rogue-durin-16

[rogue-durin-16]

more lieb smut plus the cab fic 🥺👉👈

Oh jesus

[rogue-durin-16]

hi rogue!

HI BABY

[rogue-durin-16]

IT'S SHIP TIME Y'ALL

HEY! WATCH THE BROAD

SUMMARY: Elsie is given an assignment that leaves her bored out of her mind, luckily she’s knocked over so hard her mind is too busy reeling to care all that much.

CHARACTERS: Elsie Taverna, Bill Guarnere & Joe Toye

WORD COUNT: 1.3K

WARNINGS: Blood, swearing.

LUVROTTT SPEAKS— HEY GUYS! back with another work for the doll’s universe my lovely friends & I cooked up ;) next up from me is a one shot about just how Elsie met Winnie & Ronnie, taking place about two-ish months before this drabble… but I got too excited for this to post in timeline order— not that it matters, Cab Fare was first & that masterpiece (looking at you, @rogue-durin-16) is post-war! ANYWAYS, I think y’all can figure it out who Elsie’s love interest might be now? ;) VERY excited for this one folks, once again, lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!!!

TAGLIST: @lanadelray1989

THE DOLL’S MASTERLIST

•••

October, 1943

It had all started when Colonel Smythe had asked her if she knew how to drive.

“Course I do sir.” She’d replied, did he think she’d been hunkering over the engine of his GPW not knowing how to drive?

Then again, she knew Jean Davies didn’t. But Davies wasn’t made a mechanic because of any hands-on experience like Elsie had been. She didn’t talk to the Sergeant all that much— her uptight attitude and far too nasally voice rather fucking annoying, but the broad came from mathematics or something. Some course on the West Coast if her yammering on about it made Elsie remember correctly. It had helped with her ability to “problem solve” or whatever the hell that meant.

Elsie wouldn’t mind looking into a few math courses, when all was said and done. Her pa and uncle could use some help crunching the numbers, and she’d always been rather good at that.

But that was besides the point, the English Colonel in charge of the base they’d been stationed at for the last three months had gone and fucked his jeep when he was supposed to be driving half an hour to meet with other big shots. Somewhere in Wiltshire, if the signs she’d seen on the drive in were correct. They probably were, so that was how she’d ended up in some tiny village in her oil stained overalls with far too much time on her hands.

Her own Colonel, a rather scary woman named Hatfield, had nabbed her for the job. She knew the Limey in charge was driving the Southern woman crazy, but getting half a day to herself outside of the stuffy garage suddenly seemed better than any weekend pass up into London.

And she’d enjoyed quite a few, especially with Winnie and Ronnie. But those two were off God-knows-where. Win had written, but God help her the Brit’s scrawl was hard to read sometimes— and Elsie just barely understood her ma’s ramblings.

At least her ma had started writing to her, a part of her was worried she’d killed the woman dead when she’d come downstairs with a bag packed, a train ticket to Massachusetts for that same afternoon clenched in her shaking fist.

But Generosa Taverna couldn’t be so easily killed. Angry, sure. Fit to burst really, but by the time Elsie’d been shipped overseas her ma had already sent two sons over.

“You sure you got it?”

“I’m fine,” She snapped, arms tightening around the box thrust towards her, “Do you want my help or not?”

She’d fixed the Limey Colonel’s jeep pretty quickly, it was only a coolant replacement in his engine, for Christ’s sake, but that meant she was stuck waiting around for him to finish his meeting. She’d driven in with his car after all, and unless she wanted to hitchhike she’d have to wait for the solemn man to wrap up whatever he was doing.

She’d walked around a bit at first, but Elsie was a nosy broad at heart, which was how she found herself poking her head around the back of a supply truck to see what was being delivered.

It was medical supplies, and a whole shitload of them to boot. The box of gauze made her think of Flo for a moment, but her cousin was somewhere in the Med by now.

Anyways, the poor yuck unloading the truck had looked like he needed a hand. Elsie had two of them, and nothing better to do— which was how she’d agreed to help him cart them into the old butcher shop now masquerading as an Aid station.

“You don’t gotta snap at me.” The delivery guy hissed, and Elsie rolled her eyes, “Around the corner, the building with the blue sign.”

“Sure thing.” She huffed, letting the man stack a smaller box on top of the one already half-blocking her eyes before muscling forward.

“Jesus, watch the broad!”

She’d barely made it around the corner when she slammed into something solid, and Elsie yelped as the smaller box jolted back to smack her in the brow, her boot-clad feet stumbling back until suddenly the box was the least of her worries. She hit the ground hard, smacking her head on the pavement as the boxes of supplies fanned out around her.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Another voice hissed, though Elsie was too busy clutching the back of her scalp, where bone had met pavement. It was sticky, “Are you fucking crazy?” The words left her copper-tinged (she’d bitten her tongue) mouth rather muffled, though when she opened her eyes she saw two men in uniform.

one of the men was standing over her, and for a moment Elsie thought the damn sun had gone. Of course, the mystery soldier is blocking it— with his broad shoulders and arms so impressive Elsie’s concussed first reaction is to gawk. He’s built, but lean, and his handsome face furrowed in concern at her is almost enough to make her forget the words that had left his mouth. Almost.

“Who the hell are you calling a broad?” She spat, just as the handsome man’s hand being outstretched towards her is being slapped away by the other one, the one who knocked her on her ass in the first place. “No fuckin’ manners, none of you!” She winced, allowing the first man to help her to her feet.

“You talkin’ about manners with that mouth?” The Sergeant, and she knew so because despite her head spinning she can read the rank on his jacket, whistled.

“I’ll show you manners when you learn how to walk, how about that?” She spat, once again bringing a shaky hand to the back of her head, the boxes littering the ground forgotten.

“Spit and vinegar,” He muttered, and Elsie turned to the man she’d snapped at first— the one who’d called her a broad. He looked amused, lips fighting a laugh and dark eyes whipping between the two of them through thick lashes. The fuck did he look so pleased for? Their eyes met, and the good-looking soldier at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

Elsie’s stomach fluttered, though she couldn’t tell if the reaction was from him, or the sight of red when she pulled her hand back in front of her.

“Awh fuck.” She muttered, “Nice, thanks a lot, really—“

“The broad’s bleedin’ and she don’t stop running her mouth, can you believe this shit Joe?”

Oh, so the handsome one’s name is Joe.

“Runnin’ my mouth? How about your dumbass runnin’ into me?”

“Guarno, cmon, just shut the fuck up and let’s take her to Roe.”

His voice was rough, gravelly even. She’s so transfixed by it that she almost missed the moron in front of hers name.

“Guarno, that right? How ‘bout this for you, va piglalo in culo!”

Handsome Joe made a face, but the loud-mouth (apparently) Italian beside him’s eyes widen as he began to laugh. Elsie turned to leave, her hand back against her head as she huffed.

“Hey— where the hell do you think you’re goin? You’re bleeding, shit, hey, I’m sorry!” Loud mouth called after her, reaching out to grab her by the shoulder, “Tellin’ me to go fuck myself, funny, I like it— but cmon, let our guy bandage you up first.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah yeah, fuck me— but listen, we’ll wrap up that big head a’ yours and then you’ll see I ain’t that bad, hey Joe, think we can talk Roe into wrapping it like a tiara? Ho— hey!” His rambling was cut off by Elsie aiming her elbow swiftly into his rib as he guided her towards the Aid station.

“That’s what you get for running your mouth.” Handsome Joe chuckled, looking back to where his friend was holding her by the shoulder— to steady her, but more likely to prevent her bashing him again.

“Fuckin’ quick this one, hey what’s your name?”

She glared at him, though let her eyes wander back to his friend, whose eyes were still trailed over his shoulder.

•••

[rogue-durin-16]

You’re newest part to the Dolls was amazing!! Keep up the good work🤭

Aw thank you my love! ♥️

[rogue-durin-16]

BLOODIED HANDS, SACRED TOUCH

Summary: On Ronnie's last night at The Churchill Hospital, desire, confusion and grief clog Dottie's heart until the dangerous mix spills.

Pairing: Veronica Valero x Dolores Holbrook

Warnings: language, blood and gore, smut (dry humping, thigh riding, fingering, exhibitionism)

A/N: THE SAPPHICS ARE BACK 🗣️🗣️🗣️ under the soundtrack of Francesca by Hozier, A Little Death by The Neighborhood, oh, GOD! by Orla Gartland and Sailor Song by Gigi Perez. tagging @rmsstevielol because they sent an ask about me writing WW2 wlw romance and I thought they'd like this one. ALSO EVERYBODY WATCH OUT FOR THE UPCOMING ELSIE DRABBLE 👀 And enjoy<3

The Dolls masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Veronica was late.

She didn't make a habit of it—timing mattered in war, as much as truth did—but the train from Birmingham had crawled, and then there had been that arrogant new officer who triple-checked her credentials like he thought she might be a saboteur. By the time she pushed through the corridors, the flickering lights and antiseptic stink felt heavier than usual.

She moved fast, knowing Dottie's rotation by now. Her boots echoed down the hall, passing groaning soldiers and nurses with their burnout eyes.

When she stepped into the room, the world shrank to blood. Of course. Of course shit had to go south on her last night visiting The Churchill Hospital.

A boy no older than nineteen contorted on the cot. Ronnie didn't remember seeing him before. Perhaps the lack of proper sleep was catching up to her, fogging up her memory, but Veronica rarely forgot a face, and this kid was still wearing his ODs.

What was left of them, anyway.

His abdomen was torn open, a mess of gauze and gore barely keeping him held together as the boy yelled for his mother. Dottie was elbow-deep in his wounds, hissing out quiet orders to another nurse for a clamp, her golden curls damp with sweat.

Ronnie had watched Dottie work for almost a week now, yet she had never had the chance to witness the nurse under pressure. Seeing it now, she finally understood why they let her take on shifts alone despite being one of the youngest. Her expertise hands didn't shake one bit, even when Veronica could practically hear the American's heart pounding from across the room. Dottie was good at her job. More than good, Ronnie realized. She did what had to be done, no matter how revolting that might be.

The two women had that in common, which is why Ronnie didn't hesitate to pull her camera up to her face. The intrusive click of the shutter was drowned by the boy's agonizing cries—the Spaniard was thankful for that.

Another click. Another scream. Dottie did her best to talk the kid down with her digits deep into his guts, but there was only so much she could do to keep the young soldier among the living.

He gave up before Dottie did, body slackening with one last sucked in breath. The room fell into a mournful silence that wouldn't last more than a minute before the two nurses had to go back to work—back to keeping kids tethered to this life for as long as possible.

That brief time window was enough for Ronnie to wonder what had been the boy's story; how did the kid end up in Oxford in such a horrifying state, on an ordinary Thursday night? Had the doctors checked him into the hospital alone? Was there any other kid with his intestines half dangling from his abdomen in another room? Had it been accidental? An attack? A failed maneuver? Would someone remember the boy?

While thousand unanswered questions flashed fast through Ronnie's mind, Dottie's circled on one single obsessive thought; you let him die. You let him die. You let him die. You. Let. Him. Die.

Dottie stared for a second too long at the corpse, eyes vacant and welled up. If she tilted her head a bit, squinted her eyes, let the exhaustion win, she could see a faint resemblance between her younger brother and the boy before her.

The other nurse gently nudged her, murmured something Ronnie didn't catch. The blonde shook her fellow nurse off, peeling the gloves off her hands, steadied by the sheer willpower that had kept Ronnie's camera from shaking while photographing the tragic aftermath of the Blitz every morning during eight months.

Dottie wiped her palms on a clean rag, turned, tossed it into the bin, and walked to the door, actively trying not to look like she was in a rush to flee.

She didn't even blink in Veronica's direction, broken gaze trained on her shoes. Silence followed her out; a dense, grieving silence that broke with a raw sob that echoed in the hallway.

Veronica waited a second. Two. Flinched at the now distant weeping. She shared a glance with the nurse still standing by the cot, a shaky breath leaving her while she covered the boy's body up to his face with a thin white sheet.

"Dolores doesn't usually..." The nurse tugged at her crimson covered blood, the explanation dying in her tongue. "She's had a rough day."

Veronica nodded, covering the lens with the cap. She took the camera's strap off her neck to leave the device atop the metal table she'd claimed as hers five nights earlier.

It wasn't her place to go after Dottie, nor was she obliged to do it in anyway; still, her shoes clicked on the tiles, fast and determined, only coming to a stop in front of the wailing nurse, sat in a corner of the hall with her knees up to her chest and her face buried on her palms. The staff, rushing from one room to another, barely batted an eyelash at the scene. Too cumbersome for them, Ronnie supposed.

Still heartbreaking.

Veronica didn't speak right away. Instead, she opted to remove her wool blazer, buying the nurse a couple more seconds to calm herself down on her own before intervening. When it didn't happen, the photojournalist crouched, voice as gentle as she could manage.

"Dottie," No response. The girl's shoulder shook. Ronnie's lips pursed in a thin line. God, she wasn't build to deal with these situations. "Dottie, c'mon." Ronnie's fingers pulled at Dottie's wrists once. "Let me see you."

To her surprise, the nurse complied and uncovered her face, giving way to red dimmed eyes, glassy with pain she hadn't figured out how to tuck away yet.

Veronica's touch found her cheek, thumb brushing along damp skin out of instinct. "Let's go for a breather, alright?"

"I got work to do."

"You won't get anything done like this." Ronnie didn't wait to hear the girl's counterargument to rise up to her feet again. They both knew there was none. And so, when Ronnie extended her arm down at Dottie, the blonde took her hand and let herself get pulled up in one swift motion.

They didn’t speak as they made their way to the rear of the hospital. A quiet back corridor led to a narrow door, half-cracked open to the cold December air. The wind seeped in but they stayed inside, side by side. Dottie folded her arms tight over her chest as if she was physically holding herself together. As if, if she let go, her pain would spill all over the tiled floor.

"You wanna talk about it?" Ronnie was the one to break the silence, hands clasped together at her front with her blazer hanging from them.

Dottie's mouth opened and closed twice before she gathered enough strength to voice her thoughts. Not all—and certainly not the worst ones—, but Ronnie's straightforwardness and metered sweetness cut the nurse open effortlessly.

"I keep thinking it'll get easier," Dottie added, voice thick. "That I'll get used to it. But I don't. Every time—"

"You shouldn’t," Veronica interrupted gently. "If it starts feeling easy, that’s when you’ve lost something."

Dottie glanced sideways. "You say that like you know."

"I do. Sort of." Veronica's gaze dropped to the floor for a second, then back to Dottie. "War didn't start yesterday for me, you know?"

She didn't offer the details. Dottie didn't ask. Didn't need to. The answer was in the way her voice dipped, the way her mouth flattened, like she had names and stories she kept behind locked doors.

"I’m sorry I didn't say hi." she murmured.

"I get it."

"You don't."

Veronica turned to face her fully, brows raised. She wanted to argue, Dottie saw it in her eyes, but she limited herself to say "Alright, I don't."

"I’m not some little house girl, Ronnie. I’ve seen shit. I knew what I was signing up for." Dottie’s voice was breaking again, but she stood firm. "I know I don't get to break everytime I lose a patient. But this boy—"

"You did everything you could."

"That’s what everyone says."

"It's not a lie," Veronica reasoned softly. "You're good at this. I've seen it." The back of her index travelled up to catch a rogue tear rolling down Dottie's cheek. "Sometimes being good's not enough. That's not on you."

Dottie leaned into the touch—just barely—but enough for Ronnie to notice. Her eyes flicked to Veronica’s mouth, then away. She looked down, then up again. "Why do you keep coming back?" she whispered.

"Don't have anything else to do." It wasn't a lie. It wasn't the half-assed truth Dottie had hoped for either. "Plus, you're here. I think that's a good enough reason."

Silence stretched, breath misting in the cold air seeping into the corridor. Ronnie's sea-colored irises stayed averted from Dottie's—for her own sake—, but still she felt the blonde's gaze digging into her flesh, luring her in.

When Veronica finally turned, she didn't have time to get a word in; Dottie's lips crashed against hers, quick and desperate. She retreated just as fast, taking Ronnie's breath away with her.

Her lips parted like she might speak—give an explanation, an excuse, a lie—but nothing came out. Her pupils were blown wide, her jaw slack, and Ronnie couldn’t quite tell if she was about to bolt or cry.

The silence crashed in like a wave.

Dottie's chest rose and fell with a shaky breath. Her hands were still at her sides, clenched, bloodied fingerprints pressed into the stiff white fabric of her apron.

"Shit," she whispered, barely audible. "That was so fucked— I didn't mean to—"

"It's not fucked." Ronnie stopped her rambling before it could go anywhere hurtful. She'd been in Dottie's place; the faint memories of panic and confusion washing over her like ruthless sea waves during a tempest still lingered in the back of her mind. She remembered it clearly now.

She also remembered that one woman in Paris who had made sure Veronica knew she wasn't broken, who eased her into the realization that her heart didn't know how to tell men and women apart. Dottie was just like her, Ronnie guessed, and she hoped she herself could fullfil the role of that one Parisian woman for Dottie.

Veronica glanced down the corridor—empty. Just a faint echo from some distant clatter, nothing close. Then, wordless, she pushed herself off the wall and stepped forward, half circling Dottie until they stood face to face.

"Don't panic." she murmured.

The blonde didn't move, so Ronnie did. She lifted one hand, slow, clear, and cupped the side of Dottie's jaw, thumb grazing just beneath her cheekbone—a silent request for permission.

The nurse didn't have it in herself to voice a response, but one of her hands found Ronnie's free one, interlacing her fingers together. As good of a confirmation as Ronnie would get, so she leaned in.

The second kiss was different. It wasn't frantic, or desperate. It was sure. All intent and tenderness, no performance. Ronnie kissed her like she meant it, like she’d been thinking about it for days—which she had—, and Dottie melted a little.

She found Ronnie’s button down, clutching at the v shaped neck like she needed something to anchor herself to. Ronnie's hand slipped around her waist, firm and careful, grounding her.

For a long minute, they stayed like that; breathing each other in, letting the kiss stretch out, deepen. Dottie shuddered as Veronica's tongue barely traced her bottom lip, tentative at first, then more certain when she didn't shove her away.

Dottie surprised herself by bringing the journalist closer, tilting her head ever so slightly, just enough to grant Ronnie a better access. The desire for more came faster than the acknowledgment of what she was doing—of what she was letting another woman do to her. In the middle of the hospital's hallway, no less.

The latter part made her react, pulling away a couple of inches only to whisper "come with me."

Ronnie didn't ask questions. Didn't need to. She just let the younger woman lead her down the corridor, past three cubicle curtains and into a storage closet too tucked away for anyone to care. Dottie had seen nurses walk that way, lock that door, escape the world just for a few minutes before. Now she was doing it herself, and she prayed to God she'd be able to forgive herself in the morning.

Dottie reached for the knob, twisted and pulled open the narrow supply closet door. Veronica hesitated for half a second—long enough to see the tremor in the American's fingers—and then let herself be tugged inside.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The light overhead flickered once, then steadied, casting them both in a cold yellow hue. Veronica blinked, adjusting to the dimness and the cramped quarters. Metal shelves lined both walls, stacked high with linens, gauze rolls, brown glass bottles, jars of salve and disinfectant.

Dottie stepped further into the closet, claiming the corner as her safe haven, her back brushing against the metal racks.

Veronica stayed where she was, hands in her slacks' pockets, chin tilted slightly down as she watched her. Her voice was gentle when she finally asked. "What are we doing, Dot?"

Dottie didn't answer. Instead, she surged forward again, grabbed Veronica's collar in both hands, and pulled her into a kiss, too fast and too rough. Her mouth hit Veronica's a little off-center, teeth clicking.

Ronnie didn't kiss back.

She placed her hands lightly on Dottie’s arms, eased her back just enough, and looked her in the eye. "No," she repeated, firmer this time. "What are we doing?"

Dottie's chest heaved once. Her lips were parted, still wet from the kiss, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment or adrenaline. Or both.

She swallowed, eyes flicking from Ronnie's mouth to her shoulder and back again.

"Touch me." she half pleaded, half demanded.

A beat passed in which Veronica seemed to ponder it, to assess whether or not this improvised tryst was worth the headache. But she had decided five nights ago that it was. It was worth the headache.

"Okay." The chestnut haired girl whispered back, and her hands landed on Dottie’s waist, fingers slipping under the stiff edge of her apron to feel the warmth of her hips beneath. She kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing rather than claiming. Dottie's hands came up, quicker now, less scared, one tangling in Veronica's hair, the other awkwardly finding her shoulder.

Ronnie smiled into the kiss.

"Just follow me." she murmured, and Dottie nodded eagerly, forearms thrown over Ronnie's shoulders like she'd do with the men she kissed back in Chicago.

Veronica's hands moved deliberately, guiding Dottie backward until her back was flush with the shelves. Her mouth dragged along Dottie's jaw, down to the curve of her throat, sucking lightly just beneath her ear until she felt the quietest gasp escape Dottie's lips.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of Dottie's apron, sliding the stiff white fabric aside. Beneath it, the skirt of her uniform hitched up easily—Ronnie's palm slid over the back of her thigh, bringing it up, settling it against her own hip.

Dottie gripped her tighter, eyes wide and searching.

"You alright?" Ronnie asked again, pausing.

"I don't know," Dottie whispered. "I—just... don't stop."

So Ronnie didn't.

She pressed her thigh between Dottie's legs and watched carefully her reaction—the subtle jolt, the way her lips parted again in silent surprise, how her hips stuttered forward before she caught herself.

The nurse's eyes, although widened, weren't fast enough to catch the amused smile Veronica bit back before the dark haired journalist buried her face in the crook of Dottie's neck, peppering it with featherlight kisses that camouflaged sultriness with a tender touch.

The blonde didn't process how her breath came out in short puffs or how her hips involuntarily rocked against Ronnie's clothed thigh. Her mind was blank, safe from Veronica's mouth against hot skin, her teasing fingers dragging over her exposed leg, her body pressed against Dottie's. The thudding of her own heartbeat.

"Good god—"

"Shh," Ronnie urged her lazily, warm breath hitting Dottie's ear while the woman's thumb snuck under the fabric of her panties, her palm securing Dottie's hip—not to stop her, but to guide her into a more calculated rhythm. Dottie didn't hear herself, but she felt the soft mewl on her chest. "Dot, you have to—"

Ronnie's hold forced Dottie to halt her movement, giving the girl whiplash by how hard the simple action shook her back to reality.

Footsteps. Short heels clicking against tiles, echoing right outside the storage closet. The doorknob rattled outside, and Dottie gasped, sheer panic tinted by shame taking over her. Her hands scrambled to pull Ronnie's blouse. Away, closer, to the door; Dottie hadn't decided yet before the knob twisted again.

Whispers.

Dottie felt tears prickling her eyes. This was wrong. This was wrong and she knew that, and God was punishing her for it.

Ronnie didn't move away, didn't get closer either. Instead, she pulled the blonde's upper body into hers, a hand reaching up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading soothingly through her golden curls.

The door didn't open. The heels tapped on their way out. Veronica stayed rooted on the spot, her calming touch washing away Dottie's guilt until her breathing became even again.

"You're okay." She muttered against Dottie's hair, planting a chaste peck on her temple right before the younger girl returned to her previous position, the back of her hands wiping hot tears off the corner of her eyes.

Silence carried after Ronnie's simple words, her palms cupping Dottie's flushed cheeks for a second. Then she attempted to step back. Dottie didn't let her, her leg still up to Ronnie's hip hooking around her to keep her close. Closer. This time it was Dottie's mouth finding Ronnie's lips, then jaw, neck, shaky yet resolved.

The girl's determination took Veronica aback, but she recalled she'd been there too; confused and scared and needy, so she let the nurse take whatever she wanted with trembling hands that didn't quite know where to land.

Dottie tried to take from what she knew the men did, and her digits found Ronnie's button in order to unfasten Veronica’s blouse. Her eyes drank in the sight of pale skin, of soft lace beneath, and her fingers brushed the edge of the brassiere as if memorizing it.

When her gaze lifted again, Ronnie's pupils were blown.

Dottie moved her hips again, slower this time, attempting to replicate the rhythm Veronica had gotten her into on her own. In response, the latter flexed her thigh, pressing it harder between Dottie's legs.

"Kiss me."

The desperate command fell from the nurse's lips. She barely recognized her own voice. Ronnie complied in a heartbeat, all teeth and tongue and muffled pants Dottie kept breathing into Veronica's open mouth. The rolling of her hips stuttered again, and she nearly whined when the unevenness of her moves pulled her further from the edge.

"Let me touch you properly." Ronnie exhaled, burying her desire for the sake of a very much flustered Dottie.

The blonde didn't speak—just nodded, quick and final, hands awkwardly pushing Ronnie's now open button down off her shoulders until the item fell to the floor. Dottie wanted to touch her. Wanted to tell her she was beautiful. She couldn't bring herself to neither, and Ronnie seemed to notice.

The woman didn't say a word about it, but the corner of her lips twitched up for a split second, and Dottie wondered if, had this happened in other circumstances, had they known each other for longer, would Ronnie have teased her about the stalling?

She did look like the kind. Dottie didn't know if she'd like that, but she did like the way Ronnie undressed her with her eyes and unraveled her with her touch.

Veronica didn't rush, building frustrating anticipation in Dottie's heart through ghostlike caressing and deliberate slowness. Her hand skimmed down Dottie’s side, slipped beneath the lifted hem of her uniform, settling against the bare skin of her thigh. She moved gently, reverently, like every inch of Dottie was a holy place she intended to kneel before.

Dottie's head tipped back against the shelf with a muted thud, her breath catching in her throat as Veronica's fingers moved higher, exchanging her outer side for her inner one, fingertips sneaking between the fabric of her slacks and Dottie's panties.

"Try to keep quiet," Veronica whispered, brushing her lips against Dottie’s cheek, then her ear. "Don't want you panicking again, alright, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The word nearly undid her.

She'd heard it a thousand times before, but never rasping out of a woman's throat, with two knuckles teasing her clit with the precision of someone who knew what was doing and how to do it right. Dottie didn't stop the moan coming straight out of her chest—wasn't sure if she would've been able to do so.

"Dot." Ronnie warned, but the lazy circles she was rubbing over Dottie's cotton covered sex didn't halt.

Dottie nodded, barely. Her mouth opened again, soundlessly this time. She was already trembling, heart pounding in her chest like it wanted out.

Veronica's hand shifted until it found the edge of her underwear, then paused.

"You still okay?" she whispered, mouth close enough for the words to buzz against Dottie's skin.

"I—" Dottie swallowed hard, then shook her head affirmatively. The truth is, she was far from okay, but by God Veronica made everything feel right in that moment.

The spaniard eased her fingers beneath the fabric.

All from sudden, Dottie was swallowed whole by an overwhelming new feeling that dragged her down, like the merciless ocean waves would inevitably drown a girl who didn't know how to navigate them.

Nothing had ever felt like this. Not her own hand, not a boy fumbling in the dark after a high school dance, not anything.

She felt seen. Like Veronica knew her body better than she did—like her touches, almost sacred, were unlocking something Dottie had always suspected but never dared reach for.

Every stroke was maddeningly soft. Every pass over her center made her thighs tense, her pelvis jerk. Veronica's free hand kept her grounded—wrapped around her waist, holding her still.

Her breath came in gasps now. She tried to hold them back, but every flick of Veronica's fingers tore a sound from her throat she couldn't smother.

Veronica kissed her again—slow, grounding—while her digits worked in slow circles, never too fast, never too much.

She worked her way into Dottie slowly at first—one finger, then two—circling, coaxing, watching the blonde fall to pieces against her palm.

Veronica's other hand slipped under Dottie's uniform, palm flat against her stomach. "You're close, aren't you?" she murmured.

Dottie nodded, frantic. "I—Ron, I don’t—I can't—"

"You can." Veronica's thumb moved just right. "Let go."

And Dottie did.

Her whole body seized, pleasure wracking through her in waves that didn't seem to stop. Her voice cracked on Veronica's name, broken and worshipful as her hips bucked helplessly into her hand.

It was sharp and hot and too much, and she bit down on Veronica's shoulder to keep from crying out. Her knees buckled.

Ronnie caught her. She didn't pull away; just held her, one hand still resting between her thighs, the other smoothing through her curls.

Dottie let out a shuddering breath, then another, as the world slowly tilted back into place. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She hadn't realized she was crying until that moment.

"Look at me," Veronica coaxed her, and Dottie involuntarily complied.

Her lips were kiss-swollen, her curls a mess, her uniform wrinkled and half-unbuttoned. She felt like she was made of glass. Ronnie touched her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear, colored eyes with still blown pupils commiting the image to memory in detail, saving it for a time when she'd feel lonely and needy.

"You're gonna be alright."

Her voice was the softest Dottie had ever heard it, and she, wide-eyed, stared at her. Her lips trembled like she might say something—maybe an apology, maybe a question. Nothing came. Dottie wondered if Veronica had stolen her voice, just like she'd seem to have stolen the tiniest part of her heart in that storage closet.

"You're gonna be alright, Dot." She repeated, even softer this time, and Dottie believed her.

At least until she realized that was Veronica's way of saying goodbye.

As if on cue to Dottie's heart wrenching realization, Ronnie's touch abandoned the nurses body to reaccommodate the skirt of her uniform, smoothing the fabric with care. Dottie barely had time to acknowledge what was happening before Veronica reached for the apron first, buttoning it with the same ease she had peeled it off Dottie's body.

Then she took half a step back, crouched for her discarded blouse and threw it on, seemingly unbothered by the situation. As if she hadn't just turned Dottie's world upside down. She accommodated her dark curls, grabbed her blazer from the corner of the closet. Said something Dottie didn't quite catch.

She planted one last kiss on Dottie's cheek. Whispered a practiced excuse—or a practiced goodbye. A practiced anything. A practiced way of breaking someone's heart. She called her pretty, Dottie got out that much.

Veronica unlocked the closet's door and stepped out.

Dottie stayed inside for a second longer. Or a minute longer. Couldn't have been more than five minutes. Still, too much time; time she, as a nurse, couldn't afford. So she put herself together, viciously rubbed the remaining salt streams off her cheeks, and walked out of the closet, pushing that moment to the back of her mind.

Pushing Ronnie to the back of her mind.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[rogue-durin-16]

Read the entirety of “head-to-head” tonight and if felt like I got shot by that ambiguous ending. FIRE FIC BTW made me giggle with their fighting. 💖💖💖

NOT THE GETTING SHOT 😭😭😭 lemme put on my big girl pants and finish that complementary oneshot I've been writing as a continuation for head to head

[rogue-durin-16]

All I’m saying is Veronica and Dolores in a storage closet🤭

Omg how did you know darling it's almost like you were in the writers' room

[rogue-durin-16]

MEET THE WEXLERS

Summary: a tabloid assignment about a cover girl on the rise makes Ronnie fall into an investigation rabbit hole to answer a question; who the hell are the Wexlers?

Dolls: Veronica Valero & Winifred Hawthorne

Warnings: mentions of murder? Language

A/N: introducing Sandy Wexler and her sketchy ass family history to set a firmer foundation while @dropdeadjupiter writes actual oneshots and drabbles about her. Enjoy the gossip<3

The Dolls masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The Mirror was a shit newspaper to write in. It didn't take long for the whole far-right wing fiasco to reach Veronica's ears when she first started applying for staff writers' jobs.

But oh, well, money was money—no matter where it came from—and there was only so much Ronnie could earn freelancing under a pen name. So there she was, being assigned yet another gossip article no one would actually read, about a second-rate so-called celebrity no one would actually care about.

This one was different, though. Maybe Veronica was bored out of her mind, or maybe she was losing her wits, but Sandra Wexler had become her new obsession.

The American girl came up while The Mirror editors scrounged the celebrities lane for something new; a nineteen year old beauty set to be way more than a cover girl. Ronnie suspected Wexler's father had bribed a few papers to get his daughter's name on them. Why not? The man had the money and the means.

It took Veronica about two days to trace Sandra Wexler's life down to the day she was born. February 14th, 1923. Of course she was a darling. Bostonian, half Italian, drop dead gorgeous with chocolate eyes and full lips. Studied in Troy Female Seminary only to end up in Harlem. An artist in her own way, Ronnie figured. The girl had moved to Manhattan chasing the Broadway dream, and now she toured around California getting the yanks to buy victory bonds.

Sandra's life was perfect and a bit boring, but something about her kept Veronica hooked, and soon she found herself deep diving into the cover girl's family history. Specially Sandra's father's.

H. H. Aero Industries was a big name in aerospace engineering and production even across The Pond, which made it all more interesting to Ronnie. Although, perhaps, she should admit she was going a bit overboard with her investigation process.

"There's no records of any Huchin Howard Wexler-" Ronnie pulled a face while pronouncing the obnoxious name out loud to an exhausted Winifred. "-prior to..." She shuffled through her notes, spread over the Hawthorne's kitchen table, with ink stained digits. "...1908? That man is not young, Freddie."

Winifred reached for one of the cutouts Ronnie had snatched from god knows where to see the infamous Huchin Wexler's face. "Yeah, he's... He definitely look old. Maybe stress caught up to him?"

"Or maybe that's a fucking fake name." Ronnie leaned back on the chair to snatch her cigarettes and lighter from the kitchen counter. "H. H. Wexler? C'mon, that's not a real name."

Winnie halfhearteldy ruffled through her friends notes while she lit herself a cigarette. "Dunno." It's not like she wasn't interested in Ronnie's thought process, but the ATS training and the ridiculous amount of people her family took in during the Blitz made her live in a constant state of exhaustion. "Maybe he didn't like his birth name? I dunno."

"Exactly." Ronnie exhaled the smoke and returned to her initial position. "Why wouldn't he? Why would he change his name? 'Cause how old can he be?"

"Realistically?" Winnie exhaled, arms folded on top of the wooden surface, chin and cheek resting over them. "The man might be in his sixties. Maybe late fifties."

"Okay, let's say early sixties." The curly haired girl took a long drag, sheer gray swirling out of her mouth once she continued talking. "That makes him—what? Twenty-something? thirty, maybe? the first time his name ever shows up, and it's already tied to a shit ton of money." Ronnie's eyes fell to the papers, as if her mind was mulling over different possibilities. "What did the yanks call that thing again?"

Oh, she couldn't have been more vague, Winnie thought to herself with a sigh. "What are you even talking about right now?"

Ronnie snapped her fingers, the term she was looking for rolling off her tongue. "Gold rush. The gold rush."

"But that happened in California."

"Maybe he's from California."

"I think you should focus on Sandra Wexler, Ron." Winnie reminded her. "That's what the article's about."

"The article's done, I sent it in yesterday." Veronica countered, mind elsewhere. "You think he killed someone?"

"What?"

"The name change—"

"Allegedly."

"The money, the lack of records, the wife—"

Winifred pushed herself off the table, only to slump against the back of the chair with her arms still folded. "What's wrong with the wife?"

"He could've kidnapped her, for all I know."

"What?!"

"Shhh!" Ronnie urged her startled friend, motioning her head upstairs to the packed rooms. 'There are people sleeping'. "His wife uh... Sabina?" The journalist puffed, turning a page to fact check herself. "Yes, Sabina. She's Italian."

"You think she was kidnapped because she's Italian?"

"Jesus, no," Ronnie's fingers rolled the cigarette distractedly. "I was exaggerating, Freddie, keep up."

"Oi 'm trying," Winnie defended herself, leaving her glasses on the table to rub her eyes. "I'm just tired."

"Their marriage looks sketchy." The spaniard continued. Maybe she was too tired to filter in information too. "You know she has a son? In Italy. Giuseppe, I think." She shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fuck I can't remember."

"Giuseppe." The shorthaired girl repeated, half confused, half impressed. "Where do you even get the information from?"

"Here, there." Ronnie shrugged with the ghost of a proud, almost cocky smile. "people will gossip about anything and documents talk loud if you know how to find them."

"You scare me." Winnie mumbled, earning a snort from the girl sat across from her.

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

The Brit got up from the chair with a soft groan, hands going to her lower back. She might as well be that Wexler bloke's age. "I'm gonna go upstairs. Hopefully get some sleep."

"I'll go up in a minute." Ronnie replied, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray before getting up herself, hands working atop the table to neatly stack the photographs and scribbled pages on the side.

The Mirror editors didn't know how big of a mistake they'd made by handing over the name of Sandra Wexler to Veronica.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[rogue-durin-16]

MEET THE WEXLERS

Summary: a tabloid assignment about a cover girl on the rise makes Ronnie fall into an investigation rabbit hole to answer a question; who the hell are the Wexlers?

Dolls: Veronica Valero & Winifred Hawthorne

Warnings: mentions of murder? Language

A/N: introducing Sandy Wexler and her sketchy ass family history to set a firmer foundation while @dropdeadjupiter writes actual oneshots and drabbles about her. Enjoy the gossip<3

The Dolls masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The Mirror was a shit newspaper to write in. It didn't take long for the whole far-right wing fiasco to reach Veronica's ears when she first started applying for staff writers' jobs.

But oh, well, money was money—no matter where it came from—and there was only so much Ronnie could earn freelancing under a pen name. So there she was, being assigned yet another gossip article no one would actually read, about a second-rate so-called celebrity no one would actually care about.

This one was different, though. Maybe Veronica was bored out of her mind, or maybe she was losing her wits, but Sandra Wexler had become her new obsession.

The American girl came up while The Mirror editors scrounged the celebrities lane for something new; a nineteen year old beauty set to be way more than a cover girl. Ronnie suspected Wexler's father had bribed a few papers to get his daughter's name on them. Why not? The man had the money and the means.

It took Veronica about two days to trace Sandra Wexler's life down to the day she was born. February 14th, 1923. Of course she was a darling. Bostonian, half Italian, drop dead gorgeous with piercing eyes and full lips. Studied in Troy Female Seminary only to end up in Harlem. An artist in her own way, Ronnie figured. The girl had moved to Manhattan chasing the Broadway dream, and now she toured around California getting the yanks to buy victory bonds.

Sandra's life was perfect and a bit boring, but something about her kept Veronica hooked, and soon she found herself deep diving into the cover girl's family history. Specially Sandra's father's.

H. H. Aero Industries was a big name in aerospace engineering and production even across The Pond, which made it all more interesting to Ronnie. Although, perhaps, she should admit she was going a bit overboard with her investigation process.

"There's no records of any Huchin Howard Wexler-" Ronnie pulled a face while pronouncing the obnoxious name out loud to an exhausted Winifred. "-prior to..." She shuffled through her notes, spread over the Hawthorne's kitchen table, with ink stained digits. "...1908? That man is not young, Freddie."

Winifred reached for one of the cutouts Ronnie had snatched from god knows where to see the infamous Huchin Wexler's face. "Yeah, he's... He definitely look old. Maybe stress caught up to him?"

"Or maybe that's a fucking fake name." Ronnie leaned back on the chair to snatch her cigarettes and lighter from the kitchen counter. "H. H. Wexler? C'mon, that's not a real name."

Winnie halfhearteldy ruffled through her friends notes while she lit herself a cigarette. "Dunno." It's not like she wasn't interested in Ronnie's thought process, but the ATS training and the ridiculous amount of people her family took in during the Blitz made her live in a constant state of exhaustion. "Maybe he didn't like his birth name? I dunno."

"Exactly." Ronnie exhaled the smoke and returned to her initial position. "Why wouldn't he? Why would he change his name? 'Cause how old can he be?"

"Realistically?" Winnie exhaled, arms folded on top of the wooden surface, chin and cheek resting over them. "The man might be in his sixties. Maybe late fifties."

"Okay, let's say early sixties." The curly haired girl took a long drag, sheer gray swirling out of her mouth once she continued talking. "That makes him—what? Twenty-something? thirty, maybe? the first time his name ever shows up, and it's already tied to a shit ton of money." Ronnie's eyes fell to the papers, as if her mind was mulling over different possibilities. "What did the yanks call that thing again?"

Oh, she couldn't have been more vague, Winnie thought to herself with a sigh. "What are you even talking about right now?"

Ronnie snapped her fingers, the term she was looking for rolling off her tongue. "Gold rush. The gold rush."

"But that happened in California."

"Maybe he's from California."

"I think you should focus on Sandra Wexler, Ron." Winnie reminded her. "That's what the article's about."

"The article's done, I sent it in yesterday." Veronica countered, mind elsewhere. "You think he killed someone?"

"What?"

"The name change—"

"Allegedly."

"The money, the lack of records, the wife—"

Winifred pushed herself off the table, only to slump against the back of the chair with her arms still folded. "What's wrong with the wife?"

"He could've kidnapped her, for all I know."

"What?!"

"Shhh!" Ronnie urged her startled friend, motioning her head upstairs to the packed rooms. 'There are people sleeping'. "His wife uh... Sabina?" The journalist puffed, turning a page to fact check herself. "Yes, Sabina. She's Italian."

"You think she was kidnapped because she's Italian?"

"Jesus, no," Ronnie's fingers rolled the cigarette distractedly. "I was exaggerating, Freddie, keep up."

"Oi 'm trying," Winnie defended herself, leaving her glasses on the table to rub her eyes. "I'm just tired."

"Their marriage looks sketchy." The spaniard continued. Maybe she was too tired to filter in information too. "You know she has a son? In Italy. Giuseppe, I think." She shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fuck I can't remember."

"Giuseppe." The shorthaired girl repeated, half confused, half impressed. "Where do you even get the information from?"

"Here, there." Ronnie shrugged with the ghost of a proud, almost cocky smile. "people will gossip about anything and documents talk loud if you know how to find them."

"You scare me." Winnie mumbled, earning a snort from the girl sat across from her.

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

The Brit got up from the chair with a soft groan, hands going to her lower back. She might as well be that Wexler bloke's age. "I'm gonna go upstairs. Hopefully get some sleep."

"I'll go up in a minute." Ronnie replied, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray before getting up herself, hands working atop the table to neatly stack the photographs and scribbled pages on the side.

The Mirror editors didn't know how big of a mistake they'd made by handing over the name of Sandra Wexler to Veronica.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[rogue-durin-16]

Would you consider/ ever write smut for the Dolls girls? If so would you take request or will it be a part of the timeline?

I mean yeah I'd consider it! Send a request and I'll see whether I can fit it into the timeline or maybe make it work on its own? We'll see ♥️

[rogue-durin-16]

CALAMITY ON AMITY STREET

SUMMARY: Elsie overhears a rushed plan that threatens to wreak havoc on the duplex and its inhabitants at the hands of a raging Italian woman, as such, her and Flo escape- their confessions prove the cousins are more similar than they thought.

CHARACTERS: Elsie & Florence Taverna

WORD COUNT: 1.8K

WARNINGS: Alcohol, swearing.

LUVROTTT SPEAKS— AHHH hello guys! very excited to share my first installment of the collab I’ve been working on with my co-authors/co-lunatics ;) if you read Rogue’s Cab Fare Fic (which, was what started this whole thing) then you’ll recognize Elsie & her cousin Florence! If you want to be tagged for any upcoming instalments/have any questions about the dolls then lmk! Elsie will eventually have a romance ;) with who.. I won’t spoil for now!

TAGLIST: @lanadelray1989

THE DOLL’S MASTERLIST

•••

1942

Elsie had barrelled through the door of the duplex’s mudroom and up the stairs to the next level so quickly one of her clogs had come loose. As such, she’d only reached down to fix her heel as she was already half way through the door to her uncle’s apartment— an interesting sight to be sure, if the look on her aunt’s face was any indication at her half crumpled form hopping through the front door and into the older woman’s apron covered chest.

“What on earth are you doing girl!” Her aunt cried, hands outstretched to catch her as the brunette’s balancing act nearly toppled. The older woman’s hands pushed her upright and Elsie yelped.

“Sorry aunt Cath! Is Flo in? You better go see my ma, she’s fit to burst!”

“What, why?”

Elsie sighed, impatience eating at her. “Just.. go see for yourself!” Her hands flew in the air as Florence’s mother raised a finger, “Don’t you get smart with me.”

Elsie had already barreled past her and through the kitchen, the sound of Catherine Taverna’s apron hitting the old counter a background noise amid the the click of Elsie’s heels against the tiled floor.

“Flo! Florence!” She sang as she approached the door to her cousin’s bedroom, “Fl—“

“— Jesus Christ Els, is something on fire?”

The door opened before Elsie even had time to reach the brass knob, the blonde woman staring at her incredulously, “I could hear my mum scolding you from here.”

“Mikey’s gone and killed my ma.” Elsie stated, her hands on her hips as she caught her breath. Florence’s eyes widened as her cousin realized her mistake.

“Not for real! Yet— they’re out fightin’ on the porch, you remember that girl he took dancing last week? He’s gone and married her!”

“You’re kidding me!” Florence gasped, turning back in the doorway to grab her sweater before pushing past her and into the hallway.

Elsie stumbled as Flo bumped into her, though quickly spun to follow the blonde back out through the kitchen. A deep and familiar scent permeated the air, and a look towards the stovetop told Elsie that her aunt had been making espresso when she’d demanded her attention downstairs.

She was pretty sure her aunt Catherine wouldn’t appreciate the apartment burning down due to Generosa Taverna’s meltdown, so, Elsie ran to turn off the stove, grabbing the half empty bottle of Sambucca and tucking it into her cardigan as she did.

“Really?” Flo teased, eyeing the bottle of liqueur sticking out of the fabric, “What? You think we’ll be able to stay here with my ma pitchin’ a fit? I’m thinking ahead.”

Florence muttered their whole way down the steps, but didn’t press her further. In all honesty Elsie couldn’t stand the liquorice flavoured liqueur unless it was masked by espresso, but beggars couldn’t be choosers (her and Flo would know, they’d stolen a bottle once before when they were sixteen and snuck out of the house). Especially when her ma and oldest brother were giving the neighborhood a performance that would likely end in the police being called, if not her father and uncle.

“Genny, come inside.” Aunt Cath pleaded as they stepped out onto the porch of the duplex.

“Oh mannaggia! Are you stupid? È gabbadosta!” Elsie’s mother cried, her hands raised to the heavens as the girls took a step back.

“I’m a grown man!” Michael growled, his dark hair swept back— like he’d actually styled it for once. Elsie looked her brother up and down properly, he was wearing his church clothes. She’d been too hellbent on escaping to notice it before. He’d really gone and done it.

“Are you at least bringin’ her over? Does she gotta live with us now?”

Elsie’s question had drawn the others attention to her and Florence’s arrival, and the blonde tugged at her sleeve to showcase her displeasure, “Els!”

“Why would I bring Betty here if this is how she’ll act?” Mikey whined, pointing to their mother, “She’s cryin’ like I haven’t made an honest woman of her!”

“Oh, so her name’s Betty.” Flo whistled, barely above a whisper. Elsie stifled a laugh as her mother started up again.

“A girl we’ve never met! You’ve a’ gone and married a girl from the streets!”

“Genny, please, the neighbours!” Catherine hissed, her hands on her hips.

“‘Ncud a tia the neighbours!” Generosa spat, as Michael uttered an Oi! At her crude language.

“Oh my god, we gotta go.” Elsie spat, tugging at Florence’s arm while re-securing the sambucca tucked away in her sweater, “Now, Flo.”

“She ain’t from the streets, her parents live off a’ Second Avenue!” Michael shot back.

The girls barely made it to the front steps before Florence’s mum spotted them, “Oi, where do you two think you’re going?”

They froze, the concealed bottle sloshing against Elsie’s white blouse.

“Aye, chefai?” Genny’s attention had turned from her eldest son to her daughter and niece.

“For a walk!” Elsie squeaked out, and Florence groaned beside her, “We’re meeting up with Christy Fornello, to plan the auxiliary club’s next dance.”

No one spoke for a moment, though the briefest sound of footsteps suggested Mikey had attempted to escape while the women’s attention had been diverted.

“Don’t you leave!” Generosa snapped, “You’ll wait here until your father gets home!”

The footsteps ceased.

“Alright.. be back before supper.” Catherine relented, and the two girls didn’t have to be told twice, hurrying away from the duplex as the sound of Elsie’s ma and brother squabbling began to rise in volume once more.

They’d only made it up the block when the familiar sight of their younger brothers appeared up the sidewalk, dribbling a basketball between them.

“What’re you two doin?” Enzo asked, shooting his cousin a strange look at the bottle-shaped blob beneath her cardigan. Elsie shook her head, reaching out to pinch her brother’s cheek as the duo’s passed each other.

“Don’t!” Johnny whined, rubbing the now pink spot.

“Whatever you do don’t go home— aunt Genny’s fixin’ Mikey real good!” Florence laughed, and the two boys froze before turning back to catch up with them.

“Huh? What for?” Johnny asked, and Elsie shook her head before turning to the boys.

“He got married— remember that private school girl he took out?” She whistled, and Johnny blanched, “Is he crazy?”

“Nah this I gotta see, cmon Johnny!” Enzo grabbed his cousin by the back of his shirt, dragging him back in the direction of the duplex.

“You wanna see my ma lose it? Are you nuts?” Johnny’s words grew fainter as the two young women kept walking, giggling between them.

It took another half block before they reached the park their brothers had no doubt been returning from, the old basketball court now empty. They settled at one of the benches and Elsie retrieved their loot from its hiding place.

“You know I hate this stuff.” Flo groaned, though took the bottle from her cousin’s outstretched hand nonetheless.

“Hey— yuck, weren’t you supposed to be at the garage this afternoon?” She asked asffer taking a generous swig. Elsie took the bottle before answering, reacting to the foul-tasting liqueur in much the same way, “Ugh, yeah but then Mikey came home and got my ma going, besides, Pat’s there.”

The garage run by Vincenzo and Pasquale Taverna (both naming their second sons after the other) was about a block away from the duplex, up on Palmer. Flo’s brother Michael normally helped out the most, but he was off at training camp somewhere down south. Elsie couldn’t remember the name— but her own Michael’d be off at a camp of his own pretty soon.

“I can’t believe your brother got married without tellin’ anyone.” Flo shook her head.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it just to give my ma a heart attack, you know how he is.”

“Still, he couldn’t wait till he got back?” Florence countered, and Elsie sighed.

Got back— gosh, her ma was probably more upset that Mikey was leaving. Not that the older woman wouldn’t cause a scene at one of her kids up and eloping.. but Michael’s train ticket to California scheduled to leave that weekend was likely a contributing factor to her meltdown.

“Pat’s thinkin’ about enlisting.” Elsie took another generous swig of the Sambucca.

“Wait, really?”

Elsie’s older brother was safe from the draft since he’d gone and started working at the railway after finishing school. But Pat was never one to sit still. None of them were, clearly.

“Yeah, says he can’t let Mikey and your brother have all the fun.” Elsie sniffed, looking down at her skirt. “He hasn’t told anyone yet, he’s scared he’ll push my ma over the edge.”

Enzo and Johnny were both too young, still in high school— but the Taverna’s had already had two men sign up. Pat would be the third. Elsie wondered if the war would last long enough for the two youngest to reach enlistment age. They were only three years out.

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to spill?” Florence asked softly, and Elsie nodded, looking up at her cousin, “Of course, anything.”

“There’s talk they might shorten the nursing courses, to send more nurses overseas.”

Elsie stilled, her fingers wrapping around the bottle.

Flo had always been the smart one out of all of them. Not that Elsie didn’t think herself smart— but Florence had graduated early and gone straight into nursing school, the first and only one out of all of them to actually go to school past eighteen.

They were nineteen and twenty now, and Elsie was helping out at their fathers’ garage most days. She liked school, and a couple courses had certainly caught her eye, but there was somethin’ about working with your hands that’d always drawn her in.

“Even if they don’t, I dunno, I finish next spring..”

Elsie sucked in a breath, “Are you thinkin’ about signing up to go?”

“Yeah, I might.”

Elsie took another generous swig.

“What, you don’t think I should?”

Elsie took another swig, sputtering slightly.

“Our ma’s might die,” She paused, reaching out to grab Flo’s hand and tug it onto her lap, “Cause I’ve been thinking about joining up ever since they announced that auxiliary unit last month.”

“You’re shittin’ me— the W.A.A.C?” Flo sat up straighter, Elsie nodded.

“I figure I could do something, I know how to type pretty fast, and well, I’m in the garage half the week..” She rambled, cut off by Flo reaching out to tug her into a hug.

Was it a chance to escape New Jersey and feel less disheartened by the local boys who seemed to number less and less each month? Sure, but the pair of them had always been stir-crazy. Elsie couldn’t help but itch to help the war effort in some shape or form. Especially with half the boys in their family fighting. She could practically hear her ma crying ‘Oh Figghia mea!’ now.

“Oh God, they’re gonna kill us.” Flo whispered into her hair as they hugged each other close on the park bench— which to passers by probably looked strange, and the bottle between them would probably result in a nosey neighbour calling one of their ma’s, but that didn’t matter right now.

“Ah, let’s see if they kill Mikey first, then we’ll worry about it.”

•••

[rogue-durin-16]

THE DOLLS' TIMELINE

Posting partly so y'all can follow along our chaotic works, partly so WE can follow along because it's A LOT.

Meet The Dolls!

The Dolls masterlist

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[rogue-durin-16]

Doing great, darling! Do we know each other?

Hi!!

Hi honey!

[rogue-durin-16]

Hi!!

Hi honey!

[rogue-durin-16]

Heyy beautiful soul💞 just came across your dolls universe and i wanted to ask (since it’s tagged as BoB content) are the dolls gonna get paired up with Easy Co??? And if so, are the ships sorted out or are you just building it as you go????

Love the idea btw, eager to see how the girls interact with Easy xx

I'm glad you loved the idea darling ♥️ the pairings are in the works rn but we'd rather not show our hand just yet 👀 we're developing them as characters first before we go through with the matchups, but just know you should DEFINITELY look forward to them 🙂‍↕️

[rogue-durin-16]

LE MONOCLE

Summary: after entering L'école des Beaux-Arts, Winnie and Ronnie get invited to a peculiar party at Le Monocle, which opens their eyes about the Parisian lifestyle, modern times, and a part of themselves they didn't know existed.

Dolls: Winifred Hawthorne & Veronica Valero

Warnings: alcohol and that's it omg

A/N: another piece to prepare y'all for the hell that's gonna be unleashed on these poor girls during wartime. More sapphic content + a look at the lesbian culture in Paris through the eyes of two 18 year old repressed girls. SPECIAL THANKS TO @annasansh THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FRENCH CONSULTANT<3

The dolls masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Mid December, 1937

It wasn't the first time Winnie and Ronnie got invited to Le Monocle. Their fellow colleagues at L'école des Beaux-Arts in Paris—the handful of women who had landed a chance to study there—, had snuck an invitation at Winifred at least thrice in the few months of their first year.

Veronica had gotten one, too; midway through their painting class, from a girl she thought was pretty. She had disregarded immediately.

Ronnie knew about Le Monocle; she'd been living in Paris with her mother's sister for over a year already. She'd walked Montmartre's streets, and she'd seen the women at the cafés sitting together. Her aunt talked about it occasionally—said everything but good things, but for better or for worse, Ronnie rarely listened to anybody.

She listened to Winnie, though. Maybe it was because the shorthaired girl was the voice of reason Veronica very much needed in her life.

The Spaniard hadn't expected to make any friends when she applied for the scholarship. French girls were too different from what Ronnie was accustomed to, and she didn't expect to find anything different in a place like L'école, but she was lucky enough to cross paths with an anxious short Brit who seemed as our of place as her.

There were two main reasons why Winnie and Ronnie had collectively declined the invitations until now. First, Winnie's knowledge of the french language was close to non-existent when the course started—Ronnie having to almost fully translate for her during the first month. Second, Veronica had the tough luck to be born in mid December, which meant that, until that week, she'd been under her aunt's tutelage.

God knows what her aunt would do if she found out Ronnie had been out and about anywhere near Montmartre.

Now that both girls were of age and Winnie's french was decent, they'd decided to give it a shot together.

"If you do it, I will do it." Ronnie had whispered to the British girl between classes.

"Oi," Winnie whispered back, a bit flustered. "why're you puttin' it on me, then?"

"Because I don't want to go alone?"

And so that night they both headed to Le Monocle.

Missing the dress code entirely—the two girls realized the moment they stepped inside. Short-haired women in tuxedos, waistcoats and slacks, some smoking with swagger that looked lifted straight from film reels. A handful of women in dresses and lipstick dotted the room, but it was clear they were the exception.

The two immediately overwhelmed eighteen-year-olds froze in the doorway. Winnie's wide eyes darted around behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her mouth slightly open.

"Bloody hell." she muttered under her breath. God, was she far from Birmingham.

Ronnie tried to shove the whiplash down into her stomach and pull on a mask of nonchalance—as if this was normal for her. Yet, she reached out and caught Winnie's hand as they started down the stairs into the bar.

Winnie leaned in, whispering urgently, "Jesus—is that Colette? From Professeur Vannier's class?" She stretched her neck awkwardly to get a better look at a woman in a sharply tailored tuxedo and slicked-back hair.

"Don't look at her, Winnie! ¡Dios!" Veronica hissed, slapping her friend's fur-covered arm. "Let's just—keep walking."

Before they could reach the bar counter, a woman dressed in a tuxedo stepped smoothly into their path, wedging herself between them and the bar counter. She had the confidence of someone who knew she was beautiful—all angular lines and tailored confidence. Her gaze settled lazily on Winnie, and a smirk played at her lips.

"Quelle charmante demoiselle… J'crois pas t'avoir déjà vue ici, toi."

Winnie blinked. "Pardon?"

The woman chuckled softly and leaned back a little, tilting her head. "J'vais vous laisser tranquille, Ta copine et toi. Installez-vous, prenez l’ambiance… Viens me trouver quand tu veux, beauté."

She winked before melting back into the crowd.

Winnie followed the woman with her startled gaze before turning back to Ronnie, who was doing the exact same thing.

"Wha'd she say?"

"Dios mío… she think you are a…" She leaned closer, almost whispering into Winnie's ear. "…a lesbian."

Winifred felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. "Goodness—"

Veronica straightened up, piercing eyes scanning the room. "This place is full of lesbians."

Winnie turned her back to the counter, opposing Veronica's motion, and replied with, "Well what'd you expect, babs? You said—"

"I did not think there would be this many. Joder, you think Marie thinks we are lesbians? And that is why she invited us? Winnie?"

But Winnie had stopped listening.

Her mouth had fallen slightly open, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she stared across the room.

Two women were sitting on one of the velvet settees, leaning into each other, their mouths locked in a kiss that could've been pulled straight from a movie screen. One of those kisses—slow, heated, the kind with tongue and everything.

Except there was no man. Just two women. And one very overwhelmed British girl watching them with something more than curiosity creeping in.

Ronnie smacked her friends back. "Winifred."

Winnie peeled her eyes off the two women to turn to her friend starstruck. "Sorry, what?"

"Do we look like lesbians?"

Winnie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, heart thrumming in her chest, mind running wild with a million thoughts at once—the memory of that one girl back home who she wanted to be best friends forever, the one she use to draw.

"What?" Winnie repeated.

Ronnie huffed, flustered but trying not to show it. Before she could say more, the bartender caught her eye. She turned to the counter, forearms resting on the wooden surface, her accent switching gears with difficulty now that she was struggling to regain her footing.

"Deux verres de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît. Et… eh..." She shifted on the spot, moving half a step to the side to put space between her and the two girls courting beside her. "peut-être un peu de citron? si vous avez."

This is normal, she told herself as she handed over the coins. This is normal.

She took the two glasses, nodded a polite thanks, and motioned for Winnie to follow her. They weaved through the crowd, settling onto a small velvet couch tucked behind a pillar.

Before either of them could speak, another woman appeared, smooth and confident, and took the empty space beside Veronica. She was older, probably in her late twenties, with curled dark hair and a cigarette balanced between her fingers like it belonged there.

She leaned close, smiling with the kind of heat that made Ronnie stiffen slightly.

"De si beaux yeux…" the stranger began, voice like velvet. "Comment t'appelles tu?"

Ronnie blinked startled, and surprised herself with how smooth the French came out. "Eh bien, merci. Je m'appelle Ronnie."

"Ronnie. C'est… exotique." The woman's warm eyes skimmed over Ronnie's form. "Comme ta beauté."

Ronnie gave a polite smile, grasping her glass like it might anchor her. "Vous êtes trop aimable." She tried. "Je passe la soirée avec mon amie. Si cela ne vous dérange pas—"

"Je vois," The woman’s gaze flicked to Winnie, who was still staring off in semi-catatonic fascination at the women on the settee. "Ce fut un plaisir, Ronnie." She took Ronnie’s hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and slipped away like a ghost in silk.

Winnie leaned forward slightly, blinking out of her daze. "Did she just… kiss your hand?"

Ronnie huffed again, taking a long drink and avoiding eye contact with anyone who could spot the disorienting haze behind her irises. "I need air."

Winnie didn’t need to be told twice.

The two girls slipped away from the velvet murmur of the crowd and made their way back toward the entrance, glasses in hand. The air there was cooler, quieter — a little more like the world they knew.

For a moment, they just stood. Breathing. Watching. Processing.

Then, in a voice equal parts curious and panicked, Winnie broke the silence.

"Ron. You ever kissed a boy?"

Veronica traced the rim of her glass with her finger, not looking over. "Yes. Two times, when I lived in Salamanca." She took another sip, inquisitive eyes zeroing in on Winnie. "You?"

"Not really." Winnie replied, and quickly added, "You ever think about kissing a girl?"

Ronnie paused, and this time, the silence stretched. "I don't know." She tried not to dwell too long on the question. But she did think of someone—that girl at church, the strawberry blonde covered in freckles who always wore a blue ribbon. She remembered wondering what it would feel like, just once, to touch her face. "Do you?"

Winnie took a breath. Swallowed. "Dunno."

She rocked a little on her heels, a frown pulling at her brows. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. If there was anyone she could say this to, it was Ronnie. After all, she'd come here with her.

So, with quiet determination and her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, she corrected herself. "Yes."

The British girl attempted to read her friend's reaction, but panic bubbled up her throat before she could draw any conclusions.

"You reckon that makes me a lesbian?"

Ronnie finally looked at her then, shaking her head slowly, eyes drifting back toward the stairs where the women were still enjoying themselves, unbothered by the two girls' crisis.

"No, I don't think it does." She half shrugged. "I think every girl feels that. It doesn't make you a lesbian."

But Winnie wasn't just feeling it — she wanted it. Wanted to kiss women. Wanted to know what that meant. The realization hit her like cold water—sudden, shocking, impossible to unfeel.

And yet, just beneath the panic, there was something else; relief.

It took her a second to catch the other thing Ronnie had said. The thing Ronnie didn't seem to hear herself say.

'I think every girl feels that.'

Oh, Jesus, Winnie thought to herself.

This was bad.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

[rogue-durin-16]

LE MONOCLE

Summary: after entering L'école des Beaux-Arts, Winnie and Ronnie get invited to a peculiar party at Le Monocle, which opens their eyes about the Parisian lifestyle, modern times, and a part of themselves they didn't know existed.

Dolls: Winifred Hawthorne & Veronica Valero

Warnings: alcohol and that's it omg

A/N: another piece to prepare y'all for the hell that's gonna be unleashed on these poor girls during wartime. More sapphic content + a look at the lesbian culture in Paris through the eyes of two 18 year old repressed girls. SPECIAL THANKS TO @annasansh THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FRENCH CONSULTANT<3

The dolls masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Mid December, 1937

It wasn't the first time Winnie and Ronnie got invited to Le Monocle. Their fellow colleagues at L'école des Beaux-Arts in Paris—the handful of women who had landed a chance to study there—, had snuck an invitation at Winifred at least thrice in the few months of their first year.

Veronica had gotten one, too; midway through their painting class, from a girl she thought was pretty. She had disregarded immediately.

Ronnie knew about Le Monocle; she'd been living in Paris with her mother's sister for over a year already. She'd walked Montmartre's streets, and she'd seen the women at the cafés sitting together. Her aunt talked about it occasionally—said everything but good things, but for better or for worse, Ronnie rarely listened to anybody.

She listened to Winnie, though. Maybe it was because the shorthaired girl was the voice of reason Veronica very much needed in her life.

The Spaniard hadn't expected to make any friends when she applied for the scholarship. French girls were too different from what Ronnie was accustomed to, and she didn't expect to find anything different in a place like L'école, but she was lucky enough to cross paths with an anxious short Brit who seemed as our of place as her.

There were two main reasons why Winnie and Ronnie had collectively declined the invitations until now. First, Winnie's knowledge of the french language was close to non-existent when the course started—Ronnie having to almost fully translate for her during the first month. Second, Veronica had the tough luck to be born in mid December, which meant that, until that week, she'd been under her aunt's tutelage.

God knows what her aunt would do if she found out Ronnie had been out and about anywhere near Montmartre.

Now that both girls were of age and Winnie's french was decent, they'd decided to give it a shot together.

"If you do it, I will do it." Ronnie had whispered to the British girl between classes.

"Oi," Winnie whispered back, a bit flustered. "why're you puttin' it on me, then?"

"Because I don't want to go alone?"

And so that night they both headed to Le Monocle.

Missing the dress code entirely—the two girls realized the moment they stepped inside. Short-haired women in tuxedos, waistcoats and slacks, some smoking with swagger that looked lifted straight from film reels. A handful of women in dresses and lipstick dotted the room, but it was clear they were the exception.

The two immediately overwhelmed eighteen-year-olds froze in the doorway. Winnie's wide eyes darted around behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her mouth slightly open.

"Bloody hell." she muttered under her breath. God, was she far from Birmingham.

Ronnie tried to shove the whiplash down into her stomach and pull on a mask of nonchalance—as if this was normal for her. Yet, she reached out and caught Winnie's hand as they started down the stairs into the bar.

Winnie leaned in, whispering urgently, "Jesus—is that Colette? From Professeur Vannier's class?" She stretched her neck awkwardly to get a better look at a woman in a sharply tailored tuxedo and slicked-back hair.

"Don't look at her, Winnie! ¡Dios!" Veronica hissed, slapping her friend's fur-covered arm. "Let's just—keep walking."

Before they could reach the bar counter, a woman dressed in a tuxedo stepped smoothly into their path, wedging herself between them and the bar counter. She had the confidence of someone who knew she was beautiful—all angular lines and tailored confidence. Her gaze settled lazily on Winnie, and a smirk played at her lips.

"Quelle charmante demoiselle… J'crois pas t'avoir déjà vue ici, toi."

Winnie blinked. "Pardon?"

The woman chuckled softly and leaned back a little, tilting her head. "J'vais vous laisser tranquille, Ta copine et toi. Installez-vous, prenez l’ambiance… Viens me trouver quand tu veux, beauté."

She winked before melting back into the crowd.

Winnie followed the woman with her startled gaze before turning back to Ronnie, who was doing the exact same thing.

"Wha'd she say?"

"Dios mío… she think you are a…" She leaned closer, almost whispering into Winnie's ear. "…a lesbian."

Winifred felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. "Goodness—"

Veronica straightened up, piercing eyes scanning the room. "This place is full of lesbians."

Winnie turned her back to the counter, opposing Veronica's motion, and replied with, "Well what'd you expect, babs? You said—"

"I did not think there would be this many. Joder, you think Marie thinks we are lesbians? And that is why she invited us? Winnie?"

But Winnie had stopped listening.

Her mouth had fallen slightly open, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she stared across the room.

Two women were sitting on one of the velvet settees, leaning into each other, their mouths locked in a kiss that could've been pulled straight from a movie screen. One of those kisses—slow, heated, the kind with tongue and everything.

Except there was no man. Just two women. And one very overwhelmed British girl watching them with something more than curiosity creeping in.

Ronnie smacked her friends back. "Winifred."

Winnie peeled her eyes off the two women to turn to her friend starstruck. "Sorry, what?"

"Do we look like lesbians?"

Winnie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, heart thrumming in her chest, mind running wild with a million thoughts at once—the memory of that one girl back home who she wanted to be best friends forever, the one she use to draw.

"What?" Winnie repeated.

Ronnie huffed, flustered but trying not to show it. Before she could say more, the bartender caught her eye. She turned to the counter, forearms resting on the wooden surface, her accent switching gears with difficulty now that she was struggling to regain her footing.

"Deux verres de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît. Et… eh..." She shifted on the spot, moving half a step to the side to put space between her and the two girls courting beside her. "peut-être un peu de citron? si vous avez."

This is normal, she told herself as she handed over the coins. This is normal.

She took the two glasses, nodded a polite thanks, and motioned for Winnie to follow her. They weaved through the crowd, settling onto a small velvet couch tucked behind a pillar.

Before either of them could speak, another woman appeared, smooth and confident, and took the empty space beside Veronica. She was older, probably in her late twenties, with curled dark hair and a cigarette balanced between her fingers like it belonged there.

She leaned close, smiling with the kind of heat that made Ronnie stiffen slightly.

"De si beaux yeux…" the stranger began, voice like velvet. "Comment t'appelles tu?"

Ronnie blinked startled, and surprised herself with how smooth the French came out. "Eh bien, merci. Je m'appelle Ronnie."

"Ronnie. C'est… exotique." The woman's warm eyes skimmed over Ronnie's form. "Comme ta beauté."

Ronnie gave a polite smile, grasping her glass like it might anchor her. "Vous êtes trop aimable." She tried. "Je passe la soirée avec mon amie. Si cela ne vous dérange pas—"

"Je vois," The woman’s gaze flicked to Winnie, who was still staring off in semi-catatonic fascination at the women on the settee. "Ce fut un plaisir, Ronnie." She took Ronnie’s hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and slipped away like a ghost in silk.

Winnie leaned forward slightly, blinking out of her daze. "Did she just… kiss your hand?"

Ronnie huffed again, taking a long drink and avoiding eye contact with anyone who could spot the disorienting haze behind her irises. "I need air."

Winnie didn’t need to be told twice.

The two girls slipped away from the velvet murmur of the crowd and made their way back toward the entrance, glasses in hand. The air there was cooler, quieter — a little more like the world they knew.

For a moment, they just stood. Breathing. Watching. Processing.

Then, in a voice equal parts curious and panicked, Winnie broke the silence.

"Ron. You ever kissed a boy?"

Veronica traced the rim of her glass with her finger, not looking over. "Yes. Two times, when I lived in Salamanca." She took another sip, inquisitive eyes zeroing in on Winnie. "You?"

"Not really." Winnie replied, and quickly added, "You ever think about kissing a girl?"

Ronnie paused, and this time, the silence stretched. "I don't know." She tried not to dwell too long on the question. But she did think of someone—that girl at church, the strawberry blonde covered in freckles who always wore a blue ribbon. She remembered wondering what it would feel like, just once, to touch her face. "Do you?"

Winnie took a breath. Swallowed. "Dunno."

She rocked a little on her heels, a frown pulling at her brows. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. If there was anyone she could say this to, it was Ronnie. After all, she'd come here with her.

So, with quiet determination and her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, she corrected herself. "Yes."

The British girl attempted to read her friend's reaction, but panic bubbled up her throat before she could draw any conclusions.

"You reckon that makes me a lesbian?"

Ronnie finally looked at her then, shaking her head slowly, eyes drifting back toward the stairs where the women were still enjoying themselves, unbothered by the two girls' crisis.

"No, I don't think it does." She half shrugged. "I think every girl feels that. It doesn't make you a lesbian."

But Winnie wasn't just feeling it — she wanted it. Wanted to kiss women. Wanted to know what that meant. The realization hit her like cold water—sudden, shocking, impossible to unfeel.

And yet, just beneath the panic, there was something else; relief.

It took her a second to catch the other thing Ronnie had said. The thing Ronnie didn't seem to hear herself say.

'I think every girl feels that.'

Oh, Jesus, Winnie thought to herself.

This was bad.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads