#and the 'new' lad Tin Tin

[54625]

save me qPac with facial hair

[tiesthatbind-tf]

If you’re on a desktop, please full-view these lads if possible! Tumblr  compressed the hell out of the preview unfortunately, but so much love was poured into them that it’ll be a shame if y’all didn’’t full view for the goods ;u;b (click, then right-click and open image in new tab!)

I’ve always held a deep fascination of for the Lambros, though for whatever reason, media beyond G1 seem allergic to actually making them brothers, or at least brothers who LIVE till the end and have something resembling a healthy/active relationship, so it was something I wanted to explore with TTB’s version of The Lads--Serafino and Sergio Saverio--who, despite being Twins, are very distinct individuals (Sideswipe in particular has a narrative focused on self-realization after a past of being constantly second best/in Sunstreaker’s shadow, and establishing healthy boundaries, even with those closest to you) with their own occasionally intertwining stories

They’re the team’s Battlefield Hellions, a pair of Feral Elric Brothers willing to punch open multiple Gates of Truth for each other, and who despite their flaws---especially Avowed Bastard Sunstreaker, whose protectiveness and care for Sideswipe is, at times, seemingly his only saving grace---will never have anyone questioning their love for each other. 

You can find their (2881 words, this one’s a doozy!) pre-war full story below the cut! 

Born to a Manual Class couple in the Little Italy neighbourhood of Lower Manhattan, the Saverio Twins could have easily gone the path of Cain and Abel, and given the lopsided treatment they received from their parents as children, it was a miracle that they didn’t. 

Serafino Saverio — hair kissed by the sun — was the much-welcomed firstborn upon whom their hopes were pinned on. 

Sergio Saverio – hair tainted with blood – was the surprise second and didn’t even have a name until after a week of his birth (he could only assume they were hoping he didn’t make it that long, being the twin with ‘complications’) as the unplanned and unwanted spare mouth to feed in a household which had always been intended for a family of three, and not a day of his young life passed that he wasn’t reminded by his parents that they had kept him as a favor.

The favoritism was as blatant as it was malicious when it came to food, praises and gifts—all of which were afforded to Serafino, all of which were an afterthought for Sergio who always took everything with a smile, having been told to simply be thankful he had a family, and that Serafino had to come first.

However, Sergio’s treatment didn’t go unnoticed or ignored by Serafino—sharp and cunning for his age—who began to question why his brother had less than him, why his brother was beaten for doing the things which he himself would simply be given a stern talking to, why his mother’s tone fell and rose so drastically between her sons and why his father never had a kind word for a boy who constantly bent over backwards for a fraction of the love they afforded him. 

The aching sadness the older twin saw in his brother’s eyes when they were seven and had received their birthday gifts—a beautiful hand-crafted wooden sword for him, a cheap gas station tin Lamborghini for Sergio—gave birth to childhood defiance as he exchanged his gift with Sergio to the surprised dismay of their parents who were stuck awkwardly trying to explain why he couldn’t do that and why they saw it fit to treat two brothers so differently on they day they were born together, only seconds apart. 

It was here that the seed was planted of Serafino’s protectiveness over Sergio–his best friend, his playmate, his shadow—and Sergio’s near-unwavering loyalty to Serafino—his defender, his confidante and the only one of their family who truly cared for him. 

They grew up tight as thieves as Serafino’s disgust at their parents’ attempts to drive a wedge in between them burned ever brighter, because if they would not treat his brother the same as he, then he would act out in defiance until they treated him the same way they treated Sergio out of sheer frustration. 

They walked hand in hand in the streets, always looking out for each other, and sparred fist to fist on the apartment rooftop where they would learn to fight together because the world wasn’t kind to little Manuals—and they had the cuts and bruises to show for it—but from up here where that world seemed so small beneath them, they could dare to dream of a better one where Sergio could be the dashing fighter Serafino’s sword allowed him to see himself as, and where Serafino would be able to one day own and drive a car similar to the little model he had traded that sword for.

School was no more kind to them than the streets were—at twelve, Serafino had learned to read the people around him and kept an aloof and guarded presence, but Sergio — eager for warmth and connection — forged friendships openly and recklessly, class divisions be damned.

His perceived insolence to The Way Things Were earned him the ire of a group of law enforcement prodigy picks when he befriended a girl among their ranks, and they set out to teach him a vicious lesson about staying in his lane despite her protestations. 

He fought back hard, but it was Serafino’s fury that was unmatched when the older twin came across the assault in progress and leapt into the fray to back him up. 

When the dust had settled, the brothers stood tall among the twitching bodies of five prodigy picks, the leader of the group beaten up so severely by Serafino that their dislocated jaw had to be wired shut for a month. 

Serafino earned the scar on his jaw from this altercation, and as the twin who had dealt the most damage, was suspended from schooling indefinitely and put to work to help pay off the medical bills forced upon his family despite open confirmation from the girl at the center of the fight that the brothers’ role in it was that of self-defense (and it was reasoned that if he was so quick with his hands, he best put them to a more productive use). 

His reputation as a pugnacious, split-knuckled hellion preceded him among the rough-and-tumble warehouse workers he was stationed with, and, for better or worse, they accepted him into the fold as ‘one of the lads’ despite his youth.

Over beer and cigarette smoke—a vice he embraced too early—he became privy to how truly hopeless their lives were, born in the same class as their parents and their grandparents before them, destined to die in the same class no matter how hard they worked to climb a ladder whose rungs seemed to increase every year, and it made him all the more bitter to the world. 

When he crossed paths with one Tulio Hoffman — a stag Beastman attempting to evade authorities in an alley — while on his way back to the workers’ hostel, he made a split-second decision to cover the man’s tracks and pointed the cops elsewhere out of spite for them. His chutzpah, as Tulio called it, earned him the Stagman’s respect, and having seen the calluses on his palms and the crowbar he wielded with unusual expertise for his age, Tulio—who revealed himself as the elusive Thunderhoof, an up and rising don— extended a hand to him with the promise of a better life, one that didn’t require him to slave away in a warehouse for an eternity. 

He agreed, seeing a chance to wrest the life he wanted for himself—and by proxy his brother— by force, and pledged loyalty to Thunderhoof who initially employed him as a scout and informant. It was work Serafino excelled in — his relentlessness to get the job done won the Stagman over, and he was quickly promoted to Thunderhoof’s personal assistant, following the don on business deals and clandestine meetings across the city and helping the man keep his ledgers and income on track.

He experienced the High Life for the first time—fine clothes, good food, a fast car—and it was a lifestyle he grew an insatiable taste for and was desperate to keep for himself (attempts at sharing this life with Sergio were politely declined, and there was an understanding of their different approaches to climbing out of the dregs, even if they did not always agree with the others' methods)

The big money Thunderhoof made from taking part in illegal pitfights seemed like a natural progression given his prodigious skill with fisticuffs, and his first win when he was 18 was one the Stagman—who had taken on the role of a somewhat twisted adoptive father—celebrated and honored by gifting him the neck chain he wore, which also served as a symbolic gesture from Thunderhoof that the business would one day be passed to him. Serafino continued his career as a much-feared pitfighter with a rumored body count— the dreaded ‘Aureleone’ (Golden Lion) of the rings — all the while rising up the ranks of Thunderhoof’s mob until he was the man’s underboss, and keeping an eye out for Sergio like any good big brother worth their salt.

Sergio’s scar above his eyebrow remains a daily reminder of the day the system came for him and his brother, and while he was allowed to remain in school, he was transferred to a heavily-manual establishment which would ‘better suit those like him’. 

The situation at home became even more unbearable than it already was, as his parents blamed Serafino’s downfall on his carelessness and stupidity—despite Serafino’s assertion that the bullies deserved everything that happened to them and he would reoffend on sight if they hurt Sergio again—and he began to spend more and more time outside, visiting Serafino at work whenever he could to repeat the day’s lesson during breaks so his brother still had access to education and sneaking into worker’s rallies by the docks. 

It was here that he was drawn to the music and effortless charisma of a young dock worker and union figurehead, Jace Zayden (Jazz), which whom he struck up a friendship, and where Thunderhoof brought Serafino deeper into the underbelly of the city to escape the system, Jace gave him hope that change could happen on the surface, in the sun. 

After a blowout with his parents when he was 16 where they’d made it clear he should never have been born, he finally left the house. Not wanting to burden Serafino who had already suffered enough for him in his eyes or be indebted to Thunderhoof (who he respected for taking care of his brother, but understood was a dangerous man with an agenda), he roomed with Jace who had taken on the role of his mentor and helped him find employment as a warehouse worker so he could save up to afford rent for his own place once he was old enough to sign a lease. His nights were divided between helping Serafino with supply runs and stock-checking for Thunderhoof’s contraband goods, and joining Jace at union meetings as well as helping the man with his activism and protest plans. 

When Jace was arrested after a brutal crackdown on a workers’ rally and never came back to the neighborhood, Sergio feared the worst but wasted no time stepping into Jace’s position when their local union chapter began to flounder so he could continue their fight for a better life. 

Like his brother, he had become intimately acquainted with the injustice perpetuated by the neverending cycle of poverty their class was intentionally, systematically trapped in, but rather than abandon it and the people in it as Serafino had chosen to do, he wanted to help break it so his community could rise above it with him. 

As the most prominent figurehead of an unprecedented, rising tide of unionization in Manhattan  which started from across the pond in the UK, he was marked out as a person of interest by local officials desperate to keep the status quo, and his increasing clashes with local cops tasked with bringing those behind these ‘public disturbances’ to heel brought him in contact with a face he remembered from his school days—the same upperclass girl he had tried to befriend, whose testimony had helped keep him and Serafino out of juvie and who was now a tough-as-nails rookie with a reputation for breaking ranks. 

Stella Armstrong (Strongarm) was more than a little surprised to find out that the scrawny, bright-eyed Manual scrapper who had suddenly disappeared from her classroom after the Big Fight was now a feisty, quick-talking, hot-tempered rabble-rouser with a careless smirk and a witty comeback for every police warning lobbed at him. 

Regardless of his teasing and her scoldings for the ‘trouble’ he made for her whenever they crossed paths, Sergio kept eye out for her on the streets—good cops didn’t last long in the ranks, he knew this much—and vouched for her being an ‘honest one’ whenever she was stonewalled for information regarding her cases. 

In turn, Stella spoke out in defense of him whenever her colleagues brought him in and attempted to remand him for a period much longer than the minor infractions he was hauled in for could justify, and stopped any attempted violence on him and his community in lockup, making enemies among the force in the process.

When several prominent union supporters began turning up dead to the radio silence of the police, Sergio approached Stella for help in investigating the matter, and she agreed to do so after finding out that reports filed on the murders had been closed before any investigations had wrapped up. 

She gave him a burner cell to keep their communications private after the two agreed that something about the situation smelled like a cover-up.

All of this was confirmed when Stella called him with a warning that the killings were tied to the current mayor who had pro-functionist ties, cops on payroll and was desperate for a re-election in the coming month.

She had also found documents approving the use of Mnemosurgery on a list of union figureheads to turn them into Trojan Horses on their own movement and communities—a list which Sergio’s name headed, which meant he had to go into hiding before the next minor infraction brought him back to lockup. 

When she couldn't give him an answer on if the breach of classified information could be traced back to her, he feared for the worst again—the unsolved fate of Jace still hung heavy in his mind—more so when further calls he made to her went to voicemail. 

The next call Sergio received from her sent him on a hunt for her in the winding alleys of Brooklyn, where he found her bleeding out from a through-and-through gunshot wound to the stomach she received from her own colleague, after it was revealed that the drug bust she was a part of was a front to get her in a vulnerable position so they could take her out.

Her refusal to back the thin blue line at all costs, newfound knowledge of wide-spread corruption in the ranks and growing friendship with a ‘target’ had made her a liability, one they had orders to get rid of. 

He raced her to a back-alley clinic, unable to bring her to the local GH because of the real danger of the rest of the force coming over to finish the job. 

Stella survived the ordeal with his help, and the two of them went into hiding together to plan their next move; As she had never turned off her body camera, she had damning evidence of the hit which she had immediately downloaded to the burner cell for safekeeping in case the footage was later remotely wiped, and she had taken pictures of the documents beforehand. 

To Sergio’s surprise, help came from two unexpected places; Jace, who returned from self-exile in the UK after it was discovered that the same thing planned for Sergio had earlier been planned for him, and Serafino, who had broken the Mafia Code and put aside mob work and pitfighting the moment he caught wind of the target on his baby brother’s back. (When Thunderhoof had demanded that his loyalty to the mob come before his loyalty to his brother if he were to take over the mantle of Don, he balked at the idea)

As it turned out, Jace was part of the Resistance movement back in the UK which had branched out worldwide and inspired the rising workers’ protests in the States as well, and worked as a saboteur who had experience in exposing corrupt men in power for filth. 

Stella’s near-death experience and the ongoing risk to her life made a strong case for her filming a dying confession which Sergio delivered along with her body cam footage to her father, who then passed both to an attorney whose services her family had employed to find justice for their ‘missing’ daughter. 

The documents and list made it to the ACLU’s New York office, while Serafino and Jace both worked on a sting to catch the mayor red-handed, as they posed as bounty hunters looking to collect on Sergio’s head. As Sergio played his role as defiant captive and tactically bandied words with the mayor to lead the man to a full confession, Jace’s colleague, Brandon Shen (Blaster) hacked major digital billboards at Times Square to air the footage in real-time, destroying the man’s name and political career in the span of fifteen minutes. 

Regardless of their victories however, both Sergio and Stella had become far too big of targets to remain where they were, and Jace offered to bring them all into the Resistance’s fold. 

Sergio, for his own safety, had to hand over the reins of leadership to a new leader of the Manhattan Movement, though his community, knowing full well the risk he had put himself through for them, encouraged him to find safe harbor with Jace’s team mates who could afford him the protection he needed. .

He had carried on Jace’s work when Jace had to leave, and there would be others to continue the work here.

Serafino, chafing harder and harder against the control that Thunderhoof was rapidly losing on him, threw all caution against the wind, chose the codename Sunstreaker and joined his brother. --now codenamed Sideswipe -- as the new frontliners of the wider Resistance movement.

Whether he would come to regret the decision was still up in the air, but brothers stuck together, and the path ahead was one both of them would forge back to back with each other as fate damn well intended. 

[assortedseaglass]

🌟Wassail | Yuletide🌟

Tom Bennett x Fem!Reader

Summary: A minor indiscretion leads you to chaperoning the yearly children's wassail with none other than Tom Bennett.

Content: Fluff, Language.

Yuletide Masterlist

Spending the evening with a handful of excitable children and Tom Bennett wasn’t too bad, as far as punishment went.

You supposed your father thought the children, full of a night’s sugar after years of rationing, would tire you out with their boundless energy. Perhaps he also thought that Tom Bennett would scare you. A petty criminal that good, honest girls should be frightened of. Well, your father should know that you were far from good or honest. That’s why you needed punishing in the first place.

Word got to your father that you were seen in a compromising position behind the Capital Club with Willie Murphy on New Year’s Eve. You traced the source easily. Your father heard it from that busy-body, Mrs Browning, who heard it from her neighbour. The neighbour’s daughter just happened to be Minnie Goodman, Willie’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. The tale was a tall one, for in truth Willie Murphy snuck his hand up your skirt and you’d given him a smack. If Gossip Goodman wanted that creep all to herself, she was welcome to him.

“Hurry up you!” One of the little lads shouted at you as he made his way to the next house.

“Watch your mouth, Harry Tollet,” you said, coming to stand beside him and the other children. “You won’t be wassailing next year if your mother hears you talking like that to a lady.”

“My mum says you aren’t a lady,” Harry said, knocking on the door. A little girl beside him gasped. Before you could speak, Tom Bennett, who had been silent on the evening’s walk, stepped forward.

“You’ll get a clip round the ear an’ all if you keep on.”

Harry had no time to cower for the red door opened and the children sang a chorus of We Three Kings. Their tin cups were filled with mulled cider by the old lady at the door, and Tom ushered Harry away before his could be filled.

“That’s not fair-”

“Shoulda thought about that before you ran your mouth,” Tom shoved the little boy towards the rest of the group. “Best behaviour.”

One of the little girls whispered in Harry’s ear and gave Tom a wary glance. She smiled awkwardly at you and turned around as the next door of the street opened and the children began their singing once more. The house belonged to old Mr Preston, a widower who lived alone. His only son died in the war. He had no grandchildren. You watched, heart growing as the old man gave the children their cup of mulled apple and presented them each with a mince pie.

Silenced for a while by their full mouths, the children listen to old man Preston telling them tales of Christmases long ago. Enraptured, they forgot all about you and Tom. Thank Christ.

You smiled at Mr Preston and showed him your cigarettes, indicating the pavement on the other side of the street. He nodded knowingly and continued his tale.

Leant against the lamppost, you clicked your lighter and inhaled the heady smoke of the cigarette. Tom Bennett took out his own packets of cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. With his hands safely back inside his pockets, he swaggered slowly towards you, looking over his shoulder in a half-arsed attempt and chaperoneship. You snorted.

He came to a stop before you, clicking his heels together as though he were still in the navy. He looked down his long nose at you a moment, smirking. You weren’t rattled. He brought his long fingers to take the cigarette from your mouth and light his own with it. The end sparkled into life, the tobacco crackling. The low, orange flare of light illuminated his sapphire eyes, which were fixed on yours. That rattled you, just a bit. This was a man who made flirting an artform. He looked at your cigarette as he passed it back to you.

“Lucky Strikes? Very posh,” he drawled in his Manchester burr.

“Got ‘em from a Yank. Better than your filthy Marlboros. Bloody stink,” you took a drag and exhaled the smoke in his face. He didn’t budge, the smoke dissipating to reveal a fully born grin.

“Lucky Strike for a lucky strike?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be jealous,”

Tom puffed out his chest and sniffed the night air. He glanced over his shoulder. You smiled to yourself; you never knew it was so easy to hurt Tom Bennett’s pride.

Across the road, Mr Preston had finished his story and gone inside. The children were walking to the next house, some hand in hand.

“They don’t need us,” you nodded towards them.

“Nah,” Tom said. “War made them different. Self-reliant.”

You hummed in agreement.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

You stared at him, amusement tugging the corners of your mouth. Tom Bennett always thought so highly of himself.

“What for?”

“Harry.” He stated simply.

“But you didn’t do anything,” you laughed brightly.

Despite himself, Tom smiled. “Hold on-”

“Don’t think I could have handled a ten-year-old myself?”

Tom took a step up onto the pavement and, in doing so, brought himself closer to you. “Oh no,” his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “I heard you can handle yourself very well,” One of his hands slipped inside your coat to rest against the slope of your hip.

It wasn’t his hand that made you bristle. It was the assumption that you were easy. Sure, you’d had your fair share of flings, but you didn’t drop your knickers for any fella with a sly grin and foreign cigarettes.

You took his hand in yours, moving it from your waist and dropping it back at his own side.

“I’m only here ‘cause Dadda believed in a load of old hearsay,” You flicked your cigarette to the ground and stamped it out under your heel. Tom didn’t hide the way he stared up the length of your stockinged leg. “I wouldn’t touch Willie Murphy with a ten-foot barge pole-”

“I know,” Tom said simply, idle hands tucked back into the pockets of his jacket.

You stared at him, lost for words. No-one ever believed you. Seemed to think because you’d had three or four Longsight lads, you’d had the whole lot. “Really?”

“Yeah, course I do. He’s an ugly little bastard with more spots than I’ve had hot dinners.” You laughed. Towards the end of the road, the children were singing again, and the lamplights began flickering into life. “I didn’t try it on ‘cause I think you’re easy,” with another step, Tom was pressed flush against you. “I tried it on ‘cause I like you.”

Your smile of genuine happiness turned to one of mischief. “Tom Bennett, are you going soft?”

In the dim light, his blue eyes twinkled. With a wink, he stepped back and began his slow walk towards the gaggle of children. Falling into step beside him, you walked in silence but for the chorus of We Wish You a Merry Christmas and clack of your heels on the cobbles.

Gently, boldy, you tucked your hand into his. “Not so bad, is it,  this punishment?”

“Not a punishment for me. Not a petty criminal anymore.” Tom said, smiling down at you and tugging you closer so that the kids wouldn’t see your entwined hands. “Nah, I volunteered.”

You stood still, mouth agape with amused shock.

“What?” Tom tugged your hand and you kept walking.

“You really have gone soft!”

“War’ll do that to you.” You bowed your head solemnly. “And the prospect of an evening with you.”

“Even with a headache’s worth of kids?”

“Even so.”  

Finally back with decent internet! The last few days of Christmas are going to be heavy with uploads!

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

[thegnomelord]

"Oh! A new visitor! Why do come in."

Hi there, I'm Gnome, he/him, 20yo, and I write stuff, mostly smut. Currently a med student. A proud monsterfucker and european.

"These are all for sale, you're free to browse."

Top male reader, Top GN reader, Sub Male reader, Sub GN reader, NSFW, SFW, CoD MW, Genshin Inpact.

"Oh no no no, I'm a reputable hoarder, I'm not touching that."

Fem Reader, Bottom reader, Scat, Incest, Underage. Minors and Fetishizers DNI

"The neighbors? Yeah, they're a reputable bunch, be sure to visit if you're ever in the area."

@miguel-owhora - Miguel, @lieutnt - Elijah, @rodolfoparras - Alec, @agoofyannoyancetolaw - Coyote, @bonesnmore - Bone, @clumsydragon - Mhairi, @gazmialmagemela - Embry, @ccreekside - Creek, @pastelclovds, @kingambrosius - Ambrosius.

"Ah, that. You needn't worry, that's just the fish tank. They don't bite... much."

🦈anon, 👑anon, ☕anon, 🪼anon, 🐙anon, 🐡anon, 🦐anon, 🪸anon, 🦦anon, 🦭anon, 🐺anon, 🐋anon, 🐈‍⬛anon, 🪣anon, 🚗anon🦊😺anon, 😈anon, 👾anon, 🦓anon, 🐆anon, 🦠anon, 🪒anon, 📻anon, 🦇anon, 🦀anon, 🥧anon, 🐎anon

"Now then, have you chosen what to buy?"

Masterlist:

Genshin Impact

Beastly Urges

bottom Pantalone X monster top reader

Devotion in Steel

Headcannon how Zhongli, Childe and Dottore would worship a cyberpunk sagau god reader.

Pious Worship

Ask for Dom bottom childe x sub top Cyberpunk SAGAU reader.

COD: MWII

500 Follower special prompt game

Soap has a musk kink

What it says on the tin.

Got Your Tongue

Ghost gives a blowjob for the first time.

Price Does Shibari

No sex just teasing, what it says on the tin.

Missing You

Phone sex with Soap.

A Little Bit of Heaven

FTM Gaz and MReader go on Vacation.

Lending a Hand

You/Soap/Gaz monster Au, Soap goes into rut and heat.

Mages and Monsters

Ask/first idea about mage reader and Bluegiragi monster 141 au.

Patience Is a Virtue

Price comes up with a creative way to punish you, sub top reader. Monster AU.

Hell Has a Basemen Floor (Welcome Home)

Long fic with mage reader and poly TF141 strap in lads

Good Dog

Long fic, you're Makarov's Hound, future poly 141

Tags:

Centerpieces of the Hoard — long fics/headcannonst

Trinkets of the Hoard — short thirsts or ideas I might turn into long fics. The trinkets won't be added to the masterlist.

Gnome's tea break — just ramblings and thoughts

Honorable mentions of the Hoard — recommendations and reblogs

Gnome's prompt game — 500 follower prompt game

Gnome correspondence — answering asks.

[hendolish]

England NT Fic Recs ♡

never know where to start for a pairing or you're new to england nt rpf? here's a shameless collection of my favourite fics to give you a head start 🫶🏻 ———

Jack Grealish/Jordan Henderson

melt by inlovewithnight (8k)

soulmate au where you feel everything your soulmate does and can't bear being too far away from each other. they're just so at ease and in love with each other in this. probably my favourite hendolish fic! <3

About as subtle as an earthquake, I know by Lizz_88 (Bluejay00) (68k)

jack's a stripper, jordan's himself. so much more than what it says on the tin! all the characters are super complex and it takes a lot of work for these two to get together (with no shortage of lap dances and smut along the way) <3

Calm Before The Storm by preachingdoll (6k)

post-euro 2020 heartbreak jack needs a bit of help coping. jordan's there to offer a helping hand... the smut and dirty talk is 10/10

best worst behaviour by Bellelaide (25k)

kind of a hendolish classic, jordan puts bratty jack in his place.

♡

John Stones/Jordan Pickford

Sun City AU by Bellelaide (series, 40k)

honestly one of my favourite fics ever, let alone footie-wise. jordan's on a very british all-inclusive holiday at a hotel where john works. the vibes are just immaculate, you can visualise everything so clearly and there's so much depth to their characters!

Ice Melts by Bellelaide (7k)

enemies to lovers kinda? john doesn't think much of jordan before the 2018 wc but the further they get in the tournament, the closer they become. amazing characterisation and banter as always.

Helping Hand by slatkomore (14k)

with john's career ended abruptly by an injury, he turns to coaching instead and soon becomes the england u19s manager where he meets the goalkeeper coach, jordan pickford...

your world cup or mine? by Bellelaide (15k)

john goes to sleep at the 2022 wc and wakes up back in 2018 where he and jordan aren't together and barely friends. such an interesting concept and dynamic!

♡

Jack Grealish/John Stones

The Things We Did and Didn't Do by InTheFicOfIt (series, 104k)

john and jack sleep together in the aftermath of the euros, the following fic explores everything that comes after, including jack moving to man city and their friends finding out. i'm never usually tempted by this pairing but this fic is so damn good! it's written so wonderfully and there's so much of it- i couldn't put it down!

♡

Ben white/Aaron Ramsdale

happy together by foxholecourts (1k)

this fic perfectly encapsulates their vibe for me. the back and forth between the two of them is just delightful and exactly how i imagine them to be together, but it's also as equally sappy! i love these two idiots sm <3

watching you watching me by foxholecourts (2k)

ben likes to be watched... 10/10 benaaron characterisation from this author as always.

sweettalker by Anonymous (5k)

smut with a lot of dirty talk about the other arsenal lads. ben is very complex in this- an interesting take on their relationship!

I’m Not In Love by ceraunophilex (1k)

aaron falls in love immediately, ben slowly warms to him. short and sweet.

♡

Jordan Henderson/Trent Alexander-Arnold

Shake Me Into the Night by orphan_account (17k)

always hits me right in the feels. based around liverpool winning the champions league, the writing is so detailed and amazing!!

♡

Jude Bellingham/Reece James

the sun and the rainfall by ohsusie (series, 6k)

jude asks reece about some of the rumours surrounding him to help him broach a sensitive topic of his own. reece gives him some guidence. they're so sweet in this!

♡

Dele Alli/Eric Dier

In This World Of Ours by dierdele (53k)

the classic deledier best friends to lovers 2018 world cup get-together fic. you can't beat it, literally so cute oml.

♡

Marcus Rashford/Jesse Lingard

both your hands in the holes of my sweater by yvenger (jjjat3am) (3k)

this one is so much fun hehe, the ~2018 man u squad if they were a sunday league team where jesse's very confident and marcus has a huge crush on him. love the inner dialogue so, so much. ending is super cute!!

i can feel that body shake by princessrosberg (3k)

an england nt night out leads to them getting together and their first time! jesse and marcus characterisations are on point, esp the way they talk to each other <3

♡

Harry Kane/Gareth Southgate

All Good Things... by orphan_account (12k)

their established relationship is so cute in this! post-2018 wc and preparing for the euros, england team banter is perfect.

wished by orphan_account (23k)

gareth is harry's p.e teacher at school. listen… no comment... there's a reason it's the most kudos-ed southkane fic

♡

[powdermelonkeg]

You reblogged a post about the practical female armors mod for skyrim and now i am being sucked back into the pit of skyrim modding. any mod suggestions? its been a solid couple years since i played and there's a LOT to choose from

Oh man I haven't had a chance to play since my computer broke lemme see what my last modlist was.

(One moment while I force my broken computer to work)

So fair warning, I like survival aspects. I like it when games require me to eat/sleep/do things to live, because then the 15 cheese wheels in my inventory actually mean something besides instant health. I also really like companionship and roleplaying elements, so most of my playthroughs are built around that.

Dependencies not included:

Campfire: Camping mechanics. Supports a party of 4, if I remember correctly. Also lets you craft a few things, but I'm more interested in stargazing with my buddies.

Vitality Mode: Current iteration of "better than Survival Mode" mechanics. Eat/drink/sleep/etc. Does it very nicely with a corner icon that gets more red the worse off you are, rather than whatever SM had going on. Also lets you configure modded food items for it just by eating them!

Pronouns: Pick what pronouns you go by regardless of default body. Will attempt to exclude gendered language if possible (like, it's unavoidable with Brynjolf calling you lad/lass, but you can pick which one it falls back to) if you pick they/them. You can set percentages of different pronoun sets or even have it change randomly on a timer.

Quality World Map: PUTS. THE ROADS. ON. THE MAP. If you're doing no fast travel, this is VITAL. Base map is terrible, next question.

Delphine's Map Reveals Dragon Mounds: Because it should.

Delay the Foresworn Conspiracy Quest: Ever get sick of being roped into that quest immediately? (Makes it so that guy doesn't hand you the note unless you talk to him directly. Main Street Stabbing™ is still there)

Dragonborn Delayed: Ever get sick of being roped into THAT quest immediately? (Especially given the suggested level of Solstheim...you can pick when it happens: after returning the horn, Delphine, Alduin's Wall, meeting Paarthurnax, getting the Elder Scroll, kicking Alduin's tail at the top of the mountain, or killing Alduin)

Extended Encounters: More encounters in the wild! Mercs, adventurers, vampire attacks, etc.

Vittoria's Alternate Wedding: She can get married without you killing her! She's not in engagement hell!!! Only triggers if you destroy the Dark Brotherhood.

Immersive Realistic Party Clothing Overhaul: Wear any "rich" clothes to the party instead of what Delphine gives you. I usually use this with mods that add more fancy clothes.

More To Say: Everyone talks more about a wider variety of things. Lets you tell Meeko he's a good boy and give him a treat. Makes a few new lines with splicing, but I haven't noticed any hard cuts.

Wonders of Weather: Splashy rain and rainbows, occasional shooting stars, scheduled meteor showers

Darker Nights: What it says on the tin. I like using torches and fires, and regular nighttime is unrealistically bright for me.

Whiterun Watchtower Doesn't Start Broken: Because why should it?

Cooking Inns and Taverns: Because I need more cooking pots and ESPECIALLY Hearthfire ovens to find.

C.O.I.N.: Adds immersion by changing coins based on where you are. Ancient Nordic coins are going to be worth less than the standard Septim, while Thalmor gold is worth more. There are Dwemer coins.

More Thalmor Dossiers: Makes more lore books on characters to pick up when you're in the embassy. Also has patches for some followers. Very fun.

Bandolier: More carry weight and it looks cool.

Guard Dialogue Overhaul: Gives guards more to say, and changes their opinions of you as you complete quests.

Bandit Lines Expansion: Bandits talk more, 500+ new lines. Spliced, but it sounded smooth to me.

Alternate Start: If you're sick of the standard Helgen entry, THIS. Also the New Beginnings add-on gives even more options.

No Fast Travel: Honestly this is just a me thing, because I use Vitality Mode and want realism. Only go for this if you're like me and it won't frustrate you.

Followers (aka, my party pre-BG3)

Gore by @goredev: A young Imperial mercenary from Cyrodiil, was ambushed by Thalmor because of some traitorous members of his band. Absolute sweetheart, riveting story, fantastic found family vibes all around. 10/10 would kill for him. Updates often, so check the mod page every now and then after install.

Inigo: An indigo Khajiit who put himself in prison because he thinks he killed you. Amazing banter, very cheeky, comes with his own whistle-signal mechanics. You can buy him a horse if you have the right patch! (He interacts with Lucien right out the gate and has a banter patch with Auri)

Lucien Flavius: An Imperial scholar from Cyrodiil with a myriad of unique mechanics, letting you teach him your own skills in order to customize his battle style. He's in Skyrim looking for a (custom made, well-implemented) Dwemer dungeon. The lad has a MILLION compatibility patches that let him comment on all sorts of mods. (Interacts with Auri right out the gate)

Auri by @sotgofficial: A Bosmer from Valenwood who's having a lot of culture shock in Skyrim (where she's from, canonically, her people are cannibals and don't harm plants—she HATES Faendal with a seething passion). A fantastic character (and archer), a heartwrenching story, openly poly and likes to tease. Will be a little annoyed/depressed until you do her personal quest, so I recommend chipping away at that as you travel. I usually use her with the Refined Auri replacer.

Taliesin by @dynamite124, voiced by @nevermorepjm: My personal favorite, an Altmer and former Thalmor agent you help after he's been mortally wounded. Lots of sassy and witty dialogue, bursting with personality, changes his opinion of you over the course of the main quest. Please I'm begging you watch his trailer.

Khash by @rabbittwinrithings: Darling little Argonian teenager you can take along with you. Doesn't get sarcasm, speaks her mind often, can be coaxed into talking about her past—that's not a typical Argonian name, is it? Resident gremlin alongside Auri.

Back to normal stuff, visuals

Tempered Skins for Males/Females: Gives a decent look without airbrushing everyone because I am SO sick of airbrushing everyone... There are dicks in the setup screen (when you set whether you want them or not), beware.

Improved Eyes: Just a little tweak.

Brows: Another little tweak.

Subliminal Traps: Makes traps less obvious. It's masochistic, yes, but I like my immersion.

Awesome Potions Simplified: You look at these and tell me they aren't the coolest looking potion bottles you've ever seen.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Pascal characters' fave sex positions

It's probably been done before, but let's have fun. Doing (heh) the ones I've written.

Frankie. My boy wants eye contact. Would be into tantric sex, if he only knew what it was. Favourite position is lotus. You on top, but both of you doing the work. Slow and intimate, both hands free to roam and caress. Kissing, or foreheads together as you rock gently in rhythm. Plenty of opportunity to go harder, if need be. You gorgeous tits near his face. He's in heaven.

Javi P. From behind. Duh. He wants it hard and fast. Even when it's serious, and he's opened up to you, is devoted to you, and has started to heal from all the shit that happened in Colombia, he needs to lose himself in the grip of your cunt, the sweat running down his body, your wails of pleasure, the way your pretty ass bounces with each thrust. The messed up lad has some issues but knows what he likes, ok?

Ezra. Anything goes as long as your legs are on his shoulders and you're holding on to something for dear life.

Dieter. Amazon. Hoo boy does this babygirl love to be fucked by you in that position! Legs akimbo in the air, you bouncing on his dick like he's nothing but a sex toy to you. That's the good shit. He's gonna marry the fuck outta you.

Mando. One day he wants to be able to remove his helmet and have really intimate missionary sex with you, but he's not there yet, poor guy. Until then, the touch-starved little critter has to make do with the next best thing: your soft, round ass. God, it drives him wild to see that ass bounce. His favourite, therefore, is you reverse riding him. He mourns the fact that he can't gaze into your eyes and bask in the pleasure that he sees in them, but he is a patient man. He'll get there, eventually. For now, he enjoys the fuck out of your slow ride or energetic bouncing, your beautiful butt there for him to grab. Tin can man needs softness in his life, okay?

Marcus M. This is a man who will lie next to you and kiss and caress you for three hours straight before he slides into you and fucks you slowly on your side. It's not the most practical position but he wants both of you to be comfortably reclined, and in full body contact. At some point you're just sharing limbs and there is no telling where you end and he begins. It's really nice.

Joel. This middle-aged, broken piece of sweet, competent garbage fucks hard and fast because death lurks around every corner and this time could be his last. He'll dig so deep into you in missionary that you're sure he'll reemerge with gold or something. You always walk funny after. His knees always hurt. It's worth it.

Pero. He will have his dick sucked, thank you. The women he gets involved with are unsanitary and he doesn't need a new itch down there. Learn that the hard way. (Feral lil shit never stops to think about how often he washes his dick, though.) He will fuck a pair of nice big titties, too. No woman ever got knocked up from having her face painted white, if you catch my drift.

Dave. To suburban murder daddy it's not so much the position as it is the location. He loves danger, and lives for any kind of risky fornication he can think of: Walmart's parking lot, in the backseat with tinted windows, restaurant bathroom, his home office during a phone conference, the cinema, Thanksgiving dinner at his parents' house... you get it. He is the fingering king who can get you off with the crook of one of his fingers faster than any vibrator, before he presses you up against the wall or bends you over to fuck you fast and hard, before people start to wonder what's going on.

Oberyn. Hanging upside down in a trapeze or some shit. King is an athlete. Don't let the constant eating and lazy cat-in-a-sunny-spot manners fool you. He's just fuelling up.

[fireflowersandblood]

Letters From Home - Preview

i promised a preview so. here it is. or maybe. a first chapter. maybe. i'm not promising anything.

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader

WC: 800-ish words

TWs/Warnings: strong language, adult themes

Summary: Knitting for Victory has never been bigger and Tom gets a nice, cozy package from home.

“Hey, look at this, lads!”

Tom’s head snaps up. Immediately, his lips curl into a smirk. One of the men has jumped up on a box of supplies, holding a paper in his left hand. With his right, he’s trying to ward off the poor sod who has just lost his picture. Tom can’t see what it is with all the waving about, but he’s almost entirely sure it’s a lady, maybe even a lady with very little clothing. Little else gets the men this worked up.

“Bennett, for you.”

Before he can react, a paper wrapped package has been placed in his lap. It looks almost like a wrapped Christmas gift, with the string that ties it together, and is no bigger than the Encyclopedias that Lois collected when she was younger. 

“What’s this?” Tom glances down at the package and frowns at the handwriting. It’s nothing he recognizes and he can’t think of anyone who would want to send him something. Maybe his dad, but even that seems unlikely. 

“Red Cross”, his superior explains. “Knitted socks and the like. You’re not the only one.”

Tom gives an appreciative hum and glances back down on the box. The handwriting is neat, neater than anything he could manage, and spells out his full name. To his own surprise, he runs his fingers across the letters, before he takes care to open it.

The box is filled to the brim. He finds not one, but two, pairs of navy blue socks. A matching pullover and hat, as well as a small box of hard candies in all sorts of colors. It feels strange to hold something so normal in his hands, and it reminds him of when he was smaller. His mother used to have them, he remembers, in a small tin box by the radio. She’d always give him and Lois one each, and let them pick between the fruit shaped ones.

“You got socks”, someone next to him complains, and the sigh is nothing if not envious. It makes Tom feel just a tad superior, and he immediately kicks his boots off, tears the old socks from his feet, and pulls the new pair on with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I did”, he boasts. It’s all in good fun; now that the first few months have passed, there’s not as much fighting. Everyone has seen battle one too many times to spend any time asking for trouble, even Tom. “And they’re cozy.”

Everyone close enough to have heard laughs, and Tom takes the opportunity to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He would hate to leave another tin of candies for the rats. 

Tucked away in a corner of the box, he finds a letter. Again, with a handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Not the same as on the wrapper around the box, but something a little smaller and cleaner. He tears the envelope and is met by a sweet, light scent. It takes a moment too long to realize it must be perfume. It reminds him of the one Lois wears, and the thought makes his nose scrunch up. To take his mind off the rather unpleasant thought, he unfolds the letter.

Dear soldier,

When I’m writing this, I have no idea who you are. I might never know who you are. You, however, will know a little something about me when you’ve read this letter.

I’m the person who has made you the socks and the sweater. I hope you’ll find them useful and warm. The rationing has made it difficult to get a hold of yarn and I decided to unwind an old sweater of my father’s. I know he would much rather it be used by you.

I know our Navy must need as much as our Army, but if you have no use for two pairs of socks, perhaps you can give the second pair to a friend. I know the endless walking that the Army does tears the garments rather quickly, but two pairs might have been too much. I couldn’t help myself, when they said that the packages will be delivered to people who rarely, if ever, receive mail. I wanted you to know that there are people who think of you back home. 

The candies are made in London and remind me of my childhood. I hope it brings back pleasant memories for you, as well. 

I don’t know if people actually spray their letters with perfume, but I read it in a book once, and I thought it might lift your spirits. Pass it along and let the boys sniff it like a pair of used knickers, for all I care. 

Write, if it would please you. I would love to hear if the clothes have come to use, and make sure that you’re safe. I will pray for your safe return and a quick end to the war. 

Most love.

Tom flips the letter to find a name and an address.

“Mate, you got paper and a pen?”

[adventure-showdown]

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

ROUND 4 MASTERPOST

synopses and propagandaunder the cut

Rhys and Ianto’s Excellent Barbecue

Synopsis

Rhys is planning a lads' night in. Barbie in the back yard, few tins, mates and bants. But the only person who turns up is Ianto – who hasn't been invited. Hell is other people, especially when they've brought board games.

Something goes wrong. The two of them could be trapped together for eternity at a barbecue where the sausages never cook, and worse, the brewskis remain forever out of reach.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Caerdroia

Synopsis

Self-exiled to a new universe, separated from the TARDIS, opposed and manipulated by the Divergence and their agent the Kro'ka, the Eighth Doctor has been struggling to work out the nature of the cosmic game in which he's an unwilling pawn. Now, at last, he has a chance to find the answer — and regain the TARDIS!

Threatened and desperate, the Kro'ka abandons his behind-the-scenes machinations to confront the Doctor directly. But will both of them lose their way in the maze of the strange world in which they find themselves? A world in which a clock may have a cuckoo but no hands, a labyrinth imprisoning a paradox, and a Garden of Curiosities reveals something the Doctor has never seen before.

As the Doctor faces these challenges, Charley and C'rizz provide valuable help. But with the TARDIS itself at stake, the Doctor reaches deep inside himself to find some surprising new allies.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

[bigein]

I hope you do write the explicit scoteng omegaverse because I for one would love to read it!

sorry anon, as befitting my age I was out at the pub this weekend but happy easter and here you go (it ended up more one-shot than pwp and is in need of a proofread but today is my last day off, Godspeed).

---

Alasdair's shoulders are hot under his vest, the grass damp under his knees. He'd shed every layer he could and by mid-morning he was left in his boots, the thick denim he wears in the garden, and the fraying cotton that stretches tight across his chest. The belt at his hips is strapped tight and he tries to focus on that instead of the way his thighs tense and his gloved hands dig into the earth with a shudder like he is cold. It comes in waves, the heat that has him bent and huffing like a beast in the garden, tearing at roots like he wants to tear at himself.

At least the air out here clears his head, away from the unsettled scents of the house and the sharp smell of wood polish. Alasdair would have chosen beeswax but it was Dai charged with the floors and he'd come back from town with a tin can, new brushes and rags. Compromise. They are trying their hands at compromise, and Alasdair is trying, damn the devil, but he is already at his wit's end and today--

He tears harder at the ground and grits his teeth; sweat pools at his back. The grass crushed beneath his weight smells fresh and young; the weeds sharp and the soil rich and clean. The plot behind the house (their house) is little more than a tangle of briars and unkept rows of mint and meadowsweet. It is better than the polish, better than Sean's cider-and-turf and Daffyd's muted amber. They are not so far from the coast that he can't imagine the salt-tang of sea-spray in the air, metallic on his tongue. Today it makes him want to spit on the ground and pant, bite into something sweet until the juice drips down his throat.

He clenches his eyes shut and exhales like it hurts, and, to his great, fucking displeasure, he knows it's Arthur coming down to the garden before he even calls down. "Are those my gloves?"

Damn the devil and damn them all with it.

"Oi!" Arthur's steps stomp down like he is still walking on ship-boards. "I said, are those--"

"They don't fit you right." Alasdair tears at a tangle of roots and feels like a beast.

Arthur had good instincts once, and enough sense to know when to turn tail, but the last century has made him stupid. Stupid and presumptuous. He'd left a lad and came back reckless with it, scenting sweet under the bite of his temper.

"They're mine." He stops where Alasdair dropped his shirt earlier and toes it with his stupid, polished work shoes. Stupid, stubborn, reckless eejit. "What are you doing out here, anyway? You said--"

"--Fuck off back into the house and let me be." Alasdair does not know if it is by grace of his own idiocy or the damp earth that Arthur seems oblivious to the stench of him. He can see the shape of him out of the corner of his eye; the light corduroy of his trousers. Alasdair's left hand twitches where it is buried in the ground, tempted by the give of his thighs and the heat between them.

"What bit your arse today?" Arthur sounds almost too surprised to be angry and Alasdair knows he should have just stalked off himself when the bottom of Arthur's shoe finds his hip, trying to unbalance him from his crouch in retaliation.

He is not being serious with it and some part of Alasdair knows that he must be out here out of some misplaced sense of concern. Otherwise he would have fucked off at the first bark and if he'd been trying to pick up a fight proper he would have come down hollering. Instead he is here, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed, hands relaxed by his sides instead of clenched into fists. He has been biting at his nails again, and taking his pick from the laundry hamper like a nesting magpie and Alasdair cannot stand the sight of him, and his scent... He lingers by in the evenings when Alasdair has his whiskey like an old friend. Prattles on about his plans for the garden and what he'll be growing by next spring. Gets underfoot and in the way and on Alasdair's nerves like he means to. His scent is in every corner of the house, strongest in the living room and the kitchen, and the threshold to his room; pressed into the clean bedding because he holds the sheets under his chin when he folds them.

He can tell the moment Arthur catches the scent of rut on him, a flash of shock and sudden heat across his cheekbones. Alasdair already has him by the calf and it only takes a push to get him on the ground.

They grapple. Arthur claws at his vest until he catches skin and then softens, the bite of his nails easing into a tight grip instead. He doesn't want to draw blood, Alasdair thinks, and it makes him feel light-headed to consider why.

He has his full weight on Arthur, one of his knees heavy on the inside of his thigh. He eases up, nudging Arthur's leg around his waist and raising up on his forearms to get a good look at him.

The blush across his cheeks is darker, bleeding down his neck into the high collar of the shirt under the stripped plaid he is wearing. He is breathing hard through his nose, chin tipped back to catch Alasdair's eyes, waiting. Clever thing.

Alasdair is still wearing his gloves, the suede rough and stained. He pulls them off, tossing them carelessly to the side and reaching down to edge up his shirt. He is bare beneath it, ribs rising in time with his breathing. His skin is warm, flushing under his gaze and softest under the swell of his chest, where Alasdair can feel his heartbeat. He flinches when Alasdair thumbs nipple, scenting anxious and aroused.

"You're a sight, like this," Alasdair says and means it. He wants to put him mouth on him, make him sigh.

"And you are..." Arthur squints his eyes, huffs and swallows and lets his head drop back. "I thought you smelled off."

Alasdair thinks of rot and dirt and iron. "Like?"

"Hot," Arthur's throat bobs, the movement strained with his neck stretched out like that. His thighs twitch against Alasdair's sides, like he can't decide whether he'd like to close them. Alasdair can smell the heat of him, stronger now. Maybe he's just squirming. "Yourself or, not yourself just... hot. I thought maybe sick but I didn't think--"

Alasdair shuts him up by pressing his lips to his sternum, has to reach down to fist himself at the first brush of skin against his lips. Arthur doesn't sigh so much as he just hold his breath, holding very still like he's still waiting to see what Alasdair will do next.

He drags it out to see how long he'll last, brushing his lips slowly down, then up again. He breathes warm against Arthur's chest like he is tempting the burn in his lungs until he can't help it himself and his lips leave a path of sucking kisses everywhere he can reach. Arthur bites back a gasp and twitches hard against the press of Alasdair's teeth, hands flying to find his shoulders. He keeps his hands there, like he might throw Alasdair off and knocks his knees against his hips. Alasdair lets go of himself and crowds closer, a hand on Arthur's thigh now, the other on his neck. The shift in weight seems to do something for him and he shivers falling limp again where he'd been tense. Or maybe it is Alasdair lips which find his neck, his jaw, leaving bruises where he can reach.

His hands get rougher and his hips roll down, against the inside of Arthur's thigh who sighs, finally, or maybe moans, the sound drowned out by the grunt of relief deep from Alasdair's chest when he finally gets the friction he needs. His hands find a purchase in Arthur's hair, his thighs, his waist, seemingly unable to hold still and hungry for the give of his flesh. It's Arthur who finally reaches out, first to tear off Alasdair's vest and then tugging at his belt, hissing until Alasdair gives in and helps him undo the buckle.

They both groan, Alasdair in relief and Arthur with a hitch, getting a good look at the thickness of him and thinking there is no way, there is no way--

Alasdair has him on his knees, bare chest to the ground before he can breathe a word, tearing his trousers and getting them halfway down his thighs before he crowds in close again. Arthur's calves are tangled between his and he reaches out with one hand instinctively to scruff him down against the ground. Arthur whines, low and aroused, and holds still.

He's small, Alasdair thinks, blinking stupidly down at the right bonnie sight between his thighs. Alasdair wants to lick him, suck him, finger him loose. He spreads him open with a rough grip and settles for sucking the taste of him off his fingers instead. They'll have time for that later, for all of it. Alasdair will make him sob on his fist before the week is out, will fuck him sore and full and his. Put a bite on him, where everyone will see. He doesn't have the patience now to take his time and he can't, he won't, his knot would--

I'll tear him, Alasdair thinks and he shudders, aroused and balking at the thought at once.

He reaches for his belt instead.

The tail of it whips against the tender edge of Arthur's thigh when he rips it off and he would have apologised if Arthur hadn't pressed his thighs together with a tight moan. If it leaves a mark he'll kiss it better and leave another later, later. He's panting like he's been running miles and needs both hands to do what he's planning, looping his belt around Arthur's tights and pulling the cinch tight enough that it will catch his cock between them like he needs. Arthur gasps and reaches back like it shocks him but he is shaking, wet and aroused and pliable when Alasdair drapes his chest against his back and reaches around to keep his head up with a fist in his hair. His jaw would be too low otherwise and Alasdair wants to kiss him, wants to mouth against his neck and his lips if he can reach them while he thrusts like a beast between his thighs.

"Good, be good," he mouths his praise against his jaw and slaps his thighs against the swell of Arthur's arse. Arthur sobs and fists the grass with one hand, reaching between his legs with the other to rub against Alasdair's cockhead and his, cupping them so they'll rub together and begging like the clever thing he is, already so good for him. Alasdair rewards him with his teeth, wants to eat him whole.

When he comes it's with a shout, one hand desperately reaching down to cinch his belt tighter and milk his knot. They are a mess of cum and slick; they stink of each other and the garden, rubbed filthy with sweat and grass. Arthur comes with a shiver and a sigh, tired and shaking and held up only by the grace of Alasdair's strength. His thighs will bruise.

It is a good thing that it is a warm spring; or warm enough at least that they won't catch their deaths sprawled out in the garden like this, lazy and sated. Alasdair's fingers find Arthur's hair again, kinder this time. He wonders about summer, and whether they can have the plot cleared and tilled before the weather turns.

He's dozing off, thinking about strawberries and counting the weeks till July when a shrill cry from the house startles him bad enough he's almost on his feet, cock wet and trousers stained at the knees, before he recognises Sean's voice.

"Is that me fecking shirt, you goddamned degenerate?!"

Next to him, loose and breathless, Arthur laughs.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Doctor Who, but Chronologically 27

JOYOUS NEWS!!! We are now seeing our first two-parter that is

A) Actually supposed to be a two-parter, and

B) Set in the same time period so we can watch them back to back like you're meant to.

It's just nice to have a bit of normalcy in this deeply stupid watch order.

Anyway: Family of Blood. We pick up where we left off. Tim, aka the boy with the fob watch from Love, Actually, opens it just slightly, which is distracting enough to the Family that Martha promptly punches Mother firmly in the solar plexus, steals her shrimp-shaped gun, and takes her hostage.

"You won't shoot!" says Son. "You're scared!"

"Yes, guns and fear are a famously winning combination, Mummy's Little Genius," says Martha, and tells the Doctor to get everyone else out.

He does not. Human Doctor is still a trembling useless wimp. Instead, Nurse Joan the Love Interest takes over, and herds everyone out.

... and then we get the first of many Very Upsetting Scenes in this episode, as the Doctor turns back to Martha, who is still holding the Family at gunpoint.

"What about you?" he asks.

And Martha visibly steels herself, doesn't look away, and says perfectly evenly, "Mr Smith, I think you need to get your lady friend to safety, don't you?"

And he leaves her.

... fuck me, this one has more emotional resonance than that time Amy got shot by her plastic fiance

ANYWAY

Martha is then menaced by a scarecrow and yet still manages to get away. To their credit, the Doctor an Joan are waiting for her outside, at least, and they all run back to the school where the Doctor gets all the school boys to unload the guns and get ready to fight in preparation for Very Upsetting Scene #2. But just before it, we get given an emotionally charged warmup that punches our hearts out the backs of our ribcages like Mortal Kombat characters, as my excellent friend Maia once put it, because as the Family gather outside with their scarecrow army, the headmaster goes out to talk to them.

It's such a good exchange and so incredibly acted and edited that I literally looked up the quote:

Headmaster: Well I warn you, the school is armed. Brother: All your little tin soldiers. But tell me sir, will they thank you? Headmaster: I don’t understand. Brother: What do you know of history, sir? What do you know of next year? Headmaster: You’re not making sense, man— Brother: 1914, sir. Because the Family has travelled far and wide looking for Mr. Smith, and oh the things we have seen. War is coming. In foreign fields, war of the whole wide world with all your boys falling down in the mud. Do you think they will thank the man who taught them it was glorious?

I literally cannot convey how well delivered both that "Tell me sir, will they thank you?" and that "Do you think they will thank the man who taught them it was glorious?" is. The little blond inbred lad who loves dragons on Game of Thrones. By god. Sweet christ does that boy deliver the hell out of those lines. My husband literally GASPED.

Meanwhile, we have what passes for a pallette cleanser in this episode - Martha is tearing the study apart looking for the watch, and Joan the nurse comes to speak to her. Martha tells her she's a doctor from the future.

"Don't be ridiculous," Joan says. "You can't be a doctor, you're a woman and black."

I mean I know I said Freema Agyeman is not... the BEST at acting. And I stand by it. But the LOOK she levels in this scene, my lord. Somehow, in spite of only saying the words "Oh, do you think?", she manages to convey the sentiment "Let me just disembowel this bitch real quick."

"Bones of the hand," Martha says, and lists them all.

"You read that in a book," says Joan.

"YES, TO PASS MY EXAMS" says Martha.

Anyway, it's enough to convince Joan that her new boyfriend is an amnesiac alien (we've all been there, sis), so she goes off to talk to the Doctor. She asks him to describe Nottingham; but he can't, other than facts. And he has the first hint of a breakdown. He does NOT want to be a Time Lord.

"But you know this is wrong," Joan says. "These are children, going to fight the Family. The Doctor wouldn't want it. Nor would John Smith."

Tim is setting up with Classic White Bully Hutchison. But he decides that he needs to do something else with the watch to help. "It's okay!" he tells Hutchison. "You and I will survive this! I've seen us in a WW1 trench in 1914!" and then runs off, as though that is remotely comforting.

Which sets us up nicely for Very Upsetting Scene #2. Outside, a truly unfeasibly large number of scarecrows has now amassed (when did the family make all these scarecrows??!?) The shooting begins, a hymn playing over the top as these weeping, sobbing children load bullets into machine guns and fight supernatural terrors...

And the Doctor, standing there with a loaded rifle, cannot bring himself to shoot a single shot.

Fucking. Harrowing.

Anyway then Daughter-of-Mine turns up and shoots the headmaster for not listening to black women or somethign IDK Martha told him to stay back, he told her to fuck off, the Daughter killed him. Seems fair. Freaks the Doctor out though so everyone retreats into the school, the Family in hot pursuit, and then it's Chaos for a bit until the Father turns up with the TARDIS.

And then we get Very Upsetting Scene #3, as the Doctor cries and begs to be allowed to stay human. A good man, with a good life, in love. This segues into Very Upsetting Scene #4, where Joan takes them to the house of the Daughter on the well-reasoned grounds that the real child who used to be the Daughter had parents who would have tried to stop their little girl from leaving, and been killed. The Doctor lashes out at Martha.

"You're his companion!" he rages. "What good are you, exactly? Why does he need you?"

It is SO fucking upsetting. Poor Martha.

Anyway then Tim turns up with the watch, so THAT becomes Very Upsetting Scene #5, as the Family start bombing the village i.e. St Ffagan's village square, and Martha is telling him to open the fucking watch, and the Doctor is now screaming and begging and pleading to be allowed to live because he doesn't want to go and become someone else. But Joan realises he has to - otherwise, the Family will consume a Time Lord, and then they'll live forever and destroy everything.

She tries to convince him. He says he wants to stay and love her, but knows he won't as the Doctor. And then they touch the watch together and so they both see the life they could have had together INCLUDING THE CHILDREN WHO NOW WON'T EXIST and fuck me we all need therapy forever. Who okayed this. Who allowed this on television. Why must David Tennant be so good at acting.

So it's a bit of a shame it's then all downhill from there tbh.

Obviously, he opens the watch, although it happens off screen, so in this watch order we have had THREE SEPARATE WATCH STORIES but still haven't seen one be opened. He blows up the Family's space ship, and then... well, it's a bit weird. Bit fairytale. He suspends each of them in time in some way so they'll be imprisoned for all eternity, including trapping the Daughter in mirrors... somehow, bit vague on the details. "He ran from us to be kind," the narration says dramatically. "To spare us the rage of a Time Lord" and whoa there Mary Sue, we're back on this bullshit.

A final scene with Joan, with upsetting exchanges like

"Could you change back?"

"Yes"

"Will you?"

"No"

It's another difficult scene, but then it ruins itself by doing the old "People here died because you came and that's your fault" thing, which is eternally boring and terrible and I wish successive showrunners would stop doing it. The Tortured Man Pain side of the Mary Sue. Fuck off.

Anyway, the Doctor and Martha hug it out back at the TARDIS, which is sweet. Tim turns up.

"I've seen the future," he declares. "And I know now what I must do."

You're very intense, Tim.

The Doctor gives him the old watch, and away they go. I hope they're off to an ice cream planet where twelve-fingered aliens give great massages. Martha needs some serious aftercare.

Flash forward. Tim and Hutchison are staggering through a WW1 trench. Tim realises it's the moment from the watch vision he saw, and makes them dive right out the way of a shell. He saves Hutchison. Then Hutchison says "I'm not going to make it."

"Oh yes you are," declares Tim. "Didn't I promise you, all those years ago?"

Tim. It was last year.

ANYWAY this episode was fucking harrowing. We've now seen what the fob watches can do! But no further plot threads I don't think, nor any resolved, so the list remains... extensive.

“She” (an unknown person) is returning (perhaps River returned as Missy. Maybe Me? Maybe Clara???!)

There is something on Donna’s back

An entire planet, Pyrovilia, just… disappeared, somehow. (Maybe because the TARDIS is exploding??? Saturnine was also lost, and that WAS because of the TARDIS exploding. The lion man’s planet was also lost but he was a bit of a knob about it if I’m honest.)

Amy is maybe dead (she’s not)

The Doctor has been cubed (he’s out, but how?)

River is possibly blown up  (unless she’s Missy)

The TARDIS has blown up  (It’s fine now. Except it’s sort of melting now because it’s corrupted, but it’s fine again)

The universe appears to have ended  (the universe is back again)

The Doctor has employed(?) Nardole (And Nardole was “reassembled???”)

There’s a vault in the TARDIS and it contains Missy but we don’t know why (sometimes she knocks for the bants)

What has happened to all these companions and where are the new ones coming from?

There’s an immortal Viking girl now. Her name is Me and she’s now looking after the people the Doctor abandons

What’s With The Silence?

Why was Rory entirely unconcerned by the entire world suddenly going silent when that is Not Normal and should have been, at the very least, extremely disconcerting?

What did the Doctor do to Queen Lizzie One?

Who is Captain Jack Harkness? (Is he the one who gave the companions a warning about the lone cyberman?)

Why is Amy seeing a one-eyed woman in a vanishing window?

What’s with the Doctor’s future involving getting shot by an astronaut?

Is Amy pregnant and why is it inconclusive?

Who is Sarah-Jane Smith?

How is the Doctor Bill’s teacher and why/where does he have an office?

What is going on with the Cyber War and the Cyberium???

Who did the Doctor lose to Cyber Conversion?

What happened with the Other Cyber War?

What happened with the Third War that deleted the void?

Why does Rose seem particularly important?

What’s with the Weeping Angel statues, and why can’t you blink at them?

What order do these Doctors go in? (Eccleston, Tennant, uncertain, Smith, Capaldi.)

Which companion just… forgot the Doctor, and how?

Yaz and Vinder are about to die as Mori/Mwri/Muuri

There is a Lupari shield around Earth.

What’s a Time War?

What’s the Rift?

What’s Bad Wolf?

What happened with Amy’s pregnancy?

In which war did the Doctor become a war criminal, and how?

Who is the Master?

Why has Amy forgotten Rory?

Is Rory plastic or not?

Why is the Doctor sulking on a cloud?

How exactly does the Doctor have a cloud?

What exactly happened with Strax to, uh, tame him?

Which friend killed Strax?

Which friend brought Strax back?

Where did this lesbian lizard and human couple come from?

What happened with Clara as Souffle Girl and the Daleks?

How does Clara actually join?

Why so many Claras?

Why is Missy apparently in robo-heaven?

Why is probably!Missy pushing Clara and the Doctor together?

What is Trensilor and what happened there?

Who is Handles?

The Doctor is about to be dissolved by a beautiful geode man

The universe is being crushed by the Flux

Will the Doctor open the fobwatch?

Sontarans are invading Earth again

Who is Kate?

Who is Osgood? Another name of Clara’s again?

The fuck is the deal with the Grand Serpent

Does Martha get to go to an ice cream planet with 12-fingered massage aliens?

[solemn-marauders]

A Regretful Visit

Sebastian x MC pairing

Continued in Broken Glass, Broken Hearts

Disclaimer: The first of my Hogwarts Legacy drabble that I’m posting. These are written quickly while the ideas are fresh. They are short and most likely sprinkled with errors. I’m posting these for me, but if other people enjoy them, then all the better. I will be using my MC’s name, Thea, since this is her story. I also keep the time period in mind. I do my best to keep it as period accurate as possible.

Trigger Warning: None

Additional Information: Takes place the summer after their 5th year

Thea had tried several times over the summer to reach out to Sebastian through letters. At the end of the term he had told her that he needed to return to Feldcroft to take care of some matters. She, of course, had offered to accompany him, but he was adamant that some time to process things on his own was something he desperately needed.

After much time had passed without a single response she became worried, had the Ministry somehow learned the truth behind Solomon’s death? Was Sebastian’s guilt so strong that he had succumbed to his self-loathing? Those thoughts alone had Thea mounting her broom early one morning to pay him a visit and assure herself that the worst had not happened.

She reached the hamlet in record time and landed near Bernard Ndiaye’s stall. Bernard had taken a liking to the young witch, especially after she retrieved some stolen crates of chomping cabbages meant for him.

He was busy arranging new stock, but turned towards the sound of Thea dismounting her broom.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite customer!” His joy at seeing her made her smile. “It’s been too long since I saw you last. I heard rumors of you being involved in some nasty business up at Hogwarts. I hope you’re alright.”

Thea’s smile faltered as she defaulted to her overused response whenever someone inquired about her wellbeing these days. “I’m fine, Bernard, but I appreciate your concern.” Fine. She was always “fine”.

“I thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing you more around here, given how close you and Sebastian are. Poor lad, first his sister gets sick and then his uncle passes in his sleep.” A look of genuine concern settled on Bernard's face. 

“That’s actually why I’m here, to check in on him. Has he been in Feldcroft since school ended?”

“Oh yes, he’s kept himself quite busy with repairing the cottage and tending to the gardens. I haven’t seen Anne since Solomon’s passing, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she were back at St. Mungo’s.” Bernard’s attention was caught by something across the courtyard. “Oh! There’s the lad now. Sometimes I swear that boy doesn’t sleep...”

Thea barely paid attention to Bernard’s words. Every part of her was focused on Sebastian as he left the cottage and made his way to the adjoining garden. He hadn’t so much as glanced this way yet and Thea found herself at war with her thoughts. Even from this distance she could tell that, at least physically, he was perfectly fine. More than fine if she were to be honest with herself. The time spent working on the hovel and in the garden had seemed to do him well. He looked stronger, his muscles more defined under the shirt he wore. Thea felt her face warm while at the same time fighting the bile that crept up her throat. 

He had been in Feldcroft this whole time and was obviously physically capable of returning her letters. The pain she felt in her chest and stomach only made her nausea worse. A part of her wanted to storm across the courtyard and give him an absolute earful, she was even picturing throwing a solid jab into that annoying freckled face of his. The other, equally strong urge, was to leave. He didn’t deserve to see her, didn’t deserve to know that she cared for him deeply enough to make sure he was okay.

She was so engrossed in her inner debate that she almost hadn’t noticed a village girl drawing water from the well in the center of town and filling a tin cup. A cup that she then carried with her towards the brunette. Thea couldn’t make out any of the words spoken between the two, but she could clearly see Sebastian flashing the girl a dashing smile as he accepted the offered water. The girl seemed to be around their age, if not a bit younger, and was quite becoming. Thea didn’t recognize her from school, but that wasn’t saying much as she had kept incredibly busy the whole year.

She had gotten what she came there for. Sebastian was alive and apparently quite well, a fact that made Thea want to fly home as fast as possible.

“My dear, are you alright?” Bernard’s soft words brought her out of her thoughts.

As always, she replied with, “I’m fine,” she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene in front of her. The pair across the way seemed to be having a grand time, if their smiles and laughter were any indication, “but Bernard?”

“Mhmm?”

“Please tell no one that I came here.” Sebastian still hadn’t seen her and she wanted to leave before he did.

Bernard’s eyes shifted from Thea to the Sallow cottage and back again. He must have understood to some degree, because the look of understanding and pity he gave made the bile creep more up her chest. She had to get out of here, now.

“I won’t tell a soul.”

Thea was already mounting her broom when she thanked him and flew as fast as she could from the hamlet. The wind from her speed turned the fallen tears on her face cold.

[calder]

"I'd use a bullet on myself, but with all these critters an' mobsters about it feels a waste, don't it?" -Clutch, about why he hasn't killed himself

Clutch Connors is a human male that can be found in the area south of Connors Farm. When approached he will bark a series of quips in a random order, sometimes based on player statistics.

"Razorgrain, rays-or-grain. Heh, yeah. I'll take the grain any day of the week.

Whatever happened to bullfrogs?

You jack off with that arm Mister Meaty? (If the Sacrificial Lamb has a Strength score of 7 or higher.)

'S okay pardner, I'm not much for books either. (If the Sacrificial Lamb's Intelligence is 3 or lower.)

Met a guy named Fallout once, ugly motherfucker.

What the fuck is a cow anyways?

I'm a centrist, 'cept when 'm not.

Don't ask me about roads.

War... What was it about war...?

Please, kill me. Just fucking kill me. Do it before the shmuck with the buttons makes you walk away. Please. (Has a rare chance of occurring if the Sacrificial Lamb has the Wild Wasteland trait.)

Clutch is involved in the quest Saint James Infirmary Blues and is one of the escaped patients the Sacrificial Lamb is tasked with rescuing, while the quest is active, you can speak to him and at first he will be apprehensive about returning, the player can either use a Speech check of 40 to convince him to return, or state that they'll take him there by force, after which he will become immediately hostile. If the Sacrificial Lamb has a Medicine skill of 70 or has Frankie in their party, they can determine that Clutch is not a danger to himself or anyone around him, but unless they can also get Weezel to confess to struggling with gender dysphoria and convince Rhonda Simmons to stop taking Day Tripper to hide her autism, the quest will not be marked as complete until they either kill him or convince him to go back to Dr. Rollins.

After the conclusion of St. James Infirmary Blues where he stays at the farm, Clutch will be hostile to any entities hostile to the Sacrificial Lamb in the area, and the player can initiate dialogue with him where he opens up about his struggles with suicidal thoughts and schizophrenia. After exhausting all dialogue options, every time the Sacrificial Lamb talks to Clutch, he has a chance to give a Fancy Lad Snack Cakes, Instamash, Pork n' Beans, Tin Can Grenade or Radweed Joint to them along with a random statement of gratitude.

Thank you for being my friend.

Thanks for not takin' me t' that funny farm.

Hey, I love you... don't make it weird.

Nobody's ever been that nice to me before, here, have this.

Hey, I like men too. (If the Sacrificial Lamb has the Black Widow perk)

Hey, I like men too... you're not my type, though. (If the Sacrificial Lamb has the Confirmed Bachelor perk)

From one motherfucker to another motherfucker, eh?

Hey don't tell Ma about this one. Heheh. (When giving a Radweed Joint)

If the Sacrificial Lamb instead takes him back to Dr. Rollins, he will be wearing a Patient's Gown and standing inside the New Unity Clinic, where if spoken to, he will normally be silent with the subtitles simply show "..." He has a small chance to whisper "Fuck you." and if the Sacrificial Lamb has the Wild Wasteland trait he can also say, "You know you'll lose Karma for this, right?" At the conclusion of the quest Bad Medicine, if Dr. Rollins is killed, he will sometimes stand over his corpse and talk to it with his arms crossed, regardless of if the Sacrificial Lamb kills Dr. Rollins or gets Ranger Sykes to arrest him, Clutch will eventually return to Connors Farm with his inventory reset, but will keep the barks from convincing him to return to the clinic.

Clutch's inventory contains a random amount of regular 10mm ammunition and one random special 10mm round (but he will have more if the Sacrificial Lamb has the Scrounger perk and kills him.) He is equipped with leather armor and a 10mm pistol. While staying at the New Unity Clinic, he is equipped with a patient gown and his inventory is empty.

Exhausting all of Clutch Connor's dialogue after completing Saint James Infirmary Blues without killing him or returning him to the clinic is essential to completing the Basket Case challenge and receiving its related perk.

Trivia

Clutch almost recites the classic phrase "War never changes." found throughout the Fallout series, but forgets the rest of the sentence.

His apprehension regarding the subject of roads may be a reference to players in Fallout: New Vegas being able to ask characters about the NCR-Legion conflict, where many of them will bring up the safety of roads. (citation needed)

His Wild Wasteland dialogue in the New Unity Clinic is a reference to Karma, a statistic that tracked the morality of players' actions in previous Fallout games.

Mister Meaty was the name of a puppet show that briefly aired on Nickelodeon from 2007-2008.

Glitches

Prior to Patch 1.03, Clutch would become immediately hostile to the Sacrificial Lamb upon starting Saint James Infirmary Blues.

Prior to Patch 1.17, Clutch would sometimes be dead of a gunshot wound if the Sacrificial Lamb approached him and then left Connors Farm without starting or completing Saint James Infirmary Blues. Using console commands to warp directly to the farm from the clinic will show that he was meant to be shooting at tin cans on a fence, but because the cans have no collision until picked up, if a caravan is walking by, he can hit one of the caravan guards, traveling merchants or pack brahmin, causing them to turn hostile and kill him before returning to their route.

Clutch will sometimes use the same combat barks as the Stargazer cultists or Infected Commandos

Clutch will sometimes say one of his perk or item dependent lines when giving the Sacrificial Lamb Pork n' Beans, regardless of if they have the prerequisite perk and not receiving a Radweed Joint.

If Dr. Rollins is spawned in front of Clutch after killing him during the quest Bad Medicine using console commands, he will still talk to him as if he was dead.

this seems to be an entertainment-oriented article for a bunch of fallout that doesnt exist. i have no idea of the context or joke but this was a fun read, thank you !

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Nine

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, sexual assault, World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 7K

Note: Oh boy, this chapter is a *juicy* one. I’ve put in the warnings sexual assault, the scene will not be graphic but the warning is there. Please take care if you find this sort of thing triggering. Here we go pals…

New Year’s Eve 1939

The tinkling of laughter drifted through the open bedroom door, and Cora giggled from her seat at the vanity table.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Hearing them altogether.”

Bess hummed and watched her sister carefully tuck hair behind her headscarf. She looked just like Etta. It was 8 in the morning, and the two girls were readying themselves for a day of work. Dot was dressed and downstairs, talking to their father and Albie, the third Vaughn child, returned from war.

On the bed, Bess sat with her feet curled beneath her bottom as she read Tom’s last letter for the hundredth time. It was dated 13th December 1939. He had written it the day the Exeter was hit.

“Makes me less scared of dying. I’m just one bloke.”

What if he was dead? Had he been scared? Was it quick or did he die in a drawn-out frenzy of screams and terror? Bess screwed her eyes shut and pinched the back of her hand. The tears that threatened to fall disappeared.

“I’ve told the lads all about the dark-haired Vaughn girl and they’d love to get a look at you. You know you’re gorgeous –“

From behind the letter, Bess revealed the photograph of Tom. He thought she was gorgeous. Him, with his mischievous blue eyes and boyish smile, the curve of his lips and his broad shoulders. His height and his strength. His iron will and cocksure swagger. Tom Bennett thought Bess Vaughn was gorgeous. She blushed and looked at the mirror to examine herself. Cora was looking back at her.

“No telegram is good news, Bess,” she seemed to know what Bess was doing, what she was thinking. “We all miss him.”

Bess placed the letter in the biscuit tin, shoved it under the bed and ran downstairs without a word. When she entered, Albie moved a plate of toast towards her.

“Not for me,” though she kissed the top of his head all the same. “What are you doing with your day?”

“Going to see some of the other lads. Might pay poor Walter Watson a visit, see how he’s holding up.” The Vaughn children smirked, for Fergal had no idea just how Walter had broken his arm. “Then, of course, the new year dance.” Albie grabbed Dot and swung her around the kitchen, her shrieks and laughter near rattling the china.

“You enjoy yourselves my darlings.” Fergal said from his perch by the stove. His face was pale and his eyes were tired. He had been to see Douglas Bennett the night previous and had returned home on the milk float. Still, he was happy to have Albie home and that was all Bess could ask for. Almost.

Cora edged down the stairs, lipstick and hair perfectly in place. Ever since Roger came along, Cora had been glowing. Bess smiled at the sight of her older sister. She was in love, and my God, did she deserve it.

“Ready, Vaughns? Minus you Albie, of course.” Cora called to the kitchen at large.

“Can’t believe they’re making you work on New Year’s Eve.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Bess, shouldering her satchel.

“And you’re the wickedest of them all,” Albie said and Bess pinched his belly. From the corner of the kitchen, Dot sniffled. They all turned to her.

“It’s so good to have you home, Albie.” She burst into tears. Bess and Albie laughed as he moved towards his little sister.

“Stop being soft. You’re eighteen now!” He wrapped his arm around her. “Come on, I’ll walk you to work.” And together, the five Vaughns stepped into the December day, each feeling the hope of the new year more fully than ever before. From across the street, Lois watched the family smiling and laughing together as they walked to work arm in arm. Behind her, Douglas sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper and cereal before him untouched.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

“It’s so wonderful to have all the boys back, isn’t it?” Queenie Warren’s girlish voice carried across the canteen, echoing Cora’s sentiment from the morning. Bess stared at her spam sandwich and placed it back in its brown paper. “Well. Most of the boys.” Queenie corrected herself and dabbed away a crocodile tear. Bess’ mouth curled in disgust at her overt display of despair for Tom, and Roberta elbowed her in the ribs.

“How’s Frank, Queenie?” Roberta asked her.

“Hm?” Queenie looked across at her, unused to being addressed by the fearsome girl. “Oh, he’s grand. Taking me to the dance tonight. Will you both be there?” Bess and Roberta nodded. “And Hattie too? I’m looking forward to meeting this fella of hers. Shame Jude can’t be there. Who are you two going with?”

Queenie knew full well that no men had asked Bess and Roberta. “My brother.”

“Oh,” Queenie said sweetly. “Isn’t that lovely.”

“Christ,” Roberta muttered and Bess laughed sadly.

The bell rang, signalling the end of their lunch break, and the three women made their way back to the warehouse floor. Bess inched closer to Roberta and whispered in her ear.

“If I push her off the wing, you run her over with the truck.” Roberta guffawed and Bess winked. “See you later.”

If she discounted Queenie’s girlish social commentary, the rest of the day passed in relative ease for Bess. The foreman had a gramophone brought into the warehouse and played Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman on repeat. Bess loved American big band and was enjoying its gradual emergence in the dancehalls of Manchester. Her mind had been so filled with thoughts of Tom Bennett for the past two weeks, that she felt guilty for the anticipation growing in her stomach. But the prospect of dancing, and drinking, made Bess quiver with excitement. Maybe, for an hour or two, she could play make believe. Pretend to be happy. The remaining hour of her shift was spent imagining the compliments she would get for the dress already hanging at home. Imagining swaying in someone else’s arms, with no obligation but to share a dance with them. The bell rang.

“Bess!” Roberta was already waiting at the door. Bess jumped down the ladder from the wing, stored her tools and strolled towards her best friend. Queenie hurried passed.

“See you later, girls.” Bess gave a mock salute.

“At least with the boys back, she’ll leave us alone.” Roberta said as she offered Bess a cigarette. They exited the factory gates. The air was crisp and across the horizon, smoke funnelled from the factory chimneys. Bess admired the bleak beauty of it all, and her eyes fell on a solitary figure leant against the gate. Douglas Bennett, collar turned up against the cold, ready to pedal away on his bike, Peace Paper tucked into his bag. Seeing him there made Bess think of a Lowry painting, and she was just wondering whether she would populate the painting with more gloomy figures or leave Douglas the sole subject when Roberta shrieked.

“Albert Vaughn, put me down!”

“Good to see you, Bobbie.” Albie laughed and placed her back on the ground.

“Silly beggar,” Roberta huffed as she clutched her chest. Bess smacked her brother’s arm and left them to catch up. When she approached him, Douglas touched his cap the way he always did and Bess was utterly charmed by him.

“How are you?” she asked him. He fidgeted with the handlebars of his bike.

“No news is good news.” Behind them, Albie and Roberta laughed.

“I’m sorry, Douglas, about Albie-”

“Nonsense.” He cut her off firmly. “Don’t you dare apologise. It’d be selfish of me to wish away your happiness. God knows I’ve had enough sadness not to press it on other people.” The honest vulnerability of his statement took Bess’ breath away, and she covered his hand with her own.

“Douglas,” Albie appeared at his sister’s side and shook hands with the older man. Bess turned and saw Roberta striding down the road.

“Good to see you back, lad.” Douglas smiled warmly, and Bess was amazed at how genuine it was.

“Hop on, Bess.” Albie gestured to his own bike. “Give Douglas a break from carting you around.”

Bess opened her mouth in mock offense and Douglas laughed. “Ah, she’s alright.”

“You don’t have to lie to me Douglas, I know she’s a lump-” Bess hit his arm harder than before and Albie laughed with Douglas. She sat gracefully on the handlebars and leant back. Even through the multiple layers of coat and jumper, Bess could feel the bones of her brother’s chest. The war wasn’t being kind to him, no matter how jovial he tried to seem. In an odd way, she wished she was on Douglas’ bike instead. Bess loved resting against his broad shoulders as he cycled her home at the end of a shift and, if the wind was in the right direction, she could smell the detergent Lois used. The one that smelt like Tom.

Douglas and Albie cycled side by side the two miles from the factory to their street. At just two o’ clock, the brisk afternoon was still bright, and Bess relished the kiss of the cold on her cheeks as they sped down the ginnels and backstreets of Manchester. Albie made a point to hit every cobble, pothole and bump in the road, and Bess was giddy with glee when they turned into their street. Douglas smiled next to them as her laughter pealed through the grey day. The sound of Bess’ voice had become such a source of comfort to him over the months since Lois and Tom left. With Lois home, he hadn’t heard it for a while, and his chest swelled. Never did he think he would miss the company of quiet Bess Vaughn, or that a woman like her would want his. He took his eyes off his path for a moment to revel in Albie and Bess’ youthful joy. A flash of blue and yellow skirted his periphery. His head whipped around and the bike slammed to a halt as his foot skidded off the pedal. Shocked by Douglas’ sudden loss of control, Bess looked at him. His eyes were glazed and though she couldn’t hear, she saw him mouth one word as she and Albie passed on their bike. She gasped and followed Douglas’ eyes.

“Oh my God,”

“Christ, Bess!” Albie shouted, for Bess had tried to dismount the still moving bike. She lurched off the handlebars as it stopped unexpectedly, stumbling a little. At the sudden commotion, the source of their scuffle looked up.

Beneath the cap and sweep of blond hair, blue eyes gleamed with barely supressed satisfaction. A roguish grin spread across the man’s face, recognition flickering there as he realised he was the cause of the fuss. Moving slowly from Douglas, to Albie, his eyes landed on Bess and she blushed. The sailor pushed himself off the wall to greet the stunned party.

“Tom,” Douglas came to a standstill before his son.

“Alright, Dad? Brought you a canary.” He held up the cage and the silent trio glanced at it. Tom smirked at their confusion.

“What the fuck is that!?” Albie was first to break the silence, laughing as he grabbed Tom in an enthusiastic hug.

“Found a bird in Argentina.” The friends laughed as Douglas unlocked the door, glancing at his son every now and again in shock. Bess hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move. He was alive. Bright and brilliant and alive. And stood in front of her. Over Albie’s shoulder, Tom caught Bess’ distant, disbelieving gaze and smiled at her.

“Hi,” he said, looking her over just a little. Fuck, his voice. Fuck, he was handsome. Simultaneously, Bess wanted to kiss and slap him.

“Hi,” she breathed giddily.

“Tom,” Albie’s voice sharpened Bess’ senses and she swayed a little on the spot, arriving back at reality. “New Year’s Eve dance tonight? Your Lois is singing.”

Tom looked at Bess as he replied. “I wouldn’t miss it. What time are you going?”

“We’re leaving around eight.” Albie hadn’t seemed to notice that Tom was ignoring him. Instead, Tom’s blue eyes bore into Bess’ brown ones.

“Eight o’clock,” he whispered.

“Tom?” Douglas motioned for him to come inside.

“See you then,” he winked at Bess and disappeared. She turned and marched through their own front door.

“You alright?” Albie called up the stairs.

“Yeah, just tired. Gonna lie down.” Bess slammed the door to the small bathroom, grabbed a flannel from the linen closet and ran the faucet. She swiped the cloth under the cold tap and fumbled with her slacks and shirt. Stripping down to her underwear, she took the cloth and held it to her chest, a few trickles of icy water running between her breasts. Bess shuddered and moved the flannel between her thighs. Her head tipped forward and she fought to still her erratic breathing.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She gripped the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Despite the cold of the day and the water dripping down her legs, a pink flush covered her chest and face. Her eyes were heavy and she could feel every feather-light hair on her neck standing to attention. Slowly, she dragged her weary body into the bedroom and collapsed on top of the turned down bed. Without hesitation, without warning or without care, Bess began to laugh. Fat, salty tears welled in her eyes and fell into her hair. Hysterical sobs wracked her body and she buried her face in her pillow.

He was alive.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

“Think we’ll have to go with one rasher each.” Douglas stood frying bacon over the stove, his back to his son sat smoking at the table.

“Don’t worry, double rations when you’re under fire.”

Douglas chortled. “Give over,”

“I was cooking all the way through the battle,” Tom smirked, glad to be home and have a moment of normalcy with his dad. “Slice of my fried bread sunk a U-boat.”

Douglas flipped the bacon and remembered his own experience of war. “You don’t have to pretend to be brave for me, lad.”

“Good,” Tom spoke almost before Douglas had finished. “’Cos I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“I’m not going back, I’m deserting.” Douglas’ smile faltered. Tom wasn’t joking. “S’why I came home to you, cos I knew you’d be the one to help me.”

Ignoring the sizzle of the pan, Douglas turned to watch his son. Tom’s head was bowed as he looked at him through blond lashes, eyes sad.

“God, you look like your mother,” Douglas whispered.

“Dad. Please. Will you help me?” The sincerity of Tom’s voice scared him. Memories of nightmares clouded his mind. Images of Tom drowning. Of being shot. Of being blown into a million irrecoverable pieces. Douglas placed his hands in his pockets.

“Give me a day or two, to think of a plan. Just enjoy yourself for now, and let it from your mind.” He turned back to the stove, and the men were silent.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

It was almost as if the war was not happening. From the kitchen below, the three Vaughn girls could hear the warble of the wireless and rumbling laughs of Fergal, Albie and Roger. Roger wore his dress uniform for the occasion, powder blue and spotless. Albie, in his usual suited slacks, tie a little skewwhiff but handsome all the same. Dot had finally mastered her curling tongs and persuaded Cora into using them on her too. As ever, Bess sat smoking a cigarette in the window.

“You look like a film star,” Dot said dreamily, and Bess blew her a kiss. She knew she looked incredible. The waist of the red dress she had chosen was gathered dramatically, the skirt tightening over her bottom and falling in a straight line down her legs. It stopped narrowly above her ankles. The halter of her bodice highlighted the curve of her breasts, the Grecian straps of the capped sleeves trailed fabric down her back and revealed a daring square of pale skin. Her hair was fluffed and parted to one side (she had seen a picture of Rita Hayworth pinned up in the foreman’s office) and swept back off her shoulders. Rouge was mottled lightly on her lips, as though she had just been kissed; what with her hair and the dress, one could have too much red. The black trench coat she made last winter was hung on the door, she had seen Lauren Bacall wearing one similar. The dress she had picked before she knew Tom was home. The rest; the hair, the makeup, the severe coat and heels, she had decided on that afternoon. It was New Year’s Eve, the boys were home, and Bess Vaughn was dressed to kill.

Dot wore the dress Bess made her for her eighteenth. Pastel pink, bias cut, and adorned with a beaded flower brocade. Cora was elegant in black, waist cinched below the bust with red carnations at the hip. The Vaughns, despite their little money, were the most fashionable girls for miles. A great cheer rang from the kitchen.

“That’s Tom!” Dot cried and ran excitedly downstairs. Cora gave herself one last glance in the mirror then turned to Bess.

“What?” Her sister asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Cora winked. “Don’t forget your coat.” She left the room. Bess put out her cigarette and took a deep breath. Walking to the mirror, she donned her coat and smoothed her hair. Trying to disguise the nerves threatening to take over her body she winked at herself, grabbed her cigarettes and lipstick, and made her way into the kitchen.

“All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a Tar,” Cora was singing affectionately as Tom twirled her around.

“We’ve got a full set tonight!” Fergal laughed. “Pilot, soldier, sailor-”

“Who’s the tinker and who’s the thief?”

Everyone turned to Bess and Tom swallowed with difficulty. At sea, he frequently imagined Bess. More often than not, he imagined her sat at the piano or sewing by the kitchen table. Sometimes she was sat smoking on the front step or giggling with her sisters. When he did something stupid or made a mischief of himself, he heard her make some sarcastic comment. But not once had he remembered her this way. Stood there on the stairs, hair glowing from the flicker of the fireplace, she looked like a goddess. Tom adjusted his trousers and took a subconscious step away from Fergal.

“Off we go!” Albie stood and clapped his hands.

“See you next year, Dadda!” Dot gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Get away with you,” he laughed. One by one the group spilled into the street. Dot chattered to Albie the whole way to the dancehall, with Cora and Roger linked arm in arm, totally unaware of anything outside their loved-up state. Bess lit a cigarette and watched the people she adored most in the world. Tom, noticing her fall behind slow his steps. His hands were in his trouser pockets as usual, though he had left behind his worn brown slacks for a navy suit.

“I know the men are always fighting over you-”

“I doubt it since I shouted at Walter Watson.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Tom said lightly and Bess smiled, glad to be back to their old ease with one another. “I know the men are always fighting over you, but save a dance for me.”

“You going soppy?” She nudged his shoulder in a feign of nonchalance, but her heart was already skipping with anticipation.  

“No, but I told you, I’ll be saving my dances for Dot tonight. I owe her for her birthday.”

“Yes you do!” Dot called back to them. Tom laughed as Bess chastised her for listening. After she playfully chased Dot up the road, they fell back into step. This time, the air was heavy. Neither knew what to say.

“No Roberta tonight?” Tom rubbed his neck. He normally had more game than this…

“She’s meeting us there, with Hattie and Glen.”

“Oh yes, Hattie’s farmer fella.” The silence resumed as they rounded the corner and a throng of people appeared. Over the din, Bess heard the first few bars of a tune she didn’t know and began to tap her feet as they shuffled into the hall. Dot turned back from her position at the top of the steps and called for Tom to join her in a dance. He saluted with a smile, and made to stand next to her, when Bess caught his wrist.

“Tom,” her voice was quiet but firm. He looked at her long fingers clutching him, and the skin there prickled. “I’m glad you’re back.” Bess’ eyes were wide and teary.

“It’ll take more than the Jerries to finish me off.” Tom winked, took Dot’s hand and escorted her inside.

To Bess’ delight, the band played some of the new American hits amongst their regular tunes and, accompanied by Lois’ gentle singing, she danced the night away. Mostly, with Albie, Roger and Glen, switching with Cora and Hattie after every other song. Roberta danced only a few with her best friends, before disappearing. Breaking for a cigarette, Bess spotted her across the street sharing a close embrace with a woman she recognised as the teacher at the local primary. She smiled and left them to it. Dot still stole dances with Tom, and Bess noticed that many of the men were eyeing him warily. Clearly, they hadn’t forgotten the last time Tom Bennett graced the dancehall. She joined her brother at the bar, who was deep in conversation with Frank Smith and Walter Watson. As she approached, Walter glared and left. Albie gave Bess a look that clearly told her to play nice, and as she took a whisky from the bartender, she spoke.

“How are you, Frank? Where’s Queenie?” He looked a little sad, if Bess really considered him. His eyes were downcast in a way that reminder her of a Bassett Hound, and he was swilling the dregs of his beer around his glass.

“Oh, I can’t keep up with Queenie when it comes to this kind of thing. She’s having a dance with Tom Bennett.”

Bess turned so quickly that she hurt her neck. Sure enough, in the centre of the dancefloor, Queenie Warren was clinging onto Tom’s shoulders, pressed indecently close to his body. He was speaking in her ear and Bess sincerely hoped the closeness was due to the proximity of the dance. Whatever he said, Queenie clearly found it highly amusing as she tipped her head back and giggled. The act exposed her neck, and a little of her cleavage and Bess’ stomach lurched. She looked back to Frank. He smiled sadly. Obviously, he was just as jealous of Tom as she was of Queenie. Bess downed the whisky.

“Steady on,” Albie half laughed, half warned. “Ah, talk of the devil and she shall appear,” he muttered as Queenie Warren bounded to the bar and kissed Frank’s cheek with another giggle. Tom raised his eyebrows to Albie in relief, as though he had just diffused a bomb.

“Your turn, Miss Vaughn.” He held out a hand.

“I see the navy has turned you into a gentleman,” Bess said, eyes lowered to his hand.

“They’re trying. My God, they’re trying.” Tom smirked, and when she didn’t take his hand, he leant to take her own, eyes never leaving hers. As they walked silently to the dancefloor, both trying to hide their smiles, Lois’ voice spoke above the gentle tinkling of Connie’s piano keys.

“A slower one now, before we pick up the pace as we head towards 1940.” The crowd cheered. “I know this one will mean a lot to many of you. I think I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say how glad we are to have some of our boys back, my own brother among them.”

Bess squeezed Tom’s hand and, from the back of the hall, someone shouted, “And you, Lois!” A wolf-whistle rang out.

“You’ll be lucky to make it to 1940, Walter Watson,” Lois teased and the crowd laughed. Lois nodded to Connie, and together they led the band in a moving rendition of We’ll Meet Again.

Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear Just for a while dear we must part

Don't let this parting upset you I'll not forget you, sweetheart

Tom placed Bess’ hand on his shoulder and brought the other to wrap around her waist. Her face had turned serious, though she had not realised it. All Bess’ effort was focused on staying upright and remembering to breathe. She almost forgot both at Tom’s next statement.

“You look gorgeous.” The hand that had been on her waist moved to brush some hair from her shoulder, before going to its original position. This time, he moved Bess closer to him so that their legs were entwined as they swayed to the music.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

Without thinking, Bess placed her head on Tom’s shoulder and his palms grew sweaty. He caught Albie’s eye at the bar, one eyebrow raised. Slowly, Tom steered them to avoid the soldier’s scrutinising gaze. With his cheek against the top of Bess’ head, he could smell the vanilla of her shampoo and the spice of her perfume. Chanel No.5. Another present from the Manchester Atelier, worn only on special occasions.

Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away

Tom hummed the chorus lowly in Bess’ ear and felt her shudder within his arms. Oh fuck. He marvelled at the effect this had on her and promised himself he’d do it again. Tantalisingly slowly, he ran a finger down the exposed curve of her spine. He heard it that time. The stuttering exhale. Once again, when his hand reached her waist, Tom pulled her closer.

“I was so scared,” she whispered into his shoulder. What the fuck was he meant to do? He was no good with this sort of thing. Feelings. Emotions. Romance? But he longed to hear what Bess had to say. Tom stilled a little but held her tight.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

She sniffed and looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears and suddenly any trace of quiet, confident Bess vanished and she looked like that little, bullied girl again. It was too much. Queenie’s incessant laughter, the eyes of her siblings, the chatter of couples and the swell of the brass section. The scent of Tom’s cologne and the heat of his hands against her body.

“Bess-”

“This song…sorry-”

“Bess-”

“Makes me so sad. I’m sorry-” And with that, she broke away from Tom and hurried to the exit.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Bess’ hands fumbled for her cigarette case. Her coat was still inside the dancehall, and the cold December air did nothing to ease the shaking of her hands. The alley behind the stage door was empty. Under the glow of the lamplight, Bess leant against the brick wall, the cold piercing her exposed skin but rooting her in reality.

“You look gorgeous”

She took a steadying breath and tried once more to extract a cigarette.

“We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when”

The spot where Tom held her still burned, and as she played over the last few minutes, she recalled that he had been trying to tell her something. Her hand slipped.

“Fuck,”

Bess reached down to retrieve her cigarette case, the enamel of which had split, but another hand got there first.

“Let me help you.” It was Walter Watson. Bess straightened as she watched him pull a cigarette out and hand it to her. From his own pocket he produced a lighter and struck it so that she might light her cigarette.

“Thank you,” she whispered. They said nothing more, but Walter looked at her with a wolfish gleam in his eye. Looking up and down the alley, Bess saw they were alone and fear twisted beneath her ribs. It’s just pathetic Walter Watson, you’re fine. “Your arm is looking better,” she tried.

Walter nodded and gestured to his arm, still cast but without a sling. “Yeah, not long until I’m sent back. And I can dance now.” Bess smiled, not knowing what else to do. “You owe me a dance, Bess.”

“When I’ve finished my ciga-”

“You’ve danced with every other person in there, man and woman. But you’ve avoided me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Walter, I haven’t been av-” Walter took a sudden step towards her and Bess’ head hit the wall as she tried to step away.

“Dance with me now.” At this close distance, Bess could see the slight glaze of his eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Not now, Walter. And certainly not here.” She gestured to their surroundings. “You’re drunk.” He paid her no heed, gripped her waist roughly and pulled her against him, slinging one arm around his neck.

“Just one dance,” he slurred.

“Fine,” Bess said through gritted teeth. He stumbled around, head on Bess’ shoulder, turned towards her neck; he was humming some indistinguishable tune. Walter’s weight grew heavy as he slouched against her.

“Walter, stand up.” She hissed.

“Sorry, sorry-” He grinned dopily at her, and when he stood to his full height, his eyes grew clear. He seemed to have remembered who was dancing with. “Bess Vaughn,” his eyes were dark and his smile widened. The hand that was resting on her waist slid downwards and he harshly gripped the flesh of her bottom.

“Walter,” She tried to push him away but his hold tightened. He squeezed her backside again and white-hot fury raged in her chest.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn,” he laughed a little. “That little freak from school.” Bess struggled to push him off her again. “Then you came back from Manchester with this-” Both hands grasped her bottom now. “And these,” They came to grope at her breasts. With his hands on her chest, Bess was finally able to push Walter away. He stumbled only a little, and Bess had no time to move before he grabbed her by the face and shoved her into the wall. “And thinking she’s so high and mighty. That she can make fun of me,” he spat. His face was so close to hers she could barely see, the self-satisfied smile he wore now a vicious grimace.

“Please, Walter-”

“Shut up.” With one hand gripping her jaw, the other fumbled with the skirt of her dress. She clamped her legs shut. “Fucking bitch,” he hissed. “This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.” A leg forced her own open and she whimpered. Just as one of Walter’s fingers found the hem of her knickers, his weight disappeared.

Bess opened her eyes. Beneath the reach of the lamplight, a lump was writhing on the ground.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Her!” Every word was punctuated with the harsh cracking of knuckle against skin. Tom Bennett was straddling Walter, who was cowering beneath him. He had Walter’s broken arm pinned above his head, using his other hand to pummel any bit of the man he could find.

“Tom,” Bess whispered, finally moving from her position against the wall. Tom landed another blow to Walter’s jaw. “Tom!”

He whipped round. Her dress was wrinkled, make up a little smudged and hair messy but the serious glower of her eyes had returned. She looked like she was about to spit fire. Tom’s chest swelled with pride. Standing up, he made his way to her, not without a swift kick to Walter’s stomach. “Shut up!” He shouted as Walter groaned. Under the light, Bess saw the frenzied fierceness of Tom’s eyes, the heavy breath from his flared nostrils and the delicious twitch of the muscles in his neck. She placed a hand on his chest to calm him. “I’m taking you home, wait here.” He said to her, and she felt for a moment as if she was being scolded. He turned back to Walter.

“You so much as look at her,” his voice was a low growl. “And I’ll break your fucking skull.” Without another word, he strode through the stage door and out of sight. Bess looked at Walter cowering on the ground like a stray dog. She approached him, and he look at her feet.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, and spat on him.

“Here,” Tom was at her side, holding out her coat. “I’ve told the others.” He steered her away from Walter and into the street towards home.

They didn’t talk a while and every now and again Tom jittered, still humming with energy from the fight. When they neared the dockyard with its silent cranes and slap of water against the quay, Bess found her voice.

“Tom?”

“Hm?”

“What were you going to say to me? When we were dancing?”

Tom wanted to shrink but instead puffed out his chest. “Do you know, I can’t remember.” Bess deflated, and Tom caught the change in her demeanour. Thinking it was to do with Walter Watson, he asked her whether she was ok.

“Hm?”

“Are you ok? You know, what happened back there.”

“Oh. Oh!” Recognition dawned on her. “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Right.”

They walked a few more steps and quite unexpectedly, Bess giggled. Tom looked at her.

“Everything alright, Bess?”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, looking at him frankly. “We’re never this quiet!”

 Tom laughed. “If only I was. Would save the fellas some gip.”

“Tell me about it. How are the other boys?” She regretted asking immediately. Tom eyes darkened and he looked up at the night sky.

“Well, Norman and Terry are fine. I imagine they’re out celebrating somewhere too. Sorry I didn’t bring Norman for Dot.”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” He smiled at her kindness. By now they were departing the industrial landscape of the docks and entering the suburb of the estate.

“But, er, Vic-” Tom took a deep breath through his nose. “He, um-” His chest was rising quickly and his throat constricted. Bess’ hand slipped into his.

“It’s ok. You don’t have to tell me.” He nodded, though it seemed to be more in the aid of calming himself than responding to Bess.

They turned into the ginnel behind the Vaughn’s home. “We got hit.” Tom said suddenly. “We were in the gunroom, me, Vic and Henry. And I don’t know, there was this explosion and when I came round it was all dark and Vic-” His voice faltered again. “His face, it just-” He took a deep breath. “It was gone.”

A tear fell from Bess’ eye but she wiped it hastily away. This time was for Tom, not her. “It won’t surprise you, Bess, but I’d had a fight with Henry just before it all happened. Though Henry was winning, can you believe. And Vic was trying to calm me down. The siren went off and I refused to shake his hand. I was so angry and blind and I don’t know,” He shrugged. “One of the last things Vic said to me was that I wind everybody up, and then I didn’t shake his hand. So maybe, yeah, it would be best if I was a little quieter.” Tom laughed a little, though Bess couldn’t see anything funny about what he had told her. He caught the silent horror in her eyes and smiled.

“And now you’ll never get your chance with him.” Bess laughed and leant against the gate to the yard.

“And you’re stuck with horrible old Henry.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad. Lost an arm, actually, in the battle.” Bess said a quick prayer of thanks. It was a miracle he was stood before her. “You know I told you we were betting on when Vera laid an egg?” Bess nodded. “Well, Terry was closest, jammy bastard. But he wouldn’t take the money. Said we should give it to the widows-”

“Is Terry single?”

Tom gave Bess a pointed looked but smiled all the same. “I gave it to Henry. The others were getting at me for keeping it. I never would have done, but I wanted to make sure it went to the right person. Bit of a peace offering really.”

“Did the others leave you alone?”

“I asked Henry not to tell anyone.” Bess beamed at him. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Tom Bennett. Even if you pretend otherwise.” He placed a hand on his cheek in mock shyness, then laughed brightly. “You should smile more too! Less of this-” Bess squared her shoulders and swaggered around him, pouting her mouth and squinting her eyes.

“Oh ho! Is that what I look like to you?”

She laughed then flung her arms around his neck. The action took Tom by surprise but his hands instantly hugged her waist. “What’s this for?”

“For being in one piece. For being here. I was so scared.” She pulled back to look at his face. They smiled and studied each other a moment.

“Henry’s a ginger too, you know.”

“I’m not ginger! It’s-”

“Auburn, yes, I know.” And it was true. Her hair was a colour he had never seen before, dark and glimmering like Alexandra Park in autumn. Then a memory came to him, and he realised he was wrong. He curled a strand round his finger.

“Just before the explosion, when we’d been hit, these great flames came down the turret. Ever so slow, like. And for a moment, they reminded me of your hair.”

He looked from the strand of hair now coiled around his finger to Bess’ face. Her lips, the lipstick now worn away, were parted. The dark eyes that he so often thought of flickered to his mouth, and when they reached his eyes again, he noticed that the pupils beneath her thick lashes were wide. Realising that this was the first time he had been alone with Bess, without the threat of a family member bursting in on them sent heat prickling up his neck and chest. From one of the houses, a muffled cheer called out.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, his hand cupping her neck.

“Tom-” What she was going to say emptied from her mind, for no sooner had his name left her mouth was he kissing her. Slowly and sweetly, Tom kissed her. Bess grinned into his mouth as she thought of those full, curved lips finally kissing hers and she sighed. The noise stirred something in Tom and his tongue lathed warm and languid over her lips. Bess’ hands wound their way into his hair and he groaned, pulling her flush against him. Bess whimpered at the noise and pulled away. Tom’s eyes were still shut, and the look of hunger in them when he finally looked at her made her head spin.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the day you came back from Manchester.” A hand left her hip and he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, before he kissed her once again. He pushed her against the gate and granted kisses along her neck. “I missed you so much, Bess.”

She brought his face to hers. “I missed you too,” she whispered into his mouth. Tom’s head was spinning and he laughed.

“Fuck,” he said, looking at Bess’ swollen lips and giddy smile. “Fuck!” They got the giggles, and Tom tucked his head into Bess’ shoulder to keep from hysterics. A light from the house flicked on.

“Shit! Dadda’s already home,” Bess laughed some more and Tom covered her mouth, looking down at those big brown eyes of hers. When she stilled, he removed his hand and kissed her gently.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and pressed something cool into her hands. Bess looked down. Sixpence.

“What’s this for?”

“A gift from Henry. Get a picture taken for me.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him with a smile. She couldn’t get enough.

“’Oiled up at the factory’?” she whispered seductively in his ear.

Tom groaned. “Don’t tease me.”

Bess opened the gate and snuck into the yard. Turning back, Tom was stood exactly as he was in his picture. Collar turned up, hands in his pockets, but with the unmistakable smirk of the cat that got the cream. Slowly, she closed the gate.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Goodnight,” Tom said back. Bess’ face peered at him through the crack between the wall and the gate, and he followed. “You have to shut the gate,” he teased.

“I know,” she felt like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Goodnight, Bess.”

“Goodnight, Tom.” The gate clicked shut. On the other side, she heard Tom’s footsteps down the ginnel as he whistled We’ll Meet Again. She wanted to cry out with happiness, and when she walked into the kitchen to find Fergal and Douglas by the fire with a glass of whisky, she beamed at them.

“Happy New Year, Bess.” Douglas said.

“You’re back early. Did you have a good time, my darling?” Fergal turned in his seat to face her.

“The best, Dadda. Goodnight.”

Note: Below is the inspiration for the girls’ dresses. Come through Tom beating Walter to a pulp. Come through Tom talking about feelings. Come through Tom and Bess finally getting together! Beginning the next chapter immediately. Boy, have I got some stuff in store for you guys…

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris

[justavulcan]

Backgrounds with Class: Azorius Functionary

I'll be honest: Ravnica has always fascinated me. I was a high schooler when the first set came out, and I was immediately consumed creating characters for the setting. Now that we've actually received my long-awaited crossover, I thought it would be nice to write a love letter to the setting in the form of another Backgrounds with Class series. After all: some guilds have natural class choices tied in, from a conceptual standpoint. Boros and Fighter, Izzet and Wizard, Selesnya and Druid. But guilds aren’t class-restricted, and so I wonder what it would look like if you paired every class with every guild background, even the ones that seem at odds, like Izzet and Barbarian, or Gruul and Artificer.  So I thought about it, and this is what I came up with.  Some character concepts for each class, and each Guildmaster's Guide to Ravnica background for each class.

Azorius Functionary

The Azorius Functionary Artificer believes wordsmithing and armorsmithing are both arguments.  One is simpler than the other, and he wanted to protect people anyway- paper is too frail to keep lawbreakers away, and anyway he has pretty serious social anxiety.  He was a soft lad from a young age, but the inside of the armor is inscribed with the proofs of his determination- dense legalese referring to the crime of assault and the many degrees, qualifications and punishments therefore.

The Azorius Functionary Barbarian is walking proof not everybody can stay aloof from the laws and their consequences.  Still, the law is a labyrinth, and a labyrinth is always pleasing to the mind of a minotaur.  Legal assistant and debater extraordinaire, her wild temper (which she comes by naturally; her parents both have severe anger management issues) is still bordering on uncontrollable, with occasionally regrettable drawbacks to her career- and the rare boon, as that kind of steep and genuine passion sometimes can stir the hearts of even Azorius legislators.

The Azorius Functionary Bard finds that the Senate is as much a forum for performance as any concert hall, even if it’s less musical.  The eloquent may always find a home there, even if their love is less of the law they defend and more the intricacies of the debate- for those who would put their word to the trial like this, there’s no greater thrill.  This kind of thrill-seeking has always been part of this bard’s makeup- talking himself into and out of trouble has been his modus operandi since he grew up on Tin Street, looking for kicks that didn’t cost him a zib.

The Azorius Functionary Cleric is actually wildly unsuited for the adventuring life- at least at first.  To this vedalken legal assistant, every part of putting the law into practice the hard way is miserable except the rush of adrenaline.  However, given the opportunity to take the law from paper to practice, to legal theory to reality, they jumped at the chance- and their confidence is growing by leaps and bounds.  As no gods lay power before Ravnican clerics, their ability to enforce the law by thought and spell grows only with their conviction, feeding their addiction to testing the law’s power on the street.

The Azorius Functionary Druid tends to the owls and horses the Azorius senate leans on for their messenger and enforcement capabilities.  Drawn to the freedom of the owls and their calling to fly far with the Senate’s decisions clutched in their talons, this centaur found her way to tending stable and owlery alike.  Like the horses they resemble, she prefers to know where her next meal is coming from, and the stability the Azorius offer goes a long way toward meeting that goal; besides, she has a natural gift with the animals that the human tenders can’t match.

The Azorius Functionary Fighter was once a riot squad trainee, favoring a staff and shield for their crowd-handling capacity.  After requesting a transfer out of the more authoritarian and frankly oppressive new prison, he was glad to hit the streets again, only called out for the most extreme of circumstances.  He’s good at keeping his head, and a lifetime of navigating the frankly byzantine halls of Azorius beaurocracy has lent him more subtlety than the average head-cracker.

The Azorius Functionary Monk is a practitioner of the Azorius arts of ectomancy- unknown to many, the Azorius are as skilled as the Orzhov at binding spirits to service, particularly the posthumous wojek as protectors of the Living Guildpact’s uneasy peace.  While many favor necromancy for this undertaking, this ectomancer handles this magic in a more personal manner, binding spirit to flesh and serving proudly as avatar of the spirit he binds.  While he still studies the discipline of mind and body necessary to bind an astral self, however, he serves meanwhile as a personal assistant and sometime bodyguard to a public prosecutor.

The Azorius Functionary Paladin is walking proof that it’s not uncommon for the most ardent of the Azorius’s lawkeepers to be motivated by personal history as much as duty.  She has sworn before all the courts and Isperia herself that her vengeance will follow the law- a stricture she dares not bend, lest it cost her the means by which she pursues her revenge.  Whether this is against the Rakdos or Gruul for the cost of their reckless savagery and destruction or the Golgari or Dimir for their scheming, she faces these foes in the fields they’re least equipped to meet her- Rakdos and Gruul in the court, Golgari and Dimir on the battlefield.

The Azorius Functionary Ranger is an oddity. It is a rare thing that one with the blessing of Trostani herself leave the Selesnya conclave, but when she did so, the ripples fouled her relationship with the Conclave forever.  Still, she’s one of the Azorius’s preferred ‘inter-guild liasons’ to handle guilds more concerned with the growth of living things than the tomes of the law.  A certain civic-mindedness is at the heart of her motivations, one that was drawn to the order of the Azorius over the more naturalistic structure of the Selesnya.

The Azorius Functionary Rogue is a creature of the library and courtroom, not the street.  She’s well-versed to take the measure of others, provide research and assistance for legal precedent and even take the case herself.  She’s a natural socialite with a guilty pleasure for roaming far from the areas meant to actually contain the party, getting a taste for other people’s homes and personalities from what she can glean looking into their possessions.  After all, a home is like a mind, and both lay out their secrets if you know how to look.

The Azorius Functionary Sorcerer is walking proof that if the law is a process, it would follow that sometimes that process has byproducts.  Sometimes those byproducts are unintended legal interactions needing to be tied up, and sometimes the heiromancy that the entire guild leans on to enforce their will is concentrated into people by happenstance.  Son of a long legacy of lawyers, public defenders, senators, and research assistants and sought after by precognitives and lawmages alike, he has a lot to live up to if he’s to fit his talents into the ticking mechanism of the city.

The Azorius Functionary Warlock is motivated by an uncommon passion for her work.  Goblins are usually a chaotic element in Ravnica’s extensive cityscape, but this would-be arrestor has nothing but law on the mind.  Having made a deal with a being of pure celestial law and keen on the Azorius’s new surveillance-heavy attitude towards law enforcement, this warlock is nevertheless more the threat with blade and spell than administration and legislature.  Her intimidating bearing and uncompromising mindset promise to make her a legend among Ravnica’s law enforcement, and she takes to the title of lawmage with enthusiasm.  (this particular warlock was a creation of a friend of mine; their initial thoughts and character art can be found here).

The Azorius Functionary Wizard was a member of the Sova column.  The motivation for their transfer was as emotional as logical, and consequently an uncharacteristic move.  Skilled as vedalken sometimes are in the delicate arts of calligraphy and magic both, the wizard recently put in for a transfer of department to the Lyev column to serve as a lawmage.  Their motive was less than logical, though- to keep an eye out for a recent friend, a warrior from the Gruul Clans who showed them uncertainty that anarchy was the right path for her.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Naval Treaty pt 1

A four parter? Ooooh, exciting.

The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases of interest

I officially have no clue when we are. The timeline is a time spirograph. We're just going to pretend that time doesn't matter, okay? Because clearly ACD didn't care about it at all.

[The Adventure of the Second Stain], however, deals with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it public. [...] The new century will have come, however, before the story can be safely told.

I feel like I have seen behind the curtain or stolen a biscuit from the tin without anyone knowing about it.

During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad named Percy Phelps

The evolution of language once again championing queer readings of text.

On the contrary, it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket.

Oh those schoolboy shenanigans, what games, what japes we played! Like... *checks notes* beating a young boy's legs with wooden sticks. What fun!

I know attitudes have changed and yadda yadda but 'intimately acquainted' suggests you were friends but beating his legs with wooden sticks because his uncle was a lord - even if he was a tory - doesn't seem like friendship. Were you friends or did he just try desperately to appease you to stop you from hitting him with sticks?

'I have no doubt that you can remember “Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in the third.'

There is no way in which I can find to make 'tadpole' a nice nickname. I assume it's because he was younger than most of the people in his form because he was advanced two years for being smart. I assume that's actually the basis of a lot of this bullying.

'I have only just recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me?'

That feeling when you're recovering from a serious illness and you have to contact your childhood bully because it turns out he's now bffs with the only man who can help you.

There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes.

Seriously? Seriously? Now you're going to pity him. Watson... Watson, you're on thin fucking ice right now.

“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life.”

Another tantalising glimpse into a case we are not privy to. ACD does like these. He did it at the start of this story with The Second Stain as well, although we know he did eventually write and publish that one, because we've seen it.

"You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson."

This is such a perfect phrase. I love it. I have nothing else to say about it, but I needed to share it.

“But the writing is not his own.” “Precisely. It is a woman's.” “A man's surely,” I cried. “No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character."

Once again, Holmes' supernatural ability to identify a person almost completely only from their handwriting comes to the fore! And Watson is so convinced it's a man. This is such a weird argument, but I've definitely had weirder with my friends, so who am I to judge?

...we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received us with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.

I don't like him. Whenever someone in these stories is overly jovial, they turn out to be a dick. Or maybe it's the fact we've just seen what Watson considers the acceptable behaviour of mischievous boys. I just don't like him. Maybe I'll be wrong. Maybe I'm just overly suspicious and cynical. But the vibes are wrong.

“Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket,” said he. “For a moment I thought you had done something clever."

Yep, don't like him. Rude.

A young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open window...

So weird to refer to your old chum as just 'a young man' and not by his name. Like you didn't recognise him, when you claimed to be so intimately acquainted. How strange.

“How are you, Watson?” said he, cordially. “I should never have known you under that moustache, and I dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me."

I was just saying...

She was a striking-looking woman, a little short and thick for symmetry...

What does that even mean? How can thickness have anything to do with symmetry? Or shortness for that matter? I feel like I am missing something.

OK, so we've got a young man, his fiancee and her brother. As mentioned, I do not like the brother and I do not trust him. So far the fiancee herself has given me no reason to distrust her, but then neither has her brother. I just think he's sus. Guy's too happy, you know what I mean? I bet he's trying to discredit his future brother-in-law in order to scupper the marriage so he can keep his sister's fortune or something like that. Men in these stories do seem determined to stop female relatives from marrying.

Or maybe he's just a jovial man and I'm being paranoid.

He probably murders puppies.

That might be too far.

Nope. I'm right. He's evil. I refuse to hear otherwise.