#l detachment

[pedroam-bang]

SAS Rogue Heroes (2022)

[fallenbutfabulous]

Can't Hardly Wait

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - slow burn (not saying who though so stick around to find out), eventual smut, war, canon-typical violence, swearing

Cairo, 1941

The air tasted of dust and secrets.

Evelyn Harcourt adjusted her sunhat, tugging the brim lower as she stepped out of the shadowed doorway and into the blistering midday sun. The narrow street in downtown Cairo buzzed with life—vendors hawking their wares in a mix of Arabic and French, the melodic hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional shout from a British soldier half-drunk on liberty and heat. The scent of spices mingled with exhaust fumes, the chaotic orchestra of a city caught between ancient history and modern warfare.

She moved with purpose, her polished exterior a careful mask. To the casual observer, she was just another British expatriate navigating the chaos. Perhaps a nurse or an embassy secretary, her crisp linen blouse and modest skirt suggesting a woman displaced by the war but still tethered to the expectations of propriety. But beneath that composed façade, Evelyn Harcourt was stitched together by rebellion and quiet defiance.

Her fingers brushed the worn leather strap of her satchel as she weaved through the crowd. Inside, tucked beside coded messages and forged documents, was something far less official - a slender, ornately carved dagger with a curved ivory handle. A recent gift from her father, of course. For your collection, darling, his note had read, scrawled in his careless, elegant handwriting. Or whatever you’re up to in that desert of yours. Do keep safe.

Sir Henry Harcourt had always indulged her eccentricities, even if he didn’t quite understand them. A diplomat and gentleman through and through, he preferred his children polished and presentable - ambassadors of the family name. But Evie had never been content with polite smiles and tea parties. Where her father saw Cairo as a city of intrigue and diplomacy, she saw it as a battlefield, and the gifts he sent - exotic weapons from his travels - felt less like tokens of affection and more like silent acknowledgments of who she truly was.

Her mother, on the other hand, had no such illusions.

Lady Margaret Harcourt’s disapproval arrived with every letter, penned on heavy cream stationery that still managed to smell faintly of lavender despite its long journey.

“That is not the place for a young woman of your standing,” her last words before Evie had set off for Egypt. “You should be in London, with Charles. He’s still quite fond of you, you know.”

Charles Pembroke. The very name made Evie’s stomach tighten. A childhood friend, a “suitable match” in her mother’s eyes, with his aristocratic lineage and smart smile. He’d proposed once, in a rose garden beneath the fading light of a Sussex summer, his words rehearsed and hollow. Evie had laughed - actually laughed - before realizing he was serious. She’d refused, of course, much to her mother’s horror, and fled the estate as soon as war gave her an excuse.

Now, thousands of miles from Sussex, Evie could almost forget the weight of her mother’s expectations. Almost.

She paused at a fruit stall, her fingers brushing over a pile of figs, soft and sticky in the oppressive heat. The vendor, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a practiced smile, greeted her in rapid Arabic. She replied in kind, her accent impeccable, slipping into the rhythm of the conversation with ease. To anyone observing, it was a harmless interaction - just a young woman bartering for overpriced fruit. But as the man handed her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, their fingers lingered just long enough to pass a slip of folded paper between them.

Evie tucked the parcel into her bag without a second glance, thanking him with a polite nod before continuing down the street. She didn’t hurry. Haste drew attention, and attention was the last thing she needed. She’d learned that lesson early on in this city, where the walls had ears and even the shadows whispered.

As she walked, her mind replayed the coded message now nestled between the figs. She’d decipher it later, once she was safely tucked behind the thick walls of the Savoy Hotel, where Dudley Clarke had set up his peculiar little empire of deception. But for now, she kept her face impassive, blending into the colorful tapestry of Cairo’s wartime streets.

A breeze kicked up, lifting the edge of her skirt and carrying with it the distant echo of a gramophone playing in one of the nearby cafés. The melody - some forgotten jazz tune from home - tugged at the corners of her memory, but she pushed it aside. Nostalgia was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Rounding a corner, her thoughts shifted as the streets grew quieter. The bustling heart of Cairo faded behind her, replaced by crumbling buildings and the soft hum of ceiling fans from open windows. It was here, in the hidden pockets of the city, that she felt most at ease; away from the scrutinizing eyes of both the enemy and her own family.

Her hand drifted to the small photograph tucked inside her satchel. It was an old one, taken before the war: the Harcourt family lined up in front of their estate, all stiff collars and forced smiles. Her older brother, Edward, stood tall in his officer’s uniform even then, the golden boy of the family. Edward had always done what was expected - first at Eton, top of his class at Sandhurst, now serving somewhere in Italy or maybe France. Their military paths hadn’t crossed, though she knew he’d have plenty to say if they did.

“You’ve no business here, Evie,” he’d probably scold, his voice clipped and authoritative. “This isn’t a game.”

But Edward didn’t know everything. He didn’t know how good she was at reading people, at slipping through cracks unnoticed, at throwing a knife with deadly precision when words failed. Their father’s gifts weren’t just ornamental. She’d practiced in secret for years, out in the stables or the woods behind their estate, long before she ever dreamed of Cairo.

Then there was Sophie - her younger sister, barely nineteen, still ensconced in the safety of Sussex. Sophie’s letters were filled with trivialities: parties in London, new dresses, whispers of engagements. But beneath the lighthearted gossip, Evie could sense her sister’s longing. Sophie envied her freedom, even if she didn’t fully understand the price of it.

Evie reached the faded green door of the safe house and paused, her fingers brushing the dagger’s hilt through the leather of her satchel. For all her family’s opinions, it was here - in the heat and shadows of Cairo - that she felt most herself. Not Lady Evelyn Harcourt of Sussex, but Evie, the woman who navigated the world on her own terms.

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. The street was empty save for an old woman sweeping dust from her doorstep, her movements slow and deliberate. Still, Evie waited a moment longer, her instincts prickling.

Satisfied, she stepped inside, letting the cool air swallow her whole.

The room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the sun. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its rhythmic creak the only sound in the stillness. Evie set her satchel on the small wooden table and shrugged off her jacket, the thin fabric damp with sweat along the collar. She moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to working alone, her fingers deft as she retrieved the slip of paper from its hiding place.

She unfolded it carefully, laying it flat beneath the lamp’s soft glow. The message was written in a cipher she knew well, one of Clarke’s more creative concoctions. She reached into her bag, pulling out a small notebook disguised as a collection of poetry. Inside, nestled between verses of Byron and Shelley, were the keys to the code.

As she worked, the tension in her shoulders eased - not from comfort, but from focus. The outside world faded, replaced by the clean, sharp logic of numbers and letters, of patterns and possibilities. This was where she thrived, in the quiet moments between chaos, where her mind could stretch and turn over the pieces until they fit just right.

But even as the message took shape beneath her pen, a part of her remained alert. Her ears tuned to the faintest sound outside - the scuff of a boot, the creak of a floorboard. In Cairo, safety was an illusion, and complacency was the first step toward a shallow grave.

She finished deciphering the message and leaned back in her chair, reading the contents with a slight furrow in her brow. It was information about German troop movements near El Alamein, nothing she hadn’t expected, but the details were more precise than usual. Too precise. It suggested a leak somewhere in their network—or worse, that the enemy was feeding them false intelligence.

Evie tapped the edge of the paper thoughtfully, her mind already spinning through the implications. She’d need to bring this to Clarke immediately. But first, she had to verify the source. Trust was a rare currency in this war, and even allies could turn on a dime.

She folded the message back into its original shape and slid it into the hidden compartment of her satchel.

Evie stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, and slung the satchel over her shoulder. The sun would be setting soon, casting long shadows across the city, and she needed to be back at the Savoy before nightfall. The streets were less forgiving after dark, and even a woman as clever as Evelyn Harcourt knew when to disappear into the safety of familiar walls.

But as she stepped back into the blinding light of the Cairo streets, her expression was the same as it had been hours before - calm, composed, and utterly unreadable. Because in this war, the most dangerous weapon wasn’t a gun or a bomb.

It was the ability to keep your secrets hidden, even from yourself.

The streets of Cairo were beginning to shift, the oppressive heat giving way to the softer, golden hues of late afternoon. The city seemed to exhale with the fading light, but Evie remained on edge. She moved through the winding alleys with deliberate ease, her senses sharpened by the message burning in her satchel. If the intelligence was accurate, there was a German supply line exposed near El Alamein. But if it wasn’t…

Then someone wanted us to believe it was.

Her first stop was a dingy café near the edge of the old market district, a place known more for its stale coffee and heavy smoke than its clientele. But it was also a known drop point for certain informants - men who claimed to have eyes in the desert, ears in the Axis camps. Most were liars, trying to turn a profit from desperation, but occasionally, one stumbled across something valuable.

Evie pushed through the bead curtain and into the dim interior. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and sweat, and conversations dipped into hushed tones as her presence registered. She didn’t look like she belonged here - that was the point. People noticed you when you didn’t fit in, but they often underestimated you too.

She spotted her contact in the far corner - a wiry Egyptian man named Abbas, his sharp eyes flicking over her as she approached. He nodded slightly, signaling her to sit.

“You’re early,” he sipped bitter looking coffee, his English tinged with a French accent, a remnant of his schooling.

“Or you’re late,” Evie countered, sliding into the chair opposite him.

Abbas chuckled softly, but his gaze remained cautious. “What do you need, Miss Harcourt?”

Evie didn’t flinch at the use of her real name. Abbas knew enough about her to be dangerous, but she trusted his greed more than his loyalty. He wouldn’t risk losing a steady source of British pounds.

She pulled a folded map from her bag, careful to keep the coded message hidden. “I need to know if any of your contacts have heard whispers about German movements here.” She tapped a spot just south of El Alamein. “Anything unusual. Supply lines. Convoys.”

Abbas studied the map, his brow furrowing. “This is specific,” he said cautiously. “Too specific for a simple inquiry.”

Evie’s smile was polite, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Consider it professional curiosity.”

Abbas hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I’ll ask around. But information like this…” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

Evie slid a small envelope across the table. “For your trouble.”

Abbas pocketed the envelope without another word, and Evie stood, blending back into the haze of the café. She didn’t expect a solid lead from Abbas, but even false information had its uses. If he reported back with the same details as the coded message, she’d know the misinformation was spreading deeper than she thought.

By the time Evie left the café, the sun was slipping behind the rooftops, casting jagged shadows along the narrow streets. She cut through the quieter part of the city, where the buildings pressed in close, their sun-bleached walls radiating leftover heat. The satchel at her side felt heavier now, the coded message burning against her ribs. She needed to get back to Clarke, but a voice in the back of her mind whispered that she wasn’t alone.

Her steps slowed as she turned down an alley, one eye on the fading light, the other on the corners where shadows clung. That was when it happened.

A figure emerged from a narrow passage ahead, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the easy, predatory grace of someone used to the desert. Evie felt the sharp jolt of recognition before she could stop herself.

Lieutenant David Stirling.

He nearly walked past her before pausing mid-step, his sharp blue eyes narrowing with something between curiosity and suspicion. The street was too quiet, the space between them too small. His gaze flicked to her satchel, then back to her face.

“Well,” Stirling drawled, his accent rough against the silence, “if it isn’t little Evelyn Harcourt. You used to sit on the stairs and watch Edward and I get ready for the grouse hunt, all in a huff."

Evie didn’t miss the deliberate use of her full name. She kept her expression carefully neutral, as though running into Stirling in the middle of a Cairo back alley was as ordinary as afternoon tea.

“Lieutenant,” she greeted smoothly, her voice cool and measured. “I see the desert hasn’t swallowed you whole yet.”

Stirling’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. His eyes stayed locked on hers, unblinking. Assessing.

“Not for lack of trying.” His tone was easy, but the edge in his voice wasn’t. “But I’ve got to say, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to make it clear he wasn’t convinced by the innocent exterior. “Didn’t peg Sussex debutantes for Cairo’s backstreets.”

Evie’s lips curved, just slightly. She had to give him credit - he was quicker than most. But she wasn’t about to let him know that.

“Sussex gets dull after a while,” she said lightly. “And Cairo has better coffee of you know where to look.”

Stirling’s eyes narrowed further. He stepped closer, the space between them tightening like a noose. “Right,” he murmured, his voice dropping. “And I suppose you just happened to be wandering near the edge of the British quarter with that heavy satchel of yours?”

Evie tilted her head, letting a note of mild amusement creep into her expression. “Shopping,” she said, as if the answer was obvious. “Spices, mostly. The markets are lovely this time of day.”

His jaw tensed, the muscle flickering beneath his stubble. “Funny,” he said quietly, “you don’t look like you’ve been to the markets.”

Evie met his stare without flinching, her heartbeat steady. This was a game she’d played before - deflect, downplay, never give more than you needed to.

“And you look like you follow orders very well,” she shot back, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut. “But I suppose appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The street felt smaller now, the shadows pressing in as the last light faded. Stirling’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something else flickering behind it now - something more than suspicion. Interest, maybe. Or the grudging respect of someone who knew a liar when he saw one and wasn’t sure whether to call the bluff.

Finally, he let out a short, dry chuckle, stepping back just enough to ease the tension, but not enough to let her relax.

“Well, Miss Harcourt,” he said, the smirk finally reaching his mouth, though his eyes remained sharp. “I’ll leave you to your… spices.” His gaze lingered on the satchel one last time before flicking back to her face. “But do be careful. Cairo is not often kind to tourists.”

Evie smiled, sweet and unbothered. “Neither am I.”

And with that, she brushed past him, her steps steady even though she could feel his eyes on her back, following her into the deepening dusk. She didn’t allow herself to look back - not until the corner was well behind her, and Stirling was swallowed by the shadows of the city.

But even then, she felt the weight of his gaze, like a thread pulling tight.

He knows something, she thought. Or at least, he suspects.

Either way, Evie Harcourt wasn’t about to let David fucking Stirling pull at the seams of her carefully stitched life.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The badge was meant to be a flaming ‘Excalibur’ - recalling the Lewes bomb that contained both plastic explosive and inflammable thermite with time pencils. I knew that, but most of us called the stylised badge a ‘winged dagger’ and it made a better title for a book than ‘Flaming Sword’ ‘Who Dares Wins’ etc. the sword looks more like a commando knife and was certainly not meant to be a ‘Sword of Damocles’.

Roy Farran, ‘Winged Dagger’ (1948)

The badge of the Special Air Service was created by Corporal Bob Tait in October 1941, who would survive the war and die in retirement in 1975.

Robert ‘Bob’ Duncan Tait was a founding member of ‘L Detachment’, later the SAS, and is credited with the design of the most coveted military badge in the world: the SAS winged dagger. Tait was part of 11 Commando before he was invited to join L Detachment under the direction of Col. Stirling while fighting in North Africa in World War Two.

He survived the regiment’s first disastrous operation: a parachute drop in support of the Operation Crusader offensive in Libya in November 1941. It proved to be an unmitigated disaster when 22 men out of 60 were either killed or captured by the Germans.

The second was far more successful and saw Bob Tait as one of five commandos who snuck into a German aerodrome deep behind enemy lines and laid explosives that destroyed 37 aircraft. The raid secured the future of the SAS as it convinced military chiefs a specially trained unit that could operate behind enemy lines was needed.

In between the raids, the members of the newly formed unit held an informal competition to design the insignia for the regiment. Tait’s design of King Arthur’s Excalibur sword - not a dagger as commonly thought - with light blue wings either side of it was voted the best by the rest of the men and is the cap badge still in use today.

The SAS insignia represents King Arthur’s flaming sword Excalibur - not the dagger as it came to seen as.  Indeed the name ‘the Winged Dagger’ appears to have first been published in a SHAEF communique of 1944 which was then quoted in the Sunday Times and Observer newspapers.

Having already been awarded a Military Cross and Bar with the 3rd Hussars, Roy Farran joined 2nd SAS in 1943. Although not serving with the Regiment when the insignia were developed, his book, ‘Winged Dagger’ was truly the first book to shed light on the SAS when it was published in 1948. The image of the ‘winged dagger’ stuck in the public consciousness.

Early examples were made up by Cairo tailors and many variants can be seen.

By March 1944, the 1st and 2nd SAS Regiments returned to the United Kingdom and joined a newly formed SAS Brigade, a component of 1st Airborne Corps, commanded by Lieutenant General Frederick ‘Boy’ Browning, with Brigadier Roderick McLeod in charge of the SAS.  Many more badges would be required, and it was essential that a standardised design was agreed upon - see top right.

In March 1951 the Malayan Scouts adopted the maroon beret and the badge of the Special Air Service and this was worn by the members of 21 SAS who formed the new B Squadron - see centre left. The instruction that brought the Malayan Scouts into the British Army Order of Battle as 22 SAS Regiment dates from 16th July 1952.

The central badge was worn by 21 SAS on the right arm when it was formed in 1947. At that stage they wore the Mars and Minerva cap badge of the Artists Rifles on their maroon berets which was of similar design. However, in 1956, these were swapped, and the design of the beret badge was published in that year (rather curiously on a crudely cut out backing)

The 1956 badge was worn throughout the 1960s - see bottom left. But this had become somewhat anaemic by the early 1980s. The current pattern is shown bottom right.

[lavenderjewels]

this was very cute actually

[fire-in-my-woods]

Silco always pretendin any semblance of the man he used to be is long gone smh... I saw the fear in your eyes, faggot

[coyoxxtl]

we got a new coworker who is cool and i really like but my managers are giving him a little more heat for mistakes than i usually see from them and considering he’s a black man it does Not look good

[slutcore-starships]

. yall just dont know any black people huh

[abitopiia]

Well the guy I like lives far away from me in another province. He just finished with his ex and we only see each other by video call, he is too cold with me and is even stopping talking to me and answering for answering, nothing is like the beginning. He even dedicates things to his ex and was going to come to see me but I don't know, I'm worried because he doesn't believe in long distance relationships and I'm not his physical type, besides she does live where he does. I read the tarot and they told me that nothing was going to happen between us, even he wouldn't want to come and live here as much as he can, that he is very cold and all that. I really love him, sometimes his attitude is cold and hot, I think that the tarot is coming true because we are getting farther and farther apart and that hurts me a lot. I would like him to really fall in love with me, but she marked him and besides we are far away, I am even afraid that he will go back to her or talk to others. I really like him and I've been making affirmations but I don't see anything in 3d, it hurts a lot.

hi anon! the long story short is that while all of these are disheartening circumstances, the bottom line is that circumstances in the 3d don't matter unless you make them matter.

there are so many ways to affirm for an SP despite him being 'cold', such as affirming that he feels bad for being mean to you, he has genuine feelings for you, etc. if something in the 3d doesn't match what you want, ignore it.

on the topic of the 3d, you shouldn't be looking at it obsessively and focusing on trying to change it, but you should work on changing your assumptions and ideas (4d), and accept that it is already done, and then the 3d will immediately follow, because the 3d is only a mirror that reflects your 4d.

[ef-1]

Thomas Hardy said Neutral Tones, baby

[just-barrow]

come back to me Pairing: David Stirling/Doctor Gamal Rating: T Words: 711 The first time it happened, he blamed it on the laughing gas.

[pedroam-bang]

SAS Rogue Heroes (2022)

[dadsinsuits]

John L. Hines

[imsosocold]

If you think Matt’s ‘ personality turn’ is a result of DID and that his actions are just a result of this condition, you’re not only missing the entire point of his character but you’re also ableist.

[kim-ruzek]

Watching the l&o finales yesterday inspired me to go back at watch some more of season 24 and I just watched 24x15 and I had no idea Richard Belzer died earlier this year and I'm absolutely crushed my heart has been broken

[scribs-dibs]

secret santa DONE!!! expect some stuff from different fandoms 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[whatyoutaughtwasfear]

People on twitter trying to make me sad about fit and pac lore. Can't be sad if I never watched it. To me it's canon that pac and fit got off the island and moved to stardew together to start a farm. Im immune.