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lostloveletters · 4 days

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I Left My Heart in San Francisco (John Brady x OC)

Summary: John's heart feels a thousand miles and just as many memories away in Stalag Luft III.

Note: Title comes from the song, of course (you don’t have to listen to it while reading, but I listened to it while writing this). Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Fluff and angst, mostly introspective. Somewhat non-linear narrative, I guess.

“I won’t get any good if I don’t practice,” John insisted.

Woody smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “Alright, but you watch that pipe of yours. If I smell burning hair—“

He grinned, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You won’t, sweetheart, I promise.”

Woody braided her hair first thing in the morning, after hastily raking her fingers through it, tugging out any knots that formed overnight. By the heat of the afternoon, enough hair would come loose and stick to her sweaty skin that she’d have to redo her handiwork, already knowing to anticipate the black streaks of grease she’d have to scrub out of it at the end of each day.

Sometimes Holly would be around to give her an intricate and sturdy French braid, able to withstand sweat and hard work. But John had never braided hair before he asked to do hers one evening, and then with increasing frequency as time went on, desperately needing something to lose himself in.

She sat between his legs, still and patient as he ran his fingers through her wavy hair. He parted it in two sections, letting the waterfall of blonde flow down one of her shoulders while he gathered the rest of her hair, silken to the touch compared to the standard blankets and bedsheets they were issued.

A shiver ran down her spine when his fingers gently brushed the nape of her neck.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re fine, honey.” Her voice was soft, almost a low purr that echoed in his ears. He couldn’t remember another time when she called him honey. Usually just Johnny, which sounded wrong coming from other people, even jokingly, since it became hers, but he wasn’t sure how to tell her he liked honey too.

He carefully layered one thick strand of hair over the other until he finished a braid on one side. Looked good, but he knew at a glance he could do better. Woody braided her hair for utility, not just to look pretty, which was a bonus in his opinion, but not her priority.

He puffed on his pipe, shaking his head before setting it aside. “They’re not even. I’m gonna try again.”

“Go ahead, Johnny.”

John stroked her hair, thinking about how he wished they had met under different—better circumstances, where she wasn’t under constant threat of losing him. He used to figure that there was a proper way to get to a woman’s heart, the way god intended, or so he’d been told: meet a nice young lady, ask her father for permission to take her out on a date, get to know each other, bring her home on time. Rinse and repeat while trying not to get too handsy before getting a ring involved.

Then the war happened.

Then Woody happened, who probably wouldn’t have described herself as a nice young lady in the first place. No father to ask permission to take her out on a date. He wasn’t quite sure they actually saved anything for marriage (besides the having kids part, thankfully). He figured god would be flexible, all things considered.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“There’s a knot,” he mumbled, brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully pulled at strands of hair to free them from each other.

“When I was a kid, if I had a really bad knot I couldn’t get out myself, I’d just cut it with some kitchen scissors. My hair probably looked awful.”

He almost instinctively asked why she didn’t ask her mom to brush it out, but felt the slightest bit of rage burn in his chest when he caught himself and remembered. “I care enough about you to do this right.”

“You’re also pretty good with your hands.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I know so,” she said, “and thank you for always being attentive.”

“Are we still talking about your hair?”

“Oh, of course.”

He snickered, working on braiding her hair again. “Of course.”

Neither of them spoke of the future very much, but he knew he wanted one with her. Just wasn’t sure how to go about the discussion without scaring her off, if she’d even be open to settling down. Settling. The word weighed heavy in his mind. While Woody claimed no nostalgia for her native city, a sad fondness laced her voice when she spoke of it, of the excitement and freedom San Francisco had offered her when she needed those things most. Sometimes John wondered if Ithaca would be enough, if he would be enough when all was said and done.

He swallowed roughly. “Take a look and tell me what you think. Be as brutally honest as you need to be. I can take it.”

Woody half-turned to him, an amused smile spreading across her face. Made him feel like he was being let in on a secret the way her smile sometimes did. “You could make my hair look like a bird’s nest and I wouldn’t tell you.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before getting up. He followed, almost nervous as she inspected her appearance in the small mirror sitting nearby. She beamed at her reflection, turning excitedly to him. “Johnny, it’s perfect.”

She stood on her toes to kiss him, deep and real, the kind that made any lingering doubts dissolve. Her lips were soft, as if she put on lip balm before he got there. Everything about her was soft, except for her hands, always rough and calloused, but something would be wrong if he felt a smooth palm cradling his jaw, or gliding across the expanse of his shoulders, down his back to cling to him. But he was clothed. Or he thought he was. Lost himself for a moment before he found the sound of her voice again.

“Before I forget—” She slipped her hand into one of her pockets. “Here, I want you to have this. I don’t really have any other photos of me, but I wrote a little note on the back of it for you,” she said. Her cheeks flushed, eyes flicking away from him for a moment. “Just so, um, you know it’s yours.”

He smiled at being handed the photo, a little shadowy and out of focus, but her nevertheless. To Johnny, all my love and more, your sweetheart, Woody. She had drawn a little heart next to his name, Xs and Os after hers. “You look beautiful. Thank you, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of his nose brushing against her skin. “I’ll keep it with me.”

And he did. All the way to Stalag Luft III. Looked at the photo and tried to remember the feeling of her hair between his fingers.

He nearly tore Hambone a new one for taking the photo from his hands without asking, not that he would have let him touch it in the first place even if he had. While far from salacious, having other eyes besides his own on Woody’s photo felt almost sacrilegious. After all, he kept it in the same pocket as the St. Christopher card his mother had given him before he left for basic, its laminated corners curled from his incessant toying with it for reassurance. He hardly looked at it since they bailed. Patron saint of travelers. Some good St. Chris did him.

Buck stepped in and got John his photo back before the situation could escalate further. But the cat was out of the bag. As if it even mattered then, anyway. He did take some pride in everyone’s shock at him and Woody managing to keep their relationship under wraps for nearly four months.

He didn’t expect it to come up again, but he wasn’t exactly expecting Bucky to be alive either. In the midst of Bucky's bittersweet reunion with the other members of the 100th who’d been taken prisoner by the Germans, it was mentioned among the updates everyone was clamoring to give him after he relayed what he could muster of how he survived and ended up there.

Hardly relevant, but Bucky fixated on it after John let one small detail slip out.

“You and Woody? How the hell did I not know this?” Bucky asked.

“No one knew, except for Holly,” he said.

“Holly knew?”

“It wasn’t my idea, but Woody tells her everything. Told her about us the night you two made the bet on that baseball game.”

“That was back in June!" Bucky exclaimed, a strange combination of disbelief and slight betrayal that felt almost out of place compared to everything else going on. "She’s known for four months and didn't tell me?”

“Woody swore her to secrecy or something.”

Bucky shook his head. “You sly dog. Under everyone’s noses…” Clapped him proudly on the shoulder. “Good on you, buddy.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Don’t expect any details,” Murph mumbled.

“I’m not telling any of you about my sex life.”

“But there was one?” Bucky asked.

He sighed, resisting the urge to glare at his friend, who up until a few hours prior, he wasn’t even sure was still alive. “We didn’t sneak around for four months just to hold hands.”

Even if that was all they’d done, his relationship with Woody wouldn’t have been any less important to him. Still, it was nice to have actual experiences to pull from, build fantasies that could get him through some of the lonelier nights when he wished he were with her, just about anywhere in the world but Stalag Luft III. The four months that were all theirs became his lifeline.

Four months. Maybe that was long enough for him to ask her to marry him. After writing to his family, that’d be his first order of business. Woody already had his heart, so he’d promise her everything else on top of that he could think of. Let her point anywhere on a map and take her there on a month-long honeymoon. Move all the way out to San Francisco with her. If she said ‘no’ or sent the letter back unopened, at least he could say he tried.

He laid back on his bunk that night, doing his best to ignore the shouting outside. Like the night guards did it on purpose to keep them exhausted. Closed his eyes. Kept her photo pressed against his chest. Tried to remember what her hair felt like between his fingers. Silk compared to the threadbare blankets the Germans gave them for the rapidly approaching winter.

“I won’t get any good if I don’t practice,” he insisted.

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “Alright, but you watch that pipe of yours. If I smell burning hair—“

He grinned, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You won’t, sweetheart, I promise.”

#john brady x oc #john brady #masters of the air x oc #masters of the air #mota x oc #mota #mota fanfic #hbo war #hbo war fanfic #hbo war x oc #ch: woody

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venus-haze · 8 months

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Night Shift (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: Your car’s totaled after driving over god knows what on those dark country backroads. A handsome mechanic named Bo works the night shift. You can’t believe your bad luck.

Note: Woman reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is inspired by the deleted intro scene to House of Wax, except with Bo rather than Vincent. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Extremely dubious (non) consent. Threats, transactional sex acts, spit, degradation, rough oral (m. receiving), implied kidnapping. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Hour nine of driving. You were feeling fine, really. At least, you would be once you found a place to park for the night. Worth it to save money on another motel. The coffee from the last gas station you stopped at was long gone. The radio dial couldn’t go any higher. You tried to stay awake and alert by singing along to the staticky radio.

“Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are—“ POP! “What the fuck?”

The pop sounded more like an explosion the second time around. Your iron grip on the wheel was in vain as your car swerved across the road. The speed limit sign took out your passenger side mirror, a metallic scraping sound accompanying the impact. Switching your foot from the gas to the brake, the scent of burnt rubber overwhelmed you. Finally, your car screeched to a stop, but your heart still raced.

Your hand shook as you put your car in park. Turned on your hazards. Stared blankly at the blinking headlights on the pitch black road. You hadn’t dozed off at the wheel. No way.

A dull pain pulsed through your chest, and you brought your hand to it. The seatbelt had locked, digging into your sternum as it kept you from any further damage besides the cut in your skin that began dripping blood. Not deep enough to need stitches, at least. You unbuckled the seatbelt, opening the door to stumble out of the car.

Both of your driver’s side tires had popped. The front passenger tire deflated from skidding on the uneven asphalt. You looked at the section of the road you’d just driven over. Country backroads were riddled with potholes. That could’ve been the culprit. Hard to see so late at night, even with your headlights.

You grabbed your phone from your pocket and flipped it open. No signal. Calling 911 only resulted in a dead dial-tone. At least you tried. Two options left. Stick around and hope someone would drive by and be able to offer help or walk back to the main road. In the hour or so you’d been driving, you’d only seen an old pickup truck drive in the opposite direction. The whole point of going this way was to avoid other drivers and get to your destination that much quicker. Walking back to the main road sounded torturous. There was nothing for miles, and it’d probably be daylight by the time you reached a sign of civilization. If you could even walk for that long. Either way, you were fucked.

Giving in to your defeatism, you walked around to the passenger side of the car. Your duffle bag had flown to the floor, not that you were too worried. It mostly had clothes, along with a few toiletries. When you opened it, however, you found your small shampoo bottle had opened, coating your belongings in soap, including the book you’d brought along in case you needed to pass the time somewhere.

“Worst night of my fucking life,” you muttered to yourself.

Not bothering to close the door behind you, you sat on the hood of your car and waited.

And waited.

You checked your phone’s clock just as it was about to die. A little after two in the morning. Half an hour and nothing. Just you and the sound of crickets. The occasional howl in the night. Rustling in the trees and bushes. You had turned off your headlights to save the car’s battery. There was no reason for anyone to know you were there, hidden under the cover of darkness.

“Hey, you alright?” a disembodied voice asked.

You blinked, bleary-eyed and squinting at the bright lights that assaulted your vision. Throwing an arm up to shield your eyes, you sat up, your back aching.

“Thought you were dead or something,” the man said, motioning to the bloodstain on your shirt.

“I think I fell asleep,” you mumbled, before jolting awake. You were talking to someone. Someone with a car. “My car got wrecked from the–I don’t know exactly, potholes I guess. I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“Happens a lot out here. The DOT don’t keep up these roads much. Boss has us drive around some nights just to check,” the man said, throwing a thumb in the direction of the truck behind him. A tow truck. You nearly cried in relief.

He offered you his hand, helping you off the hood of your car, keeping you steady as you got your footing on the road beneath you. Your legs felt sore too. As your eyes adjusted to the odd lighting, you tried to get a better look at your hero. His face was obscured by shadows.

“Mind headin’ over to the truck with me? I just gotta get a look at your license,” he said.

You nodded, following him to the tow truck as you pulled your wallet from your purse. He stood in front of the headlights. He glanced over your license, and you allowed curiosity to get the better of you, looking at his face better. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled next to the cap he had on, dark curls peeking out from beneath it. His work shirt had a name patch sewn into it. Bo. If that was even his real name.

“Checks out to me,” he said, handing you your license back before your mind could begin racing too much.

“Thank you so much, Bo.”

He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, placing it between his lips. You watched as he lit it with a lighter he fished out from his pockets. “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll get your car hooked up.”

“Thirty bucks right?” you asked, digging through your purse for the fee listed on the side of the tow truck. Two crumpled twenty dollar bills were outstretched in your hand for him to take.

“Hold on now, night shift is double.”

“I can give you my credit card.”

“Cash only.”

“Well, this is all I have.”

He grinned, taking a drag from his cigarette. “You got a lot more that I’m interested in.”

Didn’t even hide the way his eyes raked over your body. It was pitch black out apart from the tow truck’s headlights. How much of you could he even see? You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat.

You scoffed. “I-I don’t—“

“‘Less you wanna rough out the rest of the night on your own. Not sure when the next car’s gonna come through here.”

Your lower lip quivered at the predicament you found yourself in. Whatever. He’d probably make you blow him and be done with it. Hopefully never have to recount the humiliating situation to another soul.

“What do you want me to do?” you asked.

“Get on your knees.”

You hesitated.

“Ain’t got all night.”

With a shaky breath, you knelt in front of him, eye level with his crotch. The cracked, uneven road wasn’t kind to your knees, but Bo didn’t care. He flicked his cigarette aside, grabbing your face with his rough hand.

“Lucky I found you,” he said, his gaze burning your skin. “Lotta people wouldn’t be as nice as me if they found a pretty little thing like you alone out here.”

You tensed when he began undoing his belt buckle. “I changed my mind. I’ll wait here for someone else.”

He chuckled. “Too late for that, girl. No refunds.”

That was all it took to keep you there. Trapped. Your gaze kept fruitlessly looking for some sign of help from the road behind him. He seemed to know that no one else would come, smug as he palmed at his crotch before unzipping his jeans.

“Let me see you open that pretty mouth ‘a yours nice and wide for me,” he said.

You opened your mouth, presenting your tongue to him and trying to look at anything but the cocky expression on his face. He spit in your mouth, and you nearly gagged at the taste. Tobacco and beer. Stale. Bitter. You held his spit on your tongue until he said—

“Swallow.”

You did, trying to ignore the feeling of his saliva sliding down your throat.

“Attagirl,” he praised, giving you a patronizing pat on the cheek before prying open your mouth again with his fingers.

Your knees were on fire, and he hadn’t even shoved his cock in your mouth yet. You watched as he pulled it free from his underwear, already half-hard and intimidatingly big and veiny, twitching as if eager to break you. He gave it a few strokes, precum dripping from the head as he positioned it in front of your mouth.

“Give it a kiss.”

As soon as you pressed your lips to the tip of his cock, cold and chaste, you knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

“C’mon now, like you mean it,” he chided. “Get a lil’ tongue in there.”

You could hardly see his shadowy grin, but it was clear from his voice he was getting off on your humiliation. Pervert. You shuddered to think of the other women who’d been in your place as you made out with his cock, your lips wrapping around the head, tongue flicking at his leaking slit before pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft. His scent was strong, a sweaty musk that threatened to overwhelm your senses as he pushed your face against his hardening length.

“Shit girl,” he groaned, “you’re a natural whore.”

Suddenly, you felt a painful tug on your scalp, your yelp muffled by his cock forced down your throat, gagging as you tried to breathe. Your vision blurred with tears at his force, ears ringing as you could swear you heard him laughing at your struggle.

There was nothing you could do but take it, choking out sobs around his cock as he fucked your throat, hips thrusting with a punishing brutality that almost made you wish you’d driven into a tree instead. His cock filled your mouth, giving you little reprieve from him. Your throat burned at the relentless friction, head pounded from the lack of air.

“You’re gonna let me cum in your mouth, ain’t ya?”

You realized when his dark blue eyes pierced yours that he wanted an answer. Humiliated, your ‘yes’ was hardly intelligible with his cock in your mouth. To your shock, he slapped you.

“You ain’t gonna let me do shit,” he taunted through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna swallow it all, slut.”

Tears rolled freely down your cheeks as he pushed the limits of how much of him you could take, your throat constricting around his throbbing cock in panic and bringing him over the edge. He thrust hard when he came, nearly knocking you over if not for his hand firmly buried in your hair. His warm, bitter cum pumped in your mouth, down your throat, though you knew some of it spilled out from your lips despite your best efforts to swallow it all.

When he finally pulled his cock from your mouth, you took a painfully deep breath that burned the back of your throat. He reached down, a sinister gleam in his eye when you flinched. His thumb collected the cum from the corners of your lips, bringing it to your mouth. You sucked it clean, hoping you could silently communicate how much you hated him. He returned your death glare with amusement.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth, inspecting it with a grin. “Good girl.”

You winced as you pushed yourself to your feet, drool and cum dripping from your puffy lips, knees split open and bleeding, grit and asphalt deep in the fresh wounds. You could hardly stand, leaning against the side of the tow truck, watching in disgust as he tucked his cock back in his pants and adjusted his cap.

“Alright, I’m a man of my word. Take a seat in the truck,” Bo said, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face. “I’ll get your car hooked up, bring you back to the garage. Might be there a while.”

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #slasher x reader #slasher community #slasher fandom

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brokenandworn · 1 year

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I go for a 2 hour walk every day just to see the ducks and geese, it’s the best part of my day :)

#tw ed #tw ed vent #ed #thinspo #thighspo #green tea #cigarette #bpd #bipolar #depression #anxiety #alternative #alt #alt girl #emo #emocore #emo girl

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monroeanamia · 3 months

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Some of my favorite green Thinspo

#ana trigger #ed food #sk1nn1 #thiispo #ed without the sheeran #tw restrictive ed #disordered eating thoughts #tw ana diary #mealspø #tw ed diet #thinspo

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vegan-nom-noms · 1 year

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Red And Green Layered Smoothie

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demonic-shadowlucifer · 2 years

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Cringepunk

Cringepunk - A movement involving the reclaimation of the word "cringe" and basically being "cringe" just out of pure spite, and embracing being cringeworthy and basically not giving a fuck about what others think. Basically a way of saying "Fuck you. I'm cringe and I'm proud of it. I don't need to be your definition of "normal". This was made with neurodivergent individuals, MOGAI/LIOM/LGBTQ+ individuals (including folks who use xenogenders), neopronoun/nounself pronoun/emojiself pronoun users and alterhumans in mind. However, you don't have to be any of those things to be Cringepunk! While this term is meant to be anti-cringe culture and anti-harassment, we still want to make it clear that it does not support harmful identities and communities. Likewise, it will not tolerate exclusionism of harmless identities or misinformation. In particular, Cringepunk is: Pro-Contradictory Labels. Pro-Endogenic. Pro-MOGAI. Pro-Self Diagnosis with research. Pro-Alterhumanity. Pro-KFF. Inclusive of people of all disabilities, including people with personality disorders, schizophrenia and DID. Inclusive of all religions. Inclusive of POC. Anti-Radfem. Anti-Fakeclaiming. Anti-TransID. Anti-Discourse of any kind. Anti-Fetishization of Pedophilia or Incest. Anti-thinspo and anti-fatphobia. Basically, Cringepunk supports expressing yourself in harmless ways, but is against anything that could genuinely harm others. Flag meanings: Dark Blue - Alterhumanity. This stripe represents alterhumans, especially otherkin. Light Blue - Plurality. This stripe represents systems of ALL origins, including endogenic. Green - Queerness. This refers to the entire LGBTQ+/MOGAI community, including mspec lesbians/gays, intersex individuals, non-monogamous individuals, aspec individuals, individuals who use xenogenders and many more. Light green - Gender non-conformity and pronoun non-conformity. This refers to individuals who present differently then their given gender. In addition, this also refers to individuals who use pronouns that differ from their given gender, including neopronoun users, nounself pronoun users and emojiself pronoun users, as well as he/him lesbians, she/her gays and they/them and neopronoun gays and lesbians. Gray represents being cringe and proud /pos. Yellow represents aldernic individuals. Orange represents those currently questioning their sexuality, gender, or if they're alterhuman, plural or neurodivergent. Light red represents neurodivergency. This one I find incredibly important, as cringe culture has harmed several neurodivergent folks (especially autistics). Dark red represents community, which includes MOGAI individuals, neopronoun users, aldernic individuals, alterhumans, systems, and anyone else who might be considered "cringe (such as furries). The symbol represents challenging cringe culture and tearing it down. Image IDs: Two pride flags. Both have shades of blue and green, yellow, orange and shades of red. The middle of both flags are dark gray. The top flag has an infinity symbol interlocking with a circle. (Tags are for reach and filtering purposes)

Image ID: A blue banner with red, orange and yellow flowers around it. On it is a warning sign with text underneath. The text reads "PLEASE READ PINNED POST BEFORE INTERACTING"

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