#Irish Pows

[mercurygray]

So I Hear You Liked...World War Two Dramas

What's that? You said you wanted a World War Two series where women actually speak to each other? Have I got a deal for you!

When Band of Brothers first came out, I did not have cable, but what I did have was a card at a library that owned seemingly every PBS drama ever broadcast. I know and love a lot of these shows, and I hope you do, too.

As we wait for Masters of the Air to join us, maybe you can fill some time with one of these!

Classic: These shows were made in the 70s and 80s and while the production values are not the same as something made more recently, they're all fun to watch.

Danger UXB - daily life in a bomb disposal unit.

Dad's Army - comedy show about the Home Guard.

Hogan's Heroes - situational comedy about life in a POW camp.

Piece of Cake - follows British pilots stationed in France as the Phony War begins.

Homefront Perspectives:

✨Housewife, 49 - Based on the wartime diary of Nella Last, who participated in the Mass Observation project. One of my favorites.

✨Foyle’s War - procedural crime drama following DCS Foyle and hsi team as he solves murders in wartime Britain. Another favorite.

Island at War - Wartime life on the Channel Islands during the German occupation

Land Girls - Follows the lives of a group of Land Girls working on an estate farm.

Bomb Girls - Follows the lives of a group of workers in a Toronto munitions factory.

Home Fires - Life in a small British town near an air base. Based on a book.

World On Fire - Follows the disparate lives of several people in several countries as the war begins.

✨All Creatures Great and Small - The life of Yorkshire Vet James Herriot, based on the book series of the same title. A favorite, both the 1970s original and the 2020 version.

A French Village - Daily life in a French village is upended as the Germans invade. Follows the same village through the entire war.

My Mother and Other Strangers - An Irish village deals with the introduction of an American Air Force base.

Colditz - life in one of the war's most infamous POW camps. Features Damian Lewis!!

Atlantic Crossing - the life of Crown Princess Marta of Norway as she tries to advocate for her country while living in the United States.

The Halycon - Life in a posh London hotel during the 1940s

Spies and Science:

X Company - Canadian drama about life overseas for spies

Resistance - French wartime drama about a woman in the French underground movement

Restless - Postwar drama about a woman who spied for the Russians in England during the war.

✨Manhattan - If you liked Oppenheimer, have I got a show for you!! Follows the lives of several scientists and their families as they move to Los Alamos. A favorite.

✨The Heavy Water War - Norwegian/British operations Grouse and Gunnerside to destroy German heavy water plant. A favorite.

The Twelfth Man - Norwegian sabotage operation gets shot down in occupied Norway.

✨Generation War - German experience of war from variety of perspectives. This show is excellent. Everyone should watch this.

✨SAS: Rogue Heroes - Follows the foundation of a parachute regiment in North Africa that would eventually become the basis for Britain's commando units. A favorite.

Postwar:

A Place to Call Home - very soapy Australian post-war drama about an upperclass family.

Our Wonder Years - Follows three sisters in post-war Germany as they attempt to confront the past.

Tannbach - Follows a family whose German town is split in two along the new East-West border.

The Defeated - Crime drama following a policeman trying to find his brother in post-war Berlin

Small Island- a Jamaican woman moves to London after the war and tries to adjust to a country that doesn't want her there

Call the Midwife - Social drama in the 1960s addressing the health and lives of the post-war poor of London.

[toournextadventure]

they didn't know

Summary: (An "everyone but her" oneshot from this request) Someone from your past comes by Nevermore for an unexpected visit. When Enid can't calm you down, it's up to Wednesday. And Wednesday is furious.

Word Count: 2.4k Warnings: swearing, graphic blood mention, graphic injuries, mentions of past abuse Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (Masterlist) Taglist: @extinctspino @basichextechml @cfvgbhndun-new-blog @jinxscatbomb @awolfcsworld @n0p35 @suzhiman @gengen64 @eclipsesmoonshine14 @asters-abditory @alexkolax @thenextdawn-backup @cacciatricediartemide @cozwaenot @the-night-owl-blr @natashasapphic @parkersmyth @alilbitlesbian @irish-piece-of-trash

Larissa didn’t know. She couldn’t have known and that was what was killing her.

All she had wanted to do was talk with you in her office. You weren’t in trouble, you had been doing well in classes, she just wanted to talk. It had been a few weeks after your date with Miss Addams and she wanted to know how it had gone. While she assumed it had gone well based on how much happier you seemed, she wanted to hear it from you. She wanted to experience for herself how you were finally healing and living a normal life.

If she had known, she wouldn’t have pulled you into her office. She wouldn’t have unintentionally trapped you as Kristi had walked into the office as if she owned the place. There would have been no chance that she would have frozen for just a fraction too long, giving Kristi the opportunity to speak to you and instill that same fear and anger she so enjoyed striking within you.

“You look rather normal today,” Kristi told you in that posh accent that haunted you so. The moment she opened her mouth, your entire body went rigid and you stopped breathing. “Unlike Nicholas, I’m afraid.”

“Y/N, darling,” Larissa said as she stood tall directly in between you and Kristi, “why don’t you go find Miss Sinclair?” She turned her head just enough to give you a smile that she hoped would calm you for the moment; it didn’t work. “We will catch up another day.”

Not once did you meet her eye, still keeping your eyes glued to Kristi; in fear, in anger, Larissa couldn’t tell. She gave you a quiet “go on” that finally drew you out of your thoughts. You locked eyes with her for only a moment and she could see the glassiness before you dragged yourself out of the office.

You gave Kristi a wide berth when you passed her, flinching and stumbling over your feet when she stared you down as you left. The fake smile fell from Kristi’s face once you were gone and she turned to look at Larissa. 

She needed to watch herself before Larissa followed in Morticia’s footsteps.

—---

There was something so nice and carefree about being in the gym with the rest of the furs. No, Enid refused to get in there with them because it was dirty and they were far too rowdy, but it was nice. It reminded her of the good parts of home, however rare those were. Just watching in mild annoyance and utter devotion as the boys rolled around on the wrestling mats without a care in the world.

She was sitting on the side of the gym with a few furs when you walked in. You frequented the gym as well, usually joining in if the furs were going, so your presence was almost expected. But when Enid raised her hand in greeting and smiled at you, you didn’t even bother looking up. With fists clenched at your sides, you practically stalked over to the speed bag and got to work.

Enid knew something was wrong the moment you groaned in frustration and started rewrapping your hands for the third time; it only took you a minute at most. Your stance was sloppy and your movements were rigid, and she knew. She could see in the way you couldn’t catch the rhythm and would have to restart time and time again. With another frustrated noise, you hit the speed bag as hard as possible before walking over to the thai bags.

She flinched when you landed that first punch. In horror, she watches as you go on a rampage, throwing punch after punch with as much power as you could physically muster. The muscles in your arms strained and your wings begged to be let out as you continued. But when Enid noticed the dark spot growing on your wraps, she knew this wasn’t your usual training session.

“I’ll be right back,” Enid told her companions as she hopped up and did her best to walk casually over to you. “Rough day?”

You didn’t even acknowledge that she was nearby, let alone that she had said something to you. But being this close, she could finally see the dark red blood spots that were still growing under your wraps as you continued. Every few hits, Enid would hear a wet crunch and a wet spot would be left on the bag, but you kept going.

“You need to take a break,” Enid said as she did her best to tear her eyes away from your hands. “We can clean it and wrap you up a little better.”

Still not a word, not even a sound aside from the occasional grunt.

Enid stood back and watched you. It wasn’t like this had been the first time you had done this; the most notable had been after the accident and you broke three fingers and fractured your wrist. Sometimes it was better to let you blow off some steam and patch you up after, but when she saw the single tear roll down your cheek, she knew she had to do something.

With one final look at you, Enid turned around and started making her way through the halls. There was only one person that had even a chance of trying to get you to stop, or at least to let up, but she didn’t know where to look first. It wasn’t writing time, classes were over for the day, there shouldn’t be a Hummer’s meeting. The dorm or the library would probably be the best bet.

When Enid stepped out into the quad, her claws extended and her blood boiled at the sight of Weems escorting Kristi off the grounds. As far as she knew, Kristi and Marcus were practically banned from Nevermore - rightfully so, of course. She felt such a strong desire to just rip the woman apart limb by limb, but the image of your bloody knuckles and teary eyes stopped her.

She had to find Wednesday. With one little growl in Kristi’s direction, she took off back to Ophelia Hall. There was no guarantee Wednesday was there, but it was worth a try. If nothing else, it was the most realistic option; she knew Wednesday had already finished studying for the rest of the week so there was no need to be in the library.

And when Enid threw the door open to their shared room, she was found to be correct. Wednesday sat at her desk with a book spread out before her; was she vandalising Frankenstein? Whatever, Enid let out a rushed sigh before practically running over to her roommate.

“You could try to be a little quieter next time,” Wednesday said without looking up.

“It’s Y/N.” The speed in which Wednesday’s head shot up would’ve been adorable in any other situation. “She needs you.”

Enid had never known Wednesday could move that fast for someone else. She would have to keep that in mind as a teasing topic for later.

—---

“Nicky, look out!”

The deafening sound of bending metal drowned out any other noise in the gym. You lashed out with a roundhouse, ignoring the sharp sting as you hit another bruise. An ache had become far too common in your shoulders as you continued your onslaught. Your eyes fell to the splotches on the bag before another pain stabbed through the back of your head.

“I said to keep those abominations hidden.”

“I told you, I can’t!”

“No child of mine is going out like some sort of demon.”

Your punches were getting harder. One solid punch to the side of the bag made your finger crack; if it was broken, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t even care. Why would you care when they didn’t? She wouldn’t care, she had said multiple times that pain is necessary, pain is required.

“No one will want you now.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Something slick and warm coated your palms when you pushed your hair back from your forehead; it felt like sweat, but a little thicker. It hurt to breathe, every inhale was a struggle, but you got back into your stance and started again. Hook, hook, upper, jab, cross, roundhouse. Combo after combo, going until every inch of your body hurt.

You just wanted it all to hurt.

“Y/N.”

No.

Every muscle in your body locked up at the sound of her voice. What’s she doing? You swallowed thickly as you stared, unfocused, at the bag in front of you. Make her leave. But you couldn’t, because you couldn’t even get yourself to breathe. No, you just stood there like an idiot.

The moment you felt her small, cold hand on your shoulder, it was like she had released you from some spell. You let out a shaky exhale as your body unfroze and your knees buckled underneath you. All adrenaline faded from your veins, and you finally turned your head to see Wednesday standing there with the most concerned look on her face.

You had never seen her like that.

Please don’t.

You terrified Wednesday, and she wasn’t easily scared. It was the red splattered bag, the stickiness of your fingers as blood dripped to the floor, the red you had smeared across your forehead and in your hair. Something in the droop of your shoulders and how obviously, painfully tense your muscles were.

It was in that faraway, unfocused look in your eyes.

“Let’s go,” she said, far softer than she would ever be with anyone else. Wednesday knew the furs were watching, but right now it wasn’t important.

Your eyes trailed to the side as you nodded once, so slight she almost didn’t even notice. The majority of her brain screamed at her as she reached out and gently took your hand. They’ll see your weakness, it said, you’re vulnerable. Yes, holding your hand in public made her vulnerable. But now, in this moment, she would look past it.

As gently as she possibly could, she pulled you along behind her. She could hear your feet drag across the floor, and you didn’t hold her hand back, but you were following. The blood on your hands was warm and sticky, and for the first time, Wednesday didn’t think she liked it. It was a terrible feeling, sticking not only to her skin but to her very soul.

She hesitated only once as she tried to decide where to take you. There was a lot she didn’t know about the situation, only that someone from your past had shown up unexpectedly. So should she take you to your dorm? It had things from your past, but it was also filled with things you loved and enjoyed.

Or, should she dare to take you to her dorm, where there was nothing that could remind you of whoever that person was. It was new, but you were still familiar with it. Surely that would be the better option, would it not? Wednesday decided it would be and led you to Ophelia Hall.

You still hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked up from the ground as Wednesday sat you down on her bed and grabbed the first aid kit. She dug around for the supplies and used that time to study you. There were stains on the legs of your pants, hopefully not wounds. It was hard to tell before taking your wraps off, but at least two fingers were crooked and the amount of blood was telling.

“I’ll be gentle,” Wednesday said. She wanted you to look at her and at least acknowledge her.

You didn’t.

With a single sigh, she reached out and took your right hand first, unwrapping your hand like some kind of horrific present. Each moment uncovered more damage, more absolute carnage. You inhaled sharply as the wraps peeled off the open skin of your knuckles with a sickeningly wet sound. As much as it pained her, Wednesday repeated the action with your other hand until they were bare.

They were no longer dripping blood, now simply caked in the gelatinous, half-dried ooze. She could see the damage, the two now-clearly broken fingers, and she would have sworn she could practically see the bone of a knuckle. Your right wrist was swollen and you just sat there without flinching as if you couldn’t even feel it.

Maybe, in your catatonic state, you couldn’t.

“It’s going to sting,” Wednesday said. Still no reaction.

It was a tedious process, cleaning you up. She wasn’t even looking at the rest of you, simply focusing on your hands. Even when the antiseptic and rough gauze touched the open flesh, you didn’t react. Not even a blink of your eyes. The only thing that proved you were even still alive was the occasional tear that fell down your cheeks.

Wednesday put your broken fingers into splints and finished tying off the gauze around your hands before holding them in her lap. Your face was still marred by dried blood, but she didn’t care. On another day, another time, she would have found it attractive. But this? No, this broke her heart.

She wanted to ask you about it. If you would willingly do this to yourself after simply seeing this person, surely it must be terrible. As much as Wednesday loved the macabre, this was different. This was you hurting, this was your way of screaming out without saying a word. She so desperately wanted to know what you were thinking, what was pulling you apart atom by atom.

But she didn’t. She didn’t say a word as she grasped your forearms and pulled you down onto the bed with her until you were laying your head on her chest. You were so much bigger, she was sure it looked rather comical. But finally, finally she got something out of you as you grabbed her shirt so tightly she could hear the gauze pulled taut.

“You can rest,” Wednesday said, wrapping her own arm around your back and running her fingers up and down the little bit of wing that wasn’t contained.

And just like that, you fell apart. You hid your face in her neck and cried. Loud, painful sounding sobs as you pulled her closer. Crying until your body was shaking and you were no longer making sounds, just holding Wednesday and being held in return.

As Wednesday’s own eyes started glassing over at the sounds, she swore right then and there she would find whoever had done this to you.

And she was going to kill them.

[insomniacsystem]

Because I'm in a Shadow Company brainrot mood here's all our OC's/alters bios at least with what were so far willing to share cause anxiety.

Name: Rhys 'Azrael' Grey

Callsign: Shadow 6-1 (based on his SAS callsign Bravo 6-1)

Rank: Captain (promoted)

Race: Native American(Navajo)/Irish

Height: 5'6

Age: 34

Gender: transgender male

Pronouns: He/They

Desc: Azrael is an ex SAS soldier at one point ending up a POW on a classified mission losing multiple members of the squad he was leading along with his fiance that had joined him on the team. After almost a decade of service multiple of his medical issues from childhood were finally diagnosed leaving him with a medical discharge and Azrael being the person he is definitely doesn't accept that as the end of his military career applying to Shadow Company intent on proving his abilities and keeping up his work.

Azrael is almost always found wearing as much covering clothing as possible almost never found without his neck gaiter on to cover the scars that mar the skin on his face and neck a painful reminder of captivity he's determined to keep hidden.(Though Graves and the other Shadows eventually coax him into opening up and wearing it less often)

Personality: Azrael is known for being extremely closed off keeping strong walls around himself to keep others out and away from his emotions and vulnerabilities. it's a major surprise to most to find that his old friends describe younger Azrael from before he was captured as cheery, sweet, and, extremely empathetic many don't exactly believe it considering most see him as cold and unfeeling, even if he does truly care for those around him just from behind his walls where he believes himself to be safer.

Name: Ashton 'Phoenix' Adair

Callsign: Shadow 7-5

Rank: Sergeant

Race: Scottish

Height: 6'5

Age: 33

Gender: Cis Male

Pronouns: He/They

Desc: Ashton is another ex-SAS soldier, having ended up a POW on the same mission as his ex-fiance Azrael, ending in them breaking up shortly after their release as guilt tears away at him, feeling he should have been able to protect his fiance and squad. It's not long before Ashton gets himself into trouble as he goes after the men responsible for him and Azrael's suffering leaving him on the run hiding from certain Russian extremists.

Ashton, with the help of a friend in high places, fakes his death, disappearing to work with Shadow Company on American soil where he's less likely to be discovered, and he still has opportunities to take out the men he's been searching for.

Personality: Ashton is known for being fiery, confident, and extroverted, often found chatting with the other shadows, happily helping out with what he can where he can without complaint.

Name: Vance 'V' Serra

Callsign: Shadow 0-2

Rank: Captain

Race: Mexican/Hispanic

Height: 6'7

Age: 33

Gender: Cis Male

Pronouns: He/They

Desc: Vance is and ex-Marine and has been close friends with Graves since they met encouraging the older man the entire way through starting Shadow Company despite his own contract with the Marines not exactly being up yet he waits out the time separated cheering his friend in from afar until finally he's able to resign immediately transferring himself to work with Graves once again become his right hand man.

All goes well for Vance for the most part the shadows do their jobs damn well and he's endlessly proud of his and Graves' men he's expecting things to go as usual as he's sent out in the convoy with the missiles only to find himself very wrong watching as his men are slaughtered he plays dead knowing damn well they have him outnumbered he's determined to make it back to Graves he waits out the soldiers as they collect the missiles keeping still even as the fire in the car licks at his skin immediately putting himself out and scrambling for a radio as the sounds of cars fade out he finds himself lucky as he's able to contact Graves ULF being able to send a small rescue team despite Shepards refusal to attempt proper rescue saving Vance's life leaving him in the hospital to recover during Las Almas returning to work as soon as he's cleared

Personality: Vance is known for being fiercely loyal to Shadow Company it's commander especially taking care of Graves and the shadows diligently making sure everyone is taken care of and not neglecting themselves his usual calm but happy demeanor soothing to those around him though that's definitely not saying he's not short tempered especially when it comes to defending Graves though the shadows often tease him for it prodding the man about having a crush despite Vance vehemently denying it.

Name: Emris 'Firefly' Hendricks

Callsign: Shadow 7-7

Rank: Sergeant

Race: Native American

Height: 5'7

Age: 32

Gender: Trans male

Pronouns: He/They

Desc: Emris is Shadow Company's most well-known demolitionist, always managing to find himself in trouble for some kind of energetic hijinks, often getting other shadows involved and getting slightly carried away. Emris is usually one of the many shadows messing with Graves in the most wholesome way possible, planting joke motivational posters of Graves and things, much to Graves' embarrassment, though he secretly finds it hilarious the shadows seem to love the posters and things so much.

Name: Arlo 'Icarus' Lyons

Callsign: Shadow 1-3

Rank: lieutenant

Race: American/Irish

Height: 6'5

Age: 28

Gender: Nonbinary (AFAB I swear that's important)

Pronouns: He/They/She

Desc: Arlo joined up with Shadow Company through interesting circumstances one of the few recruits trained by Shadow Company itself rather than coming from another military. Arlo is extremely dedicated to his work and loyal to Graves. the two had gotten along well since he joined Shadow company, though only a few years into his time with them through what he'd thought were harmless hookups to blow off steam, they had managed to get pregnant despite their infertility, despite the bad timing and circumstances, Arlo is understandably ecstatic having wanted kids of his own. though, due to the high-risk nature of her pregnancy, Arlo finds themselves on bed rest though Graves refuses to let him be alone considering, Arlo is single with no family, leaving him and Vance insistant on helping out and make sure he's cared for. he ends up having his daughter, Evie, with only mino8 complications, being age 8 as of the events of MW2 and 11 as of MW3.

Arlo does eventually defect from Shadow Company, joining up for 141 after the events of Las Almas. Despite the guilt he feels abandoning Graves, the young man couldn't cope with continuing to work with them, afraid of events like Las Almas repeating.

Personality: Arlo is known for being extremely sweet and charismatic keeping things running smoothly and arguments to a minimum at least to the best of his ability.

(wip)

Name: Callum Lucian

K9:Umbra (a black Belgian Malinois) (pup pic wip)

Callsign: Ace (0-13)

Rank: Sergeant

Race: American

Height: 5'8

Age:25

Gender: Trans Male

Pronouns: He\They

Desc: Callum is one of Shadow Company's resident K9 handlers. While Callum occasionally uses crutches, his cane, and braces between missions during flare-ups, and to allow his old injuries and chronic pain to settle, he is still incredibly capable in the field. having refused to let his back and knee injury stop him from serving, he joined SC once he'd healed shortly after his original discharge from the military, bringing his K9 along with him as they'd been retired together due to Umbra's strong attachment to Callum.

Personality:

Name: Warren 'Rune' Rivera

Callsign: Shadow 8-8

Rank: Lieutenant

Specialization: K9's

K9's: Nixie (Shepherd) and Nico (black Shepherd)

Race:White

Birthplace: USA/Tennessee

Height: 6'3

Age:35

Birthday: March 5th 1989

Gender:Male

Pronouns:He/they

Medical conditions: left leg amputated just below the knee hearing loss in left ear.

Desc:

Personality:

[doctorhelena]

Do you have any underrated/hidden gem Steggy fic recs?

Hey Anon!

I decided not to overthink the definition of "underrated/hidden gem", and just picked 12 random Steggy fics that I love and I thought it was possible people might not have read!

So, hopefully at least some of these excellent Steggy fics are new to you! (Descriptions in italics are the authors' own summaries from AO3.)

dream (when the day is through) by @somewhereapart Steve wakes from yet another nightmare of the Battle of Wakanda. Peggy tries to ease his mind—and give him an outlet to burn off his post-dream-battle jitters. Post-Endgame.

An Unexpected Detour on the Way to Saving the World by @eliza49-7190 Tony Stark and Steve Rogers do not find the Tesseract in 1970 and are forced to travel to 1949 to look for it. There they accidentally encounter Peggy Carter and Edwin Jarvis. Meanwhile, Dottie Underwood has kidnapped Daniel Sousa and Jack Thompson, planning to lure Peggy to her, so that she can share some devastating news. Steve is thrilled at the idea of helping Peggy solve her case. Tony keeps reminding him that they need to get on with saving the universe.

What the Next Moment Brings by agentofvalue Peggy had a secret when Steve's plane went down and now she's just trying to hold onto control of her life.

Make it Better by TooManyBattles (Skarabrae_stone) After Dr. Erskine is killed, Steve comforts Peggy.

and don't you dare be late by irnan or, Peggy Carter is accidentally sent time-travelling by mind-controlled rogue Nazi secret agents. (If anyone ever asked, honesty would compel her to admit that this is probably not the strangest thing to ever happen to her; those come after the time travel.)

Burning with a Deadly Heat by @amuseoffyre Howard Stark never stopped looking for Captain America, but no one ever expected Stark to find him.

One Single Yesterday by cassandraoftroy Presented with an opportunity to travel anywhere in space and time with the Doctor, Steve returns to the 1940s to make his date with Peggy. Their fates may lie in different centuries, but Peggy and Steve are determined to make the most of the opportunity they have been given to be with one another again, for however long their time-traveling adventure may last.

Sleepers of Ephesus by Domenika Marzione (domarzione) Note: this is unfinished, but still very much worth the read! Peggy Carter is far from home.

Keep Right On To The End of The Road by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl Note: this has two sequels which are also great! The whole series is called The Captain America Adventure Hour As they ran down the hall, Steve said, "You picked up a girl. As a POW." "What's that thing your mom used to say? God looks after drunks and good Irish boys." "Unbelievable," he muttered.

lovers alone wear sunlight by CoraClavia In a poetic place, in a non-poetic way, Steve does something sweet.

I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire by bookishandi Note: this is unfinished, but still very much worth the read! There's over 18 months between the afternoon Erskine recruits on Steve Rogers and the day he kisses Peggy Carter goodbye. This is my attempt to fill in the blanks.

Metamorphoses by @amuseoffyre Note: this is unfinished, but still very much worth the read! Sometimes, when changes come, they do not always come at once.

(And, if anyone who sees this knows the tumblrs of any of the authors in this list I haven't tagged, please let me know!)

[cesperanza]

Random 4MW question (I don’t think I missed this in the story, but apologies if I did!) And please feel free to disregard if this is a spoiler somehow, but…did Steve and Bucky’s trip to City Hall ever “leak,” per Bernie’s concern? Or is it like…people kinda know but it’s not Known.

I'm kind of laughing because part of me is like--how on earth would I know? If ever a universe has it's own life, it's this one, and I feel like lots of people have a better sense of what's going on than I do!!! :D

That said, my sense is that no, their legal marriage has not leaked and so is not widely known, despite being public record--I think the guys at city hall didn't sell them out and nobody else has bothered to look. (I also think that if it leaked, it would be a big deal and we would have had to have seen them process it, in a story: they really do think that their lives are their business alone.)

If you were to go to their wikipedia pages--(oh god do I have to write their wikipedia pages? please no)--you would learn about the events of The Tradeoff, i.e. Bucky Barnes a) is alive and b) a supersoldier and c) wore the Captain America costume between the eras of Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson and d) was a POW/The Winter Soldier from 1945 to 2014. But I don't think it's known that Steve and Bucky are more to each other than very close (intimate?) friends (for obvious reasons of being the only two survivors of another era?), or even that they live together, say. While Bucky did that interview in Brooklyn with the guy from Brooklyn College, I wouldn't take that headline ("Bucky Barnes Returns To Brooklyn") as an admission that he now lives in Brooklyn, though obviously he and Steve both have strong ties to NY (and the Avengers in general have strong ties to NY; this is a 2012-Avengers spin off world where they all still have rooms in Stark Tower). Even SHIELD is now in NY thanks to Natasha. But I think that most of the private things about their lives are still private.

I will say, also, btw, that I feel like I see four guys who look like Chris Evans every single day just walking around. I mean this as no insult to Evans-stans, but his particular brand of Italian-Irish looks is just super-common around here. So in my heart I really do believe that they could basically just live their lives acting normally and not be recognized (which I had a lot of fun with in Captain America At Home!)

[quordleona03]

Charles Emerson Winchester III

I'd be the first to admit *looks at @topshelf2112-blog * looks at @cuddleswinchester * well okay, no, in this company I would never be the first to admit - that Charles Emerson Winchester has points to admire.

He's brave. I don't mean physically - he quite clearly has a strong reluctance to put his physical safety at risk if anyone else can be got to do it for him. CEW would never have gone out into the compound to disarm and unexploded bomb or offered to climb down a ladder from a chopper to collect a wounded man or run out into the compound under fire to open the gate to save the POWs. But he does have moral courage, in that he won't take undeserved credit when he knows he screwed up: he won't lie for Colonel Baldwin to traduce Margaret: he admits he's hooked on amphetamines when Hawkeye and BJ make him face it (and kicks the addiction).

He's ... generous within his own boundaries. Which include an absolute loathing for being asked for money. But when the gang are trying to figure out how to help Radar pay the taxes due on the O'Reilly family farm, Charles is the first one to suggest a simple solution: they just send him the money.

He loves his sister Honoria and in her honour will blast to the fiery pits of hell anyone he hears mocking a stutterer. (You want to know what Cousin Alfred did? Mocked Honoria's stutter at a family dinner 20 years ago. Charles has neither forgiven nor forgotten.)

That he's a good surgeon who does his best work even when in a M*A*S*H unit where he was transferred in an emergency and kept by the joint vengefulness of Colonel Baldwin and the villainy of Colonel Potter, is not really a count for virtue, but it is why Potter keeps him there and Hawkeye and BJ put up with him.

But.

Charles Emerson Winchester is a stone-cold bigot. He doesn't like anyone who immigrated to the US more recently than his family: specifically Italian immigrants, Irish immigrants, or anyone "swarthy-skinned". The incident where he assists Colonel Potter in trappping a racist would have been absolutely unbelievable except: all Charles was required to do was loan his oak-leaf clusters and the request was made by his commanding officer, not by Hawkeye or BJ. (He may also have actively disliked an officer who got rid of the black soldiers under his command by sending them into danger, however much he sympathised with opposition to integrating the army.)

Winchester never apologises for his bigotry and is never shown actually having a change of heart: the incident where he apologises to Honoria for his angry opposition to her marriage to an Italian, the engagement is safely over anyway and he's comforting her hurt at being jilted.)

Winchester also has an upper-class superiority complex. He is the kind of born-from-wealth/wealthy rich-are-different man: he "works for a living" because he wants to be a surgeon, but his goal is a prestigious position at a prestigious Boston hospital, which he regards as his as of right and the only reason he might be denied it, is he's stuck at an army base in Korea for a year.

He loves Martine LeClerc, but won't pursue the relationship because she's not appropriate kind of people for his family.

He likes Donna just fine, but is screwed up at the thought that he might actually have married her - until it turns out he didn't.

He regards Margaret Houlihan as a friend, but he can absolutely see why Donald Penobscot's mother is reluctant to welcome "a Houlihan" into the family and supports Mrs Penobscot in not recommending Margaret as a memmber to the Daughters of the American Revolution, for reasons which he explains to Margaret, till she threatens to do him personal damage.

While he came to respect the medical staff he worked with, he still thinks he's better than any of them and entitled to things they aren't, purely by reason of his having been born into an upper-upper class family.

Charles is quite capable of being charming when he wants to be. And wealth, as a character in some lesbian detective novel noted to me at some point, wealth is very charming. If Charles wants to be gracious and generous and charming, he can be: he knows how. His upbringing taught him to be chivalric to ladies and his natural inclination is to be nice to pretty girls (I know David Ogden Stiers was gay: but to me CEW comes across as very heterosexual) - but he moves (or he would prefer to) in a world where the lower classes are servants, and the middle classes exist to him as patients if they can afford him.

I would not like Charles Emerson Winchester if I met a man like him in real life (I have met these men in real life, and I know). And a man like CEW would arrange his life so as to meet as few people like us as possible. He's part of the wealthy elite, and he feels he perfectly deserves to be there.

So: why do we like him? Is it possible to write him true to how he is and make him dislikeable? If not, why not? If so, how?

[skippyv20]

Details!!🍀Colonel of the Irish Guards, POW🍀 The color of her dress is the same color as the plume of the Irish Guard and the buttons on her dress positioned the same as the Irish Guard uniform.

So classy!❤️

[msfbgraves]

What mental health issues do you think Terry has? Not to trivialize/make fun of people with actual issues. I’m just curious. So many people say he’s a psychopath. I’ve also heard people say he is Bipolar, a Narcissist. Even has Anti-social Personality Disorder, depression.

Nonnie, I am not a psychiatrist, and as such unqualified to diagnose anyone. I'm a historian.

Now, historians are pretty good at saying: "In these circumstances, people are likely to do X, because that's what they have done the last 20 times this happened."

Terry is part Jewish it seems, going by Cobra Kai, and given his age, his parents will have been through WW II. Which means there is colossal trauma there, especially for the Jewish parent. Given his last name, Silver, a likely anglicised version of "Silber" which you can find in many traditionally Jewish surnames, his father is the most likely candidate.

Terry's family is wealthy, yet Terry served in Vietnam. That is weird. Especially since he would have likely been headed to college and exempt from the draft. Why then did he enlist? When his father is Jewish and lived through WWII, and he did not flee Hitler (probably not because 1938-1968 is often too short a time to establish the connections you need to build not only a business but the kind of business empire that would be hung up on legacy, another one of Terry's fixations) then it's likely that his father served in the US Army. And where? Well, Terry is obsessed with Asia, not Europe, and hates the Japanese enough to be very crudely racist to Mr. Miyagi, so my guess is the Pacific. Dad served in Asia, he'll serve in Asia. Only that his Dad would have been thought a war hero, and he, a 'Nam vet, a morally corrupt loser.

The whole Cobra Kai "No Mercy" schtick could have been not so much a Vietnam thing but a second generation WWII trauma because of a too close encounter with the Japanese imperial Army and their attitude to POW's. No mercy indeed. Yes maybe Terry got it from Captain Turner, but that doesn't negate this theory. Maybe Turner served in the Pacific too. Note that what he teaches is Korean. The Koreans also suffered terribly under the Japanese invasion of their country.

Oh, and to add to generational trauma. If Terry's mother is not Jewish, that would not help because Jewish fathers who lived through WW II very often had issues with that, even when they themselves of course chose to marry gentile women, likely for protection from antisemitism. Notice again that his surname, if Jewish, has likely been anglicised.

Terry's nickname for Daniel, the constantly referenced "Danny boy", hints at Irish-American heritage on his mother's side. Very probably Catholic. And that, too, was not mainstream growing up in the 1950's. So Terry's a double outsider with a likely traumatised father, a desire to prove himself so great he enlisted at the end of a war that was already going badly, a war trauma all of his own with intrusive memories, a fondness for alcohol and drugs, which could be self-medication, he's also likely into boys and, later in life, he feels that he needs to hide behind a façade, again likely because of an intense fear of persecution. I mean he devises his own philosophy on how to, as quickly as possible, incapacitate enemies. "Strike first", if fighting is inevitable, right? And it is, in his worldview.

Also he gets off on causing people pain, either himself or by proxy. He wants people to experience fear and pain, maybe in a perverse desire to connect. War vets, be it WWI or later, often talk about an intense disconnect to people who have not been through crippling pain and fear. So if he wants to get close to people, he needs to make sure they can relate to him, yeah? How does he do that? By inflicting pain and fear. On Daniel. On his Cobra Kai 'children'.

And that, I think, is What Is Wrong with Terry Silver.

[trappers-cloak]

The Buck and the Fox

Chapter 1 - The Shepard and the Angel

Chapter 1 of my ongoing fanfic, the Buck and the Fox.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x female oc, meet cute, introduction to my oc Diana Wegner.

word count: 2k

Diana Wegner

The sun was high enough - and hot enough -  that Diana had ditched her coat. The great green thing hung over the rump of Althea, bouncing as the pair trotted along. Pluto let out a small bark below, nipping at the heels of a dozen sheep along the hillside. The wind billowing through the trees wasn’t nearly enough to stave off the heat, but it swept the sweat from her brow. The surrounding grass was a bright green, peppered with reds and pinks and oranges, all the herbs dotting the Heartlands. Diana could hear no sound besides sheep bleating. That sound was a welcome one, and she sent a silent thanks to God that no human voices polluted her ears. 

A voracious reader as a child, Diana recalled poetry about hillsides like this. Emerson, Dickinson, even Shakespeare…she doubted they could imagine a moment this perfect. Something this devoid of a past. 

The gunshot was, as one would guess, unwelcome. 

All she had on hand was a repeater, a simple thing, slung across her shoulder. It would have to do as she took aim for the origin of the shot, somewhere up on the hill. Sure enough, two bandits rode above, aiming lower than she expected. She turned, and realized; they were here for the sheep. 

With a blast, she narrowly missed the closer of the two, a large man on an even larger horse. 

“Shit,” she muttered, reloading. What was the point of learning to shoot if she didn’t live long enough to use her skills?

 She fired again. This time, the shot grazed the fat man’s arm, and he cried out in pain. His stallion shrieked and began bucking him off, with limited success. 

Before Diana could load again, Althea stood and reared, kicking her front legs wildly. A gunshot sounded from the ground, and before she could blink, Diana was in the air. The impact of her back on the hill knocked the wind out of her, and before she could even collect herself, the other bandit was upon her. 

It’s amazing how time slows down in the heat of the moment. Even with her death imminent, Diana could make out the green kerchief around his neck. Green eyes, a scraggly beard. She knew this man, or this type of man, anywhere. 

The Irish accent gave him away. An O’Driscoll. 

“Well, miss, think the boss man will reconsider-” 

His words were cut off by a snarl as Pluto tackled him, barking and growling up a storm. 

Good boy. Diana was free from the O’Driscoll’s grasp, but her gun was out of reach. She fumbled around for a revolver, to no success. Pluto was still laying into the skinny Irishman, but the big one had regained his senses and had started towards her again. She was outnumbered, and had no choice. 

She took a deep breath, and screamed. 

The sound of galloping filled the air. She was done for. 

She screamed again. 

“HELP ME!”

Two gunshots fired, calculated, separated. Pow! Pow! But the galloping didn’t stop. And the sound was getting closer by the millisecond. She began to scramble to her feet, pulling out her last resort - a small switchblade that Cripps had given her the day he taught her how to hunt. She flicked the blade open and readied her hand, turning to her assailant. She wondered who she’d face first - the big one or the skinny one. 

It was neither.

“Woah… miss calm down, I ain’t gonna hurt’cha,” the man said, putting his hands up as he hopped down from his horse. 

“Then drop your gun,” Diana said. It was all she could think of. 

He tossed it to the side without a thought, and inched closer. She held out her lance knife, just the way Cripps taught her to. Her face was fixed in a snarl. 

“Ma’am, I ain’t gonna-”

“Did you shoot them?”

“What?”

“Did you shoot them?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Why?”

“Well shit, I guess I was tryna save you, but if you’d rather be in a casket, who am I to judge?” he answered, slyly. He had a deep accent, a country one. She couldn’t place it. 

Diana faltered for a moment, then said;

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Well, it sure didn’t look like you were gonna do it yourself,” he countered. 

She shot him a glare, readying a comeback, but instead? Instead she burst out laughing. 

“Well, yes,” she said, between breaths, “I guess you’re right.” after a pause, she added, 

“well? Is a lady going to have to help herself to her feet?”

The man started, and extended his hand down. She grabbed it, noting the sheer number and strength of the callouses coating it, and together the pair lifted Diana to her feet. For a very brief moment, Diana was chest to chest with the cowboy - well, head to chest, given that he stood nearly a head above her in height. Two parts of Diana burned - her cheeks with a blush, and her ring finger with shame and a grim reminder. The moment was over as soon as it began. 

“Ahem…uh, thank you, sir,” she started, and sighed. “You saved my life. I owe you something for that at least.”

“Now, I don’t need anything, I was just bein-”

“Well at least a meal or a drink is in order!”

The man started again. “Ma’am, really, I-”

Diana sighed. “Please, mister, it's the least I can do. Plus,” she began, nodding over a few yards west, “I need your help. Those bandits must’ve gotten one of the sheep - look.'' Sure enough, a mound of white wool lay in the grass, the only sheep that had been lost in the raid. 

“Help me get that poor soul back to Cripps, and you’ll be paid for your time.”

The man sighed, knowing he’d lost the exchange. “Fine,” he said, dejected. As the pair lifted the wayward sheep onto Althea, Diana spoke up once more. 

“Thank you mister…”

“Morgan,” he paused. It looked like he was trying to remember what his name was. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Thank you, mister Morgan,” Diana said, and turned. “PLUTO!” she whistled. “ROUND ‘EM UP!”

Arthur Morgan

Dutch had told them in no uncertain terms to lie low. Besides making money, lying low was the top priority. So the O’Driscoll’s over on the hill should not have been his concern, and they weren’t until the bloodcurdling scream Arthur had heard from the middle of the herd of sheep. He may be trying to keep a low profile, but he wasn’t about to let some innocent shepard get herself killed. He imagined there would be some divine retribution for that, or some symbolism - something in his surrogate fathers’ books that would have damned him. 

Now this same shepherd was leading him to some reward he felt he couldn’t accept. He had given his full name, his real name, to this woman, and he felt like he was 13 again. Breaking all the rules. He didn’t lie low, he didn’t mind his business, he didn’t keep himself a secret. And what would he have to show for it? 

The smell of the stew pot hit him before he could see it. 

“Sit down, mister Morgan, stay as long as you’d like,” the woman said, hanging her coat on a hook attached to a beautiful cherry tree. She had taken him behind what must be the trading post at Emerald Ranch - a small building bedecked with animal heads, hides and antlers. The camp spot was a cozy one, with the campfire and a great bronze stew pot as its centerpiece. 

“Mr. Cripps is still working on the stew - the rest of the ranch hands are still tending to the sheep and the cows, but you can have first bowl once he’s done. He’ll be out any second.”

“Ma’am, I really don’t need any fo-” Arthur’s stomach growled mid sentence. He flushed, and the woman turned, and gave a slight chuckle. 

“Riiight.”

“Well,” Arthur continued, taking a seat, “then thank you for your hospitality, Miss…”

She finished for him. 

“Missus Diana Wegner. My husband owns this ranch. Forgive me for being blunt, Mister Morgan, but are you new around these parts?” She stuck out her hand, boldly. With purpose. A silver ring adorned it. 

He took it, shook it, and responded. 

“Yeah, well, my crew and I were workers in the north, and our factory got shut down, so we’re living in a camp near uh… Valentine?” he recited the story Hosea had told him. It was, to the old man’s credit, a great cover. 

“I’m sorry to hear. Were you stuck up in the Grizzlies when that storm hit?”

Arthur chuckled, despite the memory being, at best, an unpleasant one. “Yeah, we just got out of it a few weeks ago. Lot of folk are still trying to get back on their feet,” he said. 

“Well its a good thing you made it down here,” Diana replied. “I take it you’re doing the hunting then?” she gestured to the pelt on the back of Ares. “How much shot did that thing take?”

Arthur chuckled. “Not as much as you’d think. Damn thing nearly killed me. Apparently it’s some legendary bear - uncommon size.”

“You’ve got that right. Do you know how much that would be worth?”

Arthur shifted, uncomfortable. It would be just his luck to get robbed by the woman he saved. 

“Not sure…”

“Well, me neither, but Mr. Cripps would have a field day tanning that thing. If you’d be interested in selling it here, I’m sure you could work out a deal.”

Arthur paused, wondering if this was a good chance to strike up some work - legitimate work, for once. 

“If Mister…”

“Cripps,”

“Right. If Mr. Cripps buys this, would he buy other skins too, or…”

“Looking for employment, are we? And I thought men were all after something else!” Diana exclaimed. Arthur’s face felt hotter than hell itself. He could only imagine the shade of red it turned. 

“Well, I- maybe,” he admitted. “I don’t know. As long as it pays.”

“That we do. In money, food, goods, or any combination.”

The backdoor of the store burst open, and an old man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard stepped out, holding a basket of herbs and corn. 

“And we have the best of all three!” he exclaimed, sauntering over to the pair. “I couldn’t help but overhear the entire conversation, and your hunting skills would make an excellent contribution to Cripps-Wegner Trading Co!”

Diana sighed, and gestured towards the man. “Mister Cripps, Arthur Morgan. Arthur Morgan, Mister Cripps.” Before she could finish, Cripps was shaking Arthur’s hand with an enthusiasm he had only seen a few times before - and most of those times involved Sean and Karen, back before Sean got captured.

Before she could make any more introductions, a bell sounded, and Diana’s head whipped towards the big green house across the road. 

“Shit,” she muttered. “That’s dinner bell.” she turned again to Arthur, and held out her hand. He took it, not knowing whether to shake it or not. Dutch had taught him to kiss a woman’s hand when they gave it this way, but the wedding ring gave him considerable pause. 

“Thank you, Arthur, again. I owe you more than I can describe. Enjoy the stew, and let Cripps know if you have any availability.” as she spoke, she transformed - she did up her hair, tossed her hat aside, washed her hands and changed into ladies shoes seemingly before Arthur could blink. She went from a rancher to a society lady in less than a minute. He hoped she didn’t notice his stare. 

“Come back to Emerald Ranch soon, mister Morgan. Our saloon is closed and it mostly smells of sheep shit, but I’m sure you’ll find something here to your liking.” she turned, and after a few steps, shouted over her shoulder. “Mister Cripps! Save that sheep hide. I have a plan for it.” And she was off. 

There was a pregnant silence between her departure and the voice of Mr. Cripps. 

“So, mister Morgan,” he began, “are you gonna continue to make googly eyes at Missus Wegner or are you going to have some mutton?”

[alistairtalkstoomuch]

Intro Post

(doing this again bc i hate my old one)

basics

im alistair you can call me al

i don't really identify with a gender

he/they/it

i'm aroace as hell

i spend most of my time sleeping or watching youtube

i am a minor

fandoms

hermitcarft, life series, anything POW creations, osemanverse specifically solitaire, the magus archives, trice forgotten, dead poets society, percy jackson, minecraft storymode, good omens, how to train your dragon, ninjago

youtubers i love

grian, owengejuicetv, tom scott, cgp gray, jay foreman, inthelittlewood aka martyn, mumbo jumbo, geminitay, iskall85, kurtis conner, chad chad, jacksucksatgeography, strange aeons

music i love

bands/artists

bears in trees, acho, boywithuke, the crane wives, crywank, radiohead, uriah heep, the mechanisms, james marriott, arctic monkeys

albums/eps

and everyone else smiled back, tideblade, i want to feel chaotic, coyote stories, the bends, tomorrow is nearly yesterday and everyday is stupid, ulysses dies at dawn, demons and wizards, the magicians birthday, are we there yet

books i love (I'm trying to read more)

solitaire, equal rites, I was born for this, dead poets society, all of pjo, cambrige latin course,

if you want to see my goodreads please ask (wink wink, nudge nudge)

small things i love

maps, flags, (geography in general), bikes, cameras, sunrises, tea, crochet, researching anything and everything, video essays, reading, dnd character creation, headphones, being awake at night, annotating books, solitaire/minesweeper type games, altoids tins

random things about me

i am British/Irish/Russian, born in the Netherlands, and live in the US

i have 6 pets, 3 cats, 3 dogs

i have a small braid behind each of my ears, i honestly could not tell you why

i am learning latin, and want to learn dutch

i do a/v in school

i love talking about philosophy

[onelungmcclung]

do you have examples of some of the british acting mannerisms you notice in hbo war? that's fascinating

ohh I’d probably need to rewatch BoB and MotA (too few british or irish actors in TP) but:

spina swinging his lil shovel up on his shoulder while he’s asking roe about med supplies. nash going from suave flirting to undignifiedly smitten the next morning. doug’s “you are the only girl for me … I hope :/”. cobb and demarco basically all the time. the one-two of babe and mcclung finding out they’ve been picked for the patrol. blakely when doug is saying nice things about his flying. popeye when he shows up after getting shot. chick being whatever the fuck chick is. red’s face whenever chick is being whatever tf chick is. doug allen is definitely a working class english lad who plays local football. welsh’s “flash”/“thunder” exchange with martin. hoobler’s death scene. maybe this first or fourth gif of biddick and snyder. peacock getting verklempt when he says goodbye to easy company. vest when jackson is hit. quinn during the card game. dike and dukeman but I can’t remember any precise moments now. blithe, frequently. kidd, frequently. meehan in the tent scene with winters, maybe. grant's impressive sideeye. brady in the scene when blakely's crew gets back alive. tipper when luz is imitating horton. liebgott when sobel knocks him on the helmet. bubbles saying, “I can fly,” while shivering under a blanket. hambone “weird energy in here” hamilton. brock in this scene. smokey in the hospital. tab in this scene. pappy when he meets egan and cleven. bailey (of rosie's riveters) when he's talking about his wife. that other bailey guy when he tosses the salt. shoens when he gets out of his plane or when he's drunk. norman (I think?) when he's being carried off at the end of ep 3. crank when he sees bucky in the camp. I don’t know for sure yet but I reckon the “best years of your wives” pow is british/irish.

[weatherman667]

On White Supremacy

The Left in the US has this weird view of White vs. Black.  Which has never really existed.  Not even in places that mandated discrimination between white and blacks, like the US South, and South Africa.

In the US, while there was a direct Black/White divide, Irish and Italians were also typically excluded.  Germans and Slavs were on the watch list.

Germans tend to view Germans as the superior race, which include semi-German people, like the Scandinavians, French, and British.  During WWII, Western allies captured as POW’s, (except for Jews and Blacks), were treated as brothers caught on the wrong side of the wall.  Eastern Allies were worked to death in slave camps with the Jews.  The Jews in Germany were Ashkenazi Jews, which were genetically, mostly German.  Nazi geneology rules allowed Germans to have one Jewish grandparent without being considered Jewish.  This might seem a weird place to put the line, but this was because Hitler was likely 1/4 Jewish.  They also considered Muslims and Japanese as honorary Aryans.  This is why the Neo-Nazis in Ukraine are so hilarious/tragic, because the actual Nazis were trying to exterminate them.

South Africa had a strong Black/White divide, but also considered Japanese to be good and Chinese to be bad.  A bus driver got fired because he refused to pick up a Japanese, and got his job back when he proved he couldn’t tell the different.  They also had businesses running triple books to hide the number of black people they were hiring.  Even Rhodesia had blacks fighting on their side during the bush war, because despite cries of racism, the war was more about fighting off communists trying to invade from outside the country.

And this is why white supremacy is such a joke, because it breaks apart the moment you slightly gaze at it.  And this is how you can get Larry Elder as the “black face of white supremacy”, articles about multi-racial whiteness, the Smithsonian declaring that hard work and timeliness are white.  And the left seems to recognize this, as they created the term BIPOC: Black and Indigenous People of Colour.  Because People of Colour, (God I hate that phrase), included the more successful non-whites, like Asians.

And this creates Schroedinger’s POC, as they are counted as POC for demands, but not as POC for who needs to be helped.

Worse, they have thoroughly convinced people that treating others as individuals, and not representatives of their race, is a form of racism.  This is because they have to racists to fight, because if they didn’t, they could come off as the horrendously racist psychopaths they are.  They also put one of the most racist and corrupt politicians in history in the White House and claimed it was a form of anti-racism.

[styleofdiamandis]

PHOTOSHOOT: KISS MAGAZINE

Marina covered the January 2013 issue of Ireland's Kiss Magazine! The colorful editorial was shot by Naomi Gaffey and styled by her sister Naomi Gaffey who made sure to include a handful of Irish and other British labels!

Hair and makeup by Billy Orf, respectively.

For the cover photo, she looked stellar in the Fall/Winter 2012 star print stretch silk cocktail dress with long bat sleeves (€410.00 - sold out) by up-and-coming Irish designer NATALIEBCOLEMAN.

Look n. 2 shows Marina wearing a Reiss ivory knit sweater featuring ribbed sleeves and a round neck (€155.00 - sold out). I couldn’t find her exact one but I've pictured a similar one for you above!

Another emerging Irish designer featured in the editorial is Emma Manley and her brand Manley Studio. This rose-gold metallic leather skirt with micro-scalloped hem (€385.00 - sold out) was created for her Spring/Summer 2013 collection!

Chunky necklaces were the rave back in 2012 (along with peplums and neon colors). But I wouldn't mind wearing this ZARA chain necklace with diamanté leopard head (€19.95 - sold out) even today!

Marina's very girly look was completed with these whimsy Office tiger pointed-toe pumps with multicolored gems at the front (€89.00 - sold out).

Both Marina's Stolen Moment pink velvet skater dress (€85.00 - sold out) and studded leather biker jacket (€293.00 - sold out) are from the MINKPINK x Urban Outfitters collection.

In some other photos, she added the Topshop "Geek" print blue tee (€27.00 - sold out)...

...and her Fam Irvoll round blue acetate sunglasses, which she absolutely loved back then!

She also wears Accessorize "I 🩷 U" comic bubble necklace (€9.00 - sold out) and black suede platform pumps by Office (€80.00 - sold out).

Then, Marina brought the party in this ASOS cross-back party dress in multi sequin featuring a sleeveless cut and round neck ($55.95 - sold out).

Marina's jewelry here included this River Island "Pow!" comic enamel necklace, and a set of rings from New Look.

My favorite look from this editorial comprises an American Apparel black tank crop top (€24.00 - sold out), and a Topshop black pencil skirt (€61.00 - sold out), entirely covered in rhinestones!

"This is how to be a heartbreaker" 💔

Marina dons the Joanne Hynes Spring/Summer 2013 "My Black Heart" leather and crystal statement necklace. (€220.00 - sold out).

I'm head over heels for these Office black patent platform pumps with plexi heel (€91.00 - sold out).

This look is completely vintage! Her colorful houndstooth mohair sweater is vintage 1980s Rafaella (embellished with an Accessorize M letter brooch) while her black leather skirt is a vintage find from Folkster.

[houseofbrat]

Why is everyone so het up about Welsh? Wills is PoW but he's also Duke of Cornwall and has Scottish and Northern Irish titles. I don't hear people complaining he doesn't speak Cornish, Gaelic or Scots Gaelic. To say Charles speaks Welsh is being very generous. He learned a little decades ago so he could make a speech. Listen to Charles speak Welsh, it's not very good. I'm certain it's all written for him phonetically. No one complains Charles doesn't speak all the languages of the UK.

I don’t speak Welsh, so I can’t comment on his pronunciation. 

Regardless, I don’t recall anyone in Cornwall, Scotland, or Northern Ireland complaining recently about William having those titles, unlike people in Wales. 

The complaint regarding William using the Prince of Wales title is that he isn’t Welsh. 

Charles wasn’t Welsh either; however, Charles made great efforts to promote & embrace Wales during his time as Prince of Wales.

William demonstrates no plans whatsoever to embrace or promote Wales in any significant fashion. 

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic // in your hearts shall burn.

how to deal when you’re dealt a terrible hand.

masterlist | gallery | taglist

TAGLIST: @liebgotts-lovergirl , @softguarnere , @brassknucklespeirs , @monalisastwin

SUMMARY: Like everybody else — the nurses are surrounded. And it’s that much harder to evacuate the wounded when you’re surrounded.

WARNINGS: misogyny , gore , & discussion of POWs

NOTES: hello Bastogne, alternatively titled : the saga that beat my ass, spit on me, and did the Irish jig on my corpse. A special thank you to the wonderful folks at med-dept.com for recounting everything that occurred among the 326th at Bastogne. These chapters … would not exist without that report.

If Bastogne were a person — it would laugh in the face of their field jackets, at the way the cold pierces them to their bones and makes them ache. In that way, the Church is a sanctuary in more ways than one. It’s warm in the basement, Saint Mary looms over them — and maybe that’s comforting to these wounded and sick men. A familiar face among strangers, something to cling to. If things weren’t as they are, with a man on every cot, Daisy might’ve taken the time to appreciate it. She might’ve even prayed.

It took them a day to reach Bastogne after leaving Mourmelon. No stops, heavy traffic, blistering winds and general unease were the only things to accompany them. The first thing Jane did when they finally were able to get out of the truck, was run for the bathroom. Daisy was promptly intercepted by Colonel Gold, the Division Surgeon, and introduced to a plethora of people. She’d spent most of that first day trying to get her bearings, answering questions, and helping make room in the Aid Station for incoming casualties.

He introduced her to local women who volunteered their time, placed them in her care. Renée’s a quiet sort with a kind smile and peaceful air about her that reminds her of Patty in a way, and her associate, Anna, is of a similar disposition. She takes it in stride, as she does most things.

“They should be finished setting up a Division Clearing Station later today. We need you to send a few of your nurses up there to help mitigate and get the boys on their way to 107th. Major Barfield wants you here though — keep you close,” that’s what one of the Captains tell her, Captain Lancaster. She gives him a glance every now and again as she loosens the tourniquet where a soldier’s leg once was, counting precious seconds and watching as Carolyn returns with fresh bandages to cover the area.

“And how many does he want?” Daisy asks, exchanging looks with Carolyn as they undo the man’s dressings.

“Eight women. Two per truck for the first convoy. Wants a list of names before 1000 hours in Colonel Gold’s hands,” trying to mask her irritation, Daisy gives Lancaster something between a smile and a smirk.

“Scared you fellas will get lost on the way down?” She asks, and Carolyn snorts next to her as they quickly press the new bandages to the wound. The soldier himself is subdued by what morphine they could spare. “Or does he need people who he knows aren’t helping themselves to the hooch in the back?”

“Probably a little bit of both,” Lancaster admits, and they exchange a few more words before he leaves and Daisy secures the new dressing on the wound, wiping her hands on her ODs. She lets out a sigh after that, giving Carolyn a look up and down as she does so.

As much as she’d like to keep her people near her, she knows that logically, she should send someone she could trust to be in charge. And out of all of the women she could think of, Carolyn is the logical pick.

“What’d you think, Foster? Think you can handle it?” Daisy asks, glancing to the doorway as it opens and another man is carried down the stairs and into the sanctuary. Then, her gaze resettles on her red-haired counterpart, who flashes her a grin.

“The men or the patients?” she asks, and Daisy chuckles at that, rolling her eyes.

“Both, probably.” Carolyn hums, as if mulling it over. Makes a show of puckering her lips and placing her hands on her hips, looking up at the ceiling like she’s really contemplating it. Then she clicks her tongue, gives a definitive nod and shoots Daisy a wink.

“Should be fine, so long as Captain Lancaster stops giving me bedroom eyes when I’m stripping a man to help him bathe.”

“Who knows? Maybe he’ll run into German lines so you can take care of him when he’s shot.”

“Then he’s getting no morphine, no drink, and I’m going up to the hospital to tell Lieutenant McCarney to give ‘em hell for it.” At that, Daisy laughs, and it’s probably the most full she’s sounded since their departure. Of course, the mention of their friend tugs at her heart a little bit. One of the things she tries not to think about in order to do her job. But it doesn’t stop her mind from wandering in her downtime — to Joe, Ginny, Eugene. To Patty and Rita, all scattered at different points. Sometimes when the door opens — she thinks it might be a man from Easy being carried in. Thankfully, it never is.

And of course there’s Ron, who occupies her thoughts no matter what she’s doing — and if he’s the one coming through that door, she doesn’t know if she’ll kiss him on the spot or wring his neck for getting wounded again. She doesn’t know if she can take seeing him like that again. All she does know is that she wants them off this line and out of here and for the Germans to hurry up and surrender so they can all go back to Mourmelon, but she knows that isn’t gonna happen anytime soon.

“I need Laurent here to talk to locals, but Webb’s French is pretty good too, so I’m sending her with you just in case. And Butler. I’ll tell you the rest once I’m done with the list, alright?” Carolyn nods along, and Daisy’s gaze shifts to the man that was just brought in, and Renée smoothing her hand over his forehead in a comforting gesture. “Go see if Lemaire needs any help and then get yourself something to eat, alright?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Carolyn nods, scurrying down the rows and rows of patients to assist. Daisy lets out a sigh, walking into one of the one-off rooms they’re using to keep supplies to get a piece of scrap paper.

Laura is standing off to one side, cutting up a bedsheet into strips with shaky hands. Daisy approaches, grabbing the two ends and pulling them taut, flashing the girl a smile that she returns as she continues to cut — now much easier to see what she’s doing without any slack in the sheet itself. They fall to the floor on one end in long strips, and once they’re done they dump them into a pot on a wooden table to ensure they’re clean before they can be used.

“You doin’ okay, Rogers?” she asks, watching as Laura takes a couple measured breaths, before looking at her with a weary smile.

“Yeah, yeah m’doin fine, just uh… treated a couple real nasty wounds before this. Still reelin’ a little bit.”

If they were back in Mourmelon or if this were a still night in Holland, Daisy would’ve set Laura up someplace quiet to recuperate. Maybe she’d fetch her a cup of coffee, cover for her and give her a second to breathe. But they don’t have that luxury, so instead, Daisy grabs another sheet from the box and holds it out to her.

“Anyone gives you a hard time and you tell them I ordered you to cut bandages. Better to be safe than sorry.” She gives Laura a knowing smile. The woman takes the sheet, giving her a nod and a quiet thank you as Daisy grabs her paper and begins to scribble down names. Foster… Webb… Butler… she opts to keep Rogers and Gray near her for now, if only to keep an eye on the former. But she’s able to come up with four more people; Alden, who Foster’s always been partial to anyway, Maynard, who has that eternal calm air about her, Fleming, Elwood, and Royce — and once that’s handled she’s walking out into the brisk early morning air.

They’ve been receiving casualties since last night. Now the sun, a bloody orange, peaks through the trees and lights up the snow but definitely isn’t bright enough to melt it. And it’ll probably be completely snuffed out by midday. She walks quickly across town, narrowly slipping past the bodies left discarded on side streets and piled on top of one another. Colonel Gold set up shop further into town in the back of an abandoned pharmacy — there wasn’t enough space in the Church for a surgeon’s station.

It’s busy, like everything is. She casts Fleming a smile on the way in, but walks briskly past towards the back. Sure enough, Gold’s wiping down a bloodied table and one of the medics is replacing the plasma bag hooked up to a long abandoned IV.

“Colonel? Got that list for you.” He looks up, crosses the threshold and takes the list from her.

“Thank you for this, Miss Clarke.” She watches as he turns his back to her for a moment and can’t help but narrow her eyes, before rolling her shoulders back.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking… when is the first convoy leaving for the Clearing Station?” He looks back at her and grins.

“Gotta get those teary goodbyes in, ma’am?” She knows it’s supposed to be a joke, but she doesn’t find it especially funny. She’d been dealing with that a lot, too. “We head out at 1630. I’ll get this to Major Barfield before he heads out.” And while, ideally, she’d ask where the CO was headed, she doesn’t want to open up another opportunity for an unfunny remark so she doesn’t do that.

“Thank you, sir,” is all she says, with a nod as she turns to make her way out the door — but she doesn’t miss his response of “Anytime, sweetheart,” that makes her hands ball into fists as she leaves.

Sweetheart, or ma’am, or Miss, but rarely ever Lieutenant — the medics in the Church knew better, most of the time, and Lancaster never lapsed into such casual conversation with her, but that didn’t mean other people behaved like that. But she doesn’t know what type of bind her mouth could put Ginny in this time, so she’s on her best behavior and doing what she can to avoid the men who don’t see her as an equal. And if she can’t avoid them, then she’ll just have to deal with it for now.

But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating nor does she feel any less irritated at every slip of sweetheart or doll that comes from someone’s mouth. She doesn’t care when it’s a wounded man, but she knows that if Lancaster wants to keep all of his fingers, he ought to stop giving Foster those wolfish grins of his.

She returns to the basement and falls back into rhythm seamlessly, taking up a spot beside Gray and pressing the bandages down so she can tie them nice and snug around a soldier’s legs.

The first evacuations started at 1630 — men loaded from stretchers onto convoys. They try to be quick but gentle — well, the women try — and they’re able to load up several ambulances by the truck full. Daisy was able to pull her eight to the side, tell them all to defer to Carolyn, but if worse comes to worst, send for herself anyway. Daisy makes that silent promise to figure it out if they put her girls into a tight spot. Then they’re off, but Daisy doesn’t have time to watch them go.

It’s a little like Carentan, hearing that far-off pepper of gunfire, the distant boom of artillery, always wondering who’s winning and who’s losing and how she can help.

They lose daylight quickly, the Church lit up mostly by candles — the electricity in Bastogne’s been scarce for a while anyways. Captain Lancaster’s ambulances were the last to leave, but by that point all of the nurses were taken up.

The air is tense, and unlike nights in Holland where they can be lulled into tentative quiet, it’s as busy as ever, with very little time for anyone to sit down and rest.

“Renée,” Daisy calls, approaching the woman and placing a hand on her shoulder. She jumps for a moment, then turns to look at her. Even in the flickering light Daisy can make out the dark circles under her eyes, and she can’t recall the last time she’s actually seen the woman eat. And Renée’s been here longer than any of them have, so assuming she could use it most is probably a fair assessment.

But she also knows that the woman likely isn’t going to shut her eyes, so Daisy doesn’t even bother with that.

“There’s hot food in the back. Go eat. You’ve been at it all day.” Renée frowns at that, displeased at the comment.

“I’m fine, Lieutenant. You don’t need to worry about me.” She tries to reassure her, but Daisy just gives Renée’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

“You’re one of mine. It’s my job to worry. I’ll let you get right back to it afterward, promise.” Renée stares at her for a moment, before her gaze flits down to the floor.

“…you are… very kind, Lieutenant Clarke,” Renée nods to herself for a moment. “I will be quick then.” There’s a firmness to the words, a ‘And don’t you think about sitting me down’ and if she actually said it, Daisy might’ve laughed and reassured her she definitely wasn’t planning to.

Daisy grabs Renée’s other shoulder, turning her towards the off-room where their meals are served and gently pushes her towards it with another pat to her shoulders. This time, the woman doesn’t protest.

She can’t help but wonder how many people here actually checked in on her — after all, she was a volunteer. That had to count for something, right? If anything, at least a closer eye on her well-being.

But she doesn’t get to mull on it, when the door slams open once again and there’s the thunder of feet as they make their way down the stairs.

“Fucking Christ, has anyone heard from Colonel Gold?!” She doesn’t recognize this man, but he’s a Lieutenant like her and seems to be very irritated. He looks at her and beelines towards her, bombarding her with that same question. “You— have you seen Colonel Gold? Heard from him?” She shakes her head.

“Not since he left with the convoy this afternoon. He should be at the Clearing Station, shouldn’t he? I didn’t think he was coming back.” The Lieutenant huffs, taking off his helmet to comb his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, he should. Except we can’t get in contact with anyone from the goddamn Clearing Station, Major Barfield still ain’t back from the 107th, and Captain Lancaster’s running late. Just sent Lieutenant Phalen with the next round of casualties, but Lancaster was supposed to be back thirty minutes ago.” That’s enough to make Daisy’s brows furrow, her stomach churning at the thought. She swallows and nods.

“What’s your name, sir?” She asks, and he gives her a weird look

“Bates, ma’am. Lieutenant Bates.”

“Right, okay, Lieutenant Bates…” she pauses, looking around at the medics before lowering her voice. “Not much we can do about it right now — it’s pitch black out there. You keep trying to get in contact, designate a few guys to hold down the fort while you do it,” she looks around for a moment, to ensure no one’s listening too keenly. “Keep this quiet ‘till we know what’s going on.”

And Bates blinks at her for a moment, as though he’s surprised. She stares at him expectantly, raising her brows.

“Right… sounds like a plan, Lieutenant…”

“Clarke. I’d say nice to meet you but…” she looks around, gaze falling to the statue of Mary before reverting back to him. “Pleasantries later, keep trying.” With that, she’s scurrying off again.

Daisy doesn’t want to think about three missing COs or what that could mean for her girls. So instead she opts to change bandages, pour glasses of whiskey to mitigate the pain, clean wounds, and feed men who can’t do it themselves. It’s so familiar, except now there’s the addition of medics asking her for direction, which still takes her by surprise sometimes.

Just keep busy, she tries to remind herself, it’ll sort itself out.

It has to be hours that she’s working at it, when the light in the windows begins to shift to a blue-gray, indicating sunrise. She managed to get a couple nurses to get an hour or two of sleep, but she didn’t really account for herself in that regard. Her eyes burn a little, but she ignores it.

The door opens again, and there’s a call of “Lieutenant Clarke! Lieutenant Bates needs you up top!”

She passes off the bottle and glass to Jane, pulling away and making her way back up the stairs and out onto the street, led by a distressed looking Private. Bates stands there, biting his thumbnail, and beside him is Phalen — which she can only really assume, but they’re the only two men acknowledging her so it’s a safe assumption.

“You needed me?” She asks, looking between the two men questioningly. Bates sighs, but it’s Phalen who rips off the band-aid.

“Krauts took the Clearing Station. Everyone inside it, too.”

[ladytributary]

Authentic New Orleans King Cake

This recipe is based on Ana Borden’s recipe, which was posted in NOLA.com in 2014 (http://www.nola.com/food/index.ssf/2014/01/anas_mardi_gras_king_cake_reci.html). It’s an excellent recipe and I make minor changes to it as I go. The most complicated tools that you’ll need are a rolling pin and a hand mixer. Also, make sure you wash your hands before you begin.

This makes two cakes. Or one big one. Do not halve this recipe (recipes with yeast rarely halve well). Make both cakes. If you don’t want to eat both of them, I guarantee you someone else will. Or make one big one, but it’s a lot harder to manage. The two little cakes will fit ideally on one of those thick paper platters, making them perfect for giving away without worrying about getting your nice plate back.

What you need for the cake part:

2-1/4 ounces (1 packet) rapid rise (instant) yeast

1/2 cup warm water (100 to 115 degrees)

1/2 cup sugar

5 cups bread flour (+1/2 cup on hand) (I prefer bread flour for the extra gluten.)

1 cup half-and-half, room temperature (Ana uses milk, but I find I prefer baking with something slightly fattier. Plus half-and-half keeps longer in the fridge.)

2 TSP salt

2 eggs, room temperature, beaten

1 cup melted butter (This is an entire 8 oz block of butter. Cube about half of it up, microwave it 30 s, cube the rest of it, microwave another 30 s, and then let it sit for awhile until you’re ready to use it. I like the salted Irish butter best.)

Combine the sugar and the yeast into a large (LARGE) glass bowl. Slowly pour in the warm water, swirling as you go. Both the yeast and the sugar should comfortably dissolve in. Leave that alone for 5 to 10 minutes while you get the rest of your ingredients together.

Once things are fluffy in your bowl, add in your half-and-half and eggs, then your butter, which should be liquid but not painfully hot. Dump in your five cups of flour. Put your hand in the flour and start squishing. (Were your hands clean? Wash your hands before you do this.) If the dough is sticking to your hands terribly, add another quarter cup of flour or so, then knead the dough until it has a nice smooth buttery texture to it. By this point, it should no longer be sticking to your hands. Knead it another 3 to 5 minutes, then form it into a ball.

In another glass bowl, melt a pat of butter. Grease the inside of the bowl, then put your ball of dough in this bowl. Roll it around so that it gets an extra layer of butter on it, then loosely cover it, put it somewhere warm and quiet, and let it rise about 2 hours or until doubled. Wash the bowl you made the dough in so that any remnants do not glue themselves frustratingly to your bowl and wash the butter off your hands. Quit checking your ball of dough; it’s rising. Go to the gym, play video games, do some laundry, have some lunch, or find something else to do for two hours until it’s ready.

Assembling the cake

1 TBSP of cinnamon

1/2 cup of sugar

If you have a mostly empty bottle of cinnamon, fill it with sugar, shake it up, and now you’ve got a shaker for cinnamon-sugar. Otherwise, combine these things in a ziplock bag and shake them until they’re well mixed.

On a clean surface, with clean hands, throw down some flour. Put some flour on your rolling pin, too. Punch down your risen ball of dough (POW!) and roll it once or twice into a flat symmetrical shape. Use a sharp knife to cut the dough in half (assuming you are in fact making two cakes). Put one half aside out of your way and roll the other half into a large rectangle. I usually end up with something that’s about 12” by 24”, give or take.

Coat the rectangle with cinnamon and sugar. Spoon it out of the plastic bag if you don’t have a shaker, but you should get pretty healthy coverage across the top of the dough. Once this is done, cut the dough with your sharp knife along the long edge into thirds, so you have three long strips of cinnamon-sugared dough. Fold each one of these in on itself to keep the cinnamon-sugar mixture inside. Start at one end and fold either side over, then smash it down, so it’s about a third of its original width. You’ll need to smash it fairly vigorously in order to keep it from unraveling itself, and you’ll want to pinch the ends fairly well. Do this to all three strips, then braid them.

Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray (I like butter flavor best) and lay your braided dough in a circle on the baking sheet. You can try to braid the two ends together somehow, or you can just kind of smash them together. Let it sit for a bit while you go repeat the process with the other hunk of dough for the second cake.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Bake each cake about 12 minutes. I prefer to bake them separately. It should be golden brown and maybe look a little underdone. It’s fine; it’s baked. Remove it to a cooling rack and let it cool completely.

Glaze and decoration

1 pound powdered sugar

Pinch of salt

1-1/2 TSP almond extract

1/3 cup +1 TBSP of water

Colored sugar (If you can’t find colored sugar, you can color your own by putting regular granulated sugar in a ziplock bag, then adding a couple of drops of food coloring. Use separate bags for each color desired, and apply the sugar with a plastic spoon to avoid staining.

In a nice size mixing bowl, combine the powdered sugar and the salt, then use your mixer to begin to blend these two together on the lowest setting while you carefully and slowly add the almond extract and the water to make a sweet glaze. Blend until smooth and silky white.

Put your cake on its serving platter. If you’re adding a plastic baby, now’s the time, but if you don’t have one, don’t worry about it. You should be able to wiggle it into the underside of the braided dough. Drizzle the cake with the glaze, then sprinkle with purple, green, and gold sugar. (Use only half the glaze/sprinkle sugar if you made two cakes.) Do it again with the other cake.

Finished product.

Don’t worry if your cake is kind of oddly misshapen before you decorate it. That much sugar hides many flaws. Eat up; it’s delicious!