#c: garrison

[crownrots]

— OCS AS HORROR THEMES/TROPES

tagged by @corvosattano & @simonxriley to do this uquiz, thank you 💗

tagging @queennymeria, @risingsh0t, @thedeadthree, @loriane-elmuerto, @shellibisshe, @arborstone, @unholymilf, @florbelles, @shadowglens, @nightbloodbix, @roofgeese, @countessrooster, @lucky-107, @rhetoricalrogue, @arthrmorgann, @zevlor, @hartsvale, @jackiesarch, & @leviiackrman

FLOWERS ROTTING AS A METAPHOR FOR DEATH/DECAY

stems droop, go yellow like aged teeth. petals curl, go dry like paper, like corpse skin. the beauty of youth can only be preserved through unnatural means. roses drowned in silica gel, pins behind the eyes. glass vase, open casket. everyone is watching you. why aren't you moving? are you too weak to grow toward the light anymore?

MEAT AS HORROR.

meat hooks and conveyor belts and cold metal. the warm eyes of a stupid animal, completely unaware of the watering mouths that await it. "cut here" lines drawn on the body, slabs of steak that bleed and bleed, unrelenting. are you hungry? would you kill to stay alive? you feel like prey, or maybe like predator. sinew is stuck between your teeth, and gore dribbles down your chin. don't chip your teeth on the bones. you feel like the top of the food chain, and don't see the eyes gleaming behind you.

JUST CATHOLIC TRAUMA.

(tw for implications of self harm here) god is judgment. every action is weighted, every action is watched. tally marks on a scoreboard, on skin, your body on a golden scale, and you can't shed enough weight to stop it from tipping. worship isn't enough. sacrifice isn't enough. guilt lays across you in layers. blankets, sheets of snow, cling-wrap cutting off your circulation. you can't save yourself, but you can never stop trying. fire licks at your heels, a constant reminder of what is inevitably waiting for you.

MEAT AS HORROR.

meat hooks and conveyor belts and cold metal. the warm eyes of a stupid animal, completely unaware of the watering mouths that await it. "cut here" lines drawn on the body, slabs of steak that bleed and bleed, unrelenting. are you hungry? would you kill to stay alive? you feel like prey, or maybe like predator. sinew is stuck between your teeth, and gore dribbles down your chin. don't chip your teeth on the bones. you feel like the top of the food chain, and don't see the eyes gleaming behind you.

FAMILY AS A CULT.

you will never need anyone else. outsiders will hurt you, aim to corrupt you and ruin you and leave you in pieces, but your family will always be there for you. everyone has the same eyes, the same smile. the same sickly yellow light cast over their skin. the same tastes, the same food that melts to gray sludge on your tongue. family recipe. hugs last too long, touches linger and sting like sunburn. don't stray too far. if you come back looking like a wolf rather than a sheep, the dogs will eat you.

THE HORROR OF THE MOTHER.

complete control over you, your complete reliance on her. you are a helpless child, and she makes every decision for you, asserting to you that she knows what's best. hysterical, emotional, even in her love for you, especially in her hatred for you. the fruit of her loins has rotted, and you cannot escape her scorn. distance means nothing if you're doomed to become her.

[antebellumite]

tumblr fake posts but it's exclusively the US congress 1830s-50s. this will probably not make sense to anyone. it barely makes sense to me: [this is a long post. press j to skip]:

12 notes

forthurricane

guys help three senators from my party are outside my door and its a sunday and im scared i think they want something.

forthurricane

they want me to blackmail the president.

2 notes

henrywisingitup Follow

ohhhh goddddd ok so the coworker that called me a slur at work a few days ago IN PUBLIC just got a duel challenge from a friend of mine aslkdf. istg i hate him so much he's so annoying and he needs to resign or kill himself immediately. i hope he accepts the challenge fucking dies or gets shot up. good RIDDENCE fucking turd pile of trash empty bladder dung beetle puppy bastard LIAR. welliamgravely Follow

what'd he call you?

henrywisingitup Follow

an aboliti*nist.

congressionalglobe

Congblr Heritage Post. #congblr heritage post #senblr heritage post #houseblr heritage post #lmao remember when abolitionist was a slur guys #thank u pierceuinfiftytwo #i hate this post #and i think u do too #mod greeley

346,356 notes

Anonymous asked hi i'm sorry if i'm bothering you with this ask but i'm kinda new to this whole politics thing ( was just recently elected by my constituents so this is my first term ) and i would like to know how to get started on congblr? i've been recently appt to the house and i'd love to engage more with the community. do u have any blogs you'd suggest to me? bunnybrownfrench

hi anon!!!! i'm so glad you're here and in the house too ! ( it's where i am- frankly the Better House of Congress too while we're at it ). sadly i don't know what politics or party u have and i mostly scurry round the democrat side of the aisle more than anything, so i might not be able to help u that much, but i can try to give you some good ones!

@/gowestyoungman is a good source for news, and i'm personally a fan of @/mattbradydaggeurotype but @/geopeteralexhealy has some great portraits! obviously anyone has to follow @/oldhickory if they're a dem ( or even a whig ) they have great posts, lots of drama and thought provoking articles. a vv funny scroll. @/greatcompromiser is on the opposite side as a whig, but always sophisticated in their arguments, with nice shitposts in between to lighten the mood if you're uneasy about the american system.

@/jquincy and @/oldbullion are mostly serious blogs and if you're a westward expansion fellow, they're top blogs for u to follow. a bit hard at times, but personally i think they have great humor to make up for it ( unlike @/castironman though if you're here for what he posts all the more strength to u i suppose). @/redfoxkinderhook is also a good blog but they rarely post ( and never anything personal). @/godlikedan is my personal favorite blog. they have everything on there- drama, shitposts, detailed analysis, longposts, important info, aesthetics, etc.

for the rest tho anon, i'll leave it up to you! go out and explore! find the blogs u like; i wish u the best of luck!

15 notes

greatcompromiser hey guys, look at this BEAUTIFUL new commission i just got from @/mattbradydaggeurotype! it was wonderful to work with you, matt! <333

oldbullion

every day i wake up.

#body horror

555 notes

gallerywatcher Follow

why he kinda......

robrhett Follow

this bitch thirsting over baldy mcuseless LMAO

gallerywatcher Follow

hearing strong words from a guy whos blog is devoted to john c calhoun

244 notes

jrandolphofroanoke

i have herpes. greatcompromiser

yeah? and????? we know.

jrandolphofroanoke

IN MY EYES. IN MY EYES.

135 notes

bunnybrownfrench asked: orgies in hell over secession!! dailyaskstotheussenate

i forgot i asked for poem recommendations for a moment.

0 notes

#ask #bunnybrownfrench

castironman follow It is with great misfortune that I continue the discourse of the past week, but due to recent actions by certain other accounts, I have to re-engage with this conflict. Again, I would like to say that I stand firm in by belief that the 2BUS should not be re-instated, and that I resent the idea that I have somehow 'flip-flopped' or 'betrayed' my past ideals or other people in regards to what I believe to only be my own rational decisions, all logical as I will prove. read more

greatcompromiser

oh you've got to be kidding me.

read more

#fucking fuck offfff JOHN #dumbass ungrateful bitch #subtreasury discource #castironman #i shouldve let oldhickory hang you

54,233 notes

theliberator

Hello, all. The Liberator is proud to announce a new mod today to assist in spreading the antislavery message. Presenting: @/frederickdouglass! We're very glad to have a new member to the abolitionist movement, and even more so to have a new mod with us today! We're sure they'll do great work, and we hope you share our excitement as well!

-Mod Garrison and The Liberator Team

theliberator

Hello, all. Disregard this post, since we cannot delete it. Frederick Douglass has been removed from the mod team.

#info #state of the blog #mod update #mod garrison

44 notes

dailyaskstotheussenate

to the anon who asked us when the gag rule is going to be repealed.

the day that john quincy adams finally snaps and decides to murder the rest of his colleagues on the floor.

or never.

#misc

234 notes

thenorthstar

Hello all, Frederick Douglass here. As you might be aware by now, The Liberator and I have since parted. The reason for this is due to several irreconcilable differences, some political, some personal. The drama has since cooled down, but due to the blowout from our conflict, William Lloyd Garrison and I have agreed to since part ways. I am currently running @/thenorthstar on multiple platforms available in my bio.

Garrison and I are still part of the abolitionist movement together, so if you're worried about the harm this might cause to our end goal of emancipation for enslaved people in the United States and the complete destruction of the slave system as it stands today, do not worry. I will be reposting a catalogue of my speeches and writings here that were originally in The Liberator- which you may feel free to mute as you wish. My advocacy for human rights will proceed as normal.

Please do not contact me to ask about just what occurred between The Liberator and I, however, as that is something that I both do not want to discuss, and feel it is unnecessary considering this blog's true content matter.

#info #blog #the liberator #please direct any and all comments about wlg to mr smith from now on

245,234 notes

higherlawseward Follow

Let's settle this once and for all.

littlegiantofillinois

/lmao.

#bro's getting ratioed so hard i almost cant watch. #SEWARD #delete this sewage boy

brecknridge Follow

fellas is it gay to bring a flower to your senate colleague as your first act in congress to express your admiration for him (also from your state)( literally the most famous senator of your era)(you plucked this flower straight from your home state and tenderly carried it all the way to washington dc to hand to him)(kinda cute too)(this is the first time you've met him)(whig party, you're a democrat)(70 yrs old)???

brecknridge Follow

fellas is it gay to bring a flower to your senate colleague who's dying in a washington dc hotel room and sit by him for hours on end talking about politics and personal life before he finally expires his last breath and you tenderly are the last person to gently readjust his pillow as he falls asleep in your arms...

oldbuck Follow

No.

brecknridge Follow

oh ok

43 notes

godlikedan

A gift from a friend. ;) ;) ;)

godlikedan

Wait.

godlikedan

Everyone stop reblogging this. This was supposed to go to my other blog.

godlikedan

PLEASE.

#lmao get wrecked. #always knew you had a porn blog danny

12,000 notes

oldbullion

real talk everyone in this senate needs to stop having drama.

#@/castironman @/greatcompromiser... looking at you both #stop it

133 notes

roberthayne

menstruation sounds so cool....but why doesnt it ever happen to men???

godlikedan

remind me how you got elected again.

76 notes

oldbullion

going to @/oldhickory's inaugeral party. I expect a solemn affair.

oldbullion

F U CK they broug ht t cheeessseeee....

12 notes

jgiddyings

back to work in the senate :D~~~!

dawson Follow

tf i thought we censured you??

jgiddyings

i got reelected :) :) :)!~

#take that mofos #no blocking or muting can remove me NOW #suck my dick

65 notes

memberofthehouse

OH MY GOD I HATE this house chamber so much the acoustics are horrible and its so crowded istg I am blaming Thomas Jefferson for all of this. the room was clearly already too crowded in the 1790s and then the louisiana purchase just comes by and Fucks! Shit! UP???? by doubling the amount of people who have to be stuffed in here??? and everyone keeps on smoking and spitting tobacco everywhere and its too hot??? i think the lead is killing me. i think the air is killing me. i think my colleagues are going to kill me. I DEFINATLY THINK HENRY WISE AND HIS COMPANY IS TRYING TO KILL ME???

Kill me.

henrywisingitup

get used to it buddy.

rogertaney

we're making court decisions in the goddarn congress basement if that helps.

346 notes

littlegiantofillinois

so horny for her

77 notes

chucksumner

just saw william seward and jefferson davis taking a carriage together. i don't get it. am i the only one who thinks that as antislavery advocates we in the senate Shouldn't be playing nice with slaveholders??

28 notes

forthurricane Follow

breakfast is very fufilling i say as a person who's morning meal consists entirely of a carton of milk and one (1) expired bread loaf garrison Follow

everyone please stop reblogging op is literally jefferson davis.

#dni

52,346 notes

goldtippedguttapercha-deactiv

Not to be mean but this coworker of mine needs to get caned. 23,233 notes

senatorero hangman foote threatened to kill me again today. can someone please tell me if this means im part of the antislavery club.

vivelasboston Follow

are you a republican? because otherwise i think it's appropriation.

senatorero

oh for christs sake

#personal 4 notes

littlegiantofillinois

such a cruel world... so many good laps to sit on and no one to let me do so.

#SO MANY SOFT LONG CONGRESSIONAL LEGGGGS #THEY ALL LOOK SO COMFFYYYYY #ah well #no comfort or joy in life i suppose #time to bully president pierce into expanding popular sovreignty into kansas nebraska!!! :)))))) #this won't cause any issues

33 notes

[yore-donatsu]

HEEEEEEEEEY ! Look this ! Another c★mmissi★n ordered by Red Ring Doctor for @3quinox-c0nflux 🥰

Garrison Lockridge is so adorable and create this scene with Salvatore💜 I loved to draw this illustration so much !

Just to see the full version 🥰

[genevieveetguy]

. - Don't you want people to remember you? - I don't want them to be told to remember me.

A Prairie Home Companion, Robert Altman (2006)

[mgeist]

Cutting Through the Noise of Bill C-11 Debate: Regulating User Content Remains a Reality

The debate on Senate amendments to Bill C-11 continued in the House of Commons yesterday, with hours devoted to MPs from all parties claiming misinformation by their counterparts. There were no shortage of head-shaking moments: MPs that still don’t know that CraveTV is not a foreign streaming service, references to Beachcombers as illustrations of Cancon, comparisons to China that go beyond the…

[finelythreadedsky]

JSTOR Wrapped: top ten JSTOR articles of 2023

Coo, Lyndsay. “A Tale of Two Sisters: Studies in Sophocles’ Tereus.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 143, no. 2 (2013): 349–84.

Finglass, P. J. “A New Fragment of Sophocles’ ‘Tereus.’” Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik 200 (2016): 61–85.

Foxhall, Lin. “Pandora Unbound: A Feminist Critique of Foucault’s History of Sexuality.” In Sex and Difference in Ancient Greece and Rome, edited by Mark Golden and Peter Toohey, 167–82. Edinburgh University Press, 2003.

Garrison, Elise P. “Eurydice’s Final Exit to Suicide in the ‘Antigone.’” The Classical World 82, no. 6 (1989): 431–35.

Grethlein, Jonas. “Eine Anthropologie Des Essens: Der Essensstreit in Der ‘Ilias’ Und Die Erntemetapher in Il. 19, 221-224.” Hermes 133, no. 3 (2005): 257–79.

McClure, Laura. “Tokens of Identity: Gender and Recognition in Greek Tragedy.” Illinois Classical Studies 40, no. 2 (2015): 219–36.

Purves, Alex C.  “Wind and Time in Homeric Epic.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 140, no. 2 (2010): 323–50.

Richlin, Amy. “Gender and Rhetoric: Producing Manhood in the Schools.” In Sex and Difference in Ancient Greece and Rome, edited by Mark Golden and Peter Toohey, 202–20. Edinburgh University Press, 2003.

Rood, Naomi. “Four Silences in Sophocles’ ‘Trachiniae.’” Arethusa 43, no. 3 (2010): 345–64.

Zeitlin, Froma I. “The Dynamics of Misogyny: Myth and Mythmaking in the Oresteia.” Arethusa 11, no. 1/2 (1978): 149–84.

[blurredcolour]

The Only Truth... | Part One

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7531

-------------------------

January 8, 1945

A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.

You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.

Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.

You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”

Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.

“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.

“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.

“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.

“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.

“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.

“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.

“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.

The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.

At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.

You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.

“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.

The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.

You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,

“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”

“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”

The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.

“Go.”

And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.

A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”

Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.

“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.

A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.

“Go, schwester.”

You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”

The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.

What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.

“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”

Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.

It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.

“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.

Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.

“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.

“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.

“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.

“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”

He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.

“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.

He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.

“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.

“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.

“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.

“You’d have done the same.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.

“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.

After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”

The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.

As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.

There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.

“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”

Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.

“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”

Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.

“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”

Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”

Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.

Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.

“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.

“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.

“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”

Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”

The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.

Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.

“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.

You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.

 ------------

April 11, 1945

Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.

As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.

It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.

“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.

“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.

By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.

It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.

“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.

As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.

“Get him to the hospital immediately.”

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.

“Put him right there please.”

Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.

The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.

“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.

“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.

------------

Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.

“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.

“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.

“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.

Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.

“What do we have here, Nurse?”

You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.

Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.

It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.

“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”

“No, sir.” You shook your head.

“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.

As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.

Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.

Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.

“At ease, Nurse.”

He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.

“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”

“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.

“Where have they put you?”

“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”

“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.

Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.

You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.

“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.

He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.

It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.

His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.

You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”

He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.

“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.

“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”

He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.

“I’m here to help with that, Major.”

“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”

You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”

He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”

You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.

“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.

It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.

He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.

“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.

This one might make it.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747

[gojuo]

Condal had to whitewash Aemond's entire character, give him traits from others, and make Aegon look cartoonishly incompetent and pathetic so he could live out his childhood dreams in his self insert

imma need to keep it real with you i dont think condal even likes aemond bc what he made him do this ep was unforgiveable and unjustifiable and locals are turning on his ass. i just think he believes tearing down the greens' love and loyalty to the family (and giving that aspect to rhaenyra's) is essential to his quest of making the greens the unequivocal villains of the dance.

i mean, that love and loyalty the greens all held towards their little family was /their/ redeeming quality, whilst team black was betraying each other left and right (daemon betrays rhaenyra, rhaenyra betrays laenor, corlys betrays rhaenys, ulf and hugh betray rhaenyra, rhaenyra betrays addam and nettles, corlys betrays rhaenyra, rhaenyra betrays rosby and stokeworth and they betray her right back, lord mooton betrays her which in turn makes daemon betray her again, the people of king's landing betray rhaenyra, syrax betrays her, and the entire dragonstone garrison betrays her too).

instead of giving aemond a compelling character arc where he's driven mad and manic by guilt towards what his actions caused the family (he was the one that killed luke and so kickstarted the war and b&c after all), ryan condal made him a psychopathic cold blooded murderer that gives 0 fucks about his family. like, not even daemon tried to kill his own brother no matter how much he wanted the throne 💀

[bcacstuff]

Day 3 Highlanders 7 con 21 July 2024 at the Hilton Metropole Hotel, Birmingham

Charles Q&A

They only let him do some stunts. The apple "may have" already been cut in half 😅

At his first OL audition (over zoom from his bedroom), he did a Peaky Blinders accent because thought the English all have the same accent - he works hard on it, accents don't come naturally to him

William inherited the "good Fraser fire" from Jamie but learned how to be reserved (a "board") from LJG so he often feels the conflict within himself what he is vs what he was "trained" to be

One of the auditions (all on zoom) was the Death Song scene with JB - it was weird for him to see these "fictional characters" in real life. Couldn't mention the other audition scenes because they're 7B spoilers

He had phantom pain in his arm from the stick. They sent him to London to have a mold made of his arm

He has no piano in his flat but would go to the Edinburgh train station and use the public piano

Dream role: anything - "I love employment" but likes characters that exist between good and evil

Superstitions: not for acting but the supernatural - hasn't used a Ouija board because he doesn't know if they work but what if they do??

William is "a bit of a shit" and a "brat" when we first meet him in 7A

They did audition someone else for William for S6 (those episodes would have been late in 6) but he would have been too young. Since they shortened 6, they didn't cast William until later.

Someone asked whether he was intimidated by S&C. The audience member then went on telling a story how Caitlin before she got to set, was told S&C were a "power couple" and together in real life. Then when she got there she was told opposite (you could hear people gasp when she said that)

While Charles really didn't answered above, he later on was asked what his favourite movie is, he didn't really have one but said he really loved Ford vs Ferrari, so when he met Caitriona he thought "Whoa"

Mom had watched the show but he binged it in 2 weeks when he got the audition - didn't have the part yet

Felt imposter syndrome and a lot of pressure - do I want to take on being Jamie Fraser's son?

Ultimately LJG is William's dad but important for him to find out who is he to learn about himself

This convention is "so fun" because they couldn't answer any questions during the strike and all they were asked were things like "what's your favourite colour"

Scenes that stuck out when he binged: Claire and BJR in Garrison Commander; the shinty scene

Doesn't have a go-to karaoke song - has never done karaoke. But he would do something like Tequila so all he has to say is 1 word (then they played it when he was leaving the stage)

Sophie, Richard & David

Sophie is apparently a favourite "on the internet" to play Harry Potter's mom in the HBO series. She says "I'm working on it" (ie she'd like to do it).

Their favourite locations to film - Sophie Lallybroch (inside and what they created on set); Richard - University of Glasgow; David - Hopetoun House

David making fun of the questions they always get asked (what would you take from set; what other characters would you like to play) - everyone laughs

If they could play another character, Sophie would play Rollo

Certain scene they were really proud of - Sophie birthing scene "broke some blood vessels"; David never thinks he does well - could have done it differently especially the scene where Jamie offers his body;

What cocktail would your character be: Sophie - Spicy margarita; Richard - Old Fashioned; David Pina Colada because he likes the song (doesn't know any cocktails - people were shouting them out to him)

What would you like to learn how to do: David - Magic the Gathering - watched them play last night and wants them to teach him before wrap; Richard is learning to fly

Which time period do you prefer - Brianna 50/50 - Sophie 1700s "corsets aside" especially since they're all filming together. Richard agrees. David: Lord John in modern times is living in the West Village in NYC running an art gallery called Fraser's 🤣🤣

Karaoke songs: Richard's - Piano Man; David - To be With You (Mr Big): Sophie - Party in the USA

Favourite costume - Richard "from this year" but didn't say which one (didn't want to spoil anything); David - Governor of Jamaica (Sophie says you've had some really good costumes and David said you just realized that???)

Favourite scene to film: Richard - driving around the Highlands (felt like our own little "side Outlander"); Sophie - when she confronts Bonnett in the jail (felt very empowered); David - first day, first scene he filmed dragging Sam on the horse "was a highlight on reflection"

Everyone is treated the same by production

Sophie used to be the makeup trailer DJ but Wendy has taken over

The first scene with Roger & Jamie was fun to shoot but he felt Jamie had "a bit of an overreaction"

What are you obsessed with? Richard - Magic the Gathering; David - his son; Sophie - music

Any scenes that you were intimidated by: David one coming up in 7B (we should all know what it is); Richard - intimate scenes; Sophie - ones that are emotionally challenging and you "take with you"

Question about what you're proud of. Sophie tells the story of when she potty-trained her dog. The dog became so excited he jumped on her, split her lip and she ended up in the emergency room. David then says "do you know what proud means??" • Richard - passing his driving test because he failed 3x; David - when he finished his first block of OL

Character you haven't worked with you would like to - Richard & David said each other. Richard: maybe in the next block then Sophie says "but you're in the 80s", someone mentioned Jemmy and the stones and it just went downhill from there 😅; Sophie - Black Jack

During closing ceremonies everyone is taking photos and Cree (of course) says "go on take your photos like we're animals in a zoo". Then he says something about a "gaggle of lusty women" and Sean says "there is if your name is Sam Heughan"

Sean had organized other fan events then started watching Outlander. He wanted to do an event and learned the person to contact is Steve Himber as he "represents" Sam and Caitriona to get it started. Then Steve says he's "not responsible for Steven Cree"

All credits including pics to my friend at the con (who wishes to remain anonymous) Thank you so much for keeping notes for us (and for me to post!) Great Job, well done! 🧡🧡🧡

[graveyard-stray]

Tommy Shelby - NSFW alphabet

(This whole thing is for Tommy in a serious relationship with Fem!reader. I’m sure Tommy with just a hookup would be very different!)

Word count: 1351

A/N: You asked and you shall receive! You guys have gone crazy for my Tommy stuff and I really appreciate it! Thank you for all the support!

Reminder my inbox is open so if you have any requests for Tommy or for other characters- let me know! (A link to who I write for can be found in my master list)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Tommy is gonna lay down, pull you into his side, and lay there with you while he smokes. He wants to hold you of course but he also gotta feed his horrible habit. You guys might chat a bit but really he just wants to feel you against him (because he loves you) and relax.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He is a bit self conscious about his own body because it’s gone through so much, he would never admit it but he really hates seeing his scars that are all over- they just remind him of the war.

For you, he’s a big tits guy. Big or small he doesn’t care he just loves your boobs. He will kiss them, suck them, bite them, grab them, he doesn’t care.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He likes to cum inside, there is something so intimate to him about getting to fill you up and it really turns him on, know that your all his.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

When he’s not with you he literally can’t cum. He has tried to jerk off when your not around but it just isn’t the same without you. He would never admit it though because it makes him seem soft.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s pretty experienced, he’s been with a handful of prostitutes and he has had other girlfriends before- plus he is a pretty sexual person so he’s definitely pretty skilled.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary. He likes being able to see your face when you cum and he’s a simple guy. Although he also likes doggy cause he can grab your hair or your hips real easily.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a very serious man. Especially in bed, like sure he can be soft and intimate but definitely not goofy. his mind is focused on pleasing you (and himself) no time for jokes. Plus does he even know how to joke? Not really.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s pretty groomed. He keeps most of his body clean shaven as he doesn’t like being super hairy. But the parts he doesn’t shave (like his pubes) he keeps groomed short and neatly. He’s gotta stay classy especially for you <3

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

It depends, if he is in a bad mood it’s gonna be less intimate and more rough and intense. And if it’s a special day or he’s in a particularly good mood it will be intimate, he will praise you and tell you how he loves you while he finishes.

On the regular though it can be pretty average intimacy wise, a bit rough with some praise here and there.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He used to get off an average amount but ever since meeting you he literally can’t. He’s gotten so used to your hands or your mouth or your pussy he literally can’t get off without you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding kink for sure.

Definitely hair pulling, and marking. He loves to see the marks he leaves on you specifically in places no one else sees- the sight is only for him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He is a pretty classy dude a lot of the time (or atleast he tries to be) so a lot of the time it’s just in your home in private. But a few times he will fuck you in the private room at the garrison, when it’s just you and him before or after a meeting.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He loves seeing you all dolled up to go to events with him. Something about you looking so beautiful and being his arm candy is so domestic and it really gets him going- expect to have a bit of a late night after those formal events.

He also just has a pretty high natural sex drive so really just seeing you makes him wanna fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will not be submissive, he just honestly can’t be. And I can’t see him wanting to do any butt stuff.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He is a big fan of receiving. He loves feeling you gag around his cock and he will rest his hands in your hair and push you down further. Something about feeling your throat tighten around him drives him WILD.

He also likes giving though, he thinks you taste delicious and will eat you out like he’s a man who hasn’t eaten in years.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He definitely prefers it fast and rough, but when he is feeling quite lovey and emotional it will be more slow and intimate.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He is a fan of a quickie. When he has to go to some meeting or deal with business but just can’t resist you, he will quickly take you on the couch and then leave as fast as he can (of course after you also cum. He has class)

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He is down to experiment a bit but if it doesn’t SOUND enjoyable to him then he won’t be open to try it. He isn’t too risky except maybe trying out being mean to you in bed when he is in an angry mood.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has decent stamina and can go about 3-4 rounds depending on what you are doing, but of course that smoking has caught up to him so eventually he will get tired and need to catch his breathe. When he is actually fucking you he lasts pretty long and is able to please you and make sure you finish, usually before he does.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t own toys, sees no reason to. You only need him and he only needs you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves when you tease him, with your short dresses and see through panties underneath, or when you grab his thigh, right by his crotch, under the dinner table.

He also likes to tease you here and there, especially if your being a brat.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He will let out some softer groans and moans during it, when he cums he will get a bit louder with more groans and either some praise or degradation (depending on the mood)

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

It takes him a bit but eventually he gets comfortable enough to let you be on top a bit, letting you ride him and maybe be a bit more commanding. It’s not his favorite thing but he does think it’s hot when your being bossy.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s got a pretty good dick honestly. Not giant but good. About a 6 or 7 inch (hard) which is a bit above average.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s got a pretty high sex drive but he also is fine if he’s horny and not having any sex, he’s mature and doesn’t need sex but he wants it pretty often.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t sleep a lot as is so I can’t imagine he would quickly fall asleep after sex. He would probably lay awake for a while just holding you or watching you as you slept.

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 14

Part 13

Steve’s schedule kept him busy, which he was certainly glad for. He didn’t have a lot of time to think about his father, or the kingdom that wouldn’t miss him. Any thoughts of his uselessness or his failure at being a proper prince were pushed out when Dustin asked him a random question, or Lucas needed his help, or he had to go up against Max’s wit.

About every other night, he was visited by his feathered friend. It didn’t come bearing food. And in fact, didn’t really come in. Steve would just catch it sometimes, peering at him from the window for a moment before flying off. Almost like it was checking in on him.

Steve made Lucas stop in his attack and nudged his foot with the tip of his staff, widening his stance. Steve was making Lucas try out different weapons and fighting styles to see what truly fit him.

“I know swords are really popular. But there’s more than one way to defend yourself.”

He’d been watching his movements closely and paying attention to how he reacted to things. Honestly, Lucas seemed more suited to something long range. Perhaps archery. Steve had yet to see a range but any castle would employ some sort of archer garrison. 

Steve saw black wings soar briefly overhead, but of course he didn’t connect it to the ones that flapped by his window most nights. Why would he?

He was given the task of reshelving books in the library. An easy task since the sections were labeled for organization. At the tail end of this task, he noticed Dustin and El pouring over a book, seeming deep in their studies. Interest piqued, he approached them.

“What are you two getting into?”, he asked.

“Animal husbandry”, El answered.

“Eddie said if we’re responsible, we can get a pet”, Dustin said. “So we’re trying to decide what sort of animal to get.”

Steve looked over their shoulders to see what kind of creatures they were looking at. He didn’t know whether to expect a demogorgon or a cat. Either one seemed likely with these people. He honestly wasn’t prepared for the picture of an octopus. Steve was no stranger to the ocean. His kingdom had a shore that he had been too often and he was a talented swimmer. This place was landlocked though. 

“Where are you going to find and octopus?”, Steve asked.

“The ocean”, Dustin said like Steve was a child.

“You think it’s going to be that easy to transport it?”

“It’s funny you think that’s the issue”, Robin said, appearing from one of the shelves. “How are they gonna keep it here?”

“It’d be fine in a bathtub”, Steve reasoned.

The look on Robin’s face could only be described as exasperation as she blew out a breath and shook her head. But Steve was used to it at this point. The kids saw him as just a new fixture to their home, had just about accepted him completely. It was everyone else that continued to treat him for what he was, a prince who had wanted this kingdom’s downfall until just recently.

But sometimes…

Sometimes there were moments where he felt something changing between himself and them. Robin didn’t always look like she was the one babysitting him anymore. It was still obviously a chore to her, but not as bad as it had been at the beginning. She was even beginning to tolerate him.

A week before the festival, the kids were given new clothes, both for the celebration and to look nice for the performance. Steve couldn’t help but be a tad jealous of the colors and patterns. His own meager wardrobe was an assortment of brown, gray, and white. But he kept his feelings off his face, choosing instead to encourage them to appreciate the new outfits.

“Why can’t we just wear what we normally do?”, Dustin asked.

“Because it’s a special occasion”, Steve rolled his eyes. “Do you know how many people would kill to have a royal seamstress make them a custom outfit?”

“I think I’d kill to not have to wear this”, Mike said, holding up something orange.

“Big talk from someone who squealed at a spider the other day”, Eddie said, entering the room. 

Steve noted that the king’s clothing was usually dark, typically blacks and deep reds. Even as others were moving to brighter, more colorful looks for spring. He didn’t know why he expected different. He didn’t like admitting it, but the king’s appearance was striking in its own way. He always cut an impressive figure, despite being about the same height as Steve. It was a combination of the way he carried himself, his silhouette, and having pointed canines didn’t hurt either.

Among them all, Steve felt like a piece of the background which was…new. And he was sure if he liked it. He supposed it was better than wearing a sign that said he was the son of the Harringtons. He already got glares from people in the castle as it was anytime he was alone. Steve wasn’t fearful for his life. He was pretty confident in his ability to defend himself in a fight. It was a question of what would happen to him once he did. Would the king be so welcoming if he snapped the neck of a guard trying to end him?

—----------------------

Robin and Eddie stood and listened as the kids played the song they’d been practicing in the music room. A lilting piece that heralded the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Robin’s expression was pleased at the progress they’d made in such a short time. It wasn’t perfect, but most of them hadn’t ever picked up an instrument seriously before. Eddie was clapping his hands so loud, it sounded like the pop of a firework with the acoustics of the room. Steve was leaning against the wall, prepared to help put things away once they were done.

“You guys were incredible!”, Eddie praised.

And hearing it from someone they admired so much had even the more prickly of them blushing bashfully. Steve still remembered Dustin grumbling for the first couple of practices and Mike complaining when he’d been moved from lute to flute. But Robin knew what she had been doing. Steve was impressed, truly. 

“That’s why we practice”, Robin smiled.

“And it’s still days before the show”, Eddie said. “For now though, I think you all deserve a reward. So let’s head on down to the kitchen for some tarts.”

The kids all rushed out at that, Robin and Eddie following behind to make sure they didn’t bulldoze anyone over on the way. Only Steve stayed behind, getting started on putting their instruments away. He paused when he passed the clavichord. An instrument no one had picked and wasn’t included in the current arrangement. Steve felt a wave of nostalgia for his own music teacher. She was always so patient and doled out praise whenever he did well.

He let his fingers brush against the keys. He looked to the door, closed, and it sounded like the group was no longer nearby. So Steve sat down and tried out a little melody. It felt like so long since he had played and he couldn’t even blame it on his imprisonment. His parents had never been impressed with music, even when his instructor told them how good he was. He would play from time to time, just never in front of anyone.

“You shouldn’t mess with Robin’s things.”

“Agh! Fuck!”, Steve jolted in the air when the king’s voice sounded from right next to him. “Must you move in shadows?”

Eddie smirked. “It is the best way to travel, but this time I just used the door. I didn’t know you played.” He put a hand against the frame, steading himself as he leaned over, hair falling over his shoulders. 

Steve looked away from him, not understanding why the gaze felt so intense. “I don’t…much.”

“What other hidden talents are you hiding?”

At that, Steve raised a brow, wondering what he was getting at. Did the king still think he was harboring something? Was he of the same mind as Nancy? Steve had nothing up his sleeve and nothing to hide, so he answered.

“I can also play the hurdy gurdy, but that’s not as popular as this.”

And then the king laughed.

At something Steve had said.

“Come on, I promised a sweet for all those who put in good work. That includes you, little prince.”

The king offered his hand to help Steve to his feet. Steve stared for a moment before taking it.

Part 15

Tag team

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent @snakeorsquid @ignoremyworld @theclichefortunecookie @goodolefashionedloverboi @just-a-tiny-void @0body0disphoria0 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @samsoble @jamieweasley13 @y4r3luv @xtkxkrzrizir @un-knownperson @greekgeek24 @justdrugsformethanks @potato-of-the-lord @notaqueenakhaleesi @swimmingbirdrunningrock @queenie-ofthe-void @nebulainajar @lil-gremlin-things @nicememerino @robininblue @hornedqueenofhell @anne-bennett-cosplayer @moomkin77 @here4thetrama @bookworm0690 @autumncrocusandladybug @lil-gremlin-things

[crownrots]

— OCS CORE THEME.

TAGGED BY @corvosattano, @simonxriley, & @leviiackrman like ages ago to do this uquiz, thank you 💚

TAGGING @queennymeria, @loriane-elmuerto, @shellibisshe, @risingsh0t, @thedeadthree, @galvus, @minaharkers, @carlosoliveiraa, @bbrocklesnar, @countessrooster, @lucky-107, @tuseranita, @jackiesarch, @florbelles,@faerune, @shadowglens, @nightbloodbix, + anybody else that wants to do it!

THE GRIEVER.

you mourn your losses. it is as if something has been torn from your soul and you are forever a lost fragment seeking what you have lost. it will take you time to accept some things are better floating through the universe, taken from us with vice and leaving us incomplete. your corners will drift through the ocean and each grain of sand you brush by will sand you down. you will reach the beaches healed, and your sharp corners will become dull and smooth to the touch. your painting is "anguish" by august friedrich schenck.

THE FRIEND.

you love to feel the warmth of a friend's hand in yours. food tastes better when it is made by a friend. you are kind and forgiving, and you treat your friends with ultimate compassion. you love your friends. you are grateful for every friend that comes and goes in your life. you miss many friends. you wish more friends kept in contact with you. you wish that you were not so forgiving sometimes but everyone has their vices. your friends take precedence over everyone. you would not be anywhere without them. you want to, one day, hold them up, too. you want to be someone depended on - someone needed. you want to be needed by somebody. you want to be wanted in the same way you want. your painting is "the three friends" by sebastian straub.

THE POPULAR.

The attention of outsiders is like opium. At your heart and soul you produce and create and you thrive on the love it gathers from others. It is like taking your first steps as a baby, and hearing the cheers of thousands upon thousands of parents, encouraging you to move a little more, to step towards mother or father. But when the cheers fall silent, you are lost, aimless, a boat in a turbulent sea with no lighthouse to guide you. You are no longer taking steps. There is no voice calling out to you, signalling where to turn, and there is no encouragement. You want to take the steps but you cannot find any good reason to - not without everybody waiting at the end of your path. your painting is "the birth of venus" by sandro botticelli.

THE YEARNER.

you long for something you have never had. it is just out of reach and your fingertips graze it constantly. you can feel its electricity buzzing through you and just the adrenaline is enough to keep you chasing it. your legs are tired and your body is disfigured but you reach out anyway, you stretch your arms forward and throw yourself at what is ahead. better days are coming. rest will find you soon, you hope, but until it does, you will keep running. the end justifies the means. the end keeps you running. you will know when to stop, you are sure of it, but it isn't yet. rest will find you. your painting is "tender grace of a day that is dead" by walter langley.

[antebellumite]

Antebellum Peeps ( TM ) As Dogs

some people and dogs were not included. include more at your leisure..

Albert Gallatin is a Labrador Retriever. He's smart, resourceful, basic, but he also gives very reasonable person vibes, even if he can feel a little boring at times. Still, that complete uninterestingness is what makes him special.

Samuel Howe is a Schnauzer. He's caring, social, protective of what he cares about for as long as he cares about it. I have never seen another dog that looks as much like a misogynist than schnauzers do. I like to think the ears and muzzle hair fit him.

William Lloyd Garrison is a Doberman. Proud, looks intimidating at first, and doesn't forget or forgive easily. Noble, just generally popular and well known. You can always depend on him to do what's right, even if it’s not exactly what you want him to do. This is Garrison as a dog breed, but also for him as a human being.

Floride Calhoun is a Chow Chow. High strung, bites strangers, and judges and ranks everyone based on their usefulness and importance to her. Fatalistic, cruel, probably some unresolved trauma as a natural consequence of being a Christian White Southern Woman in 1800s. Very Chow Chow behaviors.

Thomas Benton is a Rottweiler. Like a doberman, but more stocky, Benton is courageous, good-natured ( when he isn't faced with Clay, Calhoun, or Foote ), and confidently self assured. He's a stereotypical police dog, MANLY.

Andrew Jackson is a Canary Dog in behavior and a Greyhound in physique. He is large. He engages in dogfights. He looks fast, but is actually fairly chill and doesn't mind being lazy. He could rip someone apart. He WILL rip someone apart. He drools. He contains multitudes.

Benjamin Brown French is a Goldendoodle. Like a goldendoodle, French was created upon this Earth for one purpose. For a goldendoodle, that purpose was to remind mankind of their hubris. For French, it was to be the guiding voice of The Field of Blood. Both of them are lovable and funny unique abominations in the worst/best way.

Charles Sumner is an Akita. A very sleep deprived Akita with heart issues. Very strong, large, bear-like, and could probably take down a tank if he could. Like an Akita, though, Sumner is long-lasting and has thick skin! Metaphorically.

Harriet Martineau is a Papillon. Intelligrnt, petite, friendly, and has a much smaller stature than most of the other dogs on here, and despite not being American, is actually much more well-educated about American politics than actual Americans! She is also tiny but gives an air of great dignity and royal elegance as well a cuteness.

Julia Howe is a Wetterhoun. She's a water dog, with a natural talent, and despite being fairly reserved, gets along well with other people. She also has a strong will and won't back down from a challenge and is actually way more tolerant and patient than most people around her notice or give her credit for.

Daniel Webster is a Mastiff. Like a Mastiff, Webster is SCARY HUGE, has a reputation as being noble and almighty, and is the perfect fighting dog ( in terms of debate ). They both reportedly have the exact same mouth shape. He's also not easily provoked, similar to the Mastiff, and is pretty docile and domesticated when it really comes down to it.

Harriet Beecher Stowe is a German Shepherd. She's willing to learn, incredibly curious, smart and she's actually competant at what she sets out to do. Stowe, also like a german shepherd, is a very recognizable kind of figure, just like how german shepherds are recognizable dog breeds.

John Calhoun is a Border Collie. He, like a Border Collie, is terrifyingly smart. Calhoun is also adaptable ( to changes in political climate ) and great at herding ( his colleagues to secessionist ideals ), like a border collie.

Jefferson Davis is a Skye Terrier. Only ever had one person he actually loved ( his first wife ), and never moved on after her death. Like a Skye Terrier, gives off large amounts of old man energy. Had some pretty funky facial hair too once you stop and think about it. I also think it's funny how I'm assigning Davis a super tiny dog when in real life he was like Abraham Lincoln's hight.

John Quincy Adams is a Shiba Inu. BOLD and ridiculously PROUD and incredibly CLEAN and GRUMPY and INDEPENDENT and UNHAPPY and DIGNIFIED and ALOOF and THERE IS LITERALLY NO OTHER DOG THAT FITS JQA MORE.

William Seward is a Siberian Husky. Seward, similar to a Husky, is stubborn, clever, capable, and despite having great intentions, does tend to have some odd ideas at times. He’s extremely determined in his tasks, perhaps overly so. They're both also dogs that are instantly recognizable on sight, and have something to do with Alaska.

John Randolph is a Pug. He just is. His health issues are infinite. He looks hideous. He is tiny. He vibrates with rage at any given moment. Every noise that he makes only alienates him more. He is such a pug I genuinely can't imagine him as anything else, even before he contracted tuberculosis.

Rachel Donelson Jackson is a Bichon. She just wants to live her life, and move on, similar to a Bichon's passive nature. Chill, going with the flow. She and Bichons share the same vibes.

Nicholas Biddle is a Pomeranian. Tiny and extroverted and happy and friendly and lively and playful! Loves being in the center of attention like any other pomeranian. Both Biddle and Pomeranians have fantastic hair and are always alert about changes in their enviroment, and aren't afraid to challenge others. Often to their own detriment.

Mary Todd Lincoln is a West Highland White Terrier. Like a West Highland White Terrier, Mary Lincoln is tiny, and has a temper that can vary wildly depending on what's going on and who she's with. She hates being rough handled and is normally assured, stubborn and self-confident.

Louisa Adams is a Pitbull. Intelligent, trustworthy, kindhearted, and genuinely a good person even if it might not seem like that at first. She enjoys taking humorous situations literally, or at least with tongue in cheek, and if you wrong her she will not let it go. She's also a pretty medium-sized figure, both in society and as a dog.

Abraham Lincoln is a Great Dane. Because TALL politicians mean TALL dogs. Yet, despite being an imposing figure, he's genuinely friendly and is incredibly loving and devoted towards others, including strangers and especially children! He's just in general laidback, but make no mistake, can definately become dangerous if you provoke him.

Henry Clay is a Collie. His defining feature is that he's sensitive and keenly aware of other's emotions, as well as very goal-oriented and is terrified of any prospect of failure on his part. He can be " single-minded to the point of obsessiveness." And like a certain other collie on this list, Clay is also great at herding people towards desired politics.

Fanny Longfellow is a Golden Retriever. Gentle, smart, affectionate, adorable, and is incredibly tolerant of outsiders. Her friendliness is the stuff of legends, and she was incredibly popular and well known ( although not very much today ). She'll gladly pull others into her family, and she just gives really shiny Good Vibes.

Stephen Douglas is a Jack Russel Terrier. A bite that's ten times larger than his size and is very, very, fearlessly, active. If left bored or unhappy, Douglas will do great damage, like kickstarting Bloody Kansas. The Jack Russel Terrorist if left to his own devices.

Margaret Bayard Smith is a Cardigan Welsh Corgi. Loyal, devoted, and surprisingly responsible. She has hidden insecurities and despite what others might see as drawbacks, she has shown her effectiveness, intelligence, and presence time and time again.

Theodore Parker is a Chihuaha. He's a good guy and just wants to make sure that things turn out well for his friends and family. He's smaller than you might think he should be, but what he lacks in physical strength, he can easily make up for in bullets and words. He also needs serious modern medical intervention.

Martin Van Buren is a Pekingnese. Ridiculously fancy and small. Like a Pekingnese, also recognizably cold and determined, and tends to manipulate those around him, and tends to be stubborn and set in his ways. Yes, he truly does seem to make his own rules on how the world works, but he makes up for it by being a dandy.

Varina Davis is a Cocker Spaniel. Fancy and her hair is fantastic, gives very prestigious vibes about her. She is independent if needed, but still cares for others. Despite this, she still does have a vicious streak a mile wide.

Anna Maria Calhoun Clemson is an Australian Cattle Dog. A very intelligent herding dog, like her father, and closely resembles him. She can actually be pretty affectionate, but knows what she wants and definitely isn't afraid to nip people or bite to get there.

Adele Douglas is a Poodle, But specifically, she's of the medium-large variety. She's larger than Stephen Douglas that's for sure. She's intelligent, fancy, traditionally feminine, and is better than you in every way. She's loyal and greatly sociable and energetic. She's protective of her family, and loves them, even after they're dead.

Anne Royall is a Keeshond. She's relatively unknown, similar to a Keeshond, and can learn very quickly. She's a quick learner, intuitive, empathetic, and very persistant in what she believes in what's right, no matter what anyone else tries to tell her.

Lucretia Clay is a Newfoundland. She's calm, motherly, supportive, and a little larger than life. Doesn’t like crowds. She also has great athletic ability, which might or might not include swimming. Not sure about Newfoundlands’ business skills regarding her though.

Hugh Lawson White is an Afghan Hound. They're both dignified and aloof with a clownish streak and have also fantastic hair. White, like the Afghan Hound breed, is very old. Or at least, I always imagine him as being old.

Jessie Benton Fremont is an Alaskan Malamute. Big, smart, in charge, very influential. Prominent in her day, similar to an Alaskan Malamute and both her and the breed are distinguished and recognized today. Both of them also have something to do with a gold rush, one Californian, one Alaskan.

Susan B. Anthony is an Azawakh. She's independent and determined, as well as intuitive and understanding about what's going on around her. She's typically reserved, and while not aggressive, it does take some time and sensibility to get to know her. Fast, and both organize in groups to take down enemies.

Louisa May Alcott is a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. Genuinely happy, enthused, collected, and satisfied with what she has. She's confident in nature and works well with children and her family members. Despite this, she's also vigilant, and can be outspoken and revolutionary if you pay attention. Inclusively, the four Greater Swiss Mountain Dogs all contain vaguely Alcott-like traits- a fitting parallel to Little Women.

Emily Tennessee Donelson is a Borzoi. She's calm, reliable, and tends to follow others' instructions, but she's also independent and can be rebellious at times. She doesn't need you or anyone, and quite frankly, she doesn't have many strong feelings about leaving if she doesn't feel respected. I realize I am painting a very weird picture of the Donelson-Jackson family here but just listen to me ok.

Robert Hayne is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Adaptable, highly affectionate, playful, patient, eager to please, and both of them have a higher mortality than others. Both Hayne and the CKCS breed are both highly adorable and dandy-ish as well.

Margaret Eaton is a Basenji. She's friendly, a bit gossipy, though reserved with strangers. She cannot be trained and she and the Basenji both resemble pariahs in their lifetime. She has her own goals and wants and isn't afraid to try and reach them. Eaton also just in general feels like she'd be a sort of square, short-furred kind of dog, and I also think she doesn't like wet spaces.

Henry Longfellow is a Samoyed. He's optimistic and friendly and lovable and unique and I have an instant revulsion against using the same dog breed twice, otherwise, he'd be a Golden Retriever. The Samoyed's incredibly long and poofy white coat also resembles the long beard that Longfellow developes later on in life.

Sarah Polk is a Yorkshire Terrier. Fairly humble, but still elegant, important, and an air of prominence if she feels like it. She also isn't often taken seriously, despite her genuine great advice, but that's okay, because through god and girlbossification all this are possible.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton is a Schipperke. Determined, steadfast, sturdy, and like a Schipperke, is great at organizing and 'herding' people into organizing movements and the like. She's also a rarer kind of dog breed because the portraits taken of her look very prim and proper, which I'm pretty sure was all on purpose, but either ways, it still works.

Maud Howe is a Saluki. She is very freelancing, independent, and a rather creative person, all of which are incredibly similar vibes to a Saluki. She's shy, but despite this is also a socialite and interacts with others, playing a part and serving in various societies to help her community. She seems like a very special person, in the end, and really does deserve to be called a special breed of dog.

Sarah Goodridge is an English Setter. She's a gentlewoman by nature, intensely friendly, and she's very active and adores visitors, as well as being sensitive to criticism.

[heartcereql]

tommy shelby x finn's teacher!reader pt.3 || pt.2 , pt.1

you smoothed your dress for what felt like the millionth time that evening, running your fingers through the orange and golden fabric.

you stood outside the garrison, noise and light filtering from the inside. if one listened closely, a few tipsy men could be heard faintly singing to some even faintier orchestra music. but you were too lost on your thoughts to pay any mind to it. tommy's words reverberated in your head. wednesday evening. it appeared he was throwing quite a party inside the pub. weird, considering it was wednesday, but who were you to judge.

though the sky was darkening and the streetlights emitted very dim light, you glistened against the night. gold jewellery adorned your ears, neck, arms and fingers. you looked radiant. nevertheless, the fact that you were going to be seen only increased the bundle of nerves in your gut.

you tried to remind yourslef that this was just an invitation to a party at tommy shelby's pub, strictly that. it was by no means exclusive. but you knew better than to believe that. though it might come off as insignificant, it incapsulated something more. with thomas shelby it always did. even the most ordinary actions turned intimate and compelling.

after what felt like an eternity to you, you finally gathered the courage to walk the few steps that separated you from the pub and get in at once. a wave of heat washed over you as the temperature rose from inside. the music was louder, delicate and harmonical, with chattering everywhere.

you found yourself contemplating the beautiful ornaments of the garrison that fascinated you so much. the interior lights brought a glimmer to every corner. and then a particular glint caught your attention.

an ocean-colored depth, captured in a pair of piercing eyes, already familiar to you by now. but they didn't fail to draw you in every single time.

he was leaning against the bar, and he didn't even wait for a second to make his way towards you once he saw you.

"y/n" thomas called out as he approached you.

"hey" you greeted, cheeks rosy from the chilly weather. "how've you been? how's everything?"

"not bad, not bad. how 'bout you, things alright?" he replied, cautiously eyeing the way you glittered- beyond your accessories, there was a certain glow in your skin, silkness in your hair. and that dress fitted your figure perfectly.

"everything in order" you smiled, not missing the chance to take a good look at the man who had been plaguing your mind for the past few days. he had always felt like a mystery to you, but now you were looking forward to explore said mystery. "it's quite a party you've got in here"

"thought you'd like it" he said. he rather meant something along the lines of 'i wanted a desperate excuse to see you again', but he kept that to himself.

"i absolutely do. thank you for inviting me, the party looks lovely" you smiled his way, heart fluttering in your chest.

"it was all polly's doing" tommy admitted.

"polly?"

"my aunt" he replied, gesturing with his head to a more private room near the door.

he put his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly as a welcome, but guiding you to the secluded room where his family and some of the peaky blinders were in.

he held the door open for you. inside sat two men who you recognized vaguely, arthur and john shelby. there were also a woman, a few men and-

"finn? hi!" you acknowledged your student, sitting at a corner, trying not to frown once you saw the beer in his hand.

the boy's eyes widened, his face flushing lightly.

"miss y/n, hello" he mumbled, too shy to look at you.

"isaiah, take the boys to the cut or somewhere, will ya?" arthur muttered to one of the men, who gave him a nod and took finn away to gather the rest of the younger boys.

"everyone, y/n y/l/n" tommy introduced, hand still on you as he guided you to a seat. "these gentlemen are my brothers, john and arthur; and my aunt, polly gray"

ah, polly gray. you took a careful glance at the elegant, classy lady, who exuded charm. yes, the party seemed proper of her.

"care for a dance?" tommy asked, leaning slightly towards you.

the two of you had exited the room a while ago, mingling with other people and enjoying some drinks.

you gaped at him for a moment, suddenly breathless and at a loss of words. you knew everybody would be watching, but your concerns went further than that. wasn't all this going too quickly? but also, weren't you enjoying every last bit of this?

"oh, i'm not sure, tommy, i-" you stuttered, trying to excuse your way out of it. though you had done your best to hide it, you had no clue on how to dance. "i don't dance..."

" 's okay" he reassured, a smile on his lips. "follow my lead, eh? you'll be alright."

you tried to refuse again, but tommy had already grasped your hand, gentle but firm, and was dragging you to where the people were mingling, dancing and enjoying themselves.

he didn't let go of your hand, placing it on his shoulder instead and putting his hand on your lower back, bringing you closer. his other hand clasped yours and rose it, as a slower piece began to play.

"just back and forth. easy, eh?" he guided your every step carefully, making sure you got how it went before falling into a rhythm.

you occupied your mind with keeping up with his steps, focusing on the music, avoiding instead thinking about the softness of his hand on the small of your back, about how you were so close you could see the freckles on his skin.

you soon got enhanced by the man dancing with you. the expensive cologne, the way he smiled down at you as encouragement, his finger rubbing circles faintly over the back of your hand. it all wrapped around you dreamily.

as the music came to an end, you met his gaze. maybe you shouldn't have, because you weren't able to look away. because, reflected on the captivating blue, were mirrored the same feelings your eyes spoke for you. and he realized that too.

without wasting any further second, he dragged you away from the people, exiting through the back door of the pub, taking you to another room, this one empty of people, poorly decorated.

you immediatly found yourself in tommy's arms again, fingers travelling his body as he leaned even closer.

you stayed like that for some instants, a silent allure settling down over you. his hands on your waist, yor hand on his cheek. taking in the other's presence, as if you were going to disappear at any second.

your mind was racing with worries. how even had you ended up in this situation?

"tommy, i-" you bit your lip, trying to find the words. "should we-"

suddenly his face was inches away from yours, noses brushing, breath fanning over the other's lips. the sudden closeness- even more than it had been before- left you wordless, and any doubt you still carried dissipated.

he said your name in no more than a whisper, as if asking for permission. you corresponded with an impatient nod, your hand upon his cheek caressing it slightly.

tommy's lips captured yours in a gentle and lasting kiss. the contact was delicate, his mouth careful on yours in a way you'd have never exoected of him. his grip on your waist tightened, drawing you closer as the kiss deepened, slow but steady, as if you were savouring every moment.

his silky touch surprised tommy himself; he felt like he wanted to treasure you, keep you with him, too scared to let go. as the kiss fell into a more passionate pattern, he became aware of how fast his heart was beating, hammering in his chest at the scent of your hair, the sound of your erratic breathing. x

your hands found the collar of his shirt and grasped it adamantly, needily almost. your lips danced now to a perfect symphony. he tasted like whisky and cigarettes, and right now it felt like a banquet to you.

tommy broke the kiss for a mere second, face still close, just to admire how the dim lights traced your features, how your lipstick was faintly smeared, how your eyes fluttered open, how your breathing became needful in his abscence.

not being able to hold back longer, you pulled him into a kiss again, a much more heated one, and he complied, more than satisfied with the sight.

© heartcereql, 2023 || thank you for reading ! 𓆩 ♱ 𓆪

taglist: @budugu ☆ @tatumrileyslover ☆ @stayaways-world ☆ @amberpanda99

[enretrogue]

𝗝𝗨𝗟𝗬 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 𝗙𝗜𝗖 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗦 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟭

༝༚༝༚ = Black/POC Works ⎢ 24’ Fic Rec M.List

a/n: to all of my formula 1 authors, your work has gotten me through this summer semester and i thank you 🫡. what started as a curiosity, grew into a love for a sport i didn't know existed until a month ago and i love you all. (also i apologize for spamming y'all, pls don't block me 🙏🏽🩷)

ATTACK ON TITAN:

Multi-Character

You Went Out Looking a Lil Bit Too Good — @morgluvsconnie ༝༚༝༚

Singing “I’d Rather Fuck on My Ex Again” and Posting it on Your Story — @loveforeren ༝༚༝༚

“But I didn’t shave” So what? — @tasiawrites ༝༚༝༚

“She’s busy”— @luvacookie ༝༚༝༚

Armin Arlert

Toxic!Armin⎢More Toxic!Armin⎢— @chrollohearttags ༝༚༝༚

The Baby Trapper — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Ms. Attitude — @pynkfairyheart ༝༚༝༚

Fatal Attraction — @luminiamore ༝༚༝༚

Stress Relief — @prettygirl222 ༝༚༝༚

Connie Springer

Messages w/ Connie as Your BF! — @morgluvsconnie ༝༚༝༚

Bound⎢ Ch.1⎢ Ch.2⎢ Ch.3⎢ Ch.4⎢ Ch.5⎢ Ch.6⎢ Ch.7⎢ Ch.8⎢ Ch.9⎢ Ch.10⎢ Ch.11 — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Positive — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Sundress SZN — @alanaaii ༝༚༝༚

Cookies ‘n Cream — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Touch Me, Tease Me, Feel Me Up — @loveforeren ༝༚༝༚

24 Hours, Someone There When She Need — @2neaky ༝༚༝༚

Eren Jaeger

Plug!Eren Being Such a Pornographic Whore — @merakidoll ༝༚༝༚

Rockstar Boyfriends!Eren + Geto — ^ ༝༚༝༚

#FREEHIM — @bladebarbie ༝༚༝༚

SUCKER — @luminiamore ༝༚༝༚

Driftin’ and Kissin’ — @st4rbwrry ༝༚༝༚

Eren Loves Thunderstorms — @bunnisari ༝༚༝༚

 Think She Grippin’ on My Dick but That’s My Gun Baby — @gloxk ༝༚༝༚

Spoil You — @backwzzds ༝༚༝༚

Telling Possessive!Eren You Need a Break — @roseloon ༝༚༝༚

Maybe Opposites Do Attract — @wintrrxxo ༝༚༝༚

Under the Influence — @chrollohearttags ༝༚༝༚

Why You Touchin’ Me — @monstas1ut ༝༚༝༚

Wax — @prettygirl222 ༝༚༝༚

Jean Kirstein

Size Kink — @co-psycho

Stalker!Jean HCs — ^

Parenting HCs — @ye4gerism ༝༚༝༚

Mikasa Ackerman

CHARM’D — @chrollohearttags ༝༚༝༚

Onyankopon

SOUL⎢Part 2 — @luminiamore ༝༚༝༚

TRIP — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Ony Fingering You — @hanwiore ༝༚༝༚

Sexy Hot Nasty Smut — ^ ༝༚༝༚

“Let’s Talk In Person” — @dilfl0v3rss ༝༚༝༚

Mutuals⎢ Part 2 — @anucalor ༝༚༝༚

On the Run — @xiamentshoneypot ༝༚༝༚

Don’t You Know I Love You — @wintrrxxo ༝༚༝༚

I’ll Miss You — @awill2live ༝༚༝༚

Accusations and Apologies — @pynkfairyheart ༝༚༝༚

What Goes Around Comes Around — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Prettiest Thing⎢Part 2 — @pwinkprincess ༝༚༝༚

Imagine Onyankopon as Your Boyfriend — @shaguro ༝༚༝༚

Missing Curfew — @klipkillakai ༝༚༝༚

Dad!Ony Blurb — @morgluvsconnie ༝༚༝༚

Any Means Necessary⎢ Part 1⎢ Part 2⎢ Part 3 — @cupidzboww ༝༚༝༚

BLEACH:

Kenpachi Zaraki

Make Me Feel Love — @actuallusaiyan

DC:

Multi-Character

Size Kinks [Bruce + Jason (SEPARATE)]— @arkhamslvts ༝༚༝༚

Batmom

Thunderstorm — @teddypines ༝༚༝༚

Batsis

Roy Asking Batfam Members for Their Blessings to Marry Batsis [+ Roy Harper]— @c-nstantine ༝༚༝༚

Bruce Wayne/Batman

PR Relationship — @c-nstantine ༝༚༝༚

Vampire King!Bruce Wayne — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Jealous!Bruce — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Bruce Being Lovestruck — ^ ༝༚༝༚

ONE CHICAGO:

Jay Halstead

Echoes of Redemption — @berberriescorner ༝༚༝༚

Jay Dating a Younger Woman — @cutielando

Upstead Foster Daughter⎢Chapter 3 — @uptondixon

Kevin Atwater

If I Took You Home⎢Part 2 — @megamindsecretlair ༝༚༝༚

PEAKY BLINDERS:

Thomas Shelby

Scary? My God You’re Divine — @kat-mobile

Tommy With a Wife Who’s His Complete Opposite — ^

Chance Meetings — @myers-meadow

No Negotiations — @fallatyourfeet

A New Day — @garrison-girl-08

Moved On — @storiesforallfandoms

[acewritesfics]

I Believe You Dropped Something, Mr Shelby | Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader 

Request: No.  

Warnings: Mentions reader is from London.  

Word Count: 1,707

Tommy Shelby Masterlist

⚠️ THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY MAIN BLOG @/DLMLUFICS. YOU CAN FIND THE ORIGINAL POST STILL FLOATING AROUND ON TUMBLR SOMEWHERE. UNFORTUNATELY, I HAVE TO DO IT THIS WAY. MORE INFO IN MY PINNED POST.

Y/N leaves her new flat and begins the walk to a pub she overheard a few men discussing, determining she needed to go out for a few hours. She'd been unpacking her belongings for three days. She was delighted to discover The Garrison was only a block away from where she currently resides. 

The noise of the patrons inside quietens as she enters the drinking establishment. All eyes are on her as she saunters towards the bar. She tries to ignore the stares as much as she can. The bar is full of locals, and she isn't one of them. 

"Could I please have a whiskey?" she asks, her London brogue heavy. 

"Scotch or Irish?" the bartender says, moving away from her as he pulls a glass from the shelf. 

"Irish." She responds and glances around the pub as he pours her drink. Most people have stopped staring at her, but a few are still glancing at her, some lusty, others puzzled and intrigued. 

"You're not from around here, are ya love?" the bartender asks, placing the glass of whisky in front of her.  

"What gave it away?" she replies, smiling pleasantly at him. 

"First and foremost, you have a lovely face, far too pretty for this place." He enlightens her. 

However, she does not agree with him. "I'm sure there are a lot of women around here with pretty faces and I'm sure they are much prettier than mine." 

"Not as elegant as you," he says as he looks her up and down. 

"You said first and foremost," she responds to his remarks with interest. "I'm interested in hearing your other observations." 

"Your accent certainly distinguishes you from the other women here. You don't just look fancy; you sound it too," He goes on. "Also, the ambience you exude."  

"My ambience?" She lifts her brow, having never heard that one before. 

"You have a poshness about ya." 

She lets out a low chuckle and extends her hand towards him, "Y/N L/N, from London." 

"Harry Fenton, born and bred in Birmingham." He extends his hand to hers. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss L/N." 

"Mr Fenton, please call me Y/N. I'm not as formal as you may think." She tells him. 

"As long as you call me as Harry, Love." He proposes reaching an agreement with her. 

The two converse for another hour, Y/N ordering another two glasses of whiskey until three men saunter into the pub like they own it, the ruckus from the other guests quickly dying down. Y/N's watches the three men as they make their way to a room off to the side of the bar. A chill goes down her spine as her E/C eyes connect with a set of vivid blue ones looking back at her. She knows she should look elsewhere right away, but she can't bring herself to do so feeling as though she's drowning in his eyes. 

"Would you mind getting us a bottle of whiskey, Harry?" The man talks as he goes to pass through the entrance of the private room, the older and younger men already inside.  

Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. She wasn't expecting his voice's smooth silky tone to be as alluring as his eyes and sounding as handsome as his face looks. 

"On the house, Mr. Shelby," Harry replies, his tone shifting from one of delight to one of trepidation in a matter of seconds. It's enough to divert Y/N's attention away from the mystery man with the lovely but cold eyes. 

Hearing the door close, she turns to face Harry, whose cheery grin has faded. "Who exactly are they?" 

"Peaky Blinders," he says quickly, taking a bottle from the shelf and heading to the private room. He returns a few minutes later, his mood worse than when he stepped inside the room. 

Despite knowing she'll regret it once it's done, she can't suppress the curiosity building inside her and asks anyway, "Who exactly are the Peaky Blinders?" 

"It's best you not know," he asserts. 

"I'm going to need to know since this is now my home." 

"All you need to know, Love, is keep out of their way and they'll stay out of yours," He cautions. 

Deep down, she got the feeling that, that would be easier said than done. 

The city girl heeded Harry's warning for the following three weeks. She socialises with a couple of the locals in the pub and befriending her new neighbours. They weren't as hesitant as Harry to tell her all about the Shelby Brothers, what they stood for and how they dealt with things around Small Heath. There is Arthur - the oldest and most chaotic of the three, John - the youngest and best looking, according to the many women around town, of the three, and then there's Thomas, Tommy Shelby - the one in the middle who didn't hesitate to take over the family business when he needed to, pushing his older brother from leader to right-hand man. The more Y/N learns about the Shelby Brothers, the more she heeds Harry's warning, which she repeats whenever one of the Shelbys is mentioned or seen. 

But just while she's paying attention to the warning, it didn't stop her from making eye contact with Tommy, his gaze constantly sending a cold chill her spine, but she still couldn't bring herself to look away. She gets a feeling there is more to Thomas Shelby behind his cold, hard, and beautiful blue eyes. He intimidated her while also captivating her. 

Walking into the Garrison on a Tuesday night was a little odd for Y/N. She normally stayed at home on Tuesday evenings to go through the weekly newspaper job ads before going out on Wednesdays to apply for any job she had expertise with. She's been turned down everywhere she's gone so far. But there is one place she has yet to try. 

"Good evening, Y/N," Harry cheerfully greets the young woman. Since the first night she stepped into the Garrison, Harry and Y/N have grown close. In some ways, he's taken her under his wing, teaching her everything she needs to know about Small Heath and supporting her as she settles in to her new surroundings. 

"Good evening, Harry," she returns his greeting with her own, and looks around the bar, waving hello to the few people she gotten to know. "Quiet night tonight?" 

"It's a bit on the quiet side," Harry says, taking a glass and a bottle of Irish whiskey off the shelf and pouring her a drink. He never needs to ask because she always orders the same drink. 

"Can I ask you a question?" She enquires, a little anxiously. 

"You already did, Love, but go ahead," He teases her a little but encourages her to continue. 

"How desperate are you for a new barmaid?" She asks him. 

"If you're going to recommend I hire you, you can think again," He frowns at her. He has no intention of hiring a woman like her to work at his pub. Sure her pretty face would attract the customers but a majority of the drunk men would only cause trouble for the young lady.  

"I know a majority of your regulars, I get along with them just fine, I've proven I can handle drunken men, and I know how to pour a drink," she claims. 

Harry looks at her as if he's still not convinced. He would never allow his daughter to work in a place where there is alcohol and rowdy men whose only way to escape the war is to drink themselves to death, and he would not let a lady who is quickly becoming like a daughter to him work in one either. 

"Please, Harry," she begs quietly. "No one else will hire me, but if you do, I'll be eternally grateful, and you can quit fretting about not having any help." 

Her words are breaking him down as she continues to list all the reasons why the middle-aged bartender should hire her. It doesn't take long for him to succumb to the young beauty's charms. 

"Alright! You can start tonight but on a trial basis. You'll remain here till midnight. If everything goes well, we can talk about a payment schedule tomorrow." 

She smiles at the bartender, pleased. 

"What are you waiting for?" He exclaims, unable to disguise his smile as he hurls a smock at her. "Put on the apron, get back here, and start pouring some drinks." 

She follows his orders and begins taking orders. When she has a minute to spare, he pulls her to the side and reminds her of the Shelby Brothers rule, speaking it as if it was a law. "Remember, when the Shelbys arrive, all their drinks are on the house." 

"Do the Shelbys ever pay for anything?" She asks, and quickly regrets it when a voice other than Harry's answers her. 

"When we feel like it," On the other side of the bar, Thomas Shelby stands in front of her. 

Y/N's cheeks heat with embarrassment. She was unaware that Tommy had entered the pub. Her entire body is frozen to the spot, and she is speechless as her eyes are locked on his icy blue gaze. He smirks to himself, enjoying the effect he appears to have on this woman he's never spoken to before now. 

For a brief period, Tommy's gaze shifts to Harry. Y/N diverts her attention by wiping the small spill on the bar top, then moves to the shelf containing the bottles of alcohol, where she discovers her voice. "What would you like, Mr. Shelby?" 

"Whiskey, Irish," He tells her. 

She gets the bottle from the shelf and brings it over to him with some glasses, while avoiding eye contact. "It's on the house, Mr. Shelby." 

"Thank you, Miss L/N." He smirks, causing her head to snap up to meet his gaze, her eyes as wide as saucers. She hadn't expected him to know her name. He says nothing further, his smirk staying as he places some money on the bar before heading to the private room. 

"I believe you dropped something, Mr. Shelby," Her voice stops him. 

He smirks again, "Keep it, it's not mine." 

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