#Dutch Cavalry

[blue-and-gilt]

French An XI heavy cavalry troopers sword with the 1816 modifications; the blade re-profiled to have a spear tip and the new model scabbard.

The blade is marked AP with the revolutionary lector bundle stamp. It is believed that blades marked in this manner were sourced from non-state owned manufacturers and this is a controllers mark to show that it had passed testing.

The second sword is the Dutch m1814 No.3 heavy cavalry troopers sword that is a close copy of the French An XI. When the Dutch declared independence from France in 1813, her army retained large numbers of French equipment including the An XI.

It is unknown when the m1814 entered service, some say that they were available as early as 1815 and were used at Waterloo, but it is equally likely these were French swords in Dutch scabbards. Most of the remaining examples, when they are marked, have a date in the 1820s stamped into the ricasso.

This sword does not have such a date stamp. practically there isn’t a lot of difference between the two swords, the measurements are much the same and the variations are mostly cosmetic, such as more turns of the grip wire, the lack of a furrell on the Dutch sword and changes to the guard shape.

Interestingly the m1814 No.3 retains the hatchet tip, well after the French changed.

[illustratus]

The Red Lancers after the Charge at the Battle of Hanau

by Henri-Georges Chartier

[awallofswords]

Another re-shuffle of the sword wall. I swapped out the 1796 Pattern heavy cavalry officers dismounted service sword for the 1796 Pattern heavy cavalry officers undress sword. I think this is more in keeping with the other swords which are all trooper swords or officer’s service swords. 

The new composition is (from left to right): 

- Dutch m1800 Light Cavalry officer’s or NCO’s sabre - French An XI Light Cavalry officer’s sabre - French ‘Garde de Bataille’ Dragoon officer’s sword - French An XIII Heavy Cavalry troopers’ sword - French An XI Light Cavalry trooprs’ sword - Dutch m1813 No.2 Light Cavalry troopers’ sabre - Dutch m1814 No.3 Heavy Cavalry troopers’ sword - British 1796 Pattern Light Cavalry troopers’ sabre (Dutch issued as the 1813 No.1 for light cavalry) - British 1788 Pattern Light Cavalry troopers’ sabre - British 1796 Pattern Heavy Cavalry troopers’ sword - British 1796 Pattern Heavy Cavalry officer’s undress sword - British 1796 Pattern Light Cavalry yeomanry officer’s sabre  - British 1796 Pattern Light Cavalry officer’s sabre

[postcard-from-the-past]

Cavalry barracks of the Sarphati street in Amsterdam, North Holland, Netherlands

Dutch vintage postcard

[museum-of-artifacts]

In 1888 Holland, the graves of a Catholic woman and her Protestant husband share a sad story. Colonel Jacobus Warnerus Constantinus van Gorkum, a member of the Dutch Cavalry, was laid to rest on the Protestant side of the Roermond Kapel cemetery in Limburg, Netherlands. In contrast, his wife, Lady Josephina Carlina Petronela Hubertina van Aefferden, found her final resting place on the Catholic side.

Despite this religious division, this devoted couple, who were married in 1842, managed to come together even in death. Their graves are marked by two clasped hands, symbolizing their enduring connection that transcended the religious divide.

Blog: https://artifactsmuseumhistory.blogspot.com/?m=1

[natasha-rogersbarnes]

Hey guyyyyyyys, I'm like so so so so so sorry but I'll have to quit tumblr.

I'm in a bit of a pickle and I'll need to keep myself pretty empty for a while. And it's probably gonna be like a lo g time. I have this exam in like 2 months and tumblr has been taking most my time of the day so unfortunately I'll be deleting it and I'll probably be back, if not never, around December 2025! Not even 2024. I'll need to keep myself completely off of all content so that I can pass this exam. Please wish me luck.

This also means all my other accounts will also be inactive. I am not deleting any, just being inactive.

@nat-writes-prompts

@rider-axel-s-at-everything

@captain-monika-rambeau

@daisy-skye-johnson-quake

@fitzsimmons-officialblog

@the-shotgun-axe-man

@dutch-braids-4-lyf-and-4-evah

@i-am-not-that-old

@melinda-qiaolian-may-the-cavalry

@crochetika

@moons-quiet-little-den

@fanny-longbottom-woof

@mrpotatocomestotownbutitsms

@iwouldliketobecallednatpls

@im-not-a-furry-i-just-have-wings

@anonymoussssssssssssssssssssss

For all the people that loved me thank you and see you.

@white-wolf-actually @that-punk-from-brooklyn @iwasmadetobeasoldier @official-pietro-maximoff @pietros-wife @official-buckybarnes @fluffycows4life @probably-steve @your-darling-gaze @yoursx-cyber-skye @trading-cards-owner @stephenstrange-md-phd @theironcan @imnothulk @gooseygoodboy @capt-carter-mostly-official @clintbarton-thearrowguy @peterparker-official @tonystark-official @samwilson-official

IIIILLLLYYYYY

[whencyclopedia]

Claude Monet

Claude Monet (1840-1926) was a French impressionist painter who transformed modern art with his emphasis on light brushstrokes, bright colours, and uncluttered nature. Famed for his landscapes and series of paintings that captured the same view in different momentary atmospheric conditions, Monet is heralded as one of the greatest and most influential artists of all time.

Early Life

Oscar-Claude Monet was born in Paris on 14 November 1840. The job of Monet's father, Claude-Adolphe, is not known except that it was a humble one and that the family often struggled financially. In 1845, the Monets moved to Le Havre on the northern coast of France where Claude-Adolphe worked in his brother-in-law's thriving wholesale grocery business. Oscar-Claude's favourite subject at school was art, and, fascinated by the boats in the busy harbour, he often sketched them. From 15, he made money by selling caricatures, some of which were displayed in a local shop window each Sunday, which became a minor local attraction. Monet's aunt, Marie-Jeanne Lecadre, was an amateur painter and she encouraged Oscar-Claude, introducing him to the artist Amand Gautier (1825-1894).

Another artistic influence was the landscape painter Eugène Boudin (1824-1898) and the pair went painting together en plein air (outdoors), as opposed to the traditional method of painting in the studio. Still only 17, Monet produced his first outdoor painting, View from Rouelles, in 1858. Monet later described the experience:

Boudin put up his easel and set to work…for me it was like the rending of a veil; I understood; I grasped what painting could be…my destiny as a painter opened up before me. If I have indeed become a painter; I owe it to Eugène Boudin…Gradually my eyes were opened and I understood nature.

(Hodge, 15)

In April 1859, Monet gathered together his savings from his caricatures sales and went to study art in Paris. He enrolled in the unconventional Académie Suisse and started to make friends with artists like Camille Pissarro (1830-1903) and Paul Cézanne (1839-1906). More caricatures helped eke out his savings.

In June 1861, Monet's studies were rudely interrupted by conscription into the French army. Joining the African Light Cavalry, he was shipped off to Algeria. The bright colours of North Africa left a lasting impression on the young artist, who continued to sketch when he could. Then, after contracting typhoid in 1862, Monet was invalided back home. Six months later, Aunt Marie-Jeanne bought her nephew out of the army. Now 22, he dropped the Oscar from his name and began to paint again. It was at Le Havre that Monet met the Dutch artist Johan Barthold Jongkind (1819-1891), whose work he already admired for its broad and bold brushstrokes and which captured effects of the weather on seascapes. As Monet noted, Jongkind "became from this moment, my true master; and it is to him that I owe the final development of my painter's eye" (Hodge, 19).

Continue reading...

[theres-a-body-here]

Thanacon's Scumtober (2023)

A collection of Whumptober, Flufftober, and Kinktober all in one month. Fluff=🌸, Whump=💀, Kink=⛓️

Day 1 - The Oni (Shibari) ⛓️

Day 2 - Bill Overbeck (Age Difference) ⛓️

Day 3 - Simon "Ghost" Riley (Spanking) ⛓️

Day 4 - Polar Patroller (Distractions) ⛓️

Day 5 - Montgomery Gator (Size Difference) ⛓️

Day 6 - Micah Bell (Drunk Sex) ⛓️

Day 7 - Gabriel Reyes (Agony) 💀

Day 8 - John Price (Pet Play) ⛓️

Day 9 - The Demogorgon (Monsterfucking) ⛓️

Day 10 - Legoshi (Knotting) ⛓️

Day 11 - Asgore Dreemurr (In Heat) ⛓️

Day 12- Glamrock Freddy (Rimming) ⛓️

Day 12.5 - Fia, Deathbed Companion (Death's hold) 🌸

Day 13 - Reinhardt Wilhelm (Somnophilia) ⛓️

Day 14 - Guts, the Black Swordsman (Marking) ⛓️

Day 15 - Albert Wesker (Gun Play) ⛓️

Day 16 - Enji Todoroki (Casual Sex) ⛓️

Day 17 - Dwight Fairfield (Mutual Masturbation) ⛓️

Day 18 - SCP-049 (Medical Play) ⛓️

Day 19 - Danny Johnson (Knife Play) ⛓️

Day 20 - Ramattra (Technophilia) ⛓️

Day 21 - Arthur Morgan (Exsanguination) 💀

Day 22 - Kugo Sakamata (Aquaphilia) ⛓️

Day 23 - Kieran Duffy (Omorashi) ⛓️

Day 24 - Night's Cavalry (Tender Sex) ⛓️

Day 25 - Dutch Van Der Linde (Slow Dancing) 🌸

Day 26 - Blaidd the half-wolf (Aphrodisiac) ⛓️

Day 27 - Alexander Nox (Breath Play) ⛓️

Day 28 - Guzma & Golisopod (Cuckholding) ⛓️

Day 29 - Bobbies (Gangbang) ⛓️

Day 30 - Cole Cassidy (Public Sex) ⛓️

Day 31 - Yagi Toshinori (Praise) ⛓️

[catgirlforeskin]

Born too late to be a low-level Soviet bureaucrat managing freight rail efficiencies, born too early to be a Revolutionary Cascadian Black Army engineer for the 6th Dutch-Bicycle Cavalry, born just in time to work retail and tag dog treats with the wrong price just to feel alive

[willardsrestwidow]

❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.

Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.

Word Count: 5,3k

Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.

Please only read if you're +18!

A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!

Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.

When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.

Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.

In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.

Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.

“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”

“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”

“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”

Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking — which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.

Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.

“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.

An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.

From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”

“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”

The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”

Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.

And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.

Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.

“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”

A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.

“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”

And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.

It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.

“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”

To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?

Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.

✤ ✤ ✤

Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.

You were to resume the laundry you left behind.

“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.

Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.

For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…

…no one.

The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.

You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.

For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.

Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.

Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.

“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”

“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.

“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”

The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.

“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”

Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.

“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.

“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”

“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”

The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.

“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”

“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.

“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”

A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”

“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”

“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"

"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”

Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.

Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”

“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”

It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.

“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”

O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.

“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”

✤

Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.

But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.

What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?

You began to taste blood.

Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?

The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”

“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”

“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”

“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”

For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.

It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.

The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.

“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, “he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”

Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”

Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”

“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”

Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.

“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”

You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.

The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”

“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”

“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”

Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.

As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.

“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.

O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”

“And to me? What’ll you give?”

Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…

“Everything.”

You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.

Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.

You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.

“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.

Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.

Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.

Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.

You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.

“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.

“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”

“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”

“Mhmm.”

It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”

Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.

On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.

With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.

The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.

Yes.

Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.

Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.

It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.

[blue-and-gilt]

This sabre is probably my favorite enlisted ranks swords. While the British 1796 Pattern light cavalry sabre is an iconic weapon, the Dutch m1813 No.2 light cavalry troopers sabre fells better in my hand, has a longer blade and more hand protection. Modeled on the French An XI light cavalry sabre, which the armed forces of the newly formed Kingdom of the Netherlands would have retained in significant quantities, 1,000 of these sabres were ordered in February 1814 and another 1,000 in April 1815. A unique Dutch design, these were originally intended for the mounted Artillery and the Artillery train. However there is evidence that these were also used by the Light Dragoons to supplement their British made 1796 Pattern light cavalry sabres, called the m1813 No.1 in Dutch service. Both the m1813 No. 1 and No. 2 sabres were replaced by the m1814 in the middle of the 1820s although they continued to see use with secondary units well into the 1830s. The TT stamp on my example shows that for part of it's service life it was issued to the Artillery Train.

[illustratus]

A Cavalry Battle Scene by Jan van Huchtenburg

[qsycomplainsalot]

Oil on canvas, Charles Louis Mozin

The Capture of the Dutch Fleet at Den Helder, 23rd of January 1795

  In which the French armed forces demonstrates that not having the best navy can in fact be okay.

Context

  The French Revolution in 1789, followed by the imprisonment and then execution of Louis the XVIth in 1793, led to most major autocratic powers in Europe declaring war on France to restore the status quo. France was thus engaged on multiple fronts by many of its neighbors which, surprisingly, at the time included Austria through their ownership of the Southern Netherlands. Both Netherlandses had witnessed failed republican uprisings in the previous decades, and as such the new France Republic pushed through the Austrian Netherlands to declare war on the -nominally only- Republic of United Netherlands in the North.

The “Battle”

  After two years of campaign the combined efforts of the French revolutionary army and Dutch patriots had all but closed this front of the war, and the French commander of the Army of the North was garrisoned in Amsterdam when he caught wind of the Dutch fleet being anchored at the mouth of the Zuiderzee bay, just north of there. Due to temperatures averaging -10°C in the past weeks, the entire bay had frozen over, which he decided to use to his advantage.   He immediately sent Dutch patriot Gnl. Jan Willem de Winter at the head of about two hundred men from the French 8th Hussar and the 3rd Battalion of Belgian Skirmishers, also raised from sympathizers to the republican cause. Muffling the sound of their horses’ hooves with cloth and arriving during the night each with a Belgian infantryman riding with them, the hussars sneaked on the entire Dutch fleet frozen at anchor and captured it without a fight.

  In a single cavalry charge the French Republic had captured five ships-of-the-line, three frigates, six corvettes and several merchantmen with crew, for a total of about 850 guns. This is one of only two recorded instances of a cavalry force charging and capturing ships in a battle and one of few instances where having light infantry ride as voltigeurs proved to be even remotely useful. There is debate whether the Dutch sailors and marines would have actually resisted capture however, as the Netherlands had essentially already been knocked out of the war by then and might have been ordered to surrender, which the French may have known as well. It is hard to discern the truth of the matter when what was two hundred men sent to secure a fleet that may have already been surrendered to them gets painted as a full army corps marching in tight formation on the ice.   In any case, a squadron of hussars captured a fleet of ships and that’s awesome.

  Following the capture of the fleet, the evacuation of the remaining Allied troops to other fronts or England and finally the surrender of the Austrian duchy of Luxembourg, the Dutch Patriot party were given the reins of the Netherlands renamed as the Batavian Republic - more or less a puppet state and the future Netherlands - while the Austrian Netherlands - future Belgium - and Luxembourg were incorporated in the French Republic as new departments.   The captured fleet was ransomed back to the Batavian Republic in exchange of a small loan of a hundred million guilders.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Cavalry military camp in Ambarawa, Java, Indonesia

Dutch vintage postcard

[bookofezra]

Historic Quotes That Haunt Me

"What will Miss Harris think of my hanging onto you so?" "She won't think anything by it." (last conversation between President Abraham Lincoln and First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln)

We are told that the American soldier does not know what he is fighting for. Now, at least, he will know what he is fighting against. (American General Dick Eisenhower after touring the liberated Ohrdruf concentration camp)

We used to root for the Indians against the cavalry, because we didn't think it was fair in the history books that when the cavalry won it was a great victory, and when the Indians won it was a massacre. (Activist and actor Dick Gregory)

If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness. (Carved into the wall of a cell in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp)

It is only those who have never heard a shot, never heard the shriek and groans of the wounded and lacerated … that cry aloud for more blood, more vengeance, more desolation. (American general William Tecumseh Sherman)

I shoot better! (Dutch resistance fighter Hannie Schaft during her execution)

Men, I am not ordering you to attack. I am ordering you to die. (Turkish general Mustafa Kemal Atatürk during the Battle of Gallipoli)

Well boys, you've done your duty and done it well. I ask no more of you. I release you. You know the rule of the sea. (Captain Edward Smith as the RMS Titanic sank)

If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. (Scholar and philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche)

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. (Poet and novelist James Joyce)

[allzelemonz]

Lieutenant: Bill Williamson X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, implied masculinity, Reader referred to as ‘man’, ‘sir’, and ‘boy’ Physical Sex: AMAB implied, mentions of shaving facial hair Rating: T/Violence, crime Warnings: Incredibly gay and closeted Bill, internalized homophobia, period typical homophobia, Reader was an officer, dishonorable discharges for being gay, pining, uniform ‘kink’, mentions of Reader participating the the relocation of Natives, military habits and norms Summary: For a job, Dutch has you and Bill dressed in your old uniforms. It brings out some old habits and new feelings.

The whole job feels ridiculous. But it was Dutch’s idea and Dutch is the boss and there’s only so many people that can pull it off and you stopped listening after you heard the word ‘uniform’ so you don’t remember the rest. Even if you had been listening, seeing yourself in the old clothes makes your stomach turn. Everything was taken so quickly, your whole life turned on its side just because you let yourself be vulnerable. And even after all these years the damn collar doesn’t sit the way it’s supposed to. All of it aside, freshly shaven and hair slicked with pomade, you look like the lieutenant you used to be. At least Dutch’s plan might actually work.

When you leave your tent and the dreadful mirror Molly lent you, you feel a bit better not having to look at yourself in the dreadful garments. Of course, you only get a moment’s peace before Sean sees you approaching the stolen coach and opens his mouth.

“Look at that!” He grins. “Big man a’ the army!”

“Cavalry.” You sigh. “Officers are always more specific. Uptight bastards.”

Sean chuckles. “Apologies, sir.”

“Shut up.”

Sean snickers to himself as he returns to looking over his rifle and you pass him to find Dutch. He’s speaking with Hosea, Arthur, and Bill, all of them in their own disguises. Bill is the only other in uniform, reminding you of a degenerate corporal you had to have a few others hold down and shave before a visit from your colonel. Captain's orders of course, everything the captain said was everything you did back then.

“Ah, there’s our officer.” Hosea says, a fondness in his tone that makes you not snap at the comment.

Dutch laughs in that annoying way he does when things are working out for him, Arthur simply looks a little stunned at your clean cut appearance. Bill, however, has a red face and eyes that wander over your figure. Not that you notice, Dutch has already started talking to you like a father seeing his son in uniform for the first time. This gives Bill the freedom to look at you like he wants to. You stand like an officer, like those men that he usually hates because they’re so full of themselves, but it works for you. His eyes find the rank insignia of a first lieutenant, telling him you did something to get promoted or gain brevet at some point. Knowing you, it’s not so surprising.

“Now.” Dutch puts a hand on Bill’s shoulder and snaps him out of his ogling. “What do you think of our enlisted man here?”

Bill isn’t entirely sure why he straightens his posture under your gaze. He’s not really a soldier anymore and you’re not really an officer. But you feel like one. The way your eyes trail over his uniform, his beard, everything about him with some kind of scrutiny, it makes him feel like his sergeant is inspecting him again. And you feel that habit, the demeanor coming over you again and you have to swat it away because you hate that you want to point out every little flaw you find.

“He looks fine, Dutch.” You say. “He’ll pass.”

“Fantastic, boys.” Dutch laughs in triumph. “Excuse us.”

He pulls Arthur and Hosea along with him, all dressed as rich men. They’re supposed to be supporters that donate to the welfare of veterans but they don’t seem stuck up enough to pass in your opinion. You turn back to Bill and find him staring, but he looks away when you catch him.

“I thought you were infantry.” You say, noticing the yellow of cavalry on his uniform.

“I was…” Bill mutters. “Served in the cavalry for a while too, thought it'd look better if we, uh… matched.”

You smile. “Good call.”

There’s a moment of silence before Bill speaks again. “Didn’t know you was a lieutenant.”

You cringe a little at the recognition of your rank. “Yeah…”

“You get promoted er…uh…”

“Yeah, uh, first lieutenant.” You recall the promotion with resentment, not proud of the things you had to do to accomplish them. In retrospect, nothing the cavalry did was good.

“Impressive.”

Bill didn’t mean to say it out loud. He tried not to be around officers while he was a soldier but he had to respect them. He definitely respects you, uniform or not, but the way you look in one certainly isn’t helping some things he’s been trying to ignore about himself. You look like the kind of man that could have easily been the cause of his dishonorable discharge.

“Boys!” Dutch calls. “Time to go!”

You glance over Bill again and find yourself stepping closer to fix the most glaring of his uniform deficiencies. It’s nothing you haven’t done for a subordinate before, especially when you were a cadet. And it’s nothing Bill hasn’t experienced before from his superiors. It’s a very common act, wordlessly touching each other up, but Bill’s cheeks still turn red as your hands touch his chest and his neck in the process of fixing his uniform. Then you step back and he sees it, so he reaches out and fixes your collar. For once, it stays. Countless men have tried to correct the pesky thing, generals included, but Bill got it to sit perfectly on the first try and his hand still hasn’t moved. His fingers are so lightly touching your skin and it makes sparks shoot through you, but he pulls away when you look at him.

Neither one of you speaks to the other for most of the job, only opening your mouths when your false roles dictate it. Bill plays lackey, serving the rich men and the officers, so you find yourself giving him orders. Simple things, but you put on that command voice you used to use so no one doubts you. Bill plays his role well enough, though the officers you encounter call him a ruffian and a buffoon. You have to remind yourself that they’re about to be robbed blind to keep yourself from starting a fight.

“Hello, lieutenant.”

You turn at the sound of your rank and are met with someone familiar. A man you spent time as a cadet with and served alongside. No one special, but someone you used to trust with your life.

You glance down from his face to find a captain’s rank. “Captain? You made captain?”

He laughs. “A few years ago, I’m surprised you haven’t yet.”

“I’ve been told I will soon.” You smile, trying to keep suspicion away, Dutch should be done any time now.

“Good!” He grins. “Anyway, how have you been? I haven’t seen you since that relocation our platoons did together.”

Of course, forcing people off their land. The ‘glory’ days of your career.

“I’ve been fine, just keeping things in order.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Like that?”

You follow his gesture to where Bill stands among a group of enlisted men. He does stand out despite what seems like his best efforts.

“Williamson?” You ask. “What about him?”

“Doesn’t seem like the kind of soldier you’d bring up.” He laughs.

You find your hand forming a fist and you have to force its uncurling. He’s insulting both you and Bill with a single comment. “What do you mean?”

He chuckles. “I don’t mean to be rude, lieutenant, but if he were one of mine I’d have discharged him by now.”

“He’s a good man.” You say a little faster than you mean to. “A good soldier.”

“Don’t go falling into those nasty habits again, lieutenant.”

That nearly does it. You’re halfway to the point of knocking the man on his ass when Arthur slides into the conversation with a hand on your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir.” He says with a well trained smile. “I need ta borrow the lieutenant for a moment.”

The captain bows his head. “Of course. We’ll talk later.”

You follow Arthur out of the crowd, Bill joining you as you leave the event. Hosea and Dutch wait by the stage with Sean half asleep while holding the reins.

“How’d ya get on?” Dutch asks.

“He was about ta punch a feller.” Arthur laughs.

“I got the information.” You scoff. “Can we go now?”

“What made you want to hit a man?” Hosea asks as he nudges Sean awake.

You sigh as you shrug off the uncomfortable uniform coat. “Officers are bastards, that’s all.”

“Course they are.” Bill mutters, crumbling his own coat in his hands.

“You boys did good.” Dutch reassures. “And it’ll be a long time before we play soldier again.”

And it is a long time before Dutch asks you to put on the uniform for a con again. This time it’s much simpler, just you and him going to some officer’s party under the ruse of a officer and his proud father while you pickpocket and leave with a nice stagecoach to fence. The night is full of officers telling stories about killing ‘savages’ and their mothers calling every young man they see handsome and their fathers boasting about how proud they are. It brings up too many memories and feelings of wanting to knock smug looks off of people’s faces. But when it’s over you have a quiet ride home as Dutch and you separate to not cause suspicion.

Bill is on watch when you return and you recall him in his own uniform with much more fondness than you should. He doesn’t call out to ask who’s there, he just stares as you pass. You hitch your horse with the others and take a few minutes to give them attention, but the sound of your name makes you turn around.

With his rifle slung over his shoulder, Bill stands awkwardly in front of you. “The-The job go good?”

You nod, suddenly feeling the tightness of your collar on your neck. You unbutton it and catch the rising heat on Bill’s face as you do. “Alright, Bill?”

He nods quickly. “‘m fine.” His eyes dart from your unbuttoned collar to your face. “You, uh, ya wanna have a drink?”

It’s your turn to feel heat. You clear your throat and shuffle a bit on your feet. “I-I can’t, I gotta do something for Dutch.”

No you don’t, you’re in denial and very much not ready to be feeling what you’re feeling about the man in front of you. So is Bill, but he really can’t look at you in that uniform with any level of control.

“Oh…”

The disappointment is apparent in his voice and it shakes you a little. “Maybe… maybe it could wait for a, uh, a few minutes.”

Bill isn’t entirely sure where his confidence comes from. He’s never good at these things but he manages enough in the moment to step closer to you and ball his fist in your uniform to press his lips to yours. It lasts just a second before his senses come back and he pulls away, but a second is more than enough time for you to realize denying what you want from Bill is stupid.

“I-I’m sorry, I-” He stumbles like you’re a real officer and he’s reliving his own discharge.

You cut Bill off and reconnect your lips, pulling him closer with your hands cupping his face. The rifle on his shoulder slides off before his hands find your waist and he returns the kiss with much more enthusiasm this time. You can feel when his hands move and run over each button until he lays his palms flat against your chest. It makes your heart beat fast and your breath stall, causing you to pull away a bit. Bill freezes, his eyes looking over your face to find what he did wrong, but he’s distracted by your thumb as it strokes his cheek.

“You like the uniform, I take it?” You whisper.

Bill nods, not quite capable of words when your eyes sparkle back at him in the moonlight.

“I hate it.” You mutter, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “It’s not all you like is it?”

“No!” Bill says before realizing he should be quiet. “No, I-I like plenty about ya.” His hands slide back down to your waist and squeeze unconsciously. “Ya just… ya look so…”

His words catch in his throat as he meets your eyes again and all he can do is kiss you. You smile into it and let yourself relax, knowing that it’s not just some latent soldier’s fantasy to fraternize with an officer. Even you have to admit, men always look good in the stupid uniforms. Especially Bill, but he always looks nice. It’s not like you can be punished for feeling this way now, so the thoughts fly through your mind freely and you don’t hold back when Bill pulls you a little closer.