#Jean Crosby

[staud]

guys named harry simping over their wives | bofb ep 3 & mota pt 2 ↳ requested by @paratrooper56 🤍

[thatsrightice]

When I went overseas my wife Jean shared an apartment in Chicago with the wives of two members of my crew, and an enterprising Herald American reporter took a picture of them. Gerry Hamilton (left) was married to Howard Hamilton, our bombardier; Margaret Ann Blakely (center) was married to Ev Blakely, our pilot. Jean is on the right.

Excerpt of A Wing and a Prayer by Harry H. Crosby

[itstheheebiejeebies]

I know not everyone can read cursive or type on screen very easily so I'm gonna do my best to transcribe Jean's letter to Crosby from e6

Top right says "Chicago" and then the letter goes

"My most darling beloved Bing,

I wanted to write to wish you luck on the course! I thought I would surprise you with a letter. I've guessed your address at Oxford but have sent it early so hopefully it will reach you. I do hope you manage to get some rest and perhaps even to enjoy yourself! You really have deserved* a break and it will be wonderful to meet so many new people.

Yes my clever, wise beloved, you are right. I would like to see more of Margaret than I do. I did manage to spend some time catching up this week."

Bottom of the Second page

"With* my deepest love

Mrs. Jean Crosby

PS. Say 'Hi' to Bubbles for me!"

*not sure of, but seems like the word there

Full episode caps are in a ZIP file which can be found here

If you would like to be tagged when I post them or have a scene or character you’d like to see screencaps of send me an ask. If you use them you don’t have to credit me but it would be nice if you could tag me so I can see what you did with them. all of my edits and screencaps can be found here

Taglist: @bcofl0ve @montied

[winniemaywebber]

It's Been A Long, Long Time • Part 4

🌹🌸 Jo and Jean 🌸🌹

masterlist

read previous parts here: 1 2 3

“Rosie?” Jean murmurs, shaking him awake. He wakes with a start and a snort, the baby beginning to cry at the sudden ruckus. 

“Aw, jeez,” Rosie says, looking at you apologetically. “What time is it?”

“Six o'clock. Seems little guy here blessed you with a whole night of sleep and a little time to sleep in. Wish he'd do that for me and his Papa.” She winks at Rosie, patting him on the shoulder. “Go upstairs to bed, doll. That chair isn't the most comfortable.”

“You can say that again,” he groans, stretching as he gets up. “You look well rested.”

“I am. Thank you, Robert. I really appreciate it, we both do.”

He nods, yawning and scratching his head as he exits the room. 

“See ya later, Jean.”

—

Scooping the baby up, Jean begins to go through her regular morning routine: diaper change, bottle and a change of clothes. Her and the baby are both exhausted by the time this is all done, thankful for the moment the baby falls asleep with a warm, full belly so that she's able to fix herself breakfast. It's when the toast pops up that she hears her husband pad his way down the plush carpet stairs, greeting her sleepily.

“Morning, Mrs Crosby,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply. 

“Morning, Binger. Toast?”

“Yes please,” he answers, pouring himself coffee from the pot on the stove. “Rosie taking a nap?”

“Sure is. I don't think the baby gave him too much trouble. When I came down at six, the pair of them were still sleeping!”

“Six?” Bing replies, shocked. “That little imp.” He shakes his head, laughing as he takes a sip from his mug. “That's just the Uncle Rosie touch.”

“Hey, a little soft jazz, a soothing conversation and some swaying, he was out like a light,” Rosie announces himself, looking a lot more refreshed than he did two hours ago. 

“Here he is. Morning, buddy.”

“Hiya, Croz.” 

Jean places a cup of coffee in front of him, asking if he'd like some toast by pointing to the toaster. 

“Yes, please, Mrs Croz. Little man okay?”

“Oh, yeah! He's just taking his first cat nap of the day.”

“That's good. I hope you don't mind, but I made a few calls last night.”

“You know that's fine, Rosie. While you're here, treat it like your own home,” she says, handing him the plate of toast.

“Yeah, pal. You're family, Uncle Rosie.”

“Thank you, guys. I gotta tell ya, first call was to my Ma. Second to–”

“To Jo. We know, doll.”

“How sad is that? Can't even go one night without hearing her voice.”

“Neither can my wife,” Bing grumbles jokingly, wiping his mouth. 

“Seems we're in the same boat, Jean,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I promised her I'd bring her here to visit the very second we are married.”

“You'd better. But let us get home first. We can't be racing down the highway with a baby in tow!”

—

The boys clear up the dishes before getting ready for a day of golfing. Jean and the baby decide to take it easy, lazing around in bed, playing and snuggling until she hears a sudden knock on the door. The baby on her hip, she quickly descends the stairs in her stockinged feet, careful not to slip. Opening the door, she lets out a delighted scream, practically jumping up and down in the doorway.

“Josephine!” she squeals, the girls hugging tightly. Without a word, she takes the baby from Jean's arms and looks at him, a huge grin on her face and tears in her eyes.

“Oh, he's gotten so big!” she cries, holding Jean close again. “He looks just like you, doll.”

“Do you think?” 

“Apart from–”

“The eyes,” they both say, their words overlapping. 

“Oh yeah,” Jo laughs. “No mistaking those brown puppy dog eyes. How did Uncle Wosie do, huh, buddy? He do a good job?”

“Girl, I don't know what kind of magic touch your man has, but that baby slept all night long.”

“Was that after he called his Ma in a panic?”

“He called her panicking? Jeez, he told us he had it covered.”

“Robbie can be an excellent liar, Jean. Remember our favorite one? ‘I'll meet you at Minton’s when I'm home after my 25th mission.’ Psh.” The girls break into giggles, Jean taking her hand and leading her into the dining room.

“You need me to take him?” She asks as they sit down. 

“Absolutely not, lady. I'm getting my fill,” she says, squeezing the baby's cheeks and making him smile. “Oh, he's a darling.”

“How did you persuade your father to let you come out here? I thought his rule was you had to wait until you and Robbie were married.”

“Well,” Jo sighs, stroking the baby's soft blond hair with her cheek. “Mom saw how miserable I was when I returned home this morning from the Rosenthal house. I'd just slept in Robbie’s bed and it smelled so much of him that…I just missed him terribly, especially knowing he was here with you guys.  Mom saw that and rolled her eyes. ‘Go on then. I'll tell your father.’” 

“I know how fast you flew out that door!”

“Didn't even let her finish the sentence. Out of there like a shot. I missed you so much, Jean.”

“I've missed you, too, doll.” The pair hold hands across the table for a second, both of their eyes filling with tears at finally being reunited after so many months apart. They had been each other's glue, backbone and support system during war time, the both of them sharing a unique bond as they fought with their emotions involving their men being overseas, putting their lives in constant danger for the good of their country. Them having to be apart once the boys had returned home was heart wrenching, Jean finally moving into her marital home upstate while Josephine returned to her family home in Brooklyn after baby Crosby was born. That's why their bond was so incredibly strong and unbreakable: it was Jo that held her hand through labor pains, placing cool washcloths on her head as she screamed and fought through the indescribable pain childbirth brought. It was Josephine that was there as the baby entered the world, his father thousands of miles away. 

“There's a cute house for sale a couple blocks away. Perfect for a newly married couple,” Jean winks, looking knowingly across the table at her friend. 

“Ugh, I wish he'd hurry up with it already. I am dying to marry that man.”

“Don't we know it,” she laughs, standing up and turning to the stove to fix a pot of coffee. “I've been putting in a good word for you.”

“It's your job as my best friend to do such a thing,” she replies, staring down at the baby on her lap. “And yours, little man! Come on, tell me! Did Uncle Wosie say anything to you last night? I'm listening.” The baby gurgles, smiling up at his aunt. “Keeping it a secret, huh? He tell you to do that? Of course he did. The cheek of the man.”

“And yet,” Jean says, stirring the coffee. “You love him.”

“That I do, Jean. That I do.”

—

The door swings open a couple of hours later, the sun just beginning to set, the house sinking into the orange glow. The two men swing their golf bags in, neglecting to take off their shoes as they plod into the living room. 

“Jean?” Harry calls, gingerly opening the living room door. “We're home, sweetheart.” He takes in the vision of Jean and Josephine giggling on the couch, the baby napping in the bassinet next to them. “Well, I'll be damned. Look who's here!”

“Honey!” Rosie yells, rushing up to her and taking her in his arms. “Uggghh,” he growls as he squeezes her, his hands raking through her hair. “But how–when did you–”

“She turned on the sad eyes with Mrs Harris and she couldn't say no when she said she missed her best friend and nephew,” Jean answers, her heart melting as they embrace over and over again. Bing is grinning from ear to ear at the sight too, walking over to the couch and placing soft kisses all over his wife's face before finally kissing her on the mouth. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, reaching down to stroke the baby's head. “How was your day?”

“The best, Binger. I'm so happy she's here.”

“I know. I can see it. You tell her about that house yet?”

“Sure did. I'm sure she'll poke him about it as the evening goes on.” 

Harry nods, nuzzling into his wife as he sits on the couch. “Love you, Mrs Crosby.” 

“Love you more, Bing.” 

—

The four had sat down to dinner, all exchanging anecdotes as they ate. Rosie and Bing had regaled the girls with their heroic tales of war: Bing staying awake for seventy two hours to ensure Rosie and their other men were safe on the day of days. Rosie celebrating his twenty fifth mission by buzzing the tower, Josephine having received a play by play of the event from Red Cross Girl, Valencia. Beginning as a comforting penpal, Val had become a friend of Jo and Jean's, along with her friend Olive.

“Have you heard from Val, Jo?”

“Yes! This past week actually. What did she say? Let me think…” she trails off, brow furrowed as she tries to recall the letter's contents. “Oh, yes! She's back home with Blakely, and Olive went with her. It must be such a shock for her to go from little old England to New York City in the blink of an eye like that, but Val says she's taking to it very well. They're all very happy. Olive is staying with them until she’s ready to go to Michigan to be with Dougie.”

“We must see them before she leaves. I'm dying to meet Olive.”

“Me, too! She sounds so sweet according to Val’s letters.”

“Who, English?” Croz perks up, toying with his whiskey glass. “Oh, yeah, she's a doll. A little contained at first because of the British shyness, but once she gets out of her shell…”

“A funny, funny girl. As is Valencia. She really brings Olive out of that mentioned shell, actually. Birds of a feather. Remind me of you two, actually.”

“Well, seems we'll all get along just fine,” Jean says, beginning to tidy up the dessert plates. 

“Sit down, Jean. We've got it.” Jo shoots a look at Robbie, taking the plates from Jean. “You and Harry go sit.”

“If you're both sure?”

“Of course. Thank you for dinner, darling. It was magnificent.”

—

Retiring to the living room, Harry picks up his son, who is gurgling happily in his bassinet. 

“Hey, buddy!” he coos, kissing his face. He sits down next to his wife, his head leaning on her shoulder.

“Where are they gonna sleep?”

“Binger, we have something called a guest room. That's where our guests sleep, wouldn't you know.” He shakes his head at her, laughing. 

“Together?”

“Yes, together. I doubt they're going to consummate their long term relationship in the guest bedroom of their best friends’ house while their nephew is only down the hall.”

“You're right. My bad.”

“Mind in the gutter, as always, Crosby.”

“Only for you, Mrs.” 

Hearing a ruckus in the kitchen, Harry and Jean turn their heads towards the door. They hear sounds of splashing, Jo giggling and Rosie laughing heartily as someone slips, a squeak echoing on the tiled floor. Jean begins to snort, Harry joining in as he hears a thump. “Are you sure they're doing dishes in there?”

“I dread to think of the state of the sink, Bing,” she says, wiping her eyes. 

A few moments later, the couple join them in the living room, the front of their shirts soaked. 

“What in God's name?”

“Robert thought it would be funny to play with the soap. What he didn't know,” Josephine says, poking at his cheek playfully, “is that I can give it back just as good.”

“Is my floor flooded?”

“No, ma'am,” Rosie says sheepishly. “I dried it up.” 

Jean can't help but laugh at Rosie's expression, seeing that Jo - whose shirt was a little less wet than her man's - had obviously won the fight that Rosie had started. Looking between them, she smiles, seeing the twinkle in both of their eyes as they wipe soap from each other's hair, it flicking off of Rosie's curls.

“On that note, darlings, I'm off to bed. Jo, you're in the guest room with Rosie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Jean, that okay? I can sleep on the couch.” 

Jean waves a hand in dismissal, shaking her head. “Josephine came here so you could be together with no disturbances or silly rules. Of course it's okay.”

“Well, I also came to see you and my nephew,” Jo says, hugging her gently. “But thank you. You're a darling.”

“Goodnight, friends,” she says, beginning to exit the room with Harry hot on her heels, carrying the bassinet and the baby upstairs.

“Let me tuck you in, honey,” he whispers as they get to the bedroom. “Make sure you're all cozy.”

“Yes please, sweetheart. That's a lovely idea.” 

“How would you feel about us putting this little fella in his nursery tonight? Try it out?”

“Maybe,” Jean hesitates. “I'd like to sleep, though.”

“Hey, it's the weekend. I'll listen for him.” 

“Okay,” she breathes out, shoulders falling. “If you're sure.”

“Always. He's my boy. I'd stay awake forever for him if I had to.”

“At least we know you could make it three days before you dropped, so that's something.”

“Hey, now. That was just a fluke.”

“Mhm,” she mutters, sliding into the bedsheets. “Are you coming to bed, too?”

“Soon, my love. I wanna make sure the baby goes to sleep first.”

“Okay,” she replies sadly. 

“Hey, now, Mrs Crosby. Don't give me that pout, as cute as it is. I'll be in bed with you soon.”

“Fine,” she huffs, arms crossed in mock upset. 

“Would a kiss make it better, hm?” 

“Yes,” she grins, arms uncrossed immediately to grab him. They kiss deeply for a few moments before she sinks down in her pillow, Bing tucking the sheet around her body. 

“I love you so much,” he says, kissing her temple. “So, so much.”

“I love you too, darling.”

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666 @manonsmanicmind @hephaestn

[blakelysco-pilot]

All’s fair in love and war. When Croz is out for the count, Rosie is left to navigate D-Day without his best friend. While things are changing rapidly in East Anglia and in the course of the war, the same could be said for Jo back home. While Rosie has Harry Crosby by his side, Jo is never far fromJean Crosby. The pair embark on a new adventure that leaves their respective airmen both baffled and impressed. Who says that the boys are the only ones who can be part of the war effort?

The next installment of Love Letters drops this Sunday, July 7 at 12 noon EST.

Tag List: @rowdy-redhead @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @bobparkhurst @rosiesriveter @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd @roosevelt-stalin-cocacola @justheretoreadthxxs @claireelizabeth85 @hephaestn @ktredshoes @barrykeoghussy @peachessndreamss @hellfirequinnie @spinteresting @prettyinlimegreenboots @manonsmanicmind @precious-little-scoundrel @beingalive1

[bcolfanfic]

could we hear more about side b poly ev/helen/jean

ohohoh you sure can!!!

el dorado is side a and the lil helen jamie scene i posted is referencing some stuff happening when helen was staying with her after nash died and croz cheated. but ah. side b.

- croz ): god. my heart. sweet boy. you shoulda called someone. your girl and your beautiful kids needed you ):

- after the funeral ev and helen more or less move jeanie and the kids into their house

- it’s supposed to be temporary, they just don’t want her to be her alone. her family and croz’s folks are both unsupportive. their kids get along and *they* love her so. it’ll be good. temporarily. (:

- except they play real fast and loose with temporary and 6 months go by and she’s still there and sleeping in their bed more frequently and nothing *happens* but her being in there safe with them just makes sense.

- side b helen and jeanie have the same history they do in side a so i think shit happens between them first. and it’s not something anyone really blinks much about. they’re best friends. it was comforting when it was helen with the dead husband. ev certainly doesn’t care.

- but ev. ev ev ev. ev, who has more or less been parenting the crosby kids the last almost year. ev, who holds little baby simon and prays that he remembers his dad’s face. ev who sits up with jj and rebecca when they can’t sleep and tells them stories about croz and sleeps on the floor when april is scared of the dark.

- ev who hasn’t ever been hesitant to kiss jeanie on the head when she’s having a bad day with everything and tell her she’s a good mom. tell her that croz would be so proud of her and that /he’s/ proud of her.

- of course she falls in love with him. who wouldn’t.

- but realizing that obviously scares the shit out of her and there’s a whole lot of projection bickering for a minute.

- snaps at him for disciplining rebecca telling him she’s not /his/ child and that maybe he’s getting his role here confused. but he kinda snaps back and is like if the kids are under my roof, i’m gonna do what croz would when they’re acting out. you’re welcome to leave if you don’t like it!

- he’s projecting from a place of Feeling things too <\3

- jeanie snaps back all ohhh so you’re kicking me out, i’m so sorry for interrupting your PERFECT little life with your wife. you two can get back to what you were doing then and i’ll go.

- starts getting choked up which breaks ev’s heart because he’s like ): i don’t want you to leave if you don’t want to leave. but you’ve been at my throat lately and you gotta be honest about where this is coming from. if you live here, we communicate like adults.

- and she gets spooked and bolts upstairs <\3

- helen coming back from the store just in time to hear the bedroom door slam: 😁😄😀😧 ?????

- is immediately ev what did you do and he’s like ???!? throws his hands up all hell if i know! (you do know ev lmao you also need to communicate)

this is getting long but i can continue in another post if ppl are interested !

[sweaterkittensahoy]

2800 smut words of Jean and Rosie domming and cucking Harry

[Literally gets smutty in the second paragraph; I'm proud of myself]

He's fifteen minutes late. Harry closes the door behind him and listens, trying to figure out where Rosie and Jean are. He hears a creak from the bedroom and walks towards it, apology ready to go for being late. 

They're on the bed together, Jean's legs splayed wide, and Rosie licking her out. He has one hand low on her belly, the other clearly in use between her legs. Jean's holding Rosie's head in both hands and pushing her hips up so her sex is pressed even more against his face. 

"I'm–" Harry bites back the rest of the apology when Jean points to the chair by the bed without opening her eyes. Rosie doesn't even look at him, fully concentrating on Jean's pleasure. Harry grits his teeth, wishing he could crawl onto the bed and join them, drape himself over Rosie and nudge him to one side so he can taste Jean himself. 

But he'd promised to be home on time, and he wasn't. So he sits in the chair and watches Jean shiver from head to toe as Rosie shifts his mouth. Harry pulls off his tie, and he unbuttons his shirt. He reaches down and takes off his shoes, then opens his slacks, rubbing his palm over his cock as Rosie lifts Jean's legs as he pulls back, pulling Jean into his lap as he sits up. 

"No touching," Rosie says, eyes still on Jean. "Get naked."

"Yes, Rosie," he says and stands to strip. He sits down when he's finished, laying his hands on the arms of the chair so they can see he isn't touching himself. 

"What do you want, beautiful?" Rosie asks Jean. She's seated in his lap, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist. Her nipples are hard, and her hair flows down her back. Harry wants to be behind her, keeping her between them as he kisses the back of her neck and slides a hand between her legs. He loves to finger her slowly as they're all deciding what they'll do together. He opens and closes his hands thinking about it.

Jean drags her tongue along Rosie's cheek, where there's a streak of wetness. She kisses Rosie deeply, rocking back and forth in his lap. Rosie holds onto her hips and lets her take what she wants, groaning when she tugs at his hair and sucks on his bottom lip. Harry swears he can feel those same touches on himself and presses his hips against the back of the chair as lust rises in him. 

Jean ends the kiss and finally looks at Harry. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, lips red and swollen. She slides a hand down her front and rubs her fingers into her wetness. She takes her fingers out of herself and presses them to Rosie's lips. Rosie opens his mouth and sucks them in. 

"Oh, fuck," Hary murmurs, eyes closing briefly. 

"Look at me, darling," Jean says, and Harry's eyes snap open. "All you had to do was come home on time."

"I know," Harry says. 

Rosie leans his head back, and Jean's fingers leave a wet trail on his chin and neck. "Do you have a good reason?" Rosie asks. "Traffic? Flat tire? Long line at the library to check out books?"

Harry wants to say one of those happened, but they didn't. He'd lost track of time again, something they've talked to him about over and over. "No, Rosie," he says.

Jean turns to look at the clock on the bedside table. It puts her breasts directly into Harry's line of sight. He bites the inside of his cheek because he wants to surge up and take the three steps to the bed, wants to suck her nipples until she's flush all over and ready to come just from his mouth. 

"Only fifteen minutes," she says. "That's a big improvement from the last few times."

Rosie makes a considering noise and shifts. He gets both hands on Jean's ass and squeezes. He still hasn't looked at Harry. "Do you want to forgive him right now?" he asks. 

Jean drags her teeth over her lower lip and stares at Harry. He feels himself blush at the frank assessment she's taking. His cock twitches hard the longer she stares at him. She finally turns her gaze to Rosie "No," she says. "No, I do not." 

Rosie looks at Harry. "Stay put, baby boy," he says. 

Harry shakes all over and nods. "Yes, Rosie," he says. He clenches his hands as Jean pushes on Rosie's shoulder until he's flat on the bed. 

She plants her hands on his chest and lifts her hips. Rosie reaches down and adjusts his cock so she can slide down onto him. Her breasts swing, and her ass clenches, and Rosie grabs her waist as she starts to grind against him. 

"Beautiful," Rosie says. "So beautiful." 

Jean digs her nails into Rosie's chest, and Harry swears he can feel the ghost of that touch on his own body. He gasps when Jean lifts up and then very slowly sinks back down onto Rosie's cock. 

Rosie groans as Jean repeats the motion, and he throws his head back, his neck stretched tight. Harry wishes he was on the bed, wishes he could be pressing his mouth to Rosie's tendons as he touches Jean's clit as she rides Rosie. It's one of his favorite things, to help Jean seek pleasure from Rosie's body. The only thing better is letting Jean use his own body the way she's using Rosie's now. Harry shifts, and his cock bobs, and he lets out a whimper. 

"Jean, Jean, lean down," Rosie says, and when Jean does, Rosie uses his tongue to pull Jean's nipple into his mouth and suck. 

Jean grinds hard and slips her hands off Rosie's chest, placing her hands on either side of his head as she presses her breast against his face. 

Harry's hips rock back and forth, though there's nothing to rub against. His cock just swings in the air, hard and flushed with no Jean or Rosie to touch him because he'd promised he'd be on time and agreed to take whatever punishment resulted if he wasn't. He watches Rosie grab the backs of Jean's thighs and help her fuck him as hard as she likes. Harry wants to be the one to do that, to lean over Jean's back and push his hands on her thighs, and kiss her neck and shoulders as he fits his cock into the cleft of her ass for the warm, sweaty friction he knows is there. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and his shoulders and back and stomach muscles all flutter as tension slips from his body. "I'm sorry." 

Jean and Rosie ignore him, Jean fucking Rosie hard as he drags his mouth to her other breast. She's bright with sweat, her hair sticking to her neck, and Rosie drags his legs upward until his feet are flat on the bed. 

Rosie pulls his mouth off Jean's nipple. A thin string of saliva keeps his mouth connected to it. Harry groans and digs his fingers into the arms of the chair. He wants Jean's nipples in his mouth. He wants his mouth on Rosie's mouth. He wants to be coming on Jean's back or on Rosie's stomach. He wants to be trapped between them as they drive him crazy with their touch and teasing. 

"Let me have it, beautiful," Rosie says. "Give me everything you want to take."

Jean grinds on him again, then stops cold. She's panting. She laughs when Rosie groans and thrusts into her. "Hold still," she says. "Please." 

And Harry's cock twitches hard again. He loves when she says please to Rosie. The way it's alway shaky and shivery and wild. And Rosie responds by loosening his grip on her thighs, dragging his open palms up her back in slow, smooth strokes Harry knows very, very well. An instant calming trick Rosie has that works on Harry and Jean equally well. 

Jean levers herself upright and gathers her hair off her neck. She glances at Harry, and her smile is half-sweet and all dangerous. "It's a shame you were late, darling," she says. "You could hold my hair." 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, and his hips come off the chair. When he opens his eyes again, Jean's let her hair drop again, and she's climbed off Rosie's lap. "I'm sorry," Harry says. 

"Listen to him," Rosie says, sitting up, eyes on Harry. "Well done, baby boy," he says. "Not fighting against the need to say it."

"You two make a very compelling argument," Harry says, and his whole body feels alive and wonderful when they both laugh. 

Jean glances at Rosie, then back at Harry. She leans over and whispers something to Rosie. 

"I want whatever you want," Rosie says. 

Jean gives him a quick kiss, then puts her full attention on Harry. Harry feels like his skin is on fire, and he loves it.

"Come sit on the bed," Jean says. "Up against the headboard. No touching yourself still."

Harry gets up in a stumble. He has to pause to steady himself. Rosie and Jean both watch him as he takes the three steps to the bed and sits as instructed. 

Jean crawls up the bed and leans in, presses her mouth against Harry's and lets him kiss her. She doesn't touch any other part of him. "I love you, darling," she says against his mouth. 

"I love you, too," Harry replies. "Jean, I love you so much."

"Good," she says, and backs away. She settles near the foot of the bed, in front of Rosie, who's on his knees with his cock in his hand. 

"Oh, no," Harry whispers, because he knows what's about to happen. "Oh, god, you're gonna kill me."

"No, we're not," Rosie says, placid as you please. He spans his free hand along Jean's lower back and shuffles forward. Harry can't see his exact movements, but he knows the moment Robert slides his cock back into Jean. Because she closes her eyes and arches her back and groans so, so loud. 

"Baby boy," Rosie says, drawing Harry's attention, even as Jean undulates and sighs in pleasure. "You can come, but you can't touch yourself." 

Harry whines in the back of his throat. "Rosie," he breathes out. 

Rosie meets his gaze and gives him a warm, sweet smile as he very slowly fucks into Jean. "We've seen you do it. We know you can."

Harry stretches his arms out at his sides to grab at the pillows because it's one thing to say he can't touch himself, but to say he's allowed to come if he doesn't? That's a very different ballgame.

"Darling," Jean says, and when Harry looks at her, her mouth is hanging open from pleasure, and she's holding herself up by her hands, but Harry can see the fine tremor already working through her arms that means she's going to drop to her elbows sooner rather than later. "Oh, oh he feels so good, darling," she says. Rosie keeps a slow, deep pace, and Jean rocks back and forward, gaze so sharp on Harry he swears he can feel it. Rosie reaches up and gathers Jean's hair, lifts it off her neck. 

"Oh, I wish you were between my legs, darling," Jean says. "I love feeling your mouth on me while Robert fucks me."

Harry lets out a pained noise and curls his toes. "Jean," he says. "Jean."

"She was wet when I first touched her, Harry," Rosie says, stretching himself over Jean's back. He kisses her neck and slips his hand down her front. Jean whines, and Harry knows Rosie is teasing her clit. "She was so excited to reward you tonight, she snuck away from me today and took care of herself."

Harry clenches his fingers so tight on the pillows his fingers ache. "You–You didn't," Harry says, awed at Jean like he so often is.

Jean drops to her elbows and lets out a throaty laugh. She throws her head back and meets Rosie for a messy kiss. When she looks at Harry again, her face is beautifully pink, and Harry can see teeth marks from where Rosie's bitten her bottom lip. "I wanted to give you a surprise to thank you for coming home when you said you would," she says, and Harry's cock pulses hard. "But you were late, so I had to give it to Robert instead."

Robert buries his face in Jean's neck and drags a kiss over her shoulder before looking at Harry. He doesn't say anything, just fucks Jean and stares at Harry, and Harry's breath stutters, and precum slides down his dick. 

Jean drops her head and stretches out her arms. "Robert," she murmurs. "Robert, make me come." Her head snaps back, and Harry knows Rosie's added pressure to the fingers touching her clit. He also picks up speed, fucking Jean harder and faster. 

"Oh," Jean gasps, back arching sharply. "Oh, yes. Yes. Like that. More. Please. More."

Robert moves faster, and he presses his mouth behind Jean's ear, in that spot that makes her quiver and shake even if it's the only part you touch. 

Harry's dick spurts more precum, and he feels it dribble down his shaft. He wishes Jean's eyes were open. He wishes he could ask her to open her eyes and see it. But he was late, and he knew the repercussions if he was. 

"Jean," Rosie gasps. "Beautiful. Beautiful." He keeps fucking her, rubbing her clit, dragging his mouth behind her ear. 

"It's–OH!" Jean shouts, and she drops her forehead to the bed, howling against the sheets as Rosie keeps fucking her. 

She'll be oversensitive in a minute, Harry knows. She'll groan and laugh and push Rosie away from herself as she shakes and pants. But right now, she's digging her fingers into the bed and jerking back towards Rosie every time he thrusts forward, and in another few thrusts, Rosie grabs Jean's shoulders and pulls her upright and makes her sit in his lap as he thumbs her nipples and shakes all over and comes with a shout he muffles against her shoulder. 

Harry's dick throbs with each beat of his heart, and he doesn't care that he can't touch himself because he can stare at Jean, body stretched along Robert's front, and he can see the tension in Robert's muscles as he holds Jean up, and he can hear them breathe and smell their sweat, and when he lets his eyes drop to where Rosie's cock is still in Jean, he can see a little bit of spunk slipping out. 

"FUCK," Harry yelps, and he bucks his hips four or five times, and his dick pulses hard and nothing fucking happens. He groans and slumps against the headboard. 

Rosie chuckles and murmurs something to Jean, who makes an affirmative noise. Harry keeps his eyes closed because his dick officially hurts, and he doesn't want it to get any more excited seeing the two of them together. 

"Lie down," Jean says. 

Harry slides down until he's flat. The air on his dick makes him grit his teeth and hiss. 

"We've decided you've learned your lesson," Jean continues, and then her hands are touching Harry's calves and knees and thighs. Her touch disappears, and Harry feels the bed move as Rosie and Jean rearrange themselves. He feels Rosie's mustache drag along his thigh, and Harry opens his eyes just in time to see Jean swing a leg over his face.

"Jean," Harry breathes out.

"Darling, we know you tried," Jean says. "But we had to stick by our promise to punish you."

Harry doesn't answer. He just opens his mouth and lets Jean fit her sex against his tongue. He tastes her juices and Rosie's spunk, and then Rosie licks his cock from root to tip, and all Harry can do is moan into Jean. 

"Clean her up, baby boy," Rosie says. "I'll take care of you."

You'll both take care of me, Harry thinks, but he'll say it later. After he's licked the taste of Rosie from Jean and after Rosie's sucked him dry, and after they've all curled up warm and close on the bed, and Harry's been given the chance to tell them that he'd checked his watch and had ten minutes, and then it was gone and he was running late because he'd decided he could read two more pages. He'll tell them that next time, he'll leave with ten minutes to spare rather than convince himself he'll remember to check the time after two pages. He knows they'll praise him and kiss him and be proud of him for figuring out his own solution. He'd agreed to punishment tonight, and they've given it to him. But now he can look forward to being loved for trying his best, and he's ready to make them proud next time.

[sagesolsticewrites]

friend, I am DESPERATE for a Harry and Jean homecoming fic 😭 his first day/night home. I know they'd be nervous after being apart for so long but how ADORABLE would that reunion be <3

BESTIE OMGGG wait this is so cute and I’m absolutely getting started on it asap 🥹

(also when I tell you I’m lowkey already working on a reunion fic for another character… 👀 maybe it’s the fact that I’m in a long distance relationship but I’m just a sucker for romantic reunions okay 😭)

[evviejo]

STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION // S5E1 Redemption, Part 2 Doubts? I'm full of them. But nothing in my experience can persuade me that what you have told me is true. And I do know one thing: it will not affect my judgment at our next encounter.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[angiedceu23]

TNG ❤️

[hunterrrs]

his pink little face. his bashful little babygirl smile. the way he keeps tugging on his ear.

[thatsrightice]

“I never heard [my mother] call [my father] Harry, ever in my life. She called him ‘Bing’ or ‘Binger’… and he couldn’t sing a note!”

Rebecca Hutchinson, youngest daughter of Harry Crosby during an interview with the InQua Podcast

[rattkachuk]

i think hockey has ruined me cause when someones like 'omg look at his ass, man's got cake' i just gotta shut the hell up

[winniemaywebber]

It's Been A Long, Long Time • Part 3

🌹 Uncle Rosie 🌹

read previous part here

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666 @archival-hogwash

“Goodnight, you two!” you say as you watch your friends leave the room, Harry's arm wrapped around his wife. The look on their faces as they realize they get to share a bed for the first time in weeks because you're there to help sends a warm glow through your body. Happy to be here, yet missing home, you decide to call your Ma before it gets too late. The baby is dozing softly in the bassinet next to Croz's armchair and you tiptoe out of the room to ensure he isn't woken.

Dialing the number on the phone in the hall, you wait patiently.

“Rosenthal residence,” a voice says.

“Ma,” you reply, happy to hear her. “It's me. Just wanted to let you know I got here safe.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it, Robbie. How are the Crosbys?”

“Oh, they're great, Ma. Being excellent parents just like I knew they would be. I'm helping em out tonight, making sure they get a good rest together.”

“That's wonderful, son. I'm glad you're there to help.”

“Me, too. Now, Ma,” you begin nervously. “If the baby wakes up…what do I do?”

“Robert,” she sighs, instantly exasperated. “Did you make your poor, dear friends think you had it handled?” You pause, nervous to respond.

“Y-yes,” you finally stutter out. “But they need their rest and I couldn't leave them exhausted like that and I–”

“Son, it's easy. Change the diaper, heat the milk.”

“R-right…easy,” you pause again, shifting from one foot to the other. “How do I heat it?”

“Leave it in the bottle and put that in a pot of boiling water on the stove. Keep an eye on it. Not too hot, you don't want to burn the little fella's mouth, now. You'll be fine. It'll be good practice for you when your time comes with Josephine.”

At the mention of her name, you hear a cheeky cackle in the background. You smile at the sound, your heart suddenly beating ten to the dozen at the thought of her beautiful smile, how her eyes crinkle whenever she laughs at one of your terrible jokes. 

“Did she come for dinner?”

“Yes, son. She's spending the night, too. Nobody to take her home and I don't want her getting a cab at this hour.”

“That's sweet, Ma. Thanks for taking care of her.”

“Hold on just a minute…” there's a pause on the other end of the line until you hear your mother attempting to whisper.

“He's with the baby…yes, he seems to be in over his head,” you hear her laugh.

“Ma!” you shout over the line, eyes squeezed shut. “Don't tell her!” With that, the baby begins to wail from the next room and you sigh. “Ma, I have to go. The baby.”

“Good luck, Robbie. Josephine sends her love.”

“And I send it right back. G'night.”

Placing the phone into its cradle, you rush along the padded carpet to tend to the baby. 

“Hey, hey buddy,” you say as you reach him, hands going to lift him from his bed. “How's it goin’?” You coo, hoping you're able to calm him easily. Stroking his head with your gentle hand, he seems to relax instantly. “Huh,” you say, carrying on the movement. “Piece of cake.” 

Not quite asleep yet, you carry the baby in your arms over to the record player. Flipping through the Crosby record collection with your free hand, you find one that catches your eye. “Now this,” you murmur to the small child in your arms, his big brown eyes - exactly like his father's - gazing up at you as you place the record on the player one-handed, “is good jazz, little Croz.” 

The sounds of Artie Shaw softly blare through the room, you sitting down in the armchair. 

“Did you know,” you begin, looking at the baby's sweet face. “Now, I dunno if your Pop told you this yet. But there was a mission where me and my crew were completely alone. I don't mind telling ya, kid, I was petrified - who are you gonna tell, after all?” You muse on that for a moment. “Okay, maybe you'll tell your father, but that's fine by me. Anyway, completely alone, nothing but blue sky in front of me and my co-pilot. All I could think to do was to hum along to this.” You carry on telling the story as the music swells, rambling on about how all you could think of was getting back to base in one piece, being able to be back home for your Ma and your sweet Josephine. 

“That's Aunt Jo, by the way, kid. The second I marry her, I'm bringing her to see you. She's dying to see you, pal, and your sweet mama. So was I. We best buddies now? What d'ya say? Uncle Rosie pass the test?” At that final sentence, the baby's eyes close and he's softly snoring on you, his head burrowing into your chest. You feel your heart swell, tears suddenly pricking your eyes. You think back to that New Year during the war, where you'd written to Josephine, promising her the world, whatever she chose. Holding your friend's sleeping infant in your arms makes you realize that you want life to look like this with her.

You lay the baby down in his bassinet, the music softly playing in the corner of the room helping to soothe him, and you make your way back to the telephone. Dialing the number for home, you wait as the line rings. 

Hello?” A voice, thick with tiredness and hoarse from laughter. “Robbie?”

"Darling,” you breathe out, the sound of her sweet voice almost making you fall to your knees. Composing yourself, you carry on. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”

“How's our nephew?” she coos, her voice up an octave. 

“He's fine, my love. Has eyes just like his Papa. Hair like his Mother. Angelic face just like his Aunt Jo.”

"Oh, stop,” she teases. “How did you get on in the end? Your ma said you sounded quite panicked.”

“It was fine. Pretty easy, actually.” You take a deep breath in, preparing yourself for what you're about to say next. “I just wanted to reiterate what I meant in that letter, that new year. Being here has made me realize it more. Jo, I want to give you everything. A family, a herd of kids. Anything you want.”

“Darling…” she murmurs. “Then hurry up and marry me. I'm impatient.” You laugh, switching the phone to your other ear. 

“Besides,” she carries on. “Judging by your panic, I think we should wait a little longer to talk about having kids.”

You sigh, playfully. “But we can still practice making ‘em, right?”

“Robert, your mother is stood right next to me.”

“Oh–uh…uh oh.” Luckily, you hear your sweetheart giggle as she struggles to come back to normal.

“I love you, darling,” she whispers. “Goodnight.”

“I love you, sweetheart. I'll be dreaming of you.” 

“And me. Bye, Robbie.”

The phone clicks as you hear a tiny cry from the living room, the record having ended. Putting the phone back in its place, you walk back to the room, excited to share more anecdotes with your new best friend. 

thank you to @ginabaker1666 and @sagesolsticewrites for reading this over and over to make sure it was PERFECT 🥰

masterlist

[blakelysco-pilot]

Last Line Game

Got tagged by @sweaterkittensahoy, thank you friend, to play the last line game, so here we are.

This is an excerpt from the next part of Love Letters, which is on its way in the coming days, I promise.

The next morning felt like you could cut the tension with a knife. The days to Harry’s return were drawing near, and while Jo tried her best, she could feel the inevitable dark cloud looming overhead; she had begged for it to not creep in onJean’s good mood, but when she joined her friend for coffee, it seemed it was looming over both of them.

“Sleep well?” Jean looked over from the stove where the coffee was perking, a half smile on her face.

“Alright, all things considered.”

“Humid last night…” Jean mused.

“Slept on top of the duvet again.” Jo half laughed, knowing even if they weren’t tiptoeing around the inevitable, she’d have been a tad grumpy over the heat.

“Me too…” Jean turned, bringing the now finished pot to the table, placing it on the trivet. “Not even a breeze.”

“We want a breeze, we need to go back to Brooklyn, Jean.”

“That’s a hike,” she had set about pouring their coffee, hands staying busy. “Don’t know how you did it for so long before moving in here.”

Jo blanches at the mention of her living there, still not quite sure how to tell Jean that she’s going to be leaving while her husband is home. Guilt, again.

tagging @claireelizabeth85 @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @hesbuckcompton-baby