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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 14

AO3

Summary: Time passes...

Warnings: None I think???

Word Count: 4.4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58 @justheretoreadthxxs

August, 1944

Amber sparks floated through the breezeless air, the flickering flames that stretched upwards from the hardstand tarmac turning the dark sky brown with its orange glow. The stench of burning oil was almost suffocating, exacerbated by the sweltering summer heat until the atmosphere itself felt as if it were pressing down against the earth.

Skin sticky with sweat, droplets running down her forehead, Frankie stood back and watched the flames. She had unbuttoned her coveralls, shrugging off the top half and tying her sleeves around her waist to stop her trousers from falling down, nothing underneath but a sweat-soaked vest as she waited for a single, cool breeze to soothe her. Ken lay flat on his back beside her, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed against the firelight. It may have been the middle of the night now, but the sun's rays had been steadily baking the tarmac all day long, and the dark patch spreading across his back became visible whenever he sat up.

"I hate the summer," Frankie groaned, head upturned towards the heavens as if venting her frustration to God himself.

"I miss my wife," Ken complained, cross-legged on the ground as he frowned at the flames.

"Ooh, look at you, all bloody married," She teased, nudging him with the toe of her book, and wobbling off-balance as he grabbed her by the ankle.

"You would be too - whose fault is that?" He raised a knowing brow, only releasing her leg once it became apparent she was about to fall over. Frankie stumbled for a second as she caught her balance, folding her arms across her chest.

"Shut up," She muttered, ruffling his hair, cringing at its sweat-soaked dampness. "It's not the time for it - you get married before the war, like you, or you wait for after. Besides, we've only been together for - what, eight months? That's not that long."

"But he's it for you, ain't he? Rosie?" Lemmons asked. Frankie had been about to tease him for his romanticism, but hell - the guy had gotten married at nineteen. It shouldn't have surprised her. But before she could respond, a shout of greeting sounded from the darkness at the end of the runway, an involuntary smile spreading across her cheeks at the familiar voice.

"Evening!" Rosie called, half jogging towards them, his grin growing visible as he neared the blaze. He'd unbuttoned his shirt below the collar, tie long discarded, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The humidity had unstuck his curls, the gel he religiously applied each morning all but useless - although, she'd always preferred it this way.

"It's midnight, honey," Frankie pointed out, squinting in the light of the fire as she grinned, digging the toe of her boot into the ground.

"Yeah - 's why I brought water instead of coffee," He nodded, raising his canteen, its contents so fresh and cold that a layer of condensation had begun forming around the outside. She let out a gasp, bounding the last couple of steps to close the gap between them as she snatched the bottle from him, letting out a groan of relief as the cool liquid poured down her throat.

The moment she stopped for breath, Ken had ripped the canteen from her grip, downing a huge gulp for himself. Frankie let out a pant, wiping a stray droplet from her chin. "I swear to god, if we were near a church right now, I'd marry you," She shook her head slightly in earnest, mopping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

"Well, if I'd known it was that easy," Rosie chuckled, wrapping an arm around her neck and pulling her sideways towards him, pressing a kiss to her cheek. The salty taste of sweat lined his lips, and he let out a laugh as Frankie squirmed out of grip, yelling at Ken as she tried to wrestle the canteen from his hands before he could drink all of the water, their shadows ever-flickering in the changing light of the fire.

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October, 1944

A bubble of chatter filled the pub, jolly patrons talking and laughing over their pints as someone banged out a tune on the piano in the corner. Frankie slipped through the crowd, the wall of customers thinner than usual as she reached the bar, leaning against it with both elbows as she craned forward to catch the bartender's attention.

"Pint o' Guinness, please? Thanks, love," She grinned, nodding to the man behind the bar as he grabbed a glass, practically knowing her order before she'd even had to ask.

"Her drink's on me," An unfamiliar voice spoke up, and Frankie turned her head as one of the replacements sidled in beside her, a confident smirk creasing his cheek. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Her drink's on her. Thanks, though," She chuckled, flashing the bartender a grateful grin as he passed her pint over. Raising it to her lips, she took a sip, waiting for the awkward silence to send him off. It didn't.

"Aw, c'mon. Pretty gal like you shouldn't be buyin' her own beer - whaddya say?"

"No, no. I just said it," Frankie shook her head, still frankly amused at such a clumsy attempt at flirting. "Besides, I'm on my husband's dime... You have met the Major, right?"

A spark of panic flashed behind the pilot's eyes, and he was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, retreating back through the crowds. She let out a snort of amusement, lifting her glass slightly in a mini-toast to herself before turning back towards her table. Rosie was patiently awaiting her return, brow furrowed, frown tugging at his features as he craned his neck, watching the spot in the crowd where her unwanted admirer had disappeared.

"You alright?" He asked looking up at her as she sat down. "That guy wasn't bothering you, was he?"

Frankie let out a huff of laughter, nodding slightly. "Oh, god no. Only if you count the most embarrassing attempt at a pick-up I've ever seen as 'bothering'."

"Seriously?" Rosie's frown deepened, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as if about to stand, still peering in search of the pilot.

"Oh, sit down," She scoffed, batting at his arm with the back of her hand. "Thank you for the concern, but I'm really not bothered."

He did as she asked, but still seemed unsettled, brow pinched above his nose as he lifted his glass to his lips, sitting in silence. Frankie stared sideways at him, taking in his appearance. His jaw was clenched, and even beneath his jacket, she could tell his shoulders had gone stiff. Rosie sat quietly in an awkward state of tension, attention seemingly caught by any man who seemed to stray too close to their table on their way past. He was... oh.

"Oh my God," She breathed, wide-eyed and smiling.

"...What?"

"You're jealous!" Frankie grinned, noting the sudden flush that coloured his cheeks at this observation.

"What?! No! No," Rosie shook his head firmly, lifting his glass to his lips as he took a long sip. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him jealous before - all flustered and defensive. It was certainly amusing.

"Oh, sweetheart," She tutted, patting a hand on his thigh. "I mean, I get it - I'm one-hundred-per-cent a catch, you probably should be worried," She teased, nodding along until he began to smile.

"Stop it," He chuckled.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I invoked your rank and pretended you were my husband to scare him off," Frankie shrugged. Something flickered in Rosie's expression - something she couldn't quite interpret, but definitely enjoyed.

"... You did?"

"Mhm."

It was silent for a long moment. She took a calm sip of her beer, wiping the residual foam from her lip, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. Resisting the urge to smirk, she spoke. "... Hey honey, d'you wanna step outside for a sec-"

"Yep," Rosie was on his feet before she'd even finished her sentence and she let out a guffaw, abandoning her not-even-half-empty beer upon the table as she got up to follow, trailing behind him as they made their way towards the door.

They rounded the side of the building, stepping into the side alley where no one would walk past, and the moment they reached it his hands were on her, cupping her face as he brought their lips together, their teeth grazing against each other's as they tried not to laugh. She had a hand on his chest, then her arms were wrapping around the back of his neck, holding him as close as she could as she kissed him back, the smell of beer thick on their breath. His hands moved to her waist, squeezing slightly as she stepped back against the side wall, feeling his moustache tickly against her lip slightly as he let out a long sigh, the tension melting from his shoulders. She'd lost count of how many times they'd stood here, doing this, and yet every time it felt exciting - like they were teenagers trying not to get caught, as if anything they had between them remained even remotely secret. It had been a tiresome facade to keep up - even more so when it became apparent how bad of a job they'd been doing of it - so it felt wonderful to simply exist together out in the open.

Rosie's breath fanned her cheek as he broke the kiss for a moment, eyes still closed. "I love you."

Frankie's smile widened into a grin, tapping the tip of her nose against his. "I love you too. But not jealous, yeah?"

He lifted his hand back to her face, looking down at her with warm eyes as his thumb skimmed back and forth across her cheek. "Well, not anymore," He shrugged, beaming as she laughed.

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December, 1944

"Wa-hey!" Frankie cheered as she waddled sideways in through the front door of her father's house, a bag full of boxes held up in each hand as Rosie shuffled in behind her, reaching out to pluck a few stray snowflakes from her hair. "Presents, presents, presents! We're working with a Major's salary this year, people, so get ready."

Her father stood to the side, taking the suitcases from Rosie's hands and piling them at the bottom of the stairs as the couple weaved their way further inside, hurrying to shut the door behind them before the snow could blow in too. Alice and Jill waited grinning the the doorway to the kitchen, wrangling the dog between them to stop it from darting beneath anyone's feet. Frankie had received several letters from her father about the new canine, and they'd already taken to jokingly calling it her replacement. Tugging against its collar, Jill let out a faint shriek as the dog escaped her grip, scrambling down the hall and darting beneath Rosie's feet, almost tripping him.

"Oh, hey!" He smiled, crouching down to scratch beneath its chin. "What's this guy's name, huh?"

Frankie had already disappeared to unload the presents, but a guffaw of laughter emerged from the living room as she returned, leaning against the doorway. "Yeah, go on girls. Tell 'im what the dog's called."

Alice's face turned red with embarrassment, but Jill simply bounced on the balls of her feet, practically giddy with excitement at the prospect of breaking the news. "He's called Rosie!"

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Rosie could tell Frankie was fighting the urge to laugh again, her cheeks growing pinker by the second with the effort. The dog was a scrappy little terrier, with wiry, brow fur poking out at every angle and a rather prominent under-bite. "... Wowww," He nodded, smiling back at Jill. "Yeah, I... I see it!" Frankie ducked into the kitchen, and he heard her let out a snort, earning her a glare from the younger of the two girls.

"Alright girls, leave Rosie - and... Rosie - alone," Mr Bevan boomed, face reddened with amusement as he herded the children into the kitchen. Standing up to follow, Rosie stepped cautiously around the dog, whose stare remained fixed on him as he passed, claws skittering against the floor as he followed him into the next room.

Sitting down to their Christmas dinner, it was as if he had been transported back in time to the year before, crowded around the tiny kitchen table, the clinks of silverware and glasses echoing incessantly as they passed plates of food and refilled cups of wine. He had spent the last year carefully curating a slew of flying stories for just this occasion, and the girls spent the meal on the edge of their seats, listening with pricked ears to everything he had to say. Frankie's father had never appeared to take much interest in his job - nor the war in general - and Frankie was well-versed enough in his escapades to tune them out, the pair communicating with mouthed words and vague gestures across the table, which seemed to serve them just fine.

"I'm gonna be a pilot," Jill declared, passing her plate across the table so that Frankie could cut her ham into bite-sized pieces.

"Your feet won't reach the pedals," Alice teased, rather pleased with herself. Jill looked absolutely outraged, and the pair appeared poised to fight until Frankie's voice came from the other end of the table.

"Girls," She warned, firm tone working like a sedative as they immediately shrank back into their seats. "Alice, if you've finished eating go take the vegetable scraps out to the compost, yeah?"

"But I wanted to do that," Jill whined.

"Then go help, and come finish your dinner when you're done."

Both satisfied with the compromise, the girls clambered out of their seats, arguing beneath their breaths as they fought to decide who got to carry the potato peelings, voices never raising above a mutter to avoid another scolding. Frankie let out a huff of amusement, turning back to her dinner as she poked at her pile of carrots with her fork.

"You're good with 'em," Her father pointed out. "They listen to you - I swear they bicker constantly otherwise, don't listen to a word I say."

"Think that's par for the course when there's two of 'em," Rosie smiled.

"You got siblings, Rosie?"

He hummed, nodding as he raised a hand to his mouth. "Two sisters. But I'm the youngest, so growing up it was mostly just me watching them argue."

Once dinner was over and everything had been tidied away, they hurried into the living room to let the children open the presents they'd brought, watching from the sofa as they tore at the paper with ruthless precision. Jill received a toy biplane, fashioned from tin and painted bright red, as well as the view-master she'd spent the last year begging for, and for Alice, they'd supplied a hefty stack of mystery novels. Frankie watched with a smile, a fresh glass of wine in hand as she sat sideways, legs stretched out across Rosie's lap.

And as he sat there, hand resting on her knee, he struggled to fathom how any Christmas had ever felt adequate before he'd met her. With the children at their feet, stuffing their faces with mince pies, and the blinking lights across the street casting the room in various shades of green and red, it was hard not to imagine the scene as the rest of their lives. It was hard not to wish it - so dearly that something ached within his chest.

As afternoon gave way to evening, daylight slowly dissipating, a calm fell over the house, descending into quiet. Alice had sat curled up in an armchair with one of her books until she could scarcely keep her eyes open, wandering off to bed, and after a tiring afternoon of playing fighter planes with Rosie, Jill was almost comatose, curled up at one end of the sofa as she struggled to remain conscious.

"Alright, sweetheart," Frankie cooed, crouching down to the child's level as she stroked a soft hand through her hair, gently rousing her. "Time for bed, I think."

She had expected an excuse - some poor demonstration of how she was definitely still awake and definitely didn't need to go to bed. What she was met with was a wide-eyed smile as Jill clambered down from the sofa, already padding towards the stairs on tiny feet. As she passed Rosie, she caught the cuff of his sleeve between her fingers, tugging at him until he followed. He grinned at this, turning his head back to face Frankie. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Mhm," Frankie nodded, mirroring his smile as she pressed a quick peck to his lips. "Goodnight, honey," She called after Jill, who barely seemed to notice as she hiked up the stairs.

"I've been practising the Winnie the Pooh voices," Rosie whispered quickly, stepping out of the room to follow. Frankie laughed.

"I bet you have."

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January, 1945

The officers' club was heaving with crowds, conversing in tense anticipation as the clock ticked steadily towards midnight, mere minutes left until the dawn of 1945. George's brow furrowed, a drink in each hand as she looked around, one almost finished, the other entirely untouched. It seemed almost all of Thorpe Abbotts was here somewhere, from the commanding officers to the local Land Army girls, and yet Frankie did not appear to be among them, the sound of her voice suspiciously absent.

"Where is she?" She demanded firmly, cornering Lemmons and interrupting him mid-story as his fellow mechanics backed off.

"She's not here?" He frowned, immediately catching on without even having to ask who they were talking about.

George let out a groan, rolling her eyes as she turned to walk away. If Frankie wasn't going to make it on time, she wasn't saving her drink. "Here you go, free beer - Happy New Year," She drawled, passing it off to the first stranger she passed as she shouldered her way back through the crowds.

Rosie was standing at the other end of the bar with his crew, and their gazes met, exchanging a look of resignation as they attempted to gesticulate that neither knew where Frankie had gotten to. Throwing up her hands in irritation, George downed the last of her drink, weaving her way towards the door and out into the night, a saddening departure from a party she'd otherwise been very much enjoying. Really, she just hoped she wasn't gone long enough for Blakely to notice - he'd been looking forward to a midnight kiss all week.

She made it most of the way back to the huts before noticing the light was still on inside her own. Clenching her jaw, George resisted the urge to groan aloud once more as she marched towards the door, practically throwing it open. Frankie poked her head around the doorway to the bathroom, a streak of grease still staining her cheek.

"Oh!" She smiled. "I was wondering where everyone had got to."

"Frankie," George spoke through gritted teeth. "Get your ass in the officers' club right now."

There was a pause, Frankie's brow furrowing slightly. "...Why?"

"It's fucking New Years!"

Her eyes widened. "I thought that was tomorrow!"

"It is literally the thirty-first of December - when else was it going to be?"

"I don't really look at the calendar, I just-"

"Get out here!" George yelled, voice echoing against the curved, metal roof.

"Jesus Christ, I'm coming," Frankie's brow raised as she hurried across the hut to the door. "I'm still covered in oil, though, so-"

"I really don't care," Shaking her head, George seized her by the wrist, practically dragging her back towards the club. She could almost hear the clock ticking in her mind, a constant reminder that they were running out of time, her pace quickening by the second until they were almost jogging. Frankie had begun to smile, holding back a laugh at her panicked state so as not to rile her further.

The pair were barely ten metres away from the door to the club when an uproarious cheer blared from inside, the sound of champagne corks popping a clear sign that they'd just managed to narrowly miss it. Stopping dead in their tracks, Frankie's eyes widened, turning slowly to look at George, who was already glaring daggers into the side of her head.

"George, I'm really sor-"

She was cut off as George seized her by the cheeks, leaning forward to plant a firm kiss on her forehead. Frankie frowned in confusion as the blonde pulled away, shrugging despairingly. "Right. There you go. Happy New Year, Frank, love you." Turning on her heel, she made a beeline for the door, utterly focused on whatever her remaining mission was.

"... Where are you going?"

George looked back one last time, wide-eyed and slightly crazed. "I am going to snog my fucking boyfriend!" She all but shrieked, and Frankie chuckled as she disappeared inside. Suddenly, the image of Rosie standing alone at the bar came to mind, a jolt of panic filling her with energy as she burst into motion.

"Oh, shit - wait for me!"

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February, 1945

A layer of frost coated the tarmac, dozens of tyre tracks marking imperfect black streaks in the white blanket of ice as trucks rolled back and forth, crews waiting to board beside their forts as the final checks were carried out. Frankie's breath formed a frozen cloud in front of her face with each exhale, clouding her vision slightly as she stomped along the runway, fists shoved into the pockets of Egan's old sheepskin. It was a bitter morning, and she'd put on one of George's turtlenecks underneath her coveralls for the warmth, scarf wrapped tightly beneath her chin. As she approached the Riveters' fort, noticing Rosie waiting on the tarmac for her, she let her frozen scowl give way to a smile, a puff of breath materialising as he noticed her arrival.

"There she is," Rosie grinned, turning to face her as she closed the gap between them, pushing herself up on the balls of her feet in a small jump as she threw her arms around his shoulders. A laugh vibrated from his chest as he enveloped her in an embrace, rubbing his hands back and forth across her back, the action equal parts affectionate and an attempt to warm her up.

"Fifty-second mission. Jesus Christ," Frankie huffed, a distinct note of admiration in her voice.

"Let's make it a round sixty, then I'll retire," He chuckled, pressing his cheek against the side of her head.

"... You're joking though, right?"

Her question gave him pause. Was he? He supposed he had never given it much thought. But how long could he really keep pushing it before his luck ran out - before it was cruel to make her wait?

"I don't... I don't think so."

Frankie's sleeves brushed against his neck as she pulled back, just far enough to look him in the eye, a faint expression of disbelief holding back the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. The cold had mottled her cheeks, a red flush colouring the tip of her nose, and he wasn't sure he'd ever wanted to kiss her so badly.

"Are you serious?" She asked, tilting her head to look at him from an angle, as if assessing him for cracks in his facade.

"Yeah," Rosie breathed. "Yeah. We hit sixty, n' I'm done. I'll go back to America, or I'll find somewhere to stay here - I don't care, I just-" He was cut off as her lips collided with his, eyes screwed tightly shut, her face cold against his as she pulled her arms back to hold his face in her hands, gloved palms warming his cheeks. Smiling against her lips, he brought one hand to her waist, the other to the back of her head, and dipped her backwards as if they were dancing. The sudden movement made her laugh, the kiss broken for only a second before he pulled her back in.

They stayed like that for a moment, until Frankie came up for air, their clouds of breath mingling into one as they stood with their foreheads pressed together, gazes fixed on one another. "In that case," She spoke, barely more than a whisper, something glinting in her eye. "I have an idea, too."

"Oh yeah?" He grinned, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, not quite catching on. "What's that, then?"

"Robert Rosenthal," Frankie began, hands on either side of his face once more. "When you get back, I'm gonna marry you."

Rosie swore his heart stopped beating in his chest for a moment, gaping slightly, utterly unable to form a thought let alone a coherent word. His entire face must have flushed bright red, for she had started to laugh, and he wasn't sure he'd ever heard anything more wonderful. Except, perhaps, for the words she'd just uttered.

"... Yeah?" He asked, expression suddenly distorted by a lopsided grin that made him look like an overexcited puppy. Frankie nodded, beaming back up at him.

"Mhm."

Before he could stop it, a burst of ecstatic laughter escaped his throat, and he stumbled slightly, passing his weight from one foot to the other as he fought to regain his balance, Frankie's grip on him perhaps the only thing keeping him upright. "Well... In that case, maybe we'll make it fifty-five, huh?"

It had seemed impossible for her to smile wider, and yet she did, tears welling in her eyes as she fought to blink them away. But before she could reply, there came the creak of the plane hatch being wrenched open, and Pappy's voice sounded, yelling from the Riveter's belly.

"Hey, Rosie! Should I let Hitler know we're gonna be late, or what?!" He called, impatience thick in his tone. Frankie snorted, covering her face with her hands to stop herself from laughing.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'!" Rosie exclaimed, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly as he stepped backwards out of their embrace, the flush in his cheeks still yet to dispel itself. He shot Frankie a wink, and she mirrored it in return, shoving her hands back into her pockets.

"Guess I'll see ya round," He shrugged.

She grinned, and for a split second, he would have given anything for just five more minutes out on the freezing tarmac.

"Not if I see you first."

#fic | i'm your man #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal #masters of the air #mota #mota oc #mota fic #oc: frankie #frankie x rosie #oc: george #ken lemmons #everett blakely #AND THE CROWD GOES WILD #YOU'RE WELCOME FOLKS

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girlactionfigure · 1 year

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The guard passed it on to her husband Kurt, but for decades the couple's youngest son, Frank, was unable to read the handwritten note.

Here, 75 years after the death camp was liberated, he tells Sky News how it felt to read the letter which is now on display to visitors at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum:

My father, mother and older brother and I were sent to Auschwitz in December 1943.

A transport of around 5,000 inmates had arrived at the camp in September before us and we were part of the second batch of 5,000.

We had no idea why we were there.

We were kept in a Czech family camp which was a ploy by the Nazis to show the International Red Cross that Czech Jews were being well looked after.

At the time, we had no idea why the family camp was even established because most of the time, when children arrived at the Auschwitz railway station, they were almost immediately killed in the gas chambers.

The International Red Cross never inspected Auschwitz so the Nazis gassed and killed most of the September transport.

This was in the March and April of 1944.

Then a few months later, they decided to make a selection from the second group which my family and I were in.

We all lined up in front of notorious SS doctor Josef Mengele, nicknamed the Angel of Death, who selected who would live or die.

My brother John, who was four years older than me, was handicapped and he was chosen to die.

And, because I was less than 12 years old, I was also put on death row.

Vilma Grunwald with her sons John (left) and Frank (then known as Misa). Pic: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

We were both standing in the line when one of the prisoners I had been working for as a messenger came over and quickly moved me into a group of older children.

He had saved my life.

But when my mother found out that John, who was 16, was going to be gassed, she decided to stay with him.

She could not bear the idea of him going into the gas chamber by himself.

About five days after the selection, she wrote a letter to my father, who had been moved to a medical camp because he was a physician.

She gave it to a guard and - despite the massive size of Auschwitz - he delivered it to my father.

There were between 30,000 and 40,000 guards in the camp and many of them were not SS.

Some of them were older military people in their 50s and 60s who had not been brainwashed by the Nazi regime.

The letter that Vilma Grunwald wrote to her husband before she died. Pic: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

My mother, who was always a good judge of character, had picked the right person.

A few months later, Auschwitz was liberated, and I was reunited with my father - by this time I was in Austria and he was in Germany.

It was then he told me he had a letter from my mother, written to him shortly before she and my brother were taken on trucks to the gas chambers.

He told me it was a goodbye, a loving goodbye to him, and that my mother had wished him a good life.

I was only 12 years old at the time, so it was too painful to read and I pushed it to the back of my mind.

We lived in London for two years, and then moved to New York City in 1951.

My father practised medicine there and I went to the Pratt Institute and studied industrial design.

I didn't see the note until after my father died in 1967 and I was sorting out his possessions.

I had thought about it many times over the years and I was curious, but I knew it would be too depressing and upsetting to read.

Read More: Here

#WW2 #Shoah #July 1944 #Vilma Grunwald #Auschwitz

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bitter69uk · 1 month

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Died ten years ago today: that ineffably feline and insolent Siamese cat-in-human-form, smoky-eyed and husky-voiced Golden Age Hollywood leading lady Lauren Bacall (née Betty Joan Perske, 16 September 1924 – 12 August 2014). Encyclopedia Britannica summarizes the imperious Bacall’s screen persona more succinctly than I ever could: “American actress known for her portrayals of provocative women who hid their soft core underneath a layer of hard-edged pragmatism.” (When I say “imperious”, that’s my diplomatic way of saying “notoriously temperamental and terrifying”). Of course, I love Bacall in the classic 1940s films noir she made with her husband Humphrey Bogart (To Have and Have Not (1944), The Big Sleep (1946), Dark Passage (1947) and Key Largo (1948)) and her great 1950s films like How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) and Written on the Wind (1956). To her eternal credit, Bacall made gutsy, adventurous film choices late in her career, opting to appear in Dogville (2003) by Lars von Trier, Birth (2004), Paul Schrader’s The Walker (2007) and playing herself on TV’s The Sopranos (2006). (She was quoted as saying she dreamed of working with Pedro Almodovar). And her last-ever performance was a voice-over on an episode of Family Guy (playing a lecherous old lady hitting on Peter!). But hey, I’m perverse so my favourite Bacall performances are in Young Man with a Horn (1950) (as Kirk Douglas’ icily self-possessed lesbian socialite wife) and the schlocky exploitation films Shock Treatment (1964) and The Fan (1981). And La Bacall’s 1980s High Point instant coffee TV commercials (“deep-brewed FLAVAH!”) are camp sacred texts! Pictured: portrait of Bacall by Jack Mitchell, New York, 1966.

#lauren bacall #jack mitchell #lobotomy room #diva #kween #old hollywood #old showbiz #golden age hollywood #classic hollywood #bogie and bacall #film noir #tough cookie #tough broad

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er1chartmann · 10 months

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Der Adler.

These are some facts and curiosities about '' Der Adler'' a a biweekly Nazi propaganda magazine concerning the Luftwaffe:

The first issue was on March 1, 1939, on the initiative of the Reich Minister of Aviation to spread news regarding the Luftwaffle.

The contents were largely derived from material made available by the propaganda ministry with the aim of attracting German youth to enlist in the Wehrmacht.

The periodicity of the magazine was one issue every 14 days, the publication included 32 illustrated pages. In 1941 and 1942 the magazine came out with a reduced number of pages (halved, only 16 pages).

The first issues were published in bilingual format (English and German). At the outbreak of war, the two languages were separated and two separate releases were published. With the occupation of France, the third version was added, the one in French. The versions in Italian (1942/43), Spanish and Romanian also followed.

With the entry of the United States into the war, the price indication USA 8 Cent was removed from the cover, although the English version of the magazine continued to appear.

The French and English versions ended in 1944, in particular the English one ran until August of that year. The German edition, although difficult to find, continued in a limited context until February 1945.

A total of 146 issues were published in Germany

In the last official issue, released on 12 September 1944, it is announced, in greeting and thanks to the readers, the interruption of printing for the entire duration of the war, with the intention of dedicating all the resources involved to the army and the production. and the resumption of publications after the victory.

If you don't like it go with your life :))

Sources:

Wikipedia: Der Adler.

I DON'T SUPPORT NAZISM,FASCISM OR ZIONISM IN ANY WAY, THIS IS JUST AN EDUCATIONAL POST

#ww2 germany #reichblr #joseph goebbels #ww2 history #hermann goering #der adler

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pisupsala · 9 months

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 17 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 7.9k

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Chapter 17 - Dream a Little Dream of Me

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really. When his body finally gives in to the exhaustion, and he lets his guard down, his mind catches a second wind, serving up the worst visions from the war. Bradley refuses to call them dreams, but he would hesitate to call them nightmares. He doesn’t wake up bathing in a cold sweat, heart beating, desperately trying to catch his breath anymore. It’s a never-ending reel that starts playing the moment he closes his eyes like it’s been seared into his eyelids, and all he can do is watch.

On that misty gray morning in June, he followed Mav over the channel. Flanked by countless squadrons, passing over the largest armada assembled, they were prepared for everything. Anything. Flying low, the sight of the shallows on the Atlantic in Normandy colored blood-red knocks the wind out of him.

Bradley has seen plenty of battles in his years in the war. He’s seen friend and foe disappear in balls of fire in midair, watched them plummet to the earth, spinning out of control. He’s seen cities go up in flames under him. He was the one helping ignite them. In a certain regard, he was lucky — he never had to see the resulting carnage firsthand. He never had to look another pilot in the face before they died. He couldn’t see the people running to hide in air raid shelters as the bombers he was escorting flew over.

High in the sky, war often seems quite far away.

Bradley is quite aware of his own mortality — after his own crash, how could he not be? But he also knows it is either them or him. It’s the simple equation of a dogfight. But the sight of a blood-red sea — how much blood must there be in order to dilute the seawater? — simply won’t leave him.

How many seas of blood has he caused?

If the battle for Europe was a raw lesson in the mass casualty of war, Bradley kept holding out hope that his wing would stay assigned to the theater. Holding out hope that if he could follow the advance, it could get him closer to you again. However, in the early fall of 1944, most Naval aviators get re-assigned to the Pacific theater as the European front moves inland, and the USAF and RAF take the lead in establishing air superiority. Bradley is a Luitenant Commander now, the rows of ribbons on his chest gradually growing, weighing him down.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. At night, he wanders the halls of the carrier, unable to rest. The belly of the ship is claustrophobic, noisy and overcrowded at best, and Bradley cannot stand it anymore. After those endless days in that small room, you being his only reprieve, the walls keep closing in on him everywhere. In England, he could go for walks, but now he is resigned to the tight metal corridors, walking the same route, over, and over, and over.

Before he takes off from the carrier, his hand automatically moves to his left chest pocket. Your handkerchief still sits there, carefully folded, lovingly kept. Bradley never goes anywhere without it anymore. It’s his only comfort through the sleepless nights, his good luck charm for every sortie, his promise to you.

If Operation Overlord was a raw wake-up call for the mass massacre up close, the Pacific Theater comes bearing horrors from the darkest nightmares. He is on deck one sunny day when two Japanese planes bore themselves, deliberately, into the cruiser just off the starboard—the desperate screams from the sea of fire echo. Just moments later, two planes hit the carrier. The enemy has resorted to the most desperate strategy of taking everyone down with them.

He appears to be lucky, again, all things considered. Bradley manages to make it with just a few scrapes. In the months of island hopping, he manages to make it through with nothing more than a few bullet holes. Bob jokes Bradley has an angel on his shoulder. Mav praises him for finally learning to trust his instincts instead of overthinking. The praise feels hollow. Many others don’t make it back. It’s not an issue of skill. Bob is right — it’s all luck.

And luck runs out.

It’s been over a year — fourteen grueling months, since Bradley was assigned to the USS Intrepid, and with the island-hopping campaign has now made it all the way to Okinawa. It’s March 1945.

When Bradley thinks back about those days, he has trouble remembering what happened. The chaos and carnage bleed into each other; the constant pressure and the heat boil everything into a large, horrifying mass in his head.

He can’t sleep. He just sees the endless reel of horrors devoid of time and meaning. Bradley reaches for his chest pocket, fingers tracing over the soft outline of your handkerchief. It’s still there. When he closes his eyes, he wishes he could see you. Hear you.

In the few moments of calm that he manages to find, he tries to grasp at the memory of you, but every time it eludes him more. It’s like he can only remember the individual notes of you: a flash of your smile, the wrinkle between your eyebrows, the sparkle in your eye. Your teasing tone as you said his name, the bubble of your laugh, your soft kiss. Like that broken melody, he can’t put the notes together again. And it scares him.

What if he forgets completely?

What if you will always dance just out of his reach, always on the periphery of his mind — never enough for him to truly remember?

And then his luck truly runs out.

In a desperate dog fight, trying to keep the Kamikaze pilots from torpedoing the Allied ships aiming for Okinawa. A hail of bullets perforates the port side of Bradley’s jet, cracking the canopy and busting the fuselage. One bullet pierces his left shoulder. The pain is so intense it’s making him see double.

Bradley always loved flying over the ocean. The sea and the sky become one on the horizon in and endless expanse of heavenly blue. Like a world with no end.

Now, he has trouble telling what is up and what is down. He can hear Mav screaming at him over the radio.

Eject! Eject! Eject!

No. He can make it. If he ejects now, he’ll be a sitting duck in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a battle. Bradley knows that if he stays calm, he can make it back to the USS Intrepid. Nothing is on fire. Yet. He’s losing pressure, and his fuel is getting practically dumped into the ocean.

Slow and steady. Turn off auxiliary instruments to preserve power — flicking the switch of the radio, he cuts off Mav mid-command. Bradley blinks heavily against the pain as he tries to focus on the gyroscope. The plane is level, descending. He turns his head, straining audibly: no one is following him. His squadron seems to be distracting the enemy well, so Bradley can get away.

Slow and steady. Throttle back, keep level, keep above the water. At this rate, he will be flying on fumes by the time he reaches the carrier. Bradley’s left side feels sticky, but he needs all his energy to focus on flying right now — he knows he’s bleeding, but he can’t take his hand off the steering to apply pressure to his shoulder. His left hand is shaking now.

On the horizon, the silhouette of the USS Intrepid looms. The batteries are firing, billowing smoke.

He can make it.

Bradley switches his radio back on.

“Tower, tower -” He gasps for breath. “Tower, tower, permission to land, over”

The reply comes out garbled. Or maybe it’s just the loud rushing in his ears from blood loss. Carefully, Bradley taps the fuel gauge. He’s never seen it so low. He must have called his status because, finally, something legible comes through the radio.

“Affirmative — deck is ready, Rooster,”

He’s going to get one shot at this. Get enough speed to generate just enough lift to get him to the right altitude so he can make it onto the flight deck.

There’s not going to be a do-over for this.

Bradley loses consciousness the moment his landing gear hits the deck. The angle of his descent is too steep; he has too little strength to course correct. On impact, the front wheel snaps off, grinding the nose of the plane into the deck in a rain of sparks, knocking his head into the canopy.

When he comes by, Bradley is still on the landing deck, splayed out, while a medic is putting a painful amount of pressure on his shoulder. Bradley grunts in agony. His whole left side is soaked.

“Good, you’re awake,” The medic deadpans. “Rooster, stay awake now.”

“My pocket-” He chokes out, trying to get his right arm up. “My left pocket.”

“Take it easy now, Rooster,” The medic admonishes him. “You’re bleeding out here.”

“But I need, I need -” Bradley lifts his head from the tarmac, vision still blurry. “Left pocket.”

“Stay down!”

“Jesus Christ, son,” Bradley recognizes Beau Simpson's voice. If the admiral is on deck, that landing isn’t going to win him any prizes, he thinks idly. “What do you need from your pocket?”

Bradley answers the question clearly in his head, but in reality, the words come out half-mumbled. It’s enough, however. Someone, maybe Simpson, presses a square of soft fabric into Bradley’s right palm. His fingers close over it, crumpling it in the process. But Bradley needs something to hold onto right now, something to remind him that there’s more beyond this hell, beyond all this pain.

***

Laying in a hospital bed, Bradley feels like a caged animal. The white walls, ceiling, and small window remind him of that room. He can’t get up; he’s not allowed to leave. Bradley’s fingers itch, his heart beating in a panic, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

“Everything okay here?” Soft curls pinned into a pristine white hat with a red cross, bright smile, and rosy cheeks. Nurse Jenny. She’s playfully peeking around the privacy curtain. Bradley doesn’t miss how her eyes wander over him.

“Yeah, yeah, everything is fine,” Bradley replies, forcing himself to keep his voice level, meeting the nurse’s gaze shortly. The sweat is prickling on his forehead, but at least he can pretend that the sweltering Manila heat is causing it. His heart rate is slowly returning to normal — flexing his fingers a few times, the strange tension leaves his nerves.

“Let me get you something to cool you down, Lieutenant Commander,” Her soft hand brushes over his clammy forehead. “Just to make sure you don’t start running a fever.”

Her voice is soft and pleasant. She is soft and pleasant.

Bradley feels a twinge of guilt in his stomach.

Jenny is just a nurse, and Bradley is just a patient.

She doesn’t look like you, not even if Bradley squinted. She doesn’t carry herself in the same way that you do — Jenny isn’t as much of an enigma but rather wears her heart on her sleeve. But in the short two weeks, when he thinks of you and tries to conjure up the memory of you, he isn’t sure if he’s seeing Jenny. Did your smile always look like that? Did your voice always have that same timbre?

It’s been two years since he left you on that platform. Two long and lonely years. Now, stuck in a hospital bed, stuck with his own thoughts again, the walls close in. Except when Jenny comes in. Just like you did.

Bradley closes his eyes as the nurse places a cool cloth over his forehead. Didn’t you do the same? Did your eyes wander in the same way?

“There, much better,” Jenny concludes. “How’s the shoulder today?”

“Getting better, Nurse, thank you,” Bradley replies, smiling automatically. “Any chance I’m getting off bed rest anytime soon?” He asks, tone jovial, trying to mask his discomfort of the hospital room.

Jenny titters as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Trust me, the sooner you’re up and about, the better.”

“Am I such a bad patient?” The words come completely automatically to Bradley, a cocky grin settling on his face. Jenny flushes lightly. For a moment, he feels great — fun, teasing, catching every eye. Just like he always did. As comes naturally to him.

The next moment, his smile falters. Why would he want to catch Jenny’s eye?

“No, no-,” She replies bashfully. “You just seem eager to get out of here.”

“Aren’t you?”

Jenny blinks at him before a broad smile appears on her face. Her cheeks are still adorably flushed. It’s just satisfying his ego, nothing more. It’s just a bit of fun. Just something to make the crushing boredom and oppressive heat in the hospital more bearable.

“I’ll check up on you again later, Lieutenant Commander,” She chirps happily before she hurriedly disappears behind the curtain with a girlish giggle.

Bradley carefully opens the small drawer on his bedside stand when he's sure she's left. A few personal possessions lay scattered; among them, quite unceremoniously, a Purple Heart. He has no need for more medals.

Carefully, Bradley takes out your handkerchief. His heart sinks every time he looks at it now. The side that was against his chest has been soaked through with blood, the once pristine white now a dirty, rusty color. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. The neat folding has been crumpled, leaving the square disheveled.

Bradley knows he should get it washed, but he has an irrational fear that if he does, he will wash away whatever is left of you, his lucky charm, in the fabric. It will just be an ordinary handkerchief after that. He traces his thumb over the stitching of your initials.

Sokolova. After some careful prodding, Bradley found out it meant falcon. From Hangman, no less, who in turn hounded him for why he wanted to know. Bradley never even hinted at as to why, causing Hangman to stop speaking to him completely. As if that was supposed to be a form of punishment.

But, how fitting.

Rooster and Falcon.

Bradley hasn’t forgotten his promise to you. It’s been two years, but he has every intention to find you again, and make good on all the words he filled your head with.

Guilt twists in his gut. He’s lonely. Bradley has never done well by himself. Even now, he’s back with Mav, Bob is around — he’s seen Fanboy several times. Harvard is in the Pacific, too. It’s not that kind of loneliness he is grappling with. It’s the lack of intimacy, however fleeting. The kind he never had trouble finding, the kind that stopped all the wayward pain of his life and loss that he never wanted to confront.

Six days with you were not enough. It was never going to be enough.

***

“So, can I call you Rooster?”

Jenny is sitting across from Bradley in the noisy bar, chin leaning on her hand, with that fantastic smile on her face. “Or do you prefer Commander?” She adds coyly, taking a sip of her colorful cocktail.

“Rooster is fine,” He replies with a small smile, averting his gaze to the ice melting in his Old Fashioned. Bradley was promoted to Commander today. The whole ceremony, if you can call it that, was over in less than three minutes. Bradley did not even have to get up from bed. An Admiral Bradley had never met before handed him his new pins after a few short words, flanked by a petty officer and some doctors. A firm handshake, followed by a quick salute, and the man and his entourage were sauntering out of the room again. Without much thought, Bradley dunked the pins into the drawer of his bedside table.

Better news came from the doctor on the next round: he was finally well enough to leave the hospital. A few rounds of physical therapy to regain full mobility of his shoulder would be needed, but Bradley wasn’t planning on hanging around for that. He could do some stretches on the carrier, too. The war isn’t over yet.

As he got dressed and stuffed all his meager belongings into a small bag, Jenny appeared, looking somewhat hesitant.

The silver oak leaf Commander pin still feels foreign on the collar of his khaki uniform.

“Looking to get out of here?” She ventured. “For a drink first, maybe?”

Bradley should have said no. But was there really any harm in getting a drink and some conversation? That’s normal, he reasons. It’s what people do. It’s just a drink to celebrate his promotion — no matter how much he doesn’t really care for his new rank — it’s a normal and polite thing to do. And Jenny is nice enough.

“So, Rooster it is,” Jenny smiles brightly. “Are you really leaving today?”

“Yeah,” Bradley shrugs. “I’m catching the first ride out of here and back to my ship.”

“Well, then, don’t be a stranger,” She ventures carefully. “I was wondering if I could write you?”

Bradley doesn’t reply immediately, taking a sip of his drink instead. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jenny.” He finally replies.

“Oh.” She looks a little crestfallen. “You’re not married, are you?” Jenny looks mildly alarmed at the notion. “Because I’m not like that, you know?”

Bradley chuckles. “No, I’m not married. And I know you’re a good girl, don’t worry.”

The words flow from his mouth easily, words that he said a million times, honed to the greatest effect. Jenny, predictably, seems to relax at his words. Bradley pulls back in his chair as if to create additional distance between himself and Jenny at the small table. The conversation idles on, and a new round of drinks appears on the table.

“So Rooster,” Jenny looks up at him through her lashes, scooting her chair a little bit closer to the table. “What are your plans for after the war?”

“First thing is probably just to return home,” Bradley smiles fondly at the thought.

“Where is home?”

“In Virginia Beach,” He supplies easily. God, he misses home.

“Oh, really?” Jenny’s eyes light up. “I’m from Baltimore!”

Bradley doesn’t respond verbally, more just nodding his head in understanding.

“I’ll be returning stateside after the war, too.” She continues, almost shyly. “Maybe I could come down to Virginia Beach, and you could show me around?”

“Let’s see,” Bradley replies evasively, not meeting her gaze. An icy feeling sinks in his stomach. He should just say no. Why can’t he just say no?

Because he enjoys the feeling of having a pretty nurse fawning over him, trying to sweet talk him.

Because it makes him feel less horribly lonely for a moment.

Because he’s not doing anything wrong.

He downs the rest of his drink.

“It’s been a pleasure, Jenny,” He says warmly as he gets up, pulling out his wallet and leaving a few bills on the table. Jenny shoots up out of her chair.

“I’ll write you,” She tries again, eyes large with hope.

“Sure,” Bradley replies, nodding in her direction in a hurried goodbye, guilt twisting in his gut before he legs it out of the bar. He never wants to return here again. And he should never see Jenny again. It’s a fun distraction, a band-aid for his loneliness and pain, but he wants nothing to come of it.

Right?

***

The streets around the Manila harbor are packed. Every sailor, officer, marine, and aviator who is lucky enough to have made port this night has poured out of the docked ships and barracks onto the street. There’s a cacophony of music and singing, ship horns being blown, glasses clinking — bodies are pushing past each other in dancing, drunk and deliriously happy.

It’s V.E. Day.

Clutching a half-drunk bottle of whiskey, Bradley stumbles past the dancing crowd. He lost Mav, who was at least as drunk as he is, somewhere in the throng of people. God knows where Bob, who mostly doesn’t drink, disappeared to.

Someone grabs him by the elbow, dragging him into a group — Bradley vaguely recognizes a few fellow aviators. The atmosphere is jubilant: the Nazis capitulated, Europe has been liberated. The Pacific Theater cannot be far behind. They might all be going home soon.

He might be able to go look for you soon.

Bradley accepts a bottle of clear liquid, taking a swig without registering what he was handed. In exchange, he offers up his bottle of whiskey. After months, years of hell, it feels like all the pressure is finally finding release. Harvard suddenly pops up, greeting Bradley with a jovial hug. Strange, normally, they were cordial at best, but it feels completely natural under the circumstances.

“How have you been, Harvard?” Bradley asks, offering him some of the quickly dwindling whiskey.

“Oh man,” Harvard blinks forcefully, trying to steady himself while he gathers his thoughts. “I’ve seen some shit, Rooster.”

He takes the bottle, nearly pitching backward as he tries to drink from it. Bradley grabs him by arm, pulling Harvard back upright.

“Yeah,” Bradley agrees, too drunk to say anything of meaning back. “Where’s — where’s… Yale?

“I dunno man,” Harvard shrugs. “I just want to go home, man — hey, give me another shot, Rooster.” He slurs.

“You’re still holding the bottle, you ass,” Bradley laughs. “Have another shot, c’mon.” He starts taunting Harvard, deciding in his drunken haze that it would be hilarious to watch him fall off his Ivy League pedestal and on his ass.

Distracted, Bradley is nearly bowled over himself as two slim arms lock around his neck. He stumbles backward, ears full of girlish giggles. He grabs Jenny by the waist to steady himself. Her cheeks are flushed from alcohol — his own face feels pretty hot now, too.

Carefully, he tries to put Jenny down, bending over somewhat awkwardly. She doesn’t let go, however.

“You never wrote me back, Rooster,” She pouts playfully.

Did he ever receive any mail from Jenny? Maybe it was still stuck somewhere in transit, or did he purposefully ignore it?

“Busy times at sea,” He replies jokingly instead.

“Hey, Rooster?” Harvard is calling somewhere from behind Jenny. “Imma — I’m going to keep this, ok?”

Bradley looks up, just in time to see Harvard making off with the practically empty bottle. Jenny puts a hand on his cheek, directing his gaze back to her.

“You are not too busy for me now, right, Rooster?” She asks, almost bashfully, large eyes pleading at him.

Bradley wishes that he could pretend that she looked like you, that it triggered something in him because the alcohol blurred his vision. But Jenny looks nothing like you, not even close. The way she carries herself, the way she speaks, all down to the way her skin feels, is nothing like you. Jenny is not what Bradley wants; it’s not what he is looking for. Rationally, he knows all this.

But he is just lonely, selfish, and she is here.

His lips are on hers, the fabric of her dress crumpling under his grasp. Jenny gasps into his mouth, granting him deeper access. He half expects her to stop him, and push him off. But Jenny seems to have her mind made up and is pulling him deeper, hands clutching the collar of his uniform.

Time is passing in a blur. Somewhere between kisses and giggles, Bradley drinks more. It’s like he is trying to disinfect his mind from reality — every time the voice in the back of his head becomes too strong, the wrench of guilt in his stomach too painful, a dousing of alcohol stills it.

They dance. Jenny often steps on his toe, and his back hurts from the awkward angle he’s holding her.

You fit so nicely in his arms; you always moved so in sync with him.

With the next drink, the thought drowns in the background noise.

He has Jenny pushed up against a wall between barrack buildings. She is pulling his shirt up from his pants, drunkenly fumbling with buttons. Her legs are around his waist, and her dress bunched up at her hips. Bradley’s hands are feverishly working their way up Jenny’s thighs, pushing up her slip dress, unclasping the garters holding up her stockings.

“I thought you were a good girl, Jenny?” He groans as she dips her hands up his undershirt.

“I am,” She gasps, rolling her hips into his. “You just bring out the worst in me, Rooster.”

Bradley chuckles as his fingers ghost over Jenny’s panties. She whimpers, her hips stuttering against his fingers, looking for more friction. Her hands travel down to his belt, pulling it open unceremoniously and unzipping Bradley’s slacks. Jenny’s small, warm hands start rubbing his shaft over his underwear. Bradley is so drunk, he didn’t even realize he could still get hard.

“I’ve thought about this so much,” Jenny whispers in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “I’ve been dreaming about you, Rooster.”

“F-fuck,” Bradley swears. Jenny’s words make him so good. And so bad.

“I need you,” Jenny pleads. “Do you need me? Do you want me, Bradley?”

It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water is dumped over him. Bradley pulls back from Jenny like he’s been burned. The haze is melting off him rapidly. The sounds of the street — the music, the signing — are suddenly deafeningly loud.

He lets go of Jenny, unceremoniously plopping her back on the ground as he stumbles back.

“Bradley?” She is blinking up at him, dress crumpled, hair messy, stocking rolled down her leg. Jenny looks like she is about to cry. As fast as his drunk fingers will allow him, Bradley zips his slacks back up.

“Don’t -” He swallows a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Wait!” Jenny is straightening out her dress as she makes her way to follow him. “Rooster!”

“Leave me alone, Jenny,” He bites out hurriedly, rubbing his eyes. Bradley has disappeared into the crowd before Jenny can bring out another word.

It feels like his legs are filled with lead, every step is sobering, slow, and painful. Bradley doesn’t remember how he gets back to the ship. He feels like a black hole is eating him from the inside now the haze of the alcohol has lifted, the dam of his guilt has broken through. Collapsing face first onto his bunk, his head is spinning.

He meant every word he said to you.

Didn’t he?

He just voided every promise he made to you. Just like he’s done so many times before, to so many girls before you. You were different. But Bradley was, unfortunately, still the same.

***

You can hear the wind as it picks up through the crowns of the trees—leaves rustling, birds taking flight. Everything feels soft and warm; you know you are in a familiar and safe place. Stretched out on a blanket, your eyes are closed, but you can tell it’s a bright sunny day; the rays feel warm on your skin. Wiggling your toes, you expect to feel cool grass, twigs and dirt, but instead, there is…sand?

You don’t want to open your eyes yet, afraid you will lose how comfortable you feel. So you listen closer.

It’s not the wind and rustle of leaves around you. It’s the gentle wash of waves, grains of sand dancing over a wide plain, carried on a breeze. You can hear the birds now—seagulls, clearly. The salty sea air tickles your nose. Somewhere in the distance, there are voices, happily chatting and laughing.

Blinking heavily against the summer sun, you sit up, leaning on your elbows, looking around. A white and yellow striped parasol stuck in the sand casts a pleasant shadow over you. The sea is merrily reflecting the sun in many shades of blue, while the pale yellow sand around you stretches far past the horizon. Behind you, jagged cliffs loom, with tufts of green helm grass peeking from between the cracks and crevasses of the towering stone wall. You can’t see anyone but still hear chatter and laughter— like a movie being played in a different room.

You’re wearing a bathing suit, white with blue dots—precisely like the one you had been admiring in that store window for so long.

It’s strange. Familiar. And everything feels so real. You feel light, like a feather on a breeze.

You are flying.

And nothing hurts.

Turning onto your side, head leaning on your head, you take a moment to observe Bradley. He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other casually draped over his stomach, breathing steady, like he is asleep. Somewhere, you knew he was here the whole time, but your heart still leaps from joy as you take in his form.

He looks tanner, blonder even, than you remember him. Like sunshine poured into human form. His deliciously broad shoulders are relaxed, but you can clearly see the definition of the muscles on his stomach, contracting with every breath. Bradley’s dark sunglasses sit a little crooked on his face, lips slightly parted, and his soft sun-kissed curls are mussed up—it’s adorable.

You can’t help yourself. Bradley looks so at peace, but you are starving for him. So you reach out, gently grazing the palm of your hand over his jaw, fingers lightly dancing over his throat and collarbone—you delight in seeing him tense under your touch. Boldly, you caress his bare chest, leaving goosebumps in your wake despite the warm weather. Finally, your fingers dance over Bradley’s stomach, your nails playfully scratching through the trail of light hair from his belly button to the waistband of his shorts. Bradley’s abs twitch, and you lick your lips.

“Anya…” Bradley’s voice is deep, something primal seeping through.

“Yes, my love?” You reply with a giggle, resting your palm on his lower stomach.

“Don’t tease like that, sweetheart,” He murmurs lowly, doing very little to actually discourage you. You are pretty sure Bradley’s eyes are still closed—he hasn’t even moved his head. It just won’t do.

You are starved for him; the way he looks at you so sweetly, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, that roguish grin as he teases you. The weight of his body against yours, his strong arms wrapped around you, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Tease like what, Bradley?” You reply innocently as your fingers dance over his lower stomach. Playfully, he grabs your adventuring hand, lacing his fingers through yours and resting it on his stomach again. A moment passes as you pout, considering your next move, when Bradley suddenly sits up, leaning on his elbow. He lets go of your hand again and clumsily pushes his sunglasses up. He looks so surprised to see you, it makes you laugh.

But of course he is surprised. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep, drunk, angry and burning with shame and guilt. So long he had been fighting to remember your face and voice, just the way you are, extricated from every contamination it picked up over the years. But he couldn’t; it was like his memory of you was endlessly diluted.

And now you are here. That mischievous smile on your face, laughing at him, as beautiful as the day he left you. It has to be you; Bradley couldn’t dream you up as perfect as you are now.

You lean into him, gently cradling his face between your hands. His large brown eyes follow your every move. Up close, you can see the specks of green and gold in his irises. The scars on Bradley’s face are faded—but you can still feel the subtle raised ridges.

“I’ve missed you,” You tell him earnestly. Not bothering to wait for his reply, you press your mouth onto his. To his credit, Bradley reacts immediately, pulling you into him as he lays back down, opening his mouth and granting you full control. You are half draped over him now, scandalously so.

But it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t take you that long to put two and two together. You are dead, right? This is either your punishment or your reward—one more moment with your lover. Maybe Bradley is dead too, and now you can take back the time that was stolen from you. One final moment where you get to live out the promise he made you — together, as you should have been.

It’s not something you’re choosing to dwell on. When it comes to Bradley, you’ve made the same decision over and over, and you’re not planning on changing that now. You will gladly suffer for eternity if it means you get to live your time with him to the fullest.

Without consequence.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you breathe between kisses, running your hands through his hair, tugging him closer to you. “I needed you, Bradley.”

“Anya,” Bradley groans, his grip tightening on your waist. “Jesus Chri-”

“I love you.” You almost cut him off in your urge to make sure he knows—he needs to know. This might be your only chance to tell him, and it’s burning a hole in your heart. “I should have told you the day you left, but I didn’t understand yet. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t think about you.”

Bradley feels the guilt cropping up in the pit of his stomach again, but he quickly pushes it away. He hoped for so long that you would say those words to him—that he could really tell you how he felt without scaring you away.

“I love you too,” He tells you, tucking your head under his chin, kissing your temple. Your lips immediately latch onto his neck. Bradley hisses in pleasure, caressing your spine, trying to keep his thoughts in order. “I knew—Anya, I knew since… too long.” He admits between heavy breaths. “I should have taken you with me; I hate myself for leaving you behind.”

“But now I’m here,” Your voice is soft, lips caressing the shell of his ear.

“You’re here,” He echoes with a smile. “Thank god you’re here.”

Bradley never wants to wake up. Rationally, he knows he is asleep in his bunk in Manila, but it all feels so far away now. He could stay here with you, on this beach, and never want for anything else. Everything feels so real, like it’s pulled from all his deepest, most precious wish—your lips on his, the small sighs, even the way your skin feels. How could this only be a dream?

You always kept some parts of yourself so skillfully hidden—most things you did were carefully calculated. There were snapshots of moments where Bradley was sure he found the real you: the stubborn, mischievous, infuriating, adorable, eager-to-please you. He saw it in your smile, the sparkle in your eye, he felt it in your kiss. His little spitfire.

But now—now you are unencumbered, freer than ever before. Nothing is waiting for you outside this bubble: there is no war, no ticking clock. There’s just him. And you.

Not a single of his fragmented memories would ever do you justice. Bradley can’t stop himself from touching you to assure himself that he hasn’t truly forgotten, to feel the familiarity of your skin and curves, the smell of your soap — even the way your hair tickles his face as you kiss him.

He doesn’t want to question why he is seeing you now, why you have appeared in front of him so completely, so closely and ever so lovely when he was hitting rock bottom. A heart so worn down, so broken, it will make him suffer the most perfect vision of you.

“Don’t frown like that, Bradley,” Your teasing tone breaks him out of his reverie, the tip of your index finger pressing between his eyebrows. The sun casts a halo around your form. “It makes you look old.”

“I’m not old,” He defends himself, chuckling.

“Didn’t say you were, my love,” You retort, pressing your lips against his forehead. Bradley laughs, squeezing your thigh playfully, serenity finally setting in. If this is a hell of his own making, he will take it over the hell on earth he has seen. Because in this hell, at least he is still together with you, even for a moment. And then he will wake up alone.

Bradley easily flips you over onto your back, leaning on his forearm as your body molds against his. Your surprised giggle turns into a soft moan.

If you could have everything you wished for, just for a moment, knowing you would lose it all — would you still do it?

The question is playing over and over in Bradley’s mind as he pulls your leg over his hip, nipping at your collarbone. You squeal in delight as you feel his familiar weight against you, pressing down in all the right places.

Would you?

Gently, your hands envelop Bradley’s face, bringing him up to face you. You can see it play out in his expression, in flashes and shadows. You can hear the question that pains him so much.

“Yes,” You say simply, smiling. Bradley blinks, confused. “I would do it all again, Bradley,” You continue, sincerely. A shiver runs up his spine as you say his name.

“Even if…” He starts carefully.

“Even then,” You reiterate determinedly, not needing him to finish the sentence. The look on your face is serene — you’ve come to accept this dream. Your fate. You might never get another chance to say these things to him. And at the end of the line, the conclusion is clear as day: “I don’t regret anything.”

Bradley sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, his lips crashing against yours. He doesn’t need to say anything else — it’s all in his kiss, his touch. He knows you understand.

Bradley could never regret you.

Time passes in an impossible loop. Hours pass in seconds, and minutes stretch for an eternity. Your lips find Bradley’s a million times; his hands map every inch of your skin over and over. Your body still fits so perfectly against his; nothing, no one, could ever compare to how your arms drape against his neck, how you arch into him, and how every thrill in your voice is like music to his ears.

“The sun is going down,” Bradley remarks. The once blue sky is now dappled in warm colors, the sun slowly disappearing behind the horizon. You are leaning with your back against his chest, snugly tucked between his strong thighs. Bradley is playing with the shoulder strap of your bathing suit. You know the dream is ending, but you are not worried.

You will just fall asleep in Bradley’s arms. And if you never wake up again, that is okay. You will spend your final moments in the peace you have longed for. You will spend your final moments with Bradley in his embrace, giving you more than you could ever wish for.

Bradley’s arms tighten around you. You sigh contentedly, closing your eyes and leaning your head back. He watches the sea gradually darken, taking on an almost ominous dark hue. The ruby red reflects on the waves in what should look romantic, but he can only see one thing.

Blood.

So much blood it’s turning the whole sea red. He can smell the sickening metallic odor mixing with the salt air now. It feels oppressive, corrosive.

Bradley buries his nose in your hair, closing his eyes. This is just a dream, and he gets to dream about what he wants. He smells your soap, just for a moment — burned hair, jet fuel and smoke suddenly fill the air. When he opens his eyes, Bradley almost screams out.

You are limp in his arms, blood pouring from the side of your head, smoke billowing strangely from your form. You are so impossibly hot in his hands suddenly; it’s like you are on fire. Your mouth is agape and eyes are closed, like you are asleep.

You look dead.

The realization hit Bradley so hard, the dream shatters around him. He wakes up with a bang, pitching from his bunk onto the unforgiving metal floor of his cabin.

Everything hurts: from the searing headache to the alarming pain in his shoulder — Bradley’s adrenaline is through the roof.

He needs to get out of here.

He needs to find you.

He needs to…

Scrambling up, Bradley only just makes it to the small trashcan in the room, desperately heaving, before emptying the contents of his stomach.

***

“Rooster, someone is here to see you.” Bob is looking at Bradley inquisitively. Bradley barely responds as he’s pushing around the powdered scrambled eggs on his plate listlessly. He’s not even sure why he came to breakfast in the chow hall in the first place — he spent the last few hours oscillating between throwing up and staring into the darkness of his room, trying to understand what he just saw. Trying to convince himself it was just a drunken dream, fuelled by guilt. Nothing more than that.

But then why did it feel so real? Why is he so sure something has happened to you?

Tiredly, he looks up at Bob, who looks annoyingly refreshed.

“Thanks Bob,” He manages, voice rough from all the acid. “Where?”

“Outside, off the ramp.”

Bradley groans in annoyance as he gets up.

“Uhm- Rooster,” Voice quiet, Bob stops Bradley. “It’s a girl, a nurse.”

Bradley appreciates that Bob is courteous enough to be discreet about this. Had it been anyone else, it would probably be announced loudly to draw a crowd. Plenty of sailors and aviators are subject to lover spats in every port they call — it’s almost a rite of passage. Bradley has had plenty of situations, but he never really cared. It wasn’t of any real consequence.

Putting his dark aviator sunglasses on, and fitting his cover on his head, he trudges down to the side ramp of the carrier. The sun is painfully bright.

At the bottom of the ramp, Jenny waits for him in her nurse’s uniform. Her face is drawn. Several sailors are leaning on the railing, smoking, waiting for the show to start. Instead, Bradley grabs Jenny by the elbow and gently but urgently leads her away from prying eyes.

They turn a corner between warehouses on the dock, and Bradley lets go off her. Putting his hands in his pockets, he waits for Jenny to start speaking. She is nervously wringing her hands, like she’s trying to summon the courage to speak.

A minute goes by.

“So, why did you come to see me?” Bradley’s voice is flat, hiding the true level of his annoyance. He is not even really mad at Jenny — he doesn’t think he could ever be so angry at anyone as he is at himself. She flinches at his tone.

“What happened last night?” She ventures carefully. “Did I do something wrong?”

Bradley hesitates. Will he come full circle on this and tell her “It’s not you but me”?

“I think it’s best we don’t see each other anymore, Jenny,” He replies, fully aware he’s not answering her question, and offering no reassurance.

“Yeah, I figured,” She replies softly. “I came to say goodbye, I guess.”

Bradley doesn’t respond. It would be the least he could do. He would owe Jenny that much, but if he’s burning all his bridges, he might as well be thorough about it. He’s acutely aware that he is an awful person, so at least Jenny would have no doubt about that anymore.

So he waits for her to turn away, but instead, she frowns, looking up at him. “I just wished you hadn’t lied to me about your wife. I really thought you were different.”

Bradley looks back impassively, thankful for how his sunglasses and cover shield his expression.

“And now you know I’m not,” Bradley shrugs, not even bothering to correct her on the

“Really?” Jenny is indignant. “I told you I wasn’t like that, Bradley -”

“Keep my name out of your mouth,” Bradley cuts her off coldly. Jenny blanches. He doesn’t want to hear her say it when he’ll never hear you say it again. He wants to preserve every bit of the dream, every bit of you. “And you’re exactly like that, if I hadn’t stopped, you would have let me fuck you in that alleyway,” He continues, voice steely. “You’re exactly like all the girls that hang around port.”

He shouldn’t be taking out his grief on her, but for a moment, it makes Bradley feel better. Just like kissing her made him feel better for a brief time. It won’t change that he is stuck in the Pacific, dodging suicidal enemies, that he hasn’t been home in years, that he left you behind and that you are now dead. It won’t bring you back.

“You would have fucked me in that alleyway, so that makes you just as bad as me.” Jenny bristles. “At least I didn’t lie.”

“Like that’s what matters,” Bradley grumbles under his breath.

“Anyway,” Jenny clears her throat, blinking heavily. “You dropped this yesterday.”

She extends her hand, holding a small square of white. Bradley snatches it out of her hand. Fuck. His heart is suddenly beating loudly.

Your handkerchief, pristine white as the day you handed it to him, neatly folded. Gone every trace of his blood, gone every trace there was of you.

Bradley thinks he’s going to be sick again.

“It fell on the ground, so I washed it for you.” Jenny’s voice sounds distant in his head. “But yeah, I figured it belonged to your wife or sweetheart… and it’s not her fault, so, there.” She trails off.

“You need to stay out of my life,” Bradley hisses out.

Bradley’s hand is shaking — whether from anger or overwhelming grief, he cannot begin to understand what he is feeling. He needs to leave. Slipping your handkerchief, which feels foreign and contaminated in his hand, into his chest pocket, Bradley starts to turn away.

“You know, I figured she’d want to know.”

Bradley’s head snaps back at Jenny so quickly it makes his vision blurry for a moment. Jenny looks livid.

“What?” He bites back, acerbically.

“This won’t be the last deployment you go on,” Jenny has tears in her eyes as she forces out the words. “Really, how hard will it be to find a Mrs. A. Bradshaw in Virginia Beach? Can’t imagine there are many.” She swallows heavily before continuing with a stronger voice. “Don’t you think she’ll be curious to hear what you get up to while she waits for you?”

Jenny pauses a moment to gauge Bradley’s reaction. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his fist balled by his side. Good.

“Maybe I’ll drop by, and fill her in over some coffee.” She concludes cattily.

A few moments of silence pass. Jenny is getting nervous. She expected Rooster to start shouting and explode in anger. But he’s just standing there, expression unreadable, until the corner of his mouth quirks up.

Bradley starts laughing — his laughter sounds empty in cruel to his own ears. He doesn’t even think it’s funny. He feels no joy. It’s absurd. Jenny looks terrified. This is worse than any shouting could be.

“Good luck with that one,” He laughs. “Do let me know if you find her.”

He turns fully back to her. Involuntarily, Jenny takes a step back.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

note | damn bro

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x oc

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lets-ignore-that · 4 months

Text

MY FNAF VERSION/AU MASTERPOST!

Little disclaimer my version of FNAF is VERY VERY CLOSE TO CANON.

Everything from lifespans of the businesses to characters to the main plot is under the cut.

Fredbear's Family Diner 1964-1983

Sister Location (Circus Baby’s Funland) 1984

Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza 1984-1993

Fazbear’s Frights 2023-2023

Faux Fazbears 2024

Pizzaplex 2030

The order of the games is such: 5 - 4 - 2 -1 - 3 - 6 - UCN - SB

Characters

William Afton (October 14 1938 - ???)

Henry Emily (June 10th 1939 - September 15 2024)

Michael Afton (February 13 1969 - April 16 2031)

Elizabeth Afton (May 4 1976 - May 6 1984)

Evan Afton (July 6 1977 - July 8 1983)

Charlie Emily ( December 6 1971 - 1983)

Elanor Afton-Schmidt (February 15 1943 - March 6 1978)

Ruth Emily-Davis (November 26 1941- October 1 2026)

Jenny Smith (March 25 1970 - )

Evan Jr. Smith ( October 13 1987 - April 5 2030 )

Vanessa Williams ( September 29 1999 - )

William was born to James and Helen Afton in Essex, England. James died in WW2 in 1944 when William was 6. Helen remarried in 1946 to a man by the name of George. George resented and was highly abusive to William, their relationship was strained at best. Once William turned 18 he moved to America to pursue a college education. He never regained contact with his mother and step-father. William went to college for a degree in engineering in 1956. There he met Henry and they quickly became friends. One year later he met Elanor and they married in 1959. They had three children together.

Henry was born to Edward and Dorothy Emily in Hurricane Utah. He had a normal childhood growing up and went to college in 1957 where he met William. He ended up marrying his highschool sweetheart Ruth in 1961. They had their only child Charlie in 1971. They then divorced in 1981.

Michael is the oldest son of William and Elanor, he was born and raised in Hurricane, Utah. After his mother dying when he was 9 his father started to abuse him, it subsequently got worse as his brother and sister passed. He met his girlfriend Jenny when he was 18 and they quickly had a child, Evan Jr. He worked as a security guard for multiple Fazbear Ent. Inc. locations.

Elizabeth and Evan are the two younger children of William and Elanor. They were born only a year apart and were favorited by William, their mother died when they were too young to remember her and became highly attached to William. Both died very young. Elizabeth possessed Circus baby and Evan possessed Golden Freddy.

Charlie Emily was the only child of Henry and Ruth. She grew up very close to her “cousins” Michael, Elizabeth, and Evan. She had a good relationship with her “uncle” William. She was murdered by William at 12 years old and possessed the puppet.

Elanor Schmidt was the wife of William and mother of Michael Elizabeth and Evan. She was a proficient ballet dancer and ended up being a stay at home mother to her three children, she had a loving relationship with her husband but it ended up tense at the end of it, she was murdered by her husband in 1978.

Ruth Davis was the wife of Henry and mother of Charlie. She met Henry in highschool and they had a decent relationship until they drifted apart and ended up divorcing. She gave up parental rights to Henry.

Jenny Smith is the girlfriend of Michael Afton and the mother of Evan Jr. She met Michael when she was a teenager and supported him through his teenage years, which lead them to fall in love with each other. She got back together with Michael after his accident and they raised Evan together.

Evan Jr. Smith is the son of Michael and Jenny. He had a normal childhood and early adulthood. He ended up being possessed by his grandfather William and lost his sense of self in 2030 and essentially died.

Vannessa Williams is a security guard at the Pizzaplex. She resurrected William and helped him possess his grandson. They are in a strenuous relationship.

Main timeline of events

Henry and William start Fredbear’s Family Diner in 1964

William suffers a springlock accident, permanently scarring him.

Michael Afton is born in 1969

Charlie Emily is born in 1971

Fredbear’s Family Diner opens more locations.

Elizabeth Afton is born in 1976

Evan Afton is born in 1977

In 1978, Elanor Afton is killed by her husband William with a sledgehammer. He takes her body and disposes of it in the Utah desert. Due to marital conflicts being known, he is interrogated but the case is quickly dropped.

Evan Afton’s 6th birthday takes place in Fredbear’s in 1983. His older brother and his friends put his head into the Fredbear animatronic and Evan’s head is quickly crushed. He is rushed to the hospital and put into a medically induced coma. The events of FNAF 4 take place in his head over a week when he is pronounced brain dead and dies. He possesses the Fredbear animatronic.

Over the next year, William’s mental health rapidly deteriorates and he becomes obsessed with the idea of possession. He theorizes that his son is in the fredbear animatronic and starts to design animatronics to test his theory by giving them the capability to capture and kill children inconspicuously.

A sister location known as Circus Baby’s Funland is opened with William’s new animatronics. Elizabeth becomes infatuated with one of the robots, Baby, based off of her. William commands her to stay away but she defies his orders and is killed by Baby.

William’s sanity decreases once again.

Henry, noticing the problems in his business partner's life and mental state, and proximity to horrific accidents, forces him to leave the company for his own good. He also secretly fears for his own daughter's safety. Henry designs an animatronic puppet to act as a watchguard for her.

One night Charlie is locked outside of Fredbear’s Family Diner and William murders her in the alley next to the building. The puppet follows Charlie outside and she possesses her. William is dropped as a potential assailant due to lack of evidence.

After this death, the restaurant chain is renamed to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza in 1984

New animatronics are designed (toys) and new locations are opened up subsequently.

Michael and Jenny have Evan Jr.

William disguises himself as a security guard, uses his springbonnie suit, and murders five children in 1987.

Due to the murders, the restaurant is about to be shut down, but one more party takes place, during this time, a security guard by the name of Jeremy Fitzgerald gets bitten in the head by Mangle, this is the bite of ‘87

The location is shut down and William is apprehended due to previous speculation, he is let go due to the police being unable to find the bodies.

In 1993 a new location is opened up with refurbished animatronics, Michael is hired as a nightguard but ends up being fired.

One night, William enters the building in an attempt to dismantle the animatronics. He is confronted by the ghosts of the murder victims. In an attempt to scare them off, William dons the springbonnie suit, but the suit malfunctions.

William dies in 1993 in the backroom of a Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. He possesses springbonnie.

Learning of William’s disappearance, Henry closes off every backroom in every location under the guise of “budget cuts’

In 1995, Michael travels to the underground bunker holding Baby and the other Circus Baby’s Funland animatronics to rectify his mistakes and find out more about his father. Baby and the rest manipulate Michael into helping them escape, and they end up leading him into the scooping room, scooping out his organs and killing him. Baby and the others congeal into one animatronic and enter Michael’s body. They use his body as an attempt to conform to civilian life but it starts to rot and it expels them.. Michael’s soul possesses his own body, essentially becoming undead.

After being expelled, infighting causes Baby to be removed from Ennard due to her being Afton's daughter and refusing to kill Michael. She rebuilds herself and Ennard becomes Molten Freddy.

Michael, being undead, finds Jenny, who accepts him, and they begin to raise Evan together.

30 years pass.

The children’s murders essentially become urban legend at this point.

In another attempt to dispel the urban legend, Fazbear Ent. Inc. opens a horror attraction known as Fazbear Frights in California. Michael starts to work there to continue his hunt for his father.

Springtrap is transported to the location as a prop, as workers found his body.

Michael and Springtrap fight and Michael sets the building on fire. Springtrap survives as well as Michael, and Michael captures him and drives him to Utah so Henry can deal with him.

Springtrap escapes Michael’s capture.

In a desperate attempt to end everything once and for all, Henry opens up a fake pizzeria in 2024 to lure all the still roaming souls.

In a miracle, it works, and Springtrap, Baby, Molten Freddy, Golden Freddy, and the Puppet (in Lefty) all arrive.

Michael works at the building to help Henry during this.

Henry locks down the building and sets it ablaze, killing everyone and himself in the building. Michael survives.

William is sent to Hell, to be tormented by Cassidy for eternity, she traps all of the other souls alongside her to torment William as well. Henry eventually convinces her to release the souls and pass on herself to leave William to burn in hell.

Six years pass.

Fazbear Ent. Inc. opens up the Pizzaplex, with all new animatronics and redesigns.

Vanessa works at the Pizzaplex as a security guard.

Evan Jr. Works at the Pizzaplex as an animatronic engineer.

Due to her obsession with the murders and William, she attempts to bring him back to life, and it works.

He ends up possessing her, and appears in her head as Glitchtrap.

Vanessa finds Williams old body (springtrap) under the pizzaplex and slowly starts to rebuild it so william can possess it.

William possesses his body again.

After the battle with Gregory and Glamrock Freddy, his body gets destroyed and he possesses his grandson, Evan Jr. Him and Vanessa escape.

William and Vanessa work together over a year to start murdering children again, as William wants remnant due to it extending life and he does not want to return to Hell.

Michael goes to the pizzaplex and attempts to stop Vanessa and William.

He ends up getting murdered by William.

Michael possesses Glamrock Freddy.

The future of this is up to debate :)

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #masterpost #fnaf au #lets ignore rambles

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