#shes like. a wartime nurse

[tybenadryl]

currently unnamed touhou oc inspired by the jubokko youkai - also trying a new brush

[magical-reid]

Remembering James

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Barnes!Reader (No use of Y/N, reader is referred as Mrs./Dr. Barnes)

Setting: Modern MCU timeline, Avengers Tower.

Perspective: Third Person Limited (Reader’s perspective).

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: Dr. Barnes, a super soldier with no memory of her past, is called to assist the Avengers, where she encounters Bucky Barnes, a man she feels inexplicably drawn to but doesn't remember. As she begins to reconnect with her past, she discovers a deep bond with Bucky that was lost to time and memory.

Hospitals were familiar, almost comforting in their routine. Between the soft hum of monitors and the sterile scent of disinfectant, you’d carved out a life here, even if you had no idea where you’d come from before it.

You woke up one day, seventy years displaced, with only a few clues to your identity: a simple wedding band, dog tags clutched in your hand, and the name James tattooed on the inside of your wrist. The world said you were a super soldier, part of a classified experiment during World War II, but your own memories didn’t agree—or, more accurately, they didn’t exist.

James Barnes. Who are you?

The hospital pager clipped to your scrubs buzzed sharply, dragging you back to the present.

“Paging Dr. Barnes,” the voice crackled over the intercom. “Stark Enterprises has a… situation. You’ve been requested to assist the Avengers immediately. Pack your things.”

You groaned softly. Tony Stark always had a flair for dramatics.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Meeting the Avengers

You spotted them the moment they entered the ER. Steve Rogers led the group, all commanding presence and tightly-wound charm. Behind him was Sam Wilson, cracking a grin at something Steve said. But it was the third man—the one with long, dark hair and intense blue eyes—that stopped you in your tracks.

You knew him. Or you thought you did.

You'd only remembered seeing his face on the news, plastered beside headlines of destruction and redemption. But here, in person, the sight of him struck a chord. Something inside you stirred. The name was on the tip of your tongue, but nothing came to you except a strange feeling in your chest: part longing, part ache.

“Dr. Barnes?” Steve’s voice broke through the haze, his hand extended for a handshake. “I’m Captain Steve Rogers. Tony asked us to escort you to the Tower.”

“Of course,” you said, plastering on a professional smile, though your gaze flickered back to the man Steve hadn’t introduced. He stood stiffly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed glued to you, like he was memorizing every detail.

“And you are?” you asked, directing the question to him.

“James,” he said softly. Then, louder: “Bucky Barnes.”

You froze. Your breath hitched as the dog tags hidden beneath your scrub top suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

James Barnes. My James?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Familiar Stranger

The ride to Avengers Tower was uneventful, though Bucky’s presence loomed in the confined space of the Quinjet. He sat across from you, his gloved hands gripping the edge of his seat. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you before quickly looking away.

When you arrived, Tony wasted no time giving you a tour of the medbay, but your attention kept drifting back to the Winter Soldier. He hovered at the edge of your vision like a shadow. Something about him felt… familiar.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s Plan

Bucky clenched his fists to hide their trembling.

She didn't remember him.

When Steve had first read Dr. Barnes' profile aloud the name had nearly floored Bucky. Seventy years and a broken mind hadn't dulled his memory of her: his wife. Bucky’s memories of you were sharp, even after decades of Hydra’s brainwashing. The night he’d met you—the base nurse who’d patched up his wounds with a quick wit and an even quicker smile—was etched into his soul. Marrying you, even in the chaos of wartime, had been the best decision of his life.

And yet, when he saw you today, you looked right through him, now you didn’t remember him.

The thought was unbearable. But Bucky had a plan. If you didn’t remember him, then he’d make sure you noticed him now.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Operation: Get Her Attention

Day One: The Phantom Bruise

Bucky sauntered into the medbay with a practiced limp. “Hey, Doc, think I twisted something.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I watched you spar earlier. You didn’t limp then.”

He shrugged, his lips twitching into an almost-boyish grin. “Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes but motioned for him to sit. As you examined him, your hand brushing his leg, he couldn’t help but smirk. He caught your hand lingering on the dog tags peeking out of your shirt before you tucked them away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Three: The Paper Cut Incident

“What is it this time?” you asked, folding your arms as Bucky entered the medbay again.

He held up his finger, a comically tiny paper cut visible. “Could be infected,” he said solemnly.

You sighed but grabbed some antiseptic anyway. “You’re worse than the interns.”

His smirk only grew. “I like the personal touch.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Five: The Classic “Accident”

During training, Bucky deliberately let himself take a tumble—hard enough to make Steve wince.

You appeared a few minutes later, muttering under your breath about reckless super soldiers. “Did you do this on purpose?” you asked as you examined his bruised ribs.

“Would I do that?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Absolutely.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Dog Tags

One day, you caught him staring at you in the gym, his focus unwavering. You were sparring with Natasha, and though you didn’t have the same bulk as Bucky or Steve, your strength and agility had Natasha on the defensive.

When you landed a sharp jab, your dog tags swung free of your shirt. You saw Bucky’s eyes narrow as they caught the light.

After the match, he approached you, his expression unreadable. “You always wear those?”

“Always.” You tucked them back into your shirt, your voice soft. “They mean something.”

“To you or to him?” His voice was almost bitter.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He turned and walked away before you could press further.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Gala

Tony’s party was as over-the-top as expected. You didn’t often dress up, but tonight you’d chosen a sleek black gown with a high slit that revealed just a hint of leg. The dog tags hung openly around your neck, their weight grounding you.

You spotted Bucky across the room, leaning against the bar in a dark suit. He wasn’t looking at you; he was staring.

“Careful,” Natasha teased, nudging him as she joined him at the bar. “You’ll scare her off if you keep looking at her like that.”

“She’s wearing them,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Natasha’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Dog tags? Thought so. What’s the story there, Barnes?”

“Long one.”

Natasha smirked. “You should tell her.”

You caught his eye, and this time, you didn’t look away. Slowly, you walked across the room, your dress swaying with every step. When you reached him, you tilted your head.

“Care to dance?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Always.”

As you danced, your hand slipped to your wrist, brushing the tattoo.

“I remember,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. “You… do?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Took me long enough, huh?”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Morning After

The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen, wearing nothing but Bucky’s shirt and your wedding band shining proudly on your finger. Your hair was a mess, your makeup smudged, and the dog tags were finally out in the open.

Natasha was the first to notice, her smirk widening as Bucky walked in behind you.

“Well,” she drawled, “looks like the happy couple had a good night.”

Steve coughed awkwardly into his hand. Sam burst into laughter.

Bucky blushed furiously and buried his face in his hands, but you just grinned, leaning into his side. For the first time in decades, everything felt right, and this time he wasn't letting go.

[runnning-outof-time]

Some Calm in the Midst of War | Wartime!Tommy Shelby x Reader

request: yes by @cybubuvubbu

pairing: Wartime!Tommy Shelby x Reader

summary: (Y/N) meets a soldier in a club. Not wanting to let go of this taste of calm amidst all of the chaos, they extend their moment of revelry into something a bit longer.

warnings: language, smoking, talks of war, suggestive situations (pg-13 in nature…I think)

word count: 1721

a/n: so this is what I decided to do in order to get these requests that have been sitting for months out to read. I really focused on just letting all of the inhibitions about it go and writing. Whatever gets put down gets put down, and however it gets put down flies also. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you were hoping for/looking forward to from me, but please know that I’m doing this in hopes that it’ll help me figure out what I want to do next. Ok, I’m sorry for making this so long…enjoy! :)

a/n 2: I just can’t bring myself to write completely nsfw stuff but I wanted to take this request in this direction, so I hope anyone won’t be annoyed at the fact that it’s not explicit smut. This’ll probably be the closest my writing will ever get to it.

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!

comment/message me if you want to be tagged!

The unlikely pair met in a club. She was - once - a woman of higher class, and he was a man whose family lived on next to nothing. But now because the war had ripped through both of their lives, they were finding solace in each other.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her all night. She was there with some of the ladies who she worked alongside as a field nurse. He'd come into town with his company, whom he was in command of.

Both looking for some semblance of what their lives used to be; looking for a way to escape the hell they’d been stuck in.

She was the one who approached him. "Saw you staring from across the bar," she started, her confidence earning some whistles from the men who were accompanying the man she was speaking to. One was even quick to leave his stool, offering the space to her. The man was surprised how quickly his men left them alone. "Thought it'd be a crime not to come and talk with you," she brought his attention back to her, her lips curved up into a smile.

He didn't know what to say at first. Prior to this, he wasn't sure if he was even going to take things further than a couple glances in her direction. But now he couldn't take his eyes off of her, and shit... he still didn't know what to say! A laugh filled with disbelief left his lips as he finally tore his eyes from hers.

He took a drag from his cigarette before looking her way again. One thing he wasn't going to do in this situation was fuck this opportunity up.

The two didn't talk much. Sure a brief conversation occurred, but it wasn't long before she was pulling them to the dance floor so they could join in with all of the other carefree couples.

The fact that he wanted to stay after the first song was over shocked her. It was evident though that she was the only reason he wanted to stay.

They exchanged a kiss before even exchanging names.

It wasn't surprising to see how quickly they became engrossed in one another. All they'd known for the last stretch of time was war and the feelings, not to mention sights, of terror that came with it. Neither knew when they'd get another moment like this...so they most certainly weren't going to waste it.

Their connection grew over the next several dances they shared. Soon enough the tender at the bar was yelling last call and they were ordering one last drink together.

Both weren't able to find the groups that they'd arrived with, so they decided to bask in each other's company for as long as they were able.

They finally got to talking, sitting at the bar until the keeper was telling them they needed to leave.

It was during these conversations that they found out just how different of lives they had led prior to this point. Funny how war had the ability to blur the class lines. Neither cared at the moment that the other wouldn’t have even spared a glance prior to now. They simply cared about feeling human again.

She brought him back to the room she'd been given for her brief time of leave from the field hospital. Tensions had risen between them as they walked closely together down the street. There was purpose in their step and things reached a fever point the second they stepped across the threshold into the small room.

The slightest look was shared before their lips met. No words needed to be spoken. What they both wanted was written clear across their faces.

Their walk to the bed looked more like a dance as they blindly fumbled with each others��� clothes. By the time her back hit the mattress, she was left in a blouse and underwear and he his trousers.

Another look was shared as a pause was taken. They were both breathing heavily, but this time he asked: “are you sure?”

She blinked a few times, as if it was her own way of checking that he was indeed real and that this was really happening. She couldn’t remember the last time she was in a position like this. The longer the pause was held, the more it became evident that she would be insane not to let the opportunity pass. “So sure,” she breathed in response, a smile playing on her lips.

His mesmerizing blue eyes turned a shade darker as he heard her response. A grin spread across his lips, and he brought his hand up to take hold of her cheek before she matched her lips to his again.

Their kisses were slower this time around. Both wanted to savor this moment, as they knew it may be the last like it they’d ever get. Inhibitions were thrown out alongside the rest of their garments and nothing more was said as they found a connection with each other.

Sweat stuck to their bodies and he made sure to hold her close, both reeling from the feeling the other was giving them.

They couldn’t remember the last time they felt this good. It was a feeling they never wanted to end.

Leaving was something neither of the two even thought about when they were finished. Their limbs stayed winded together, and they continued to exchange languid kisses as they came down from their highs.

“Shelby,” she breathed, her eyes focusing on the disc that was hanging around his neck. The disc that would be used to identify him if something were to happen in the field of battle.

Its presence made reality return to her mind. A reminder of the war they were still very much engrossed in flooded her thoughts, shrouding the state of bliss that she was previously experiencing.

“Tommy,” his voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“Huh?” she asked, focusing on him again with furrowed brows.

“My name’s Tommy,” he clarified.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tommy,” she said, then giggling as the context of the situation came to mind…usually these sort of introductions were done before she joined a man in bed.

Tommy cracked a grin at her statement, a chuckle leaving his lips before he leaned down to kiss hers, stifling her laughter in the process. “What’s your name?” he asked as they broke apart.

“(Y/N),” she answered, her smile still present.

“It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N),” he used the same greeting as she had, and they both began laughing again.

Their laughter subsided as their eyes met, and the tension they’d been feeling from the moment he spotted her at the club arose again. Nothing more was said as their lips molded together for the umpteenth time that evening.

Tommy was the one to break away, but he didn’t move far. He kissed a line from her lips down to her jaw and settled against the crook of her neck. (Y/N) sighed wantonly at the feeling, her hands tangling in the longer parts of his hair as her heart rate increased.

“Tommy…” his name was uttered in a breathy moan, “Tommy, I don’t…” she couldn’t quite keep her thoughts straight as his lips trailed lower, finding a new home in the valley between her breasts. It was becoming harder to think with each passing second, but she felt she needed to get these thoughts out. “I don’t usually do this—I’m not usually like this.”

He stopped his ministrations and lifted his head to look at her again. She sighed at the loss of feeling. “What do you mean?” he asked, his brows furrowing together in confusion when it took her a few moments to respond.

“I’m not usually this…” she paused, struggling to think of the right word, “…easy,” was what she finally settled on, although it still felt as if there were better words to use.

Tommy’s brows straightened only slightly. “I never thought you were,” he told her honestly.

“Things have been so different with the war and all,” she continued to explain herself even though he didn’t ask her to, “it’s been so long—too long, since I’ve been in a situation like this so forgive me for being unsure of what now needs to be done, but I just…my fear is that I won’t have a chance to experience this again…” she paused, feeling her chest tighten, “things are so uncertain now…”

“Hey…” he cut her off she could continue. She bit on her bottom lip to stop it from quivering, unable to match his gaze for fear of it making her tears fall. “Look at me, love,” he gently coaxed her, his hand cupping her cheek so that he could make their eyes meet. A solemn expression was present on his features as he reached up to brush away a tear with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” (Y/N) apologized, now feeling pathetic for turning their passionate moment into this.

“Don’t be,” Tommy shook his head, his thumb running gently against her cheekbone. He searched her eyes for a moment before continuing, “no harm will ever come to you,” he told her, “not from me, not from anyone else…not while I’m here,” his words were spoken with the utmost truth, and his eyes never wavered from hers.

(Y/N) wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never had someone profess something like this to her…especially not someone who was a stranger a few hours ago. But in this moment it felt so right, and hearing those words alone gave her some hope that maybe they’d both be okay.

She smiled at him, reaching up to slowly run her hand against his jawline. “You’ll be here?” she asked him, her eyebrows raising slightly.

“Until I can’t be,” he assured her, a smile playing on his lips.

His response made (Y/N)’s smile widen, and nothing more was said as she gently took hold of his chin and brought his lips to hers once more.

Staying true to his word, Tommy stayed with (Y/N) until they both had to ship out to their posts again. Both were equally grateful to enjoy some calm in the midst of war.

Check out THIS ARTICLE that I found about the history of how identification tags were used throughout time — it’s such an intriguing read!

**ALSO - the italized words that Tommy said at the end were taken from the caption on the photo from the request, which were taken from the movie The Edge of Love.

MASTERLIST

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21

@mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings

@just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @emotionalcadaver

@stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder

@cillmequick @strayrockette @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @garrison-girl-08

@insanitybyanothername @depxiety @justrainandcoffee @dragons-are-my-favorite @mrs-bond

@cljordan-imperium @brummiereader @red-riding-wood @everythingelseisextra @little-diable

@thomashelbyswife @shaddixlife @ryecosse @padfootdaredmetoo @novashelby

[the-nerdy-libra]

Ἀφροδίτη, βασίλεια κάλλους, θεὰ ἔρωτος καὶ πολέμου

Aphrodite, Queen of Beauty and Goddess of Love.

She is the goddess of Love, Beauty, Fertility, Pleasure, Sexuality, Marriage, Sea and Maritime Protection Harmony, War, Victory, Healing, Transformation, Nature, Creation and Mysticism.

Her symbols are Doves, Sparrows, Swans, Roses, Myrtle, Seashells, Pearls, Mirrors, Girdles or Belts, Apples, Swan Chariots, Eros' Arrows, Planet Venus, Foam of the Sea and Golden Light.

Notable sites of Worship

In Cyprus, Paphos was home to one of her most ancient and famous sanctuaries, possibly linked to her birthplace. Amathus was the centre for the worship of Aphrodite in her fertility aspects, and Kouklia was another site with strong ties to her cult and ancient rituals.

The island of Cythera was considered her mythological birthplace and housed sacred spaces dedicated to her.

Corinth was renowned for its temple of Aphrodite and the practice of sacred prostitution as part of her worship.

In Athens there were the Acropolis Temples dedicated to Aphrodite Pandemos and Aphrodite Ourania, as well as the Demosion Sema, the public cemetery, which honoured her as a goddess of civic harmony.

Sparta venerated Aphrodite Areia as a protector in battle.

The island of Delos featured a sanctuary dedicated to Aphrodite, alongside other major deities.

Thebes was important for the worship of Aphrodite, particularly in connection with her role in love and beauty.

Mount Eryx was an essential sanctuary for Aphrodite in her role as a fertility goddess.

Aphrodisias was a city named after her, with a grand temple dedicated to her worship.

In Magna Graecia, then later as Venus in Rome, her worship continued and merged with Roman cultural practices.

Epithets

Aphrodite Ourania, Representing spiritual and celestial love.

Aphrodite Pandemos, Goddess of common, earthly love and civic unity.

Aphrodite Philommeides, “Laughter-loving,” associated with joy and charm.

Aphrodite Kallipygos, “Of the beautiful buttocks,” celebrating physical beauty.

Aphrodite Genetrix, “Mother,” emphasizing fertility and motherhood.

Aphrodite Praxis, Associated with the practical aspects of love and relationships.

Aphrodite Epistrophia, “She who turns to love,” guiding affection and attraction.

Aphrodite Anadyomene, “Rising from the sea,” reflecting her birth.

Aphrodite Pontia, “Of the sea,” protector of sailors and maritime journeys.

Aphrodite Euploia, “Of smooth sailing,” ensuring safe sea travel.

Aphrodite Areia, “The Warlike,” associated with war and protection.

Aphrodite Nikephoros, “Bringer of victory,” tied to success and triumph.

Aphrodite Androphonos, “Killer of men,” highlighting her paradoxical role in love and destruction.

Aphrodite Antheia, “Flower goddess,” linked to blooming nature and gardens.

Aphrodite Melainis, “Black Aphrodite,” associated with the chthonic or underworld aspects.

Aphrodite Ambologera, “Delayer of old age,” granting beauty and youth.

Aphrodite Peitho, “Persuasion,” influencing harmony in relationships.

Aphrodite Limenia, “Of the harbor,” ensuring safety in ports and harbors.

Aphrodite Areia Pandemos, Civic love linked with wartime unity.

Aphrodite Morphou, “Shaper of form,” tied to transformation and beauty.

Aphrodite Urania Kourotrophos, “Heavenly nurse of youth,” nurturing life and vitality.

Worship and Practices

Rituals included offerings of flowers, incense and perfumes as well as libations and the sacrifice of animals such as doves and goats.

The Aphrodisia festival was celebrated annually in many Greek cities, particularly in Cyprus, involving rituals of purification, processions, and sacrifices.

The practice of sacred prostitution, particularly in places like Corinth, was a controversial yet integral aspect of her worship in some areas, symbolizing devotion and fertility.

Modern Practices

Personal altars are adorned with symbols of Aphrodite such as seashells, roses, mirrors, and candles in colours like pink, red, or seafoam green, serving as sacred spaces for prayer and offerings.

Common offerings include flowers (especially roses), perfumes, honey, milk, wine, and items symbolizing beauty or love, such as jewelry or makeup.

Practicing also involves meditating on her attributes and visualizing her presence to foster a deeper connection.

Worship often takes place near bodies of water, such as beaches or rivers, to honor her connection to the sea. Gardens and flower-filled spaces are also favored. Devotees also set up altars in private, serene locations within their homes.

Many worshippers focus on Aphrodite's role in fostering self-love, confidence, and personal empowerment. Modern worship also emphasises Aphrodite's acceptance of all genders, sexualities, and identities, reflecting her universal appeal. Devotees may also honor her through artistic expressions, such as painting, poetry, or dance, celebrating beauty and creativity.

Aphrodisia

The Aphrodisia festival is typically celebrated during the ancient Greek month of Hekatombaion, which corresponds to July and August in the Gregorian calendar. However, the exact dates can vary among practitioners:

Some choose specific days, such as July 13-15 or July 27-30, based on historical references. Others align the festival with the lunar calendar, celebrating it on the fourth day of Hekatombaion, which is sacred to Aphrodite.

Cleansing rituals are performed to prepare sacred spaces, often using water, incense, and/or symbolic items like rose petals.

Devotees present flowers, perfumes, honey, wine, and other items associated with Aphrodite. Unique offerings like phallic-shaped bread or salt may also be included, echoing ancient Cypriot practices.

Statues or representations of Aphrodite are carried in processions, accompanied by hymns and prayers.

Celebrations often include communal meals, fostering unity and joy.

Artistic expressions such as poetry, music, and dance dedicated to Aphrodite are common, emphasizing creativity and beauty.

The Aphrodisia serves as a time to honour Aphrodite's domains of love, beauty, and fertility, while also promoting self-love and empowerment.

Personal Notes

Aphrodite is many things to me. She has been calling to me since at least 2008 and I, stupidly, did not recognise this until around August 2023. In my time working with her however, through meditation and personal prayer, I have come to see her as my main patron and guide.

She is a teacher and advisor, guiding me towards a self love that I never truly had, teaching me to be fine with how I am yet to improve as I wish because it's what I want for myself, as opposed to some vapid desire to be more attractive to others. She is patient, kind, loving (naturally) and honestly? She is the mother I never had, or rather, the mother I wish I had. She does not judge me for my preferences nor my appearance, she does not hold me to an impossible standard or see me as a failure. She sees me for who I am and, rather than finding me wanting, accepts me as I am and aids me in bettering myself for my own benefit and no one else's.

She also acts as a guardian, not just a guide. There have been many times lately I have felt overwhelmed emotionally and yet, simply following breathing exercises and focusing upon Her washes those worries and fears, the pain and doubt, all of it away with the feeling of a gentle hug and the sound of waves lapping the shores. She has also helped me learn to find confidence in myself and gather the determination to do what I must in life. To me, this is simply proof that no matter the refusal of her status, She remains a fierce warrior goddess.

It's certainly..interesting, being a man and worshipping Her. I don't think I have ever actually met or heard of another who does as, understandably, She typically attracts women to Her. I would like to say though that there's no shame at all for a man who does and anyone who says otherwise is deeply insecure about themselves in my no-longer-so-humble opinion.

Aphrodite is not just the Goddess of Romantic love; she is love in all its forms. She is a true Libra in that sense as she becomes what it is you need of Her. A mother, friend, guardian, protector, teacher or a mix of all the above and so much more.

Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite

Heav'nly, illustrious, laughter-loving queen,

sea-born, night-loving, of an awful mien;

Crafty, from whom necessity first came,

producing, nightly, all-connecting dame:

'Tis thine the world with harmony to join,

for all things spring from thee, O pow'r divine.

The triple Fates are rul'd by thy decree,

and all productions yield alike to thee:

Whate'er the heav'ns, encircling all contain,

earth fruit-producing, and the stormy main,

Thy sway confesses, and obeys thy nod,

awful attendant of the brumal God

Goddess of marriage, charming to the sight, mother of Loves

whom banquetings delight;

Source of persuasion secret, fav'ring queen,

illustrious born, apparent and unseen:

Spousal, lupercal, and to men inclin'd,

prolific, most-desir'd, life-giving., kind:

Great sceptre-bearer of the Gods,

'tis thine, mortals in necessary bands to join;

And ev'ry tribe of savage monsters dire

in magic chains to bind, thro' mad desire.

Come, Cyprus-born, and to my pray'r incline,

whether exalted in the heav'ns you shine,

Or pleas'd in Syria's temple to preside,

or o'er th' Egyptian plains thy car to guide,

Fashion'd of gold; and near its sacred flood,

fertile and fam'd to fix thy blest abode;

Or if rejoicing in the azure shores,

near where the sea with foaming billows roars,

The circling choirs of mortals, thy delight,

or beauteous nymphs, with eyes cerulean bright,

Pleas'd by the dusty banks renown'd of old,

to drive thy rapid, two-yok'd car of gold;

Or if in Cyprus with thy mother fair,

where married females praise thee ev'ry year,

And beauteous virgins in the chorus join,

Adonis pure to sing and thee divine;

Come, all-attractive to my pray'r inclin'd, for thee,

I call, with holy, reverent mind.

[darkseidex]

𝙰 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍

• War themes (WWII setting, mental strain, combat references) • PTSD / trauma-related behavior • Depression + suicidal ideation • Pregnancy + possible pregnancy loss (mentioned, not graphic) • Emotional grief / longing / loneliness • Gender roles + societal sexism (period-accurate) • Implied homophobia (eviction due to orientation) • Family judgment / strained parent-child dynamics • Secrecy, betrayal, and blurred relationship boundaries • Smoking + light alcohol use • Polyamory, emotional complexity, and unorthodox relationship dynamics

This fic is character-driven, heavy on emotion, and deals with love, loss, and survival during wartime. Please take care of yourself while reading. 🖤

As war grinds away at his sanity, Major John Egan clings to the memory of Loretha and Gale—the two people keeping him alive in a world filled with death. But every bomb that drops steals a little more of him, and no amount of soothing words or faded letters can stop the spiral.

Back home, Loretha fights her own quiet battles. With two lovers at war, a new job that gives her voice but costs her comfort, and a charming journalist-turned-unexpected roommate who sees through her every mask, she walks the tightrope between loyalty, grief, and survival.

Secrets are kept. Letters are written. And across oceans and silence, three people try to hold onto something real.

But love isn't always enough—and sometimes, going home isn’t as simple as surviving.

John was slowly losing it, and everyone could tell. The Major grew increasingly restless as the war waged on with no promise of it ceasing, the flak rang in his head on repeat, replacing the sweet sound og Loretha’s hums with something more sinister, more violent and more aggressive. It showed in the way he clenched his jaw so hard it began to ache, Gale’s soothing words no longer held their effect and the threats of demotion loomed closer and closer, a threat he no longer cared for if it wound him back home, with the bland eggs replaced with those made with love and a warm kiss to go along with them. 

Loretha and Gale were his sanity; that much could be said about the Major, the two blondes were the only things keeping from putting a revolver up his mouth and pulling the trigger- because the thought of leaving his loves alone drove him to near madness, and filled him with a sick sense of dread that felt worse than death itself. 

There were nights when John pressed his palms so hard into his eyes that he swore he could conjure her face. Loretha—bathed in the morning light of their kitchen, brow furrowed at something on the stove, lips twitching into a smile when he’d snake his arms around her waist. Sometimes Gale was there too, arms folded, watching them both with a crooked grin, that damn teasing glint in his eye like he knew all John’s softest secrets.

But then the cold would return. The silence. And John would open his eyes to frostbitten metal walls and the groans of men who had long since given up on dreaming.

He stopped writing for a few days. Just stared at the blank paper like it had betrayed him. What could he say that wouldn’t worry her? How could he tell her that the nights were starting to feel longer than the days, that he kept imagining the way Loretha’s perfume might smell on the baby’s clothes?

John had been pacing the length of their barracks when he said it, voice low like he was afraid the very thought might summon the worst. “Should’ve gotten her pregnant,” he muttered. “Before we left. Given her something of me. Something to hold onto. Something more to fight for.”

Gale had looked up from the half-smoked cigarette he was nursing, blue eyes sharp despite the shadows under them. “If we go down,” he said slowly, “she’d just about survive it.” He didn’t need to say more—John knew what he meant. “And if she loses that baby, we both know what she’ll do.”

Silence stretched between them like a loaded gun.

John sat down, the weight of it pressing into his shoulders. He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because Gale was right. Loretha was strong, but she was also made of soft things, and losing them both and a child too? That would’ve been the end of her. She wouldn’t come back from that.

“But I hate not leaving her with something,” John whispered eventually.

Gale looked down, then said softly, “You did leave her with something, Major. Two men who love her more than anything. She’ll carry that.”

But mostly, he wanted to go home before the war took the last of him.

...

Loretha sat at her desk by the front window, the late afternoon sun pouring through in gold slats. Her fingers hovered over the typewriter keys, pausing as she let her thoughts collect. The clack of the machine had become a rhythm in her life—one of the few things that kept her sane.

Mama Thornton didn’t much like the way Loretha dressed now, no matter how modest she kept it. “A woman oughta know her place,” she’d mutter, adjusting her spectacles and shaking her head when Loretha strode out of the house in Gale’s pants and John’s oversized sweater, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, boots laced tight. But the world was changing—and so was Loretha.

She hadn’t meant to fall into writing. One day, passing the post office, she saw a flier: Writers Wanted. Good Pay. No Experience Necessary. What caught her eye wasn’t the money—it was the small print. All applicants considered. Race and gender are not a factor.

She’d hesitated. Just for a moment. Then she marched inside and asked for an application.

The job had become more than just a distraction. It was a lifeline. It gave her a voice—one she hadn’t realized she’d been biting down all her life. And though she kept it quiet, she wrote about more than local parades and ribbon cuttings. Sometimes, hidden in her editorials, were quiet cries for peace, subtle challenges to injustice, and wistful memories of a love stretched across oceans and war zones.

Her closet was still full of skirts and blouses she hadn’t worn in months. Instead, she lived in those pants. Gale’s pants. The fabric had started to soften with wear, molding to her curves, a fit he never could’ve predicted. John’s sweaters hung heavy on her shoulders, smelling faintly of tobacco and pine soap. They drowned her in comfort and grief both.

She knew if they were home, they’d fuss. John would’ve crossed his arms and scolded her. “You lettin’ folks stare at what’s mine, honey?” And Gale—he’d smile all crooked, eyes dipping down, soft voice teasing, “Could’ve just worn my shirt with nothin’ else, sweetheart.”

She would’ve laughed. Rolled her eyes. Kissed them both and told them to hush.

Instead, she pulled the sweater tighter and typed until her fingers ached, pouring every ounce of herself into words she hoped, somehow, might reach them.

Harry Grace was the kind of man who filled a room without trying. He was sharp-featured and sharply dressed, with the kind of bone structure that made women pause and men bristle. Five foot nine, a lean build, all wiry limbs and sly glances—he had a certain elegance that made him feel like he’d stepped out of some West End play. His voice held a posh lilt that curled around every syllable like honey left out in the sun. He wore too much cologne, smiled like he had something wicked to say, and had the most devastating habit of making everyone feel like they were in on a secret.

Loretha had met him through work—he was doing a story on theater closures due to rationing and had leaned over her typewriter one day to ask for paper. “You look like someone who keeps the good stuff,” he’d said with a wink.

She liked him almost instantly. Not in the way she loved her boys—no. Harry had something else, something safer but no less meaningful. He saw her. He knew what it was to hide pieces of yourself, to tuck them behind polite smiles and “Yes, ma’am”s and “Of course, sirs." He didn’t ask too many questions about John or Gale. He didn’t raise his brow when she got cagey about letters or skipped lunch to make it to the post office before the Red Cross deadline.

And when he lost his flat, landlord evicted him for “inappropriate conduct,” though they both knew what that meant—Loretha didn’t even hesitate. She offered him the downstairs room. A simple little thing: a bed, a dresser, a window that overlooked the side garden. It had been collecting dust for over a year. Now it held his pressed shirts and book collection, and the scent of his pipe tobacco clung to the curtains.

She hadn’t told John or Gale.

She knew exactly how they’d react. Even gentle Gale would’ve bristled—A man? Living with you?—and John… well, she didn’t need a letter to know the vein in his temple would start throbbing.

But Harry was her friend. He made her laugh when the loneliness threatened to consume her. He brought home pastries when the bakery had extra, and once, when she’d cried over a rejection letter, he’d held her hand and hummed a tune that reminded her just enough of John’s voice to break her heart.

Still, it was a well-kept secret. She never mentioned him in her letters. Not even once.

Loretha had made it very clear: never answer the house phone. “Doesn’t matter if it rings five times or fifty,” she’d warned Harry, her voice stern as she stood in the hallway, one hand on her hip and the other gesturing with a wooden spoon mid-cook. “If it’s important, they’ll call back—or I’ll get ‘em at the post office.”

Harry had nodded, mock-saluted with a little smirk. “Understood, General Thornton.”

But she wasn’t laughing.

John or Gale didn’t call often—war lines were patchy and expensive, and most of their communication was letters. But on the off chance one of them managed to get through… it would not look good for a man to be answering her phone. And not just any man—a tall, white one with perfectly pressed trousers, a British accent, and a knack for making overly familiar jokes.

Mama Thornton had not been pleased when she spotted him the first time.

She’d shown up one Sunday morning with a tin of cornbread and a nose for trouble, and nearly dropped the whole thing when Harry sauntered through the hall in his robe, pipe dangling from his lips.

Loretha had seen it happen in slow motion: the way her mama’s jaw clenched, her hands tightened around the tin, her eyes narrowed real slow.

And Mama didn’t say a word—not at first.

Later, over tea, she leaned in, eyes sharp as razors.

“Ain’t no good come from a woman playin’ house with a man who ain’t hers,” She said, voice cool but cutting.

Loretha’s hands had stiffened around her teacup.

“He’s a friend, Mama. A coworker. He’s got nowhere else to stay.”

“Mmm.” A long pause. Sip. Stare. “You ain’t got nowhere else to stay either, baby. That don’t mean you invite folks to fill the space just ‘cause it’s empty.”

That stung.

Loretha had bitten her tongue. She didn’t explain that Harry slept downstairs, that he was gay, that he was the only person who kept her from crumbling some days. That he reminded her she was still a person, not just someone’s girl waiting for two halves of her heart to make it home.

Instead, she nodded, swallowed the rising lump in her throat, and let Mama keep talking.

The call came on a rainy Thursday.

The house phone rang loud and sharp, slicing through the quiet like a knife.

She picked it up with a practiced calm. “Thornton residence,” she said, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she stirred a pot on the stove.

“Mrs Egan?”

The voice was deep, raspy, like someone who drank too much coffee and smoked even more. This wasn’t John. Or Gale. This was someone… official.

“This is Major Chick Harding. I’m with the 100th Bomb Group. I’m calling about Major John Egan.”

Her spoon paused mid-stir. “Is he alright?”

“Physically? Yes, ma’am. Mentally?” A long pause. “That’s where I need your help.”

Loretha gripped the receiver a little tighter.

“He’s... not taking the pressure well. Hasn’t for a while. We’ve tried everything we can—rotations, pulling him from missions—but he’s like a caged animal. Restless. Volatile.” “He listens to you, ma’am. You’re the only one he really does.”

She said nothing for a moment. The smell of the stew burning in the pot pulled her briefly from the fog.

“…What do you want me to do?”

“We can arrange for you to come to London. Temporarily. Just a few days, maybe a week. You’d be… a familiar voice. A grounding presence.”

Loretha’s stomach twisted.

“And… Gale?”

The silence on the other end was thick—loaded.

She could hear the faint rustle of papers, the shift of someone leaning forward in their chair. And then:

“He’s not far from John. Same barracks. But… he’s been holding steady. For John’s sake, mostly.”

That ache in her chest turned to a slow, creeping throb.

“Gale’s doing what he can to keep your husband from falling apart. But it’s a two-man job, Mrs Egan. And they’re both running on fumes.”

Loretha swallowed hard. The room felt smaller now—Lucy meowed softly from the windowsill, as if she could feel the shift in her mama’s energy.

“If you can come…” the Major continued, voice softer now, almost pleading, “…I truly believe it might save him.”

She shut her eyes, fingers tightening around the phone cord, heart warring with the logic in her brain.

“Alright,” she said at last, barely above a breath. “I’ll come.”

A pause.

“Thank you, Mrs Egan. We’ll send for you within the week. Pack warm.”

Click.

She pressed the receiver back into its cradle with trembling hands, a hollow sort of breath escaping her lips—half-laugh, half-sob. Her body swayed just slightly where she stood, like the wind had knocked the wind out of her, but it wasn’t wind—it was hope. A dangerous, aching, radiant sort of hope she hadn’t let herself feel since the boys had shipped out.

The kettle screamed on the stove, but she didn’t move.

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked them clear. Not now. Not yet.

“I’m gonna see my boy again,” she whispered against the cat’s ear. “I’m gonna see my Johnny…”

The weight of it all—months of loneliness, longing, those sweet letters that only just kept her going—broke over her in one tidal wave, crashing loud and deep in her chest.

No time to waste.

She was going to see her boy again. And she needed to look like heaven had kept her soft.

Harry had grinned around a spoonful of mashed potatoes, wagging his fork like a preacher’s finger as he added, “You keep feedin’ folks like this, Loretha, and one of these days that grown woman’s body gonna have grown man problems again.” He gave her a pointed look, and she’d swatted a dish towel at his head with a laugh that didn’t quite cover the nervous flutter in her belly.

Because he was right, in a way.

Her hips had widened, her thighs had softened, and her waist still held its slope but with a fullness that made her dresses fit differently. Her old skirts clung too tight now, so she’d leaned into trousers—Gale’s, of course—and reworked them with her skilled hands until they hugged her hips just so. John’s sweaters—big, cozy things that still smelled faintly of tobacco and home—were layered over them, and she looked like a woman wrapped in love even when she walked alone.

She glanced at herself in the mirror now, brushing her fingers through those thick coils that refused to be tamed. She didn’t try to fight them this time.

“You are not gon’ have them boys seein’ you for the first time in months lookin’ like you just stepped off the damn battlefield with them,” Mama Thornton huffed, gripping Loretha’s arm with surprising strength for an old woman. “Now hush and get in that stall ‘fore I drag you in there myself.”

Loretha, mouth tight and eyes rolling so hard they could’ve popped out, stood in front of the mirror in a dusty rose-colored skirt that flared just below her knees, her arms crossed as a puffed-sleeve blouse clung to her like something out of a 1940s etiquette manual.

“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, stepping out. “I look like I’m about to marry into a bank.”

“You look like a lady,” Mama said firmly, lips pursed as she adjusted the waistband and gave her a once-over. “And you gon’ remind them boys what they’ve been missin’. Ain’t no way they risked their lives for a woman in men’s drawers.”

“I tailored them!” Loretha shot back, voice a little higher as she twisted around in the mirror. “They fit better than any of this stuff!”

“You can wear Gale’s pants when you’re back home with Gale.” Mama gave her a look. “But for now? Put on them heels and stop fussin’. Men want somethin’ to come home to. Not somethin’ that look like they never left.”

Loretha sighed dramatically but didn’t argue further.

John straightened his tie for the umpteenth time that day as Gale watched him before sighing and standing to swat his hands away, doing the tie himself.

Gale's fingers brushed John’s chest as he fixed the tie, his touch lingering longer than necessary. He stood back to admire his work, but his eyes weren’t focused on the knot. They were on John, studying his profile, the tight line of his jaw, and the way his broad shoulders tensed in anticipation.

“Still nervous?” Gale teased softly, though it was laced with a quiet tension of his own.

John’s hand went to his tie again, a habit he’d had since they’d left for war, his thumb running over the fabric as if it could smooth the turbulence inside of him. He nodded but didn’t speak, his usual banter slipping away as he thought of her. The thought of her was all-consuming, and as much as he wanted this moment, he wanted it to be perfect.

“Yeah, I guess I just keep messin' with it because I can’t stop thinkin’ about her,” John muttered, his voice low, more vulnerable than Gale was used to hearing, granted the war around them didn’t allow for much of it; you never really had enough time to be vulnerable when vulnerability was plucked out from you from a young age and treated like a damn cancer. 

It took a while for Gale himself to gro accustomed to being loved by two people; at times it still felt surreal to him; when he’d open one of Loretha’s letters, the familiar red lipstick staining the seal and the end of the letter; always ending with ‘all my love’ or ‘my heart is with you’ as he holds the letter to his nose and takes a deep inhale inwards and pauses, always pauses and ensures he shuts his eyes to be able to envision her, to see her dancing around the kitchen in nothing but her headscarf and a silk robe making them breakfast. . “I... I’m not sure I can be enough for her anymore.”

Gale's hand moved to John's shoulder, squeezing gently, but there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he did it, a silent acknowledgment of how much he, too, was struggling with not being the one at her side. Their girl.

“What’s gone and given you that idea?”

But inside, Gale knew what he meant…the war changed people, made men a shell of who they once were when they returned to their loved ones, if you were lucky enough to return to your loved ones that is. He’d heard tales of wives packing up their bags and leaving at the brink of dawn to simply get away, to lead a new life away from the man she was too ashamed to love. By no means was he faulting the woman for choosing to leave- hell he wished his mother had left his father all those years ago, before the gambling got worse and worse- 

“Don’t play coy with me Cleven,” John huffed and Gale shot him small smile. 

“D’ya remember the night at the bar… the night you got really drunk and sang into the mic while birdie was singin’?” 

John winced at the memory… they’d started seeing eachother then and he’d had too much to drink thatnight, next thing he knew he was outside with an angry five foot seven woman tearing him a new one and swearing to never speak to him again but evenn as she’d yelled herself hoarse, her voice a mere squeak her eyes still had that familiar softness to them. 

He’d had to apologise for months. 

“If she wanted to leave…she would’ve left your sorry ass then and there.”

The whistle of the train brought John egan back to reality as he clutched a puly strewn together bouquet of lilies in his right hand, by no means was he a flower arranger, but he’d tried… he’d always try for her. In his other hand firmly grasped in his pocket was the keys to their room; while he’d had a rough plan for their day in his head; he figured she may want off her feet first. 

She stood there in the middle of the crowd, looking just as he remembered her but somehow different—stronger, more radiant. Her hair was no longer the neatly pressed style he'd known, but free, a cascade of coils framing her face. She looked... alive. More than just the woman he remembered. She was standing tall, even as the crowd shifted around her, her eyes scanning, seeking something—or someone.

For a split second, John stood frozen, unsure whether to move toward her or just stay where he was and let the moment come to him. But then she turned, her eyes locking with his, and the world seemed to still.

Her lips parted in surprise, but before he could even register her expression fully, she was already making her way toward him, her steps quick, purposeful, as if she had been waiting for this moment just as much as he had, and finally, just as they showed it in the pictures she abandoned the suitcase she lugged with her… and broke into a small run, befre jumping into the major’s arms, making him grunt a bit as he stepped back to stabilise themselves.

John barely had time to drop the bouquet onto the bench beside him before Loretha collided into his arms, all soft curves and warm scent, the wind knocked right out of him in a choked grunt. He stumbled back a step, his boots skidding slightly on the polished floor, but he caught her—he always would—his arms wrapping tightly around her waist as if to make up for every second lost to the war, the silence, the distance.

Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, and her arms wound tight around his neck, her face tucked against his shoulder like she’d never left. Like this was home.

John buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, his hands fisting slightly into the fabric of her blouse as he held her closer than he thought possible. The station buzzed around them, but he didn’t hear any of it—all he heard was the soft sound of her breath against his skin, and the whispered tremble of her voice as she murmured his name.

“John,” she said again, softer this time.

His heart cracked open. “Loretha,” he breathed, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, his voice thick, shaking. “Christ, I missed you.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes glistening but fierce. “You didn’t write enough.”

“I know,” he whispered, guilt flashing across his face.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know,” he said again, voice lower now, rougher. “But I’m here now. I’m here.”

Her hand cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek where the stubble had grown in more than she remembered. “You’re real,” she said with a breathy sort of wonder, as if still unsure whether he’d vanish if she let go.

“I better be,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering there. “Otherwise you’ve just embarrassed the hell out of yourself in front of half a train station.”

Loretha barked a laugh, the sound sharp and bright, and tucked herself against him again. “Don’t care. Let them watch.”

[motherofdogs1010]

Letters to Juliet & Romeo II (Thomas Shelby x Reader)

Summary: Heartbroken and in the midst of the Great War as a nurse, Y/N L/N writes to a person she never expected to write to before... her brother's friend, Thomas Shelby. But the war's over now and it is time to face the letters...

Warnings: angst, wartime talk, fluff, reunion, pre-Peaky Blinders Tommy, solider!Tommy, nurse!Reader, chubby!reader, age gap (everyone is of age)

Italics: contents of letters

🪖 Dividers by @firefly-graphics 🪖 Banner by @vase-of-lilies

Series Masterlist

June 1918, 5 Months before Great War Ends 4 Years of Letters

I picture what my life might be like when this war ends, I picture how I will ever continue to go about life after seeing the worst of men...

Y/N read Tommy's newest letter, she could see the dirt on it and the smudged thumbprints he left as he traced it; they were flooded today in the camp ever since they moved further onto the field. It was night now when she got to reading his letter, she wondered too how her life was going to be like when she got home.

I picture you there by my side, I imagine us together... I imagine you in my arms, holding you at night. You are the only one that knows me, the me that this war has crafted and spat out...

Y/N felt tears well up in her eyes as she read his profession, her lip wobbling as she read his letter before the tears soon began to fall down her cheeks as she heard some of her fellow nurses snore away into the night.

If we survive this war, I plan to make you a Shelby, make a honest woman out of you... dedicate my life to the woman who has held me together...

🪖

11 A.M., November 1918, the Great War was declared over... she could remember patching up a badly injured man when the gun fire stopped. She had looked up and saw the confusion on everyone's faces when they realized the total silence around them.

And now, the train she was on that was taking her home stopped, the conductor announcing their stop in Small Heath. She stood, grabbing her suitcase as she was still dressed in her ward uniform since that's what they were told to wear home. She wondered if Tommy had made it home first, she knew there was soldiers on the train, but she prayed he was somewhere.

She had written to her mother, who told her that her brother had arrived home first since he was one of the first to head home and that they would be greeting her.

As she stepped off the train, suitcase heavy as she saw the crowded train station, witnessing the reunions happening and she felt a sadness come over as she began to look around for her family.

"Y/N..."

Her eyes widen as she heard that familiar voice and turned around...

Tommy was dressed in his uniform just like how many others were as him and his brothers stepped off the train, immediately seeing Polly, Ada and Finn waiting for them in the crowd.

"There you boys are", Polly said, embracing them.

Tommy's mind wandered as he hoped Y/N was close by, he needed to see her, hold her just as anyone needed air to breath. He tuned out whatever the others were talking about as he looked around and his heart stopped as he saw her, the glimpse of her face as she was dressed in those damned nursing clothes.

Here she was, the woman he wanted to make his wife...

"Y/N..."

He watched as she froze and began to turn, but he had already begun to move, pushing past people and ignoring the voices of his family as he watched Y/N also drop her suitcase and began to walk towards him.

"Tommy", she said with tears in her eyes as finally, they embraced.

It was a tight embrace, one that felt as if one of them let go, they would never be here again. Tommy buried his face in his neck, his hand accidentally knocking off her cap as he squeezed her, feeling her tears wet a part of his uniform as little sobs escaped her.

He felt whole as if the missing piece he never had was returned to him as he lifted her off the ground for a few minutes as they embraced...

"So that's who the bastard's been writing to", Arthur mused, John chuckled.

"Don't be mad that he had a bird waiting for him", John teased as Polly rolled her eyes.

She watched as her nephew embraced the girl tightly, the two lost in their own world as Polly's eyes widen at who the girl was.

"Blimey, that's B/N's sister", she breathed, Ada squinted and saw it too.

"Looks like we've got a wedding to plan for, huh Polly?" Ada said.

Polly let out a little chuckle and thought that at least something good came out of this war...

TAGLIST

@calmingmelody96 @69your-best-night-mare69

[ronsenthal]

Ron Speirs x Nurse Reader

Summary: During wartime some stories were created to scare and keep the soldiers on the line, but some other ones were slowly written to have a happy ending, just like fairy tales.

A/N: This was based on a prompt kindly sent to me by a lovely anon who wanted something with Ron x Nurse Reader and since then I was so OBSESSED with this idea so I had to try something. So dear anon if you are reding this I hope you like it, I had to change it a little bit because I'm truly awful with requests, hope you don't mind. Also this was slighthly based on the Rolling Stones song, because it so Ron coded and apparently I can't write anything not related to music? So here we go!

The first time you saw him was one week after D-Day, everybody was still scared and lost, many people went missing so naturally the first place the men went looking for their friends was the Aid Station. It was completely madness, you couldn’t take a pause to catch your breath even when your feet hurt, even when you couldn’t tell what time it was, when your stomach made loud noises, you pushed through pain, tears and tiredness. 

During one of your shifts you were attending to a private who was hit in the head by shrapnel after a potato masher exploded close to him. He was bleeding heavily since he arrived so you had to change the bandage from time to time. The Aid Station was always a noisy place with some people screaming in agony, others nurses and doctors were giving orders trying to save someone else and a few lucky ones were just chatting to pass the time. But in that afternoon it went quiet as if some spell was cast and suddenly the world was frozen, you could see heads following the footsteps of this soldier who walked in.

He slowly walked in your direction, you couldn’t see his features until he was at the other side of the stretcher of the man you were aiding. At first he didn’t say a word as he was looking at the other soldier, as if studying the damage that was done by the germans. He took a deep breath and finally asked quietly, “Is he gonna make it?” and looked at you with those big dark green eyes to which you couldn’t lie, so you honestly said “I don’t know”, he only shook his head giving you one sad look before turning into his heels and heading out.

You were awfully quiet that evening trying to eat some bread while the other girls were chatting. You tried your best but your long-suffering patient didn’t make it and yet you could only think about those sad green eyes. Some weeks went by, people would come and go but your thoughts would often drift aways to this face you couldn’t even put a name to. 

The second time you saw him was even less fortunate than the first one, this time he came in angrily shouting that he didn’t needed any help and assistance, but anyone would notice that he was limping and there was even blood on his uniform coming from his leg, his hands also were bleeding. 

Poor Jane, your friend was the closest nurse available, you only watched from a distance as she was addressing his wounds. At first he was reluctant but then finally gave in and let the woman quickly put some bandages on it, she only asked a couple of questions, filled a piece of paper and gave it to the man. Just as he went in he was suddenly gone, as he was heading out he saw you and nodded with his head before putting back his cap. 

Dinner was always gossip time and that night you made sure to sit near Jane to get some food but also try to get some information. 

“So who was that guy who came in earlier making a scene?”

“Are you kidding Y/N? That is Lieutenant Speirs, he is the one everybody keeps talking about, he killed 15 german POW or something on D-Day” Linda said, swinging her spoon 

dramatically.

“I heard it was more like 20 guys, he even offered some cigarettes before shooting them” the other nurse called Grace. 

“And do you believe those stories?” you asked them not even daring to take your eyes off your food. This couldn’t be true right? 

“I don’t know Y/N, I heard it from one of my guys the other day, he was telling his friend that they sergeant saw it” Grace told you two before changing the subject to talk about some soldier named Talbert that they both find so cute.

Lieutenant Speirs so that’s him, after that day you were always looking for his name in the morning reports at the Aid Station, you heart almost skipping a beat at the letter S but you never saw his name. You never forgot his name nor his eyes or his dark hair. 

From time to time you would see him with a cigarette on his lips from one side to the other, he was always followed by strange looks and a couple of whispers, his bad reputation was growing as time passed by, some stories were clearly too absurd to be true, others were creepier to say the least.

Third time's the charm right? Bastogne was a real nightmare, you had to move to the front line due to the heavy losses of people who had basic medical training, the supplies were short and the was was getting brutal, specially due to that fucking cold. One night you were trying to get some warm soup in the foxhole you shared with Eugene, you both couldn’t feel your fingertips as if they seemed to be frozen so you decided to try and warm your hands while eating something. 

“Y/L/N” came from a hard and harsh voice from behind, you were caught by surprise as you jumped from the scare “Y/L/N did I get your name right?”

“Yes sir!” you quickly said

“Pleased to meet you, I guess you know who I am. What are you and Roe doing here? It’s not safe enough you should stay aways from the line” he said as you both nodded quickly taking your belongings and starting to move, he kept watching you and offered his hand to pull you from the foxhole to which you said a shy “thank you”, his hands were strong and warm and you had to fight the urge to ask him how he could keep them so warm in the freezing temperature, but you didn’t said a word. 

Holding a gun in his hand he slowly and carefully escorted you through the white snow. Eugene was following you two but suddenly Joe Toye called for his help with something else. Speirs even helped you to settle in the new foxhole, putting some twigs and sticks to reinforce the cover. He then wished you goodnight before disappearing again. The man walked like a shadow between the lines, you took your time to thank the guy from above that he was at your side in this war, you wouldn’t be able to sleep if you thought that he was the enemy.

Just a couple of days later the only thing the men would talk about was how the now Captain Speirs ran through the streets of Foy to link up with I Company after he released Foxhole Dike from his position and how bravely and fearlessly led Easy. The guys were so happy to have a good leader again, you were happier too because it meant now they were saffer.

The fourth time he was shot in his butt during one of your night shifts back at the Aid Station, he was soaking wet, pale and so tired that he didn’t have the energy to be stubborn. You asked what happened and Sergeant Lipton said he was hit while going across the river into the germans territory to get some information on the germans. You promptly gave him some medicine and started to take care of his wound as fast as you could. 

It was strange but you kept your cool and gave your best to stay calm and do your job as if he was just another guy. Except he wasn’t, after the bullet was removed he let out a big sigh of relief and as the medicine was starting to kick in he slowly falled asleep in a feverish state.. You couldn’t help yourself and stare at the man you’ve been thinking about for so long, you stayed by his side trying to quietly read a book but your eyes would move away from it and watch how his eyelashes peacefully rested, how soft his facial expression was and how his now slightly wet hair was falling in his forehead. 

You reached your hand to it with the excuse to feel his temperature, he was burning hot and as you were taking a wet piece of cloth to use it to cool him off a bit he opened those same green eyes you’ve been thinking about.

“Am I gonna make it?” he said with a weak voice and caught your hand in his

“Yes” you said, but this time you were 100% sure and when you realized you were smiling at him, he gave you a cute smile back before closing his eyes and falling asleep again. He was certainly a handsome man but on that night you could swear he looked like one of those princes from fairy tales your mom would tell you at bedtime. You couldn’t help but think how he could be soft and yet so stern, so scary but also so gentle and caring, you felt sympathy for the Devil after all. 

The next day he was feeling so much better and tried to get away as quickly as possible but you preferred to stay cautious and ordered him to stay a bit longer, which he couldn’t refuse and finally gave in. After some minutes of awkward silence he started to small talk asking where you are from, if you had any siblings back home and even if you had a boyfriend. You tried your best to keep talking just to keep him with you a bit longer but your peace was interrupted when a couple of soldiers came by heavily wounded and you were required to take care of them. 

When you finally came back he was gone, he only left a note apologizing for leaving without a proper goodbye but promised he would somehow make it up to you later. 

Of course he did it as soon as you set foot at Berchtersgarden, there the mood was totally different, especially after the german army officially surrendered. He took you out to enjoy some coffee at this beautiful place with an incredible view of the mountains, even through you thought that the view of the captain in front of you was even better.

You were so happy with everything that you couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear and as you reached from his hand across the table, he didn't moved it and intertwined your fingers, then gave you a sincere and beautiful smile, you felt butterflies all over your stomach because you felt more than just sympathy for the Devil.

Taglist: @mads-weasley , @footprintsinthesxnd , @sweetxvanixlla , @xxluckystrike , @malarkgirlypop , @lostloveletters , @next-autopsy , @ewipandora

[saintsenara]

if you are still doing ship game, thoughts on jily?

thank you very much, anon - i am always taking questions both on romantic ships and on characters' platonic vibes, the more unhinged the better.

although jily can't really be described in those terms, not least because their narrative purpose in canon is to be little more than blank canvases onto which harry can project as he goes through his series-long character arc, shedding his initial hero worship of james when confronted with the reality of his father's behaviour in order of the phoenix and starting both to fully appreciate lily's centrality to the course his life is taking and to see his dad with nuance as a real and fully-rounded person, flaws and all.

this narrative role means that the glimpses we get of them in canon feel kind of superficial - their bantering during snape's worst memory is basically high-school-teen-movie level, the snapshots of their life under lockdown in deathly hallows lovely and bittersweet but also just colour to a storyline which is already all of those things.

and this is not to say that i find jily uninteresting as a ship - i completely reject the common anti-jily position that they didn't really like each other, that they had nothing in common, or that their backgrounds made them incompatible [i'll expand on this below, but while i do think that their respective blood statuses and the impact of these on their relationship are worth thinking about, i loathe fics which portray james as chafing against his marriage because, as a pureblood, he'd be more comfortable with someone 'of his own kind'. this is bullshit, and there's far, far too much of it in this fandom]. my views on one of james' most frequent non-lily partnerships are well known, and i share the outrage many jily fans have for the way lily in particular is treated in a subfandom increasingly dominated by rigid fanon which prioritises giving depth to male characters [even if those characters are, in essence, oc's] and slash relationships over exploring the canon female characters, partnered or not.

but i do also find that a lot of jily falls into the same trap as much of the hinny i dislike - that is, a tendency to present as a sunshine-and-roses fairytale a relationship which is much more interesting if the things which canon implies [and which can be reasonably inferred outside of canon scenes from a canon coherent engagement with the text] might have introduced an element of dysfunction into james and lily's partnership are taken into account.

the shadow of the war is obviously one of these things. what role lily actually plays in the resistance is something which preoccupies me [she is never mentioned in canon to have taken a combat role - and i find it considerably more plausible that any attempt voldemort made to recruit her was at snape's request and connected to her potions prowess] particularly because, as we see in the way her death is memorialised in deathly hallows, the series regards the defence of the integrity of the nuclear family as a key aim for the good guys. how does she interact with james and his wartime role when she's pregnant, nursing, or in hiding for the vast majority of her time in the order? how does she feel about her husband being a soldier if she's behind the scenes?

indeed, what role james [and sirius] plays in the order is also something i'm obsessed with thinking about - not least because so much of the inherent tragedy of the marauders' storyline is caused by the fact that james and sirius think they're fucking invincible and that their plans to keep the potters safe are foolproof. it's entirely reasonable to read james and sirius as being pretty gung-ho about being paramilitaries - and my headcanon is absolutely that more battled-hardened order members didn't like them very much [moody does not, after all, seem massively fond of sirius] - and lily seems affected by this too [she's not holding her wand either!], and what they thought they were doing as 1981 rolls around is compelling to me.

james and lily's divergent backgrounds is also something i'd like to see explored more in fandom - not, as i've said, in the dull 'james should have married a pureblood' way, but in a way which deals with the fact that their relationship follows wizarding norms. molly weasley can blame the war all she likes, but [although i doubt this was jkr's intention] the evidence of canon is that witches and wizards marry and have children extremely young as a social standard, that couples generally don't live together before marriage, that divorce doesn't seem to be common, and that married women tend not to work. lily - a mother at twenty and, therefore, presumably married at nineteen - is coming of age, then, in a magical world which thinks about gender very differently from the muggle world of the 1970s, and i think that tension is worth exploring.

[similarly, the way in which her marriage is self-protective - lily gains a pureblood name and the social cachet which comes with it at a time when she's in rising danger on account of her birth - is something i think it's worth looking at when considering the pairing.]

there are other flashes of dysfuntion which i adore thinking about in relation to jily - lily's relationship with the other marauders [you can pry the reading that sirius resents her for stealing the love of his life - and i certainly don't mean lupin - away from him from my cold, dead hands]; how much of his misbehaviour at school james conceals from her; the fact that lily becoming more overtly interested in james from her sixth year onward must have a little bit of attempting to make snape jealous mixed into it - and whenever i stumble upon them in fics i say oh ho like horace slughorn and kick my little feet in the air.

i care rather less about 'we're so hot and flawless and not doomed' as a trope.

but i do stan james for beefing with vernon dursley even though lily told him to behave. the man really is just that annoying.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, sexual assault, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 1]

(Chapter 10)

Just One Dance

The week had passed in a blur of motion.

Y/N barely remembered what day it was half the time. Her days were consumed by fast-track training at the medical unit, her hands constantly wrapped around bandages or syringes, her mind honed like a blade on anatomy diagrams and triage drills. The instructors had taken notice—her name was suddenly followed by praise, by nods of approval, by quiet murmurs that she’d be ready for the front sooner than most. She was sharp. Efficient. Steady. A good nurse in the making.

But tonight wasn’t about saving lives.

Tonight was about saying goodbye.

The Showcase was brighter than usual—golden lights pouring across polished floors, band music rolling through the cavernous hall in waves of brass and drumbeat. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings, as polished shoes and swirling skirts turned the event into something like a fairytale. A wartime distraction. Something beautiful before everything changed.

And in the center of it all, standing tall in his brand-new uniform, was Bucky Barnes.

Y/N saw him before he saw her. For a moment, she didn’t move. Just watched.

He looked…good. Too good, actually. The uniform hugged his frame in a way that made it hard to breathe for reasons that had nothing to do with the tightness of her dress. The polished buttons, the crisp collar, the shine of his boots—all of it screamed soldier. But that wasn’t what made her heart twist.

What got her was the way he smiled at Steve when he didn’t know she was looking. The quiet, real kind of smile, the one that made her remember being fifteen and barefoot on the Coney Island boardwalk, stealing pretzels from a stand while Bucky laughed so hard he almost dropped his soda.

That boy was still in there. Beneath the uniform, beneath the charm.

And tomorrow, he’d be gone.

She walked up slowly, heels clicking against the floor. Bucky turned just as she reached them, that grin of his already starting to form—and then stopping.

His gaze swept over her. Once, then again, slower this time.

“You clean up nice, doll,” he said, low and warm.

Y/N tried not to smile. Tried.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Barnes.” She adjusted the collar of his jacket slightly. “Though I’d bet money you were late getting dressed because you couldn’t figure out which way the belt goes.”

Bucky scoffed. “Please. I had it figured out before Steve even got his shoes on.”

“I heard that,” Steve muttered from behind them, but there was no heat in it—just quiet affection, tucked behind tired eyes and a half-hearted smile.

Y/N turned toward him, arms folding as she gave him a look. “Steve. Tell me you didn’t get in another fight.”

There was a pause.

“Are you serious?” she snapped, rounding on Steve. “Again?”

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t that bad,” Bucky interjected with a shake of his head. “That’s what he always says.”

Y/N crossed her arms, her jaw tightening as she glared at Steve. Her lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. Of course it was bad. Steve’s fights always were. No matter how many times he claimed otherwise, no matter how battered he looked afterward, it was always “not that bad.” She opened her mouth, ready to tear into him—

But Bucky, ever the interrupter, smirked as he waved a hand lazily behind her head.

“You know, Steve,” he said, voice slick with amusement, “you’re about to be the last eligible man in New York. There’s, what, three and a half million women here?”

Steve gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’d settle for just one.”

Bucky’s grin widened. That signature grin—the one that made strangers lean in and made Y/N want to slap it off his face. “Good thing I took care of that.”

Y/N turned at the shift in his tone.

Her heart dropped.

Two women were making their way toward them, their steps confident, their smiles glittering beneath the golden light. One dark-haired and curvy, the other petite with a practiced pout. Bright lipstick. Curled lashes. The kind of women Bucky Barnes never seemed to run out of.

Oh.

“Hey, Bucky!” the dark-haired one said, her voice syrup-sweet and too familiar. She practically melted into his side, and without hesitation, Bucky slipped an arm around her waist like it belonged there.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

The heat rose to her face, and she didn’t even bother fighting it this time. Of course, he brought dates. Of course he did. It was his last night in Brooklyn—why wouldn’t he have someone on his arm, maybe even a backup?

Still, something ugly and sharp scraped at her ribs.

“Doll, meet Claire and Margie,” Bucky said, grinning like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just gut-punched her with his charm. “They’re joining us tonight. Thought Steve could use some company too.”

Y/N managed a smile, or something close to one. It was thin. Brittle. The kind you give to someone at a funeral when you don’t know what to say.

Around her, the room hummed with music and laughter. People were dancing, drinking, celebrating a future she wasn’t even sure they’d have. But all she could feel was the pressure building behind her eyes and the warmth of the room curdling into something suffocating.

What am I even doing here?

She didn’t belong in this. Not next to him. Not in this version of his life.

“You know what?” she said, barely above a whisper. “I think I’ll head home.”

She turned, already moving before he could say anything else.

Bucky’s hand dropped from Claire’s waist.

“What?” he said, surprised. “Come on, doll. It’s my last night.”

She paused. Just for a second.

Damn him.

She should keep walking. She should let the door hit her on the way out, go home, and forget all of this. He had made it perfectly clear where his priorities were—he always had. She knew what kind of man Bucky was. Charming. Restless. Someone who liked to keep things easy, casual. Safe.

So why was her heart trying to crawl its way out of her chest?

Why did it ache like this?

She could still feel the weight of his gaze from across the room—how he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his voice softened when it was just the two of them. The moment in the hospital when he saw her hurt and didn’t look away.

There was something there. Something real.

But then he brought a date.

Two, actually.

Y/N clenched her jaw, her fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. She could walk out. Leave him to his pretty girls and silver tongue and make-believe goodbyes. That would be the smart thing to do.

But still—she hesitated.

And Bucky saw it.

He felt it like a pulse, subtle but undeniable.

For months now, he’d told himself it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. She deserved more than what he could offer, and Steve—God, Steve would kill him if he knew how often Bucky thought about her when he was supposed to be thinking of anything else.

But watching her now—shoulders squared, jaw set, like she was holding herself together just long enough to make it to the door—he felt something shift. Crack. That threadbare self-control he’d been clinging to snapped under the weight of it.

The regret came fast and sharp.

Claire? Margie? A performance. A deflection. One he regretted the second Y/N’s eyes darkened and her smile disappeared.

Y/N groaned. "Ergh fine." She spun on her heels and headed back their way.

“But believe me, Barnes,” she said, finally turning to him, her voice cool and biting, “if this wasn’t your last night here, a day in no man’s land would feel like a vacation.”

She laughed. Light. Careless.

But it didn’t touch her eyes.

And Bucky noticed.

He always noticed.

And for the first time in a long time, he wished he didn’t.

The night stretched on, glittering and grand, the Stark Showcase in full swing around her. Bright lights danced across the walls like fireflies, pulsing in time with the music. Sleek displays of futuristic tech lined the hall, drawing in curious onlookers with promises of tomorrow—faster, stronger, brighter. Engineers in pressed suits gave demos to eager investors, and laughter echoed beneath the domed ceiling like a celebration of something none of them could name.

But Y/N barely registered any of it.

She stood near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, her eyes skimming over polished machinery and flashing bulbs without really seeing them. Her thoughts were too loud, drowning out the noise around her.

Every time she glanced up, she caught Bucky looking at her.

And every time, he looked away just a little too quickly—like he wasn’t supposed to be watching, like he hadn’t already been doing it for minutes before she noticed.

She could feel the tension crackling in the air between them, invisible but undeniable. He was only a few feet away, but it felt like miles. His hand rested casually on Claire’s lower back, but his attention kept drifting. To her.

It was maddening.

And it was breaking her heart a little more with every passing second.

Steve eventually muttered something about heading home. Y/N didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. The slump in his shoulders, the quiet frustration in his voice—it was another forged paper, another failed attempt to enlist. His date didn’t even pretend to care. She smiled politely, said she had to be up early, and vanished into the crowd without a backward glance.

And just like that, it was down to three.

Y/N, Bucky, and Claire.

Y/N shifted her weight, suddenly feeling the pinch of her heels and the ache behind her knees. Her head was buzzing—maybe from the drink, maybe from the suffocating pressure of pretending she didn’t care.

She set her empty glass down with a quiet clink.

“I should go too,” she said, her voice low but steady, already turning to leave.

But before she could take a full step, a hand closed gently around her wrist.

“Stay,” Bucky said.

He wasn’t smirking now. His voice was softer this time, quieter. Like he didn’t want to ask. Like he needed to.

“Come on,” he added, “it’s my last night.”

That was the second time he’d said it. Like she needed reminding. Like she didn’t already feel the clock ticking in her bones.

Claire’s voice cut through the moment. Sweet, expectant. “You promised me a dance, Sergeant Barnes.”

Y/N looked at her—at the way her fingers curled around Bucky’s arm, possessive and sure. Like she belonged there.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at Claire.

He barely even acknowledged her.

In fact, he almost seemed to pull away from her touch, just slightly. Not enough to make a scene, but enough that Y/N noticed.

No, his eyes were still on her.

And suddenly, she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She pulled her wrist free gently, and Bucky let her go without protest.

Why are you still here? she asked herself, more desperate now.

She didn’t have an answer. All she knew was that every second felt harder to bear. The laughter sounded hollow, the music too loud, too sharp. She needed space. She needed distance.

She watched as Bucky finally took Claire’s hand and led her toward the dance floor. He said something to her, something light, and Claire giggled in response. But there was a stiffness in his shoulders that Y/N had never seen before. His steps weren’t confident. He wasn’t performing like he usually did.

Still, he was dancing with someone else. Right in front of her.

She watched until she couldn’t anymore.

The weight in her chest pressed down harder, a mix of frustration and something far more painful. This wasn’t new. Bucky had done this before—plenty of times. But tonight, it felt personal.

Maybe because it was the last time.

She downed the rest of her drink in one quick swallow, the burn in her throat grounding her just enough to move.

She grabbed her coat and started toward the exit, each step heavier than the last. Her mind raced—telling herself to go, to let this night end the way it was always meant to. With nothing said, nothing broken. She would go home, wash off the glitter and regret, and forget that she’d ever let herself think tonight might be different.

But just as her hand brushed the door, someone caught it.

Not her wrist this time—her hand. Warm and steady.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that lightly,” Bucky said, and this time, there was a grin on his face. But it was different. Less cocky. More unsure.

Y/N stiffened, eyes flicking up to his. “Bucky—”

“Just one dance.”

She hesitated.

God, she wanted to say no. To tell him he didn’t get to ask her for this after everything. After showing up with Claire. After dancing with someone else while she stood alone and invisible.

But he was leaving tomorrow.

And she wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

So she swallowed the sharp edge of her pride, and nodded. Just once.

What harm could it do?

Just one dance.

[alolantikibar]

A long way from home... Finally got around to doing a painting of my Pokemon OC, Thistle! More context on this piece under the read more.

Thistle is a researcher of Space-time Distortions and Ultra Wormholes, and has gotten herself eebie deebied on more than one occasion. (Only a couple of those instances were on purpose.) She's also from a long line of Dragon tamers, her grandmother Yarrow being the previous champion of the Kanto region prior to Blue. Thistle, however, did not share her family's affinity for training Dragon types. After years of Yarrow attempting to teach her, Thistle begged her family to let her pursue a career in science instead. They agreed, though they would hold her lineage and grandmother's legacy over her head into adulthood. As an adult, Thistle refused to train any Dragons. She held this conviction firmly up until the time she accidentally ended up sending herself back in time to the wartime period of when AZ was king. Thistle is usually able to figure out a way to get back to her original time period, but it took several years before Thistle managed to leave this time given the war. These were very lonely, difficult years for Thistle until she came upon an injured Gabite.

Thistle nursed the Gabite back to health, and it unfortunately took a liking to her. It seemed to sense that Thistle had some sort of trauma regarding Dragon-types, and was overly affectionate to compensate. It wouldn't leave Thistle alone, and so she begrudgingly accepted it as her Pokemon. The pair ended up forming a strong bond. Gabite eventually evolved into Garchomp, and was instrumental in Thistle being able to protect herself and get back to her correct time period. ANYWAYS LOTTA YAPPING, I have more info about her on her (unfinished) TH page if you want to give it a read. https://toyhou.se/28261387.thistle

[walmartomen]

have i posted her here yet. Hi chat i bestow unto thee a healer ❤️.

shes based off of old wartime nurse campaigns and she blackrocks. also fun little glass and clay trinkets of animals and angels theyre her favorit she has a little like menagerie of them

[coffeestainedcamera]

Finally got around to catching up on Spy x Fam manga and man. I def didn't expect a parody of "vodka martini" spy fiction in Shonen Jump to begin to be even more aggressive in talking about the horrors of war. But considering that the mag's target audience is kids and teens, it's nice.

And yeah, I'm actually serious about the whole thing. Spoilers for chapter 90 and onwards.

It's already been a series about the aftereffects of war. Like, we've got Yor being an assassin to take care of her younger brother during the war. She prob can't cook bc being an orphan living through war rationing isn't exactly conducive to learning this life skill. Anya was a human experiment and is terrified of abandonment. Bond was an animal experiment and a chapter from his POV shows he's still pretty traumatized. Loid has multiple chapters from his POV about being a kid during wartime and losing his family.

And now, we get an entire arc about the principal and the nice auntie.

Y'know, where he keeps being a history teacher to teach the kids not to repeat the past mistakes, while people keep pushing him to teach physics to enable the war effort. Where he openly says he wishes radios were used for something besides broadcasting propaganda. Where he gets jailed for "discrediting the war effort" (aka demanding to stop using the deaths of undertrained volunteers as propaganda).

And where the nice auntie volunteers because she lost too many people she cares about and can't handle it anymore. Where she sees shooting for insubordination. Where she loses friends on the front lines and almost dies. Where she's nursed back to health by a nice lady, even though she lost a daughter to soldiers like her. Where on her way back, the nice auntie muses about how the stars in the enemy territory are the same as at home. Where she loses more friends on her way back, and finds out the guy she loved is married now.

Like, this is the series very bluntly sitting the kids down for a talk and it's desperately needed. We've got two large-scale wars (and ya, the nationalism leading up to one sent my fam packing) and iirc Japan has a right-winger problem. Over in US, I just had a prestigious consulting firm roll up with a seemingly nice and stable government consulting practice. But the hiring manager wouldn't stfu about how cool auditing the DOD is and the places I'd go, so I noped out. Military anything provokes bad memories for me. Oh, and had to sit through his cringe "wow, you're so good at English" thing, but I digress!

I do hope these kinds of stories enable kids to make similar types of decisions in adulthood. Because ultimately, it's not just the draft and volunteering that contribute to the military-industrial complex. It's also all the arms dealers and auxiliary services. And if able, I think good adults should ensure that trash is deprived of brain power, esp if they're in an in-demand sector.

Bc really, if you're not watching the news, do you at least want to avoid contributing to what's shown on these pages?

[eclecticmuses]

After Heartbreak

Author: @eclecticmuses​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Rating: Explicit Chapters: 15 Relationships/Characters: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Leo Fitz’s Mother, Jemma’s Parents, Milton, Other Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Romance and Angst, Childhood Sweethearts, Second Chances, Class Differences, Angst With A Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content Summary: February, 1945. Jemma Simmons is working as a nurse at a Red Cross convalescent hospital in the south of England caring for wounded soldiers when she runs into a ghost from her past: Leo Fitz, her childhood sweetheart, who was cruelly ripped away from her by her disapproving parents several years prior. Can they rekindle their friendship and find something new? Or will Jemma’s responsibilities and family ruin their chance at love once and for all?

Excerpt from Chapter 2:

Jemma woke up the next morning with a pit of dread already formed in her stomach. Maybe it was the dreams she’d had, formless like fog and already slipping away from her mind, or perhaps it was because she knew she would inevitably see Fitz when she arrived at the hospital for work.

She sighed into the dim light of her room. Perhaps it was both.

But there was nothing else for it. She had to get up and get on with it, because that’s what everyone did in wartime. There could be no shirking of duty because she was afraid or uncomfortable. People depended on her to do her part.

Jemma pushed aside her blankets and got out of bed, wiggling her toes against the floorboards as she stretched. Time to start her morning routine again.

Read the rest on AO3!

[motherofdogs1010]

Letters to Juliet & Romeo I (Thomas Shelby x Reader)

Summary: Heartbroken and in the midst of the Great War as a nurse, Y/N L/N writes to a person she never expected to write to before... her brother's friend, Thomas Shelby. But the war's over now and it is time to face the letters...

Warnings: wartime angst, talks of wartime violence, pre-Peaky Blinder Tommy, soldier Tommy

Italics: content of the letters

Series Masterlist

January 1916, 2 Years into the Great War (WW1)

"L/N, you got a letter."

Looking up from the book she was reading, Y/N set it to the side as one of the soldiers came in, handing her a envelope that was a little dirty, had seen a little wear and tear but she recognized the hand writing on it.

She recognized his handwriting after months of writing to Tommy, Y/N remembered the first time she had written Tommy; it came after months of not hearing from her brother when he had left to France with the rest of the men in Small Heath. Y/N had made the decision to join in as a nurse with the Red Cross and maybe it was foolish, but she remembered the night before leaving on the train, when her nursing uniform was on her bed as the nerves were coursing through her that she grabbed a piece a paper and began to write.

Dear Thomas that letter began, she poured out everything about how Small Heath was, how she had signed up as a nurse and how she prayed she wouldn't find any of them in the camp hospital she was going to be. She had written how she barely had made the qualifications of being a nurse for the Red Cross with her just having turned 25 and such.

"Who keeps writing you, F/N?" one of her fellow nurses teased.

"Don't you know that's her boyfriend?" another responded.

"He's not my boyfriend", she denied, feeling a heat go through her.

"Sure he isn't."

The letters have begun as something innocent when Tommy had responded back to her first letter, she could sense the shock in his letter about her writing him but as the letters progressed, so did their relationship through their letters.

Opening the newest letter, Y/N felt a sense of anxiety in her as she remembered having had the courage to send Tommy a picture of her in her uniform; she remembered taking the picture once her training had been done, having donned the periwinkle, long-sleeve floor-length dress with the white apron that wrapped around her and went down to the ground. She had to tightly wrapped her back back into the white cap like habit.

A big red cross over the chest of her apron, she had sent the photo off with her letter and prayed that he didn't dislike it.

Reading the letter, she traced over his handwriting, feeling where he pressed hard on the paper as he wrote as she read how he found her to be beautiful in her photo.

You look even more beautiful than when I last saw you...

It made her heart clench as she saw how he wrote how he hid the photo in his service jacket from the others, that he didn't want them to see the lovely girl that kept writing him letters because he felt possessive over this same piece of heaven that was keeping him sane.

Y/N could picture Tommy in the trenches, covered in grime and dirt as he had to listen to the horrors of the wartime. She read how he longed for the war to be over, how he was fortunate enough to be with people that he knew, but he was terrified.

They're sending me to the underground soon. They want me and the others to be sappers, dig in the tunnels under No Man's Land

Y/N felt her heart drop at the prospect of Tommy going into the tunnels, having to dig with shovels under the handles broke and he would be forced to dig with his hands. She had seen some soldiers came in, having treated their hands for digging under the trenches and dealing with the explosives.

My only comfort is you, being able to bring the picture you sent me down in the ground where death might be waiting for me... the only thing that has gotten me through this damned war is you...

"Ladies, we got mass casualties coming in!" their head nurse shouted into the tent. "Look alive, ladies!"

Y/N tucked the newest letter into her pillowcase, knowing she was once again about to face the horrors of the war as she reminisced on Tommy's smile, she knew he smiled a lot.

But now, she had a feeling he didn't smile as much.

Dear Thomas,

I'm sure you're curious as to why you received a letter from B/N's litter sister. Frankly, I'm a little shocked I'm writing to you, I've not heard from my brother no matter the amount of letters I've sent.

That was how the first letter started, Tommy sometimes would re-read the letter when he couldn't sleep amongst the noises of screaming soldiers and anxiety.

"Shelby, ya girl's sent another letter", one of his fellow soldiers said as he held out a envelope.

Tommy grabbed the envelope, none of his brothers were around as he opened the letter; he remembers the shy smiles Y/N would send him when he would see her as she visited her brother, the little nose wrinkle she got when she would laugh a loud, deep belly laugh (one that he knew others called unladylike, but that he remembered fondly).

He felt the smooth texture of a photo in the letter, pulling the picture to his eyes and he felt a sense of... love come over him as he saw the picture of her in her nursing ward uniform. A small smile on her full lips, the roundness of her cheeks that only made her look younger, he could see in her eyes the nerves of everything. The cap hid her hair from view and he wondered if she had cut it short like other nurses were forced to do because of sanitation and he was curious if she still smiled.

He hoped she did because the only time he smiled was when he got her letters...

[maxwell-grant]

So, having pulpified the World's Finest, will you be moving on to the third member of the DC Trinity? And are you averse to continuing in this vein with the rest of the Big 7?

Anon asked: What reinventing Wonder Woman as a pulp hero? Would she be the ultimate challenge or significantly easy?

Don't think I'd have as much to say about the others and then I'd just be making up new characters which is, what I'm already doing with these anyway. Maybe I will at some point if prompted,but anyhow, I knew I was gonna have to get around to Wonder Woman, so let's do it, and let's make it 3 like the other two:

Wonder Woman is considerably more difficult than the other two because with Batman and Superman you have reasonably charted road maps connecting them to pulp characters they're already created from, where as Wonder Woman's roots are older, far more rooted in myth and fairytale and fantasy, which risks muddling up the concept as to how "pulp" this pulp hero Wonder Woman can be (and I already do that a lot). Picking facets of Wonder Woman's basic traits to compare and reinterpret is gonna be a little harder than it was for the other two. There's not really much to go off by looking for Amazonian characters, since the Amazons tended to be written as very basic villains in fiction before Wonder Woman, and subverting that was part of the point of Wonder Woman in the first place. And if we try to find female protagonists in the pipeline of American pulp fiction as a reference point, we're gonna come up painfully short. As I've argued before when asked about female pulp characters, you really gotta know where to look, so we're gonna have to expand our options considerably to make this

One place we can start is by going for the biggest thing upfront Wonder Woman has in common with several of the more popular pulp heroes: A general involvement with a World War, and let's go with World War 1 since that's the one that actually figured the most in the creation of pulp heroes at the time, not contemporary pastiches. Unsurprisingly, there were many, many folk tales, legends and myths being passed around in the fields and elsewhere during WW1, some of them older legends resurfaced, and others were entirely made up. The Chimera Brigade uses this as a central plot points and in particular this has also helped that series add an odd authenticity to it's pulp characters, and maybe this is something that could work at first for an pulp hero take on Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman as The Proto-Superhero Folk Angel of Wartime, the living myth of dreamland that coalesces into human form to save us from the sins of our fathers and rulers. Easy to dismiss as a faceless hallucination up until the moment she saves a village by wrestling a tank into scrap metal.

(Wonder Woman art by Paul Sizer)

A Wonder Woman who first became active circa the 1910s, during the same time period as dime novel detectives like Nick Carter, emerging master villains, and odd proto-superheroes like The Nyctalope and Sar Dubnotal, which she has more in common with. She's entering a turbulent world for the first time and the problems she needs to address seem beyond the scope of any man or woman, and maybe part of the story could be about her having to figure out exactly that. Maybe she's not ready for the world, or the world isn't ready for her, but here she is, and with the world bombing itself into nothingness she's running out of time.

Sometimes a lot of what differentiates pulp heroes from superheroes comes down merely to perspective, of who gets to tell the story about the extraordinary figure and what setting or context surrounds them, so we're going here with what is sort of a more straightforward take on Wonder Woman, but warped and told from the varied perspectives around her. Soldiers on the battlefield being saved by her, nurses in battalions reporting a mysterious young miracle worker by the name of Diana Prince and patients breathlessly talking about the glittering angel that saved them, detectives trying to crack the case of the latest ghost story or potential master villain, master villains sensing that this apparition can rock the foundation of the world as they know it or even be something they can exploit. This is a Diana who you could place having a complicated rivalry with Irma Vep of Les Vampires, or even at the crosshairs of Fantomas, the evil of man's world personified.

The next alternative is to turn sights on the more sci-fi end of these and align a story centered around Themyscira and Wonder Woman's mission with a pulp sci-fi utopian vein, and the main inspirations that come to mind here would be the more political and social-minded strands of utopian pulp sci-fi, like "The Sultana's Dream" which reads very much like an earlier take on Themyscira, or Bogdanov's The Red Star, which is about the protagonist's journey to a communist utopia on Mars where blood is shared among it's inhabitants, to learn from their example as well as impart his own, modeled after Bogdanov's own beliefs as well as his career as a physician who would go on to establish Russian's first blood-transfusion institute, and I bring this up as a parallel to Marston's own background with the invention of the polygraph and the influence it had on the character.

Wonder Woman as The Sci-Fi Utopian Manifesto Agent, the ambassador of a revolutionary way of living, who's here to show us how to follow it forward through science, diplomacy, and political and social liberation, whether it's Star Trek day-to-day adventures or an in-depth political exploration of Paradise Island as a concept with real, significant political power to it. And yes, I will have to point out how a lot of these sci-fi utopian tales also can read a lot like pro-colonial tracts about how great it is to have primitives drafted into a superior culture the author agrees with, and yes, that is also a thing Wonder Woman courts having in common with, it is inescapable given the character was designed with the fundamental goal of transforming the world according to the creator's viewpoint and perspective.

I bring this up not to pass judgement, but because Wonder Woman was a character built on radical and controversial and yes, even uncomfortable ideas, and so were these stories I'm using as a reference here. These are, by design, political fantasies and manifestos using the pulp medium to get away with unconventional ideas and stories, starting a discussion or even controversy is their point. Wonder Woman was a character designed to trojan horse radicalism into the funny books, so the idea here is to simply ditch the trojan horse and see where it goes. Not to reiterate Marston's viewpoints or politics, if anything this is where you're supposed to fill in with different ones to try something new, but fundamentally this is a Wonder Woman who has to be About Something and who puts Paradise Island front and center, and with it, the suggestion of a world that can be arranged differently, and perhaps in better, ways than ours.

It portrays Ladyland—a utopian (or, perhaps, dystopian for some) state with mirrored gender hierarchies: the country is ruled exclusively by women who fend off men preoccupied with predatory attitudes, repel enemy strikes, and eradicate crime. Ladyland has enacted general education for women, alternative environmental management, and the use of eco transport.

The visionary story published over a hundred years ago in the English-language women’s journal The Indian Ladies’ Magazine, the first of its kind in British India, has long become a classic of feminist literature in South Asia, anticipating not only the women’s liberation movement but also the environmental agenda which is generally considered compulsory today.

(Images counter-clockwise: cutout art representing Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain's "The Sultana's Dream" drawn by Chitra Ganesh, "Wonder Woman: Historia" by Kelly Sue DeConnick and Phil Jimenez, and a cover for Alexander Bogdanov's "Red Star")

One notable early example of Indian science fiction is Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain’s “Sultana’s Dream” (1905). Set in a future, women–dominated utopia called “Ladyland,” Sultana’s Dream is about the conflict between the women of Ladyland, who are the scientists of the country, and the men, who rebel against the women and form an army but are defeated by the science of the women and forced to retreat into purdah. A similar utopian sentiment appears in Tekumalla Raja Gopala Rao’s Vihanga Yanam (1910), in which the Indian woman Padmavati designs and creates a technologically–advanced submarine, not unlike Captain Nemo’s Nautilus, and travels to the bottom of the sea. She gathers an enormous amount of wealth from shipwrecks and uses this money to transform Indian into a techno–utopia - Women in Pre–1947 Chinese and Indian Horror Fiction and Film, by Jess Nevins

Red Star follows the journey of Leonid, a Bolshevik revolutionary who is offered the chance to go to Mars and, once there, encounters a utopian socialist society explicitly posited as the immediate, achievable future of humankind on Earth. (Bogdanov's) description of Martian society is at once located in humanity’s present and future—it is in the present day, but the Martians represent humanity’s immediate developmental end goal. Blood transfusion as a technique was one that Bogdanov not only described, but intended to implement among his own society, specifically with the intention of bringing about the socialist utopia described in his novel - Economic Circulations: Blood-Based Systems of Value in Alexander Bogdanov’s Red Star, by Virginia L.Conn

And the final one we're going with is taking a step back from the character's intent and history to laser focus on Diana as a character. Specifically, a public domain Wonder Woman, shut off from the rest of the DCU and the Justice League, and perhaps even shut off from Themyscira. Maybe for this one we can run with an angle more akin to takes where she's exiled, or something akin to the original backstory for America Chavez, who was explicitly designed to be Marvel's modern riff on Wonder Woman, where the utopian homeland was there and it matters but it's something she can't go back to, and can only carry with her as part of her dual heritage. The intent here is to push Diana closer to the knight-errant archetypes you see in pulp fiction, the cowboys and youxia / wuxia folk heroes and sword-and-sorcery wanderers striding their path across the world wherever it will take them (by no means am I suggesting sword-and-sorcery as an influence past this specific aspect, get rid of that stupid fucking sword by all means). Stripped of the superhero signifiers and context, even if still fundamentally one.

(Top images left-to-right: Do Ha-Na and Chu Mae-ok from The Uncanny Counter, America Chavez by Jung-Geun Yoon, Wonder Woman (1987) #75)

(Bottom images left-to-right: Heo Im from Live Up To Your Name, Chu Liuxiang, Wonder Woman by Mike Becker)

Wonder Woman as the Fantasy Knight-Errant Liberator. Like the pacifist take on the swordsman bandit seen in Chu Liuxiang, who only ever fights with a steel fan to block and parry attacks, robs from the rich to help the poor and solves mysteries with a cool head and a large network of friends and allies. Something like Heo Im from Live Up To Your Name, the superhumanly-skilled Joseon acupuncturist who is thrown across space and time into modern times to experience not just personal growth, but the thorough understanding of medicine necessary for him to literally write the book on it, who makes for a deeply compelling and versatile blend of cool, funny, kind and tragic as a protagonist. Or something like the Counters from The Uncanny Counter, who operate as superpowered agents of heaven in stopping and exorcising evil spirits who latch onto wicked and vulnerable humans and patching the wounds left by both, dealing with financial and social crimes and protecting victims of economic exploitation and injustice as much as they have grueling fistfights with possessed telekinetic serial killers, even to save them from themselves. Maybe some design cues from the Counters' striped hoodies or America Chavez, the dimension-hopping, star-spangled gay jock powerhouse who can go anywhere and do anything (and who suffers from the exact same problems as WW does in that they can't stop fiddling with her backstory and piling baggage that's actively detrimental to the character).

You take Diana, the teacher, redeemer and diplomat whose core strength is the concept of truth and her ability to see and expose it, who's out to dismantle all systems of violence and actively pursues social justice and forward-minded activism, who goes out looking for new experiences to better learn and understand the world around her and treats a minimum-wage gig serving tacos with unwavering and unselfconscious dedication and commitment that she uses to tackle a mythological and epic playing field.

Someone who faces forces of allegorical monstrosity and mythological metaphor and embodiments of bigotry. Someone who interfaces with politicians one hour and tends to soup kitchens in the next, who opens shelters and goes palling around with the Holiday Girls, someone who rides around on invisible jets and swims with sharks and turns enemies into friends. Someone who knows for a fact that a better way of living is possible because it's where she comes from. Take these ingredients and play around with them, modernize them, because Wonder Woman must be facing towards the future, and the intent to fashion a kinder, more loving, better one.

And hey, not only does she already have the perfect tool for the job in the lasso, but she's even got a distinct ride and animal companion to go around righting wrongs with and striding into the sunset with.

(Left-to-right: Justice Riders Wonder Woman by JH Williams, Jumpa art by Yasmín Flores Montañes)

[readingwithemi]

The Women | Kristin Hannah

I fell victim to the hype around a book and, friends, it was not worth it.

THE WOMEN by Kristin Hannah is a book about the women who served in Vietnam and their experiences in the war and afterwards. Specifically, it's about Frances "Frankie" McGrath a nursing student who enlists in the Army and goes to Vietnam to serve as a combat nurse. While she's there she makes friends, falls in love, and finds her true calling in nursing. When she comes back home, she struggles to adjust to a civilian world that is, itself, struggling to understand this war.

Great! Good! I like this premise! There's alot to work with here! Frankie is a fairly naive young woman who goes into war with a very idealistic world view - War is honorable, the US is doing the correct thing, she will be helping people - and then immediately has it shattered by the realities of combat in Vietnam and its aftermath.

The problem is Kristin Hannah is not a good writer. She is either lacking the ability - or the desire - to closely examine any of this. The Vietnam War is presented without comment or examination (which is WILD to me) and in a very shallow "This Is Vietnam. It Is Hot. It Is Raining." sort of way. Frankie sees horror after horror in the operating room and doesn't form ANY sort of opinion about the war machine that is killing and maiming young men and boys.

You know what she DOES have thoughts on? The married surgeon who wants to sleep with her! We got more moralizing and examination on the rights and wrongs of a wartime affair than we did about the actual war itself.

The whole book is written in this weird shallow, superficial way. There's pop culture references and fashion descriptions so you know it's the late 60s or the 70s - there's hippies and protestors - but it all feels so empty. Nothing has any substance! Hannah continually TELLS you things but she doesn't seem interested in SHOWING you anything or digging into any idea or anything more complex than "should Frankie sleep with this guy?"

Like, OK, one of Frankie's friends from Vietnam is a fellow nurse named Barb. Barb is a black radical - She's got posters of Malcolm X and Muhammad Ali. After the war, she joins various protest groups and is incredibly outspoken about the war. Hannah also has her spouting dialogue that is - straightforwardly!! - a conservative talking point from Ronald Reagan!! What are you doing!!

Related to this, the only real view point that Hannah seems to hold and make is this - the only moral and correct protests against Vietnam were the ones held by veterans. Civilians - especially college students - should not have been protesting because they were not affected by the war. This is a point that Barb explicitly expresses (and a point that Reagan argued to end free college in CA) and it is implicit throughout the book as a whole. It's gross!

This book's other great sin is that Frankie is an unlikable, uninteresting, uncompelling main character. She drifts through her own story, propelled only by the men around her. A man gives her the idea to go Vietnam. She's given the self confidence to be a combat nurse by a man. She's saved from addiction by a man. She gets her final validation from a man. For a book that purports to be all about women and centering them, men sure do play an outsized role.

I'm not even going to get into the final third or so which is just an unending soap opera revolving around a man and whether or not he's going to leave his wife for Frankie - it dragged on and on and on and I hated it!

1/5 stars - do not recommend - at least it was easy to read - I will never read another Kristin Hannah book ever again!