zeus”  She said in a way that somehow still gave Zeus the honor he was due, but without actually honoring him.  If anyone was paying attention they would be able to tell that was her intention and Zeus didn’t seem unhappy about it.

“Of course.  Everyone, enjoy the rest of the party!” And with that, everyone was dismissed.