#Stirling Range

[inefekt]

Crux & Carina rising above the Stirling Ranges, Western Australia

Nikon d810a - 50mm - ISO 6400 - f/2.5 Foreground: 5 x 30 seconds Sky: 31 x 30 seconds iOptron SkyTracker Hoya Red Intensifier filter

[ruleof3]

[melangle]

the only true mountain range in south western australia, the Stirling Ranges. Formed from heavily eroded shale that was deposited 1.8 to 2.0 billion years ago, on the peaks you cans till see ripples from what it was mudflats at the edge of the much older 2.8 billion year old Yilgarn Craton. this post-fire photo shows much bare soil exposed

[snototter]

A barn owl (Tyto alba) perches in the trees in Stirling Ranges, Western Australia

by John Anderson

[smutty-ki113r]

🏜Ticci Toby🏜 || Roundtale rival

NSFW||~ One shot x afab gn!reader, includes- Wild West Toby, mentions of violence, use of a gun, minors—dni (3.5)

Inspired by: Lindsey Stirling

It was a pretty slow day at the saloon, you rested your head on your palm, watching the batwing doors swing open and close like a pendulum. It was just the regulars at this hour, taking lethargic swings of their whiskeys and eyeing your corset-like work attire; which is why your attention drew to the cautious creak of the door, and the tall dark and handsome man you wanted to take a drink out of.

Suddenly your mouth went dry, you almost forgot to get up and serve the customer. Seeing as he sat himself down at a table already, you walked over to him, a bit nervously. He radiated mystery, and perhaps a twinge of danger even. “Afternoon” you introduced, “can I get your order?”

He didn’t look up, and you couldn’t see his face because of that worn out cowboy hat he had angled down. You might have not seen his eyes, but you certainly felt his gaze crawl up your legs and settle at your hips. He didn’t speak for a moment, which gave you one to admire him.

Him and those typical cowboy boots that had spurs, him and that leathery trench coat that almost touched the floor when he sat, him and that chestnut brown hair that came out from the rim of the hat, him and the smell of hickory and gunpowder, and a bit of whiskey.

The suspense made you hold your breath until he responded, “bottle of scotch please mx, and a shot of whiskey”, he said, his voice throaty but light, almost as if he were teasing. He grinned under his bandana, shifting so you could hear the clink of his rounds of ammunition going around his waist.

“I’ll get that right out for you sir” you gulped, going behind the counter to pour up his drink. Coming to him with his order and asking “is there anything else I could get you?”.

Having to suffer the slow pulse in between your legs while he gave your neck a discreetly lustful glance and under his breath muttered, “what I want… I don’t know if you could handle”.

It caught you off guard, but you certainly heard it. In a moment of impulse you responded, “try me”.

He chuckled and looked up at you for the first time, “I might have to take you up on that sometime then” he said huskily, “it’s a date”. You had to hold back the stupid grin on your face as you walked back behind the counter. Catching the occasional glances he threw your way as he filled his flask with the scotch and downed the burning shot of whiskey.

Leaving a few silver dollars on the table and whipping his trench coat out the door. You wondered if you would ever see the stranger again, he certainly wasn’t from around here but you hoped he would stay a while.

That night you went to bed thinking of him and his burning taste, of the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he drunk that shot and the way he walked so confidently with those boots. Almost forgetting about the next days errands, going to the tailor and the bank after work.

You almost jumped and clicked your heels in joy for payday, heading over to the bank down the street to collect your money. The mountains looked so pretty in between the purple and orange sunset hues, a couple tumbleweeds rolling by, but you weren’t paying attention to how empty the town seemed.

Giving a passing glance to the wanted posters outside of the wooden building, seeing ruffled brown hair and a scowl and the caption “Tobias Rogers: wanted dead or alive” and not even registering it. ‘The man in the picture looked kind of handsome through’ you thought to yourself as you entered.

Getting in line to withdraw some pocket money, humming quietly and trying to make the people at the register go faster. Your body flinching at the sound of a gunshot being fired through the roof. A scream rang out and chaos ensured, but another bullet told everyone to be quiet, well- that and a muffled voice from one of the bandits robbing the bank.

There were three total, your eyes darting nervously between the first two, both masked with white and red bandanas. You felt a familiar shiver run down your spine at the pistol being pointed at your back, it made you arch and freeze. Your lip trembling as you moved forward like the man instructed.

His husky voice muffled as he said “you, move along”, you couldn’t see him, just followed his instructions silently for fear of your life. He led you to the back, to the gold and silver pieces.

Pushing slightly so you could turn and do as he said, but the moment you met his eyes your jaw dropped. There was no way you couldn’t recognize that gaze, and by the looks of it, you surprised him as well. Now he was smiling, fully grinning under his black bandana, which he lowered just for you.

Getting real close to your ear so you could feel his hot breath, “let’s see if you were bluffing about being able to handle it hm?” Toby whispered.

Excitement made its way up your abdomen, a jolt shooting through your core at the way he spoke to you, at his teasing tone and that pretty boy smile, even with the scar on his cheek.

A pistol still pointed at your stomach, telling you to keep going till you were both alone in the most sacred room in that bank. Boxes holding gold pieces and other valuables. His eyes lit up at the prize he was about secure. He shoved you a bag and motioned for you to start filling them to the brim.

You felt his eyes shift from the silver to your ass as you bent down to start collecting the pieces. Your heavy breath and the chink of coins were about the only things you could hear, adrenaline pumped through your veins as you actively helped a vigilante rob the bank.

Thinking back to that wanted poster things just started to come together, this was the guy everybody talked about, the infamous criminal who would steal and then redistribute his wealth to the needy all across the west. You thought he might be nice, but just because he seemed to make a positive impact in his community, didn’t mean he wasn’t ruthless.

As much of a liking he had taken to you, he still got impatient. Bending down to your face and instructing “faster”.

You looked up at him with teary eyes, “I’m going as fast as I can” you whined. He gulped at the sight of you down on your hands and knees like that, it was like a dream come true, and he was supposed to let that opportunity pass up?

His calloused hand reached to your chin, tracing your jaw with his thumb. “I guess you’ll just have to compensate some other way then pretty”. You were stunned, but you didn’t want to resist. This was what you wanted and more, but you were shaking with nervousness.

Getting up and swatting his hand away, “you wish pretty” you retorted. His eyes widened in surprise of your retaliation. “You can’t just prance in here and demand whatever you want from me”

He cocked his head to the side at you shaking your finger in his face, but his lips were upturned in a coy smile. “Oh?”, he noted your trembling demeanor and held your index finger with his own. “Calling the shots now are we?” He asked. “I didn’t know you had it in you”

You retreated, and with each step you took back, he took one forward. He towered, being pretty tall with a dominating composure. Toby sighed, waving a hand dismissively, “I didn’t mean to impose” he played smartly, “just under a lot of stress, the bank and all, ya know”

He spoke as if you were an old lover, a hand now resting on your cheek softly. “And I’m sure you’ll help me out, won’t you?” He threw you a pair of puppy dog eyes, but he was so handsome it made you melt, your thoughts made mush as you nodded mindlessly.

“I just know you’d be a good partner in crime” he breathed, his face now inches from yours. He neared and your shaking ceased, now it was just desire that remained. “You’ll behave for me right?”

You shook your head eagerly, forgetting what the fuck you were arguing about a minute ago. “We can get these bags filled fast” he whispered, his breath trickling on your top lip. “I’ll be quick” he almost panted. Your eyes drawn to his lips, to those beautiful lips that you wanted to taste so badly.

“Mhm” you nodded, so close that he was just teasing you at this point. “Fast” you repeated, “we’ll be quick”, you inhaled. “please-”. You had to beg, because he was having a blast taunting you. He didn’t hesitate to close the distance between you two, pushing gently so you would sit on the open boxes of metallic coins and he could bring your legs to wrap around his.

His lips tasted like honey and barbecue, and you savored him like he was your last meal. There was no time to think about how messed up it was, because the only thing on your mind was him, and how delicious he was.

You furrowed your brows and moaned into the kiss, pleased that he was meeting you with just as much, if not more passion than you. His hand snaking it’s way to your hips to squeeze them.

Toby was impatient, you were like a sweet apple pie and he wanted to bite into every inch. He laid you out over the spilled golden coins and went straight for your neck, leaving marks all around. Recklessly making a mess amongst the treasure because right here right now, you were the biggest prize.

You panted and held the back of his neck, his beating heart so loud against your chest that you could feel his pulse. Helpless noises falling from your lips when he wasn’t kissing them.

He was insatiable, his body pressed to yours, bulge rubbing itself on your cunt shamelessly. Toby didn’t give a fuck, he just needed you, and he was going to get what he wanted.

To feel him press against that sensitive spot so perfectly made you wet with desire, bucking your hips up because you were so desperate to feel him inside you, to satisfy that craving he awoke.

“I can’t fucking get enough of you” he panted, biting your neck gently, just to get a little taste, he groaned against your skin as he felt the tender bit of flesh in between his teeth.

Your eyes lidded as you caught a glimpse of him above you, manhandling your body like he owned it. His own gaze landing on your open chest and how your tits were almost spilling out of that corset.

His hands were quick to pull them out and kiss them needily, he wanted to devour every bit. Those beautiful nipples that he popped in his mouth, swirling them around with his tongue. Those tempting lips he kissed over and over again. That gorgeous neck he just couldn’t get enough of.

He spread apart your legs and kissed his way down your chest and your hips till he reached your cunt, pulling off your panties quickly and watching the show you reacted when he slid his fingers up and down your slit.

“My my, wet already are we?” He asked, edging just the tip of a finger in to feel the dripping slick. You blushed, not even shying away because you were just so needy for him. Throbbing at the epicenter of his touch, just from the heated gaze he put on your body.

“Fuck I’m gonna feel so good inside this cunt” he panted, slipping his fingers in and groaning at just how tight you were, lowering his face to where you could only see the tuffs of his beautiful dark hair coming out from the sides of his hat. He met your eyes for a second, “but first I want to try what I’m buying”

His tongue met your clit softly, but the contact sent a wave of vibration throughout your whole body. He lapped at your juices like a starved man, plunging a finger in and curling it to hit that sweet spot you liked so much. His nose gently pressed against you as he devoured you.

You were coming undone faster than you would have liked, but he was just too addicting, too sweet and saccharine, and waiting felt like a sin. “Oh- Jesus” you whimpered, “don’t stop-“ you pleaded.

It was pure bliss, being treated like an all you can eat buffet, relentless lapping at your pearl; and even though it felt like you were high on ecstasy, it seemed like he was enjoying this more than you. From those noises of delight it was almost as if he was the one who was being pleasured.

He was going so fast, your head was fuzzy and all you could do was whimper and moan. “Fuck- I’m close!” You warned, your head falling back because all you could do was hold on and wait for that wave to hit. At the mention of your approaching orgasm he grinned against your skin and decided to make it extra difficult for you.

Toby latched onto your clit, sucking and groaning at the taste. Having him suck on your most sensitive area sent you into a shock of electricity, cumming so fast you could do nothing but squeal and hold onto the sides of the crate you were laying on. Your legs shaking and wrapping around his head, knocking his cowboy hat off.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all day” he groaned “and I’ve been out riding in the dessert at noon” he joked, kissing your inner thighs. And you had to pry him off because he didn’t want to go. Fuck he would probably spend all day down there if you let him. Now that he had a taste- he wasn’t going to let you off the hook so easily.

“Oh hey now, I was having fun down there” he teased, “but we can have fun doing something else instead…” Your entire body was still vibrating, and he was so hard you thought he might tear a hole in those pants.

“Yes” you said without a second thought, “I need you”. The ends of his lips turned up in a smug smile.

“I have no objections with that then gorgeous” he said, moving in on your neck once again. Placing his hat on your head, watching you accommodate to it strangely, but nothing was more attractive than you wearing his daily piece, with your legs spread, ready to take him.

“You’re so good for me” he whispered, pulling his cock out and giving it a few strokes. “Such a good, pretty little thing for such a bad guy” he bullied, groaning against your ear as he slid his tip against your wet lips. “Not like you had much of a choice, the moment I saw you I knew I had to have you”

“I am a theif after all, I take what I want” your mouth opened in silent squeal when he found your hole and bottomed out. His eyes meeting yours with a burning passion as he got a feel for you, “you feel so fucking amazing” he panted.

Rolling his hips back and snapping them against yours, his head rolling back as he started stroking into you. Your wet cunt squelching in response to his cock filling you up deliciously. He was the biggest you had ever seen, ever taken, and he reached places that would be wrong to mention.

His thrusting was so rough it made the coins overflowing in the crate fall off and chink down to the growing pile on the floor. The jingling sounds of the metal, the creak of the wooden surface and the string of wanton noises were the only things you could hear, but you couldn’t focus on anything other than the man who was fucking you.

It was the most pleasurable feeling you had ever experienced, his girth stretching you out like that, balls slapping against your ass. “Can you feel me inside you?” He asked in a trance of joy.

You gasped every time he bottomed out, crying out “yes!” and lacing your fingers with his as he stroked your walls.

His hands sliding down to your hips to pull you back on him and use you like a toy for his pleasure. It was like a dream to him, and he could think of nothing but the way you squeezed his cock like a vice. He threw his head back and kept pounding, you looked up to see the sight, he was like a god.

Sweat dripped delicately from the tips of his chestnut hair, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from swallowing saliva cause fuck you were making him salivate. The taste of your pussy still on his lips, the essence of raw flesh on his tongue.

“Fuck I can feel you wrapped around me god, nothing’s ever felt so good” he groaned, pulling out and flipping you over. He wanted to grab a handful of your ass while he pressed into you.

You molted into the new position, giggling at his hand kneading your ass and holding onto your hips. He was so deep inside you, taking you from the back so he could watch your ass bounce every time he thrusted.

Behind you, you could hear his deep exhales every time he filled you completely, his shameless moans at your wetness. Your cheeks tinted at the sounds of clapping, he was so carried away, and you were too the moment his hand reached over to play with your clit.

“Your pussy is gonna milk me” he exhaled, you pulsed at his lewd words. He just had this way about him, maybe the way he moved and handled you so expertly, or his boyish charm that won you over in 2 seconds flat- that had this power over you and your body.


With every little touch and press of his fingers you reacted, arching your back into him. Your face falling because it was just too much to take, he was so big and so gratifying it made you dizzy.

“You’re doing so good sugar” he praised, turning your head so he could see you and kiss your gorgeous lips while he pounded into your pussy. “Just a little longer and I’ll let you cum alright?”

You nodded into his lips, bouncing back eagerly so he would give you what you so craved. “I know how badly you want it babe” he teased, his fingers digging into you so hard they left marks. You sat there, taking his fat cock just like he wanted, each stroke coaxing you to that climax.

His thrusts got faster, deeper, making you see stars as he panted and rambled out praises to you. “So so good for me” he said, his voice coarse. “Jesus” was the last thing he muttered before he pressed his body to yours and spilled inside your hole.

You felt him fill you up and his teasing was still going, not wanting to cum before he said so. It was a relief when he finally said “do it, cum on my fingers”, just the rough tone of command was enough to send you over the edge for the second time. You squealed and throbbed through your orgasm, rolling your eyes back and thankful for him holding you up because you needed it.

Turning back to face him and get dressed, he didn’t even bother taking the hat back. He gave you a joyful smile and told you “it looks better on you”. Holding the bags of money open once again and finishing up the original job.

He put the bags in your hands and walked out with you in a headlock, “sorry in advance for this sugar”, he pressed that silver pistol up to your head and made you walk out with the money. “Nobody move or this one bites the dust” he warned the people.

Motioning for his associates in crime to cover him as he led you outside and made you get on his horse. You watched in awe as he pulled off a sort of flawless bank heist, his friends right behind him as you rode away into the sunset.

He put the pistol away and took charge on the horse, ignoring the questioning glances from his partners and shrugging. “Don’t blame me for taking the pretty things, you said rob the bank and take the valuables” he huffed, sending you a knowing grin and a wink, “and thats just what I did”

[integra1127grimmreaper]

Mr. Grinch (Joel Miller)

Joel Miller Masterlist

Warning: swearing, fluff

Summary: A little Christmas story inspired by Lindsey Stirling's version of - You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch.

Mr. Grinch... that was what everyone had nicknamed Joel after just one day in Jackson last year, when he and Ellie had first set foot in the community last winter. Now, one year later, and another winter in yet the nickname still stuck. You found the entire thing to be quite amusing; yes, Joel could be grumpy and sometimes comes off as just plain mean, but there were good, loyal qualities to him, ones that only those dearests to him were witness to. So, that's why to make lightly of the nickname, you had decided to do something fun about it in the annual Christmas eve pageant.

You had come across an old burlesque record sometime back, the beat of the music perfect for what you had planned. Your outfit; a cute red winter dress, green tights and Santa hat.

The pageant was taking place in the mess hall, as the Christmas eve community dinner was to be taking place immediately thereafter. A small stage had been erected in the hall, with tablets setup for all to enjoy the show and dinner after.

The hall rang out with whistles and cheers when you made your way to stage, everyone soon quiets down, and the music begins to play.

*

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch You really are a heel You're as cuddly as a cactus As charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel

The room was eerily silent as you comically performed on stage whilst singing; everyone knew exactly where you were going with the chosen song. You on the other hand, were having a field day with it, as people's eyes kept jumping back and forth between you and the table you were clearly trained on during the entire performance.

*

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch (Mr. Grinch) Your heart's an empty hole Your brain is full of spiders You've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch

You're a vile one, Mr. Grinch (Mr. Grinch) You have termites in your smile You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch Now given the choice between the two of you I'd take the seasick crocodile Seasick crocodile

"Shit, it's you!" Ellie bawls out in realization, but you continue like nothings amiss. Everyone nervously stares back at the table as she chuckles out loudly then.

"The song is about you, Joel! You're Mr. Grinch!"

"Now, Ellie... don't be looking for trouble where there ain't none" Tommy attempts to neutralize the situation before things got out of hand.

"Nuh-uh..." Ellie retorts with a stiff head shake, hollering out then.

"See! I fuckin' told you! She just winked at him!"

The sounds of gasps ringing out at her words, as everyone braced themselves for your impending demises at the hands of the man you were clearly referring to in the song. He, on the other hand sat dangerously silent, as his dark narrowed gaze remained fixed on you as the performance continues.

"Ellie..." Tommy drawls out in annoyance, and then it happened.

"She blew him a kiss!" Ellie screams, griping onto Joel's shoulder; shaking him back and forth in excitement.

"Wait. What?" an open-mouthed Tommy stares at you on the stage.

*

The words that best describe you are stink, stank, stunk (Ooh) No, no, no Stink, stank, stunk Oh, Mr. Grinch Mr. Grinch...

The music ends and the room is filled with nothing but awkward silence, Tommy silently eyes Joel; preparing himself to have to stop his brother from strangling you in front of the entire Jackson community. Ellie then jumps out from her seat and starts cheering loudly and you chuckle out, taking a dramatic bow.

"Now, Joel..." Tommy attempts to divert his attention away from you as you step down from the stage.

Everyone sat with bated breath as you made your way toward Joel's table with a cocky smirk plastered on your lips.

"Joel" Tommy warns, jumping up to stop him when he gets up, but Ellie and Maria hold him back.

"What hell are ya two doing?!"

"Wait" Maria remarks as you and Joel meet each other in the centre of the room.

Placing a hand on your hip and cocking your head to the side; you smirk at him whilst striking a pose.

"Hey there, Mr. Grinch..."

Joel's eyes narrow to tight slits as he silently grinds his teeth whilst staring down at you for a second. Silent gasps ring out when he steps closer to you, reaching out to take the Santa hat off your head; Joel plops it onto his own, a broad smirk spreads across his lips as he pulls you flushed against him.

"Hi, Baby..." Joel drawls, tipping down to capture your lips in a deep kiss.

"What the fuck...?!" Tommy voice rings out, along with loudly gasps of surprise.

"Knew they were fucking long before this, FYI..." Ellie remarks smugly, causing both Tommy and Maria to scowl at her disapprovingly.

"What?" she shrugs at them.

"He's always looking at her all-googly-eyed... and she's even worse. Also caught him from my bedroom window; sneaking out of her house and back home in the early hours of the morning when no one's awake."

Joel and you chuckle into each other's mouths at her words, resting your foreheads against one another's with broad smiles.

You had your suspicious of her knowledge, but both had decided to keep your relationship a secret till now. Finally deciding after four months that it was time to make it public, as a matter of fact; it was Joel who had come with the idea of your performance when you had let him in on the town nickname for him.

What the residents didn't know; was that even with only one good ear, Joel had still managed to pick up on the word 'Grinch' being softly uttered whenever he was around. He wasn't too keen on it at first, not till you had told him that you found it to be a cute name for him. That 'How The Grinch Stole Christmas' had been one of your favorite Christmas movies as a child. That in the end Mr. Grinch wasn't as bad as everyone believed him to be just lonely and misunderstood, with a heart of gold hidden underneath all that grumpiness, just as your Joel.

When you playfully performed the Mr. Grinch song for him, Joel found it utterly amusing and that's how you came to be performing it tonight. Proving to everyone that your Mr. Grinch wasn't as bad as everyone believed him to be.

"C'mon Baby..." Joel slings his arm around your shoulder and directing you towards the table.

"Lead the way, Mr. Grinch..." you pat his ass affectionally, causing him to chuckle yet again as the rest of Jackson stared at the two of you weirdly. 

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

First Date. - Price x OC

|| [ Part Two ->] ||

pairing: F!OC: Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price words: 2.8K~ cw: flirting, insults, banter, smut mentioned, sexual innuendos/intentions

"NURSE 20040132, RECEPTION ASAP."

Kathleen looked down at her pager and cocked a brow. Usually, she didn't get called to reception unless stuff was going down.

Sighing, she took off her latex gloves and walked over to the sink, washing her hands up to her forearms, before she left the A&E area through one of the double doors.

Scanning her badge on the sensor by the staff-only doors, she stepped out to the reception, clad in her royal blue scrubs.

She had been expecting a reception packed full, or maybe a very distraught family member reaming out the receptionist... But instead, the reception was not very full, and her eyes locked on one very tall and burly Captain Price.

He looked different this time. Still tall and imposing, with big hairy arms on display...

But sporting a thicker, fuller beard... and now wearing a full uniform. A quarter-zip fleece with camo print on the arms, and plain tan on the body, cargo pants and boots... and a kevlar vest.

It had been two weeks since she'd gone over to Stirling Lines to ream out the man and, true to his word, he didn't put in more requests for Wallcroft's release... But now, being here, it rang alarm bells in Kathleen's mind.

Was she about to get reamed out in front of hospital staff the way she did to him, in front of his inferiors? Or was he about to warn he was pursuing Non-Judicial Punishment for her?

Approaching him, she clipped her I.D. back on the left breast pocket of her scrubs and approached the reception desk, leaning on the surrounding wall of the desk, where one of the admin nurses was stationed. "Parker, you rang?" She beckoned.

"I did." Price spoke up before Nurse Parker could get a word in. Kathleen turned her face to look up at John with a cocked brow before she sighed and nodded.

"What can I help you with, Captain?" She asked him, placing her hands in the front pockets of her blue scrubs top.

Price looked at her with a slight tilt of his neck and head, as if he wanted to appear smaller for her, or, maybe, to hear her and see her beter.

His blue eyes took in the shape of the beautiful woman in front of him, the way her uniform didn't conceal the curvy nature of her body, or the size of her breasts, even with an extra layer in the shape of a black underscrubs top beneath the blue scrubs.

"Wanted to see you." He replied as his gaze slid back up to meet her brown ones.

"See me, huh?" She asked and tilted her head to the side, noting the way his hands slid up to grip the straps of his vest right below each shoulder.

The man nodded in agreement, eyebrows raising up to his hairline, which was concealed by a toque, as if he was inviting her to argue about it.

"Well..." Kathleen trailed off as she looked at him. "You saw me." Kathleen said. "Now if you don't mind, I've got better things to do than stand here looking pretty." She began to turn away to duck back behind the security doors.

"Moore, please, wait a minute." Price said, calling her by her surname, which she had no clue he knew. It caused her to stop and look over at him again, over her shoulder.

Sighing loudly, she turned fully to face him and rolled her eyes. "What, Captain?" She asked, conceding in giving him another moment of her time.

John took a step closer, and another, until he was standing over her again. "Let me take you out."

Kathleen cocked a brow. Not the first time a soldier or officer had tried asking her on a date. Hell, not the first they'd turned up after they had been cleared or discharged from treatment just to see her...

But it was the first time that a man invited her out after she had cussed him out.

Shaking her head, she turned away again, and walked over to the double doors she had just emerged from, scanning her I.D. on the reader and pushing the door open. Then, she looked over her shoulder.

John was still standing there, hands on the straps of his vest, looking at her with a deep gaze, like he was trying to see through the layers of her scrubs. Sighing and tapping her foot on the floor twice, she finally waved him over with her hand.

He quickly rushed toward her just as she pushed the door back fully. "Walk with me." She demanded as she began moving down the hall. The man obeyed, staying by her side.

"Don't touch anything, don't look anywhere, don't talk to anyone." She warned him as they passed another doorway, which she pushed open by pressing the crash bar down with her wide hip.

Price followed after her, slipping past the door by turning to the side. "Are you going to let me take you out?" He insisted.

"I'm busy." Was the only reply she could give him, eyes glued forward as they weaved through the hallways.

"I mean on your day off, love."

"I'm a nurse. We don't have those."

"Well, when's your next break?"

"I'm on my feet for 12 hours a day. I don't eat a full meal or drink water for those same 12 hours. I'm genuinely considering starting to wear an adult nappy so I can cut the amount of times I have to go to the loo which are already not a lot because I have a strong bladder and don't drink nearly enough to need to go often, hell, I already wear nicotine patches because I can't get myself smoke breaks."

A normal man would've flinched or winced or shown disgust at what she was saying. At the very least, because it was TMI, and at the most because she's clearly trying to gross him out and scare him away.

And yet John remained impavid, looking at her with the same expression as always, a slightly amused smirk tugging at his lips, eyes locked on her face, on her mouth, as she spoke.

"Didn't answer my question, love."

"I don't have breaks, Captain."

"John." He corrected her.

"Hm?" She cocked a brow as she finally turned to actually look at him.

"John Price." He replied, introducing himself to her.

Sighing and rolling her eyes, she introduced herself in turn. "Kathleen Moore."

"When are you free, Kathleen?" He insisted as he looked at her, right in her eyes, head dipped at an angle.

"Not anytime soon."

"Well... whenever 'not anytime soon' comes..." John began as he reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper in which he'd scribbled his number prior to the conversation. "Give me a ring." He reached the folded up paper toward her.

Kathleen took his number carefully and stuffed it into her breast pocket. "I'll think about it."

"I'll make sure to wipe all the thoughts from that busy head of yours when you do, love."

"Yeah, right." Kathleen scoffed as they finally entered the A&E department and she quickly washed her hands once more and popped on a pair of latex gloves, before disappearing behind a curtain to check on a patient, leaving John standing there, by the doors leading back out.

-

As it turns out, 'not anytime soon' was actually almost a week later, on Saturday. She shot him a text a bit last minute and, as such, they agreed on coffee, not far from base.

Kathleen arrived and went inside the quaint coffeeshop, immediately catching a glimpse of John in the corner of the room, having claimed a booth to himself. He caught sight of her too, blue eyes flittering over her body, almost shamelessly so.

Kathleen got in line and ordered herself a tea and a raspberry tartlet, paying for them before she headed over to John's table. He was already sitting with his own cuppa and a lemon drizzle cake slice in front of him.

"Took your sweet time, love." John told her as she took her seat beside him, placing her purse on the other side of her body, leaving her left side open for John to come closer.

"Yeah... I didn't want to come." Kathleen replied as she shook her head and gave him a dismissive, mocking glance.

John sighed and shook his head. a smile tugging at the corner of his lips... which only grew when he noticed she was smirking too.

"You think you're funny, huh?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so, I am funny, Captain." She teased him.

John's blue eyes squinted at her in mild amusement, before he leaned a bit closer to her, setting a hand on her hand over the table. "Worth the wait, though, I've gotta say." He remarked, looking her up and down.

His date smiled a bit in the face of the compliment and shook her head. "Thank you..." She said sincerely.

Kathleen looked radiant, her long brown hair tied in a half-up half-down style, wearing pretty make-up and jewelry, and a stunning black and gold cami top, with skin-tight blue jeans and black high-heeled boots.

"You could've put in a bit more effort, though." She quipped as she looked at him. "Looking like you've just rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing you saw in your closet." She said, a mean smirk on her lips, as she watched his eyes narrow.

She had a point however. She had definitely tried harder than him... In his blue jeans, grey quarter-button shirt and black jacket, paired with blue sneakers.

"Oh is that how it is?" John taunted her while cocking a brow, sliding even closer to her, wrapping an arm around the small of her back and onto the side of her hip, pulling her tight against him.

A normal woman would already be pulling away. John was too bold, too handsy... But as Kathleen stared right into his eyes, she couldn't find it in herself to mind.

"Mhm... that's how it is." She murmured as she leaned into him as well, swiveling at the hip in order to face him, setting her hands on his chest.

"We'll see who'll look like they just rolled out of bed when I'm done with you." He murmured in her ear, only pulling away as soon as the waiter came over with Kathleen's order.

It reminded them, forcibly so, that they were in a public place, and caused them both to put some distance between them.

-

"Portuguese, huh?" John asked as he sipped on his second cuppa, holding it around the brim and trying not to burn himself on the hot liquid.

"Mhm..." Kathleen stirred the spoon in her own second cup almost mindlessly.

How they had gone from flirting shamelessly and nearly jumping each other's bones to having a normal, cordial getting-to-know-each-other conversation was beyond them.

They had been at it for nearly two hours now... and they had talked about it all:

What they studied and where (RMA Sandhurst vs. King's College);

How they came to be in their respective careers (wanted to do something good with his life vs. got recommended to enlist due to her bedside manners being 'tough');

What they do in their free time (reading and working out day-to-day, and fishing, woodworking and home/car restoration when he's home vs. reading, yoga and baking);

And now, of course, they were venturing into getting to know more of each other's pasts.

"Where in England did you grow up?" He asked her.

"Around Colchester." She said with a shrug before setting down her spoon and sipping her tea as well. "You?"

"Right around here. Hereford." He replied as he set down his cup and rested his right hand over hers again, fiddling with her feminine hand with his calloused hands, admiring the red nail polish she had put on.

"Big family?" She asked him with a cocked brow.

"Already asking me about my family, da'lin'? A bit eager, aren't ya?" John teased her while cocking his brow, then, slid closer again, lifting her hand up to his mouth and peppering a stupid kiss on the back of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, 's it making it seem like I want to take yer last name or something, you big bastard?" She taunted in return, which earned her a laugh from him.

"You're a terrible woman, you know that?" He replied, causing her to roll her eyes. "God help the man who marries you one day."

Kathleen scoffed at him and rolled her eyes again. "And this is coming from the man that nearly groveled on his knees to ask me out?"

"I didn't grovel, you hellcat."

"Right, you just accosted me at work and begged me to go out with you, innit, John?"

John scoffed too but dropped another kiss on the back of her hand, and then over her fingers, and onto her palm, blue eyes glued to her brown ones.

There was something in his eyes, something in his kisses. Every nasty word they traded, paired with those stupid kisses of his, and his beard rubbing against her soft skin... She could see herself getting lost in it. In him.

"Didn't answer my question." She told him swiftly, changing the subject as she slipped her hand off his grasp and pushed his head back playfully by the forehead, before grabbing her cuppa and sipping it a bit more.

John didn't feel deterred, he simply slid over, wrapping an arm around the small of her back again and looking into her eyes from up close, even as she drank from her steamy tea cup, his lips almost pressed to it from the other side.

She regarded him through the steam, and over the rim of her cuppa, as if forcefully drawing out her sip of tea, to force him to wait, to have to answer her, the eye contact between them electric and full of heat.

"Just a younger sister." John finally gave in and replied, and so, she finally pulled back the cuppa and set it over the table again.

"Two sisters, two brothers." Kathleen replied in exchanged, which caused John's eyebrows to shoot up.

"Big fuckin' family, that there." John remarked, and she nodded in reply. "You're the big sister?"

"Second oldest." She replied, causing John to nod this time.

"No wonder you're so feisty, sweet'art."

"And no wonder you're such a cunt, John."

"Oh, are big brothers cunts for ya, are they?"

"They are. It's like they make it their life mission to be cunts to their little sisters."

"And you'd know it all about being a cunt, wouldn't ya?" John teased with a cocked brow.

Kathleen didn't deny it, she didn't even seem offended, she merely shrugged and smirked.

John's eyes caught the way the corner of her plump lips curled up in satisfaction and smugness, the cupid's bow well-defined even with just a light layer of peach coloured lipstick.

He leaned his head forward again, taking advantage of the cup no longer being in the way and, slowly, rubbed his lips against the corner of her mouth, his beard rubbing against her jaw and cheek.

His large nose brushed the side of her shorter, upturned one and, softly, he whispered against the skin of her cheek. "Should let me get you out of here..."

"And why would I do that, Jonathan?" Kathleen asked in return, playing coy.

As if her breathing hadn't already hitched in anticipation at the idea of what John was proposing, as if she hadn't been boldly staring a him and the way his clothes clung to his muscular body, the way his cologne wrapped around her like a cloud, as if his strong arm around her didn't make her want to mount him.

"If you keep saying my name like that..." John murmured under his breath as he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. Kathleen's hand slid down his stomach and over his belt buckle, before settling over the growing bulge in his blue jeans.

"Fuckin' 'ell... You'll be the fuckin' death of me, Kat." He added with a hiss, eyes fluttering a bit from the mere fact her hand was rubbing over his bulge under the table. "Let me take you out of here, sweet'art." He pleaded in a whisper.

"I don't know..." Kathleen continued teasing him in a coy tone. "I'm not really the type that goes to bed with a bloke on the first date... Not that this even counts as a first date." She added in a scathing tone, causing John to hiss again.

"Right... except I'm not a bloke... I'm a man." John murmured. "And this isn't a first date, according to you..." He listed off. "And... I don't plan on taking you to bed. I plan on watching you ride my cock in the back of my car..." He added, his blue eyes finding hers at the same time as she sucked her bottom lip behind her teeth.

Kathleen wished she could argue with him... But it's not every day that a man not only tolerates her attitude but hands it back equally. And, hell, she couldn't deny that John was attractive... Maybe a bit too attractive...

"So what do you say?" John added with a smirk.

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … March 1

c. 38 AD – The Latin poet Marcus Valerius Martialis, known in English as Martial, was born on this date (d.circa 103 AD); a Latin poet from Hispania (the Iberian Peninsula) best known for his twelve books of Epigrams, published in Rome between 86 and 103, during the reigns of the emperors Domitian, Nerva and Trajan. Martial was an urbane and witty man who is certainly the best known writer, if not the inventor of the epigram. He displayed a great skill in adapting the form to a variety of uses.

His epigrams have the precision and economy of inscriptions on monuments and tombstones, the earliest examples of the form. In a single couplet of stinging wit, Martial can expose a pretentious or foolish person. A good number of the poet's epigrams suggest not only that he was sexually promiscuous, but that he spent a fair share of his time with young men, including Galaesus, Hyllus, Lygdus, Telesphorus, Dindymus, and Cestus. Indeed Martial was one of the Roman writers who made no effort to censure homosexuality, but praised its various aspects.

Upon being discovered by his wife "inside a boy" and offered the "same thing" by her, he responds with a list of mythological personages who, despite being married, took young male lovers. In his writings Martial described a wide range of homosexual behaviors, in part to poke fun at them like other minor standard deviations, but without too much moralizing.

One example of his work:

With your giant nose and cock I bet you can with ease When you get excited check the end for cheese. - Book VI, No. 36

New Amsterdam

1665 – After a temporary takeover of New Netherland by the English, the governor of what is now called New York issues a proclamation making sodomy a capital crime. The law also covers New Jersey.

1810 – Frédéric Chopin, born Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin (d.1849) was a Polish composer and virtuoso pianist of the Romantic era who wrote primarily for solo piano. He has maintained worldwide renown as a leading musician of his era, one whose "poetic genius was based on a professional technique that was without equal in his generation."

Chopin was born in Żelazowa Wola in the Duchy of Warsaw and grew up in Warsaw, which in 1815 became part of Congress Poland. A child prodigy, he completed his musical education and composed his earlier works in Warsaw before leaving Poland at the age of 20, less than a month before the outbreak of the November 1830 Uprising. At 21, he settled in Paris. Thereafter – in the last 18 years of his life – he gave only 30 public performances, preferring the more intimate atmosphere of the salon. He supported himself by selling his compositions and by giving piano lessons, for which he was in high demand. Chopin formed a friendship with Franz Liszt and was admired by many of his other musical contemporaries, including Robert Schumann.

After a failed engagement to Maria Wodzinska from 1836 to 1837, he maintained an often troubled relationship with the French writer Amantine Dupin (known by her pen name, George Sand). A brief and unhappy visit to Mallorca with Sand in 1838–39 would prove one of his most productive periods of composition. In his final years, he was supported financially by his admirer Jane Stirling, who also arranged for him to visit Scotland in 1848. For most of his life, Chopin was in poor health. He died in Paris in 1849 at the age of 39, probably of pericarditis aggravated by tuberculosis.

There has been some debate about Chopin's sexuality. Chopin was a friend of the Marquis de Custine, who had been associated with homosexual scandals. A letter from de Custine to Chopin, inviting Chopin to visit, refers to the composer as an "inconstant sylph"; Kallberg recognizes the "impossibility of 'discovering' the truth" of what this may imply.

The music journalist Moritz Weber, searching Chopin's letters, said he discovered a "flood of declarations of love aimed at men", sometimes direct in their erotic tone, sometimes full of playful allusions. In one, Chopin described rumors of his affairs with women as a "cloak for hidden feelings".

"You don't like being kissed," Chopin wrote to his school friend Tytus Woyciechowski in one of 22 letters. "Please allow me to do so today. You have to pay for the dirty dream I had about you last night." Letters to the friend, who was actively involved in Poland's January uprising of 1863, often start with "My dearest life" and end with: "Give me a kiss, dearest lover."

But as recently as 2018, a Chopin biography by English-Canadian musicologist Alan Walker described Woyciechowski as a mere "bosom friend". The erotically charged letters addressed to a man, Walker writes in Fryderyk Chopin: A Life and Times, were the product of a "psychological confusion", a "mental twist", which made Chopin divert thoughts of sexual desire to his friend "that should more properly have been addressed to Konstancja [Gładkowska]", a Polish soprano with whom the composer has been described as having been infatuated.

Weber says his research has found no concrete evidence of Chopin's love for Gładkowska, or a supposed engagement to 16-year-old Maria Wodzińska. "These affairs were just rumors, based on flowery footnotes in biographies from the previous two centuries."

Some letters fall just short of being sexually explicit. In July 1837, Chopin wrote to his friend Julian Fontana in Paris from London, reporting with excitement about "great urinals" with "nowhere to have a good tinkle". Did he enjoy cruising the toilets of London?

 Carr (R) with Jack Kerouac

1925 – Lucien Carr (d.2005) was a key member of the original New York City circle of the Beat Generation in the 1940s; later he worked for many years as an editor for United Press International.

Carr was born in New York City; his parents were both offspring of socially prominent St. Louis families. After his parents separated in 1930, young Lucien and his mother moved back to St. Louis; Carr spent the rest of his childhood there.

At the age of 14, Carr met David Kammerer (b. 1911), a teacher of English and a physical education instructor. Kammerer was a childhood friend of William S. Burroughs, another scion of St. Louis wealth. Burroughs and Kammerer had gone to primary school together, and as young men, they traveled together and explored Paris's night life. Kammerer met Carr when he was leading a Boy Scout Troop of which Carr was a member, and quickly became infatuated with the teenager.

Over the next five years, Kammerer pursued Carr, showing up wherever the young man was enrolled at school. Carr would later insist that Kammerer had been hounding Carr sexually with a predatory persistence that would today be considered stalking. Whether Kammerer's attentions were frightening or flattering to the younger man (or both) is now a matter of some debate. What is not in dispute is that Carr moved quickly from school to school and that Kammerer followed him to each one. The two of them socialized on occasion. Carr always insisted, and Burroughs believed, that he never had sex with Kammerer.

Carr's mother, who had by this time moved to New York City, brought her son there and enrolled him at Columbia University, close to her own home. If Marion Carr was seeking to protect her son from David Kammerer, she did not succeed. Kammerer soon quit his job and followed Carr to New York. William Burroughs also moved to New York, to an apartment a block away from Kammerer. The two older men remained friends.

At Columbia Carr befriended Allen Ginsberg in the Union Theological Seminary dormitory on West 122nd Street (an overflow residence for Columbia at the time), when Ginsberg knocked on the door to find out who was playing a recording of a Brahms trio. Soon after, a young woman introduced Carr to her boyfriend, Jack Kerouac, then twenty-two and nearing the end of his short career as a sailor. Carr, in turn, introduced Ginsberg and Kerouac to one another – and both of them to his older friend with more first-hand experience at decadence: William Burroughs. The core of the New York Beat scene had formed, with Carr at the center. As Ginsberg put it, "Lou was the glue."

On August 13, 1944, Carr and Kerouac attempted, and failed, to ship out of New York to France on a merchant ship – aiming to fulfill a fantasy of walking across France in character as a Frenchman (Kerouac) and his deaf-mute friend (Carr), and hoping to be in Paris in time for the Allied liberation. Kicked off the ship by the first mate at the last minute, the two men drank together at the Beats' regular bar, the West End. Kerouac left first, and bumped into Kammerer, who asked where Carr was. Kerouac told him.

According to Carr's version of the night, he and Kammerer were resting near West 115th Street when Kammerer made yet another sexual advance. When Carr rejected it, he said, Kammerer assaulted him physically, and being larger, gained the upper hand. In desperation and panic, Carr said, he stabbed the older man, using a Boy Scout knife from his St. Louis childhood. Carr then tied his assailant's hands and feet, wrapped Kammerer's belt around his arms, weighted the body with rocks, and dumped it in the nearby Hudson River.

Finally, Carr went to his mother's house and then to the office of the New York District Attorney, where he confessed. The prosecutors, uncertain whether the story was true – or whether a crime had even been committed – kept him in custody until they had recovered Kammerer's body. Carr identified the corpse.

Carr was charged with second-degree murder. The story was closely followed in the press, involving as it did a well-liked, gifted student from a prominent family, New York's premier university, and the scandalous whiff of homosexuality. The newspaper coverage embraced Carr's story of an obsessed homosexual preying on an appealing heterosexual younger man, who finally lashed out in self-defense. The Daily News called the killing an "honor slaying". Carr pled guilty to first-degree manslaughter. Carr was sentenced to a term of one-to-twenty years in prison; he served two years in the Elmira Correctional Facility in Upstate New York and was released.

That was the official version, but other sources suggest that Carr and Kammerer had been consensual lovers for those years, and even suggest that it was Carr who was the aggressive homosexual, and not Kammerer, and that the moves from school to school and city to city had been Carr's mother's attempts to separate the two.

1956 – Mark Todd is a New Zealand horseman who was voted Rider of the 20th Century by the International Equestrian Federation, (Fédération Equestre Internationale).

Born in rural Cambridge in the heart of the Waikato on the North Island, Todd was considered by his peers to be the consummate three-day-event horseman.

As a youngster, Todd went through a succession of broken bones and tears in pony club events, but he was passionate about horses and persevered. He considered becoming a jockey but quickly grew to 6 ft 2 in which forced him into show jumping instead.

From small pony club beginnings he went on to win two Olympic Games gold medals, (the first rider to win successive individual three-day-event titles for 60 years), and also won two bronzes. He won the prestigious Badminton Horse Trials on three occasions and the Burghley three-day trials five times. He also won gold medals as a member of the New Zealand team at the world championships in 1990 (Stockholm) and 1998 (Rome), the European Championships in 1997 (when it was open to the world), plus 20 or more other international events.

Mark Todd was not only a great eventer, but he also competed in the 1988 and 1992 Olympics in the sport of show jumping. He won back-to-back gold medals on Charisma at Los Angeles in 1984 and Seoul 1988. Charisma was a 16 year old when he won the second gold, and he was only the second horse to win two individual gold medals.

Todd, who had married Carolyn Berry in 1986, retired from eventing following the 2000 Sydney Olympics to his Rivermonte Farm near Cambridge to breed horses and concentrate on several business ventures, including the manufacture/retail of harness and other tack.

In 2000, the Sunday Mirror accused Todd of being a homosexual and a cocaine user. It published photographs of Todd, showing him snorting cocaine with another man. Certain homosexual acts were also alleged to have taken place aboard a horse float.

Todd appeared on television to discuss the allegations, but refused to explicitly deny them. It remains unclear just how much truth was behind the allegations, and what exactly occurred in the horse float at the centre of the allegations. Todd remains married to his wife, despite the lack of a formal denial any of the allegations.

1961 – Michael Sundin (d.1989) was an English television presenter, actor, dancer and trampolinist, who is best remembered for his short time as a Blue Peter presenter (1984-85).

After winning five British titles and one world title in British & World Trampolining tournaments, he entered show business in 1980 when he appeared in the pantomime Jack and the Beanstalk, with Barbara Windsor. Sundin made various television and theatre appearances, both as an actor and dancer, which led to a long run in the Cameron Mackintosh-produced musical Cats, in which he played Bill Bailey in its West End run from 1982 until 1983. He appears in the video for Culture Club's I'll Tumble 4 Ya from 1982.

In 1984, he began rehearsing the character Tik-Tok for the Walt Disney film Return to Oz, and this was covered by the long-running BBC children's magazine programme Blue Peter. Sundin impressed the editor, Biddy Baxter, and was invited to audition for the presenting vacancy left by Peter Duncan; it was his fortune that one of the audition items was to interview someone on a trampoline, and he presented his first programme on 13 September 1984.

After fronting 77 episodes, the editors and production team decided not to renew Sundin's contract after the summer break, because they felt that he had little rapport with the viewers and it was claimed by the editor that some parents and children complained about his effeminacy. However, reports of his gay exploits (see below) are also rumoured to have been a factor. He presented his last show on 24 June 1985. Sundin was very unhappy about this decision, and made his feelings known in the tabloid press.

Sundin subsequently appeared in the 1987 film Lionheart (in which he was incorrectly credited as 'Michel Sundin'). From 1987-88 he was in UK theatre tour of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and a Japanese/Australian tour of Starlight Express.

In October 1985, the Daily Mirror printed photographs of him taking part in what was described as a videotaped gay sex show, at London's Hippodrome.

In 2007 the former editor of Blue Peter Biddy Baxter was interviewed by the journalist Mark Lawson, transmitted as part of BBC Four's Children's TV On Trial week of programmes. For the first time on television, Baxter was confronted about the departure of Sundin. In the interview Baxter blamed the press for the inaccurate coverage of Sundin's sacking from the programme because of his sexuality. In previous documentaries and programmes Baxter had avoided addressing such questions about Sundin's involvement in the programme. In the interview she denied that he had been sacked due to his sexuality and said that "It was his leaving the programme because children didn't like him - nothing to do with his sexual proclivities".

n 1988 Sundin fell ill. At the age of 28, he died in the Newcastle General Hospital, Newcastle upon Tyne. The Times newspaper reported (on 26 July 1989) that he had died of liver cancer, but in fact his death was AIDS-related, and a decision was made that this information would not be released to the press. Earlier the same year Sundin had denied having AIDS.

1963 – Bryan Batt is an American actor best known for his role in the AMC series Mad Men as Salvatore Romano, an art director for the Sterling Cooper agency. Primarily a theater actor, he has had a number of starring roles in movies and television as well. His performance in the musical adaptation of Saturday Night Fever earned him one of New York City's more unusual honors, a caricature at Sardi's.

Batt was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, the son of Gayle Batt, an amateur actress and dancer and civic activist. His family founded and ran the Pontchartrain Beach amusement park. He attended and graduated from a preparatory school in New Orleans, and Tulane University. Although Batt played a closeted character in Mad Men, the actor himself is openly gay. He has played gay roles on film (Jeffrey and Kiss Me, Guido) and stage (La Cage aux Folles). In 2005, Batt told Playbill that he used to worry about the effect of coming out on his career:

When I played the lead in Sunset Blvd., the movie of Jeffrey was coming out, and I was petrified. Back then, every agent told you that if you want to play a straight role, you don't come out. This was before Ellen [DeGeneres] came out. But now I couldn't give a rat's ass. It's normal to be gay.

Bryan Batt lives with his partner, Tom Cianfichi, an events planner. Batt and Cianfichi have been together more than 21 years; they met while performing Evita in Akron, Ohio. Batt was playing Che, and Cianfichi was the understudy for Magaldi. Batt and Cianfichi own a home decor and furnishings store, Hazelnut, in New Orleans.

Before Batt "came out" to his family, when his mother and other family members came to New York to see Jeffrey after the play had opened to rave reviews, Batt, over a bottle of wine, told her that he was gay and that he and Tom were a couple. Although there were tears, Batt's mother reassured him that she loved him and that she loved Tom as well.

The person Batt feared telling most was his straight, sports-loving, "good ole boy" brother, Jay. But Jay's response was both funny and accepting: "You're gay? Thank God, I thought you just weren't getting any!"

1969 – Jim Morrison is arrested in Miami for obscenity after his on-stage performance of pretending to fellate his guitarist, and then allegedly exposing himself to the audience.

2010 – Gary Kinsman's book The Canadian War on Queers is published

Born in Toronto, Ontario, Gary Kinsman is a Canadian sociologist (b.1955). He is one of Canada's leading academics on lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender issues. In 1987, he wrote one of the key Canadian texts on LGBT social history, Regulation of Desire, reprinted in 1995. In 2000, he edited and co-authored a second work, on Canadian federal government surveillance of marginal and dissident political and social groups, Whose National Security? In 2010, Kinsman's newest book, The Canadian War on Queers: National Security as Sexual Regulation, co-written with Patrizia Gentile, was published by University of British Columbia Press.

A professor of sociology at Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario, Kinsman's research and publication focuses primarily on the sociological perspectives of LGBT issues. Kinsman is also a social activist on feminist, labor union, social justice and anti-poverty issues.

Kinsman was a writer for The Body Politic and a central figure in the publication of the successor magazine Rites. He helped found Gays and Lesbians Against the Right Everywhere and the Lesbian and Gay Pride Day Committee of Toronto.

In Sudbury, he was one of the organizer's of the city's first-ever Sudbury Pride event in 1997.

In 2015, Kinsman was active in a campaign lobbying for a formal apology from the Government of Canada for the purges of LGBT people from the federal civil service in the 1950s and 1960s.

[whencyclopedia]

Battle of the Ruhr

The Battle of the Ruhr or the Ruhr Air Offensive (March-July 1943) was a sustained bombing campaign by the British and the United States air forces against the industrial heartland of Germany during the Second World War (1939-45). The offensive included strikes against industrial cities and specific targets such as steelworks, armaments factories, transportation networks, and the Ruhr dams. Great damage was done to Germany's heavy industry, but given that production recovered and even increased, the battle is considered a draw.

Area Bombing of Germany

The Ruhr Valley area was responsible for 60% of Germany's industrial output. The area was such a tempting target it had already been attacked in May 1940, but only by a small force of around 100 bombers, which had not met with any great success. This time it would be different. The commander-in-chief of the Royal Air Force (RAF) Bomber Command was Arthur Harris (1892-1984). He firmly believed that the war could be won by bombing the enemy into submission, that is by smashing war-industry targets and civilian morale. Harris was given support at the highest level to try out the 'bomber's dream' of winning the war by air power alone. To make the dream a reality, Harris had at his disposal such four-engined heavy bombers as the Lancaster bomber, capable of carrying a bomb load of 14,000 lbs (6,350 kg), the Short Stirling, and Handley Page Halifax.

The thousand-bomber raid on Cologne in 1942 had shown what a large attack force could achieve. Such a number of planes, flying to the target in a single formation known as the bomber stream, could overwhelm the enemy defences – anti-aircraft flak guns and fighter planes like the Messerschmitt Bf 109, which patrolled the entire area that had to be crossed to reach the Ruhr. Bombers could not have a fighter escort over Germany at this period in the war given the limited fuel range of planes like the Hawker Hurricane and Supermarine Spitfire, and so the best cover for slow-flying bombers was darkness.

The RAF had tried precision bombing – hitting specific small targets – but these required more dangerous daylight operations (and clear weather), and, given the limited bomb-aiming technology of the time, the results had been very poor, most bombs dropping several miles from the intended target. Such were the difficulties, many planes failed to even find the target. The idea of area bombing (aka carpet bombing) was to have a central aiming point for the first bombers and then successive bombers worked their way outwards, either by intention or accident. Consequently, a large area of the target was more uniformly bombed. The 90-minute area bombing of Cologne destroyed some 15,000 buildings and 1,500 factories. In addition, the city's utility supplies and various transport networks were all severely damaged. There were 469 deaths, 5,000 people were injured, and 45,000 people were made homeless. With 41 aircraft lost, the RAF considered the raid a success. The strategy of area bombing by a large force could now be applied to the Ruhr Valley.

Continue reading...

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: some military jargon, mild angst, brief mentions of sexual activity in the past, brief mentions of violence

Summary: Sgt. Rory Sinclair with the Special Reconnaissance Regiment of the British army has been called on to assist with a joint US/UK operation. Quickly discovering that her Commanding Officer for the mission is a man she's met before...

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis. Will also be available to read on AO3.

October 13, 2017 09:37 - Special Reconnaissance Regiment Headquarters, Stirling Lines, Credenhill, Herefordshire, United Kingdom 

Rory sat in her cubicle, grey plastic walls surrounding her, free of any personal items. Scouring hours of footage shot during a scouting mission in thermal vision, taking note of timestamps and important location details for her report, she couldn’t help but taste the acrid pang of jealousy. It was the duty of her and the other SRR operators in the office to painstakingly comb through reports and footage, collecting intel. The nerve center for army intelligence. Keyboards clacked and phones rang as information was filtered and passed along to where it was needed.

"Sgt. Sinclair."

A deep voice broke the monotony around her, it was one that few ever heard unless the powers that be deemed it so. She’d only heard it once before when her transfer to the SRR was approved. Spinning in her seat at her desk, she rose to stand, her hand raised in a salute as she stood at attention. "Colonel Rourke, Sir?"

Rourke, a man with decades of experience as part of the British army, stood at her desk. Brusque and stern, he was a bulldog of a man trapped in an office space. He would have been more comfortable leading a fleet of tanks rather than an infantry of analysts. "At ease, soldier." She relaxed, hands held behind her back as he continued, "I don't make a habit of personal visits, but I've just left an important meeting and I need your attention for a moment, Sergeant."

"Of course, sir."

“Follow me.” Leading her away from the bullpen she was sitting at and towards a quiet corner, a potted plant was the only company there. Free from prying eyes and ears, he turned his back to the rest of the room, and lowered his voice. "There's a joint operation happening between the Americans and the SAS, and they require our assistance. However, they're looking for boots on the ground experience, and a fair portion of the SRR operators currently available for missions of this sort of nature just don’t have that. But you –"

She nodded, her face falling somewhat. She'd only transferred six months ago and was still settling in. The SRR HQ provided a different type of work than she was used to, but she appreciated the change of pace it gave her, utilizing a different portion of her skill set. It also meant she was closer to her father rather than being half a world away in the middle of a war zone – but a soldier could only be at peace for so long. 

"I understand you were transferred here to clear the headspace, but I can’t think of anyone better suited. You have an impressive record, Sinclair. A real asset. You’ve a history with counter-terrorism, been in the thick of it, and I have a Station Chief with the CIA here who wishes to speak with you."

It wasn't a question or an offer. She had been selected. An honor bestowed upon her. There was no turning it down. Not that she would. Ambitious, career-oriented – she had no reason to say no. Walking past the cubicles of operators, it was a stark contrast to where she was less than a year ago. The ground no longer shook as bombs dropped overhead, bullets didn’t tear through the air or rip through kevlar, it was quiet here. Safe. She still played an important part in the war effort, but without the risk to life and limb. The blood no longer dripped from her hands, though that still didn’t make her clean. 

The colonel stopped outside a large meeting room and opened the door for Rory, directing her inside with his hand. The room was empty except for one woman with a coffee and a laptop sitting at a long table. Dressed in business casual clothing, she looked prepared for a day at the office compared to the soldiers around her wearing their uniforms. Looking up, her face serious, she tilted her head in Rory's direction but spoke with the Colonel, "Is this her?"

"Yes, this is Sgt. Sinclair."

Like a child being spoken about between a parent and a teacher, she was recognized as being there, but not as part of the conversation. Things had been set in motion, all of which she had yet to be made privy to. Rory was no stranger to working on a need to know basis, moving up the ranks meant for much of her career she often merely had to follow in the direction she was being pointed. This was certainly no different.

"Good to meet you," the American said with a nod of her head. "I'm Kate Laswell." Holding her hand out to the open seat beside her, she directed Rory to it. "Take a seat."

Appearing sure in her steps, even while the stress took hold, she stopped at the table and took a seat, exhaling her breath finally as she settled into the chair, still trying to hold the proper decorum expected of a soldier. 

"You can relax, Sinclair. It's just you and me." Laswell looked at the Colonel and the door quickly closed, leaving the two women to sit alone in the large, echoing, blank slate of a room. She sipped her coffee, her eyes shifting to the screen of her laptop before speaking again. "I assume the colonel didn't reveal much about what's going on here, did he?"

Shaking her head, the short choppy locks of her chestnut bob hovered around her neck. "No, not really. Just that you're looking for boots on the ground?"

"Not exactly. We have the boots, it's more so a certain expertise." Kate glanced over at the younger woman, her brow lifting. "Why's a soldier like you working behind the scenes?"

Rory stretched her neck from side to side, cracking her knuckles. A cigarette suddenly seemed like a very good idea to her. "It was suggested I take a transfer from the field after I completed my last tour.” Glancing over at Laswell, she noticed the woman had begun looking right at her, scrutinizing her. “I spent the last several years in Iraq during the civil war. Working with CIA, PMCs, whoever my unit was assigned with." Her eyes fell to her fingers as she started to pick at the hangnail on the edge of her thumb, the skin underneath as sore and raw as the memories.

"Off the books?"

She cleared her throat and returned Laswell’s eye contact. "Oftentimes, yeah."

Kate paused, her head tipping to the side. "Seen some things, huh?"

Rory tried to get a read on the woman, it was hard to get much from her face or her demeanor. There was empathy or at the very least some form of understanding. Was she a soldier in the past? Or just an overpowered cop like some of the other CIA agents she'd met? She scratched her brow, clenching her jaw. "Did some things too."

"Not afraid to get your hands dirty then." Laswell’s face never seemed to change, her mouth drawn in a straight line as she folded her hands on the table. 

"I did what was asked of me."

"Like?" The station chief seemed genuinely interested in her, trying to get a beat on her all the same. Both of them were in the process of figuring out who they were about to get into bed with. 

"Primarily I focused on targets of high importance to prevent further incursion from the insurgency. Assassinations, interrogations – been there, done that."

"Assassinations?" Kate's voice rose, her interest piqued.

"I”m SSC trained. Ran a fair few missions that left me in some nests in high towers."

"A sniper, huh?"

"Yeah. When needed."

Nodding, Laswell’s straight face seemed to break for just a brief moment into a nearly unnoticeable grin. "How many confirmed kills?"

"High importance targets? Thirty three. I lost count of the random sods," she said with a shrug.

Laswell sipped her coffee, unfazed, hearing news like that was just a walk in the park for this woman. "No stranger to deep recon then?"

"It's in the name,” Rory confirmed. “It's what the SRR does. It used to be part of the SAS, but broke off and focused on the intel part of things. It’s why I was specifically transferred here and not just put on leave. Command didn’t want to lose someone with my experience."

"You have some connections with intelligence?"

"I have friends at MI6."

"Good.” Laswell’s attention fell on her completely. “Well Sinclair, I have a friend who's running this op – he's SAS – and you sound like just what he's looking for. If you're up for it, of course." 

Rory contemplated the decision for a moment, she hadn’t thought she’d be back out in the field quite so soon, and considering the fact that none of the details of the mission were being revealed to her until she agreed to come, she assumed she was heading into some real shit. Her hands slipped from the tabletop and into her lap, a tremor shaking through them out of sight, before she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Great." Laswell shut her laptop and scooped it under her arm as she stood, collecting her coffee cup in her other hand. "Come with me."

Her brow lifted. "Just like that?" She was well accustomed to the bureaucracy and strict measures the British army seemed to enforce, things didn’t just happen, not without cutting several layers of red tape and after being passed through multiple hands first.  

"Just like that."

She stood up and followed behind the Station Chief, keeping pace with her as they moved through the halls. Rory was in no position to argue, nor would she want to, it was nice not to be beholden to the rigidity of the chain of command. This was more cavalier. Very American. 

"So, you straddle the line between spy and soldier, huh?" Kate asked, her eyes kept forward.

"Sort of like you, I assume?" Rory asked with a sideways glance, her lips curving into a half grin.

"Sort of." Kate huffed out a laugh. "Yeah."

They turned the corner and headed down the stairs, the reverberations of their shoes on concrete bouncing off the walls. Once an RAF base, now the headquarters of the SRR and the 22 Special Air Service Regiment in the midlands, it was sprawling with large open fields. Out on the parade, a helo sat waiting, it’s rotor warmed up and the blades spinning. There was no time to grab her things, it was get up and go, the moment she said yes she was being tossed from the frying pan into the fire. The urgency was clear, she had likely already been transferred and meeting Laswell was simply a courtesy. 

Ducking under the blades, the shadow of each one cutting across the sun as it broke through the dense cloud cover above, Laswell pulled open the door of the helicopter. “Head inside,” she said with a tip of her head towards the waiting entrance into the vehicle, raising her voice to be heard over the engine. 

Rory climbed in and looked over at the row of seats, noticing another soldier sitting there, already strapped in. His face stern as he shifted, adjusting his hat, the overwhelming scent of cigar smoke drifting from him. Scratching at his cheek, his nails dragging through a thick fuzz of facial hair, he glanced over at her and then turned back to Laswell who took the seat across from him. "I assume this is the one, Kate."

"Yeah, John, this is her.” Laswell pulled on the front of her jacket as she sat back and got comfortable. “Sergeant Sinclair, meet Captain Price."

Rory's brow furrowed for a moment at the name. It was familiar, but she couldn't pinpoint how. Was it one she'd seen in a report? As she strapped into her seat, steely blue eyes measured her up before turning his attention to lighting the Villa Clara cigar he’d pulled from one of the pockets of his vest. 

"Nice to meet you, Sergeant."

His voice was deep, rumbling, and it stirred something in her. She was no stranger to appreciating someone’s timbre, but this was something different. He seemed so familiar, she couldn’t place how, but she knew it. Intimately. And then the memory hit her – the bathroom stall. Five years prior, one night in a bar. The sheer chance of them meeting like this damn near improbable. Her stomach dropped. Jesus. His face was nearly recognizable beneath the facial hair that hadn't been there the first time they met. His voice had become more gruff, lower than she remembered. The cigar he was currently smoking gave a clear indication as to why. Swallowing down the embarrassment that threatened to burn at her cheeks as she looked at him, gauging his reaction to her name - if he recognized her the way she suddenly did him, he didn't show it.

"Good to meet you too, sir," she said. Her gaze fell to her hands, remembering how it felt when he had held them. Trying her damnedest not to look at him, she preferred to appear nervous over the mission and not the man who had suddenly become her commanding officer. 

Tugging at the tactical vest he wore, Price tilted his head back, puffing on his cigar and looking out the window as the helicopter began to move, the inside shaking as they lifted up off the ground. 

There was no backing out now.

Laswell passed her a tablet, and started giving her the brief. “That is Igor Zorokov, Russian oligarch and alleged trafficker. Weapons, drugs, information…people.” Rory’s eyes locked on the screen, scanning through images of the man. Older, blond, in relatively good shape. Not the type someone might assume as a master criminal upon first inspection. “He has ties around the globe, but his stronghold is in Eastern Europe. Supplying several military coups with funds and weapons, he’s a dangerous man with people at disposal in his back pocket, and we have reason to believe he’s funding terrorist activities.”

“And we’re investigating him? Or taking him out?” Rory needed to prepare for exactly the type of mission this was going to be. Recon was one thing, taking someone’s life was another. 

“Erring on the side of caution. The Russian government could easily sweep just how far his global reach is under the rug if he’s brought to light, especially since it’s been beneficial for them. We want to find out who he’s funding and put a stop to the pipeline he has through his many ventures.”

Rory hummed, muttering, “Putting a tourniquet on before cutting off the arm.” 

“Exactly." Price's voice cut through the roar of the engine. "First stop is Kastovia, have a friend who’ll meet us there and get us into Russia undercover.”

“Nikolai?” Laswell asked.

“Yeah.”

It was clear these two weren’t just casually paired together for the mission, there was a long-standing relationship. Trust. She certainly understood how being a soldier who just so happened to have a friend who could get into the places they normally couldn’t would be beneficial, having an American ally even more so. 

“I hate to be a bother, ma’am," Rory spoke up, "but I’m not exactly prepared.” She felt damn right naked. Her duffel was down in the red brick complex below that was steadily getting smaller and further away. Her gear, her weapons, all of it was disappearing out of view as she sat there in her fatigues.  

“No need to worry about that, Sergeant.” Price replied instead, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Nik’ll have us covered when we land.”

All she had to do now was sit back and relax (as best she could) and try not to let her mind stray too far afield as the memories flashed before her eyes of the man who sat six feet from her.

[inefekt]

Crux, Carina & the Magallanic Clouds at Stirling Ranges, Western Australia

Nikon d810a - 50mm - ISO 6400 - f/2.5 - Foreground: 7 x 30 seconds -  Sky: 28 x 30 seconds - iOptron SkyTracker - Hoya Red Intensifier filter

[justforbooks]

This is a book for readers of second world war history who like the Boy’s Own version of the conflict. The cast of characters could have stepped straight from a comic strip story. Yet the men of the SAS were real flesh and blood, “rogue heroes” as the title suggests. The organisation now famous for its derring-do, and as famously secretive, has opened its archive to the historian and journalist Ben Macintyre, so that he can produce the first authorised history of what the SAS did in the war.

Macintyre has made the most of the opportunity. The history needs scarcely any embellishment, though he tells it with flair: the simple facts of SAS activity make the “ripping yarns” of comic book heroes pale by comparison. The organisation was the brainchild of two officers posted to the war in Egypt, David Stirling and John “Jock” Lewes. Stirling was an awkward soldier, hostile to spit-and-polish and authority, charming, fun-loving and irreverent (“layer upon layer of fossilised shit” was how he described military bureaucracy). Bored by life in Cairo, he discussed with the ascetic, hard-working, serious-minded Lewes, his complete opposite in personality, the possibility of creating a unit of awkward men like himself, who wanted action, few rules and adventure in small hit-and-run assaults behind enemy lines. Astonishingly, Stirling persuaded the high command in Cairo that he could achieve something significant at low cost in men and materials. The chief of British deception in the desert war, Dudley Clarke, gave the unit its name. Already fooling the Italians with a bogus parachute unit, the First Special Air Service Brigade, he lent the name to Stirling, and the organisation has borne it ever since.

Macintyre uses the SAS war diary as the backbone of his narrative, and is candid about failure as well as the hard-earned successes. The SAS was an irregular unit, its members drawn from an extraordinary range of backgrounds – a spectacles salesman, a textile merchant, a tomato farmer, amateur boxer, and so on – with a range of motives to match. Some wanted excitement, some liked killing and made no pretence about it, some were escaping from their past, some were too eccentric for the ranks; all had to be fit, alert, crafty, ruthless if required and dedicated to the mission. Stirling was also aware that his outfit did not meet with approval in conventional military circles, which saw war as face-to-face, not behind the back. Churchill liked the force, and would no doubt have joined it had it existed in his youth. But through the campaign in North Africa, then Italy and Germany, the SAS had always to prove itself, in order to stave off disbandment.

The new unit nevertheless made a disastrous start and indeed had mixed fortunes throughout the war. The first operation, code-named “Squatter”, carried out while the handful of volunteers were still feeling their way, could not have gone more wrong. Poorly trained as paratroopers, the group nevertheless flew off into a desert storm trying to land at pre-planned dropping zones well to the rear of the enemy. They landed in the worst places, faced a Saharan downpour of biblical proportions, lost some of the troop to injury as they hit the ground, and were then unable to retrieve the parachuted supplies. With explosives so soaked they were worthless, uncertain about their whereabouts, short of food and water, the remnants of the original units made their way back to Egypt. Out of 55 men, 34 were killed, injured, captured or missing without a single achievement.

Macintyre makes the point that this was by no means the end of a madcap idea. Stirling recruited the Long Range Desert Group to take the SAS teams by Jeep or truck rather than risk any further parachute drops, and the second set of raids in December 1941 resulted in the destruction or disabling of 60 enemy aircraft. But Operation Bigamy, a series of raids against Benghazi shortly before the battle of El Alamein, was another disaster. It featured one of the most bizarre figures to emerge from the story: a Belgian textile merchant, Robert Melot. Fluent in Arabic, keen to get at the Germans, he volunteered for the SAS aged 47 as an intelligence officer. He used his range of Libyan contacts to glean information needed for the raids, but in this case Melot miscalculated. An Arab double agent alerted the Germans and Italians and the raids were a disaster. Once again a forlorn, bearded, hungry and damaged band straggled back to Cairo. Melot carried on his SAS career regardless, and died not from his many scrapes in battle, but from a Jeep accident on his way to a party in Brussels late in 1944.

The SAS came of age in the campaign in Italy, where it was used as a more conventional raiding party, the Special Raiding Service, under the command of Paddy Mayne following Stirling’s capture in Tunisia in late 1942. The Italian campaign was a particularly grisly one, and the SRS (with its core of SAS men) found collaboration with the partisans and rivalry with the Special Operations Executive (SOE) a challenge (unlike the SAS, the SOE always linked up with local resistance). Macintyre spares none of the details; the SAS fought a dirty war against an enemy they regarded as every bit as dirty. Prisoners were rare, but in return Hitler condemned irregular commando units to death if they were caught. Not all were killed by any means, but many were, just as the Germans killed all the other irregular, partisan forces ranged against them.

In October 1945 the army wound up the SAS and it continued to exist by subterfuge, a unit of war crimes investigators searching for evidence across Europe that SAS members had been murdered. In 1947, to meet the many crises of empire, the SAS was revived. What it did then and since can be guessed at, but until the postwar unit diaries are revealed, like the wartime diary used by Macintyre, the exact details will not be known.

What in the end did the SAS achieve in the war? Macintyre does not really say, leaving the narrative to speak for itself. It did not, as some of the book’s publicity has suggested, turn the tide of war. Its overall accomplishment, set beside those of the Commandos, or the SOE, the Chindits or other partisan groups, was strategically modest, whatever its tactical successes. But the SAS did bring to life the plucky, maverick, individualist hero of the comic strip, a very British way of making war. SAS: Rogue Heroes is a great read of wartime adventuring, in a long, grim war of attrition where adventure was hard to find.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Damage Gets Done - SAS Rogue Heroes x OC - Chapter 8

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 |-| Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Summary: Tension runs high as the SAS carries out a potentially disastrous raid on Benghazi

Relationships: L Detachment x Platonic!OC, eventual Reg Seekings x OC

Warnings: Language, descriptions of graphic violence, implied death, Randolph Churchill

Word Count: 4.3k

Tags: @20th-centu-fairy-girl @trenchenjoyer @dcyllom @footprintsinthesxnd

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Diana crouched down to eye level with the jeep's side mirror, squinting against the sun that reflected in the glass behind her as she did her best to tuck every last curl safely away beneath the headscarf she had shrouded herself in. Their raid on Benghazi was fast approaching, and it had been decided amongst the group that the easiest way to smuggle her into the city would be to dress her like a regular civilian, rather than attempt to explain away her military garb.

Once she had finished the task, pinning back one last curl that simply would not stay put on its own, she had moved to stand, but the sight of her own reflection gave her pause. It was rare that Diana remembered much of anything of her mother, but some days she looked so remarkably like her that it seemed to draw long-buried memories back to the surface. She had those same dark eyes, the same curve of the lips and point of the nose. She could almost half-remember sitting in her mother's lap as she put on her hijab each morning, the calming tones of her singing keeping the child from getting in the way. When she was herself, the similarities were hardly noticeable. But now that she dressed like her mother too, those brief, hard years were becoming visible again in the back of her mind, as if watching on through a veil.

"Hey," Jim Almond's voice rang out behind her. Springing upwards to resume her regular posture, she glanced at him with a welcoming smile. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Diana nodded assuringly. "Yeah, I just... I look like my mother." She grinned at the confession, and he couldn't help but return the smile. Jim squeezed her shoulder affectionately, and their heads both turned as Stirling's voice came from over by the well where he stood with Randolph Churchill. Since the Prime Minister's son had arrived, she had managed to avoid speaking to the man, but it appeared Stirling was not going to make it easy on her.

"You've been summoned, milady," Almonds teased, and she slugged him gently in the shoulder, kicking up sand as she marched over.

"Oi," Diana greeted, tipping an imaginary hat to Stirling as she rested a hip against the side of the well.

"Diana, it seems you haven't yet been introduced to Mr Randolph Churchill, here," David spoke. His tone was jovial, friendly, but she could tell he was teasing her, and sent him a sideways look as Churchill reached for her hand, pressing dry lips against the back of her palm. She did not attempt to disguise her grimace, especially as she heard Pat and Johnny chuckling at her discomfort from back by the truck.

"A pleasure," He greeted, maintaining his attempt at a charming smile even as he noticed her wiping the back of her hand against her trousers.

"Winston's boy, eh?"

"... The Prime Minister. Yes."

She shrugged. "Not my Prime Minister."

Randolph let out something between a huff and a laugh. "Oh, you didn't vote Labour, did you?"

Diana's brow raised as she lit one of the cigarettes in her pocket. "I'm Egyptian, Randy."

"Right, yes... Of course... You're a rather striking young lady, you know."

Stirling almost choked on the dirty water he had pulled from the well as he tried not to laugh, and she stomped hard on his foot, digging in her heel. "Yes. I do know. Is that all?" When neither of the men spoke, she nodded firmly, patting Stirling on the shoulder. "Wonderful exercise, thanks David."

Pat was still laughing at her as she returned to the others, his enjoyment only enhanced as she flipped him off, propping herself against the back of the lorry with her elbows.

"He liked you," Cooper teased, a boyish grin overtaking his expression as he jammed a fresh cartridge of bullets into his gun. Beside him, Reg didn't say a word, his brow furrowed, expression thunderous, the only sound coming from him the occasional indecipherable grumble.

"Fuck off," She sang, holding her cigarette between her teeth as she sifted through the bullets they had brought to fill the small pistol she had been given to conceal on her person. To go with her civilian costume, Sadler had acquired her own car - a creaky, unassuming thing with a bad paint job, but an almost brand-new engine that could get her out of a tight spot should the need arise. It was risky, to enter Benghazi alone, to separate herself from the rest of the group, but once inside the walls she would find them again, and finally receive a gun that was worth a damn.

Seekings had scarcely looked away from his weapons since the moment of her approach, checking and re-checking every gun and knife he had on his person as a permanent scowl etched his face. His hat was resting in the truck bed beside Diana, and she noticed, seizing it by the visor and planting it firmly onto his head, forcefully capturing his attention. A smile curled the corner of her lips, and he couldn't help but do the same, finally able to take in her new appearance up close. He missed her hair - the only part of her wild enough to reflect the spirit inside. She looked wrong without it, every inch hidden from the world.

"Chin up, soldier," She teased. Reg hated this plan. He hated it more than he'd ever hated any of Stirling's batshit insane ideas before.

They were putting Diana in danger. More danger than they ever had before. She would take her own car into Benghazi, alone, with nothing but a tiny pistol to protect herself and a cache of explosives hidden under her seat. They were relying on nothing but her pretty face and Arabic tongue to get her into a building none of the others would dare try to breach for fear of a bullet to the skull. And worst of all, she didn't seem to care.

"You're good on the plan?" He prodded.

Diana let out a chuckle at his uncharacteristic concern. "All good."

There was no certainty they'd all see each other again after tonight. And one question plagued Reg - one question he ached to know the answer to yet could never bring himself to ask. Did she remember that night in Stirling's flat? The night she had spent sitting on the hardwood floor in that wonderful dress, the night she had kissed his bruised knuckles and smiled at him and made him feel all kinds of confusing things. If only she cared as much for herself as he did.

In order to avoid any suspicion, Diana was ordered to pass the checkpoint into the port city an hour before the others - a measure taken to dispel any possible assumption that they may be arriving together, but an altogether risky move. If the others were intercepted at the border, she would be in Benghazi alone, forced to carry out her objective and escape without any backup whatsoever. In the Great War, General Hannigan had made his reputation through acts of reckless daring, and it seemed he had passed this lack of regard for self-preservation onto his daughter. A quiet fell over the small group as the time came for her departure, a duffel bag of explosives hidden in a compartment Sadler had hollowed out beneath her seat. Diana seemed unphased, quickly affirming their rendezvous point with Stirling, but the others watched on in grim silence, hesitant to even wish her good luck for fear of jinxing their fortunes. They all knew there was a chance that this could be the last time they were all together. It wasn't an impossibility. They'd lost Eoin. They'd lost Jock.

Tonight had the opportunity to ruin everything.

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The desert road unfurled itself before her, the wheels of the car kicking up sand as Diana streaked across the landscape, radio tuned to a local station as she sang off-key to an Arabic cover of a Billie Holiday song, occasionally interrupted by static from the terrible reception all the way out here.

It was not until the checkpoint came into view that she realised she was driving altogether much too fast, and the breaks let out a terrible shriek as Diana attempted to slow down, jostling the wooden barrier with the bonnet as she rolled to a clumsy stop. Now she remembered why Stirling had initially appeared so horrified at the prospect of letting her drive herself.

One of the soldiers marched up to her window, knocking harshly on the glass until she rolled it down to let him speak. He scolded her in a flurry of Italian that she only partially understood, and Diana attempted to thrust her forged papers at him, matching the man's irritated tone in her own rambling Arabic, spouting meaningless nonsense whenever she ran out of things to say once she as confident he didn't understand a word.

The soldier examined her papers, occasionally asking her questions as he peered closely at the writing. Diana could only decipher a few words here and there - certainly not enough to gauge the soldier's meaning - and so she continued her meaningless tirade in the hopes of moving things on.

"I really like this song!" She declared, brow furrowed, tone angered as she pointed sharply at the radio, the soldier's expression growing more confused by the minute as he attempted to decipher what the frustrated woman was yelling at him. "It's very good! But I'd like to get moving, I'm very hungry!"

"Cosa?" The soldier asked, still clutching her papers.

Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes, reaching out and tearing the document from his grip. "Is this really the best your lot could do? Fucking embarrassing really." His mouth hung open, gaping as he found himself helpless to decipher a word of her ranting. With a pointed gesture towards the barrier, she finally seemed to get through to the man, who hurriedly ordered for her to be let through.

Nodding to the soldier in mock appreciation, Diana cranked the radio back up to full volume as she passed, resuming her sing-along as she trundled towards Benghazi, taking extra care to regulate her usually reckless driving as she entered the pedestrian-littered streets. It wasn't entirely unheard of to see a woman like her driving alone here, but just unusual enough to ensure that, whenever she slowed down or stopped for traffic, she would hear a wolf whistle or jeer from some passer-by. It was nothing Diana hadn't heard before, but still, her grip on the steering wheel tightened with agitation each time.

Benghazi was littered with administrative buildings and headquarters for the Nazi and Italian forces, with guards at every entrance. This was not a problem. Diana didn't need an entrance. One of the key Italian admin buildings had a side wall facing a nearby alleyway, used almost exclusively by street vendors and tourists, when there were any. But there was not a guard in sight, for the wall had no doorways or windows that could be used for infiltration. Engine rumbling to a stop, she yanked the gearstick, pulling in to park along the side of the alleyway. Rummaging below her seat, Diana retrieved the explosives she had been given, concealing them in a small compartment she had sewn into the bottom of her handbag, hidden beneath all manner of day-to-day belongings.

The only explosive she left behind was a primed Lewes bomb, prying open a loose seam in the driver's seat cushion with her fingernails and burrowing it deep inside among the stuffing. Worst case scenario, the car would be removed by guards hoping to keep the perimeter clear, and provide a helpful distraction come nightfall.

Best case scenario, this explosion would rip a hole straight through the building, killing dozens.

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The moment their truck pulled to a stop, Reg was on the lookout, his gaze scouring their surroundings for any sign of Diana among the sparse, moving crowds of civilians.

"Hey," Almonds hushed voice reached out to him as they clambered out of the truck bed. "She's not coming. Stirling told her not to be seen with us until it's time to go." Reg almost questioned this - questioned why, of all things, Jim knew he was searching for Diana. But it struck him as best not to ask, best not to come face to face with his own weakness that apparently everyone could see. This wasn't the time for it.

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Diana had spent her afternoon in a nearby cafe, sipping on herbal tea to calm the beating of her nervous heart as she waited for nightfall, pretending to read a book as she watched the soldiers walking around in her peripherals. Anyone who had paid enough attention would have noticed that she hadn't turned the page in almost half an hour, but there were hundreds of women in Benghazi who looked just like her. She was utterly unremarkable, utterly unworthy of notice. The disguise was working wonders.

But darkness was falling. And the longer she stayed, the more suspicious her presence would become. Ensuring her headscarf was still on properly, Diana departed, shoving her book back in her bag as it covered the concealed explosives within. She prayed the carefulness with which she handled the bag had not been too obvious as she made her departure, slipping away down a nearby side street.

The car was still there. She made a mental note as she passed, tossing a crumbled paper bag containing a Lewes bomb into a nearby trashcan, one of many lining the back wall of another administrative building. Laying individual charges was never going to do a significant amount of damage, but it would certainly provide ample distraction. If the guards were too busy chasing after exploding bins and cars, they would miss the real targets.

She wanted a cigarette, but frankly, the idea of smoking one so close to a bag full of bombs made her nervous. Diana was just about to throw out her matchbook as a precaution when a lone guard turned the corner towards her, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder, gaze pinned on her from the moment he entered the space.

"What are you doing?" He called, eyeing the matches in her hand with suspicion. His Italian accent was heavy, but his English wasn't half bad. He thought she was a local - that was good, he was searching for some in-between dialect to bridge the language barrier between himself and the Libyans.

"Smoke break," Diana replied simply, trying to maintain the accent of her mother tongue even as she spoke her second language. It was difficult - she had been taught Arabic by Egyptians and English by the Brits, it was not a line she was used to blurring.

The guard flicked his wrist, beckoning her closer as he reached into his breast pocket for a proper lighter. As she plucked a cigarette from the battered box in her bag, he held the flame up to her, just far away enough that she had to lean in towards his chest, dipping her chin to meet it. She could feel his eyes on her, tracing every inch of her face and quickly travelling downwards. His hand reached up, knuckle brushing lightly against her cheek. Diana felt the urge to recoil, nausea dredging up the pitifully sparse contents of her stomach. Instead, she pulled herself back up to full height, a pleasant smile curling her lips as she took a puff of smoke.

"Pretty girl like you shouldn't be out here alone," The guard tutted, a glint of lust in his eye that made her want to vomit straight onto his boots. "Anything could happen."

She let out an easy laugh, shaking her head slightly. "Well, then it's a good thing I have your gun, isn't it?"

He paused for a moment, head tilting to the side as he squinted in confusion. "...What?"

Diana's hand shot out at his face, not even pausing to drop the cigarette, its burning butt scorching the flesh of the soldier's cheek as her fingernails met his eyes, scratching painfully at his corneas. Before the man could scream, her free hand, balled into a tight fist, punched him sharply in the windpipe, and the guard choked for breath, staggering backwards as blood began to run down his face from where her nails had taken chunks out of his eyelids.

Blinded and winded, he groped for his rifle, but Diana seized it in an instant, a kick to the stomach sending him toppling backwards onto the ground. If she had shot him, she would've drawn half the guards in the port. Besides, this was more fun.

"Fascist fuck," She muttered, tearing off her headscarf, curls erupting outwards like a lion's mane as she balled up the fabric, stuffing it down into the guard's mouth so he couldn't speak. With the pocket knife tucked in her boot, she sliced off one of the straps on her bag, using the long strip of fabric to bind the man's hands behind his back. The guard whimpered helplessly, sounds muffled by the fabric that he found himself unable to spit out as his feet lashed out, kicking wildly but never landing a blow, his vision still blurred and useless in the dark.

Diana manoeuvred the thrashing, whining man into a nearby alcove, propping him up against the backdoor of a local restaurant. Delivering a swift, sharp blow to the head, the guard fell unconscious, and she was free to leave his limp body for someone else to find once she was long gone.

But now there was a problem. Her disguise was ruined - her headscarf gone, bag noticeably torn, blood staining her fingernails. A wad of spit was enough to clean most of the visible dirt from her hands, and she realised she had little choice but to get rid of her bag. Carefully retracing her steps back towards the car she had abandoned, Diana tossed the entire cache of explosives into the trunk and made a run for it. Perhaps multiple distractions were off the table for tonight, but this distraction was certainly about to be a big one.

Tousling her hair and undoing the top few buttons of her shirt, exposing a sideways view of her cleavage, she felt satisfied with her new disguise. If she couldn't pass as someone's dutiful housewife, she could at least do her best to blend in with the local prostitutes.

God this was humiliating.

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Reg and the others were waiting impatiently behind a nearby car, anxiously watching Stirling and Churchill approach as soldiers swarmed their truck, which had - until now - been their only means of escape. David approached the group, strolling casually so as not to betray his agitation, although his brow began to furrow as he surveyed the group.

"Where's Diana?" He whispered, leaning in close. Reg thought he might vomit.

"She's supposed to be here?" Riley hissed. One by one, their expressions began to fall with concern.

"I told her to meet us at the rendezvous, she's supposed to-" Stirling had gone from a state of panic to one of confusion, trailing off as his gaze locked itself upon something behind the others. Reg turned to follow his eye, brow raising as he spotted Diana across the street, purposely avoiding meeting their gaze as she strolled through the crowded space. But something had changed since that morning - she looked different. She looked good.

There was no time to express relief, no time to calm the thumping of his heart as Stirling ushered the group out from their rendezvous spot, marching across the street. They were making it up as they went along now - the most dangerous way to be. But she didn't follow, simply stood in a nearby doorway, leant casually against the wall.

"Seekings, go over and pretend to chat her up," Stirling ordered under his breath. Reg suddenly realised what was going on. "Get her over here with us, now."

Seekings slipped away from the group, taking extra care to look at ease, confident, not like he was following orders. His eyes met Diana's, and he stepped up onto the doorstep beside her, the pair standing close. "...You look different," He pointed out.

"It's been an... eventful afternoon," She explained. As she spoke, she maintained an easy, flirtatious smile, ensuring that anyone passing by would still believe she was a prostitute trying to chat up a client, despite the words being exchanged. Reg felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, turning his face redder by the second.

"We've gotta go," He said, and she nodded, following alongside him as they moved to rejoin the others. He felt her gently nudge his side, and slug his arm casually over her shoulder. They would have to keep up this pretence until the very last minute, until they were somewhere free from any prying eyes. But Reg couldn't even pretend to dislike the position he now found himself in, her body slotted against his in a way that just felt right, her shoulder somehow comfortable as it dug into his side. Her hair blew gently with each exhale he took, and he was almost too distracted to pay attention to the others, watching her instead of the guards Johnny was attempting to negotiate their way past. Reg couldn't even understand Italian - in his mind, this was a much better use of his time.

It seemed Diana had realised this distraction, for a sharp poke to the ribs alerted Reg that they were moving again, sauntering past the men after whatever ruse Cooper had concocted had worked. "Start paying attention," She muttered, beginning to smirk.

But there had been no time to formulate a retort before an earth-shattering explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet, a great ball of fire turning the sky red as a building burst into flames a few streets over. It was bigger than the blast from any single Lewes bomb, and Reg raised a brow, looking down at Diana who had begun to cringe slightly. Stirling turned to stare pointedly at her.

"I had to improvise," She shrugged, and Reg almost laughed before his own charges exploded somewhere behind them, and the group broke out into a sprint, making a wild dash for the nearest side road that could potentially promise a means of escape.

The first explosion had been so huge that almost every guard in the port had began running towards it, and once the other bombs went off as well, the place was plunged into chaos, no one sure of which crises they should tend to first.

"Where's your gun?" Stirling hissed as she ran alongside him.

"Like I said, change of plan," Diana huffed, catching a pistol as he tossed it over to her, the group crouching around the corner of a nearby building to evade the scattered guard force.

"Well, y'know," Almonds shrugged. "At least the bombs worked."

She let out a breathless laugh, but no sooner had she stopped running was she compelled to start again, dashing towards a jeep Reg had managed to commandeer.

"You got it?" Diana asked, a grin spreading across her face as he touched two wires together and the engine burst to life, rumbling steadily as they dogpiled hurriedly inside. They trundled away at a regular pace, so as not to draw attention, but it may as well have been a hundred miles an hour for how quickly her heart beat inside her ribcage, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, feeling as if it were the first full breath she had taken since the moment she had first arrived in Benghazi.

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Stirling's car ahead had burst through the checkpoint they had passed that morning in a flurry of bullets, picking up speed, the jeeps going faster and faster by the second until they were streaking across the desert. Johnny had been standing atop the back of David's jeep, mowing down the nazis with his machine gun as they passed. As they passed back into safe territory, he turned back to face the second car, grinning elatedly, and Diana replied with a whoop, laughing at their success. She had not quite realised how scared she had been to die tonight until the relief of surviving had settled in, and now she was euphoric, the desert wind whipping her hair wildly in all directions.

Reg had the wheel, unable to tear his eyes from the road for how fast they were travelling, but he began to grin as Riley started singing a raucous drinking song, Diana and Jim joining along by the second verse. Almonds had taken off his hat, jokingly attempting to plant it on her head, but she let out a yelp as the wind caught its brim, tearing it clean off as the hat vanished into the night. They laughed at this too, everything suddenly hilarious as they were consumed by the joy of victory. The jeep's side mirror had been jostled in their hurried attempt to climb in, and rather than reflecting the road behind, Reg could see her - smile visible even in the darkness, both hands trying in vain to hold down her hair against the desert wind.

It may have been the greatest night of his life.

[batrachised]

Hi! I'm so excited that there's a Blue Castle book club happening, it's one of my favorite L. M. Montgomery books and also one of my favorite books of all time and seeing all the posts have made me so happy! I'm planning to reread Blue Castle via audiobook so I can catch up soon! :D

Also, I would love to know your thoughts on Jane of Lantern Hill - I love Jane, and the ending where her parents get back together always makes me cry 💜

I also loved your Blythe kids ranking post, my favorite is Rilla but Walter is a close second, and I have such a soft spot for Rilla/Kenneth.

Anyway, thanks for listening to my rambling, your blog is amazing and I'm thrilled to see more l m montgomery/blue castle fans come out of the woodwork because of the book club!

Oh my gosh...someone asking me my opinion of Jane of Lantern Hill? Giving me an opportunity to talk about my FAVORITE LM Montgomery book??? A GIFT

First of all, about the blue castle book club: WELCOME!! I'm excited to read your thoughts as we approach these next chapters!! It is also one of my favorite LM Montgomery books and favorite books of all time, so I'd like to commend you on your taste. 😌 Rilla and Walter absolutely deserve the top two spots in the Blythe kid ranking as well!

I've written a post about Jane before, but I'll happily repeat some of my thoughts here.

I think Jane of Lantern Hill was one of the last LM Montgomery books I read. After reading so many, you develop expectations about who the main character of an LM Montgomery novel is. Without fail - Anne, Emily, the Story Girl, Rilla, Pat, Valancy Stirling- all of them are dreamy, sensitive, and poetic. This definitely ranges - Valancy is more acerbic than Anne, who is gentler than Emily, who is less ditzy than Rilla - but I think it's safe to say these are the hallmarks of an LM Montgomery main character (excluding short stories - never forget alexander abraham).

Jane is a wee bit of an outlier in this respect. While Valancy pores over John Foster, and Emily and Anne write poetry, and the Story Girl keeps audiences spellbound--Jane is noted to be brilliant in math. She definitely possesses many of the hallmarks listed above, from hating ugly houses to having a flair for reciting, but Jane has a hard practicality that isn't quite as present in the others. Unlike Anne, for example, Jane is very down to earth. That's why she's probably (okay this changes like every day but still) my favorite LM Montgomery heroine; I find her competence and sense appealing.

Now that I think about it, the book shares a lot in common with the Blue Castle. Much like Valancy, Jane is miserable at the beginning of her book, and much like Valancy, the book focuses on her finding a safe space and making it her own in a way. However, if The Blue Castle is romantic, Jane of Lantern Hill is cozy. It is extremely re-readable to me because it is the epitome of cozy. Jane also has to learn to stand on her own two feet and gain her own autonomy, but on its on a homier scale than Valancy's is.

Andrew Stuart is also one of my favorite male characters LM Montgomery has ever written. He holds strong in the top three with Walter and Barney every time. He's technically (on the most technical of technicalities) a romantic interest, but the lens of the book is Jane, and so the lens on Andrew is as a father - and this, this is where the book really shines.

Also, as I've written before, Jane of Lantern Hill is about father-daughter relationships in the most heartwarming way. Jane of Lantern Hill is a love story, but it's the love between a father and his daughter. Andrew Stuart, for all his flaws, is an exceedingly likeable character. Jane--and through Jane, the reader--feels safe with him, and it comes through on almost every page. I think this is what makes the book so cozy. It's the story of a little girl who lives a very cold and lonely life, only to find someone who loves her very much and in that someone, a home.

[akallabeth-joie]

Barney's Timeline

Now that the book club's almost over and spoilers a non-issue, it's time to assemble what I can of Barney's timeline. All dates are going to be counted from the start of the story in late May 19xx, aka "years before/after story starts". Citations are by chapter.

-35 years: Bernard Snaith Redfern is born in small Quebec village, to a failed veterinarian and a school-teacher. [28]

-33 years: Barney's mother dies [38] and he moves with his father to Montreal. [42]

-25 years: Barney's father becomes a millionaire. [42]

-24 years: Barney goes off to school at age 11. [42]

-13-17* years: Barney attends McGill for four years [38, 42]

[While it is specified that he attended for four years, Barney's age is not given. For this purpose, I'm assuming the common range of 18-22 years.]

-12 years: Barney meets Ethel Travers. [42]

-11 years: Barney gets engaged to Ethel Travers, but ends the engagement a few months later when he overhears her badmouthing him/his family. [38, 42]

-10 years: Barney leaves Montreal [38] for two years in the Yukon [18, 38, 42]

-6-8 years: For the next three years, Barney travels "everywhere", sending notes to his father from the Klondike, England, South Africa, and China. Later remarks hint that he also stopped in southern Spain, Italy, and Uzbekistan. [18, 38, 42, 43]

-6 years: Barney's first book as "John Foster" is published. [42]

-5 years: Barney arrives in Muskoka, buys the cabin, and at some point befriends Abel & Cissy Gay. [6, 42]

-2 years: Barney supports Cissy during her illness, bringing her gifts of fruit and flowers. [18]

-1 year: Barney grins at Valancy Stirling while fixing his car on the Muskoka Road. [6]

0: Barney meets Valancy properly while she's caring for Cissy. He takes her on a few dates, and then accepts her proposal, leading to a year of them living in the Mistawis cabin, where they appreciate nature and fall in love. [17-end]

+1 year: Barney reveals his full name (and backstory) to Valancy; and decides to resume living in a society & traveling the world. [43]

[coffeenuts]

Summer Milky Way at the Stirling Ranges, Western Australia by Trevor Dobson https://flic.kr/p/2o9g1os