#william schofield fanfic

[tnbxtears]

Never written much fanfic before but suddenly had a deep urge to write the start of some Wings AU fluff of Scho and Blake:

Gonna have them preening each other's feathers by the end of this. Schofield's wings are a wreck and desperately in need of some TLC. Who better than Blake?!

[schofieldshelmet]

Even When We’re Gone

Ao3

A/N: Hellooo! This is my first 1917 fic so. Please be nice lol (Also, the fic title comes from one of my favorite songs, It Goes On by Sir Rosevelt and Zac Brown Band) Anyway, I started writing this fic to deal with the horror Scho must have gone through climbing out of the river and getting stuck briefly in the bodies, and then it spiraled from there. So enjoy :P

Bodies.

Damp and rubbery and rotting beneath his palms, rolling in the water, tangling between his legs. Tripping him as he stumbled desperately through the shallows, splashing and sinking and tumbling over the corpses of men and women and children, their skin swollen from the river. Their eyes stared up at him, empty and black, their faces stretched and gray and sagging, lips pale and torn like paper.

Get out, get out, he had to get out–

The overgrown riverbank seemed miles away, just out of reach of his desperately extending fingers. The bodies clung to his calves and ankles, gripping his skin with decaying flesh, pulling him down, down, down into the cold and crushing deep—

“Lad?”

Sunlight.

Grass. Sharp beneath his splayed fingers.

Blue sky stretching over his head, flecked in wispy clouds.

Cool air on his skin. Fresh, not bloody and rotted. Clean, not tinged with smoke and ash.

He is dimly aware of sucking in rapid breaths that don’t quite fill his lungs.

(In, out. In, out. In, out).

Breathe.

A hand on his shoulder.

He jumps, blinks, jerks backwards all at once, banging his elbow on the tree behind him. (The same tree under which he and Blake’s fate was sealed, less than a week ago).

“Sorry, corporal. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

A face swims into his vision. Schofield coughs, pushing himself out of his slumped position and fumbling with the laces of his boots. “No harm done, Sarge.”

His fingers shake as he knots the cords together. Sergeant Sanders’ hand is cold through the rough fabric of his tunic, a gentle pressure against his shoulder that grounds him to the earth. “Excited to go on leave soon?”

A choking sensation grips Schofield’s throat, constricting his air flow. “Yes, Sarge.” He sits back and picks at the bandage on his left hand, worn gray cloth concealing his injury from view. It’s healing, slowly but surely, even after a bloody carcass and muddy river water and rotting flesh beneath his palms.

(Some other things refuse to heal).

Sergeant Sanders sits cross-legged on the grass beside Schofield, following the corporal’s gaze to the spring-green field beyond. “Pretty, innit?” At Schofield’s belated nod, the sergeant continues, “Hard to think that all that beauty is out there, and then you go back in the trenches only a couple hundred yards away.” He pauses, gaze flicking to Schofield again. His words are stilted, awkward, tripping over each other. “I…know you’ve had a rough go of it. But it doesn’t do to think about it too long, do it? That’s the secret to survival out here.”

Schofield gives him a haggard look, remembering the Captain who had told him the same thing as he was about to depart for Écoust-Saint-Mein a week ago. He had tried not to think about it. That was something he had learned after the Somme, after the bombs and the blood and the decaying limbs plastered against the earth like broken branches.

It was easier to forget when thousands of others had the same experience as himself, when the men who fell screaming beside him were people he didn’t know firsthand.

(But when he knew them personally, and their blood was soaking into his hands with a metallic, heavy scent, and their voices were laced in terror that he could practically taste in the air, it was hard to forget).

(When the bodies were fresh and rotted beneath his palms, when the blood had congealed on the riverbank in a crusty stain, when their skin was loose and sagging from the water, it was hard to forget).

(When his hand plunged into the soft and meaty carcass of a soldier blown open by a bomb, when the intestines squished beneath his torn and bleeding fingers and the dead man’s face was pasty white, it was hard to forget).

(When it was just him, alone and desperate and frightened in a world of smoke and ashes, when the fire singed his skin and the yells dragged against his ears in the dark, it was hard to forget).

“Corporal?”

Schofield pulls himself out of the reverie he had tumbled into like a shell crater and glances at Sanders again. The sergeant is looking at him expectantly. “Did you ask me something, Sarge?” His voice is faint. He digs his fingers into the grass and reminds himself that he is not a corpse.

“You know not to think about it, don’t you, lad?”

Yes, he does. He’s known since the Somme, since the fields washed in blood that made the ground slick beneath his feet, since the bodies strewn across the grass like ash.

He tells himself every hour of the day not to think about it.

(He thought he had gotten used to death. It was just something he had learned to accept, because those who didn’t accept it never got very far).

But minds have a way of playing tricks on people.

So do hours of traveling alone, terrified and carrying the weight of the world on one’s shoulders. Bearing the burden of the dead, and the fate of the living, as he stumbled through the dark.

“Yes, sir. I know.”

Sanders’s lips twitch upwards in a half-smile, and he claps Schofield on the back. “Good lad.” He pauses, looking like he wants to say something else, but then shakes his head and gets to his feet, brushing dirt off his trousers. “Keep pushing forward, corp, one day at a time. That’s how you’ll make it through the war.”

“Yes, sir.”

Footsteps recede through the grass. Schofield rolls his lips together and sinks lower against the tree, eyes dropping to the position a foot or two away where Blake would have been lying had he been here, helmet tilted over his eyes and hands folded across his stomach, probably snoring a little in the afternoon sun.

Tell her I wasn’t scared…

Schofield draws a slow breath through his nose, flicking his gaze to the sky and focusing on the puffy clouds floating there. He lets his fingers lace through blades of grass, exhaling air again from his mouth.

(In, out. In, out. In, out).

Breathe.

He tilts his head back to rest against the tree trunk, eyes glazing over. He has yet to write the letter to Blake’s mother, explaining her son’s final wishes and reassuring her that he was not alone in his final moments. He can’t quite bring himself to compose it yet, to relive Blake’s anguished screams, the blood soaking through his tunic. Ever since he returned to the 8th Battalion, he’s blocked the memory from his mind, focusing instead on making it through each day, second by painful second.

(The other soldiers watch Lance Corporal Schofield with wary expressions, noticing the way he sits alone beneath that same crooked tree, barely deigning a nod or a smile to those who pass by. They think he’s snobbish, stuck-up, too good to fraternize with the other men. They know little about him, save for the fact that he is always quiet, always alone. Always looking out into the wild field beyond with a vacant countenance.

And they know he was one of the few among them who endured the Somme, who managed to make it through the bloody madness with his sanity, though fragile, still intact. They know he was one of the two men sent on the most recent hellbound mission, that he went out as part of a pair, stoic and somber with fear in his eyes, and returned alone, silent and haggard, with something akin to grief permanently etched on his features.

They claim to avoid him because he is haughty and aloof, but deep inside they are afraid of the haunted expression that clings to the corporal who sits eternally alone. They are terrified of the emptiness in his eyes).

Schofield swallows, digs his old blue tobacco tin from his pocket, fumbles with the faded pictures inside. Through all his years as a soldier, through the tears and the mud and the bombs and the barbed wire, these pictures have kept him sane, have kept his traumatized mind from slipping into a pit of insanity.

He brushes calloused fingertips over the faces in the pictures. Someday he’ll get to tell his two little girls about Blake, about cherry trees, about a gentle hand guiding him through tunnels he was unable to see. Someday he’ll get to tell his wife how Blake’s vivacity sometimes reminded him of her, his relentless optimism in the face of death. Someday, when the war is over and he’s with them again, not stuck in these dark and muddy trenches that have become frighteningly like home.

(He’ll see them soon, but not for long. And they’ll watch him go with tears in their eyes, not knowing if they’ll ever see him again).

Schofield tucks the pictures back in the tobacco tin with a reverent lump in his throat and refastens the lid, then sits with the tin’s light weight in his hands and looks out across the field.

The sun is setting, and the sky is pink and gold.

There’s a smell like cherry blossoms in the air. Schofield smiles and closes his eyes.

[daydreamngs]

Road Trip | George MacKay

requested: George, Dean and reader (she has a crush on George) in a car trip, can you write? Thanks (send me some requests!)

warnings: Fluff

word count: 1,514

a/n: Gif is not mine. Also me writing something short and sweet? Impossible. 

When the week started, this was not where Y/N expected to be. In fact, it was quite the opposite. With all the work she had piling up she’d thought she’d be at her home, locked away from the outside world, bound to never see the sunlight again. But here she was, dragged away from her stressed life and pushed into a car, being told they were going on a very much needed road trip by two of her friends - one being a little more than a friend to her. She was very hesitant to go, the thought of leaving all of her work behind for the weekend only added to her stress. Thinking about all of the inevitable due dates that were creeping up on her but as she stared at the puppy-eyed men who were named Dean and George, she found it very hard to say no to them. Now here she was, sitting in the front passenger seat with her sock covered feet on the dash and her favorite, or rather the only pair of sunglasses sat upon her face. 

“I really can’t believe you’ve convinced me to do this.” She thinks out loud, eyes locked on the moving scenery in front of her. “Oh, cheer up, Y/N! It’ll be fine I promise, you’ll be thanking us by the end of it. Begging us to stay.” Dean says, and the woman doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s smirking which makes her scoff. “Yeah, alright, we’ll see.” Then she feels hands reaching from behind her and resting upon her shoulders giving a tight squeeze to them. George had leaned forward in his seat behind her, giving her a little massage almost but it only made her tenser, face blooming in a violent blush. “Relax, it’ll be fine. You’ll still have time to get everything you need done by the time you get back.” His words are a lot more reassuring and less teasing than Dean’s but it didn’t ease the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach, feeling as though she was about to turn into putty any second. She tries to take a big breath through her nose, in an attempt to get over her silly crush on him. Then she sighs, realizing that she needed to just relax because it really wasn’t going to do her any good to be stressed and uptight the whole time. Might as well enjoy herself and leave the worrying for when she returns home. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just need to loosen up.” She responds finally, giving a little look over her shoulder to see him looking at her with a smile. She smiles back, ignoring the burning tips of her ears. She hoped he didn’t question her rosy cheeks. 

After finally coming to the realization that it would be pointless to worry while she was away, Y/N finally began to enjoy herself. It wasn’t a really long road trip, only about 3 or 4 hours to get where they were wanting to go but they enjoyed every second of it like it was going to take them ages. “Oh my god! I haven’t heard this song in so long.” Y/N gasped, moving so her feet were no longer tucked underneath her but on the ground - how they were supposed to be. “Can we fall, one more time? stop the tape and rewind. Oh and if you walk away I know I'll fade, cause there is nobody elseeee.” She sang passionately, laughing along with the two men that were laughing at her, but she didn’t care. Honestly, this was the most fun she’d had in a while and it made her feel carefree- like she was a teenager. She turned around as much as she could in her seat to look back to George, whose face appeared to be just as flushed as her own, his smile so wide that it crinkled the corners of his eyes - just how she adored it. “It's gotta be you, only you... '' As they sang it together, it really didn’t process in her mind for a second - and then it did. Lips fell silent, and a bright blush bloomed over her cheeks, a second passed and he repeated the lyrics just how they were in the song but it felt different. It almost felt it was directed at her, their eyes locked together in what felt like an intimate moment for the two of them. “How about a quick stop? Get some snacks, pee maybe?” Dean’s voice broke them from their heated staring content, making both of them clear their throats, heated blushes burning their face and ears. “Sure, why not,” George says, a hoarse tone to his voice, leaning back in his seat as he rubbed the palms of his hand on his thighs.

Y/N stood on the snack aisle, hand on her chin as she stared in query at the different snack options. She hated deciding which one to pick, not really knowing what she was craving, or if she even wanted anything. A clear of a throat behind her made her jump slightly before she turned around to see George. A breathy laugh fell from her lips as she gave him a smile, trying to not let her mind linger back to what had happened in the car. “Can’t pick?” He asks, smile mirroring hers as he stood with his hands in his pockets. A sigh falls from her lips as she nods, “Yeah… in my defense, there are so many options.” Y/N tells him, trying to defend herself in a joking tone. It earns a laugh from him which is what she was hoping for. She bites down on her lip, the corners of her lips tugging into a closed-lip smile. “Hmm, I can recommend that one there. I think you’d like it.” He looks as though he was really giving it some thought. He had stepped closer, now only inches away from her, the smell of his cologne washing over her. The tips of her ears burned with a feverish heat, and she really hopes that he can't tell. That seemed to happen a lot around him. “Yeah? Alright, I’m trusting you. If I hate it, I’m blaming it on you.” It’s a joking comment, and he knows it. Though what he doesn’t know is that it’s a joking comment to cover up how flustered and nervous she was. He laughs with her, and then he leans over to grab the bag for her. He places his hand on the small of her back gently, which forces her to stand straighter, mind going blank for a second before she processed what was happening. 

It felt as though her chest had just exploded, a fiery warmth swallowing her whole. Was this a way to show her he might be interested in her? Was it nothing more than something platonic? Was she overthinking this? Probably, but maybe she wasn’t. No matter what it was, she couldn’t deny that it felt right. To have him so close to her was something that brought her much comfort, it also fogged over all of her senses. “Hey, George?” ... “Yeah?” … “I like you.” It fogged over her senses so much that she blurted out the truth about her feelings for him. It’s quiet for a minute too long, and Y/N feels the dread filling up inside her. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said th-” She’s cut off by him grabbing her gently arms, turning her around so she was facing him and then his lips are on hers in a rushed movement. Just like before, her mind goes blank. Instead of an embarrassed warmth, this time there’s a fuzzy warmth that wraps around her and made her melt into his hold. His arms are slid around her waist so he’s hugging her almost, and her hands are placed on his chest as they shared a sweet, and gentle kiss. Neither of them moves to pull away, just enjoying one another’s presence at that moment. Their senses focused on each other. “Ready to go? … Oh my god, I- Um.” Dean’s voice can be heard, he stuttered slightly at the sight he just witnessed. The news of them liking each other wasn’t something new to him, he’d guessed it a while ago but decided it was best for them to figure it out - even if it was hard for him to do that. It was then that they pulled away, hazy from just everything that had happened. Y/N catches sight of Dean moving away from them, but she didn’t really care in that moment as she looks back to the man in front of her. “I like you too.” He whispers, their noses practically brushing against one another. “And I’m really glad that you came.” The butterflies that swarmed her stomach seemed to never really end, a bright smile capturing her lips as she stares up to him with a look of pure adoration, “Me too.”

[s1ater]

we meet again. george mackay x reader

summary: in which reader has met the angel of death on many occasions, always finding some way to get away, but what about this time?

warning/s: swearing, mentions of murder and death

slater’s note: i know some of you enjoyed this concept, so i thought i’d pop another one of these out

you had shook his hand greatly, have meeting him many times before, each on different occasions of the edge, where he greeted all before their great end.

“you haven’t changed,” you mumbled, gripping his hand tightly, eyeing him up and down with the suit he had on, the same suit he wore the first time you had met him, and the second time, and the third.

“you say that every time,” he mumbled, huffing and looking away from you in what seemed to have been annoyance, but you should’ve known better, the angel of death doesn’t get annoyed.

“what’s it this time?” the two of you begin to walk, turning away from each other and allowing your shoulders to graze one another every once and awhile. “hit by a bus? food poisoning? murdered by a boyfriend?”

“funny,” his eyes grazed along the park view, paying closely attention to the people and animals that ran around in all their glory. “almost like all of those things have happened to you before.”

“well, i am the world’s biggest mystery,” you rose your hands in a proudness, “no one knows how i’ve escaped death so many times.”

“yeah, well, maybe not this time,” his voice was low, like he was trying to keep the words to himself, but failed as you rose an eyebrow, now looking to him questioningly.

“you sure, ole’ boy?”

“when am i ever?”

“the last four times.”

he shrugged, keeping silent and wondering to himself. it made you frown, now a little conscious to each step you were taking, wondering if this really was your time and you no longer could escape death.

“are we only crossing paths or are you really here to take me away this time?” your tone was flat and more serious now, no longer comfortable with the presence of someone you wish you could call a friend instead of an enemy.

“it depends,” he glanced to you, unsure of your path himself, but it felt different this time. he was sure your time had finally came to an end, but he could never be too certain due to thinking that the last couples of times he had came to encounter you.

the first time he had ever met you was at the age of five when you had walked straight out in front of a bus, unaware of all your surroundings and letting go of the safety of your mothers hand.

he had hovered over you, frowning, never finding pleasure in taking the soul of a young one. but strangely you had opened your eyes widely, like you had just been struck across the face and you had just realized.

you had survived.

the second time the two of you came across paths was the first time you had noticed him. there was something about him that made you feel safe even as an hour later you had once again almost touched deaths face with being shoved into the tracks of the subway by a stranger.

fortunately a woman quickly pulled you out, saving your life seconds before the subway could have ran you over. you were sixteen then, full of ambition and curiosity, causing you to forever wonder who the man in the black suit was on the other side of the tracks were, standing, and waiting for you to get trampled.

at eighteen you had eaten a bad piece of chicken on a birthday vacation, sending you for the bathroom of your hotel room, vomiting and vomiting until you laid weak against the cold tile bathroom floor, death soon accompanying you.

he held your hand lightly, analyzing your weak figure. your eyes barely cleared enough for you to tell who was holding your hand so comfortingly.

you were there for hours and he waited patiently, having no where to be but by your side like a companion.

eventually, the hospital was sent for and you once again slipped away from his finger tips.

finally, age twenty one you had come to realize who he was. you weren’t disturbed at all like many of the other people who had come to realize his position. rather, you found him comforting and someone there for you despite him quite literally only being there for your death.

he didn’t care for you as much as you cared about him. you found his visits exciting while he dreaded them.

but at twenty one you had almost been murdered by your very own boyfriend. he was shot dead before he could offer an explanation as to why.

you were only stabbed once, that being in the stomach. and although you seemed to be so close to your end, you pulled through, once again escaping the angel of death.

“if you’re so tired of our encounters, kill me yourself.”

“that’s not how it works.”

“i’m sure it could.”

“i’m not going to kill you.”

you pouted teasingly, “awh, boohoo.”

he rolled his eyes, “i’ll find you when it’s time.”

°•

with your heart in your throat you watched the scene unfold right in front of your eyes. so quickly and so easily, you almost thought it wasn’t real til you heard the screams that very much were, causing you to clench your jaw, wincing.

a man who’s identity that was concealed behind a black ski mask tightly gripped a young woman. it seemed that what may have been a mugging now turned into a kidnapping as he attempted to lug the girl into the back of his car.

“hey,” your face turned red and you couldn’t help but yell as you cautiously crossed the road, slightly unsure of your actions, “get away from her!”

your words only struck panic in the man, quickening his pace as he tried to induce her, but she continued to pull and kick away from him, finding hope that she would get away from this situation.

you joined arms with her as you tried to pull her away from him and soon you did, somehow allowing yourself to be taken ahold of by the man in the ski mask and taking her place as she ran despite your yelp.

you were caught off guard, being shoved into the back of his car, and then suddenly feeling a blunt force knocked against your head. your body went limp and you felt your vision slowly black out, but not before you caught the sight of the angel standing within the shadows, seeing through to your capture.

°•

black.

you vision was black and spotty till light suddenly flooded your vision and pain consumed your body like a flash of lightening. you didn't come to realization of what had happened until you saw him.

he sat across from you in a chair with his hands clasped, examining your face intently, waiting. you knew what for. and you truly believed it would happen just from the position you were in; a rope bound to your ankles and wrists, your body lying against the carpeted floor of what seemed to be a bedroom.

"help me."

"you know i can't help you," his face was blank but you could see a dash of sympathy that dotted his eyes as he slightly tilted his head to look at you better. "it's your time, but you need to breathe while you still can."

you coughed, feeling your voice at a strain, "no it's not." you rolled your head, observing your surroundings the best you could with your vision that was still slightly clouded. "it's not my time, i'm not going to die like this."

he watched you struggle as you maneuvered your body so you could attempt to stand or kneel or anything that wasn't laying. he almost found you pathetic—the way you got yourself into this mess. you were so much smarter than that and with all the misfortune you had been through, he would have hoped you'd be just a little more careful.

"he'll be back soon," the angel mumbled, still watching you go. "if you don't want to die, you'll have to be more sensible."

"don't tell me how to be sensible," you attempted to crawl toward the nightstand, hoping to break the rope with something in the drawer. “you might as well not speak if you aren’t going to help me.”

and then he was gone. vanished. disappeared. out of sight. he no longer sat in that chair.

you sighed, but continued worming your toward the drawer with persistence. you almost made it to the drawer to if it weren’t for a large grip pulling you back to the ground roughly. no mercy was shown as the man flipped you over to your back, fuming.

“bitch think you can get away,” he's straddling you now and oddly begins to untie you even as you struggle beneath him, just waiting to hit him and run. "you think you're so fucking tough, let's see how you deal with this."

once your arms are untied he moves fast to your feet but not before raising a gun, daring you to try anything. you stay back despite your skin crawling, begging you to run or move or do something that wasn't just sitting there.

the aching feeling finally got to you and you slung your foot on the side of his head the moment you felt the ropes loosen around your ankle. you got up fast only to trip again and he was quick to gab your leg, still clasping the side of his head in pain on the ground. you shook your leg vigorously, kicking him in the head multiple times as hard as you could till he let go. you got up fast and ran out the door.

"you fucking bitch!" he was already up barely giving you time to navigate your escape. "i'm going to kill you!"

you pushed into a room, locking the door, and finally catching your breath. you felt you couldn't process it—whatever this was. it didn't feel real and you almost questioned if this was a dream until the violent stomps of the man came rushing down the hall, causing the floor beneath you to vibrate.

"oh fuck," your hand shook as you lightly clamped it against your mouth, now searching for a light switch as your other hand swiped against the wall aggressively. "fuck."

you wished you didn't find that light switch. it would have been better to be left in the dark. but light still flooded in and with that the bloody body with an unintelligible face was sunken in within the bathtub. you let out a horrified scream, quickly covering your mouth in fear.

your whole body shook now and you wanted to cry. the reality of death became more clear and you wished the angel would have been here to comfort you.

"oh god-"

"i know you're in there!" the door begun to shake as the man on the other side pushed against it, wriggling the locked door handle. you became overwhelmed as you looked around the room, trying to avoid the body in search of some object to use as a weapon. you came to the conclusion that if you were going to leave alive, you'd have to hurt this man.

"open this door!"

you begun to shuffle around in the drawers quickly the moment he began to slam his body against the door. grief took over your body to the point the only feeling flowing through your body was an uncomfortable tingling, making you not want to move if it weren't for the fear of your life.

you almost gave up just as the door did and after that, your sight went black.

°•

you woke up to your head pounding and your arm screaming in agony. you forgot where you were. you couldn't think straight and your sight was barely clear as the only thing that you could clearly see was blood.

"hopefully, this taught you something," his tall figure hovered over you, examining your face, almost as if making sure life still bloomed in your eyes.

you didn't say a word, you almost didn't recognize him and you swore you were hallucinating. but laying in blood, you watched him go, and you knew this wasn't your time and the body he came to collect, wasn't yours.

navigation.

@transias @cc13723things @skateb0red @black-rose-29

[jayvrontio]

“Pick a man, bring your kit”

I recently read a fanfic of 1917 named “Pick a man, bring your kit” and I need to say that I fell in love with it! I love the story and everything in it! I will read it again beacuse I want to read it again.

So yeah I make this little fanart based on that fanfic. A little spoiler there are alot of hugs and close and sweet moments between Blake and Scho :P

[royalbluehues]

Healing

Title: Healing

Author: royalbluehues

Warnings:  PTSD. Nothing graphic, though. 

Pairings: William Schofield x Reader

Request:  Thanks! May I request a story where Schofield is another man after the war and reader wants her hubby back? He has nightmares, he never wants to go out, he barely talks to the reader. She understands that he will never be the same man after what he went through, but she wants at least a bit of her husband back. She doesn't know what to do to help him, but she will fight for their marriage.

Author’s Note: The story treks off the path of the request just a tad. I always end up making my stories fluffy without intending to. (Image found on Pinterest)

You had known it the minute he stepped off the train’s platform.

His shoulders were slumped and his eyes had a far away look to them. When he had brought you close to embrace you tightly, he had nuzzled his face within the crook of your neck and stayed there. 

His body was taught and stiff. 

Deep down within you, a small feeling poked at you, Something’s wrong. 

But you pushed that thought to the side, rather selfishly relishing the fact you finally, after nearly three years apart from him, you finally had your husband in your arms once more. 

And God willing he will stay there, you prayed silently. 

You raised one of your hands to tangle his locks around your fingers, squeezing your eyes tightly, “William,” you breathed out, savoring the way his name tasted on your tongue, then peppering whatever visible part of his face that was not tucked away into your neck.

Your heart was blooming with a mixture of gratitude, relief, happiness, and bereavement to the time that was pitilessly ripped from you and your daughters. 

He was filthy, despite his obvious attempts at a decorum of cleanliness. But his hair was matted, his uniform tattered, ripped, and stained with dark splotches in several places. 

You sided with your better judgment and not allow your mind to wander to what those splotches were. 

He finally lifted his head from his embrace, moving to lean back and look at you. His lips pulled upward into a lopsided smile. 

But you see it there: his large eyes betray his effort of solidity. Quickly as it comes, it goes. And before your mind could analyze it, he pulls you into a kiss. 

His lips feel soft, despite the skin being cracked. The calloused fingers grasping either side of your face are cold to the touch, his grip tight yet tender. You melt effortlessly into him, feeling the tension you’ve held in your shoulders, amounting since the moment he received his notice of deployment, give ease. 

When he releases you, you notice the tears that have swarmed in not only your eyes but in his as well. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

Once again, you’re flooded with a thousand emotions. Those three words have left you winded. They’re drowning you, pulling you so far beneath its current you’re left with the largest knot in your throat, threatening to release the moment you open your mouth to reply to him. 

It’s his words that have compacted so many meanings unspoken. 

Your tongue has turned leaden, your mouth is clenched shut, and the knot in your throat is only forming and growing every second that is passed. 

All you can do is stare up at him pathetically, eyes wide and brimming with tears that wait to fall.  

I love you. I’m so sorry. I want you. I feared for you. I feared for myself. I’ve missed you. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Your heart feels full and empty all at once, and you tremble as his hands softly stroke away the wisps of hair that have fallen from your coiffed hair. 

When you open your mouth to breath, to finally repay the sentiment, your lungs betray you as they rack in a sob. 

He pulls you back into an embrace, only this time it’s you that is being hid away from the onlooking world, gasping for breath as your tears wet the lapels of his uniform. 

You feel him press his lips to the crown of your head.

“I know,” He tells you thickly.

---

It’s early morning as Will sits by the window of this home. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and rather than thrashing about in your shared bed, he figured it wise to detach himself lest he wake you for the third consecutive night that week. 

The heat emitting from the teacup clasped in his hands scalded his skin, but he chose to ignore it. The burning grounded him. Reminded him of where he was and where he wasn’t. 

He tiredly exhales a deep sigh, leaning his head against the crown molding of the window. He feels almost guilty for not staying in bed, remembering the constant visualizations of a warm bed- of your body warmly pressed into his side, the welcoming sound of a pair of bare feet that patter softly against the floor- all of which he painted to keep him sane in the trenches. 

But now that he had it after wanting it for so long, he always returned back to France, even when he tried to suppress it. 

It would be small things that would set off the memories: The sound of the leaves billowing from the wind, the clanging of a fork against a tin can, the smell of upturned soil, just to name a few. 

It was silly, he thought more often than not, of how different he was now. 

Though he was still William Schofeild, he really wasn’t. It was a notion he had to accept the first week he returned home to you and the girls. 

But he tried, by God, did he try. 

Whenever it would be set for judgement day to come, William Schofeild knew that he would be judged for what he did not do and what he did. But one thing that would serve him with certainty, was that he tried. 

He tries to uphold the station that he situated before he left. The role of a good father and a good husband. Not showing the cracks that were undoubtedly unfixable. Attempting to get back into the swing of things. 

Though he knew that his false bravado hardly went unnoticed by you. He would feel your suspecting gaze when he was teetering on reliving events as he stared off blankly into the space ahead of him, when he would leave his food untouched or his tea forgotten. He knew you had a hunch of what was happening when his daughters sat on his lap as they begged him to tell stories. 

“Girls,” you would scold them, emerging from the kitchen as you wiped your hands on your apron, “you know better than to be asking your father such things he wishes not to discuss.”

He would give a tight smile in response, “Nothing to worry about, Darling,” he’d say as he pressed a kiss on either girl’s head, “Perhaps I’ll do you one better, girls: I’ll read you a story with princesses and about great castles. Far better than hearing about daddy’s stories. I’ve no fairies or knights in mine.”

They would beam up at him, slipping off his lap as they ran back to their nursery to play with their dolls. 

He knew you knew when he would simply pick his book up once more, staring at the page he attempted to read for the nearly two hours- how you would hover by the entryway of the kitchen and observe him before disappearing to finish up the roast. 

He knew you knew because as he sat there, sitting and observing the outside world through the window, the heat prickling his skin, he could feel your presence in the room. 

He watched as a bird flew by, situating itself on the small tree only feet away from the gate.

You moved quietly, settling into the parlor chair by his.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he tells you quietly as he turns to face you. You have a shawl over your shoulders, and sleep still evident in your eyes, and one hand atop your rounded belly.

You don’t meet his eyes, rather fixing your gaze on the same bird fluttering about. 

“You didn’t wake me.” You reply just as quietly, pulling the shawl tighter around you with your left hand, “The baby was kicking again.”

Will gives you a small smile, eyes glancing down at your bump,  “A rowdy one, he’ll be.”

He outstretches his arm to pass you his tea, and you accept, bringing it to your lips as you take a sip to fight away the chill lingering in the early morning. 

You hand it back to him, and the two of you so, passing the tea cup back and forth for the next minutes in comfortable silence. 

Finally, you speak. 

“William, I’m worried for you.”

It hangs in the air, and causes Will to shift uncomfortably in his chair as his right pointer finger plays with the handle of the tea cup. 

You fill the silence once more, turning to him now. “There’s something that’s wrong.”

His eyebrows furrow and his lips pull into a frown. Instead of replying he gulps down the remainder of the tea and sets it atop the window sill. 

“I know you do not wish to speak on it. And I apologize for bringing it up so early in the morning, but I’d rather it not be in front of the girls,” you spoke slowly, your right hand still grazing your stomach as a nervous habit. 

Will sighs deeply once more. This conversation was bound to be brought up eventually. 

He hangs his head, crossing his arms, trying to think of the correct words to say. 

“I can hardly imagine what you saw or what you went through, and I’m grateful for the ignorance that permits me to do so. But seeing you in these states,” you trail off, feeling the familiar knot take place within your throat, “it pains me because I do not know how to help you.”

You take in a shuddering breath, biting your tongue as you cast your gaze on the floor. “I wished so many times to take you away from there. To bring you back home where nothing could harm you. I would have given anything to ensure you were safe.”

William shakes his head, lifts it and turns to look at you. “You already help me. Just by being here, by my side.”

You wipe away at a tear that had escaped, knowing fully it was a pretty fib to make you feel better. “Don’t lie to me, William. I see it in your eyes.”

He gives you a small smile again that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Of course you do. I suppose that’s the price of marrying an observant woman.”

“And as an observant wife, it’s my duty to point upon when I think something’s wrong,” you murmur quickly, quietly. You're terrified to find him angered, so you shift your gaze to avoid his eyes. “I made a vow to you four years ago: to be by your side for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer,” you pause before finally mustering up the courage to face your husband, “and in sickness and in health.”

William’s gaze is on the teacup that he set aside, his large eyes saddened and reserved. He frowns, slowly rises from his chair, kneels before you and claps your hand in his. He moves to press his lips on the knuckle of your thumb, “I’m sorry I do not speak to you about it. About what happened.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tightly, voice cracking. 

“I haven’t been fair to you,” He admits to you, “and I’m deeply sorry for that.”

You shake your head, a bit exasperated at how you jumbled your own words, in turn making him feel he was at fault, “No, my Darling. No, please do not take it that way. What I meant is that though it’s not my place to pry personal information you do not wish to tell, it is my place to point something that I see taking a toll on you.” You lift his hand so you can kiss them, “I-I just want you to feel better.” You sigh, “I’m rambling again. I’m afraid I can’t speak properly this morning.”

“I know what you are attempting to get across.” he mumbles to you, bowing his head to rest it upon your bump. “But I should make more of an effort to…” He furrows his brows, carefully selecting the correct word, “be open. But it’s difficult. How can I ask you to help me when I do not even know how to help myself?”

His words break your heart. 

You frown, letting go of his hand to stroke his head. “We will figure it out, and I will be there every step of the way with you, no matter what.”

“And if you grow tired of me?”

You stiffen. This time it’s his words that hang in the air. As he utters them, a cloud seems to block the early sunlight emitting through your window, casting a blueish-gray hue in your small home. 

“William never utter such mindless things again,” You scold him sharply. “I will never tire of you.” You allow your form to relax once more as your face softens, lightening your tone, “Is not carrying your child enough evidence?”

You hear him exhale a breathy chuckle and then feel him place a kiss on your womb. 

After a while, with you stroking his hair and him kneeling before you, you speak softly once more reassuring, “I love you. For the man that you were and for the man that you’ve become. I will be here for you. And though your healing may take time, it’s a step in the right direction. Never doubt that.”

The sun’s rays make an appearance once more, flooding the small room in a golden, promising light. 

.

.

.

Masterlist

[now-im-a-belieber]

from the ground up

A vague 1917 drabble! It's quite tragic and angsty. But... happy ending-ish? Inspired by that one scene, you'll know the one. 

══════════════════

Today you found out what the worst things are. 

Not only to lose something beloved. But to be stripped of such love that your hope for ever finding any again is crushed just a surely. 

To sit in darkness that is such, that a flame from a candle you find only reminds you of the light you have all too suddenly become devoid of.

It gave you no comfort. It only helps you see what's right in front of you. The tatters of the place you'd once strived to keep clean. The ashes of the structure that shielded you from all sorts of bad weather, covering blankets that would not keep you as warm as you needed to be any longer. But they were all you had. Dust covered blankets, a dull candle and overturned memories you'd never get the proper chance to sift through if you cared more about making it out of this place alive.

For a moment you considered staying as you were, wreckage among wreckage. To wither away with blown apart story book pages. To die here where she had. 

What if you'd heard the bombs coming? What if you had time to tuck her in and send her sleeping before everything ended? Would you still feel this way now? 

What if she had made it, and you had not? What would she do with no words and a walk she'd only just started practicing? Was it better this way? 

You could not stay here. You could die here, like she had. And for a moment you wanted too. For a moment you sat and stared past the light of the candle into the darkness and wondered if your bones ached as much as your soul, if you'd ever be able to feel much of anything again.

And the darkness grew with nightfall, as you argued with yourself over whether to move. You'd only gotten as far as what was left of the kitchen. You tested the lamp in the corner, out of instinct. Not of hope. Because you had none left you weren't disappointed to find the darkness covered you still. Was it possible you'd known your way around so well the halls well enough that that bricks blocking your way were only a minor inconvenience? Was it better to stay here, in a place you could no longer thrive in, but knew well enough to survive? 

You drifted back and forth, like you had when you silenced so many of your daughters night terrors. Now you lived through your own, and found no comfort in the way you tried to shake away the shock. You thought of no plan. You only thought of what had happened. And couldn't even think of what had resulted since the explosion. You just relieved it. Lived in it. Listened for her cries you knew would no longer come but would haunt you forever, however long that might be, now.

Then, past the ringing in your ears, lower hums and sharper shuffles could be heard. You recognized a foreign language beyond the blown apart walls of your home, and ducked away from the busted out windows in case whoever passed by wasn't nearly as afraid.

There was no telling the topic of the conversation they shared. You wondered if you'd even care to know the banter they traded in such a time as this. 

You knew they wouldn't save you. You didn't feel you needed saving. You didn't feel much of anything, all the while. Not even when the distant sound of gunfire and battle cries broke through the way you'd started to slip into unconsciousness amidst the dirt and dust. 

But when the shuffle of feet crept closer to the bits of home left hanging over your head, you found your heart was still intact. It started to thud and fill your chest, pushing your stomach into a nervous clench. You were still alive and your body was fighting to stay that way, it seemed. 

There was no time to clamor over the rubble, or hide behind the overturned dining table that could've easily been turned right side up and used, but never would be again. 

Instead you stood and stalled on the opposite side of the entry doorway a stranger had staggered to pause in. The silhouette of a soldier was neither a comfort or a curse. Not yet. His stance was frozen like yours, uncertain. He lifted both hands, and stayed where he was as you prepared for every possibility, for the worst you could think of. 

But nothing changed still. What was he waiting for? If only he'd drag you away, or shoot you down. If only this never ending nightmare would end. It was then you feared this was nothing more than a dream. That time had frozen inside the remains of your home, and the man who'd nearly entered, couldn't. 

His cautious step inside brought you back to reality. Almost relief. You had not floated into a stalled version of the worst moment in time. But it was still going on all around you. 

"I want nothing." He said. And somehow you understood. It was the only thing you'd been sure of, since the darkness swallowed everything whole, and spit you out to save for later. 

You watched the soldier move, slow, his broad shadow covered hands still raised to face you. He crept further, until he reached the window you'd been spying out of for what seemed like forever now. He did the same. And you saw the man's profile against the light of distant fire and fury. You saw the notch in his brow and his frown that grew as his eyes swept across the view from your window. He would not have known what was there before. The picket fences and pie shops to look for in the distance. The view you'd been used to, until today. 

And when the soldier turned away from searching his eyes found you. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked, turning slowly to evaluate you as you stood with no idea of the answer. A shake of your head was all you could manage, unsure otherwise. His sweeping gaze didn't seem to twist or change, so you must've appeared to be fine. 

But he looked a mess. Hair swept back with dirt. All the color of his face gone besides the dark circles under his eyes. And as you searched his frame, past his ripped and worn but otherwise fine looking uniform you saw the crimson covered cloth wrapped around his hand, and a jagged line of torn flesh traveling up his wrist, uncovered by the useless makeshift bandage.  

You moved from your place in the middle of the room, carefully maneuvering to clear the arm chair in the corner of fallen debris. You turned to find the soldier watching you, and waved him to sit. After one of those pauses that made you question time, he floated toward the chair and sat as you suggested. 

You'd been busy before this. And the apron that remained around your midsection was only good for one thing now. You untied the garment and ripped the fabric into reasonable bits. 

He did not ask what you were doing. Not even when you knelt at his side and started to remove the poor bandage he must've made himself along his way. Where was he going, you wondered? How had either of you ended up here? 

As you'd secured a couple pieces of cloth around his healing wound, you felt the soldiers eyes watching. You looked up to him, when you'd finished. And at the softness in his expression despite everything, you wondered again if this was all a dream. 

It’s only the sound of gun fire and battle cries growing nearer that snap you back to the realization that this is your life now. And the softness on the soldiers face before you had started to turn cold.

"I cannot stay here." He said, a bevy of emotion lied somewhere in his tone past the way he seemed tense and hardened by whatever it was he spoke of. Wherever he was going, or had already been. 

"Neither can I." You say. You can die here. You'd started too. "But I do not know how to leave." 

This was all you had left of your life. Of her life. Her first cries came from here. Her last, too. You could not take her with you. And you couldn't understand where to turn without her, now. 

After another pause you wished meant time had stopped, it only seemed to tick by like one final warning. 

"Do you trust me?" The soldier asked. 

You did not know. But past the candle light, the darkness was broken up by a pair of eyes glinting into yours. And the working hand of a soldier extended to meet yours. 

He pulled you away from the candle light. You clutched onto him through the doorway, past the darkness. And as the pair of you crept into the tattered city, ducking behind rubble and dashing toward freedom, the unknown past the light of all the fire and fury wasn't nearly as dark as it had seemed to hang in the only home you'd known. All that was left of it was shadows. And since you'd gone, you didn't worry about leaving her there, because that wasn't where she was anymore. So you couldn't stay. 

And maybe.... maybe there was hope to be considered; from the look in the eyes of the soldier who stayed by your side until sunrise and admitted then, he was just as scared as you.

[schofieldshelmet]

Long after the war is over, Blake’s ghost follows Schofield.

That doesn’t surprise him much. Blake was always following him in life; of course death wouldn’t be any different.

His neighbor down the road in Cookham has a cherry tree, standing just next to the street like a sentry. Its branches stretch over the cobbles and shed thousands of snowy pink petals that are swiftly trampled underfoot by passerby. Schofield makes a point to stop and stand beneath it whenever he walks past. He sticks his hands in his pockets and upturns his face and feels the petals brush against his cheeks like rain.

Blake usually appears as Schofield stands under the tree, perching high in the branches, blossoms tangled in his hair. He looks at Schofield with a smile that drips blood. Crimson stains his jacket like a gory condemnation. His eyes are blank and cold.

“You killed me,” he states, each time, voice soft and scared. “It was all you.”

Schofield stands quietly and takes it, because it’s true. It’s his fault. He’s to blame. His guilt reminds him of it hourly. He doesn’t need spirits to tell him of the fact.

He hasn’t had the courage to walk across the bridge that spans the Thames just yet. The water rushes below, swift and glassy, and sweat beads on his skin. He thinks of bodies. He thinks of struggling to stay afloat, his tunic weighing him down with its heavy spun wool. He thinks of choking on bitter cold water, trying to breathe but drowning instead.

Blake’s ghost finds him there, too, as he stands near the bridge and tries to will himself to walk across. “You’re a coward,” Blake says simply, and Schofield stands and listens, and nods, until Blake tires of scorning him and melts into nothingness.

Forests terrify him. They make him tremble. Whenever he steps into the trees, all he can hear is a soft, mournful melody staining the air like a dirge. All he can remember is standing frozen in a clearing, unsure as to whether he was alive or dead. Unsure whether or not he had drowned in icy waters and become a ghost, trapped eternally in wartime. Unable to rest.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, when he has awoken from fire and smoke and blood, when he is gasping for air in the suffocating stillness of his room, Blake comes to him then and stands, and his eyes have a little more life. His jacket is clean, unstained. His smile is normal.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, quietly.

Schofield looks at him, wavering in the blackness, translucent like a cloud, and he nods.

And when he settles back against his pillow, and listens to the soft breathing of his wife beside him, and traces the floral patterns of the wallpaper with tired eyes that have forgotten what it is to have rest, he feels a little bit better. Not much, but a little.

Blake stays with him till morning, seated on the floor, until sunlight bursts through the curtains and dissolves him like ash.

Then, and only then, does Schofield fall asleep.

[magicaltear]

Fandom: 1917 (Movie 2019) Relationships: William Schofield & Original Male Character(s) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Private Kilgour (1917), Original Male Character(s), William Schofield, Lieutenant Leslie (1917) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tom Blake is Dead, References to Illness, Acts of Kindness, Just soft boys being soft boys, and a kitten Collections: The April Advance 2021

Summary: A short rencounter in Pas-de-Calais allows an opportunity for peace and rest.

"Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.” - Naomi Shihab Nye (1952) Excerpt under the cut!

“Watch it, private,” a rough voice grumbled.

Private Albert Kingsley allowed himself a silent curse when his leather boots slipped on the icy dirt path for the third time that morning, the shove he received from the passing soldier none too gentle. His ankle stung for a brief moment, and he would have gone down entirely—supplies crate and all—had it not been for Norman’s quick reflexes.

“Steady on, Albert,” Norman grunted, squeezing his elbow in a painful grip to keep him upright. It was a hard task, considering Albert towered a good six or seven inches over him. “Else the day will be over before the Serge stops yelling at us for spilling those vegetables.”

“I think I’d rather stand inside a tent and listen to his tirade than stay out here in all this snow,” Albert lamented. “My books keep getting wet.”

He swept a glance around their current camp in Neulette, France. It expanded over the snowy fields of the countryside, and the far back of it brushed against the brick walls of a small town. A sea of little tents stood out against the overcast winter sky. The pale sun shone slightly brighter today, but not enough to dissuade the threat of more snow the men were told to expect later that night.

“We better rush through them then,” Norman said. He helped Albert fix his rifle back on his shoulder from where it had slipped down and bent down to pick up the large sacks he had dropped in his rush to help him. He nodded down the path and urged him with a quick, “Come on. The faster we finish these deliveries, the sooner we can get back to it. I want to know if Regan is as double-crossing as her sister.”

Albert sent him a small smile.

Continue reading on AO3 here!

[chillmachinebroke]

This is my first fic that I posted last October and I’m just now getting around to cross posting here on Tumblr. I wrote it for the 1917 Blakefield Kisstober event.

Summary:  Will is excited to go to dinner with Tom for their three month anniversary, but when Tom wants to go to a restaurant where Will won't be able to eat anything on the menu, and Will's plans to eat beforehand go up in smoke, he gets a little too overwhelmed.

Prompt: Nose Kisses

Pairings: Blakefield

Notable Tags: Autistic Will Schofield, modern au, ARFID (a sensory based eating disorder)

Rating: Teen

No Archive Warnings Apply

[daydreamngs]

Call Me Will | William Schofield

requested: Hi! Could you please write a schofield x reader fic where the reader joins schofield and blake to deliver the message? Love your writing btw (send me some requests!)

warnings: Fluff

word count: 1,242

a/n: Back on my writing nonsense! I hope this is alright, I haven’t written in a hot second so this might be a little rough. Also I love this concept and might continue this in more chapters? If anyone would be interested in that! ♡

It was odd, why were they risking a nurse? It wasn’t common for them to send valuable nurses away in a time of need but Y/N was not going to question it. She was told to follow her orders and be good, so that was exactly what she was doing, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t curious and hesitant about said orders. She wasn’t exactly sure as to what was happening, the men in charge were very brief with her only telling her that she was to go with two men to deliver an important message, as to what that message was she did not know. It must have been very important if they were allowing a nurse to go with them. Y/N figured her only use would be to be there in case of a medical emergency, but still, she’d be dead weight to the soldiers. Her life might be at more risk and she would be putting theirs in risk too as she was not the one wielding a gun in order to protect herself. Her life was in the hands of two men she did not know, and if they would bother to protect her was something that truly terrified her. This was just too odd all the way around. 

“Why the hell is she comin’ with us?” It was a shocked, and almost angry whisper that wasn’t so quiet. Her eyes were glued on the ground for a moment before she glanced up to look between the two men. One was a little shorter, and plumper with all the layers compared to the other, not that she cared, and the other man was rather tall and slimmer. Both noticeably handsome. Her eyes couldn’t help but linger on the taller man, despite trying to pull them away. Hadn’t it been under this situation, she might be blushing to be in the company of such handsome men, but this was no situation for such a thing. “I really don’t know.” The taller one responded with a confused and exasperated tone to his voice. The woman couldn’t help but sigh in response to their conversation, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just as confused as both of you. I don’t see the sense in this, as many ways as I look at it I just don’t see it. I may be a nurse and I might be helpful in the scenario that someone gets hurt, but I don’t wield a weapon and I’ll only slow you down in the long run. But, there isn’t anything we can do about it, orders were clear, as much as we may dislike them.” Silence falls around them after that, wide eyes staring at her as she stared back. The taller one was the first to nod his head, sniffing as he rubbed the back of his neck. “M’ Schofield.” He introduced himself, and then the shorter one, “Blake. Tom Blake.” Y/N nods her head, a small smile gracing her lips, “Y/L/N, but I prefer Y/N.” These were the men that her life was in the hands of and vice versa. At least they were nice, unlike some of the men she’s met while being a nurse for the war. “We really ought to get goin’ now, we only have a short time to get there.” The man whose name she now knows as Blake says. Suddenly it felt too real, and dread filled her stomach to the brim and a dark expression drug her features down. There was a bad feeling in her, and she just couldn’t shake it off. 

Much to her surprise, the men in charge had offered her a change in clothing. A uniform just like the soldiers were wearing, they said it was so she wasn’t as noticeable in her nurse uniform. She was grateful for that, the thought of doing everything she’d need to do in her nurse uniform was something that she knew wouldn’t have worked well together. It was a tad big on her form, but that wasn’t something she was going to complain about. It would provide a bit more warmth than her thin dress and some layers, and it would also make it easier to move. Y/N wasn’t really sure as to what she should be doing, so she watched carefully whenever Schofield and Blake made advances. Her hands shook in fear and her stomach churned with nerves, the mud was quick to cling to her skin and clothing, making her body noticeably heavier. At least she didn’t have the heavy bags on her like the two soldiers who she was accompanying, that was another thing she was grateful for. In that moment, for every bad thing that was happening, she tried to find a good thing - there were very few - in an attempt to keep her sane. As she crawled through the mud, trying to stay really as low as possible, her eyes looked around her trying to keep an eye out for anything. It wasn’t until the men slowly stood up that she did too, almost mirroring their actions. She felt the need to stay close behind them just for her own safety, though she didn’t want to be too close in case it’d bother them for any reason. When she signed up to become a nurse in the war, she was not expecting this to happen, not even in the slightest. 

It was eerily quiet, the foul smell that followed them everywhere had made her gag once or twice before she had started to somewhat used to it - not that she ever really would. Her watchful eyes took note of everything, including how close that Schofield was standing to her, how he slowed his long stride in order to allow her to stay close. How he kept glancing back at her, only for a second before he looked back in the front, surveying the land. It seemed as though he was making sure she was okay, that she was safe. The thought made her stomach stir, maybe she could rely on them more than she thought she could. It was comforting, made her feel the slightest bit safer in the war zone where anything could happen. They continued on a few more steps before the sound of an airplane ripped through the air, leaving Y/N terrified and clueless as to what she should do, skin blossoming with goosebumps. Schofield grabbed ahold of her hand quickly and dragged her with him to a part in the dirt that was almost carved out, perfect for hiding. Bodies were pressed tightly against one another in an effort to all squeeze together. “Stay still.” It’s said in a rush, but quietly as they sat stiff, balled together. Y/N held her breath as they passed over, her eyes pricking with tears as she sat as still as she could. It wasn’t until Schofield looked up and announced it was one of there’s that she finally let out her breath and tried to relax her stiff body. She looked down and saw that Schofield and she were still gripped to each other. Hands tightly holding on for dear life, his shoulders overlapping hers in a somewhat protective manner. She smiled softly as they stood, “Thank you, Schofield.” His tired eyes looked into hers and nodded his head. A soft smile graced his lips in return. “Will, call me Will.”

[s1ater]

dating jack marrowbone would include.

summary 📣: dating jack marrowbone would include

warning/s 🚫: n/a atm

slater’s note 🗯: there’s no jack marrowbone fics/imagines on here and it makes me sad!! so i decided to write something myself to put my mind to rest

➪ he’s very protective of you

➪ and always wants to have a hand on you when you’re around, which sounds weird but he low key has separation anxiety and wants to at least hold your hand

➪ cheek and forehead kisses

➪ dancing

➪ i absolutely adore this idea and it would be something like a quiet night with the record player playing in the background to fill the silence and he’ll just stand up and offer his hand to you

➪ you’ll stand and it’ll just be a silent, peaceful dance with his hand wrapped around your waist while the other holds yours gently

➪ he would hum along to the song quietly, causing his chest to vibrate against yours in a calming way

➪ you absolutely adored sam and would hold him tightly anytime you’d see him before it all went down

➪ jane was like your best friend and you could tell her anything

➪ she’s the one who got you and jack set up together

➪ billy would try to teach you how to fish before jack took over

➪ he’d always ask you whether or not if you liked jack before the two of you started dating and you’d shamelessly say “yes”

➪ when he has nightmares, you’d comfort him

➪ he always wants to keep you safe but sometimes he lacks to realize he’s the one that needs saving

➪ he tries to put on a big front to try to protect the people he loves and never wants them to see his breaking points

➪ you always try to help him but he wants to think he doesn’t need any and pushes you away

➪ “jack, please just let me help you, please.”

➪ “i don’t need your help, i’m fine.”

➪ but whenever he has little anxiety attacks, you try to catch them in the beginning by squeezing his hand tightly, even pressing kisses on the back of his hands

➪ he’s very sweet though and gentle with you

➪ he likes running his finger tips along your bare skin

➪ like dipping his finger down along your hip bones, stomach, cheek

➪ he absolutely adores you

➪ he reads to you at times, such as like before the two of you go to bed or just sitting out on the porch swing

➪ nature hikes

➪ walking along the beach without your guys’ shoes while holding each other’s hands, swinging back and forth

➪ he likes brushing your hair out of your face so he can see your eyes better

➪ he loves touching your face, dragging his thumb along your cheekbones and jaw

➪ he preps your face with kisses

➪ whenever your sad he holds you tightly with his hands wrapped around your waist, pressing kisses in the crook of your neck while he whispers sweet things in your ear about how much he loves you

➪ he’ll pick flowers in the field out back behind the marrowbone house for you

➪ he’ll write nice notes whenever he’s out when you get home

➪ “i think of you always and forever. i saw these flowers today and they compare nothing to your beauty. see you soon love x”

➪ he has the prettiest laugh and you just melt every time it rings through your ears

➪ attempted to braid his short strands of hair and sticking small flowers throughout it

➪ he loves you in sundresses, he thinks you absolutely glow more then you usually do

➪ he likes the way it flows around you body as you dance around mindlessly

➪ “you look stunning, love.”

➪ the two of you talk about marriage a lot and he says things mindlessly like:

➪ “i’m going to marry you someday, dovey.”

➪ “i’ll make you mrs. marrowbone.”

➪ being absolutely in love with each other

masterlist

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[valterras]

Thinking about Will Schofield.

[vveissesfleisch]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 1917 (Movie 2019) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Joseph Blake/William Schofield, past Tom Blake/William Schofield Summary:

Though the horrors Joe has experienced across all five senses endure long after the ceasefire, though the chill of Death’s icy breath against his neck has yet to ebb, he’s come to find immeasurable solace in the quiet and stillness he can share with friends.

One friend, specifically.

Alternatively: In which Joe Blake and Will Schofield become friends after the war.

A/N: Happy April 6th, 1917 Day! I’m so excited to share the piece I wrote last year for Come Back to Us, the 1917 zine - extra copies available for purchase here!

[alandofmyth]

In honour of 250+ works in the 1917 tag on A03 (over 250!! I remember when there were 2!!)  some of my favourite 1917 fanfiction tropes so far! 

What have I done.

Disclaimer: I love and have also written many of these

[schofieldshelmet]

there were two of us

Blake-magically-comes-back-to-life-but-doesn’t-remember-anything-that-happened AU

Chapter One: adrift | Next ~~

December 6, 1917.

It is bitterly cold in the French town they are sheltering in, icy snow blanketing the abandoned maze of streets and alleys, crumbling stone littering the earth like a scar. Scattered groups of soldiers dot the streets like ash, huddled together for warmth and whispering in hoarse voices, but Schofield sits alone, jammed against a wall with his legs tucked up to his chest. The frigid air leaks through cracks in his boots and stings his cheeks like ice, but he is too tired to care, nose buried in the collar of his coat and eyes half-shut. 

They’ve been here for a handful of days awaiting further orders, half-hearted camps set up throughout the streets and alleys of the abandoned town, spirits lower than usual in the frosty weather. As usual the other men avoid Schofield, barely giving him so much as a side-glance, stepping out of the way when he approaches, clear discomfort on their faces. 

But he doesn’t really mind, choosing to ignore the looks, the frequent whispers that that one’s not quite right. He used to be a loner from the day he enlisted, up until last year when Blake first laid eyes on him, propped alone against the wall of a trench, reading a letter from home for the thousandth time. 

Oi there, mate, you’re looking a bit pasty, Blake had said, and offered him a drink from his ration flask of rum, and from that day on they had begun a tentative friendship. Blake had other friends, certainly; he exuded a certain warmth and friendliness that no one could resist; but, not that Schofield quite knew the how or why of it himself, he was the one Blake chose to stick around, whether they were eating rations or cleaning their rifles or another of the endless mundane tasks they performed daily. 

The tentative nature of their friendship had eventually morphed into something genuine, something soft, something gentle when the bombs were falling in the distant night and Blake, still so young and inexperienced, was afraid as the sky flashed white. And eventually they were nearly inseparable, always casually spoken of together by their fellow soldiers, comfortable enough with each other to discuss their families, their fears, their hopes and dreams. 

I could be like an uncle to your girls, Blake had said more than once, lopsided grin on his face. Come on, you know they’d love me. 

You’re too young to be an uncle, Schofield had usually replied with a demure expression, but secretly he liked the notion, because he always took that to mean Blake thought of him as a brother. 

But now Blake is dead, and Schofield is rumored to be the East Surrey’s own personal lunatic, gone stark raving mad after that one mission that no one can remember the particulars of, except for the fact that it was when he lost his only friend. 

( What was his name again? the others always whisper when they don’t think he can hear). 

(“Blake,” he always answers them, as shock and discomfort leaps onto their faces before they turn away. “His name was Blake.”) 

Already the rumor of his mental state is spreading to a few new conscriptions who arrived a week ago on a couple of lorries. Most of them are stationed several streets down, still adjusting to life outside of their training, mostly young and fresh-faced and hopeful. But Schofield’s seen the looks, heard the murmurs. He knows they’ve heard things about him. Perhaps they’ve even witnessed his often empty-stare, yet another factor in support of the lunacy claim. 

That one over there…he’s not quite right. 

Bit of shell-shock, then? 

No one knows for sure. Someone died, that’s all we know. But he was in the Somme. 

That’s enough to do anybody in, I would think. 

He swallows, huddling further into the collar of his coat, wind whistling through the cracks in his boots. He’s tired, so tired of being ridiculed behind his back, of being whispered about, of having no one who understands. Sergeant Sanders is kinder and more sympathetic than most, but there is still a guarded wariness in his eyes as if he knows he is talking to a man who died long ago, a man whose will to live vanished along with his sanity. 

He’s tired of the rumors. 

He’s tired . 

In all honesty he can’t remember the last time he got a decent amount of rest because whenever he falls asleep it only takes him a few moments and then he is there, he is kneeling in the cold and muddy earth and Blake is lying dead in his lap and cherry blossoms are spilling from his eyes and mouth and turning to blood, crimson blood, and he can smell it in his sleep.

Of course he never mentions any of this in his letters home. He writes about the weather and the bird that landed on the toe of his boot one morning and the stale rations that don’t compare whatsoever to Winifred’s cooking. He writes about how he misses his two girls and how the other day it was sunny for once but he never mentions the nightmares, he never mentions the sweaty, gasping terror upon waking, the grief that grips him when he is alone. He doesn’t want them to worry. So he doesn’t mention it. 

But right now Schofield is just too tired and even the nightmares aren’t enough to deter him from letting his eyes fall shut. He presses even closer to the bit of crumbling wall behind him, teeth clamped tight together to control the ever-present shivering, and blocks out the chatter of soldiers further down, the sound of wind howling through the alleyways, the rough shriek of a crow in the distance. 

He is drifting, gloved hands stuffed deep inside the pockets of his coat as darkness swirls around him, when suddenly the sharpness of footsteps scraping through snow breaks into his subconscious. 

A painful, rattling cough and a tongue clucking in sympathy and then a voice.  

“–ergeant Sanders, have y–”

Familiar. There is something familiar about the voice and the tone and the accent but he can’t remember, he is tired, so tired–

“—ich way is medical bay? Chap here’s got a touch of fever.”

And suddenly his entire body jolts, half-asleep, and then abruptly he is shaking all over and not just from the cold. Numbness has settled on his mind like a thick fog, but all at once it seems to dissipate and he is alert, rigid, eyes snapping open as he gasps in a breath. 

“—down this street and take a left—”

“–ank you, sir–”

Schofield’s gaze hones in on a soldier just up ahead, standing talking to Sergeant Sanders with a coughing man by his side, and suddenly his heart is pounding because it can’t be it can’t be it’s impossible it’s impossible but what if it’s not–

He’s on his feet before he can register anything else, not even bothering to collect his rifle in his panic as he careens forward across the icy cobblestones. A few men pause their idle conversation and turn to look at him, skepticism flashing over their faces when they realize who’s sprinting past, but he scarcely even realizes they are there. 

And he doesn’t mean to call out, not yet at least, but it slips from his mouth and he can’t stop himself and it’s too late. 

“Blake!” 

The soldier ahead of him stiffens slightly, and then he is turning and it is him, it’s Blake, standing there in the snow with frost-pale skin just like the day he died, dark eyes confused as he watches Schofield skid to a halt on the icy ground. Schofield can scarcely breathe, his lungs suddenly tight in his chest as he stands and tries to piece together words to say but can’t think of anything at all. 

“…I’m sorry, do I know you?” Blake asks slowly after a minute. The man beside him steps away to spit into the snow before he’s seized by another fit of coughing. Blake fidgets, waiting for a response, knuckles white on the barrel of his rifle. 

Schofield stammers softly, eyes stinging with a sudden flash of tears, and then presses the back of his hand to his mouth, still at a loss for words. “Blake– you’re– you’re back,” he whispers finally, brokenly, and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  “I– why didn’t you come…how did–” He pauses, swallows, cracked lips pressing briefly together, and suddenly he can’t stop himself and he is stumbling forward, wild, unhinged, grief and joy fighting within him, one arm reaching-

Blake’s face darkens and he takes a step back, but not before Schofield’s hand snags onto his sleeve. His voice snaps out like a bullet, colder than the snow lining the ragged streets, stabbing into Schofield’s heart like a knife. 

“Mate, I don’t know if you think this is funny or what, but I have no clue who the bloody hell you are, so clear out, all right? I’ve got this sick chap to take to med bay.” His scowl, so uncharacteristic of him, deepens as he jerks his arm free of Schofield’s grasp and steps back. 

“Ah—” Sergeant Sanders appears suddenly at Schofield’s elbow, one hand reaching to grip his upper arm as Schofield’s face twists in distress. “—Don’t mind him.” Sanders coughs uncomfortably, then in an undertone adds with reluctance, “He lost a close mate on a mission a few years back. Hasn’t been the same ever since.” 

Blake’s face clears in swift understanding, combined pity and empathy filling his eyes, but the pain only stabs deeper into Schofield’s heart. He has endured hell and back since Blake’s death but this , this is too much, not when Sergeant Sanders knows better, not when he’s already suffered constant remarks about his crumbling mental state and just can’t take any more . 

His throat is tight and he feels a hot stinging erupt in his eyes as he twists to stare at the sergeant in shocked disbelief. “ Years ?” he finally manages to spit, voice cracking with suppressed grief, his mouth sandpaper-dry. “It’s not been years, it’s only been months! Only nine months , you summoned me to that mission yourself, what the effing–��”  

“Lance Corporal, that’s enough,” Sanders interrupts with a sharpness he rarely uses, and Schofield’s words stutter to a halt, his chest heaving, the cold burning in his lungs like a knife. The sergeant waves a dismissive hand at Blake, who has frozen in place before them, sympathy still evident on his face as he watches the emotion flickering in Schofield’s eyes. “Go on then, attend to your sick chap. I’ll take care of our boy here.” 

“Um–” Blake pauses, faltering, the tip of his nose red with the cold. “Yes, sarge.” He swallows, pulling the collar of his overcoat closer to his chin and giving Schofield a final uncomfortable look. “Come on, then,” he mutters to the lad he’s brought with him, and then they move away down the street, where they are quickly swallowed by the mounds of rubble. 

Schofield stares after them in shock, the hot stinging in his eyes growing fiercer now, Sergeant Sanders’ hand still firm on his arm. “That was– that was him ,” he chokes finally, scarcely feeling the cold as he turns a haunted gaze upon the sergeant. “How could you not recognize him? That– that was Lance Corporal Thomas Blake and he died on that mission in April, he bled out in my arms, and you have the bloody nerve to not– you didn’t even recognize–” He grips his head in both palms and heaves for breath as the Sergeant’s hand moves uncertainly to his shoulder. “How could you say it was a few bloody years when it’s only been months–”

“Lad.” Sergeant Sanders clears his throat. “I don’t know what the ’ell you’re talking about, but…for my part I think—”

“You think I’m insane.” Schofield’s voice cracks. “You think I’m insane just like everyone else does.” 

The sergeant doesn’t respond, and that is confirmation enough. Schofield pulls free of his grip and takes a step backwards, boots unsteady on the icy cobbles as he draws a stinging breath. His fingers clench tightly against his palms as he turns away. Numbly he walks through scattered groups of men who eye him warily, who whisper amongst themselves once he has passed. Numbly he sits down again against his bit of crumbling wall and feels snow seep through his clothes. Numbly he draws his knees up to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they will go. 

And he thinks, as the impossibility of the situation finally begins to sink in, that maybe he really is insane.