#and that did take a toll

[partysystem]

edit: this is primarily addressing minor systems!! any system can be put in danger by doing this, but minors are especially at risk.

this point has probably been made 700 times already but can we please stop normalizing putting every crumb of alter information into your intros/descriptions. i'm really tired of seeing people list their trauma holders & let their littles roam free online & minors listing their sexual protectors publicly, PLEASE stop putting targets on you. yeah your intro or pk description might look pretty but someone is going to take advantage of that information eventually and/or publicly blast you.

^ this also applies to triggers btw, even positive ones. you may think you're preventing something, but if you tell the internet not to do something then they're just gonna do it more, especially if your triggers are more obscure/"weird".

i say this as someone who used to do all of this too, i thought it was proving a point and showing the fakeclaimers that i really AM traumatized!! yeah no it doesn't work like that. don't try to prove yourself to people who will never listen to you, protect yourself please.

[writeitinsharpie]

ever think about the great sect madams of the generation before?

about madam yu, the violet spider, one of few in her generation to earn a title (even her husband was only ever sect leader. even wen ruohan was never regarded by a title other than sect leader wen). about yu ziyuan, about what she was like before years of jealousy and envy twisted her to only her most bitter parts? about the girl who was the third daughter of a sect leader, and then the wife of another, and yet all of her immense martial power meant nothing to the society around her.

about madam jin, known only by her title and never given a name or a natal sect, who was still somehow the closest friend to yu ziyuan. the mother of the sect heir and yet a wife who can do nothing but stand by as her husband dishonors their marriage over and over again.

about madam lan, the murderess locked up for her crimes, never seeing a trial and dying alone, only allowed to see her children once a month. who was she before she was the wife of the lan sect leader? was there a reason she killed the lan elder? did she want that marriage to qingheng-jun? did she even want the children she was kept from?

about the madams nie and wen, who only exist by implication, by the knowledge that their children exist and therefore so must they. about how so little is even implied about them?

[dubiousdisco]

ingrid, sweetie, i'm so sorry

[eurekq]

I get that people want an enemy in every situation but idk why it's so hard to just accept that people like jk rowling will see anything and find a way to make it about their vitriolic ideology. People cry after losing olympic challenges all the time. Carini in particular was crying because in losing she failed to keep a promise to her recently deceased father and also because she had been hit in the nose, which will make literally anyone on planet earth tear up (a totally legal hit afaik. just one that produces an unavoidable reaction). She admitted she had been wrong in not shaking khelifs hand and apologized. She said that if she were to see her again she would give her a hug. Like I don't know I feel like there are more productive targets to focus on. Yeah she acted shitty and unsportsmanlike in a single emotional moment; this was coopted and her words were mistranslated without her knowledge. Something can have bad consequences without it being a deliberately calculated evil mastermind move. In the meanwhile at the Olympics: did you know that the netherlands sent a man convicted of raping a 12 year old to compete? That's fucking insane to me but I guess it does make sense. They allowed Israel to compete after all

[brasiliangp]

Week 2: Mediums and Hards - Textures & 90s retro

@f1blrcreatorsfest week 2

(insp./insp./insp./insp./insp.)

[accio-victuuri]

yibo-official update

[nobodyspecialhereblog]

IT'S DONE, artfight #2. holy flip.

remind me to check the brushes again next time.

Character is Azrael and belongs to @la-di-da-la-di-dee-die

Bonus:

[hellishgayliath]

I hope you're not too down on your luck & that all things work out for you.

(not sure about you, but I am not really ne that likes to be hugged when feeling negative & wanted to be sure for you to! So head pats)

Thank you Moon head pats will do just nicely ;; <3

This whole week has just felt iffy and off to me, the latter half of today felt worse. Idk if its depression(cuz it sure has been a while since i felt that) or my trouble with sleeping or if I'm just dissociating again but i do feel like im having some sort of emotional disconnect with a lot of stuff lately. It's just been all so blehhhhh ＼(;´□｀)/

[chaiaurchaandni]

[itwoodbeprefect]

i'm two and a half episodes into a soap opera (what else is new) and have already been reduced to a sobbing wreck over this sibling relationship (that. that's new.)

[rejisol]

A sketch-not-really-a-sketch of my tav Nio at the start of Act 1 and end of Act 2

[thisismeracing]

hi friend, you still have the potential to be sued here in the US, even if you’re not using images. That’s a big part of why authors likes Anna Todd, scrubbed After (with all references to Harry’s name) from the internet when she started charging for it and before any publication would take an interest. (Before anyone comes for me, I’m sure the original has been saved by some third part somewhere. This is the internet after all. But the point remains if she were to be sued, she is able to claim that she did her due diligence by removing any and all content with any reference to Harry Styles from the internet BEFORE she received any payment.) The US is currently starting to crack down on copyright and intellectual property infringement. In large part due to the fact that so many people have received huge payouts over the last ten years. Unfortunately they’re not choosing to go after the ones that have actually gotten rich from the issue. And while the drivers might not care. Their management most certainly will. If you’re choosing to charge for your fiction it might be best to at the very least change names so you might have some form of deniability.

this was an interesting ask, thanks for the heads up again!

I'm not trying to go against your word, but rather wondering about the topic myself because it seems to me it's a huge gray area, so feel free to reach me on my private messages or on anon again if you want. But speaking about Anna Todd, technically she could still be sued even after scrubbing Harry's name from the story because there was still proof on the internet that it was a story about him, if we're talking about defamation it doesn't need to involve the monetization aspect, it's still defamation without it. This would mean that ANY RPF fanfiction is illegal and could be sued (which is not necessarly the case because theres the whole fair use thing).

We're talking about huge payouts, but I'm getting less than fifty dollars a month with Patreon lol would their team really come for me (a poor grad student) on behalf of a billionaire for getting less than fifty dollars a month to help pay school and medical bills? this would need a huge pr work too to make them seem good after doing something so crazy like this.

Talking about defamation, let's say I change names, but this Tumblr would still be up and everything else would easily show that it's about pilot X, this could still be considered illegal because you can tell who it is about. The reason why nobody comes for rpf is because 1) the money people are talking about is just a few bucks most of the time, and 2) it's exactly this real people's FICTION, there's not much to talk about defamation of a worldwide artist when the content you're sharing is for a nich of less than one hundred people, it's not reasonable. I haven't found a past decision about something similar in the US court, if there is, please send it in, but other than that it's a huge speculation thing in my head, which only a judge could clarify.

Patreon and monetizing fanfiction is quite common in fandoms like Chris Evans', for example, and I haven't seen anything legal come from it yet. again because it's unreasonable for those artists to go after their own fans for taking less than a hundred dollars in content that clearly sets a fictional character that just happens to look and have the same name as them because more often than not it's set in an alternative universe.

[kukkakisu]

Sometimes brain is mean to you. It says things that aren't true. Maybe they are things that you have heard before from someone else. Little seeds that have been planted in your brain, that have grown to cover up the voice of reason. Sometimes they are hard to get rid of. Like weeds. Invasive species that take root deeply and refuse to leave, taking up all of your space. It's difficult to thrive. But even so, it's not impossible. Hiss at them every time they whisper something that isn't true. Scratch at the vines that try to sneak up around you. What is in the past might still haunt you, but don't let it hurt you. Fight it. Bite it. Outgrow it. Take back the space they once took from you and live.

[paperclipfanatic]

Unconditional

(Rant/Analysis in tags)

[rosesradio]

.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The Tolling of the Bells

2018 31 Days of Ficmas, day 19 - Bells

@doctorroseprompts

31 Days of Ficmas masterlist

Summary: A TenxRose WW1 AU, featuring a dashing but injured pilot, a cynical war widow, and the church bells that echo through their story.

Rated M - sexual themes

AO3

---

March, 1918

Letting the last notes of the recessional linger, Rose lifted her fingers from the organ keys and let her body sag.  The church bells began the now painfully familiar funeral tolling, almost but not quite overwhelming the wails of the latest war widow in the village.

Closing the cover on the organ she gathered her things, tiptoeing halfway down the steps from the loft to peer around the corner.  The last stragglers from the funeral were trailing out, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, and she slipped out behind them, flinching at the first drops of icy rain.  A fumble in her bag produced an umbrella that refused to open; she was so caught up in the struggle that she startled violently at a voice.

“Did you do the music?”

The umbrella snapped open, and she raised it over her head before looking at the speaker.  He was a young man, perhaps thirty, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches.  The pristine army uniform said it was a war wound, but he wasn’t a local – she’d never seen him before, and she knew everyone, as daughter of the pub owner.

“Yes, I did,” she answered his question, meeting his eyes – brown, sparkling but sad, and world-weary.  Then again, most Brits’ were, after three years of losing their young men in trenches in France.  “Did you know him?”

He shook his head, shifting with a wince.  “No.  But I’m staying at Highclere, and heard them talking about the funeral… Seemed I ought to attend, I suppose.”

Of course he was a patient at Highclere – the local estate-turned-hospital.  Earlier in the war when it was first set up she’d volunteered there; until her compassion ran out, much like her patience and good nature, and she realized the best way she could support the injured troops was by staying away from them.  “That was noble of you.”  She eyed his crutches, which sank in the mud with every exhale, and frowned.  “How do you expect to return to the castle?”

“The chauffeur will return at fourteen-hundred.  Er, do you have a recommendation of where I could wait?”

“The local pub’s a five-minute walk,” Rose nodded in the general direction.  “I’m actually headed there – may I assist you?”  In truth, she’d rather be alone, but it seemed the right thing to do.

“I’d hate to impose,” the man hesitated, “but that would be very kind of you.”

Resigned to helping him, Rose ducked beneath his arm, smoothly replacing one wooden crutch with herself, tucking the now-extraneous aid under her arm.  “You’ll have to hold the umbrella,” she informed him, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him.  “Ready?”

-

The normally five-minute walk took at least twenty, and by the time they stumbled into the pub both were soaked to the bone despite her umbrella.  Her father, quick on his feet as always, was by their side before the door shut behind them, helping take some of the soldier’s weight off of Rose and guiding them to the nearest table.

Settling across from the man, Rose was concerned at his pale coloring, but her father was already returning to them with two pints of ale.

“Thank you,” the man muttered gratefully, lifting it to his mouth and taking several large gulps, his color quickly returning.  “You’re terribly kind, and you have my gratitude.”  In the relative quiet of the pub his accent came through clearer than before, making Rose’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re Scottish.”

“Aye.”  He hesitated.  “Is that an issue?”

“Of course not,” her father said warmly before she could open her mouth – not that she would have disagreed.  “Peter Tyler, owner.  Welcome to the Swan and Rose.”

The man offered him his hand.  “Lieutenant James Smith, RFC.  I’m currently convalescing at Highclere, as of last month.”

“A pilot?  God above, you’re brave.  Planes fly over occasionally as part of a training mission, and I don’t see how they don’t fall out of the air.  The concept’s fascinating, but I’ll keep my feet on the ground.”

The Lieutenant nodded, glancing at Rose, who smiled wryly, shaking her head at Pete’s glib comment.  “I’m Rose.”  She looked meaningfully at her father.  “He’s to be picked up by the estate chauffeur in a few hours – perhaps he might like a bite to eat?”

Nodding, Pete hustled off to find a menu, and Rose grinned at her impromptu lunch partner.  “So, whereabouts in Scotland are you from?”

“Outside of Glasgow.”  He paused as Pete returned with two menus, waiting until he’d gone again to continue.  “All my life I asked God to take me from there.  Only when I thought I’d die as a pilot did I realize perhaps I should’ve been more specific.”

She laughed.  “I understand, and know the sentiment – if not quite to that extreme.  I’d often wish, working here, that so many of the young men I knew would leave me be… I never meant so permanently.”  Her humor fled, thinking of her graduating class – most of the men had either enlisted or been conscripted, and only a few had returned alive; injured, but alive.  The rest were still somewhere on the continent, struggling to survive.

The pilot, James, made a noise of agreement before saying decisively, “If it’s all the same, I’d rather talk about life – death and dying and war is all anyone mentions up at Highclere, and frankly, too dreary for a conversation with such a beautiful woman.”

Rose blushed, taken by surprise.  “That’s kind of you to say, and I concur a change in tone and topic appropriate.”  Not that I can think of anything that doesn’t include one of those items at the moment.  “D’you have family, back in Glasgow?”

“Not anymore.  Only child, both parents gone.  A cousin just outside of London, but that’s all.  If I’m ever a free man again I’ll probably go to be near her, I suppose.  If I don’t find anywhere better to be.”

“I’m also an only child,” she shared.  “Some extended family as well.  What do you intend to do, once you’re ‘a free man’ again?”

“Travel.”  His eyes lit up.  “I’d love to see France – real France, not the dirty, miserable hell-on-Earth it is now.  Stroll in Paris.  Eat in Rome.  Two years ago I’d have said Moscow as well, but with the revolution… I’m starting to think going to America might be the only way to escape the ravages of war, at least for a bit, once it’s all done.”

“I’d love to see New York,” Rose gushed, leaning forward on the table.  “Or the Middle West and cowboys.  Mountains.  Los Angeles!  Or Australia.  The savannahs of Africa.  I want to see it all.”

-

By the time they’d returned to the church and were waiting for the Highclere chauffeur, Rose felt as though she’d known him her entire life.  They’d laughed and chatted easily, and she’d found herself sharing dreams she didn’t know she had, or had forgotten, in the overwhelming feeling that the war would never end, and life would never return to normal.

“I had a wonderful afternoon,” the lieutenant said earnestly, as the car came into view down the road.  “Thank you.  I haven’t enjoyed such conversation in… months, if not years.  Possibly ever.”

“So did I,” Rose said shyly, folding her hands in front of her to keep from fiddling them.  “I haven’t laughed so much in ages.”

He nodded, staring at the approaching car, and said with a would-be casual air, “Enough to repeat the experience?”

“Well, you know where to find me now,” she demurred.  “Come see me any time.”

The car pulled up then, the chauffeur jumping out to help James and another waiting soldier in.  Once he was settled Rose moved to the window next to him, and he met her eye.  “I will.”  His voice was heavy with promise, and it sent a thrill through her.

“I’ll be waiting.”

-

He did just that; at least twice a week he’d appear in the pub during the morning lull, each time healthier than the last, and they would spend hours chatting and giggling together, tucked in the semi-private corner booth to get some distance from her father’s watchful eye.

Rose wasn’t ashamed to admit, at least to her pillow, that she was quickly falling in love with the handsome pilot.  He was earnest and eager, to tell her his stories and to hear hers.  They had much in common, including their sense of humor and mischief, and after six weeks, Rose was ready to admit to him her feelings.

Wiping once more at the bar, waiting for the tinkle of the bell to announce his presence, the joyous sound finally came and she spun to see him – standing tall and proud, finally free of his crutches, but looking terribly, terribly sad.

Did someone die? was her first thought, before a worse, more likely scenario presented itself.

“You’re getting sent back to the front.”

“I am.”  He didn’t try to hide it, and all of the happiness they’d stolen over the last weeks vanished from her, leaving behind a physical ache in her chest.

“When?”

“Two days.”

She moved without thinking, throwing herself into his arms, and he hugged her tightly to him.  It was their first embrace, and she committed the moment to memory.  “I’m sorry.”

“No more than I am.”

Lips pressed gently against her hair, then her temple, and she squeezed her eyes closed, commanding the tears to return to their origin.

Time had no meaning as they swayed gently together, until a deliberate cough broke them apart.  A glance over her shoulder showed her father look pointedly at them and the glass door they stood in front of, and reluctantly pulling back, she guided James to their booth.

“Rose-”

“I-”

They started at the same time, cutting themselves off before laughing softly, Rose swiping at her nose as she sniffled.  “Go on.”

He stared at her, taking in what were surely red eyes and flushed cheeks, and said, “Marry me.”

“What?”

He looked as stunned at the words as she felt, but swallowing, he repeated, “Marry me.  Be my wife.  When the war is won and I am free, I’ll come back and get you, and we can travel the world.  I’ll take you anywhere you want for a delayed honeymoon – Los Angeles, New York, I’ll take you to the bloody moon if that’s what you want.  Say you’ll be mine.  Say you’ll wait for me.”

It was more that she’d ever dreamed of, and pressing a hand to her heart, Rose tried to steady herself.  “I…”

“Is that a yes?”

Licking her lips, she thought of the one thing she’d never told him, wondered if it would make a difference.  “That depends on what you say next after I tell you what I must.”

His brow furrowed, and she reached out a trembling hand to brush at a loose tuft of hair.  “You’re not already married, are you?”

“Not exactly.”  Rose let out a deep breath.  “Yes, I am- well, was- married.  I’m a widow, as of three years ago.”

He looked stunned, staring at her, excuses and equivocations bubbling to her lips but held back, waiting for his reaction.

“Because of the war?”

“What?”

“You’re a war widow?”

“Yes.  Well, sort of.”  Rose sighed.  “Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing.  Yes, Jimmy and I- my husband- were married shortly after he enlisted.  We had three days together before he got on the train.  Only, upon arrival at the camp, he signed his papers, got his haircut and uniform, and took a shortcut across a field – which turned out to be the target practice at the shooting range.”  She snorted.  “The moron didn’t make it an hour in the army before he died.  It’s humiliating – so many of my classmates have lost husbands bravely, at the Somme, or Verdun- mine got himself shot by friendly fire at training camp.”  Shaking her head at the memory, she gave him a wry smile.  “Are you sure you want to marry a woman with such atrocious taste?”

James stared at her in silence, long enough for her smile to slip, before he said, “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I agree.”

“I’m not sure it’s appropriate, how much comfort I’m taking in how low your standards are, in terms of husbands.  Surely I can’t be any worse.”

Her breath caught.  “You’ll still have me?”

“If you, me.”  A brilliant smile spread across his face.  “Will you?”

“Of course!”

A throat cleared, and they looked up to see Pete standing in front of them, arms crossed.  “Question for me?” he gave James a challenging glare, who swallowed in response.

“Sir…”  Gently freeing his hand from Rose’s, James stood, snapping to attention.  “I would like to marry your daughter.”

“I won’t have her moving to Scotland.”

“No, sir.”  James glanced back at her.  “Perhaps London, if she’s willing, and a visit to Scotland, but England’s fine with me, so far as a residence.”

The two men eyed each other up, Pete’s expression stern and unwavering.  To James’ credit he held up well, though his Adam’s apple gave his nerves away.

Rose waited, heart in her throat, until her father’s gaze flickered to her; she nodded, smiling reassuringly, and his expression broke into a grin.

“Jackie!  Come congratulate your son-in-law-to-be!”

A shriek rang out from the kitchen as Rose burst into laughter, sliding out from the booth as James- her fiancé- all but melted in relief.

Amidst the cheering at chatter from the few patrons in the pub and her ecstatic parents, Rose took James’ hand, smiling up at him.  “I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

His eyes, already warm, brightened further, his pleased smile growing even wider.  “Quite right, too,” he teased, laughing when she nudged him.  “I love you, too.”

-

Pulling back from their uniting kiss, their guests cheered as the wedding bells rang out.  Grasping each other’s hand tightly, James in his pilot’s uniform, Rose in her Sunday best, they turned to face them together, both beaming as they started back down the aisle, out into beautiful sunshine.

Ducking through the shower of rice, they stopped at the end of the path to smile for the photographer.

“Reception at the pub in twenty minutes,” her father called from somewhere behind them, and they turned to watch the guests- most of the village, really- immediately head there.

Rose shook her head, unable to wipe the smile off her face and she looked up at her handsome new husband.  “We’ve always been a very popular family,” she said dryly, making him laugh.

“I can see why,” he replied warmly, pulling her into his side.  “I’m certainly fond of you all.”

James kissed her, making her toes curl and her breath catch; they’d stolen plenty of kisses in the twenty-four hours of their engagement, but none had had this much intention behind it.  “Do these receptions tend to go on?  Back home, it could go all night.”

His intense look sent heat through her, and she was glad not to be alone in the direction her thoughts had gone.  “They do.  Especially now, with so little to celebrate, they go into the early hours, spill out into the streets, the whole thing.  However, as populated as they are and as free-flowing as the wine is, it can be easy to get… lost in the crowd.  People be lost track of, and easy to slip away.”

“Good.”  Turning to face her he captured her face in his palms, kissing her deeply enough that the vicar called, “You’re still on church property, thank you!”

They broke apart giggling, turning in unspoken agreement and heading towards the pub with the stragglers, walking hand in hand.

Rose had so much she wanted to say, to tell him, but no words would come, and really, would any suffice?  She was well aware that as happy as this moment was, it was possible- if not likely- that he wouldn’t return to her, that any plans made would never come to fruition.  Don’t think like that, not today, she told herself fiercely.  There’ll be time enough for worries after you kiss him goodbye tomorrow.  For now, get through the reception so you can get to the wedding night.

She looked up at him only to find him staring down at her, a soft expression on her face.  “Penny for ‘em.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’ll do everything and anything I can to come back to you.”

“You better.”  She squeezed his hand, but they’d reached the pub, and the cheering didn’t allow for more conversation as they were mobbed by well-wishers and showered with more rice.

Through no design of Rose’s, the main portions of the reception happened within the first hour or two; the local band who played the pub did a beautiful slow number for their first dance, and the baker had outdone himself on such a tight timeline and with rationing to make a wonderful cake.

Dancing together to a song from the radio, Rose’s heart stopped when an officer she’d seen from Highclere stopped James to whisper in his ear.  Pulse pounding she waited as they conversed, possibilities flying through her mind – a complication with the legality of their marriage, he was being sent out early, something that would take him from her- only for James to nod and shake the man’s hand, who instantly disappeared into the crowd of dancers again.

“What-”

Her new husband shook his head, guiding her towards the stairs to the family’s private quarters and behind the partition; it was moderately quieter back there, and he took her into his arms, kissing her deeply.

“James, what’s going on?” she asked when they finally parted for breath.

“Do you have an overnight bag?  Do you need to say goodbye to your mother?”

She blinked at the questions.  “I have a bag, it’s upstairs.  Are we leaving?”

“If you want.  Harkness says Highclere is mostly empty, and he’s giving us his quarters for the night.  We can head there now, if you’d like.”

“God, yes,” she breathed, laughing.  “Look at me, I’m blushing.  But, yes, I think we can sneak out of here – the celebrations are done, now it’s just drinking.” 

Running upstairs she grabbed her bag, taking a moment in the mirror to check her reflection, and marveled at the happiness in her face.  It had been so long since her eyes had sparkled, and she said a quick prayer that he would come home to her.  She left a short note on her bed, then bag in hand she returned to him, and they hurried out the back.

-

Rose hadn’t known what to expect as they pulled up to the castle, but rather than heading into the main building, he brought her around the side to a small cottage tucked near the tree-line.

“Jack’s in charge of security,” he explained, fumbling the key into the door, “so he got these quarters.  Usually the gardener’s shed, I believe, but it should do.  Hopefully.”  He got the door open but kept her from going inside, taking her bag in before returning for her.  “Ready?  I’ll try not to drop you.”

With those auspicious words he swept her into his arms, carrying her into the room.

“This is… nice,” she said, once her feet hit the ground and she could look around.  It was just a room, and she suspected he was right about it’s former purpose; it smelled of dirt, but it was relatively clean and put together, especially with a single male occupant.

“Not bad,” James agreed.  “Once the war is over I’ll take you somewhere for a real honeymoon; a nice hotel in London, at the least.  But will this do for tonight?”

Stepping into the middle of the room, Rose gave a twirl before sitting on the bed, bouncing lightly.  “Comfortable enough.  And private, which is good.  I think it’ll do.”

“I’m glad,” he said, standing somewhat stiffly and awkwardly by the door.  “Erm, what would you like to do?  I mean- uh, there may be a radio, we could dance?  Or talk?”

Rose tilted her head, studying him, as she leaned back on her hands against the mattress.  “Now that we’re married, can I ask- I know sometimes with injuries… Whatever the case is is fine, but… I mean…” she fought down a blush; though she’d been married to Jimmy, it had really only been for three nights, and she hadn’t had a chance to become comfortable with such intimacy in a conversation.  “Does everything… work?”

James’ brow furrowed.  “I’m fully healed, that’s why they’re sending me back.”

She licked her lips, trying to be delicate.  “I mean… for tonight.  Are we able to consummate?”

“Oh!”  His eyes went wide, and he tugged at his collar.  “Yes, it works- that would’ve been cruel of me, wouldn’t it?  To marry you without telling you you wouldn’t be able to have children, or anything like that.  No, there’s no reason to think my injury affected… that.”  James coughed.  “Is that- are you-”

Rising from the bed she approached him, going up on tiptoe to kiss him softly.  “How long do we have until your train?”

He checked his watch.  “About twenty hours.”

“We can talk and dance between other activities,” she said, starting to undo his belt.  “I want to make use of those twenty hours as best we can, though.  There will be time for talking and dancing after the war.”

“If you’re sure.”  James’ breath caught on the last word as her fingers found him.  “I suppose you are.”

They kissed languidly as she fondled him, undressing slowly and migrating towards the bed.  By the time her back hit the mattress she was in just her pearls and wedding band, her husband his socks and RFC hat.  But when she tried to pull him on top of her, he panted, “Wait, wait.”

He rolled away and she pushed herself up onto her elbows, watching as he dug around in a small drawer.  “What’re you doing?”

“Jack said… aha!”  He pulled something out triumphantly, returning to the bed and kneeling between her legs as he did something to himself.

“What is that?”  He’d rolled something over his manhood, and she had no words to describe it.  “Are you planning on…”

He sat back on his heels, hands rubbing at her spread thighs.  “It’s called a condom,” he explained patiently.  “My intention is to prevent, well, a pregnancy, if possible.  If something happens to me… well, there’ll be time enough for babies after the war.  I don’t want worry that I’m leaving you behind with a burden.”

“Why does your friend have them?”

“They also protect against disease, and Jack… Jack is very popular.”

Rose nodded slowly, considering the concept.  She reached out, brushing tentative fingers along his length.  “If you think it’s best.”

“It shouldn’t be much different,” he reassured her, “or at least that’s what Jack says, and he would know.  I just want tonight to be about us and enjoying ourselves, and this can help avoid any consequences.”

“All right, I trust you.  Go on then.”

She tried to relax into the mattress as he stretched out on top of her; but rather than just sticking it in as she expected, James kissed her and touched her, stoking a fire in her until she was begging for him.  Only then did he push inside, and by the time they were sweaty and sated, she’d all but forgotten about it.  Letting her legs fall to the sides, she winced as he removed himself, but the expected sensation didn’t come.

“It also helps with cleanup,” he said, pleased, disposing of the sock-like thing.  “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful.”  She turned onto her side as he laid back beside her, and they chatted softly between languid kisses.  He told her of his childhood home, of Scotland, while she shared anecdotes of growing up in a pub, and pulling pints from the day she could reach handles.

Wandering hands would lead to heavy breaths, and each time he would dutifully leave the bed to get another condom, and by the third time she was eager to roll it on him before sliding down over it, loving the noises he made and the words he whispered as she took control until the inevitable occurred, and they collapsed together.

-

Morning found them bright and early, sunlight streaming in directly at Rose’s face, stirring her.  Rolling over she found James there, ready and eager once again, but as the sun climbed in the sky their lovemaking took on a desperate, frenzied air as they tried to savor every last moment.

Naked but for her jewelry, air drying from their shared bath, Rose lounged in the bed as she watched her husband dress.

“You’ll be able to rest, won’t you?” it finally occurred to her to ask, as she fought the urge to help him, knowing it would only cause delays; but she hated to see his skin disappear behind clothing, wanting to kiss it, touch it, one more time.  “We didn’t sleep much last night.”

“I’ll be able to sleep,” he promised, pausing in his buttoning of his shirt to come back to her, and she came up onto her knees to meet him for a kiss.  “I’ll sleep well, and I’ll dream of you.  Sometimes I’ll dream of you on the day we met, of your beautiful playing and your kindness, of your smile and laugh.”

“And other times?”

Despite them being alone, and all the pleasure they’d shared, he still leaned in close and whispered low in her ear, “And other times, I’ll dream of the way you looked riding me, chasing your own pleasure, and how you flushed when you found it.  I’ll dream of your mouth on me, the way you’d beg me to be inside you, the noises you make as I move.”

Rose moaned against his mouth as they kissed, gasping when his fingers pushed inside her.  “Mhm, yeah.”

“Exactly,” he encouraged, “those noises.  I love to hear them.  Some day I’ll buy you land somewhere we can have total privacy, so you can scream and scream and no one will hear your pleasure.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she panted, fucking herself onto his fingers as he massaged her, not sure if she was agreeing with his words or his touch.  “So good.”  He was a quick study, and brought her over the peak quickly, groaning as she clenched around him.

Wriggling back she bent over, and it took longer to free him from his trousers than to suck him off; she’d barely started before he coated the back of her throat, and she eased off him, rising up on her knees again to find him looking terribly sad.

“If I don’t make it back-”

“Don’t talk like that-”

“If I don’t,” he spoke over her, “know that I love you.  Truly.  To be honest, the day we met wasn’t the first time I’d seen you.  A few weeks before I was at a funeral for one I did know, and I saw you in the loft like an angel.  I came to every church event  I could after that, even liturgies, trying to get an opportunity to meet you.  Finally I was able to catch you, and I’m so, so glad I did.”

“Me too,” she whispered.  “I love you to, so much.”

James closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers for a long minute, before murmuring, “Put some clothes on, will you?  They shoot deserters, and if I lose my senses again, I’ll be dangerously close to being late.”

-

Trainside, they kissed as long as they could, surrounded by other couples savoring every last moment until the train whistled, and they were forced to part.  Watching him board, she found herself moving along the platform with him as he found an empty seat, leaning out the windowing just to hold her hand while he could.

“I’ll write you,” they promised in unison, before laughing.

“Take care.”

The train started to move, and she tried to keep up with it.

“I’ll come back for you,” he shouted, leaning halfway out the window.  “Be here!”

“I will!”

With the other wives she waived and cheered until the train was out of sight- then one woman burst into tears, starting the rest of them off.  “Come back to me,” Rose whispered, hands pressed against her heart, the steam in the distant sky the only visible part of him left.  “Please, God, let him come back.”

-

December, 1918

Eyes closed, lost in thought, Rose listened as the church bells pealed.  Midnight.  Christmas.

The church was restless as late arrivals streamed in, the musicians starting to tune their instruments in preparation for the service to start.  War was over, many of the young men home for Christmas.

But not all.

Rose’s last letter from James was dated October, and as hope faded a little with every passing day she kept it close to her heart, the last lines running through her mind on a loop.  I love you.  I’ll come home to you.  I love you, I love you, I love you.  It was painful, now, to walk through the village, or even be behind the bar; so many reunited couples, their joy almost infectious but for the jealousy burning deep.

All I want for Christmas is my husband home - alive.

“Rose, budge up,” her mother said unexpectedly from next to her, tugging her arm.  “Move over.”

Opening her eyes, Rose frowned at her.  “What?”

“Room for one more?” a voice asked behind her, barely audible as the choir began to sing O Come, All Ye Faithful, and she turned to look, breath catching in her throat.

“James?”

Her brain refused to believe her eyes, but there he stood, looking exhausted and older but so, so happy  - and he wasn’t the only surprise Christmas return, based on the cries and exclamations going around the room.

“Hi, love,” he said gently, and she burst into tears, throwing herself into his arms.

“Are you real?”

He just hugged her tighter against him, peppering kisses over her face before finding her lips.

“All right, all right, into the pew with you,” her mother hissed, and they broke apart with a laugh, staying wrapped around each other as they moved out of the aisle and into their seats.

Rose didn’t hear a word of the service, too busy with her own prayers and thanks for his safe return, burrowed into her husband’s side, his arms tight around her.

And when the bells rang again at the end of the service, her heart sang along with them.