#will turner x oc

[imagines--galore]

Since you're asking for prompts,I was envisioning Will confessing to the reader in the same way George confessed to Charlotte in Queen Charlotte (the "my heart calls your name" confession) and thought it would suit Will really well!! Like maybe reader puts herself in danger by trying to save Will or something idk

Pairing: Will Turner x Reader Rating || Genres || Warnings: T. Romance. None. A/N: I just ADORE Will Turner so much :3 and I love Charlotte the series as well so this was the PERFECT blend! Sorry for any mistakes folks! Also If you read this please please tell me what you think!!!

Your head was pounding. And not from drinking too much ale. You were sure of it.

Blinking your eyes, you were met with an unfamiliar ceiling. Normally you would wake in a hammock onboard the Black Pearl, with the gentle sway of the ship welcoming you to another day.

But everything was steady and there was no creaking or moaning of the ship as it sailed.

Your eyes blinked once more, to clear them from any remaining sleep. Slowly your brain began to recall the last thing you remembered.

Davy Jone's crew.

A fight on an island.

Fleeing to the Black Pearl.

The Kraken attacking the ship.

The entire crew fighting valiantly to save themselves and their ship.

Huge tentacles rising from the mysterious depths of the waters you had traveled for so long.

Ready to kill.

To drag someone to a watery grave.

To drag Will to his doom.

Will!

You sat up with a loud gasp, eyes frantically darting from one end of the unfamiliar room to the other before finally landing on a familiar figure that had only just stepped into the room.

Will Turner stood at the threshold, holding a bowl of what could only be food. The scent of it wafted through the air and your stomach grumbled in protest at being denied nourishment.

Yet you could not move. Could only stare at the man as he stood before you.

"I see I managed to save you then." You finally said, feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze. He was looking at you as if you were the very moon that hung in the sky. Which was utterly ridiculous because that was how he saw Elizabeth.

"And that we managed to escape in one piece." You raised a hand to your head, only to be greeted by a bandage wrapped around the entirety of it. A slight twinge of pain against your left temple made you aware of where exactly your injury was. "So, what did I miss? After I passed out?"

Whatever emotional turmoil Will had been battling he pushed it aside in favor of walking forward and handing the bowl to you. As you began to spoon the watery broth to your mouth, he pulled up a chair to sit beside your bed.

"After you passed out, we all piled into the lifeboats. I managed to haul you in as well." He paused almost looking at you expectantly. You raised an eyebrow at him. "And you expect me to thank you for saving me?" You asked in a dry tone, to which he rolled his eyes before continuing.

"Elizabeth was the last of us to get on. But Jack.........Jack stayed. To act as diversion for the kraken."

Your eyes widened and you dropped your spoon into your nearly empty bowl. "He...what?" You whispered, sounding just as in disbelief as you felt. Sorrow passed over Will's feature as he nodded gravely. "Jack's dead, Y/n." He confirmed, to which you took a shuddering breath and closed your eyes, before slowly falling back against the wall behind you.

The both of you sat in silence, with Will reaching out to gently and almost hesitantly placing a hand on top of yours as a sign of comfort. "I'm sorry, y/n. I knew you were close." Tears pricked your eyes but you didn't let them fall. Though you did give a small nod. "As close as a person can be with someone who took them under their protection."

That had been the extent of your relationship with Jack. Your families were old friends, and even related by blood somewhere down the line. And when you had decided to travel the seas as a pirate, Jack had been the one who agreed to let you sail with him. Not many pirates were happy having a female presence onboard, but you had proved yourself enough times that it no longer bothered them.

You had been with Jack through thick and thin. Through fire and water. You had been the only one on his side, along with Gibbs, when Barbossa had mutinied against him.

If it weren't for Jack, you wouldn't have realized your dream of becoming a pirate. And if it hadn't been for Jack, you would never have met Will Turner.

When you had first met Will, him and Jack had just arrived at Tortuga to look for a ship to go after Will's beloved Elizabeth. You had been slightly mistrustful towards him at first, and also a little jealous since Jack seemed to be spending all his time with him. But given how easily Will had befriended the rest of the crew, despite his own mistrust of pirates, you had taken to forming an unlikely acquaintanceship.

You were the best swords woman of your age, and it showed when you would take to the deck and practice every single day.

                                          ————————–

Then one day, your sword clashed with Will's.

Your eyes met over the joined blades, gauging the silent question in his. A smirk was your response before you stepped to the side and raised your sword in response.

And so a battle of wits and skill began.

Your swords clashed, your feet danced, your gazes never wavered and neither did your determination.

The entire deck was your practice ground, and the rest of the crew had gotten well out of the way when they had seen the both of you begin to duel. The both of you used every prop to gain the upper hand. But never once did either of you try a dirty trick. And while there had been a sense of pride behind each fell of your swords, slowly they began to grow playful. As did your words.

Back and forth, back and forth. With your swords and with your teasing insults and quips. Smiled full of passion and energy playing about your lips as you both danced to a tune only you could here.

It finally stopped when Jack called out to you. Neither of you yielded, or allowed the other to gain the upper hand. So, with sweat lining your brows and barely able to get a word out with how you both panted for breath, you were only able to smile at one another and say.

"To be continued good sir?" You had said in a slightly mocking yet playful tone to which he had grinned and given you a little bow before speaking.

"As the lady wishes."

But you never did pick back up on the match.

Instead the both of you would simply find each other and talk. He spoke of his life growing up as an orphan, with no money and no family. You had spoken of your own struggles, and slowly, without you realizing, in the weeks that it took you to finally catch up to the Black Pearl, you were made aware of your true feelings for Will.

You would watch him as he interacted with the rest of the crew, and on more then one occasion Jack had caught you simply smiling at him. He had tried to discourage you, telling you of who Will really loved and how nothing could be done about it.

Especially not when he was in love with Elizabeth.

You knew of the consequences, but you simply enjoyed his company too much to just stop spending time with him. And while you knew you were setting yourself up for a lot of heartache, it didn't stop you from forming a companionship with Will.

Although that too came to an abrupt and almost cruel end.

To cut a long story short, Elizabeth was rescued and Barbossa was defeated. Jack had his ship and his crew.

And Will returned home to marry Elizabeth.

Whatever friendship had been blossoming between the both of you had fizzled out the moment Elizabeth had been rescued. And though you knew you were setting yourself up for heartbreak, you did not comprehend just how much it would hurt. How his lack of presence would effect you. He hadn't even offered a proper goodbye when he had left. You had thought that perhaps as a friend he would do you the courtesy, but it was not so.

He never looked back at you.

Not once.

  ��                                       ————————–

And so you decided to put him out of your mind. But never your heart. You couldn't put him out of your heart and it only made you miss him more.

So when he returned, this time for the purpose of saving Elizabeth once more, you were cold towards him. Cold and distant, even when he had approached you to speak with you. Your heart had cursed you for not speaking with him, but you were still too hurt over his dismissal of you the last time that you had no desire to forgive him.

All that vanished though, when Davy Jones appeared and agreed to take Will aboard the Flying Dutchman. You knew it was Jack's doing, that he had a plan in place, but that didn't stop you from stepping forward and volunteering to go along with him.

Out of love? Out of desperation? Out of your compulsion to protect the people you cared about? You did not know.

Jack had tried to protest, but Davy Jones accepted.

And so you found yourself standing beside Will, watching as the Black Pearl sailed away, leaving you onboard a ship of dangerous pirates, and a man who did not know how much you loved him.

At every turn, you tried your best to help him. You had learned long ago when to keep your head down and simply follow orders. Will was not a pirate. He picked up every chance he could to fight back. And when he discovered his father was one of the crew members, you had comforted him. And when he had been punished for his mistake with lashings, you had been the one to tend to him, cleaning his wounds and wiping away the blood. You had held his hand as he twitched from the pain, had stroked his hair when he needed a comforting touch.

Your mind screamed at you, at how you were setting yourself for heartbreak once more. But your heart rejoiced. You knew he was doing whatever he was to help Elizabeth, to save her, but you couldn't help it. All those feelings you had buried came rushing back to the top.

Your escape from the Flying Dutchman as well as the Kraken was pure luck. However, by your second encounter with the Kraken, when it came after Jack, your luck had run out.

You had been trying your best to avoid the lashing tentacles, as they grabbed man after man and threw them into the sea. You had successfully avoided capture, but only barely. Your eyes had frantically searched the deck, looking for a way to avoid yet another tentacle when you had spotted Will.

With a tentacle gliding his way to swipe him off his feet and into the water below.

You had screamed his name, had felt yourself leap into action. You ran, throwing yourself forward to push him out of the way. And you succeeded. Only for the tentacle, meant for Will, to hit your body with a force that had your teeth rattling and for you to go flying.

A flash of pain was all you felt at the side of your head. A voice calling out your name in utter alarm and despair was all you remembered.

And then darkness.

                                          ————————–

Presently, you blinked away your tears as you set aside the bowl and looked around. It was the first time that you noticed you were in some sort of bed built into the wooden walls. The air smelled heavy and musty. Familiar even.

"Are we at Tia Delma's hideout?" You asked, to which you received a nod in response. "How many of us survived?" Will pursed his lips at her question, and you knew the answer could not be good. "Only a few. Gibbs made it. As did the both of us. And Elizabeth." Of course she did, you thought to yourself.

Wanting to change the subject you raised a hand to your head to press your fingers tenderly against your covered temple. "How long have I been asleep?" The thinning of Will's lips told you just how displeased he was with the answer he gave. "Three days. You were barely alive when we reached Tia Delma. She took one look at you and took you to this room. Working on you for hours before finally letting me in to see you." He admitted, sounding almost angry at the woman.

"Remind me to thank her later." You said with a small smile, as you leaned your head back against the wall and sighed. Your hand came up to fiddle with the skull and cross gold necklace that rested at your throat. "I can't believe he's gone." You whispered, feeling the loss of your friend deeply.

"Elizabeth is in pieces because of it."

You blinked. "Why would she be in pieces over Jack's death?" You asked. You had suspicions that the girl never really liked Jack. There was always some sort tension between the both of them.

"Because she loved him."

Will's words had you blinking in utter surprise.

"What?"

He frowned at the confusion on your face. "I thought you knew?" You rolled your eyes. "Oh yes Will, Elizabeth and I sit together for tea and gossip about our love lives." The statement did make him crack a little smile before he continued.

"Well now you know. Elizabeth loved Jack."

"But I thought you loved her. Weren't you going to marry her?" You asked, allowing your curiosity to show. With all that had happened, neither of you had been able to properly sit and speak. Not when your lives had been in constant danger by either cannibals, or mad pirates or mythical creatures or the Company.

So many people were out to kill all of you.

"I was. I thought I loved her. But I realized, when we got back home, that it was nothing but infatuation. She was the one who rescued me when I was found adrift. And we grew up together. So, I allowed my boyhood feelings to grow into something that was never meant to be." He paused for a moment. "Those feelings are all gone now. And I was glad she found someone to love. For a little while." He added sadly, glancing in the direction the door where Elizabeth was probably sitting beyond. You did too, almost expecting Jack to come swaggering in with his usual land-legs and a bottle of ale in his hand.

"I never expected Jack of all people to die. He seemed almost immortal." You admitted.

"Well he proved he was a mortal man and met his doom. And you would've followed him too, if Tia Delma hadn't been here." You glanced at him curiously, not understanding the tone of his voice. He was glaring at you, his eyes almost stormy. "How could you be so reckless? What you did was extremely dangerous, even for you Y/n."

"You mean saving your life?" A frown creased your brow. "I did what I did to save you Will. And if that is a crime then take me to the brig." You snapped with a roll of your eyes. "And aren't people usually grateful to those who save them?"

He glared at you. "Not at the expense of their own life. The Company is taking over the seas, we need every good pirate we can get."

Anger coursed through your veins. "Oh so thats why you were worried about me? Because you didn't want to loose a good pirate. Its all about strategy with you isn't it?" All your past hurt and heartache was beginning to simmer under the surface, and if you weren't careful you would probably say something you would regret. But you didn't care.

His nostrils flared. "How could you think its simply because of that? Do you truly believe I am that shallow?" He spoke angrily to which you gave a mocking nod. "Of course I do. I mean why else would you ignore me once you gained my friendship?"

"I never-"

But you cut him off. "I thought we were friends Will. But the moment you rescued Elizabeth you ignored me as if you never knew me. As if we didn't spend weeks in each other's company. And then you came back, and I was there with you on the Dutchman, but as soon as you saw Elizabeth, once more you pushed me aside. I am not something you can use whenever you desire before putting it aside to gather dust. And even when I save your life, when I rescue you, you say such things to me?" Your voice had slowly started to rise in octave with each passing word. It was a good thing no one was within earshot to hear you.

Will looked angry with every word that came out of your mouth. "You put yourself in grave danger, Y/n. You always have no regard for your own life or your own safety and it worries me."

"And why should that bother you? Or even worry you for that matter. What am I to you?"

"I only wish to help you Y/n. To protect you-" He reached out with his hand almost as if he were about to touch you but stopped.

You turned your head away. "I did not ask for your protection Will, I do not need it. Why would you wish to protect me?"

"Because-" But you didn't allow him to finish.

"Is it because you think of me as some damsel in distress?" He shook his head.

"No Y/n-" Once again he was interrupted from saying his piece.

"Or you do not believe me to be capable of doing anything."

His voice was almost pleading, imploring you to listen to him. "Y/n-"

But you barely heard him, allowing your hurt and pain to blind you as you spoke. "Why? Why do you wish to protect me so?"

"Because I love you!"

His deceleration came out in a shout. One that echoed in your ears and had your mouth parting in utter surprise, while you stared at him in utter disbelief.

For his part, Will had stood from his chair, hands buried in his hair as he began to pace the length of the small room, still speaking in an almost frenzied and desperate manner.

"From the mo-" His voice broke as he met your gaze. "From the moment I saw you." Suddenly he was sitting in front of you on the bed, clutching at your hand in an almost desperate manner as he continued. "I have loved you from the very second I saw you." His words washed over you like a warm ocean breeze.

"I love you desperately Y/n." His voice was trembling, every word sounding almost broken as he spoke. "My heart calls your name. And I cannot loose you. I cannot." With each word his hands raised to cup your face, only to bring you forward and press your lips to his in a desperate kiss.

And you returned it.

You felt your heart heal and break at the same time as he brushed a hand against your bandages. Pulling back from the kiss, he rested his forehead against your own. "I cannot do this without you, Y/n." He admitted to which you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and embraced him with all your strength, hoping to pour all of your love for him in that one simple gesture. "I suppose it is a good thing I love you as well then." You whispered against his neck, to which he let out a small slightly tearful laugh. "I am aware of that. Given how you whispered it to me when you were slipping in and out of consciousness."

You pulled back, staring at wide eyed at his grinning face. "What?!"

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He gently brushed his knuckles against your cheek, a gesture that made you blush. Your hand lifted to trace along the side of his face, enjoying how he closed his eyes, as if to savour your touch.

“I will never leave you Will. Just as long as you promise to never leave me.” You said, still stroking his face.

He nodded in response. “I promise.” His hand found the back of your head, urging you forward to close the remaining distance between the both of you.

This time the kiss lasted longer then just a few seconds.

#will turner x reader #will turner x oc #will turner x y/n #pirates of the carribean: dead men tell no tales #pirates of the carribean at worlds end #pirates of the carribean x reader #pirates of the caribbean #jack sparrow #will turner #legolas x reader #orlando bloom x reader #legolas x y/n

[arrthurpendragon]

⌨️ + at wits end

“You should always carry a fan with you.” Elizabeth’s tone was far too motherly for Georgianna’s liking. Elizabeth was her sister, not her mother.  Although, she had taken on the role of both since their mother’s passing.

Georgianna groaned. “But why?”

“Because it’s what proper ladies do.”

“But I don’t want to be a proper lady.”

“Neither do I,” Elizabeth hissed back, allowing her facade to drop for a moment before straightening her posture. “But we don’t have a choice. That’s what we were born to be. That’s what we have to be.”

Georgianna rolled her eyes as she still fanned her face. “But why does a proper lady need a fan? They’re too cumbersome to carry around all the time.” Her last sentence was spoken with much expression and made Elizabeth roll her eyes at her younger sister.

“Because you might happen to need it when you least expect it,” Elizabeth said rather pointedly, eyeing the fan Georgianna was currently flapping. See? her expression read.

For a moment, Georgianna narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You know, I may have found a use for them after all.” Georgianna closed the fan and smacked her sister with it.  Elizabeth hit her sister with her hand and Georgianna hit Elizabeth with the fan again.

“Girls!” Weatherby Swann called from behind them.

Send me ⌨ + title to one of my fics and I’ll write sentence for that fic! (This is probably the only way I'll get any writing done right now)

#send me an ask and i'll write a sentence game #oc: georgianna swann #fic: at wit's end #fd: pirates of the caribbean #will turner x oc

[gracehateseggnog]

not a lot, just forever ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ will turner x oc

summary: minerva battles with will's leaving and the loss of their baby.

pairing: will turner x fem!oc

word count: 2.8k

a/n: this is a devastating character analysis of my oc, minerva. please read at your own discretion!

tw: graphic depictions of miscarriage.

gif creds: unknown

Three months had come and gone with fleeting visits from The Black Pearl, and more importantly, Will Turner. Once in a while they would return after a voyage or treasure with bullet holes and burn marks on their sails, thanking their stars that the mists opened for them and seemingly only them, but no matter how odd the whole island seemed, the crew was thankful for the relationship harboured between themselves and the island’s keeper. Cantre'r Gwaelo became a sort of safe haven for them on the occasions that they were too far from Tortuga to take refuge, but the people offered them happiness, liberty, and most importantly, food and medicine. It was very clearly much more to that to Will. He got to see Minerva who treated every outing together as if it was their last. She cared for him as much as he cared for her, it was a battle of minds and hearts to see who would outwit the other, but it always ended out in a tie.

Minerva lay in her bed, counting every tick of the grandfather clock at the far end of her grand bedroom, begging for the time to pass slower or faster; she didn’t know what her mind wanted. Intense spasms in her stomach crushed her into a fetal position, wrapped in her nightgown and the sheets that were now stained with deep, crimson blood. Old tears had dried onto her cheeks and pillow, her black hair a mess atop her head as she curled ever further into herself and into her bed. No amount of handmaidens could wipe the pain that rippled through her head with every pain that struck her abdomen, not a single wet cloth could rid her of her own conscience keeping her awake through the night, but also begging to allow her to sleep. Her eyes were glassy, she didn’t want to cry anymore. Everything in her felt ripped apart, but she had already come to terms with what had happened.

She had done this dance over and over throughout her life, she knew what losing the unborn child inside her felt like, how much she bled until the mattress beneath her was red, the intense cramps pulsating through her stomach, and worse of all, the darkened feeling that it was her fault. Minerva knew it wasn’t because of anything she had done, the fertility gemstones hanging around her neck, the herbs she drank until she threw up, the ointments she bathed in, she had done everything she knew. Sovereign Conwinna had been trained from birth in the churches and amongst the castle maidens and knights in anticipation of the very situation Minerva found herself in, her family would no longer exist past her. The founders and rulers of her island would never be of her hair or her face ever again. Cousins were uncommon in her lineage and she was the last to have inheritance to rule. She would never hold a daughter or son of her own in her arms.

In her sixth and tenth year, Minerva lost her maidenhood to another nobleman after three years of being the Lady of Cantre'r Gwaelo. There was no pressure to conceive a child from her people or her family, but she couldn’t help but pray that it would come easily to her, that a child would be born sooner than later so her reign could end when she wished and under her own volition. She wept with excitement and gathered her handmaidens to celebrate when her monthly bleeding didn’t come the following month, and a nursery was built when her stomach became swollen. A Sovereign wouldn’t be needed to train, and the church could stay still and quiet until the time came for her child to begin praying and preparing to become Minerva’s successor. Excitement bubbled in her chest at every thought of the process, and she thought about how big the child would be, if it would be a Lady or a Lord, or how her handmaidens would likely need to take a role much closer to her as the end stages of her pregnancy.

The first time, she believed it was because of the excitement. Her stomach had barely begun to increase in size when she awoke in the night to violent pains in her stomach and blood soaked deep into her nightgown. Her shaking, terrified form cried out to her handmaidens, for the first time uncaring how bare her body was in front of her waiting ladies and begging for help. Her mother dead, her closest handmaiden explained what had happened as she helped bathe her reeling body, pains still racking through where her unborn child had once been. She reassured Minerva that it was anything but her fault, and that she herself had miscarried a few times before baring her two beloved children. Minerva fell asleep in the tub shortly after, exhausted from the toll the loss took on her body, and she let her handmaidens carry her back to bed, her bedsheets clean of blood but her heart and mind unchanged; it was a loss she had felt so incredibly deep.

Ten more times had followed in the years until she turned twenty, before she had met Will. Sex was viewed so incredibly differently on the island than the passing, fleeting rumours she had heard about it on the mainland. It wasn’t viewed as an act of passion, but one of convenience and parenthood. It was meant to bare children, and it wasn’t taboo. Her handmaidens gave her the herbs from every plant that had been believed to boost fertility; chasteberry, black cohosh, red clover, and mac, they had dressed her in necklaces and earrings with gems of moonstone and rose quartz, and she had prayed from the moment she woke to the moment her eyes fluttered shut in the night. Minerva had a bell put in to the side of her bed, attached to the stone wall that she would ring when the pains awoke her to blood in the night, and she could request their help without facing the blood running down her thighs as she walked, pain-stricken down the halls of her own castle.

Minerva longed to hold her own baby in her arms, she felt as if she would be a good mother if she had the chance to try. She looked at the empty nursery often, at the paintings she had hung up of her family members so she could teach her child about the past of her history, at the crib made from the very wood of the trees that grew in the castle’s courtyard, and at the window that looked out onto the plains and mists of the island, she wondered if her baby would appreciate the gaze of the best view the castle had to offer. She once vainly cared about the shape of her body, the way her breasts would change after feeding for months. But even when she had missed that very first bleeding when she was six and ten, she forgot why she even worried about it in the first place, all she wanted to do was forget her duties and stay with her child forever. She didn’t care what the toll would be on her body, her mind, her title, or her reputation amongst her people, she just wanted to be a mother.

Her prayers never stopped when she met Will, but nor were they answered. Fate was a fickle thing that little believed in, but she had tried everything else already, and if there was even the slightest chance that Minerva would succeed in baring a child with Will, she would take it without question. The first night they laid together she bore herself of her regular regiments and casted her fertility jewelry aside. She didn’t gather her hopes high even though she so terribly wanted to, and they laid together many times before he left that very first and fateful time. They had found the fated treasure and he had returned for a few nights before leaving for certain, only to come back in rare passing. Three months passed and led Minerva to this moment, lying in a painful vat of her own blood in her beautiful bed, eyes glued to her shaking hands and trying to muster up the courage to ring the bell at her bedside table for the eleventh time in her rule. Will had given her a baby and she hadn’t known until it was ripped from her. 

“My Lady?” A wandering voice caught Minerva’s ears and echoed through her room.

She tried not to cry through her words, a sob cough in the middle of her throat as she replied, “Yes, Sovereign Conwinna? What must you need at this hour?”

“I—I do not want to overstep.”

“Just speak, child.”

“I heard you crying, but you did not call for your handmaidens.”

“I could not reach my bell.”

“Should I light one of the wall lanterns?”

“No!” Minerva cried harshly, a choked sob barely slipping from her lips. She didn’t need her trainee to see her in such a state. “Please gather my handmaidens.”

“But—”

“Now!”

“Yes, my Lady.” 

Minerva didn’t look up from her bed, but heard the rushed and hurried footsteps of Conwinna as she disappeared from the Lady’s bedroom, the doors creaking under her rush but not shutting behind her form completely. She didn’t dare let a single tear leave her eye, as she was sure her handmaidens would alight the room with their matches and see the shine of her face, her swollen eyes, and the reddened bedding beneath her and put the clues together pretty quickly that she had lost another child that was meant to be her own, but became the Goddess’ like the many others had. Her hands gripped tightly on her blanket as a brush of cold air consumed her body, spattering her skin with goosebumps and making her body convulse. What had happened to her? Did she truly wish to hold a babe in her arms so badly that she would reduce herself to such a powerless form? Two hours ago she had been practicing archery with the soldiers that worked at the ship port, now she could barely walk.

The doors swung open once again, and more footsteps made themselves clear. Minerva shielded her eyes from the sudden intrusion of light from a handheld lantern, her body alight and the events unfolding. “Thank you, Sovereign Conwinna, you may take your leave.” The voice of Minerva’s most trusted handmaiden, Laudine, called out.

Conwinna protested, surely seeing the violent sight that surrounded Minerva. “But—”

“You may take your leave!” Laudine stated firmly, raising her voice louder than Minerva had ever heard it reach, and it did the job it was intended to do, as scurried footsteps exited the room as fast as they had come the first time. “Oh, my sweet.” Laudine was the only handmaiden who didn’t call Minerva by her title. She was her most trusted confidant, she held herself as if she was the wisest woman who lived on the island, and to Minerva, she was. She was the very handmaiden that gave Minerva the fertility necklace she wore.

“I can’t—”

Laudine shook her head, stepping to the head of Minerva’s bed and laying down her lantern on her table. “It has gotten worse over time, dear. Do you believe you can walk?”

Tentatively, Minerva nodded. “It hurts.”

“I know, dear, I know.”

One of Minerva’s other handmaidens, Igenes, helped Laudine at her command by rolling Minerva over onto her back, sending another jolt of pain through her stomach and making her shake. Laudine shushed her comfortingly, grabbing onto the junction of her arm and her torso firmly and slowly pulling her up from the bed, releasing a cry from Minerva’s lips as her body wept. She tried to pry her eyes from her blood-soaked thighs, now illuminated by the faint light of Laudine’s lantern on the bedside table, and she also begged for her mind to stop thinking about the unborn child, the daughter or son that could have spent its days wandering around the island with hair as silken as hers and eyes as brown as Will’s. Her legs trembled as her feet hit the warmth of her carpet, her body being held up by both Laudine and Igenes, the latter of which held the lamp in one hand and her shoulder in the other. She didn’t care how powerless she felt in such a vulnerable position, she could only think about the child she had lost before she even knew.

“A bath has been drawn by Adendole, and Igenes will send for the cleaning and replacement of your bedding when you are situated.” Laudine explained, leading Minerva out of her bedroom and towards the bathroom. “Do you wish for me to call upon Sovereign Conwinna to assume your role tomorrow?”

“No,” Minerva shook her head, which seemed to be the only movement she could muster her body to make. “I may not be fit to ride a horse tomorrow, but I can still sit on my throne.”

“As you wish.” Laudine nodded, but Minerva could hear the hint of uncertainty in her handmaiden’s voice.

The bathroom was thick with steam from the hot bath that had been drawn, fogging up the windows and leaving a haze only comparable to the mists that surrounded the island across the room. Some form of eucalyptus scent had been placed into the water, filling the room with its scent and calming Minerva, though her heart was still racing against her chest like drums. Slowly, Laudine peeled Minerva’s blood-soaked nightgown from her body, pulling it over her head and from her shoulders before handing it to Igenes. She didn’t look down beneath the curve of her breasts, but she knew that the blood and sweat mixed against her skin was a sorry sight, and she felt pity on Igenes, who had not been in service of the castle long enough to see Minerva in that kind of state, like most of the other handmaidens had. She wondered if the young handmaiden had children of her own, or had dealt with infertility such as Minerva had. Her mind wandered, she wanted it to stay put.

“Can you step in yourself?” Laudine asked, gesturing to the tub in the centre of the room. 

“Yes.” Minerva swallowed, holding tightly onto Laudine as she took one step up, legs still shaking, and laid her right leg into the scalding hot water, sighing at the relief it gave her. 

“Ingenes, you may call for her bed to be stripped.” As Minerva submerged herself save for her head into the hot water, Laudine instructed Ingenes to leave the room, and she did. “Oh, my dear.” Laudine sat on her knees next to the tub, face-to-face with Minerva. “I am so sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Minerva sobbed, her voice as shaky as her legs. “Why can I not bear a child? I have prayed forever, it is the only thing I have ever wanted.” 

“Some women do not have the body to hold a child, my dear.” Slowly, Laudine reached out to Minerva’s head, stroking at a piece of her hair. “Something inside of them is uninhabitable, despite the prayers and the herbs.”

“I have not asked for anything else,” Minerva cried, tears flowing freely down her cheeks and mixing with the hot water and slight blood surrounding her. “I did not beg for power, I did not beg for acceptance, I just wanted to be a mother.”

“I know, darling.”

“It was supposed to be him. He was the only one I could see as a father. What am I if I can't even bear him a child?”

“He loves you for much more than that, just as your people do.”

“I just want to be a mother.”

Laudine nodded empathetically, and Minerva’s head collapsed into her neck, her body wracked with sobs and cries. She felt as if she was six and ten again, crying into Laudine’s arms in the bath for the first time. Her mind was so young back then, yet she had regressed to the same state nearly five years later after the eleventh time. It was such a raw and new feeling, to have fallen in love. Minerva, for the first time, could see herself alongside Will with their child; she wanted to know if he would be a son as handsome as his father or a daughter as wise as her mother. She could see him teaching them how to clash swords and her showing the ways of Cantre'r Gwaelian medicine. Minerva cried deeply again, the sound of Laudine shushing her reassuringly and the hand stroking the back of her head only spurring it on. She didn’t want to feel so strongly anymore, she wished to be able to move on as other women were able to, to find a new lover when theirs left or to simply live alone when their babies passed.

Despite losing so much, Minerva never changed the nursery. It would sit there, unused and gathering dust and cobwebs across the cribs and the toy chests, until the end of time.

#will turner #will turner fic #will turner x oc #potc #potc x oc #potc fic #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean fic #pirates of the caribbean x oc

[saturnville]

sweet goodbyes, major john egan

pairing: major john “bucky” egan (masters of the air) black fem oc (amelia egan)

content: john is being shipped to England to serve in the war; his departure comes with sweet goodbyes

an: callum turner is my new white boy of the month, yay!

“Close your eyes, darlin’. You can’t keep trying to fight sleep.” His voice warmed the deepest parts of her insides. Her stomach fluttered and she couldn’t fight to dopey smile that crept along her lips. She whined in objection, ignoring how her eyelids fluttered.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she murmured, words slurred and almost incoherent. Her hand ran down the lace neckline of her white nightgown; a gift from her mother-in-law from her wedding night. Her hand then traveled over to his dark hair, massaging his curls. “Want to stare at you alllll night.”

His soft chuckle forced her eyes open. He caressed her warm cheek “That’s nice, doll, but you should get your rest. I gotta be out early in the morning. Gotta have coffee together.” It was a ritual. Every morning, he’d wake her up at the break of dawn with a steaming cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. It was a simple gesture, but it was what she grew to love. Cuddled in the sheets, sipping from their mugs and feeding each other spoonfuls of hot oats. She’d have to get used to eating by herself.

She huffed in disdain. John chuckled and wrapped his strong arms around her body. He pressed a firm kiss against her cheek, then her nose, then her lips. She returned his advances immediately. Her hand gripped his neck as she pulled him closer. “Amelia…”

Amelia’s leg crept along his waist and she silently urged him to take the hint. He whispered a gentle, are you sure, against her lips, which she replied with her hips pressed against his.

John gripped the plushness of her thigh and pushed it back, slotting his body between her legs. Her breaths were heavy and quivered with desire. His large hands clenched the fabric of her nightgown, pushed it up her body, and tossed it across the room. “I love you, you know that?”

“Mhm.” Her mind couldn’t create a coherent sentence with him touching her so delicately. “I love you, too.”

The moon shone through the curtains. Amelia felt the weight of sleep finally pulling her down. Her husbands presence comforted her as his whispered declarations of love lingered in the air. Reluctantly, she stopped battling drowsiness and succumbed to its authority.

The warmth of his love wrapped around her like a blanket, and the anticipation of their morning ritual brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. She couldn’t help but savor the small moments she had left, knowing that tomorrow would be different.

Yet, within their tender embrace and exchange of affections, their love was a solidified anchor that promised a new daw filled with cups of coffee and the joy of each’ other’s company.

#saturnville #original writing #original content #black!reader #black reader #black fem oc #black woman writer #callum turner #masters of the air #callum turner x reader #callum turner x black reader #major john egan #bucky egan #bucky egan x reader #bucky egan x black reader #austin butler x reader #austin butler x black!reader

[nobitchs-world]

What people think I mean when I say I like white boys:

What I actually mean:

#adrian chase x female reader #adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase smut #slimecicle x reader #slimecicle #charlie slimecicle #jack mercer x reader #jack mercer #Kyle Gallner #hughie campbell x reader #hughie campbell #the boys hughie #callum turner #callum turner x reader #john egan #john egan x reader #dylan minnette x reader #dylan minnette #the wallows #ethan daley #Ethan Daley x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #x black fem reader #black yn #black reader #black tumblr #black oc #black fem reader

[mamasturn]

send you away, major gale cleven

pairing: major gale cleven (masters of the air) x black fem oc (eden marie cleven)

content: eden is anxious about having to be separated from her husband when he reveals that he has to serve in England.

an: I was burnt out from writing elvis content, but, now we're on masters of the air content, yay!

“I’m sorry, baby, but I gotta go.” His voice was a song sung by an old church choir; soothing, warm like her mama’s hugs, then it got disruptive. Like the snares of the drums as the song reached a climax. “They need us in England.” 

The pained look on her face would be engrained in his mind forever. There would be no way for him to forget it. Her thick eyebrows eat in a deep frown, pushing the rest of her features further down. Her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, glistened with tears. She refused to blink. The gentle rivers would transition to monstrous waterfalls with no dam to keep them at bay. And her lips, full and swollen from tender kisses, quivered as she clenched her jaw to keep her composure. 

“For how long?” Her voice was quiet. Gale sighed heavily and ran a heavy hand through his hair. If he had an answer, he’d give it to her. But, his silence spoke loud enough. She hummed and brushed his hand off her lap and began to trudge upstairs. A defeated sigh came from him. 

“E,” Gale called out. He followed her up the wooden steps. “Eden!” 

His large hand palmed their bedroom door that threatened to push him out. The lamp on her side of the bed was on, the blankets on the left side were pulled back, and she stood in front of the mounted mirror brushing her freshly pressed hair. Her sad expression had morphed into one like stone. He could see her jaw tick as each second passed. 

Gale took slow steps toward her. He could only imagine what she was thinking. Her husband, whom she’d only been married to for six months, was being shipped off to England to assist them in bringing down Germany. How coulde she not be upset? 

Gale stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. His advances didn’t keep her from wrapping her hair and tossing her satin scarf around her head. He leaned down, nose brushing against the shell of her ear. Eden’s breath hitched. His lips followed, pecking at the sensitive area below her ear. He pulled at her skin with his teeth and she whimpered softly, her hand falling on top of his. “Gale…” A warning. 

“Talk to me,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she said after some time. “I knew what I got into when I married you but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m scared, Gale!” Finally, she turned to meet his gaze. So big and blue, they were. Filled with sympathy and remorse. 

“I knew what I was getting into when I married you, but still! I gotta send my husband away and I don’t want to think about the day where someone could knock on the door telling me--”

Gale shushed her softly and pressed her body against his in a tight embrace. His warm hand gripped her chin and tapped softly. She met his eyes. “So let’s not think about that. I leave in three weeks. We’re gonna focus on making these three weeks worthwhile, and we’ll cross the other bridge when we get to it. But I’ll always be with you one way or another, you know that, darlin’. You do know that, don’t you?”

Eden nodded. Gale raised an eyebrow. “I know, baby.” 

Gale hummed and drew invisible lines along the bare skin other thigh. The lace of her slip tickled her leg. His hand inched up slowly. “How about we practice for that final send off?” 

Eden smiled knowingly and broke away from him, peeling the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders her bare body on display. “C’mon, we’ve got all night.” 

All night indeed.

#black authors #austin butler x reader #austin butler x black!reader #austin butler #writers and authors #black!reader #masters of the air #gale cleven #john egan #curtis biddick #callum turner #major gale cleven #major gale cleven x black!reader #major gale cleven x eden marie cleven #just a little something #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis x black!reader #austin!elvis x black!oc #gale cleven x black!reader

[thedeviltohisangel]

All The Things I Did:

(Just So I Could Call You Mine)

Canon Universe:

"The most beautiful part is, I wasn't even looking when I found you."

Chapter One: All The Things I Did

Chapter Two: It's All Around, It's All The Time

Interlude: A Sight For Sore Eyes

Chapter Three: Don't Leave Me Alone

Interlude: A Feeling I Want To Get Used To

Chapter Four: The Only Thing That I See

Chapter Five: I Hope I Don't Lose You

Chapter Six: All's Well That Ends Well

Chapter Seven: I Thought About Thinking It Through

Chapter Eight: That Girl Is Going, Going, Gone

Chapter Nine: It's Not Fair To Make Me Feel This Much

Interlude: I Want To Give You The World

Interlude: I'm Such A Fool

Interlude: All I Brought Back With Me

Interlude: The One Thing I've Been Wanting

Interlude: My Little Bunnies

"And then she knew, that you could become homesick for people too."

Special Editions:

Four Times They Speak About Each Other And One Time They Spoke To Each Other

"Darling, you are all I ever wanted love to be."

Misc.

Cass x John Blurbs

"The day I met you I began to forget a life without you."

For A Fortnight There We Were:

(Forever Run Into You)

Hollywood Universe:

The story of Callum Turner and Evelyn Shaw, the actress who plays Cassandra Cooper in Masters of the Air.

One Shots:

It Fit Too Right

"You are too well tangled in my soul."

Misc.

Evelyn x Callum Blurbs/Inspo

"I told the stars about you."

#masters of the air #john egan #callum turner #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #callum turner fanfiction #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfic #john egan fanfic #callum turner fanfic #mota fanfic #john egan x reader #john egan x oc #callum turner x reader #callum turner x oc

[obrowne21]

ʙᴀʙʏ ɪ’ᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

Chapter 2 - “Hates the Perfect Word”

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“Don’t stay out here too late, Baby.”

Sergeant Ken Lemmons was only partly joking with Baby when he said this to her. However over the three weeks of getting to know the stubborn blonde, he realized it wasn’t so far fetched for her to lose track of time.

And that would be proven correct as Baby was still out on the Airstrip, working away. She found it difficult to leave seeing as the view was so beautiful. The sunset painted the sky a warm orange and pink tone. A calm breeze briefly passed her, ruffling the tall grass, the trees, and even the bottom of her dress as it did so.

Sighing, she found a comfortable spot on a nearby crate. Busying herself by screwing two engine pieces together with a basic rod. The action was done smoothly like muscle memory.

A loud sound of an engine and the screech of tires had broken her peaceful state. Internally rolling her eyes, Baby prepared herself.

That could mean only one thing.

The jeep made a rough stop in front of her causing her to look up at the person responsible for the interruption.

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan.

Even the thought of his name sparked annoyance in Delilah. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that was so infuriating.

Maybe it was the way he walked around base like he was the king of the world. He had everybody under his spell, especially her brother Gale. She couldn’t understand how the two had ever became friends.

Or maybe it was how he would sometimes get caught looking at her but would never say anything.

It was like a game of tug of war. Always giving her signs of interest but then taking it back as if he physically and mentally couldn’t bring himself to go there with her. Like something was stopping him, more like someone.

She had a pretty good idea of who.

“A little birdy told me you were out here.” Leaning back in his seat, Bucky faced the woman.

Delilah, uninterested, gave him a nod before focusing back onto her work. “Never really liked birds.”

“Sad to hear that. They’re real fascinating creatures. I’m more of a unicorn guy myself-”

“I bet you are.”

After a beat of silence, Delilah glanced up to see him staring at her once again. It could’ve been because she had just rudely interrupted him but by the way the corner of his mouth twitched into his signature smirk made her think differently.

His eyes held nothing but admiration as he kept his gaze on her. The way she smoothly worked away like it was her second nature was wildly attractive. Not to mention the quick wits that shamelessly left her pretty mouth, which instead of feeling insulted he would always feel more amazed by her.

“Gale send you out here?”

“No.”

“So tell me…Major Bucky,” The name rolled off her tongue as a taunt. Placing the tool and engine piece down beside her, she leaned back onto her hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?”

Bucky watched as she seductively crossed her legs and tilted her head awaiting for an answer. The reminder that she was his best friends little sister kept blaring in the back of his mind. But it was so damn hard to listen to.

“Maybe I just want to be in yours.” Copying her action, Bucky tilted his head. “You ever think of that?”

”It’s hard to when you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

He knew exactly what she referring to. Part of it was intentional but at the same time he really never knew how to approach her. Which was odd for him.

John Egan never struggled in talking to women. However he would always overthink with Delilah. She made him nervous, in a good way.

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” Bucky let out a nervous scoff knowing he had been called out.

The use of the nickname made Baby raise her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a new one.”

“You like it?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been called many things, Major Bucky, but sweet has never been one of them.”

“What?” He dropped his jaw dramatically, pretended to be shocked. “You’re the sweetest.”

Bucky watched as she let out an adorable laugh as she threw her head back. A small wave of pride washed over him at the fact that he got her to smile, let alone talk to him for more than five seconds.

“If I’m sweet then you’re a good singer.” She playfully jutted.

“Oh,” He placed a hand on his heart. “You wound me, Baby. I’d have you know I’m an excellent singer.”

“A little birdy told me differently.”

Looking away Bucky chewed away on the piece of gum in his mouth. Damn, she was good.

“If this birdy happens to be tall, boring, and has a head full of blonde hair on his head than you should ignore him and come see for yourself.”

Delilah laughed not taking him seriously. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” He said. Eyes connecting with her honey brown ones. “There’s a dance, day after tomorrow. Come and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Might skip out on this one.” She declined.

Nodding Bucky looked down. An idea popped into his head that might change her mind. “Huh, guess you Clevens are more alike than you want to admit.”

If there was anything he learned from witnessing the Cleven sibling duo was that they both were complete opposites. Buck was more serious, rule follower, and never really liked to do anything risky.

And although he didn’t talk to Delilah much, he would notice how she liked to do things in an untraditional way. Her presence here as one of the first female mechanics proves that. She also loved to make fun out of most situations. A small joke was always at the tip of her tongue and she could never keep it there.

He’d like to bet she loved to dance too.

Picking up the tool beside her she pointed it at Bucky with an annoyed glare. “Take that back right now.”

Bingo.

“Makes sense.” He shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Guess the ‘never have a good time’ genes got passed down to both of ya.”

“I can have a good time.” She rebutted.

Bucky nodded, not really convinced at all. “Okay.”

A moment of silence passed as Bucky continued to poke fun at Delilah as she thought over his words.

Letting go of her cheek, the one she was anxiously biting, Delilah sighed. “What times the stupid dance?”

A smile of victory took plastered across the Major's face as he mentally celebrated. “I’ll be there at 8:00, that’s when the real party starts.”

“Can’t wait.” She gave him a fake smile.

Taking a look around, they both knew that it was about to get dark soon and should head back.

Reaching over the passenger seat of the Jeep, Bucky propped open the door with one arm. “Hop in, sweetheart. I’ll give you a ride back.”

“I have a bike, you know?”

“That old thing?” Simultaneously the two turned to look at the bike leaning on the side of the crate she was sitting on.

“Yeah,” Delilah smiled proudly. It was one of the things she built on her own when she first got here. “Isn’t he pretty?”

“He?”

“Well you men always refer to your cars and planes as woman, so I’d thought I’d return the favor.”

As the blonde continued to admire her piece of work, Bucky’s gaze shifted to her. Taking in her smooth tan skin and pretty freckles that he’d like to individually kiss. And finally her full lips that were just calling his name.

He watched as she grabbed the handles of the bike and easily kicked her leg over to get on it. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Baby?”

“I’d rather ride a thousand miles on this old thang than one in there with you.”

He was left speechless as she petaled away without a second thought. The fact that her and a Buck were siblings was still a shock to him.

No matter how different the two were they both had something in common. The Clevens had captured John Egans heart. With a Buck it was respect and friendship. And with Delilah.

Oh, Delilah. He hadn’t even got to know her fully yet and she already had him hooked.

Snapping out of his trance he started the engine before catching up and riding along beside her. Now he was back to looking between the road and her pretty side profile.

“Still got you to go to the dance with me.” He gloated.

Once again, John Egan had managed to make her smile. Shaking her head she tried to petal faster but he would just match her speed. “I hate you!”

“Hates a strong word.”

“Hates the perfect word.”

▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣

A/N : As y’all can tell I love a good slow burn. Hope y’all liked it! Let me know your thoughts on it please, I love to hear feedback.

ALSO DAYUM YALL REALLY CAME THREW WITH THE LIKES ON MY POSTS

Tag list(I can’t believe I have those now🤭):

@valenftcrush

@justheretoreadthhx

#john egan #john egan x reader #john egan x oc #madelyn cline #callum turner x reader #bucky egan #gale cleven #callum turner #buck cleven #austin butler #masters of the air #mota fanfic #motaedit #mota #mota spoilers #ken lemmons #harry crosby

[jointherebellion215]

Worth

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Summary: You're swept off your feet by one Major John C. Egan, and you love every second of it. Sequel to Birdie.

Word Count: 3.0k

Tags: female!reader, mechanic!reader, women™, period typical sexism & misogyny, fun date night, dude w/ a small dick gets rightfully called out, mostly just fun date stuff, tons of fluff

A/N: Hello all! Thank you so much for the kind words on Birdie. I really appreciate everyone's comments, they warm my heart right up. I almost didn't write this, but the thought of having these two smooch it up was too good to pass up. I also completely headcanon that Bucky has the biggest sweet tooth, oops. As always, I'd be most gracious if you were to leave a like, comment, and/or reblog :)

Read the OC Version of this story on AO3!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, please don't copy, repost, or translate my writing without explicit prior permission. Don't even think about it, AI!

A knock at the door brings butterflies to your stomach.

“Oh, he’s here!” Irene shouts, which is immediately met with your shushing, as well as Teresa’s.

You nervously pat your hair and check over your outfit for the evening. You’re spending your second day’s leave on a date with Bucky Egan. He had approached you last night at the pub, asking if you wanted to grab dinner. Alone. 

You, of course, said yes.

Teresa and Irene go to answer the door while you gather your purse, stuffing it with your essentials. Your friends greet him at the same time, sounding like twins.

“Good evening, Major!”

“Good evening, Major!”

You hear his deep voice reply, only a small bit of surprise leaking into his voice.

“Good evening, ladies. Is Birdie around? We have dinner plans.”

“I’m here! Hi.” You step around the wall that hides you from the front door, taking a look at the man you’d been crushing on for months. He stands tall and confident in his neatly pressed uniform, hat covering most of his dark curls. His mouth gapes, giving you a once over and attempting to speak up.

“I- You-…Uh, wow. Y-you look…” But any sweet words he attempts to say are interrupted by Irene, who comes in hot with a manic smile.

“Did you know that my daddy taught me how to shoot when I was just a little girl? I’m real good at it. They call me Oakley, back home, cause of how great a marksman I am. Y’know, like Annie Oakley?” She stepped forward, puffing up her chest and giving a frightening grin to Major Egan. You and Teresa exchanged confused looks, not knowing quite where she was going with this.

“I’m not allowed a sidearm or a rifle over here, but I’m sure I could easily borrow one from any of the fellas on base should you break my best friend’s hea—”

“OKAY! We don’t wanna be late, all the tables might be taken soon. Gotta go. Love you. Bye!” You quickly shove past the blonde, stepping over the threshold. You take Bucky’s hand and practically drag his tall form down the hallway, away from your best friend’s attempt at a shovel talk.

You faintly hear Teresa’s well wishes to you amid the aggressively whispered conversation she has with Irene. The last words you hear before the elevator door closes in front of you are a heavily accented protest from Irene.

“What? I was just trying to..!”

The pair of you stand in the elevator in silence. A slight rocking indicates the starting motion of it, which snaps you back to reality. Looking down, you realize that you’re still holding hands with Bucky. You quickly separate your hand from his, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Your friends seem nice.”

Your head snaps to glance at Bucky, who is already looking at you. A sincere smile graces his face, not a hint of mocking in his eyes. 

“I’m glad you have them looking out for you.” 

You feel your face start to cool down, making you comfortable enough to respond. 

“They drive me nuts sometimes. But they’re the best friends I could ever ask for.” You mean every word. 

You see John nod, so you turn back to look to the elevator doors in front of you. An awkward pause.

“You look beautiful.”

Another pause. “What?”

“It’s what I meant to say earlier. That you look beautiful. Because you do.”

Heat quickly returns to your cheeks, spreading throughout your whole upper body. You give a bashful smile, peeking up at him through your lashes. You gaze into his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you, Johnny. You look quite handsome yourself.” The Major adjusts his hat, covering just the tips of his ears. He returns your gaze with an uncharacteristically nervous grin. The floor gives a slight rattle, elevator door and gate opening to reveal the lobby.

John straightens up, holding out his arm for you to take. You tentatively weave your hand within the crook of his elbow. He gently presses his arm in, bringing your body closer to his. 

You meet your other hand in its position and let Bucky lead you out of the hotel and into the evening air.

✨

“That was so delicious! I never knew that a roast could be so tender…”

The pair of you were walking arm-in-arm down a cobblestone street, just having finished dinner. It was a wonderful time. Bucky had been the perfect gentleman, but made his interest in you clear without being sleezy.

He was entirely focused on you the whole time. He asked questions and was genuinely invested in your answers. Conversation came to the two of you like a duck to water. After a shared glass of wine, his hand had slowly inched towards yours. Soon he had cradled it in his, like you were a precious commodity, until your meals arrived. You could hardly keep your eyes off of each other long enough to even promptly acknowledge the wait staff, which you were sure annoyed some and amused others.

Safe to say, John Egan was doing his best to sweep you off your feet.

You hadn’t discussed any other plans for after dinner, but the walk you’re on now is nice enough to give you reason to stick close together.

Bucky nods along, “And that fruit tart? Incredible.”

You laugh, leaning into your date, “I knew that would be your favorite part. You’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, don’t you?” 

Bucky holds his hands up with a mischievous smirk on his face, “Hey, I plead the fifth.” 

“I’ll admit, I’ve never seen someone so adamant on having some coffee with his sugar.” You continue to tease him. He nudges you playfully, giving a smooth grin in return.

“Hey, we’re in a war! If you see something sweet,” Bucky surprises you by picking you up and twirling you around, getting a full belly laugh from you as he sets you back on the ground.

“You gotta snatch it up and enjoy it while you can.”

You have a feeling that he wasn’t just talking about food. 

By that point, you’re leaning against his front, hands on both of his shoulders. The moment has shifted into something else. Something different. His eyes roam your face, eventually stopping on your lips. Just as he starts to lean in, the moment is shattered by the sound of instruments starting up nearby. Bucky flinches, cursing the ill-timed disruption. 

Oblivious to his turmoil, you gasp in delight and look around for the source of the music.

“Do you hear that? I think there’s a band playing!” 

You spot a few people walk into what looks like a club. It barely a stone’s throw from where you’re both currently standing. 

Bucky quickly recovers, “Should we grab a drink? Have a dance or two?”

You beam at him, and his heart stutters in his chest once more. After you give a nod, you place your hand in his arm and let him lead you into the club.

The two of you step into the establishment, and the energy is almost electric. There are mills of people walking about, drinking, talking, laughing. There’s a great score more on the dance floor, hopping and jiving along to the band you now knew you’d heard earlier. There weren’t a lot of uniforms present, but the ones that were were RAF.

Bucky guides you to the bar, hand on your back until you're both sat on a pair of stools. Your drinks are quickly ordered and served, so your night continues. You both allow yourselves to talk shop for a moment, so your conversation turns towards what you were working on before your leave. As you get to discussing the more intricate parts of your project, you hear a scoff from behind you.

John quickly looks over your shoulder, spotting the culprit.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

You turn around to find a uniformed man taking a sip of his whiskey, RAF logo plastered on the lapel. He mockingly shakes his head, placing the glass down on the bar.

“No, no problem at all.”

Bucky, ever the confrontationist, persists. “It seems like there’s a problem here.”

You gesture towards the man, silently indicating that he was welcome to speak his mind. 

“It’s not enough that you Yanks come over to our country, destroy our pubs and disrespect our women with your recklessness. But you can’t even keep your own women in check! She should be at home, away from the war, for God’s sake. Taking care of the house and the children. You know, doing feminine duties.”

You had heard all of this before, so it was no skin off your back to hear it again. You roll your eyes and decided to just ignore him. Then the man started to laugh, as if he was in on a private joke.

“I mean, a female mechanic? Between that and your daytime missions, it’s no wonder you’re all dropping like flies.”

You let out an exhale, letting the air stream out through your nose. In your periphery, you see Bucky start to stand— to, no doubt, escalate the situation. You stop him with a hand on his chest. He sits back down, looking between you and the man who had just insulted you. You set your glass down, hopping off the stool and giving a slow clap. 

“I’m so glad to know that some people still live in the Stone Age, where apparently all a woman is good for is cooking and giving birth! Thank you so much for showing us exactly what a lack of education and individual thought looks like! See where we are—over in modern times— women can do whatever the hell they want. That includes fixing your planes and jeeps, operating your radios, driving your trucks, and even training your allies to use machine artillery!”

The RAF soldier realizes what he’s gotten himself into but is backed into a corner of the bar as you pace forward with each scathing word that leaves your mouth.

“Never mind all the bullshit you just spouted about what a woman is fit to do. I think that women can decide for ourselves exactly what we can and cannot do. As for my countrymen, I’m proud to serve alongside them. They go up every day willing to sacrifice themselves so that the rest of us don’t have to. They’re gonna be remembered for their bravery and grit. They’re not cowardly enough to hem and haw and stick up their noses at the thought of a woman doing something other than popping out a kid and ironing their pleats.”

The music has dulled down, but you don’t have the complete attention of the club. That gives you the courage to say your final piece.

“Never you mind. I'm confident that the men I serve with, including the man I have with me tonight, aren’t anything like you. Thank God for that! They're not so…” You take an exaggerated glance towards the man’s crotch, scrunching up your nose. “…small-minded.”

Leaving the gaping man behind, you turn to Bucky and ask if he wants to go get some air. He picks his jaw up off the floor quick enough to nod and lead you back outside into the street.

Hey, hanging around Irene pays off sometimes.

As you step out into the night air, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You feel John step up behind you, voice carefully asking,

“Hey, are you okay? Birdie?”

You continue to stand with your eyes closed. You just needed a moment.

“I’ve come too far to let anyone’s opinion of me, or my career choices, effect me.”

You open your eyes and look over your shoulder at your date. He gives an understanding nod, stepping closer to you. He places his hands on your arms, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. You lean back into him, closing your eyes once more, letting him comfort you for the time being.

“Sorry if I ruined the night.”

You can feel a rumble from Bucky’s chest as he chuckles. “Oh, this night’s far from ruined. In fact, that was probably the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

One of your eyes pops open. You crane your neck to peek at him, “Even better than the time you told me about Curt knocking out an RAF officer in one punch?”

“Yep.”

“Winning that bet to get your bicycle?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Better than your fruit tart from dinner?”

His smile widens, “Okay, let’s not get crazy here. Maybe it was top ten.”

“Top ten?!” You playfully gasp, turning around to face him again. You rest your hands on your hips, “What’s a girl gotta do to rank above a fruit tart around here?”

“Well…” You scoff and shove Bucky at the cheeky smirk he gives you. You’re quickly distracted by the sound of the band inside starting up again. This time with a familiar tune.

“Oh, your song’s on, Johnny!”

Bucky tosses his hat to the side, steps back and gives a very unserious bow. He then sneers with a hyper-nasal impression of the RAF officer you’d just affronted.

“My lady.”

You roll your eyes and give a joking curtsy in return, taking his offered hand. He pulls you into a proper stance for a waltz, which is a complete offset to the jive song that reaches your ears. You both jokingly hop along in the awkward squared formation for a moment, giggling to yourselves. 

He gently pushes on your hip while outstretching his hand, so you take the cue and twirl until you’re both standing at each other’s fingertips. A quick grasp of your hand and a pull twirls you right back into his arms, bumping into his chest. The moment made you burst into laughter, leaning into your dance partner until the song ends. 

The next song is a much slower tune, giving Bucky the chance to pull you in close. You hum along to the band playing, sidling up to the Major’s chest. He places a hand in yours and loops the other around your waist. Your free arm gently drapes under his and over his shoulder, encouraging a lean into his firm body. You both give a slow sway, leading each other back and forth in the quiet echoes of the street. Closer than before.

“You know, I’ve been plucking up the courage to ask you to dinner for a while now.” 

You lay your head on the knuckles of your hand that rest on his shoulder, responding lowly. 

“Really?”

You continue to sway.

“Yeah.”

You’re curious, so you ask, “What made you finally do it?”

He thinks on the answer for a moment, almost chewing on his thoughts. John is not the kind of person to typically contemplate over an answer, so you gift him all the time in the world to respond. You recognize how important that is to him.

“I… I think that it was a lot of little things.” He pulls you in closer. “Your smile, your eyes, the way you talk about the things you love. Birdie, you are so personable with everyone you come into contact with and it’s so magnetic.” 

The flow of compliments shocks you, not expecting this barrage of details to come from the man in front of you. But you dance on anyways.

“But I really think what did me in was yesterday, at the pub. When you looked at me during your song.”

You remember. You know exactly what he was talking about. Whatever he must have felt, you know that you felt it too.

He continues to speak in an intimate tone as you sway along in the street.

“I felt my entire life click into place. It was like everything suddenly made sense. I didn’t have to wonder about what my life was going to be like in five, ten, fifteen years. Because I knew.”

He pulls back to look you in the eye, and the amount of vulnerability in his eyes floors you. 

“I’ll be honest, it scared the shit outta me. It terrified me.”

You understand what he meant. This is all new to him, as it is to you. You pull his forehead to touch yours, noses gently brushing one another, as you offer your best words of comfort in that moment.

“Sometimes, you have to do what scares you the most to find out what’s worth doing.” 

He cups your face, letting his lips ghost against yours. He made his intentions clear, but it was up to you to decide how you move forward.

So, you close your eyes and take the leap.

Your lips press into his, hands stroking the arms that were framing your face. He immediately responds in kind, lips moving in tandem with yours. You melt into him at the reciprocated motion. His arms soon move to your waist, pulling you impossibly close. Your arms reach around his neck, hands resting at the nape of his neck. As he deepens the kiss, you run your hands up, down, and through the dark curls on the back of his head, earning a groan from your partner.

A burst of warmth sparks from within your very being, traveling further and further through your body until you’re consumed by flames. Half of your mind is scrambling to make sense of reality, and the other half is completely consumed by passion.

After a moment, you reluctantly separate from one another, panting to catch your breath. It’s as if the world stopped spinning when you connected, and then started up again when you parted. 

Giving a nervous look to the man you just kissed, you’re elated when he gives you an ear-to-ear grin. He grasps one of your hands in his, intertwining your fingers. His other hand comes up to cup your face again, thumb gently stroking your cheekbone.

You stay silent for the time being, letting the moment marinate. He brings up your joined hands to kiss the back of your palm. Your heart jumps with joy at the sight.

Bucky gives an exhale before breaking the silence.

“You are most definitely worth it.”

#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota fanfiction #john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #bucky egan fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #john bucky egan x reader #john egan x female reader #john egan x oc #major john egan #masters of the air fanfiction #mota fic #bucky egan x oc #bucky egan x female reader #bucky fanfic #hbo war fandom #hbo war fanfic #curtis biddick #mota spoilers #hbo war oc #WWII era #jada writes sometimes #callum turner fic #callum turner fanfiction #callum turner x reader #callum turner imagine #john egan imagine

[kafkasmuses]

major gale ‘buck’ cleven and major john ‘bucky’ egan loved to share the pretty things they picked up at the bar. it always started the same, bucky scanning all the girls at the bar with their perfect dresses and rosy perfumes that reeked off them as he walked by, until one eventually caught his eye. you. and as soon as he saw you, he’s bumping his elbow to buck’s arm, who would roll his eyes and remind him of marge. well, at first he would care about her. poor marge, awaiting him at home, she had no idea how many girls he had picked up whilst away, how many lipstick stains coated his skin at the end of the night. 

buck was more quiet, as opposed to bucky’s cocky, loud demeanor— so bucky always made the first move. “what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here all alone?” 

he always loved watching the sweet girls like you bat your lashes up at him, sweetly hitting him with a, “major?” which is soon followed by a shy, quiet, “‘m not sure.” 

and that was bucky’s cue now, of course, to wave buck over, “y’know, we could give you some company.” 

and of course, like all the others you would agree, nodding your head and following them back to the barracks. when you did eventually get there, it seemed like a ritual for bucky and buck with how quick they were to put you between them on one of the nearest beds. bucky sat to your left, and buck to your right. buck always took it slow, pressing soft kisses to your cheek where you melted into them, whereas bucky would move your jaw so you were looking at him, lips pressing to yours. 

it wouldn’t take long for bucky and buck to assume their typical positions, bucky always called dibs on the mouth, whilst buck prefered to be balls deep inside of you, watching the way your lashes flutter as you slobber over bucky’s cock. something about it was so dirty, so sick, and yet they loved it so much— and of course, bucky loved to play with you as you’re being fucked dumb by buck, teasing his tip on your tongue and making you call him sir. 

he always had a thing for that. 

#masters of the air #mota spoilers #mota #mota fanfic #motaedit #john egan #gale cleven #austin butler #callum turner #john egan x reader #john egan x oc #john egan x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #buck x you #buck x reader #mota smut #callum turner imagine #callum turner x reader #callum turner edit #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler smut #austin butler fanfiction #callum turner icons #bucky egan #buck cleven #major john egan #major gale cleven #major john egan x reader

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Friends in the Crucible

MOTA PACIFIC THEATRE || FLIGHT SURGERY AU

1: Welcome to Hell Island

Requested by the sweet @forsythiagalt

AU NOTE: due to a long-standing crush on real life heroine Ensign Jane Kendeigh and her work on Iwo Jima, the current ongoing anniversary of the battle and a hope to not step on the toes of any existing Nurse!xBuck pairings -I’ve gone with what excited my imagination the most and created an entire Pacific AU with our MOTA boys. If this AU ends up being as interesting and stimulating to y’all as it was for me in writing it, I’d be terribly down for exploring more scenarios with everyone in their new and varied roles.

Main paring: Gale Cleven and OC Flight Nurse Ensign Maureen Kendeigh…cameos by “Doc” Egan, John Brady, Ken Lemmons, Harry Crosby and Benny Demarco…and maybe a nod to a certain Marine Captain named “Andy” who I refused to let die, even though he was never on this island. You neither need to have seen HBO’s Pacific or know about the history for this to make sense, in fact it might help my ignorant writing go down better without it 😏

Warnings: WAR?! Graphic descriptions of wounds, battlefields, gore, foul language, period typical language: use of the word “Jap” and a joking insult of “fish eater” for a Catholic. Hints that John Egan is a terror to his nurses, Cleven having to take his pants off for a wound to be examined, brief mentions and emphasis on his never having been touched by a woman intimately, a nurse positioning a man’s member out of the way to his surprise, strictly professional tho. No joke, really. But they’re having a bit of a moment.

Only proof read once. So many thanks to Bee, Christi and Ashley who all enabled me into going this rogue with a simple request and for giving edits and assurances. Hope y’all enjoy!

There were a whole lotta jolts in the descent. Of course there were. Why, there were jolts and bumps even coming down to the runway at Pearl or San Diego, and there had been far more than jolts on the training tarmacs in Kentucky. She had been in enough planes, experienced enough banging about, and had enough wheels up landings that Maureen felt somewhat entitled to her opinion on the necessity of jolts or none.

So far, Major Gale Cleven had piloted this monstrous tin can like a limo, smooth, steady and with full warning for each bank and turn. Maureen had not even had to catch a single falling bottle so far and the rows of empty bunks lining each side of the plane had hardly rattled except in the same low humming frequency of the ever thrumming engine.

But now there were jolts. And of course there were, they were flying straight into a warzone. Cleven had gotten them to Iwo Jima two hours ago, and since that time he’d been circling the island in a wide arc, casually waiting for a pesky air battle between fighters to calm down enough for him to land. Sure, the beaches had been wiped clean and a landing strip had been carved out of volcanic ash and marine corps blood -cleared for their use. But still, there were Jap bunkers, Jap planes, Japs themselves and Jap equipment in that smoldering mountain and so far, no word had come down definitely as to when the island might be considered secure.

It was all very historic, Maureen has been assured -allowing a woman into a combat zone. First time ever, so they kept erroneously insisting. That’s why there was a man armed with a camera and not plasma sitting a few lines down from her on the cold metal bench. Maureen had once had plenty of time to ponder the historicity of her mission and that of her fellow nurses back in Guam, right now she wished she could focus solely on her training and ignore the ominous crack-pop of something hazardous in the air and the resulting wobble of Major Cleven’s steering.

Stupidly she wished the Major’s low voice would come back on through the near radio system and soothe them all back down like frightened livestock. Gale Cleven had a way of managing that even with his face obscured, and while it made Maureen blush to admit she needed any calming, the facts were she was 24 years old, practically untried and desperate to be brave enough to be of use. Rattling on the bench seat between equally nervous girls and a hawk-eyed journalist was no match for the cuticle picking anxiety.

Maureen chose to forcefully look up from said bloody cuticles and was met by Major Egan’s gum smacking grin across from her. How many carriers had he been on when they went down? Kamikaze planes jutting out the side of them, ocean water pouring in, sharks abounding and hundreds of patients under his care, in his charge to tow to shore?

Mild, scattered, poor-man’s flack wasn’t remotely disturbing to their flight surgeon. “He’s great, isn’t he?” Egan yelled to her cheerfully, the jerk of his head suggested his praise was directed towards someone in the cockpit.

Maureen knew well enough that much as Egan respected the co-pilot Demarco, it was no match for the love affair between him and Cleven, an appreciation that had Egan’s special request yanking his friend from Air Force to Navy to Transit. Such a series of bounces in a man’s otherwise distinguished career, all to chauffeur one charmingly entitled flight surgeon, was enough to put anyone into a bad mood -it would explain Major Cleven’s initial coolness on meeting them all at the departure tarmac.

Or maybe he was just businesslike. Maureen couldn’t fault anyone for that. He had been prepped, perhaps not as much as she had, but he didn’t act entitled in any way, and he kept the plane steady. Except for this mounting series of jolts.

“Yes,” she had chosen to holler back to Doctor -Lieutenant Commander? Bucky No Shits? Johnny? Doc “Smirky”?- Egan, knowing he’d want a favorable report on his friend, “it’s been remarkably smooth.”

Maureen was glad truth aligned with diplomacy in this instant. Although if any man could handle the outright truth it was John Egan, no matter what they all said. And “they” said a lot, he had once had two marine squadrons under his care and to them he was a Marine, simultaneously he’d had three navy squadrons to take care of and to them he was a Navy man. He’d even switched uniforms thrice in a day before. And now he was being flown about by his best friend to tend carcasses on a foreign strand, oddly suited to terrible conditions and bad scenarios, offering medical aviation expertise and poorly timed jokes wherever he went.

He’d trained her group of specialized Evacuation Flight Nurses the last three weeks of aquatic conditioning in the states, and he’d culled eighteen out of the group for getting winded after towing full grown men seven laps in the San Diego surf -all while puffing on a cigarette himself, seated with sunglasses on in an motorized dinghy. Maureen had come to hate him that day, and every day after she’d come to want to be like him. Kathleen Martin got her wings pinned first and Maureen right after, “well done, Candy!” Egan had praised while his fist drove in the tack.

“It’s Kendeigh, sir.” Maureen had dared correct for the hundredth time that training week, “Pronounced like: Ken-Day.”

“Cand-ay. Got it!” he repeated with jovial affirmation and that was that.

Major Cleven had given her the respect of calling her ‘Ensign’ as he shook her hand, a quick and firm squeeze and on to her next companion, she’d have judged him as too pristine in everything from mannerisms to features were his war record not ample justification for his bearing. The low cadence of his voice over the coms came in as a slight pitch to the plane and a swoop of decline in altitude became apparent under her—

“All personnel prepare for landing.”

Cleven was nothing like those pilots during training, barking orders laced with frantic warning in their voices. It was a cow pasture back in Kentucky and there they’d had no good reason for alarm. Here where there was real reason, Gale Cleven crooned to them and John Egan smiled opposite her as he took in the effect his chosen pilot had on his nurses.

“Like soothin’ a baby,” Egan sighed as he lounged a little deeper on his bench, long legs deceptively braced for impact, Maureen had long ago learned the man was nothing but smoke and mirrors of his actual intentions, “isn’t he great? In danger of fallin’ asleep with that guy at the wheel.”

To emphasize his point -or more likely to distract “his girls” from the imminent prospect of landing on a battleground, Egan leaned back all the way and tipped his cover over his eyes, pretending to fall asleep. Maureen caught him as he cocked one sharp eye open to see if she was still watching. She gave him a hopeless smile of recognition of his disguised kindness before forcefully suppressing a gasp of shock as the plane hit Amtrak smoothed gravel and ground its way down the beach. Egan hadn't budged by the time the momentum ceased and the plane became bizarrely still after hours of vibrating travel.

“Right. That’s us.” He straightened up, his cover and his posture, rising up in his seat and slapping at the metal ceiling of the plane, “Good job Buck.” he hollered and got no reply. “He’s still crabby about flying a C-47.” he divulged to no one in particular as they all rose and prepared to disembark, drilled for ages in this routine and finally let loose to practice it. Egan’s nonchalance was almost disorienting for such a momentous occasion.

The large cargo door was opened and a irreverently pleasant tropical breeze funneled through the plane, bearing with it the sounds of crashing waves and popping, far off gunnery. There was also a smell that came with it, sulfur and sweet. It was sickening from the first, and Maureen dreadedly wondered if it was from volcanic fumes and rotting vegetation or something more heartbreaking. With her kit on her back she followed her companions out the cargo door, finding Major Cleven blank faced and unphased on the tarmac beside it. Nothing but a smidge of sweat around his hairline to suggest the hours of flight he’d just clocked and the wacky landing he’d managed so well.

“Welcome to hell island, ladies.” he greeted in a droll monotone and Maureen’s gait stiffened without her permission.

There was no true tarmac, as they had been warned, just a strip of cleared back sand churned up by Cleven’s wheels. Lapping waves were on the left side and then a field of sheets to the right. It was the oddest sight. Rows and rows of camo tarp and white sheets blotted pink, hardly a spot of sand to be seen between. They’d been warned it was havoc here, the situation so bad that they’d finally allowed for this exception, allowed the sending in of specialized units to evacuate by air as the boats could hardly ferry enough of the wounded out in time to save them. But this -this beach of corpses was so daunting a task it seemed impossible to choose where to start.

“John,” she heard Major Cleven address Lieutenant Commander Egan as he dropped down beside her, “you’ve only got so many births, do what ya need to do to fill them, but I’ve got my orders. You’re not settin’ up a hospital. When we get the supplies off, get this plane full -we’re takin’ off. Full stop. I’m not gonna have us here like sittin’ ducks for the mortars while you fuss.”

“I hear ya.” Egan assured him in that remarkably unassuring way of his and lit a cigarette. “Alright nurses, gather round.”

Triage was crucial for such a mission, the prioritizing of wounds and necessary services essential for prolonging the lives of those in imminent peril, versus those with the likelihood of surviving on only the essentials found in a corpsman or medic’s arsenal. They’d be back tomorrow with another flight, and the day after that. Cleven was right that they weren’t here to establish a hospital, yet still the idea of how many would perish from being left behind, even by this first flight, was a sickening probability Maureen has been trained to ignore.

“Where are all the corpsmen?” Egan asked one pharmacist's mate who came to greet them, picking his way through the rows of groaning men. The boy couldn’t have been a day over seventeen.

“Up there,” the kid had nodded up to Mount Suribachi and its ominous veil of smoke, “or dead. Lost so many in the first week they started sending us in to substitute. We’ve done what we can. Sure glad to see you guys.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Lemons, sir.”

“Hell I can’t call someone a lemon, now can I?” Egan’s grin was infectious and the boy grinned back like he was seeing his first friend in ages.

“Then it’s Kenny. Sir.”

“Yeah alright Kenny, let’s get to it.” Egan had drilled you all so thoroughly you could have performed even without the aid of the grounded pharmacists and their mates, yet still it was odd to see such a mass of wounded and so few to tend them. The desperation and chaos was tangible.

Maureen had barely set off out from under the plane wing when Gale Cleven’s brusque reprimand arrested her steps as forcefully as a tug to her flight suit would have, “That bunch don’t need your help.”

The terse judgment in his tone gave her sharper eyes to notice that the particular section she was headed towards all had sheets pulled over their faces. Her own face blanched at both the misstep and the sensory overload of so much sorting to do. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself, not here, not when faced with the easy part of all this, and she wasn’t going to be crippled by criticism while enduring her first trial by fire. “Right, thank you, Major.” she agreed with him as stoically as possible and ground her heel back around on the sand and tromped off towards the direction of sheets that were visibly alive and writhing in misery.

That changed as soon as they saw her girlish form walking amongst them. Sounds of dying anguish changed to cheerful wolf whistles and happy greetings. It made Maureen’s heart swell with pride at the unbreakable spirit in each of them.

She spent the next hour and a half amongst those men.

Gruesome was a word that Maureen swore to herself that she would never use lightly again. She wasn’t one given to hyperbole anyway, and her years apprenticing in the hospital in Manilla and her most recent training for exactly such wounds as these, understandably led her to believe she knew the mettle of such a word.

But no.

Gruesome, she decided as she began her task again and again, applied only to this: the way the tiniest slip of her hand on any part of this poor boy took skin with it, charred and soupy flesh squishing off meat and sinew like the flaky crust on a prime bit of brisket. It was the only comparison fitting. His own flamethrower had bitten him as he tried to take a countless next pillbox. He’d said it like a joke even as his teeth chattered too hard from pain to deliver the punchline.

Maureen wasn’t here to contemplate ironies, or the unfairness of war, she was here to find some intact vein through which to stab her needle and begin giving him back the blood that was slowly leaching into the black sand beneath him. Ensign Smith was holding up the bottle, throwing a shadow over his charred form that helped Maureen discern a bit better, giving the boy a kind word or ten of reassurance about home and pain relief. Maureen bit through her own tongue when she finally slid the needle home, deep and pulpy, she could only pray it would hold the blood they gave back.

“Alright, bandages, Smith.” Maureen decided and did her best not to jump as a mortar thumped on the sand, hundreds of yards away, but still, they were getting ever closer, proving Major Cleven’s grim prognostication to not be unfounded. He was confirmed that the Japanese didn’t give two shits about red crosses, much less cargo planes carrying in supplies and taking away wounded. Maureen tried not to dwell on it as she and Smith began cutting away filthy uniforms and wrapping their patients' flesh in the Vaseline soaked bandages. It was a terrible business for the first few minutes before the interlaced numbing agents in the gauze took affect and made their care something less like torture for the poor men.

Some of them could walk, a missing leg being a mild injury comparatively, they just needed the helpful shoulder of a technician and off they went to amble into Cleven’s plane. There the Major met them despite it being beyond his purview, handing out cigarettes even though he himself abstained and kept an eye on the Navy mechanic refueling his plane from a bullet riddled jeep. When he wasn’t doing that he was scanning the sky, aviators turned up and reflecting a cloudless sky. Maureen’s mouth grew chalky at the thought of what he was looking out for.

Once wrapped and tended, the men were ready to be hoisted on stretchers and taken to the plane. But those men were select ones, ones that Egan had decided upon. He had a particularly odd way of triaging, one that upon initial observation appeared rather callous and aloof to his nurses who had been trained as much in medical practice as in solicitous decorum.

Doc Egan moseyed through the ranks of wounded, keenly aware he was not as popular as his pretty faced nurses, but making up for it with such easy-going banter that chuckles followed him wherever he went, making the men forget that he was deciding who got relief and who did not. Who were to be permitted the cooling sheets of Elysium by nightfall and who were to be left burning on the sand. Puffing a cigarette and making small talk, he clocked each injury and each likelihood of recovery without giving a bit of it away.

Nearing Maureen’s own patient of the moment, she felt him crouch down beside her and take in the hopeless gut wound she was ineffectually trying to stuff with bandages. A sturner superior would tell her not to bother, to move on, save such determination for someone with a longer life expectancy than five minutes. Maureen found it hard to make that call herself when met with the pleading eyes of someone’s dying son.

“C’mon Candy, move over, lemme try.” Egan murmured and his hip knocked hers gently as he crouched over the boy, perfectly aware of the futility. “Hey bud, breathe for me, breathe. You wanna smoke?”

Egan’s now bloody fingers reached up to his own lips and plucked his fresh and third cigarette of the hour and brought it down to the boy’s chapped mouth, shifting until he was fully seated on the sand, arms around the kid’s shoulders, gently taking the refreshment away when he puffed out, then replacing it for another inhale.

Maureen knew better than to linger. Beside this scene of brotherly last rites was another dying man and a hundred more beside him, so she moved on, seeing only vaguely the way the kid coughed blood as he laughed at Egan’s conversation. The topic seemed to be on the boy’s dog back home. The Sergeant she was tending added in a bit of teasing over the name -who names their dog “puppy”?!

Maureen had barely managed a tourniquet on the sergeant's arm before she could suddenly hear Egan’s gentle chatter turn to low shushing.

The sergeant looked away to the other side.

Maureen noticed the discarded cigarette laying on the sand, it had been smoked to a stub.

The heaving rattle of panicked breath beside them stopped.

Egan shifted onto his knees again and his long, bloody fingers dragged those sightless eyes closed. There was the brittle clink of dog tags being checked.

The sheet was tugged up all the way.

That triage was over.

Maureen politely ignored Doc Egan’s harsh sniff beside her -it was dusty here- but clocked the way he rose to his feet, a rough brushing off of his flight suit and his brusque inquiry regarding her morphine distribution in sector 2.

“All tended-“ she had begun when a shout from the far off plane rang out-

“-JOHN!” That was Cleven’s unmistakable bellow and Egan, despite being in a human sea of potential Johns- responded like he’d been made to hear that one voice alone. “Incoming, west!”

“Shit.” Egan spun westward and sure enough there were fighters with a blazing red sun, rushing straight down at them.

They were such a distance away still, Maureen doubted Cleven’s sight for all of fifteen seconds before horror set in. “They wouldn’t-?” she looked up at Egan whose bitten lip suggested that they would indeed strafe these poor men given the chance.

“Stretchers!” Cleven yelled again, “Get ‘em under the wings!”

There was a callous logic to it. Those men already prepped to be saved might as well be prioritized this much more. Fairness wasn’t something promised in war and Maureen chose to hate Gale Cleven instead of some ephemeral “war” for verbalizing the awfulness of that necessary.

“Do it.” came Egan’s agreeing order and Maureen and Smith took their respective sergeant down near the waterline at a run, fifteen other nurses and the various techs mimicking them. They deposited their men under the relative safety of the flimsy wings and dashed back out for more, leaving two techs behind to hoist the poor fellas into the cargo hold and deposit them in their respective bunks.

“Come onnnnn.” Cleven’s warning yell was drowned by the commencement of allied anti aircraft higher up the beach, trying to pick off the fighters before they reached the landing strip.

Maureen hardly noticed the closing drone of the fighter’s approach, nothing but her heart beat and memorized lines of her training on repeat in her ears. She’d been trained to fight hand to hand if necessary, her folks knew the risks of their daughter volunteering for such service but there was a sour dampening of resolve at the idea of being picked off from the air, not even allowed a bit of struggle to go out with.

All she could do was lift, hoist, run, deposit, do it all again.

They were getting near to full. On one pass through she saw Cleven counting berths and scolding poor Ensign Courter for her rushed method of securing her charge- “five feet drop to the floor on my first bank, oughta be just what that chest wound needs. For God’s sake, I’ll do it!”

He had a cold sort of fury to him Maureen found obnoxiously potent, and she felt a judgment rise in her for his obvious haste in wanting to get out of there. To his credit, when the planes did go by and everyone hit the ground, he was still standing yanking on the straps to secure the top bunk. Bullets punctured the side of the plane and riddled it, tiny specks of light flooding into the dark hold. One man was grazed as he lay in there.

“John!” Cleven warned again after they’d gone by.

“I know, I know damnit.” Egan snapped back from yards away, “There’s just not enough corpsmen -let me finish my damn job.”

“By the time you finish yours I won’t be able to finish mine.” Cleven retorted and the obvious finally occurred to Maureen -perhaps it was not his own safety that preoccupied him but the fragile capability of his riddled plane being able to evacuate once full. That, was indeed, his job. Still, such sentiments expressed as they were from the shelter of the cockpit and from a man who favored a silk blue neck scarf identical to the shade of his eyes, rankled Maureen.

The returning buzz of the Japanese fighters coming back around only cemented her futile rage. Her arms were aching and the sand caught at her boots and her mouth was dry with dust and there were so many, so, so many more left to help. Ensign Smith had been called away to assist with lifting another, and Maureen was knelt beside the man they’d managed onto a stretcher, doing her damndest to find how many bullets were embedded in his left leg and how deep the shrapnel was on his right. There was so much blood and filth it was impossible to tell and Andy, as his name was, couldn’t give her much help besides informing her it hurt like hell and she sure was a sight for sore eyes.

“Egan! At your three o’clock!” There was Cleven again.

Maureen grinned back at Andy and forced it to stay on her face as the buzz of the approaching fighters grew imminent and the dreadful thwump of machine gun fire thudded into the earth yards up the beach. It hit the section of the dead first, a further injury and dishonor. Maureen felt a lump in her throat at the realization she had no one near to help her lift this stretcher and that Andy himself hadn’t a usable leg to spare.

“Go.” her patient told her with a clear look of realization on his face as the leaden spatter of strafing began to elicit responses from those wounded men still alive enough to react.

“No.” The refusal came out of her mouth about as naturally as taking the next breath.

A shadow threw over them for a second and Andy’s facial expression grew surprised, but, stubbornly focused on her patient’s face, Maureen assumed it was the plane passing by at last and chose not to spend her last seconds watching what was going to kill her. “Ensign Kendeigh, lift.” Major Cleven’s voice was so close so suddenly it spooked her flat on her backside until she saw him, squatting down and casting a shadow at the head of the stretcher, poles gripped in both hands, ready to hoist. She scrambled to the foot and took the wood in hand, lifting for the twentieth time that day and running towards the plane.

Time was slow and fast all at once. Cleven’s shadow had come before even the first fighter. But as they ran it zipped by, bullets flinging up sand into their eyes, a near miss. The second one was close behind and as they ran near to the wings, they saw no room was left under them, as crowded as an awning at Coney Island during the height of summer.

Maureen squatted fast and lowered the foot of the stretcher, feeling Cleven mimick her movements behind her. Before she could turn ‘round and enact her training, there their pilot was, body draped over the battered Marine captain, his back as stalwart and protective as the wings of his plane. Maureen threw herself to the ground as well, propping herself over Andy’s battered legs. Together they made a turtle shell of sorts and, damned to be caught cringing when death took her, Maureen kept her eyes open and stared back at Gale Cleven’s gentle face as the -thud-thud-thud- passed them, a micro expression of assurance twitching his mouth and eyes as death passed over.

Who needed to look at the sky when you could find God in those eyes his mother gave him?

For as long as she lived, Maureen would never forget the gust of his spearmint scented breath on her face, the first sensation she registered as soon as the planes were past and they yet remained, alive, locked together above a man they’d both risked dying for.

“Major, you shouldn’t’ve.” Andy’s rough voice spoke Maureen’s own dazed sentiments as they straightened up, Cleven picking up his fallen aviators from the sand, “You gotta fly us outta here, you die an’we’re all sitting ducks.”

“Eh, that’s why we have co-pilots, Skipper.” Cleven grinned before glancing back at the sky, his face morphing into anything but carefree.

“Is that how Lt. DeMarco feels?” Maureen teased wearily.

“I’d never presume to know how Benny Demarco feels.” Cleven replied levelly but the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement, “Ensign Kendeigh, give me a task.” he demanded.

“Sir-“

“I want us outta here in ten.” His tone held no room for argument, “What’s somethin’ even a dumb pilot can manage? Egan!” He yelled as the Lieutenant Commander approached them at a jog, his dark face the picture of rage for the men in his care being further hurt. “Out in ten.”

“Not gonna happen, still got supplies to distribute-“ Egan was visibly inscenced.

“-one more pass on my plane and we’re not gettin’ up. Look at that back wheel” Cleven replied, nodding at the deflating tire. “Hand me your shit, what’re we supplyin?”

“Aren’t you queasy for needles?” Egan balked, finding time for teasing despite himself.

“Hand me the damn syrettes.” Cleven stuck his hand out.

“You're under Candy’s orders.” Egan stipulated, pointing to Maureen and Cleven nodded.

“Yup, and we leave in ten.”

“Okey Buck, go, go, go.”

The nurses that had gone before them had tagged and labeled each, making it easy for Maureen and Major Cleven to squat along the rows and complete what help could be given. Her other companions were doing the same, each staggered at a few yards and assisted by Corpsmen and pharmacists. And despite the tension from the strafing and the dismal prospect of having to leave so many behind, the hum of chatter soon picked up again on the beach.

“Shit, shit, shit, no-I hate needles!” Marty, eighteen years old but with eyes that had seen a little too much, bore his dressing with tired stoicism until Cleven pulled out the morphine syrette.

“Son,” Gale murmured with barely concealed amusement, “your side looks like a bear cub teethed on it, you’ll be fine. And this’ll help.”

“Don’t ‘son me’ you baby faced glamor boy.” Marty spat back, marine corps superiority coursing through his admittedly impressive veins.

Gale was midway through a good natured snicker at Marty’s venom when the heavy shock of lobbed mortars began to thud the beach again. “Jesus.” the Major sounded more annoyed than surprised and had the wherewithal to place a restraining hand on Marty’s chest as the kid began to scramble up in panic, displacing Maureen’s dressing on his ribs.

“Cleven, they’re chewin’ up our strip!” Demarco yelled to them from the cockpit and sure enough, craters were beginning to form at the end of their taxi-able stretch of beach.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave Major!” Marty suddenly clutched at Cleven and the Major had to wrench his arm free. “Calm down, private, you’re on a stretcher.” he then ducked his head as he moved round to seize the poles, “And if there’s one thing you should know,” he went on in a low murmur just for Marty’s benefit, “it’s that Doc Egan doesn’t waste his stretchers on dead men.”

Carrying Marty’s stretcher to the plane was Maureen’s last jog down the beach. She ran up the cargo ramp and Cleven was after her, handing over the task of racking the private into a bunk to one of the nurses before sternly ordering a path for himself through the crowded belly up to his cockpit. Demarco had the full radio system on, the better to communicate with the nursing personnel as they prepared for take off, and everyone aboard could hear his exasperated greeting as his reckless officer took his seat.

“You really game enough to try to get this Goony off the ground with less than a thousand feet of strip?” Benny’s broadcasted doubt made most nurses pause in their work and Maureen met Andy’s eye from the third bunk halfway along the plane wall.

“I thought he said that’s why they have co-pilots.” Andy joked to her quietly.

“Mm,” she agreed mischievously, “I guess co-pilots are one thing, co-Clevens are another.”

“Should find a way to mass produce.” Andy sighed, “War would be over in five seconds.”

Gale Cleven hadn’t even refuted Demarco’s concern verbally and already the crew shrugged it off, if Major Cleven couldn’t get them off Hell Island then no one could, and that was that.

“John Egan, get your ass onboard, it’s wheels up.” Cleven’s yell out the window blasted through the radio, too, and the girls grinned at each other -Major Egan wasn’t one to get bossed about. But, as if to challenge everything they knew about life and their own superior, mere seconds later, John Egan was hopping up into the belly of Cleven’s plane with his empty sack dangling and sweaty hair in disarray. “We’ll be back Kenny!” he yelled to the young pharmacist’s mate left on the sand as the cargo door was hastily wrenched shut by Brady.

“Honey I’m home.” Egan yelled up to the front and Demarco’s snicker echoed along the walls of the tin belly.

“Everybody stow your gear,” Cleven’s order came through, the pounding vibration of nearby mortars shuddering the plane even more than the engine’s revving, “we’re gettin’ outta here now. S’gonna be bumpy.”

“That’ll be one word for it.” Demarco snarked, “Death by bumps.”

The human cargo in the plane, those not groaning or insensible, let up a unanimous chuckle. It helped to have been to hell and back, a quick death as a plane failed to get air and plowed instead into a sand bank was hardly the worst prospect these men had faced.

“Believe, Benny, believe.” Maureen could hear Cleven’s soft smile in his voice as the wheels began to roll.

Brady, their engineer, navigator and the lone crewman besides the pilots aboard this transport, kindly manhandled Maureen to a seat between his legs on the rattling floor beside Egan’s built-in desk, his hand fisted in the back of her jumpsuit collar like she was a kitten. They kicked their legs out together and braced as they gained speed and the plane began to jostle into the milder craters at an ever more intense pace.

Shell fragments made a series of charming bangs off the side of the wing nearest her and Maureen could hear Brady whispering behind her in repetition “God spare the oxygen, God spare the oxygen, God spare-“

“50-“ Demarco’s countdown was unfortunately broadcasting like some morbid game announcer and Maureen could see Egan’s jaw ticking in stress under the harsh overhead lights.

There was a terrible blast in front, the sound of shattering glass or metal and a jarring shudder went through the plane, “Damnnit.” Cleven hissed but the acceleration remained.

“You hit?”

“No. Read me, Benny-“

“80-“ Demarco obligingly resumed counting.

“C’mon Buck.” breath gusting on Maureen’s neck behind her, as Brady had begun to direct his prayers to the Major now and as if in answer, the stomach swooping feeling of flight took over them seconds later as the cargo plane let out a mighty roar of strained endurance and lifted with a wobble that had more than a few bunks puking their guts out. There’d be over five hours to clean the plane floor and attend to housekeeping if they could just level out and stay up long enough to get out of range.

Down the way from them Egan was still seated, one hand holding aloft a not yet hung plasma bottle and the other gripping a support bar. But his head was starting to nod like a dancer keeping pace with the band’s ever growing tempo. The engines had a beat, if you’d been personal with a plane long enough to pick it up, and Maureen paid attention to Egan’s stippling fingers on the cross bar as they mounted and mounted, little bursts of enemy gunnery causing a comparatively mild wobble to the plane body every few seconds. She figured a veteran like Brady would know when it was safe to let her go; judging by the grip on her collar he was still highly dubious of their lasting success.

“Fighters, -everyone brace.” Cleven’s voice warned about as cooly as if he was pointing out the drip of ice cream slipping down a cone.

“Ice man.” Andy praised from his bunk to the agreement of his companions as the fighter zipped by without so much as a shudder from Cleven’s steering.

Plenty of the passing bullets had punctured the belly and one man got a direct hit. “Candy!” Egan commanded from his place checking the unfortunate man’s pulse, “Go remind Buck that we haven’t got the oxygen to go full bomber, he’s gotta keep low and -Candy! When ya come back, time to start throwin’ on blankets. Brady, get our pumps going. This is as steady as it’ll get.”

“You got it, commander.”

More than a little sure her mission was more provoking than necessary, Maureen still obeyed and followed Brady up the length of the plane and towards his electrical station, then past it to poke her head between the pilot’s seats.

“Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise, getting car sick, kiddo?” Demarco joked, “Hey, I get it, I’d find it hell back there with no windows to look out.”

Their front window was partially shattered and the metal on Cleven’s side was gnarled.

“Those mortars obligingly made a few.” Maureen joked back.

“Anybody hurt?” Cleven asked, and to her surprise, he turned from his panel to look at her with unmasked concern.

A joke was ready made there about everyone quite literally being shot to hell but she sensed he’d not appreciate it and following some uninterpreted impulse of desiring his good opinion, she hardly wished to repay his earnestness with flippancy. “Only one.”

“How bad?”

“He looked -dead.” Maureen admitted. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man moving past him but she’d seen Egan’s treatment of the body and it wasn’t promising.

Cleven’s jaw worked overtime at the news and something snapped in his mouth, followed by a soft curse from lips too full and soft to always be so stern. Maureen thought he may have broken a tooth with all that tension but he spit out two halves of a blooded toothpick instead. It fell to his pant leg.

“Major Cleven, sir, you’re bleeding.” It had drawn Maureen’s attention to his wet lap.

“That’s what I said.” Demarco agreed.

“It’s somebody else’s.” Cleven shook his head.

“You know if you pass out on me-“ Demarco warned, completely ignoring Cleven’s denial.

“-that’s why we’ve got co-pilots.” Cleven finished for him with a maddening smirk that made Benny Demarco throw his hands up.

“Can you check him?” he asked, “I mean -you are a nurse!”

“What? Hell no!” Major Cleven spooked for the first time all day at the suggestion, glancing quickly from his reddened trousers, behind him to Maureen Kendeigh, and back again. “I’m fine.” he declared in a firm tone that dettered her almost as much as the challenge of getting over the instruments and a steering column to pull down his pants and look. “Ensign Kendeigh, was there a purpose to your visit?” He redirected, resolutely ignoring Demarco’s unabated concerns.

“Yes sir,” she replied, meekly as she could, “Doc Egan asked me to remind you that you’re not flying a bomber. To mind the oxygen, sir. And that it’s cold.”

Cleven let out a mirthless little laugh. “We’re full of holes Ensign, of course it’s cold.”

“I know sir.”

“Yeah, ‘course you know,” his eyes lightened for a moment and Maureen almost deluded herself he was being chummy when he murmured next, “you’re smart like that. Tell the Lieutenant Commander I’ll keep her nice and low, so low the Jap navy gunners can blow the floor out without a sweat.”

“Much obliged, Major.” Maureen chirped, pleased to have been trusted with a bit of morbid humor -it was the truest test of being taken seriously a woman could hope for in the service.

“Thank you, Ensign.” And with that she was dismissed.

By the time she got to the belly again her assigned job of doling out blankets had long been accomplished by her fellows. Brady had the place lit up like an operating theater and there was the added drone of medical equipment added to Cleven’s engines. She liked to think of them as his now, Maureen realized, a tiredness seeping in now that the rush was over, now there was just six hours of the same until they touched down again in safety. His engines stayed with them, consistent, steady, dependable yet a little absent, just like the man himself.

“Major Cleven said he’ll keep her low, Doc.” Maureen reported dutifully but whatever humor Egan once held when sending her to the cockpit was now gone, a bloody mess on his hands as he and Ensign Dormer worked over a head wound.

“Good.” Egan gritted out, “I need a monitor on vitals and I need new gloves, c’mon Candy, c’mon!”

The hours passed like this, no way of telling time in the artificially lit tube of metal. Some men needed a cup of water and a kind smile, others required every bit of grit and intelligence to keep even the faintest pulse discernible above the hum. When one of them passed away in the anonymity of the top bunk, Egan didn’t bother to cover his face, the man looked to be sleeping and it suited the morale better if his fellows were not disillusioned on that score.

It was impossible not to think for a split second on the unfairness of it all -live to be finally evacuated and only die before getting safe. To think how someone else less tore up might’ve been given that bunk and survived the trip.

“Can’t dwell on it.” Ida Brady, their headmistress back in Manila, had said -and she had been right. But seeing her brother Lt. Brady cross himself now in recognition of a soul passed did something to Maureen’s own spirit, a grieving sort of fury possessed her which matched Egan’s own as they worked on the next unsalvageable man until he became a likely contender for seeing his wife and kids again.

She had been up for nineteen hours, flying for ten of those, nursing for four. She was bone tired and yet there was always someone to be tended and the thought of leaving one of these poor men without even the slightest of their needs met felt impossible. Maureen didn’t even think to pause or lag in her expertise, neither did the nurses around her and up there at the front somewhere, Cleven’s eyes were sharp and focused as ever, she knew it, and knowing it brought a calm over her that made her sympathize with Egan’s own superstitious preference for the man.

Brady came through with coffee, an abnormal duty he picked up as a result of trusting no one else with the process or the electrical requirements to make it. “Figured our pilots could use it.” he explained before passing out a passel of paper cups to the girls filled with the peppy stuff, belying his practical excuse, before taking two to the cockpit.

He came back out with a funny look on his face- “Benny says he needs a pan.”

“What the hell for?” Egan balked.

“Or a condom.” Brady dutifully amended the petition.

“I repeat -what the hell for?”

“They’ve drank a lotta coffee sir.”

“Any of you fellas got condoms?” Egan asked his patients with a laugh and got a series of predictable replies. “Gale Cleven sure as hell don’t.”

There were light hearted moments like that, many of them in fact, but six hours of flying with wounds as bad as the ones they were tending was no joke, there were bits of laughter and there were times of quiet and there were restless sleepers whose terrors not even morphine could dim.

“Forty minutes out.” Major Cleven had gone quiet over the coms for so long it was like hearing from God again when he came on, gentle and steady.

Those they couldn’t get comfortable were at the height of their groaning as the cold and the endless buzz got to them. Helplessly the nurses offered pillows and water and irrigated the burns with saline and checked needle positioning. Maureen had taken to charting, something too often neglected in high stress environments but something that proved terribly crucial as soon as they landed and handed over their charges to a new set of professionals. On the left side of the plane she held one man’s wrist after another and noted their pulse. On the right side she did the same, one man’s left hand after another, wedding band or sans wedding band, in her notes it was only ever:

“94, 57, 88, 91, 63, 82”

The lights had been dimmed, hopes were some rest could be gotten by those in any shape to manage sleep. It made for a drowsy atmosphere, only the flashlight in her teeth illuminating the veins under her fingers and her co-workers faces, Egan’s face was a shiny mess of freckles in the torch light despite the chill, exhaustion seeping out of him but not a hint shown in his workmanship. It made the dull chorus of groans in the dark all the more ominous and Brady remarked to Smith on one pass that maybe they should have brought a record player.

“Twenty minutes out.” Maureen and every other soul on board was living for those little updates from Cleven.

Men told to hang in there and not die before they could be gotten to surgery suddenly had a goal in mind and the suspense was growing brutal. Stashed and stowed, secured and checked, landing preparations were already done and it was last minute tending before taking seats. Maureen found herself nearly piddling by one young private, trying to soothe him with a washcloth as sepsis fever wracked him when over the intercom came the oddest lulling hum, like a far off jazz intro.

It was too soft initially to be recognized but the surety picked up, something about the tone unmistakably belonging to their pilot, his hums about as characteristic of him as his laconic speech.

“Is that whadda friend we have in Jesus?” Demarco’s voice overtopped the gentle melody.

John Egan was wheezing in a chuckle beside her as Maureen shook her own head in disbelief.

“No,” Gale murmured, humming paused only briefly, “it’s ‘Leaning on the everlasting arms’ -you fish eater.”

“You gotta be jokin’.” Benny was wheezing too but Cleven was back to his gentle humming, words actually forming this time and filling the tired plane with a timbre that could put Bing Crosby out of a job.

“What have I to dread, what have I to fear

Leaning on the everlasting arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

It worked, the sickening drop in elevation was -if not noticed- bravely pushed aside for a hymn sing, Brady leading from the back and Cleven from the front. And for a brief moment, men from Kansas to Florida, Oregan to Rhode Island, strapped in a flying coffin of flickering souls, were seated back in the pews of their childhood, trusting something larger than themselves. Even if that something was Gale Cleven’s steady hands or the justness of a cause worth dying for or God Almighty, it was something big and above the pain of right now.

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

The Navy station at Gaum had a runway, in fact there were five Cleven could have picked at whim, and there was no feeling so beautifully civilized and sure as the smooth roll of plane tires on asphalt after what they’d just left. “Flaps at quarter!” and they were slowing, the deflated back wheel only causing some slight disturbance, and then they were stopped.

That bizarre stillness settled again as the engines were cut. Egan gave Maureen a smile so soft and telling that her heart about seized in realization -they’d managed it. “Well that’s us.” he repeated for the second time that day, voice gone raspy with cigarettes and fatigue. “Welcome to American soil, boys.”

There were so many lights outside the cargo door, searing white flashes in the nighttime, jeeps and ambulances and all manner of medical personnel at the ready, it was overwhelming in the exact opposite way the beach at Iwo had been. Maureen hopped down onto the tarmac with Ensign Mann, ready and prepared to stay with her charges until the transition could be made. Clipboard in hand and kit on her back, she’d go in with her select five until they’d been admitted and charted meticulously in the various wards.

“How’s it feel to make history, Miss?!” -some of those lights, Maureen realized with a dull throb behind her eyes, were flashbulbs. Journalists were thick as thieves, snapping and hollering, others respectfully keeping a distance, “You're the first woman to step foot in a combat zone-“ Maureen kept her hand on her stretcher even as she watched Cleven limping over to a jeep and piling in after Demarco. Her mouth set in a sour line of suspicion regarding his claims of being unscathed. He’d be in interrogation and she in the wards for the next hour, she’d have to find out later.

A couple of hours later John Egan was sat with Captain Crosby in the administration office, nothing but a small alcove at the front of the ward, his legs spread wide in his chair and good scotch whisky being slurped from a cleverly injected orange while reviewing the charts. Croz was a whizz at this, meticulous and careful to a fault and John adored him for it because men who gave a damn were scarce after this many years of grueling loss and, also, because it allowed himself to wind down sooner than he was technically free to do so.

“Two men lost, that’s -that’s still good odds.” Crosby couldn’t manage an upbeat tone, he felt those two lives as deeply as Egan did, but facts were facts and over all, this experimental mission had proven beyond successful. Now to tell that to the families of the two men now being carted to the morgue instead of surgery and salt baths.

“Yeah, my girls were Trojans out there.” Bucky sucked his teeth, the squint in his eyes beginning to relax with a boozy sort of calmness. “Speakin’ of Trojans! —Candy!”

Maureen approached the little alcove at a tired gait, not above reprimanding Egan for his loud voice with all those occupied beds just feet away. “It’s late, Commander.” she reminded with hinting softness that only made him crane his head back and grin sloppily at her.

“It is, it is.” he agreed, reaching up to pat her arm and she squinted at the smell of whiskey, Crosby’s sudden and transparent busyness with the charts confirmed her suspicions. “You should get some shut eye, Candy! Back at it tomorrow.”

“So should you.” she hinted kindly.

“Mm,” he hummed in negative, “apparently my ‘specialty’ is needed elsewhere before then.”

“And so the booze?” she struck back and Crosby’s pen briefly dragged along his tidy line in shock at her daring.

“Steady hands, Candy darlin.” Egan responded, lifting two sticky palms up and showing, indeed, not a tremor. “I’ve got a surgery in less than an hour -working with Brady’s old sister, of all people, the one who snuck out of Manila after?- anyways, she’s 90 pounds of spit and vinegar. Starved for two years, but she takes three weeks off and a round of anti-parasitics and she’s all ‘let me back at ‘em.’ Hell of a dame. Anyway, surgery with her. I need this.”

“Well,” Maureen Kendeigh knew when to let go of a fight with a man who’d as yet never failed her or anyone else, despite his habits, “I can confirm it does nothing for your eyes bags.”

“Kiss ‘em better?”

“Not in my purview, sir.” she couldn’t help but smile, “Perhaps lieutenant Brady will be obliging?”

“She scares me.” he objected.

“And I don’t?”

“Only in the ways I like, Candy Darlin’.” he insited.

“Ah Major!” Crosby’s strained greeting drew their attention away from this over rehearsed banter and Egan straightened up fast upon sight of his friend.

“Buck!”

“John.” Gale Cleven was in the same uniform he’d been in for hours, flight jacket undone and scarf hanging loose. He must have come straight from interrogation and standing in front of the administrator's desk he was turning his cover over and over in his hands. Maureen was certain that were she to devote two hours a day to brushing her hair she could never bernish it to the golden brilliance that twelve hours of flight-sweat gave his. On a more concerning note, his was pale as death except for those lips. “I came to check in on everybody. Load of journalists out there.” He thumbed back behind him at the public area, “Mostly curious about you, Ensign.”

“Historical.” Egan affirmed and sent Maureen a sly look as she sighed over the fuss being made of her mission.

“I’m one of twenty.” she reminded.

“I hope you were nice about her.” Egan goaded his buddy and to her confusion, Gale flinched as if that were a remarkably successful mode of attack.

“O-of course.” he frowned severely and Maureen had a desperate urge to thumb those lines away. “I told them the truth.” he defended, mildly heated.

“Which is?” Egan was enjoying this and neither Maureen nor Harry Crosby could seem to puzzle out why.

“They did remarkably.” Cleven didn’t budge.

“Better than you thought.” Egan prodded.

“Yeah. Admittedly, far better than I thought. Jeeze, John.”

“But were you nice about her?” Egan insisted.

“What?”

“You said they were particular about Candy.” Egan said, “So what did you say?”

Maureen grew concerned that with such a level of fluster in the Major’s face not a stitch of blood seemed able to raise a blush.

“How ‘bout you read it in the paper.” Gale replied, coolly mean before clearing his throat and straightening up, back in possession of himself. “I came to see how many -how’d we do?”

“Twenty eight.” Egan confirmed.

“Outta thirty?” Cleven asked for confirmation.

“Yes sir.” Crosby answered him.

“Alright.” The Major accepted that, hat still whirling in his hands, a strange contrast to his perfectly contained posture. It drew Maureen’s eye to his hips and that deep red stain running down his pant leg.

“How’s your hip Major?” she asked, seeking to break the silence before Egan did so with some new and regrettable subject.

That did bring a flush and a sheen of sweat broke out on a face Maureen knew would be feverishly hot were she to touch it. He looked peeky, truth be told. “It’s fine, ma’am.”

“Hold up,” Egan stood from his chair and leaned over the desk to glare blearily at Gale’s trousers. “You're hit.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t keep bleedin’ like that.“

“Well, mine do.”

“Hey, I don’t go tellin’ you how to fly your planes-“

“-you do though.”

“-so you don’t go tellin’ me what’s a scratch and what’s a wound. It’s still drippin’, that makes it a wound.”

Cleven moved his boot to the side impatiently and only succeeded in proving his friend’s point as a line of fresh blood smeared the white tile. “I was gonna just -“

“-What?”

“-Clean it in the shower.” Cleven sighed, defeated but with an edge that suggested he might yet do it .

“Oh, just gonna rinse mortar fragments outta of your thigh, yeah?”

“It’s not that bad. Dunno if it really got hit.” He protested, “Might be scratched.”

“Or you might have a piece of your instrument panel snuggled up to an artery.” John affirmed sarcastically. “We’re goin’ up again tomorrow. I need you fit, I need you good.”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna get checked.” Egan commanded and Gale looked back at the double doors leading to freedom and a pack of journalists and sighed. “You’re on the ground now, flyboy, I call the shots.”

“Ok.” Cleven mumbled, “If you’re so goddamn eager to pants me, do it.”

“I am, I am but I’ve got even better things to do.” Egan rounded the desk and flung an arm around Gale in parting, bringing him in close despite Cleven’s stiff necked antipathy that hid only the deepest seated endearment, “Like putting a left lung back where it should be and trying to get Lt. Brady to smile at me.” Egan expounded, letting go and beginning to actually leave, much to Cleven's sudden concern, “Which is, naturally, on the left -the left lung, that’s where it goes.” Egan went on.

“Wait, aren’t you gonna-?” Cleven called after him.

“Pantsing is more of Ensign Kendeigh’s purview.” John replied cheerfully. “Don’t look so appalled, I'm sure she’s seen smaller.”

“John!” Major Cleven and Maureen both inflected his name like twin, scandalized parrots.

“You deserve each other.” John laughed, “Ensign, do your duty.”

“This is the kinda behavior that has you gettin’ write ups for bein’ a terror to your nurses!” Gale growled after him in remonstrance but it did nothing to slow Egan’s tactical withdrawal.

“Bulshit, everybody on this ward loves me!” John dared to claim even as he was berated on his way out by more than a few wounded marines for being a little too jovial at two in the morning.

Cleven didn’t wait for the doors to fully close on Egan or for Maureen to collect her professional demeanor and clipboard before he was leaning over Captain Crosby at his desk, large hands splayed on the fresh paperwork, assuming the pose of a supplicant before a lawyer. “Harry, Captain, do me a favor this once and take a look fo-“

“-Major Cleven sir,” Harry Crosby interjected levelly and with the utmost respect, “I’m an administrator.”

Maureen composed herself, the sight of this stoic man losing a grip on himself due to the prospect of lost modesty was surprising, it was also motivating to find her own professionalism and put him at ease. “Major, if you’d follow me?” she nodded her head towards the ward and started clopping down the dim aisle toward one of the last empty beds. He didn’t need to lay down for it but she needed her instrument tray, an isolated light and, if his shyness was so severe, drawing the sectioned curtains would hardly be amiss.

When she arrived and turned round to instruct him, he was obediently there to obey. Something about that dogged respect for authority he possessed and his compliance with her own profession filled her with an odd protectiveness and she motioned him into the space gently, tugging the curtain closed behind him. He was taller than she realized, made more apparent as he took the initiative and tugged off the bulky weight of his flight jacket, methodically laying it out in a half fold on the bed, nothing but a lean line of him left in olive green.

Lanky, her mother would call him, a long drink of water. He looked all of twenty four, suddenly, soft and in need of a meal. “Your leg, yes?” she reaffirmed, jotting it down in the chart. She had found that men found it easier to talk of injuries when she wasn’t making eye contact.

“Yes.” His voice was low as the grave and hushed too, “And -I think maybe my hip.”

Maureen’s eyes flicked to the place in question, recalling how she had suspected his lap in general on the plane. “Right.” she made the customary jot down of the detail and then an arguably unnecessary note beside it, the longer to give him a chance to cool himself. “Your pants Major, if you would.” she filled in the date and the time, cursory information so as not to be idle while he undid his belt, the clank of the flat uniform clasp deafening in the space where he seemed to hold his breath.

She was used to discerning the moment when it was safe to look up. Often there was a brief period after the sound of pants hitting the floor where one might have the misfortune of catching a man adjusting himself to a preferred side. She was prepared to give him that moment in peace but his voice called her to attention.

“Is this?-“ he didn’t finish his sentence and she looked up to see his vague gesture as he stood in briefs and boots, jacket hung open, too.

“Yes I think we can manage with those on.” she smiled reassuringly, discerning his query. His skivvies were blood stained on the right and clinging to him but the wounds appeared to be above and below their coverage, “I’ve always got scissors if need be.”

“Scissors.” He repeated with a nod, teeth savagely dug into his lip.

“Jacket off, this could get messy.” She ordered and something about her decisiveness seemed to soothe him like she knew it would, he shrugged it off gracefully and laid it beside the sheepskin, and yanked at his tie to relive his bobbing throat. “Please, sit Major.”

He sat down on the bed, a little stiffly, and she reached above her to turn on the large overhead lamp, shining it down on them both and in the harsh glow of it she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen something so beautiful as Gale Cleven’s blushing face fixed upturned towards her own.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, looks like.” she attempted to make conversation and got a mere nod instead, once she stepped nearer, his eyes devoutly focused themselves somewhere to the right of them, on the floor.

She rinsed the area first, wiping away the crusted blood until his smooth, lightly haired skin came into view, little jagged tears visible in it with small fragments embedded. It wasn’t bad at all, but deep enough to keep it bleeding.

The touch of cool water made him jolt in surprise. What it didn’t do was make him shrink. She saw his hands curl, white knuckled around the mattress pad beside him as she gently dug out the metal, and she had a suspicion it wasn’t from the pain.

As unabashedly as her profession had taught her, Maureen tugged up his boxer leg until she was satisfied she’d uncovered the last little shard and did what was necessary, reaching atop the wet fabric and moving his heavy member up and away. He about bucked off the table at that mere touch of positioning and Maureen backed away out of pure animal instinct to avoid getting reflexively kneed.

“I'm sorry!“ he rushed out, his chest suddenly tight like an elephant were sat on it and his blood thudded in his ears, “Ensign, I apologize, I don’t know why-“

“It’s fine.” she insisted, stunned and pitying at the realization she probably was the first woman to touch him this way. To touch him at all. “I’m sorry this requires it.” she admitted.

“Please don’t -“ he took a large breath and began again, actually managing to meet her eyes out of sheer willpower, “-I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re doing your job, i don’t know why I get- it’s unprofessional of me, I'm sorry.” he repeated firmly and straightened his spine as if he could discipline a most human reaction away.

“It’s not at all uncommon.” She whispered, feeling compelled to be unprofessional herself if only to make him stop berating himself, “We nurses deal with this all the time, quite normal after combat, particularly.” Maureen paused for a moment and weighed the joke on the tip of her tongue as she dabbed iodine on a cotton ball and prepared to go back into the dreaded zone of his thigh crease, “It’s to be expected, the manual says; your blood is quite literally UP.”

Stood there in suspense between his legs with the iodine swab waiting mid air, Maureen waited until she saw a flicker of amusement twinkle his sad expression and a snicker escape that sober mouth. “Tell me about it.” he rasped, exasperated at his own body. “Every damn time.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she teased, bringing the swab down and ignoring the sizable jolt his whole body and appendage gave at this dab to his thigh or the way his belly caved in with his deep intake of breath, “I’m telling you it’s normal.”

“Damn, you are sweet.” He declared suddenly with gut wrenching emphaticism that finally broke Mauren’s own precarious composure. “Not just to me,” he hastened to add in response to her melting expression so close to him, “to everybody out there. You were incredible today.” He paused and Maureen swallowed hard and tried with great difficulty to find the capability to thank him for the compliment. Before she could, he added with youthful honesty, “But you are -sweet to me.”

“Right back at you. Major.” she insisted, daring to stay that close and look back into those eyes she thought would be her last sight on earth for a second there on the beach earlier. His shuddering breath suggested he was recalling it, too.

“It’s nice to have friends in the crucible with ya.” he explained and Maureen felt her heart glow.

“Your poor hands.” she whispered, dropping her swab to gather his shaky hands in hers, the large palms engulfed her own even as she tried to cradle them. Never a hint of this anxiety while flying them, yet here he was shivering with it afterwards. “Probably blood loss.” she gave him an out, some men weren’t ready for talk of flight exhaustion or strained nerves.

“Then why’s it wasting all I’ve got to spare on…that?” He actually managed to joke back and Maureen actually allowed herself to laugh -god help her, she laughed at a man’s joke about an ill timed erection.

“John would say something about hope springing eternal, right about now.” she wheezed even as he groaned, his hands still placidly jittering in her grip, “I enjoyed your singing, by the way.”

“Mm, yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “you didn’t see the hole in the wing or the busted flaps all the way home. That landing didn’t promise to be as pretty as it was.”

“But it was pretty.”

“Yeah. Not too bad.”

“A gorgeous landing.” she insisted and his eyes started to water under the harsh light. Impulsively, and in an act of unprofessionalism she would have never recognized before today, Maureen Kendeigh drew his hands close to her chest and pressed a kiss to his lined forehead. The way he sagged against her in a shuddering lunge suggested her impulse was a good one. “Doc Egan insists whiskey is good for this.” she whispered into hair that smelled so strongly of his musk and the wool of his cap she about buckled from it.

“Mm, but is it g—good for him?” he responded rhetorically, a gust of moist breath against the open throat of her flight jacket, his usual irony still remained with only a hiccup of nerves interrupting his speech. Maureen wasn’t sure anymore, what saved a life, well, it had saved a life, so why demonize it? She was here to force things to keep living in environments so hostile wildflowers gave up. Some men needed their booze and some men needed to be held in the hospital ward at two in the morning until their shakes calmed. As if he could read her mind, she felt Gale turn his head to the side a little for breath, face still pressed to her chest as he uttered quietly, “This is working. For me.”

“Good.” Nose buried in his hair she took a few measured breaths herself, feeling that odd calm still radiating off him, even as his body was shot to hell and giving off the overtaxed jitters. “You bring people calm, you know that, Major? It’s why Egan picked you for this, deep down, you make a plane load of dying men hang in there. That’s a gift. But when you’ve got a cup you keep pouring out of, it’s bound to go empty. Gotta refill yourself, sometimes, yes?”

“I thought this was blood loss.” Gale replied softly and it took Maureen a beat to recognize the sad mischief in his blue eyes.

“Alright. I’ll speak for myself.”She conceded with a huff.

“You must be exhausted.” he noted, suddenly as sober as they come.

“A little tired.” she admitted, questioning the way she instinctively tightened her hold on the back of his neck as he stiffened to pull away. Entirely unprofessional, she wasn’t a medicine spoon or a needle, he had every right to pull away.

“So what would fill your cup back up?” he asked in that low voice that sent a million varied undertones crashing through her, whether he intended it or not.

Too tired to be much more than plainly honest, or as honest as a woman should be with a half undressed patient cradled to her chest, Maureen admitted the half of it, which in many ways was the whole, “This is working for me.”she repeated his own words to him and watched them take effect.

Like a sudden reanimation had occurred, Gale Cleven untangled their hands with emphatic surety and then, in an act of kindness Maureen never expected, brought them to her shoulders and tugged her down for a solid embrace. “A hug and a nap then.” He prescribed, his solid shoulder beneath her cheek and his legs parted for her to step between. Only the bandages kept him from bleeding further on her.

“Not a nap,” she smiled, an inexplicable warmth and calmness flooding through her in his hold, his back was broad and lean under her hands, “we should go to sleep.”

“No such thing as going to sleep in the military, Ensign.” Gale murmured, “Sleep -that’s what happens when your mama tucks you in and you’ve got a whole night to waste. Naps. That’s what we take.”

“Alright, a nap, and a hug.”

“Alright.”

“You know,” Maureen dared with a little smile as some part of her slotted back in place and gave her the boldness to be a little too much, “there’s this thing people came up with ages ago where you hug and take naps at the same time.”

Pink cheeked but with a jaw clench that had defeated warzones, Gale Cleven pulled his head away and gave her a heavy look of admonishment, “Marriage.” he stated unamused.

Well, she had meant sex, and she wanted it, always had after danger -but Cleven had a point too.

“Uh, yes, that’s the most common-“

“-If I were to marry you, Maureen Kendeigh,” his voice took on a teasing lilt that was somehow more devastating than all his commanding earnestness, “there’d be no nap taking.”

“Oh.” A single utterance was about all she could articulate in the face of that smirk and gentle refusal. Both flattering and painful all at once. “Well, that’s not for us then.”

“No.” he pondered, full lips twitching downwards in disappointment, “At least, sounds like a decidedly post-war endeavor. No naps.” he clarified.

“Oh -yes.” she caught on, well used to the code of superstition all around her that didn’t allow men to spell out any sort of lasting, long term hope. “A postwar endeavor.” she agreed, never having heard marriage so smartly categorized.

“Uhuh,” his hands trailed up from her ribs to squeeze the sore muscles of her deltoid, “for now -naps. Back up tomorrow.”

“Alright.” she agreed, stepping a small distance back and looking him over, this time his presence didn’t shrink, in fact if anything he expended in the small room and it made her chest ache, “You're alright?” she made sure one last time.

He held his palms flat up and Maureen could attest they were indeed steady, terribly large, too, and his watch on his wrist was careening towards three o’clock. “Looks like it.” he rasped. “But you’re in charge here. Can I go, Ensign?”

Regretfully Maureen nodded, “You’re dismissed, Major.”

When he stood up from the bed he was by necessity in her space, looking down at her rather fearlessly as he yanked up the waist of his trousers and gathered the belt closed around his lean waist. Maureen felt her cheeks burn but couldn’t look away, if she were to glance away from those eyes she might see something even more tempting before he’d secured the fabric.

“Got any more duties after this?” he asked, breaking the moment as he bent to arrange his trouser hems over his boots.

“No.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your billet.”

“For naps.” she clarified cheekily.

“For naps.” he agreed with mirthful vehemence, finger pointed at her with almost paternal caution to not push his patience.

“Do you want your shell fragments?” she rattled them in their dish, the pieces she'd pried from the shallow muscle of his hip.

Cleven paused with his hand on the dividing curtain, shaking his head in amusement, “Give ‘em to Egan,” he suggested with a wicked little smirk, “knowing him he’ll make a talisman out of them or something equally useful.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s life blood, lemme head your thots or screams! Xoxo

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added for my MOTA fics)

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#mota fanfiction #mine #archive #friends in the crucible #Gale Cleven x OC #Buck Cleven x OC #Buck Cleven #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler imagine #masters of the air #Bucky Egan #doc Egan #Maureen Kendeigh #iwo jima #hbo war #john egan #callum turner #Callum Turner fanfiction

[imagines--galore]

#clark kent x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x oc #clark kent #superman x oc #superman x reader #superman x y/n #nightwing x oc #nightwing x reader #nightwing x y/n #young justice #dc #justice league #superman #batman #batfam #nightwing #will turner x y/n #will turner x oc #will turner x reader #will turner #pirates of the carribean x reader #pirates of the carribean at worlds end #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the carribean: dead men tell no tales

[arrthurpendragon]

⌨️ + at wits end

They swayed together with the music as Elizabeth kept one hand gripping the railing and Georgianna continued to fan her face.

Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate's life for me

           Yo, ho, yo, ho, it's a pirate's life

           for me

          drink up me hearties, yo, ho . . .

The sailor from before clamped a hand down on a shoulder of each of the Swann girls, frightening them.  Both Elizabeth and Georgianna gasped with fright before turning to face the old, weathered sailor.

“Quiet there, missies!” The man grumbled, before looking over his shoulder.  Then quickly turning to scout in front of them. “Cursed pirates sail these waters. You want to call 'em down on us?”

Georgianna looked at her sister, wondering if she should tell the man that was exactly what they were trying to do.  But Elizabeth simply looked at the man with wide eyes.  It wasn’t very often that Elizabeth was chastised by someone other than their father and even then it was normally for bickering with Georgianna.  Georgianna elbowed Elizabeth to say something when Lieutenant Norrington approached. 

“Mr. Gibbs,” the lieutenant said with authority as he stepped closer to Mr. Gibbs.  “That will do.”

Mr. Gibbs looked at the lieutenant in exasperation. But the man wasn’t one to back down so easily with a simple command.  “They was singing about pirates! Bad luck to sing about pirates mired in this unnatural fog – mark my words!”

Send me ⌨ + title to one of my fics and I’ll write a sentence for that fic! (This is probably the only way I'll get any writing done right now)

#send me an ask and i'll write a sentence game #oc: georgianna swann #fic: at wit's end #fd: pirates of the caribbean #will turner x oc

[gracehateseggnog]

the alcott ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ will turner x oc

summary: will turner has left minerva's hidden island without as much as a note. the following week, she sees a vision and feels his death on her fingertips. can she find him before it's too late?

pairing: will turner x fem!oc

word count: 6.1k

a/n: minerva is heavily based on morgana le fay's depiction in the mists of avalon book. for some background: she's the ruler of a hidden island off the coast of wales. all of the prayers used are basic pagan prayers with a bit of editing to match her religion, and the welsh is badly translated from google, but has translations of what it was meant to be!

tw: angst, a bit of gore, mentions of infertility and miscarriages.

gif creds: unknown

Minerva awoke the morning after her court’s gathering to an empty bed, save herself. She wept until the late hours of the afternoon, then cursed herself for thinking so foolishly, and dressed herself to protect her handmaidens’ eyes from her poor state.

༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻

“We can work something out!”

Commonly, when Jack Sparrow found himself on the deck of another man’s pirate ship, he was pillaging it and foraging for any gold coins or rum left in the Captain’s Quarters, pulling down flags and replacing it with his own depending on if the boat was as beautiful as his was or not—usually it was not. Now, he stood at starboard, near the plank of the ship, hands bound behind his back and his feet tied together with the same, thick twine. He didn’t dare wriggle and cost blood to be spilt, many Captains, including himself, would roar with anger at the thought of their deck becoming stained with the fruits of their own cruelty, instead, he continued to negotiate, to haggle using his ‘charm’ that nobody truly believed existed and had worked as commonly as he boasted it did in the past, in order to get himself off the ship and back to Wales, where the search for John Callis’ treasure would resume.

Captain Sparrow’s actions were unmistakably unique when standing next to Will Turner, who fought every moment that he could to unwind the rope from around his wrists. His skin was already raw and bruised, bleeding from the friction and staining the twine he was captured with. His struggle had already gained him a deep sword cut against his hairline, blood dripping into his eyes and across his forehead, and a dagger to the stomach, which still hadn’t been released from its embedment in his skin. This treasure had only been trouble since the very beginning, though he supposed the karmatic rules that Minerva believed in had only given him a visit on this day, for all the moments he shared on the island of Cantre'r Gwaelo, according to her philosophies, he was bound to have something bad happen in return, and his capture atop this enemy pirate ship seemed the perfect punishment.

“We’ve got lots to offer!” Jack continued. “Gold, jewelry, a map to a’ old Welsh treasure, some very attractive deckhands—”

“A map, you say?”

Will didn’t miss the twinkle in his Captain’s eye as the pirate opposite him sneered with sudden interest and stepped forward, he was taking the bait Jack had laid out for him. “Yes! Apparently, it’s worth more than both our ships, combined.”

“How much exactly, Sparrow?”

“A couple hundred…”

“A couple hundred what?”

“Gold.”

“Hmph.” The pirate scoffed, “We ain’t lookin’ for gold.”

“You're pirates. Of course you're looking for gold!”

“We’re lookin’ for ‘im.”

With a wandering eye, the pirate turned his gaze to Will, one hand placed firmly on the hilt of his longsword and the other flat against his hip. Many enemies were to be made as a pirate, Will knew that as well as the next person, but there was always a shock when the person angry with The Black Pearl had it out for Will rather than Jack. The pirate eyed him up with a squinting gaze, stepping forward and causing Will to scooch backwards out of instinct to get away, forgetting the iron grip weights tied against his ankles, rubbing back and forth against his skin painfully and making him wince. He didn’t know what to do, truly. Usually, Jack had some sort of exciting negotiation or escape plan ready, and all he would have to do was give Will a look for him to know that they would be in the clear, that his mastermind personality had come to shine once again. But Jack’s face stayed stoic, and he did not dare to look to his left at Will.

He wondered if he should pray, Minerva did, she had done so often, but had never told him that he should, only taught him how. His father wasn’t a Christian man, if he was he would’ve been quite a bad one considering his actions as a pirate, but Minerva wasn’t either, she had beliefs incomparable to the rest of the modern world, beliefs that most on her island believed as well. She had told him that praying would never increase his luck or karmatic value, but often for her, it eased her mind and told her that her Gods, whoever they were, were truly listening. Perhaps it wouldn’t stop him from getting pushed off this boat, but maybe it would convince Minerva’s Gods to take it just a little bit easier on him. In all truth, he had no idea how any of it worked, Christian nor Pagan, but he was willing to give it a try if it meant his life or his death.

‘Mam pob peth, gwylia drosof heno, dal fi yn dy freichiau, tan olau boreuol.’ 

Mother of all things, watch over me tonight,

Hold me in your arms, until the morning light.

Even through thought, Will could not speak Welsh as Minerva did, and butchered nearly every word, but hoped that it was enough to prove his life was worth saving.

“‘is father’s Bootstrap Bill, d’ya know tha’?” The pirate asked, swinging his gaze over to Jack, who widened his eyes at the sudden confrontation, then furrowed his brows. “We ‘eard you was travelling with ‘is kid, Sparrow—”

“Captain—”

“—but we didn’t think ya’d be stupid enough to let ‘im get captured. Again!” The pirate howled with laughter only caused by his own remark, which Will didn’t really find all that funny in the first place.

“He’s not under my jurisdiction, he’s quite the idiot.” Jack then turned to look at Will, his eyes filled with the anger he had nearly trademarked for himself, and Will shrunk down, since the whole altercation was really mostly his fault. “But I’ve got the map to this ol’ treasure, so we can all go on our merry ways with a nice split. Savvy?”

The pirate’s jaw moved slightly to the left. “No. Vesh!”

Will Turner did not get to see who the deckhand Vesh was before a large club was beaten over the back of his head. Pain seared up through his hair only for a moment before his entire vision blacked out, and his mind slipped into the world of painlessness, yet unconsciousness. Jack looked at him with a sense of empathy, knowing all too well the shock of getting hit over the head, and that of the experience of fainting from the impact. The head pirate of the captor ship didn’t waste a moment before pushing him off the ledge of the ship, leaving the ever sinking body of William Turner to plummet to the sands underneath the North Atlantic Ocean. 

༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻

She had stopped counting the days after the first week passed. Will Turner had left the mists without so much as a goodbye, or even the half-decency to leave a note on her bedside table, a gesture she would have greatly appreciated despite his horrendous penmanship. Minerva wanted to believe that her reasoning for ceasing to etch the tally marks of the days passed into anything she could find was simply because he had left and she was so incredibly angry because of it, but she knew the truth was deep inside her, and that truth was that she loved him so deeply the days blended into one another. Her scatteredness of time wasn’t just caused by the mists that separated her from the clocks that ticked away in Europe, but because her eyes were in such a haze she could not think properly for the most part, except for diplomatic reasons, of which hadn’t been addressed in a while. She supposed she looked as miserable as she was.

The dining hall that once seemed so small when it was just Will and her sitting at the end of it, eating their weight in fish had turned into something daunting, somewhere that transformed into a place she felt so small in, not like she owned it as she did. Minerva sat at the head of the table, the foggy light cascading through the stained glass window behind her and creating an ethereal glow around her as she looked at the plate of food in front of her. Even nourishing herself had begun to feel like a chore, and she often felt so grief-stricken for not only herself, but for her people that could not care for themselves without a leader such as herself, and were now stuck dealing with her future predecessor, Conwinna, who was much too young—six and ten, to be exact—but Minerva supposed that she was being offered great experience and allowed the Lady to grieve in peace.

“My Lady.”

Minerva’s head shot up from her stuck gaze on her platter of fish, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite as the figure in front of her was not who called her ‘my Lady’ as an endearing term, just one of her guards that had called her by her correct title. She was surely going mad. “Yes, Sir Gerbaut? What is it you require?”

Sir Gerbaut bowed, then returned to stand tall. “Sovereign Conwinna is requesting your assistance with Elder Apolduc’s family. He has fallen ill and they are requesting the Castle to take him to his final resting place in South Wales.”

“What is there to confuse?” Minerva shook her head, pushing both palms of her hands against the wood of the dining table and standing up, her chair scratching against the stone floors as it moved backwards. “He will need to be escorted by soldiers and our nobleman’s boat. You may escort him, if you so wish. I know he was your mentor for a time.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Sir Gerbaut nodded.

“Is there anything else?”

“Sovereign Conwinna is doing better than you may assume, my Lady.”

“Is that so?”

“She has kept her composure.”

“That is not what makes a Lady of Cantre'r Gwaelo. Composure is not enough, she must know that empathy is not the only emotion one can have, though I am giving it to Elder Apolduc and his family this time.”

“She is only six and ten.”

“I was three and ten, Sir Gerbaut. I have taken ease upon her, which seems to be a mistake now that she is sitting atop my throne, her training and prayers should have started years ago, not now.”

“She is trying her hardest—”

“That is not good enough!” Minerva caught her voice raised in her throat, and settled it just as soon as it had crawled up. If Conwinna could continue her composure through her hardest times, she had to, as well, despite the ache in her chest. “There is trying until you break, and there is passing that stone brick wall that you must climb thorns and ivy to clear. If she does not find that out now, I fear she never will. You are dismissed.”

Sir Gerbaut nodded and bowed to Lady Minerva once more before turning his metal heel the opposite way, disappearing through the large, wooden doors and into the main court room, leaving his Lady behind in the dining hall alone with the ghost of the man she had once loved, but still loved all at once. She grieved for someone that hadn’t died, but had left such a cavity in her chest that she feared would never fill, no matter how many men she would court in hopes of an heir that was not her orphaned niece. Minerva was not naive enough to believe that the kind of love she felt for Will only passed her lifetime once, but she did not want to believe that any man could rip out her heart as the pirate had done. Perhaps after her reign, she would live the rest of her life in the church of Cantre'r Gwaelo, singing and awaiting the day her promise would return.

A deep, pained groan ripped from her lips as her chest suddenly lit with fire and froze both at the same time, pain striking through her sternum like a bolt of lightning and a roar of thunder. Minerva nearly doubled over, but kept her balance with one hand against the top of the table, her other clutched in between her breasts to mark the pain, in a futile way to ease whatever bubbled inside her. She cried out in agony as the pain only rippled and doubled in torment, clawing at the inside of her ribs as if something was inside of her, trying desperately to escape. Hacking coughs soon followed from her mouth, yet nothing, blood or saliva exited, as if she was drowning from the very air she breathed. Her chest lit with the searing sensation of burning, and her knees and body fell to the floor, her hand slipping off of the table and slicing her palm open with a deep splinter.

Footsteps rushed into the room. “Lady Minerva!” Sir Gerbaut cried out, then turned back to the open door from whence he had come. “The Lady has fallen! Gather her handmaidens!” He shouted, the metal of his armour scraping against its own pieces and creating a dreadful noise as he dropped down to look at Minerva. “My Lady, can you hear me?”

But Lady Minerva did not see Sir Gerbaut as he looked upon her pale, grieving face, nor did she see her handmaidens grasp at her hands to check for the constant beating in her wrists. No, because in that moment, she saw William Turner, eyes shut as if in a peaceful slumber, floating in the sea, without a gasp of breath passing into his lips, his hands bound by rope, and his legs shackled with iron weights. A scream clawed up at her throat, tears pricking in her eyes, this is what she had felt, the drowning was her body against his, her feelings his own. She then noticed the blood surrounding him, the deep gash across his forehead and floating through the water, the darkness that stained his coat and bruises surrounding his ankles and wrists from the binds. Minerva then knew this was what she was meant to see, the Gods she knew had given one last vision of his breath to her so she could be with him.

Minerva shot up from her position on the floor, coughing once, twice, and once more before looking up at Sir Gerbaut, her eyes bloodshot and skin a sickly pale, but both returning to their natural hues as the moments passed. “My horse. Gather my horse.” When Sir Gerbaut hesitated, Minerva cried, “Now!” and he left the room in haste by her command. “Help me up.”

The worried handmaidens each placed a hand beneath her arms, pulling her gently up to her feet. Her—Will’s—pain and weakness had gone just as quick as it had come, and her fire was fueled by the knowledge she needed to get to him, wherever he had disappeared to in the sea. He could not be far from the coast of Wales, if he had followed the directions of the map, but her rationale told her there was not much she could do other than look, but he would surely be filled with water instead of life before she could drain the ocean for her love. She would try, nonetheless, and she would refill it with her own tears if she had to. Her feet stabilized on the ground and as soon as she gained her balance, Minerva swept the bottom of her green dress against the flooring of her castle and left the dining room, rushing down the court room, ignoring the worried pleas from Sovereign Conwinna before pushing the large front doors open, and disappearing down the stairs.

Sir Gerbaut met her at the bottom of the winding stairs that led to her castle, holding the reins of her horse Marchogion ready for Minerva to take. She grasped onto them and pushed her feet into Marchogion’s stirrups, clicking her heels against his fur and turning away from the castle, cantering down the remaining few steps and into the town. Citizens gasped as she rode through the cobbles, the only thing protecting her from the elements being the cloak over her head and shoulders and her casual dress over the rest of her. She hadn’t time to prepare if her visions were true, which they had never been untrue as far as she had lived, and if Will was drowning… She tried not to think about how long he had truly been beneath the water, devoid of air and sunlight, tears streamed down her cheeks, nearly freezing against her skin as she galloped under the archway into the city, now facing the mists.

With a flick of her palm, they veiled behind her, protecting the stone walls from outsiders as she drove her horse as fast as he would run towards the Northern docks, where boats lay across the water, anchored to the ground and only to be used by those willing to forsake Cantre'r Gwaelo for the rest of their mortality. Minerva did not allow her mind to ponder what would wait for her on the outside of the mists that she controlled, or what would happen to her once she crossed the sea border of her island. She had never left in her twenty years, she had never even set foot upon the waters that graced the edges of the Isle, just the water that touched the lakes, small rivers, and streams that made their way through the mossy grounds. A short prayer to the Gods spoken in a murmur to only herself she hoped would do the trick to help her on her journey, to not get accused as a witch as had happened to many of her kinswomen that came before her as soon as she stepped foot on mainland.

“Mam pob peth, gwylia drosof heno, dal fi yn dy freichiau, tan olau boreuol.”

Mother of all things, watch over me tonight, Hold me in your arms, until the morning light.

The mists of her island parted in front of her as if sensing her prayers, and the shore lined with three wooden boats became visible through the sudden clearing. Thanking the Gods, Minerva slid off her horse, giving Marchogion as short of a stroke across the back of the neck as she could before picking up the bottom of her dress and running through the grass and to the shore. She didn’t pay mind as her feet and dress grazed the cold, rushing water beneath her as she stepped onto the rocks, hastily untying the rope of the center boat from one of the man-made posts. The skin that touched the ocean water began to prick with pain from the cold, but she paid no mind, even as the waves licked her shins and drenched the bottom of her dress. All she cared about was getting to the mainland for Will as she pulled at the small sail, pushing harshly against the back of the boat to get it dislodged from the rock it had been docked atop of—nobody had used any of the boats in so many years, there was no point in truly anchoring them if they could harbour them on land without any trouble—and leaping on, bidding a ‘goodbye’ to her island.

Minerva raised her arms above her head, joining her hands in the center and creating a triangle with her fingers. Then, she spoke, “Dduwies Mam helpa fi i fod yn amyneddgar ac yn gryf, i weld beth sy'n wirioneddol bwysig, i weithredu heb hunanoldeb nac ofn. Duw tad elpa fi i ymddiried yn dy ddoethineb, i wrthsefyll ffordd y llwfrgi, i rodio mewn ffydd a thosturi, i fod yn wirioneddol ddynol o ran ysbryd a chalon.”

Goddess Mother help me, to be patient and strong, to see what is truly important, to act without selfishness or fear. God Father help me to trust your wisdom, to resist the coward’s way, to walk in faith and compassion, to be truly human in spirit and heart.

She pulled her hands apart slowly, and the thick mists in front of her veiled like a curtain of a window, allowing her to see the true, blue sky for the first time. The air was much different than in Catre'r Gwaelo, in a way worse yet better, clearer yet muggier. Clouds only dotted the blue every once in a while, though she could see thunderous clouds looming far in the distance, far in the distance towards where she needed to go. If Will was drowning like she had seen, the lightning would only do him worse considering the metal binds keeping his legs from separating and the rest of his body from floating. Everything felt like fire to Minerva, her eyes as she tried not to weep before she had even caught sight of him, her legs as they fought against the rigidness of the water they had been whipped with. At the discovery of a whole new life outside of her own, perhaps she would have cried out in excitement of it all, but instead, she looked painfully out to sea and tugged against the sail rope once more, setting off for the mainland.

༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻

When the beaches of Brandy Cove, Gower came into Minerva’s gaze, she nearly collapsed into her boat. The sand was what she had seen in the background of her vision, the large mountains that shielded the newfound civilizations of South Wales from seeing such a dastardly act occur on a ship on the water. But the ship had gone, it was the only thing that had changed, and as she neared closer, she peered as far into the water as she could, begging the Gods for a sign of Will. The water swayed peacefully beneath her as sprinkling rain poured overhead, wetting her hair slightly and making it stick to the back of her neck and the apples of her cheeks. Her sails flapped and floundered against the oncoming wind as the boat began to reach land, the sight of the beautiful sandy beaches of Gower coming into view, and signifying her first steps onto land that was not her own. It was terrifying, but she could barely think about how monumental the moment was for her, not when—

“Ah!” Minerva cried out in a voice that didn’t sound her own when it slipped past her lips, not with the pain and sorrow that painted her chest red.

There, in the darkness of the clouds that covered the once blue sky, she could see the faint silhouette of an ever-sinking body in the ocean, mixing between the tall-growing kelp and the fish that nipped and prodded at its clothing. She didn’t have to recognize him, she knew it was Will from the pain that threatened to crush the inside of her chest as soon as she caught a glimpse of him. His hair and clothes looked the same shape as he had worn when he first arrived at Cantre'r Gwaelo, albeit it was more tousled and unkempt in the water. The final thing Minerva saw from him before taking action was the thick, red colour of blood floating around his floating body, pouring out from his forehead and stomach and dispersing into the water, creating a hazy cloud around him of his own innards, it nearly made her throw up into the boat.

Without missing a moment, Lady Minerva dove from the inside of her boat into the sea, landing with a splash and taking a few seconds before opening her eyes completely and letting them sting in pain just to see Will. She pushed herself forward and swam through the water, blinking back the irritation in her eyes and the horrid feeling of her brown dress becoming utterly soaked by the saltwater. Soon enough, her vision was clouded by his blood, her chest seizing with pain as she looked upon his limp frame in the ocean. He didn’t look as peaceful as the dead, which gave Minerva a slight sense of hope for his life, but his eyebrows were furrowed deep, his lips in a frown as if he was still in pain, even in his unconscious state. Everything about where he was and how he looked filled her with dread, the dread that she was simply too late and he was past recovering crept up into her gut.

She used everything in her power not to let out a gasp in shock as she finally took a look over Will. A huge gash ran across the front of his forehead, nearly lining the wrinkles that would appear whenever he raised his eyebrows in question and wonder. The hilt of a dagger was the next thing Minerva spotted, dug deep into the left side of his stomach, right near the junction of his hip bone. Two iron clasps were fastened together around his ankles to weigh him down, reminding her that he continued to sink towards the bottom of the sea at every moment that passed, and his hands were tied together at his back with thick, twine rope. Whoever had done this to him wanted him hurt badly, and Minerva tried her best not to think about what would happy after she saved him, if these people would try to come after him again or not, as she swam around him.

One of each of Minerva’s hands snaked in between Will’s torso and his bound arms, hooking underneath his armpits and meeting in the middle of his chest, pushing inwards so she could get as best a grip on him as she could in the water. Kicking her legs, she began to swim upwards with the limp man in her arms, slowly but surely to the surface of the water. The iron clamps weighed them down significantly, but it didn’t make the journey impossible, just slower than Minerva anticipated. Her chest began to burn with the need for fresh air but her resolve didn’t falter, she had felt worse pain, physical and mental, in her life beforehand, she could handle this much. Will’s hair was matted and floated around her face, an increasingly painful reminder of how she loved to run her fingers through it when it wasn’t caked in blood and saltwater. She shook her head in remorse for the memory, and took one final push forward before breaking through the water.

Coughs racked her body first, seizing her chest and running her throat dry with each hack and gasp for air. Will still didn’t move in Minerva’s arms, so she barely took a moment before pulling him the short distance to the sandy shore, her biceps beginning to contract in pain with each push forward. He was quite a lot heavier than she was, and the water soaking both of them head-to-toe didn’t help in the slightest, especially when it came to her dress. She could see her small boat, beached atop the sand, the sail having led it to the coast she needed to be on. Her prayers to her Gods had been answered, perhaps, as she knew there were decent enough medical supplies and herbs on board prepared, hopefully enough to repair the cut on his forehead and the deep stab in his abdomen. His chest was the uncertainty for her, if he had breathed in the seawater he was submerged in, she wasn’t sure if she could get it out of him, but she damn sure would try.

With a final heave of Will’s body, Minerva pushed them both onto the sand, coating her wet dress and skin in a fine layer of the granules, her hair caked in a mix of the sand, water, and Will’s blood. She didn’t allow her legs to wobble when she stood up, as much as they protested against her movement after hauling such a heavy weight against the calm ocean, and she stepped towards her boat. Her hands found a  small, wooden box off to the right side of the ship that she grasped onto tightly, heaving upwards and holding against her stomach as she walked back to Will. She could hear the squelching of her feet in her shoes, the hair and sand that stuck to her skin uncomfortably, and the pain in her eyes from opening them underwater, but she pressed forward, dropping to her knees on Will’s right side and placing the medicinal box down in front of her.

“Please…” Minerva begged as she opened the hatch of the wooden box. Inside was an organized platter of different Catre'r Gwaelian medicine herbs, bandages, tools for stitching, small bottles of rum and other liquor, and herbs for pain, which hopefully she wouldn’t need to use up until Will woke up. “Thank the Gods.”

First, she grabbed a piece of cloth and one of the bottles of rum, biting her teeth against the cork and yanking it out, spitting it somewhere into the sea behind her. With one hand on the thick cloth and another on the bottle, she poured a generous amount of the liquor into the cloth, dampening it in its entirety and spilling some of it over her hand, making her hiss in pain when the liquid ran over some of the messy cuts on her palm. Minerva pushed herself forward in the sand and gently placed the cloth over the large cut on Will’s forehead, trying not to let tears fall from her eyes when his body made no reaction to what was surely a painful sensation. She continued to wipe it down to the best of her ability, covering the fabric with a mix of his blood, water, and the dirt that had accumulated from the exhaustion of travelling. She wondered how long they had been away from the island.

Then came the bandage. Since it was only a surface-level cut and not nearly as deep as the one caused by the dagger in his side, Minerva knew it wouldn’t need stitches, or at least, the stitches could wait until they returned to her island, or he ventured deeper into the towns and cities of Wales and England, or went back to The Black Pearl. She carefully placed one end of the bandage at the left side of his hairline, then took it around the back of his head, gently lifting up the back of his neck so she could wrap it around his forehead once, twice, three times, until she reached the other end of the bandage. Her hands grasped around a metal safety pin in the box, and she was vigilant not to cut herself on the sharp end before weaving it in and out of the bandage, securing it in place. Few splotches of blood managed to seep through her handywork, which meant that the blood was stilling, which was a good sign of his survival.

Minerva let out a shaky breath and gazed upon the sharp dagger in his stomach, thinking for a moment about her plan of action before readying her tools. She soaked another two cloths in rum, squeezing them together to create a thicker piece of fabric and placed it on his chest for safe keeping. After that, her shaking hands took hold of the needle and thread most commonly used for stitching, which she would use for the exact same reason, and weaved them through each other, preparing to close the wound as best as she could. She had been trained as a nurse for many years before her coronation, before her father’s death and her succession, and she had the best relative knowledge she could ask for, but she hadn’t needed to use her skills in such a situation before, not in a situation that truly mattered. Those were the prayers that never worked, the prayers she whispered in hope she would never require the skills she had learnt.

Wincing and bracing for Will’s body to start spasming, Minerva quickly unsheathed the dagger from his stomach. “I’m sorry, Will, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” She spoke to him, his muscles twitching under the pain slightly until the dagger was out.

Blood quickly began pouring out from the wound, dripping onto his skin and staining the fabric of his torn shirt. Minerva grabbed the rum-soaked cloth she had prepared minutes before and applied pressure to the wound with it, desperately trying to cease the bleeding and rid the wound of sand, dirty water, and the muck in general he had most likely accumulated from his lifestyle. She tossed the bloodied dagger onto the sand and began to tear his shirt around the area of his laceration, making it easy to see the skin surrounding it. She didn’t feel particularly sorry for the item of clothing, her mind was in such a haze only comparable to her island’s mists that she couldn’t truly think of anything else other than Will. This was how she solved problems, how she was taught to solve problems; to isolate the situation and not let her mind wander, especially not to foolish questions such as:

“Where in your Hell did Jack go?” Minerva asked Will, but it ended up more a question for only herself when he obviously didn’t reply. She sucked a quick breath in and pushed the first stitch into his skin, beginning the process of closing up the stab wound. His body convulsed under her shaking hands, but fell limp again shortly after. “‘Sorry.”

In and out the thread weaved, slowly but surely closing the injury and stopping the majority of the blood flow out of Will’s body. When it was completely shut, Minerva grabbed a pair of shears from the box and snipped the end of the thread, placing the remainder back where it came from and applying the same pressure of the rum-soaked cloth back on his wound, making sure it was still thoroughly clean before grabbing the bandages. The main challenge was getting underneath his back to wrap it around his torso, but Minerva made quick work of it by pulling him into a half-seated position on the sand, letting his head fall limp onto her left shoulder as she worked the bandage around his back thrice over, and fastened it in place with a safety pin back where she began, leaving no remnant of the bandage leftover to put back in her box.

A sigh flew from her lips as she tossed the dagger off to the side, unable to look at it as her body finally relaxed. “You can’t simply be happy with a life of normalcy, can you?” Minerva slowly maneuvered her aching body onto the sand, laying on her side beside Will. She took a hand to the strands of hair that weren’t covered by the bandage, brushing them despite the blood and dirt. “Please live, Will. You have defied horrid odds before, you can do it again.”

Minerva moved onto her back and let her hand fall from Will’s face and onto his open palm beside her, she grasped onto his wrist, making sure that if she fell asleep, the absence of his life’s pulse would awaken her. She could feel his heart thumping ever so slightly as she prayed in a whisper, her eyes shut despite the bright light of the sun above her, the clouds of rain having cleared. “O Dduwies Fawr, Mam Trugaredd ac Iachawdwriaeth, anfon egni Hygeia i faethu o'i Phowlen Sanctaidd. Anfon egni Brigid i iachau dyfroedd ei Ffynnon Gysegredig. Anfonwch egni Demeter i adfer bywyd i gelloedd gwywo. Anfonwch egni Quan Yin i fendithio yr iachâd â thangnefedd. Anfon dy ddoethineb iachusol i'r corff i adfer ei gydbwysedd cysegredig. Diolch Dduwies Fawr, Mam Pob Oes.”

Oh Great Goddess, Mother of Mercy and Healing, Send the energy of Hygeia, to nourish from Her Sacred Bowl. Send the energy of Brigid, to heal with waters of Her Sacred Well, Send the energy of Demeter, to restore life to withering cells. Send the energy of Quan Yin, to bless the healing with peace. Send Your healing wisdom to the body, to restore its sacred balance. Thank You Great Goddess, Mother of All Life.

She continued to chant her prayer in a whisper, repeating it from back-to-front as she fell into a deep slumber on the sandy coast, her hand still grasped tightly around Will’s.

#will turner #potc #pirates of the caribbean #will turner fic #will turner x oc #pirates of the caribbean x oc #pirates of the caribbean fic #potc fic #potc x oc

[saturnville]

i come to you on my knees (i’m ovulating) BEGGING for a black!fem!reader fic where bucky is the fucking munch he is PLEASE

poetry in motion, major john egan

pairing: john egan x she (black!fem!reader) warning: 18+ sexual situations and descriptions. content: in which john teaches her a thing or two about bodily poetry. tag list: @neeville @turn-thy-paige @ihe4rtisa @ineedafictionalman @lovebyceleste @alliewassobonum an: I don't typically write smut, so I hope this met your expectations at least just a little bit.

John Egan was known to be an impulsive man. He acted animalistically, on instinct and emotion rather than logical and thoughtful comprehension. When it came to her, however, he was more meticulous, patient, and calculated. Slow and intentional.

She was like him, an enigma. A code that took much time to decode. The rearranging of pieces (his approach) would occur many times before the lock clicked and fell off the guard box that kept her withdrawn from him. Then a dark door opened and the safe guarded treasure was revealed.

It didn’t come without struggle and resistance. Even upon agreement, she still shuddered at every attempt to pull her soul from her body. Her hands fisted the neutral sheets beneath her as her legs shook like leaves in the wind.

The scene from his perspective was tantalizing. Her eyelids sat low and her brown eyes were hardly visible, but still, he maintained a piercing gaze with her. That, in combination with the impassioned feeling of his mouth against her sensitivity, was overstimulating.

Her stomach clenched as she writhed against the sheets. She sobbed woefully, her nails scraping against his shoulder as she attempted to back away. It was too much.

For just a moment, she got a break. But, it didn’t last long. The dampness of his tongue was replaced by the skin deemed of his fingers. She jolted as her eyes shot open.

John Egan was salacious. Dripping with sensuality and eroticism. Beneath the faint light of the candles, he stood as a shadow above her. He had shed his jacket and was dressed in a wonderfully fitting black t-shirt. His hair was tousled from her constant tugging and his lips. Her eyes rolled backward at the sight. Swollen and dripping.

She sighed his name slowly and closed her legs around his forearm. He shook his head in disapproval and pushed her thighs open with his free hand. “Keep them open.” His voice dripped with arousal. She put up a good fight, but lost when the overwhelming pressure began to boil over.

He was attentive. Her end was near and he knew it. And how desperate he was to bask in it all. Once more, he found his place between her thighs. His eyes trailed the richness of her skin as he gently placed her legs on his shoulders.

She was enticing. From her scent to the way she tasted on his tongue. Sweet and succulent. He found himself getting lost in her pleasure. From the way, she screamed his name and begged for mercy. Oh, how he would pay to stay in this position forever.

“John,” she squealed, sitting up on her elbows. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill. His blue eyes shifted upward to meet hers. “Please…” He hummed. She screamed.

It reverberated against the walls and fueled the fire that burned within him. He’d store it to keep him warm for the rest of eternity.

With a string of whimpers and incoherent words, she came down from the high she rode deliciously. Her bare chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath.

She held her hand out tiredly, desiring his closeness. John wiped his lips with the pad of his thumb and crawled on top of her shuddering frame, dropping kisses against her neck, cheek, then lips. “You okay?”

She grinned tirelessly and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She’d waited a long time for a moment like this and she was glad she held out for him. She nodded and pecked his lips again, “I’m okay. I’ll feel better if you do it again…”

John’s eyebrow quipped in amusement. A sultry smile crept on her lips. He said lowly, “Yeah?”

She opened her thighs just enough to slot his body between then engulfed him. Her hands dropped to his pants which were secured by his belt. John’s eyes fell. She nodded, “Yeah.”

Who was he to deny that? Only a fool would do such a thing, and John Egan was no fool.

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #masters of the air #mota #major john egan #callum turner major john bucky egan #john egan #john egan smut #john egan x reader #major john egan x reader #major john egan x amelia mae egan #bucky egan x black reader #bucky egan x reader #x black!reader #black!oc #mota fanfic #mota fanfiction #fic inspo

[captainwans]

BELOVED MUSE.

▋  ──  ⨾ ﹙PAIRING: car!alex turner x fem!reader

▋  ──  ⨾ ﹙SUMMARY: with their seventh album nearing around the corner, alex found himself drowning with doubt and perfectionism. luckily, his muse was there to cease some of his doubts.

▋  ──  ⨾ ﹙WARNING: teeth-rotting fluff!

▋  ──  ⨾ ﹙WORD COUNT: 1,4k

          ✧ :･ﾟ➽ . . . 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓!

…. [Y/N] OPENED THE FRONT DOOR OF THEIR SHARED APARTMENT WITH A TIRED SIGH, HER FEET LEISURLEY LEADING HER TO THE COUNTER TO PLACE HER KEYS ON THE WOODEN PIECE. A throbbing sensation seared through her temples, making her rub her tired eyes rather aggressively, her mind wandering back to her conference meeting that was a literal shit show. She rubbed her temples, eyes furrowed with a deep scowl as her brain replayed the last few hours that occurred in that meeting room. While she was glad that she wasn’t involved, her heart ached for one of her co-workers, who was humiliated in front of many other employees. On top of that, a fight erupted between two departments, which she was a part of, and it affected the whole meeting. [Y/N] could sense her boss’ frustration and the tension in the room, and she remembered avoiding eye contact the whole meeting, the fear of being the next victim shaking her down her core.

She remembered sitting there, jaw slacking at the scene in front of her. She wanted nothing more than to go home and be in Alex’s arms, feeling his warmth and listening to his voice while whispering sweet nothings into her ear. He was her motivation during the day and now being in the comfort of their own home–her safe sanctuary, a smile formed her features at the thought of him.

Alex was currently on tour with the rest of his band members, but their concerts were postponed for a while due to one of the members being sick. [Y/N] didn’t complain when he got three weeks off, and she’s been glued to his side ever since he stepped foot in the house. She hadn’t seen him for months and missed him a lot. While the frequent phone calls and video calls compensated a little for his presence, she still felt the nagging loneliness that bled inside her chest, squeezing her lungs and reminding her of his absence. However, that dark cloud inside of her ceased once she opened the front door one day, meeting his soft doe-eyes smiling cheekily at her.

[Y/N] smiled at the memory while she took off her coat and hung it gently on the hook before walking toward the living room. Her smile faltered, eyes narrowed at the lights off both in the living room and the kitchen. She halted with her steps, embracing the silence as she tried to use her hearing to detect her boyfriend. Strings of melodies echoed across the hall, making her hum as she walked to their shared bedroom.

Alex’s face turned into a scowl, his eyes scanning down his notebook while having a tight grip on his guitar. He was seated on the cold floor in a hunched posture with endless of ripped and crumpled papers lying around him, and [Y/N] wanted to laugh at the sight. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice her slowly sauntering toward him with a soft smile.

He bit his lip, eyes narrowed at the last word he scribbled down his notebook with a thoughtful look. He read the paragraph to see if it fit, but much to his dismay, he aggressively ripped the page and crumbled the piece with his rough hands before throwing it to his side. He let out a tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

[Y/N] stifled back a laugh, kneeling down to his level as her knees hit the wooden floor. She carefully put her hands on his shoulders, rubbing small circles around his shoulders and neck before hiding her face into his neck. She prepped small kisses on his skin, feeling his body relax a little bit. “Hey, handsome.”

A smile curved his lips, leaning into her chest as she gently caressed his locks. He let out a content sigh, feeling his frustrations cease out of his body as they slowly swayed back and forth. His warm calloused hands found hers, gently rubbing her hands with his thumb. “Hello, gorgeous.” he breathed, resting his head on her neck to get a better view of her face.

Alex inched closer to her face, capturing her lips for a kiss. She met his kiss with a dreamy sigh, sliding her hands to rest on his jaw, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. It’s not until they’re both out of breath and gasping for air that they slowly pull away from each other.

[Y/N] smiled, lips brushed against his before placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. “How’s writing going?” she asked him, shifting her body to the side so that she was sitting beside him. Her eyes diverted away from him toward the pile of papers scattered around the floor.

He grimaced at the mention of his writing project, his lips forming into a downward pout. He rubbed the back of his neck, giving her a look of discomfort. “It’s uh…” he trailed off, licking his lips before finishing his sentence. “Honestly it’s going shit, love,” he admitted with a deep chuckle.

Her expression softened, watching his consorted face looking down at his notebook. She looked down at the page he was on, leaning her head closer to take a look. Her eyes trailed down the paper with a serious expression, but the corner of her lips twitched upwards as she read some of his lyrics. She hummed, eyes sparkling before moving her gaze to him. “Baby, this looks amazing. You think this is bad?” she asked with curiosity, placing a hand on his thigh.

Alex gave her a grateful look, giving her a soft smile. He let out a sigh, shrugging his shoulders as he gently rubbed small circles on her hand with his thumb. “I don’t know, doll….” he started off, feeling his words stuck in his throat. His face turned into a small frown, “This is going to be our seventh album. I just want it to be perfect, you know? It’s been a while.”

[Y/N]’s eyes softened. She nodded her head at his answer and hummed in understanding. She glanced at him before moving her eyes to look at his piece once again. “I know I’m not a professional or an expert, but what I do know is that everything you put out there,” she voiced her thoughts, looking at him as she pointed a finger to his chest. “Comes from the heart. And there’s nothing better than pouring your heart out, and watching it unfold into something so… beautiful. Alex, you have the ability to do that. It’s quite fascinating, actually. It’s like watching a painting—it draws you closer, and you can’t help but linger on the spot. You want to make sure that you have all the details.” she finished her sentence, resting her hand on his chest before trailing her hand to his jaw.

Alex’s heart skipped a beat and his eyes welled up with tears of overwhelming love. He felt her hand drift up to hold the side of his neck, her thumb resting on his jaw as she brushed away a lone tear that escaped from his eye. He melted into her touch and he reached up to cover his hands with hers. He brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing small kisses against them, earning a small giggle from her. .

[Y/N]’s chest vibrated with soft chuckles, his stubbed jaw tickling her hand. She smiled tenderly at him, tilting her head to the side, making him do the same as he mirrored her genuine affection toward him. The pair rested their foreheads against each other, and she closed her eyes, feeling his hot breath fanning her face.

“Do you really mean that?”

[Y/N] opened her eyes, meeting his brown doe-eyes and looking right back at her. She nodded, nudging her nose with his as her hand played with his necklace around his neck. “I meant every word, baby. And I will say it again, and again, and again till you’re gonna believe it. You truly have a way with words, my love.”

“And you are truly my muse, babydoll,” he breathed, closing his eyes as his lips met hers. He trailed kisses against her lips, her jaw, and her neck as her head dipped back. She sighed dreamily against his touch, feeling his fingers delve into her hair.

She felt him deepen the kiss, swiping his tongue into her mouth, and she broke away from the kiss with a small giggle, crinkling appearing on her features. She gave him a small peck, giving him a cheeky smile. “And don’t you ever forget it, Turner.”

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