#tommy is the name for a british soldier. he wanted to be his Own soldier and nobody else's

[codecicle]

hey guys is this anythingburger :-)

all art credit goes to sadist and their animatics! go here NEEEOOOWW

[simonrileysfavteacup]

Nightmares

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x wife!reader

Word count: 831

Warnings: Dad!Simon, Mom!reader, simon being a good daddy, simon talking like the british bitch he is, and ur son being named tommy after simon's brother

Summary: When Simon gets home late from a mission, everything in your house is supposed to be silent. Except your son.

Simon steps into the quiet home, sighing as he leaves Ghost at the door. Everything came tumbling off his shoulders as he takes in the smell of baked cookies, assuming you had baked for your little boy, Tommy. 

He checks the fridge, and yup, cookies. Chocolate chip, sitting on a plate. Soft, the only way 7-month old Tommy could eat them.

He hesitates but shuts the fridge again, deciding against eating sugar for dinner. Especially not something you made for the sweet little boy you were raising. 

He sighs. It’s late at night, no one’s awake. He’s going to bet you’re curled up in your duvet, Tommy curled up in his own nursery, in his crib. The crib Simon built. 

He’s halfway through a glass of water when he hears a whine from upstairs. A soft whine, but still reaches his super soldier ears. Coming from the cracked open door of his sons bedroom. He walks upstairs slowly, as Tommy’s whines get louder. Until they reach a cry. 

He assumes you haven’t waken up yet, with all intentions of calming Tommy down before you do wake up. 

He pushes the cracked door open until he sees his baby boy crying against the bar of his crib. Simon smiles, walking over and reaching out to pick up Tommy. 

Tommy’s eyes lock on Simon’s. For a second, he’s quiet. And Simon thinks he’s alright. 

But then Tommy wails louder than ever before. 

More than enough to wake you up in the next room. 

He keeps wailing even when Simon puts a hand on him and when Simon picks him up, he thrashes around and almost kicks Simon. 

And that’s when Simon realizes he never took off his gear. 

Or his mask. 

He practically rips it off his head, throwing it somewhere across the nursery. He strips off all his clothing until he’s left in just a tight shirt and his tactical pants. “‘S me! ’S daddy. ‘S jus’ daddy!” 

Tommy’s wails calm down as he sees his fathers face and he finally reaches for him. Tiny hands grabbing at his father. 

Simon picks him up, holding him against his chest, cooing at him. “Nightmare?” 

He assumes Tommy’s sniffles means a yes. 

“I have ‘em too, bud. Don’ worry, yer mama will take good care of ya. She always takes good care of me,” Simon smiles at the little boy. “Trus’ her.”

Little to Simon’s knowledge, hearing your son’s cries, you had woken up, yawning as you walked to his room, wondering what on earth could possibly have bothered him now. 

He was changed, fed, tired…what could he possibly need? 

Oh. Daddy’s comfort. Forgot that.

You stand outside the room, watching Simon as he rocks the baby back to sleep, cooing soft nothings to him. You smile, leaning against the doorframe as your actions finally take Simon out of his stare into his son’s eyes. 

He turns, looking at you standing at the door. “Lovie.”

You bite back a happy squeal as you walk over to him, ducking into the arm that wasn’t holding Tommy. Resting a hand on Simon’s back, you bring your free hand up to rest on Tommy’s little belly, tickling him softly. “He would not go to sleep today, don’t know what his problem was. He kept wanting to be fed and then he cried over and over for toys and tummy time and god, he’s insane. He started sitting the other day and now, he won’t stop sitting in his crib and whining! Can you believe his attitude?” 

“Well, he is yer son,” Simon chuckles softly. 

You roll your eyes, “He’s just as petty as his daddy. Isn’t that right, bubby?”

The little boy giggles as you tickle him again. You look back up at Simon. He gives you a soft smile. “He go’ scared of my mas’. Ya thin’ he can’ recognize me?”

“No, he’s just been cranky. He’s seen you in your mask before, it’s not abnormal. He’s just a weird little boy,” you shrug. “Probably just got scared ‘cause the lights were off.”

“Thin’ he’s ready to go down again?” he asks, motioning to the crib. You nod and Simon sets him down, patting him on his chest. The boy lets out a loud gurgle, flashes of white between his pink lips from teething. 

You and Simon walk back to your shared bedroom, sighing as you lie down, Simon heading to shower. 

When he gets out, he slips on a pair of sweatpants and climbs into bed, curling into you. “Missed ya.”

“Ditto,” you smile, running a hand through his hair. “Did you eat?”

“Nah. Saw yer cookies though. Coulda’ ate ‘em, but figured they were Tom’s,” he cups your cheek, pulling your lips to his. “Ya two had fun while I was gone?”

“Mhm, watched sooo many episodes of Ms. Rachel, skipped over all the daddy parts,” you tease. “He’ll be saying mama in a month.”

“No’ if I go’ anythin’ to do with it.”

[red-riding-wood]

As The World Caves In

Moodboard by forgottonpeakywriter

Wrote this on a bit of a whim because I was inspired by this song. A modern AU in which the reader and Tommy are in the British infantry in a fictional war. It's nothing but angst, folks. Maybe a bit of fluff?

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F Reader

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

WARNINGS: war violence/themes, minor blood, romantic relationship, language

WC: 1454

“That’s it?” John’s tone was far from steady now as he breached the silence that hung, poignant, in the air between the members of your squad after the command had come over the radio.

A piercing blue gaze met yours, and Tommy nodded, no less in a state of shock than any of you. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated. You could feel the pain in that gaze as he tore it from yours to look to each of his soldiers. “Twenty fucking minutes. Make them count.”

You loosed your headset, and switched it off, not wanting to hear the frantic radio traffic.

Twenty minutes.

You’d spent more time thinking up silly fantasies about being back home, about living back in domesticity, about sharing a peaceful life with Tommy. A life that now, you would never have.

Before you could meet his gaze again, you peeled yourself from the group and disappeared between a couple of the caved-in buildings, chest heaving with a quickening breath and your heart slamming against a now seemingly-delicate ribcage. You couldn’t handle the quiver in John’s tone, the unusual silence of Arthur, the blue eyes that used to warm the emptiness in your chest but now wove your stomach into knots and chilled your flesh colder than the brisk December air.

You barely heard your name called past the hot roar of blood in your ears, and you ducked into an opening in the crumbled brick of one of the building’s walls, M4 clutched to your chest beneath trembling fingers.

The building did little to counter the cold; its windows were shattered from gunfire and its walls were cut like Swiss cheese from the bombs that had landed not even a week ago.

Twenty fucking minutes, you thought.

You had spent more time taking lives. Spent more time destroying these very buildings to combat enemy forces.

At last, you found the closest thing to a sanctuary; the walls had held out in this building, and your eyes caught on the bright red of a vintage record player, nestled in its own little haven between a kitchen island and a desk with nothing but a few scattered pencils and a hairbrush.

Make them count, he’d said.

You stopped as an idea struck you, and you let your rifle fall to the floor, the weight leaving the strap around your shoulder as if it had been a chain tethering you to this wretched place.

And you decided that, if only for those twenty minutes, that you would have the life you dreamt of.

---

Tommy couldn’t remember what his last words had been to Arthur and John, and he couldn’t help but keep glancing at his watch as he wound his way through the abandoned buildings in search of you. You hadn’t been answering your radio, but he refused to shed it until the faint sound of an old song began to play through the drywall, and he paused, headset falling from his ears and his panted breaths stilling.

He called your name, shouted it from lungs aching from the biting air of winter and a throat bitter with the faint tinge of bile. A few furnishings were loudly shoved to the side as he muscled his way through a door that had been blocked off, and clambered over them through a narrow hall.

He held his watch up. Four minutes.

The music was coming from another doorway, shut to the dark hall; daylight spilled from beneath the frame, and the tinny notes of a record player began to form a cohesive song now, a song that he recognised as the first one he had ever danced to with you. When he inhaled, threads of juniper and smoke met his lungs.

As he stepped past the threshold into the barren kitchen, his aquamarine gaze snapped to you and the bright yellow dress that hung a little too loose around your frame to be yours, at the hair you’d let fall over your shoulders as if you were not a soldier but a girl, at the eyes that stared back at him as if you’d been waiting for him for a century.

“What is this?” he demanded, and you swallowed, fighting back a tear as you stepped forward.

Your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall as it ticked, and you reached a hand out to the sergeant. “Come here,” you said, your voice quiet and broken. You couldn’t say much more past the knot in your throat.

Something about his countenance softened around sharp features, and he dropped his headset to the floor alongside your rifle.

A calloused but warm hand met yours, sending a pleasant shiver through your body. The cold air bit at your bare limbs, but you pulled him close, the scent of him now inhaled past the juniper of the burning candles you’d set along the dining table.

A hot breath fanned across your lashes as his forehead tipped to yours, and you reached a hand to the bone of a hollowed cheek, to the dark, chestnut locks of hair that had grown out shaggy from years of service. And his eyes bore into yours as the world became blurry with your tears.

“There were still some things around,” you breathed, your breaths becoming one and your head growing light. “I found this dress in one of the closets. It was the only one there was.”

A smile pulled at his lips, and he chuffed out a laugh. “I hate yellow,” he said.

“I know.” You smiled sadly, trying not to glance at the clock in your peripheral, trying to keep your gaze locked in his as he swept the tears from your eyes. You studied the way his hair fell across his forehead when his gaze left yours to sweep across the dress once more. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, and chapped lips brushed yours, your heart still slamming against your ribcage.

The clock ticked again, and your breath came shattered against the face you cupped in your hand. His fingers came up along your back, thumb moving back in forth in a lulling motion.

“In the bleak midwinter…” he breathed.

You blinked another onslaught of tears from your eyes, your lashes sticking together in the frigid air.

It was difficult to remind yourself, in this moment of pain that shot through your chest too viciously to not be real, that you had died already, that all of this was an afterlife, that none of this really belonged to you.

But you mirrored his words, your voice breaking.

The two of you barely stole a kiss before the air was ripped from your lungs, and you staggered falling against the table; his hand cupped your hip, dirtied fingernails digging into the fabric of your dress in an attempt to stabilize you.

Pressure erupted in your skull, and you couldn’t hear the music past the roar of bricks falling around you and the ringing of the shockwave. Caught in a swirl of smoke and debris, bits of drywall landed across Tommy’s hair, and shards of glass bit into your side as the two of you clung to one another on shaking legs and gasped for air. Blood ran in a line from his ear down the edge of his jaw, your fingertips growing sticky. Fear like nothing you’d ever seen glimmered in the blues of his eyes, eating at a heart that ached with yearning and tragedy.

The clock was gone now, the candles snuffed out in the cloud of ash that pervaded your burning lungs. Firelight gleamed against the side of Tommy’s face as a gout of flame engulfed your vision, and you uttered his name as if it were the only thing that could save you, but no sound came past the chaos around you.

A thumb ran up and down along your neck soothingly, and he said something back to you, but you furrowed your brow, looking to his lips to try and read what he said.

Keep your eyes on me.

The last of your breath was expelled from your lungs in a tremulous cough, and your fingers tugged at the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to bring him closer despite the searing heat that whelmed you.

The pencils and the record player struck you, but you kept your eyes glued to the twin blues that stared desperately back at you as if you were the only thing that could’ve saved him.

And before the flames could swallow you and the world could fully cave in around the darkening edges of your vision, his screaming soul was the last thing you saw in those piercing blues, reaching for yours in the inevitable darkness.  

---

MASTERLIST • REQUEST

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Tag list: @eclecticwildflowers @emotionalcadaver @evita-shelby @minaethrym

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

for the nights and days of life by @mochalottie longass notes for chapter nineee:

-Beard! Jake is such a funny image. It’s long and flowing, maybe he braids it Omaticaya style.

-Baby Spider’s return!! God I missed him and Jake’s little lab bonding time. It's such a clear image in my head, same as their little hammock is to me. I always love when a scene is so tangible for me.

-Me and Jake holding hands and never forgetting what Tsantu did. We will never get over it and we will never forgive him.

-You’ve got metaphors on top of similes in this chapter, babe. How many ways to describe Jake’s eyes bingo. I'd cut some. I tend to go harsher with my edits for Andrei, but I've never done that for you so idk let me know if that's not your vibe! I think I had one person ask for harsher long notes and it's on my docket, but it was not you!

-HAHA Kiri and the other kids constantly reminding Jake about how cool every scar they have is while he goes into cardiac arrest.

-KSKSKKS Lo’ak is so LITTLE COMPARED TO THEM. HE’S ONLY TWO. HOW DID HE BECOME BABY? DID YOU DECIDE HE SHOULD BE BABY?? DO I JUST NOT UNDERSTAND THE PASSAGE OF TIME??

-I adore the Max and Norm cameo it is flawless, I hope they keep sending each other shit. I am unclear as to what they mean by can they use some of it. Do they mean as evidence against the RDA? That’s my best guess.

-Neteyam: yay what a great day to finally hang out alone with my best friend and brother!

Spider: let’s go into this scary area.

Neteyam: oh.

-Lol of course Spider found hIS MOMS dead body and ship because he is literally Eywa’s favorite and least favorite. He’s the main character. All the shit happens to him. You know that funny saying, God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers, that's Jake comforting Neytiri and Spider. "Eywa gives her toughest battles to her strongest soldiers."

-The fear of having a disabled child, or even just a chronically ill child balanced with letting them live their own lives? It’s such a great concept to explore in Spider, and I love Neytiri doing it. Jake was human, he’s used to them, but Neytiri would have never seen a kid break an arm or an ankle or dislocate a shoulder or anything like that. It's horrible and scary for any person to see happen to their kid, but yet you know the kid will be fine. For Neytiri there is none of that background knowledge and comfort. It’s such a painful but interesting concept I adore it every time I see it.

-I also like audibly cooed at her making Jake foods he likes all the time because she wants to make up for food on Earth being shit all the time. That is the sweetest thing I've ever read gOD I love jeytiri.

-Jake snorting himself awake has me dEAD, simply cACKING, but also it’s so sweet because you kNOW his ass never slept deeply after the war, or before on Earth. He only sleeps deeply in the cuddle pile and I’ll cry. Him and Neteyam both, Neteyam will wake up at the slightest sound uNLESS he's in the family cuddle pile.

-Neteyam and Spider are the twins that came to literally like, stab Jake in the heart occasionally by reminding him of Tommy. You kNOW sometimes they cuddle or run off together and he can’t breathe for a second because they look like two different kids of a different species.

-You fucked up, potter is the british version of putter. I’m laughing when the British or Irish slang slips in. I only mention it because of your authors note saying you were trying to catch them all lol.

-Oh my god Neytiri going to say goodbye and reassure Paz that she has Spider taken care of? That has my entire heart and soul.

-Hilarious of Neytiri to specifically call human technology stupid names. That’s so funny. She’s like “Jake, someone is calling you on the stupid dumbass square.”

-Jake and Neytiri now must keep up the ruse of science being a swear for years to come. Norm says science on a call one time and they all gASP and cover Spider's ears.

-Norm and Max better come back with the RDA, like they sneak aboard and come to apologize to Jake and fuck shit up in person. I know that isn't the point but I miss them deeply.

-Neytiri at all times just lowkey at defcon 1 just like, always on the fucking razors edge. She is so full of unhealed and unchecked trauma and PTSD it's almost hilarious.

[god1ngs]

━‎ ghost of a memory

synopsis; the ghost of a man comes back.

contains; pogtopia wilbur spoilers, yandere themes, mentions of death, implied death, swearing, mentions of stalking, wilbur is a creep in this

yandere c!wilbur soot / reader, 2.8k wc

note; this is the longest thing i've ever written >:)) very proud of this

masterlist

‎ ‎ ‎it was snowing, like it usually was. the layers of snow piled up on the floor only to get crushed down by your boot. you were on your way back to your house, ready to lay down and relax. days were hard now, especially since having moved away from the dream smp and l'manberg.

‎ ‎ ‎it was easy at first, but you were more lonely now. there was no tommy to come greet you in the mornings, or no tubbo to show you his new bee portrait done by someone else. it was lonely, only your presence to comfort you when days got too lonely.

‎ ‎ ‎you lived near techno, phil, and ranboo, but you never really talked to them. while you could hold your own, the angel of death and blood god striked fear into your heart. phil, although somewhat of an intimidating man, had been much different after the explosion of l'manberg.

‎ ‎ ‎you hadn't been there to know what happened, but it was something severely detrimental from what you've heard. and you haven't even heard that much. you heard of how l'manberg was exploded, but didn't know much else. there was a way people looked whenever you asked about it though.

‎ ‎ ‎you set down your things as you came inside your house, tired from the long day of venturing out from the snowy area. you had been trying to find some more resources, having been slowly running out of some minor ones, but wanting to have them nonetheless. sighing, you tiredly looked down at your hands.

‎ ‎ ‎you never went a day without thinking of what you had done with those hands. blood splattered along the calloused palms of them, rough from gripping swords and bows. you regretted your previous decisions, having worked alongside l'manberg. while you didn't regret meeting the people, the experiences would plague you for years to come.

‎ ‎ ‎a knock on your door brung you out of your mind, gentle and soft. it was unlike any of the loud banging from the war. you shook away your troubles, wanting to block out everything from your past as a soldier. you opened the door, hesitantly bringing your hand to the sword rested on your side.

‎ ‎ ‎it was ranboo. he stood at the door, taller than your doorframe, and looking down at you. "oh," you said, retracting your hand from the hilt of it. "hello ranboo. what brings you here?" you were curious, never having really been close to ranboo during your time at l'manberg. you two had become closer since you lived in each others radius, but had never talked for a long time.

‎ ‎ ‎"uh, i just.. i just wanted to ask if you've seen ghostbur. i haven't seen him in a while and was wondering if you have?" the dual boy asked, tugging at his shirt collar. ghostbur? your brows furrowed, a nervousness piling in your stomach. did he mean wilbur? he seemed confident about what he had said though.

‎ ‎ ‎you cleared your throat before speaking again, leaning against the doorframe. "who's ghostbur?" you asked, confused. maybe it was just a mess up with his name, ranboo was very forgetful after all. realization crossed his features, eyes wide. "you don't know who ghostbur is?"

‎ ‎ ‎disbelief coated his tone, shining in his eyes as well. the boy stammered, trying to figure out what to say. "oh boy, uh..." he exhaled harshly, scratching at his neck in nervousness. "do you know what happened when l'manberg was blown up?" you hadn't known much, but you did know what mainly happened ─ l'manberg had been blown to the smithereens.

‎ ‎ ‎"not really, i guess. i mean, i know l'manberg was blown up, but i don't know much besides that." you told ranboo, being confused as to why this was even important. he stayed silent for a minute, cautious as to what he should say. does he just tell you outright that wilbur had been killed and that ghostbur was his ghost?

‎ ‎ ‎he exhaled again, nervous. "well, wilbur is the one who blew up l'manberg and.. phil killed him after." he said, pausing between his words to see your reaction. your eyes were wide, throat dry. there was a deep pit in your stomach, a neverending bad feeling. "he's dead?" your voice trembled as you spoke, brows furrowed.

‎ ‎ ‎ranboo nodded, sucking in a breath awkwardly. "i'm sorry i had to be the one to tell you." he said shortly, hands clasped behind his back. you tried to shake it off, laugh and tell him it was fine, but no words could come out. "so," you spoke once you had finally grasped your words. "is ghostbur his.. ghost?"

‎ ‎ ‎he nodded again, rocking on his heels. "he doesn't act anything like from what the old wilbur used to, from what i've heard." he tried to confide you, however it didn't do much to help. you smiled weakly at the male, not exactly knowing how to deal with the information as of now. "thank you, ranboo, and uh, no i haven't seen.. ghostbur. i hope you find him though."

‎ ‎ ‎with that, he thanked you and left you alone for now. you shut the door gently before breaking down. you grasped your hair, sliding against the wooden door. he was dead? while you slid against the door, you began laughing. he was dead. you were gleeful. you laughed and laughed and laughed. god, he was dead.

‎ ‎ ‎you didn't know you would ever celebrate a mans passing, but wilbur was different. wilbur was.. obsessive. not only with control, but with you. you always got a weird feeling from him too. he was always with you somehow, always greeting you wherever you would be. he was highly protective of you and, while he passed it off as it due to you being a citizen of his country, you suspected otherwise.

‎ ‎ ‎your gleeful laughter masked the sound of the rustling bushes.

‎ ‎ ‎ranboo hadn't known you didn't know of wilbur's passing. he thought maybe phil or someone else would've told you, not him having to break the news to you. you seemed awfully upset, he hoped you would be okay. as he walked, head down with a friend, there was a thought nagging at the back of his head.

‎ ‎ ‎recently, ghostbur had been acting different. he couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off. he tossed the thought when there was a sudden shout of his name. he turned, quickly, seeing the man of the hour. "hello ranboo!" ghostbur said, smiling warmly at the other. "oh, hey ghostbur." he replied, a soft smile painting his face.

‎ ‎ ‎the two talked for a little while, catching up with each other and seeing how the other was. "well actually, i think i left friend at phil's house, do you mind go getting him for me, ranboo?" ghostbur asked, tilting his head at the half and half boy. ranboo's brows furrowed, wondering why he couldn't go get the sheep himself. it was his sheep after all.

‎ ‎ ‎ranboo glanced back at his house, rubbing at the back of his neck before answering him. "uh, sure, yeah. i can do that! why can't you go get him though?" he asked, confused. he didn't mind going to go get friend, liking to help out his friends, he was simply curious. "oh, i just have something to do! it's nothing really, but thank you again ranboo!" the airy tone of ghostbur coated with delight, he smiled at the man.

‎ ‎ ‎ranboo nodded, wishing him a farewell, before walking away to get more food for the trip. finally. ghostbur smiled, turning to the wooden house you had gone in a few minutes prior.

‎ ‎ ‎he would have you.

‎ ‎ ‎you didn't think that today would be the day you celebrate a dead man, but you learned new things everyday. you didn't celebrate per say, you were just happy the british man wouldn't bother you anymore. he had creeped you out when he was alive, but in death he couldn't do anything.

‎ ‎ ‎knocking at your door had interrupted your moment, brows arching at the door. hadn't ranboo just left? maybe there was something else he had to tell you. as you got closer to the door, hand nearly on the doorknob, you hesitated. why would ranboo come right back? it didn't make sense.

‎ ‎ ‎you put your hand on the hilt of your sword, once again preparing you for if you were to get attacked. yet as you opened the door, there only stood a man ─ a man who looked exactly like wilbur soot. from the hair, to the clothes, to the face shape; it all reminded you too much of wilbur.

‎ ‎ ‎"hello! i'm ghostbur!" the man happily introduced himself, smiling warmly at you. this wasn't how wilbur acted? ranboo had told you that ghostbur acted different from him. "uh, hey. why are you here?" awkward and a tad rude, you asked, narrowing your [color] eyes at the brunette. he only smiled.

‎ ‎ ‎translucent, nearly grey in color hands rose up to wave you off. "i just wanted to come meet you! ranboo had said you were a good person! here, do you want some blue?" fishing in his pockets, ghostbur pulled out a small clump of blue. royal blue in color, it made you somewhat happy to look at it. the corners of your mouth twitched.

‎ ‎ ‎you accepted the blue, gently getting it place in your hand, his fingers brushing against yours as he did so. you squished it some, finding a certain fondness in the way it felt. maybe he wasn't bad. "may i come in?" the ghost asked, tilting his head quizzically. could you trust this guy enough to let him inside your house?

‎ ‎ ‎you pondered the idea, considering the worse case scenario ─ which would really be just takes all of your things or killing you. you doubt he was able to though, he seemed way too nice to even think about it. he seemed trustworthy and so, without another thought, you let ghostbur inside of your home.

‎ ‎ ‎he thanked you and took a look around, complimenting your interior design with a warm smile. he had that aura, the one that makes you feel comforted in his presence. kind and gentle, he was the type of man to be gentle with anything and everything. he seemed rather innocent as well, a child like enthusiasm in the way he carried himself.

‎ ‎ ‎you didn't mind, you actually found it quite admirable. before the war, you had been like that as well. bubbly and warm, smiles that could outshine the sun ─ and now, you were alone, although of your own accord. you had to admit, it was better for it to be like this though. the war and other experiences you shared with l'manberg still haunted your nightmares, causing you to wake up in a cold sweat everytime.

‎ ‎ ‎"[name]," the ghost murmured, looking over the paintings on the wall. "these paintings are quite lovely!" you smiled, agreeing with him. the paintings were nice, as they had been given to you as a president from ranboo. he had magnificent taste, the paintings holding such beauty. you sighed softly, glancing towards ghostbur.

‎ ‎ ‎"hey ghostbur? do you remember anything.. before you died?" you asked, cringing at the question yourself. you assumed it was a question he got a lot, being the ghost of a man who was loved by many, but you couldn't help the curiousity arising in you. he only smiled at you, he always seemed to be smiling.

‎ ‎ ‎"only the good memories! i don't remember any of the bad memories wilbur has!" he answered, still staring at the paintings. he seemed to take a liking to them. you nodded, humming in thought as you glossed over the paintings. "you know," you murmured. "i never really had fond memories with wilbur."

‎ ‎ ‎you had never told anyone of your past experiences with the man, being too scared of being called a liar or saying that you were wrong. wilbur was a man of great charm and charisma, traits he knew how to use to gain what he wants. you knew this first hand, having been on the receiving side of the anger he never showed the public.

‎ ‎ ‎ghostbur was quite for a moment, causing you to look over at him. he seemed deep in thought, eyes nearly wide with a nearly upset look crossing his face. "are you alright?" you asked him, concerned. it would be understandable if he didn't like talking about wilbur, having been the ghost of said man.

‎ ‎ ‎"oh yes, i'm fine! can you tell me about your memories with alivebur?" he asked, looking over at you questionably. you nodded, sitting down on the couch, to where the ghost followed. he sat beside you, almost a little too close for comfort, but he did seem obvious so you chose to let it slide.

‎ ‎ ‎you told ghostbur everything. about how wilbur was a creep. how you suspected he was stalking you. how he had been possessive of you. how you saw a side of wilbur that was never shown to the public. how you never liked him. how wilbur was a deranged man.

‎ ‎ ‎he listened to you quietly, not talking as he stared down at his lap. as you were finished talking, going to ask him if he was okay, he sighed. he shook his head, tsking at you. this was different. confused you scooted away from him, brows furrowed. he only looked up at you, grinning.

‎ ‎ ‎"was my disguise that good?"

‎ ‎ ‎your mouth ran dry. your hands trembled, trembled with fear of the danger lurking in his voice. the madness glinting in his eyes. was this ghostbur? no, this couldn't be. as you stared at him in disbelief, shock coating his features, something started happening. he was melting?

‎ ‎ ‎the grey skin, along with the yellow sweater and beanie, melted off of him. it was like slime dripping, coating your couch in the gooey substance. it disgusted you, how it melted into a puddle of grey just below him. but that was the least of your problem, as the disguise had melted, something sinister lurked below.

‎ ‎ ‎it was wilbur.

‎ ‎ ‎unmistakably, it was wilbur soot.

‎ ‎ ‎the brown hair that bunched up, the dull red beanie atop his head, the brown trenchcoat that coated his features. you backed away, horrified. standing up, you tried to run, yet he only laughed. a sickening laugh that made you stop in place, eyes wide with fear. your feet were glued to the floor, unable to move despite your door beckoning you to run.

‎ ‎ ‎the crazed look in the mans expression would be one you would never forget. he laughed maniacally, grin wide with unmasked enthusiasm. "you really thought it was ghostbur!? that little punk, yeah? you thought wrong, sweetheart!" he shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls, surrounding your every direction, making it impossible to escape.

‎ ‎ ‎who knew you would be trapped inside your own house?

‎ ‎ ‎you could hardly find the words to talk, the phrases getting stuck in your throat as you simply shook your head. it couldn't be wilbur. why was he here? how was he here? the man, who you previously believed to be ghostbur, had been inside your house. you had ranted to him on your troubles with his alive state, unaware he was the one you were speaking to.

‎ ‎ ‎"you- how? how are you - how are you here?" you mustered out, your voice weak. you could barely make them out, quiet and frail. he laughed once more, throwing his head back with unfiltered euphoria. he was so joyous, so content with watching you fall apart in front of him. watching you break down was what he wanted.

‎ ‎ ‎"i always come back, sweetheart, you should know this." he said, smirking devilishly. he walked to you, triumph yelling with every step he took. you backed away as he came closer, fearfully backing away from the brunette until your back hit a wall. alarm coursed through you, desperately trying to look around for a way to leave, a way to escape the misery that would soon come.

‎ ‎ ‎he stalked up to you, stopping in front of you. he was even more terrifying up closer. the broad shoulders and the looming shadow over your figure terrifying you more than anything ever had. "sweetheart!" the pet name rolled off of his tongue, almost in a sing song tone. you hadn't even noticed the tears running down your face until he wiped them away.

‎ ‎ ‎"don't cry, don't cry," wilbur muttered, pulling you closer to him, bringing your scared form into his chest. you tensed, worry clear in your figure as you tried to fight back. you tried to pull away, muttering how you didn't want this. you didn't want wilbur to touch you, to hold you as if he was someone special to you. "why do you keep trying to pull away from me?"

‎ ‎ ‎once you had finally pulled away from him, you looked at him in the eyes. you were still backed up against a wall, knowing your end was nearer than you thought. you glared at him one last time, choosing to pick fight over flight, and spit in his face.

‎ ‎ ‎"fuck you, wilbur soot."

‎ ‎ ‎blood splattered on the walls seconds later.

[painless-innit-colourful]

The Tailor of the SMP (pt. 1)

Does anyone remember that post that started the c!Tommy sews headcanon back in January? Well, before that part was added on in the reblog chain, the post was originally joking about some random tailor that had to put up with the ridiculous wardrobe of this SMP. In the beginning, this fic took that idea as a way to look back on season 1 of the Dream SMP, a little nostalgia trip, and somewhere along the way my original character gained a life of her own. Meet Thalia, personal tailor to much of the Dream SMP. She is completely apolitical and doesn’t care about anyone on the server at all.

part two | ao3 link

---

Her name was Thalia. She lived a quiet existence, carving out a humble life for herself in the peaceful land of the Dream SMP, doing commissioned needlework for the people of the country. Dream offered her a job as his personal tailor once; she refused the offer and decided to open a small stall making clothes for the people of her town. Dream gave her a house, close to the main highways and places of business like the Community House and surrounding shops that she could visit daily, but far enough away that she keeps the peace and quiet of her modest existence. The house was big, much too big for one person, and so she kept many rooms as storage for some of the clothes she was able to keep and display, and some she prepared for the days when hopefully, her work would have loyal customers, and then eventually friends, to visit or stay over. She built relationships and made clothes for a few months, and everything was quiet and wonderful. One of her spare rooms contained her pattern pieces for what she has been paid to make, and one day down the line she was organising through them and found a folder from her earlier days on the SMP. She smiled as she looked through hastily drawn outfit ideas from a million years ago: a fur-lined hoodie for Dream, a cape for a king, a two-piece suit for Tommy, along with the photo of him beaming next to JSchlatt he gave her when he returned the suit to her for safe-keeping.

Oh, how naive she was. How naive they all were. Because it wasn’t long after that, a tall, British man was at her door asking for her blaze rods. She watched as a nation sprang up ten minutes from her home, lines drawn in the land around her house faster than she could make a blanket for a newborn babe. But it was when the revolutionaries of that newly self-declared nation, L’Manberg, came by to be measured for soldier’s uniforms, and they asked her what side she would align herself with, was a line crossed.

From that day forward Thalia declared herself apolitical, as it said on a sign by her front door. Her house became her shop, and the spare rooms her storerooms. The L’Manbergians left their normal clothes with her when they rode away to declare their independence, and it cemented her decision in her mind. The SMP was no longer a place where Thalia could make friends with her customers, not when they were fighting wars against each other. She kept out of it completely, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Both sides respected her decision: she heard from Dream when he came by for a king’s regalia that part of the Declaration of War detailed how Thalia was to be left out of it and her land untouched, and Thalia told him to thank them all for it. Since, some had asked why she stayed; sometimes the answer was “It was winter and I couldn’t stomach a freezing voyage overseas,” and sometimes it was “I never had to want for appreciative customers or materials.” She wasn’t sure. But one thing was for certain, business was booming.

Literally.

---

After the boys of L’Manberg won their independence (in the most dubious way ever, but okay), there was no shortage of orders for Thalia. Her house became both her base of operations as the land’s resident tailor and a storage wardrobe for the SMP and its offshoot nation. There was a flurry of activity around her home for a while after the war ended, as new faces came and turned into regulars, which was what Thalia found to be the case with Niki, the good-natured baker of L’Manberg whose wardrobe was the biggest on the server. Thalia kept her well-dressed, Niki kept her well-fed, and both were happy in this arrangement at the end of the day. 

Another new citizen of L’Manberg, Jack Manifold, was dragged in by Tommy, who demanded Thalia measure him up for a L’Manberg uniform. Thalia grumbled and made them wait until after dinner, but when they were gone and she got to sewing, she finished the uniform in record time. Her hands had learnt the pattern. Like they learnt the pattern of the L’Manberg flag when Niki shyly came by to ask if they could make a full-size pennant to fly over L’Manberg together. It was Thalia’s biggest undertaking yet, and it took them six evenings to complete it; Niki spending her daytimes baking an endless supply of cream puffs that got them through late-night sessions reinforcing fabric, and Thalia spent her’s tailoring robes for a priest of Church Prime - as strange as that sounded, she learnt not to ask too many questions. On the final day, Niki brought one of her signature cakes as a gift for Thalia, and in turn, Thalia gave her her own L’Manberg uniform, in a soft purple hue. When Thalia visited L’Manberg a few days later, she saw their flag waving in the breeze over the young nation, and pride swelled in her chest for what they’d made. 

Her and Niki’s flag, not the nation, of course.

So when the news broke months later that there was to be an election in L’Manberg, and she experienced another uptick in business, Thalia didn't know where she stood. She talked it over with Fundy one night as he came over requesting a suit. It was her second that week: Quackity had already gotten his, as the presidential debates neared. Thalia thanked her lucky stars that Pog2020 seemed to be sticking with their L’Manberg uniforms, though she wondered when it was they were last washed.

“You’re really not going to vote?” Fundy asked, sipping from a mug of lukewarm tea. Thalia gave half a shrug as she went about mending a frayed edge on Fundy’s revolutionary hat. “I thought I made it clear at the door that I don’t deal in any politics. I just make the clothes.” She furrowed her brow while also flashing Fundy a small smile. “Besides, I’m not a citizen of L’Manberg anyway.” “You’re not a citizen of Dream SMP either.” Fundy countered.  “Yeah, okay.” Thalia conceded. “Regardless though, your country’s politics don’t impact me.” “You sure?”

And once again, Thalia was proved to be so out of touch with the world around her. On the night of the election, she stood on the small hill by her house, a mug of tea in one hand and her radio perched on the windowsill of her house behind her, playing music that only just drowned out the noise coming from L’Manberg. The local station - a Dream SMP one - supplied the chill soundtrack to her evening of relaxation. It would be the calm before the storm, she had decided, anticipating a flurry of orders tomorrow for authentic L’Manberg uniforms, or hopefully just the hats: she predicted the incumbent creators of L’Manberg to be re-elected. The sounds of the crowds dulled in the distance, as she guessed it was time for the results to come in. She tried turning the radio down and jogging back up the hill, but she was too far away to hear any words in the indistinct sounds of President Wilbur’s voice ringing through the land around the country.

She was about to go back and turn her music back up when the subdued sounds from the nation next door erupted in a roar of noise, thousands of people suddenly shouting and hooting. Thalia smiled and turned up her radio, and as the song playing ended the station went to the news as it had been all night, bringing live updates from L’Manberg’s first election. “Well folks, it looks like the results are in, and oh boy was this a historic day. After voter fraud and the hacking of thousands of false votes was dealt with-” Thalia almost laughed, who could that possibly be? “-Pog2020 were declared winners of the popular vote. However-”

Whatever the radio announcer said next was indiscernible, swallowed by the roar of noise sounding throughout the valley. It was so loud and sudden Thalia nearly dropped her tea as she scrambled to put it down and turn her radio louder, pressing her ear to the tinny speaker. “-President Schlatt’s first decree seems to have struck a nerve with many Pog 2020 supporters, namely because- breaking news, former President Wilbur Soot and Vice-President Tommy Innit have been exiled, and- We're just getting reports that in the chaos in the centre of L'Manberg - riots really, breaking out in the main street near the grandstand - that former President Wilbur Soot has been shot-"

Thalia's heart dropped. Her mind sprang into action, riots in L'Manberg: lock the doors, close up shop for a while, run down to the market in case food supplies are interrupted- But when she found herself outside, cloak hastily wrapped around her shoulders, she observed her feet taking her elsewhere. The streets of L'Manberg were full of people in shock, people taking up arms against each other, people cheering and crying and shouting. In amongst the chaos she found Niki and Eret practically clinging to each other and the nearest wall to avoid being carried off by the crowd.

"What happened?" She yelled over the din, despite them both being right next to her. Niki was in tears and an expression of pure shock and dismay seemed unable to be moved from Eret's face. "Schlatt won," Niki shouted back, fists clenching at the sleeves of her pale lavender coat. "He and Quackity pooled their votes, and he took the presidency and Wilbur and Tommy were thrown out and Wilbur got shot-" She covered her mouth with her hands and sobbed, eyes turned to the sky shining with disbelief. Eret picked up the tale. "We have reason to believe he lost a canon life, and Schlatt also called Tubbo back up to the stage and- and the walls are coming down." His uniquely deep voice, normally so steady, wavered as he opened his arms and gestured around at the blackstone walls coming down bit by bit, brick after brick torn away and shattered upon the ground. The literal cornerstones of the nation itself. Simply, nothing here was safe. Speaking of-

Niki drew their attention back to her as one of her sobs turned to a scream. Eret followed her gaze, their jaw-dropping, light- no, flames dancing in the black of their sunglasses. "Thalia," They said, tone sincere. "Don't turn around." But she did not heed their warning. They say the proper and respectful way to get rid of an old flag is to burn it, but as Thalia's fingers ached with the memory of many hours spent sewing, she felt rage burn in her as hot as the fire consuming her flag.

Yeah. She was going to kill Fundy.

---

Unfortunately, the post-election flurry of activity did not go as expected.

Niki and Eret walked Thalia back to her home, where Niki gave back her coat with a teary sigh of "Lest this is burnt too." She left in a breezy blouse and dungarees, and Thalia showed her how to pull her hair into buns to keep it out of her eyes. "I know you won't get involved in any conflict, but if Fundy apologises, please don't accept it." She laughed, almost cruelly. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that, my dear."

When the Manberg cabinet came by for their fitting- Well, Thalia maintained she stayed apolitical the whole time: kicking the president out of your house does not demonstrate any political affiliations if said president was being a dick. Quackity asked for a shirt with velcro fastenings instead of buttons, and she almost laughed, and Fundy stayed quiet the whole time, which was probably the best option for his own survival. However, her keen eye did not miss Tubbo's hands lingering on his revolutionary uniform as he put it into storage, nor the way he flinched when Schlatt shouted through the house for him to hurry up.

So much so that she purposely fudged the measurements of his new suit so that he had to remain behind after the others had gone back to Manberg so that she may 'fix it'. And after she got a righteous laugh out of Fundy's uncomfortable squirming (due to a bit of payback she likes to call Ultimate Revenge of the Seamstress - scratchy tags), she made the kid a cup of tea and sat him down while she unpicked seams and attached darts in the right place that time.

"I'm fine." He said in response to her question, rattling his teacup around the saucer without drinking any. "Just… Everything's new and changing lately, it'll take some getting used to, y'know?" "Have you heard from Tommy or Wilbur?" Thalia glanced up when Tubbo fell silent. "Neutral territory," She gestured around them at her house's interior, not missing how his eyes snagged on Niki L'Manberg uniform, displayed on a mannequin beside them. A testament, to something. Exactly what, she wasn’t quite sure anymore. "You can talk here."

"I- I haven't." The corners of his mouth turned downward, and he shuffled nervously. "I'm not worried- They can look after themselves, just… Yeah… I miss them." He admitted it quietly, like he was afraid of someone listening. Thalia took note of that.  "What about you?" "Hm?" "Can you look after yourself?" She glanced up again to see him staring into his now-lukewarm tea, expression guarded.  "I'm fine. Schlatt's a dick, but…" He paused for a long moment. "My duty is to Manberg."

His words hung in empty air for a few ticks, before Thalia cut through it. "Well, you may be glad to know I'm out of red silk, so do you want a green or blue tie?" His eyes- no, practically his entire face lit up at that. "Green! Please." She matched his grin, thinking of the pre-made red tie she had in the next room. Running up another wouldn't take twenty minutes, and it'd be worth it. Tubbo finally drank some of his tea.

The other one was badly made anyway.

Keep making excuses Thalia, a little voice in the back of her mind nagged as she finished the edge of a handkerchief with a fancy trim, just to break in the overlocker. She'll probably give it to Eret, since she already had a whole bunch.

A week passed, and her clients began to dry up; the post-election fervour finally dying down. Yet she knew she had two more important customers left, so in her quieter moments, she prepared, clearing space in storage and even patching up a pair of brown trousers to what she remembered to be Tommy’s measurements. Yes, the exiles of L- Manberg. They’d found a way to fly under the radar for the moment, with only the occasional sighting reaching the press, but Thalia knew she’d hear a knock on the door sooner or later.

Wilbur came in the night, a little after eleven p.m. Usually, anyone trying to get her attention after sundown would be told to go away (and depending on the time, with accompanying crass language), but she made an exception for him, letting him stand in her front porch with the light off while she changed back into her work clothes. She turned the light on to let him in, and was met with a face she’d seen so regularly on posters and newspapers as spotless and refined as one would expect a leader, greasy and grimy, with duffle bags under his eyes and grass stains on his knees. His lopsided smile was still as charismatic as ever though, so much so that Thalia decided not to mention the smokey smell that hung about him.

His request was relatively simple: a brown trenchcoat, white shirt, black jeans and trainers. He’d already switched out his revolutionary hat for a grey beanie - apologising for losing it in the post-inauguration scramble, while Thalia told him not to worry about it - and the rest of his uniform would hardly be worth keeping in its present condition: covered in mud and grass stains, smelling like smoke and body odour, and worn threadbare on the elbows and knees. However, it was her baby, that suit, and so she prepared to spend a few nights repairing it and getting it back to its former glory in the near future, much like the underground rebellion was intending to do with Manberg. Wilbur spoke freely, apparently trusting in Thalia’s neutrality enough to go on a ramble about his future plans for Pogtopia and the reclamation of L’Manberg. He then went on a rant about how much he hated Schlatt and the new flag - which she agreed with - how annoying he was finding Tommy lately - which she didn’t - how helpful Technoblade was - which she had no opinion on, having never met the man - and his frustrations over Tubbo’s closeness to Schlatt. While she let him finish, her mind was elsewhere. Should she tell Wilbur about Tubbo’s reservations, or how he also disliked Schlatt? Had they actually spoken since that disastrous election night? In the end, she said nothing. The amount she thought about it was starting to spook her: her involvement was supposed to be minimal. She just made the clothes. Besides, her neutrality would mean nothing if she couldn’t maintain it.

It was when she was measuring him for his new trench coat that she asked, casually as she could muster, “And how are you feeling about everything?” He went particularly quiet, hesitating before answering and cutting his words into smaller and smaller pieces as he second-guessed his answers. “-I’m okay- Yeah, I’m alright, really, I mean, we’ve lost everything we worked for and had to start again in a hole in the ground while our legacies were torn down and burnt to the ground, and my son disowned me to the President in a phone call I was also a part of and I don’t know which of my allies I can even trust and Tommy’s a little shit and- disregard that actually, I’m fine.” 

She stood up from measuring how long the coat should be to look him in the eye. “How much should I disregard?” “All of it.” He said quickly, then tacked on a laugh to save face. “I think I said too much.” She shrugged, “Neutral territory. Nothing said in this room leaves this room.”  He laughed again, but even she could hear the cracks. “Only the mannequins are listening.” “And oh, the things they’ve heard.”

By the sound of it, Wilbur badly needed to vent. So she let him. Continuing to measure him for his new outfit and not time-filling at all, she half-listened to his grouchy tirade about something something “not just a drug van”, something something Quackity’s ass while she contemplated the best way to wash the suit jacket to get the smell out without completely destroying the integrity of the fabric. She finished up, they discussed payment and delivery and “No I am not venturing halfway across the surface to some random co-ordinates- Yes you can send Tommy-” and returning the uniform for her collection.

“You do not get to just bin that suit. I poured my damn heart into those things, I’m getting them back.” He laughed in response, messing with a loose thread on his lapel, to which Thalia had to restrain herself from batting his hand away.  “Starting a collection?”  She indicated through the open doorway to her storeroom. “Just a little one.” Upon the mannequins, there were four suits on proud display: Eret’s, Niki’s, Jack’s and Tubbo’s, all complete with their matching hats, boots and handkerchiefs. She turned to smile triumphantly to Wilbur, a rare bit of her ego poking through, “I have to keep them on display, or they just turn into bags of wrinkles and creases in storage.” His jaw was curiously slack, but as she watched, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched as he looked over them, his gaze lingering on Eret’s markedly. “Are you preserving history or parading it?” A bit of the former president poked through, and Thalia wondered if this was how political opponents had felt.  “Perhaps a bit of both, why?”

His firm stare wavered, “I’m sorry Thalia, just- You know how I feel about your non-committal relationship with choosing a side of history to be on.”  She gave him her usual scowl. “With making all your clothes, I don’t have time to pick a side.” “Spoken like a true centrist.” He murmured, distaste clear. She put her hands on her hips and stood to her full height. “There are agreements, Wilbur. Treaties. I am left out of your disputes and wars because I am not a fighter, and I cannot gamble everything I have for a bit of land.” “But what of morality, Thalia? Legacies?” He was earnest in his words, the charismatic politician with a campaign to win and a voter to convince. “If you won’t stand for anything, why bother getting to your feet?” He sighed. “Besides, there’s more to conflict than fighting. There’s debates, negotiation. Wars of attrition and popularity-based power, espionage.” “I’m neutral.” “You’re lazy.”

She gave him a sceptical look before turning away, “Tell that to your side seams.” He frowned a little, and the president was gone again, his bravado quickly melting away. “I’m sorry.” She sighed, “It’s alright, Wilbur. I know you get frustrated with my commitment issues.” He snorted behind her. “Besides, I can’t imagine it’s easy to win people to your side when you’ve suffered a heavy loss.” 

This time he was the one heaving a sigh. “You have no idea. At least previously I had the outfits as a benefit. Thank you, by the way, for keeping my administration best dressed.” There was that shameless smile again, and it was plain to see how Wilbur had talked his way to the top spot.  “You’re welcome. Any plans to still be?” He looked almost sorry when he shrugged, “Unfortunately, Pogtopia doesn’t have a dress code. It’s a po- Pity.” His eyes twinkled, and he screwed up his face. “I- I al-” He wheezed. “I almost said ‘potty’.”

Thalia snorted. “Oh god-” They both stood there, in her hallway, leaning against the walls, trying to keep their composure as adults definitely not losing it over a toilet joke, their dispute put firmly behind them. “You can- really tell it’s- it’s past midnight-” Wilbur gasped as Thalia wiped a tear from her eye, her cheeks aching from grinning.  “This is really stupid.” He held his hands up, “Pogtopia doesn’t have a dress code, POTTY.” 

They fell about giggling again, Thalia doubled over in a state of sleep-deprived, caffeinated hysteria that was probably shared by the other in the room. “I- I haven’t laughed like this in ages…” The giggles elsewhere dried up. “Wilbur?” She asked, eyes darting up. “Wil?” She asked again, as she watched Wilbur, leaning heavily against the wall, his eyes directed upwards as if searching for the heavens. The grin had slipped from his face, and his mouth was a small ‘o’ of concern and pain as he slowly leant more and more into the wall. “Wilbur?” His eyes met hers, and they were full of fear, as a hand slowly raised to the rusty-crimson patch on his white shirt - a patch that was growing bigger. She lunged forward as he slipped, catching him around the middle and winding one of his arms around her shoulders as he went weightless. Slowly, she guided him to sit down on her sofa, shaking her head as he slouched into it, one hand on the reopened wound, one raised towards her as he mumbled “It does this, just give me a minute”, speech slurred.

“Y’know, bleeding on my carpet is a terrible way to say thank you for being your personal tailor.” “Sorry.” Was all he muttered, eyes closed and teeth gritted. Thalia’s shoulders slumped. She got up, went to her kitchen and got him a cup of tea, a towel and the first aid kit. Told him not to mention it. Sent him home an hour later with a soft smile and the promise not to tell anyone. Went to bed, but not before drawing up a quick pattern for a reinforced t-shirt that wouldn’t be too heavy to be comfortable. He still managed to bleed through it within the week, however, he said it was comfy enough, so she counted that as a win.

---

part two | ao3 link again

Taglist: @nixavia @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @waitblues @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @rozugold @thatfriendlyanon

[mistersshelby]

Could you write a fic about Tommy’s long-lost daughter that is gay. After a while he found out about his daughter. She’s really scared about the families reaction but they don’t care about who she loves, they’re just worried about the dangers added by this that?!?! Love your writing btw ☺️🥰😍🥰😕

HIIII this isn’t exactly what you asked for but it’s almost the same!!! I hope you like it!!!

questions, comments, concerns

masterlist

Lucy keeps raising her hand to the door to knock and then dropping it, turning to leave the big house only to turn back around when she reaches the end of the drive. “If he sends you away then you’ve lost nothing.” She reminds herself and finally knocks.

She hears voices on the other side of the door and they grow louder until the door swings open and her father stands there, an older woman a step behind him.

When Lucy just stands there, unable to form words, he looks at her with annoyance, “Can I help you?”

“I-- uh-- um-- Are you-- Sorry, are you Thomas Shelby?” She knows he is, she has been watching him for weeks, but she asks anyway.

“Who’s asking?”

Lucy takes a deep breath, “My name’s Lucy Bennett. I’m your daughter, sir.”

The older woman’s hand flies to her mouth, but Tommy doesn’t react, only looks her up and down, “That’s not possible, sorry.”

He goes to shut the door, but Lucy thrusts her boot between it and the threshold, “Wait! I can prove it, please.”

“Can’t prove something that never happened.” He tries to kick her foot out of the way, but she remains firm.

“My mother died a few months ago and all I have left of her is this diary.” She holds it out to him now, “I thought the drunk soldier she had been married to my whole life was my father, but this diary says otherwise. I did the math, according to the diary she didn’t meet the man she married until six months before I was born. She writes of your encounters three months prior.” Lucy talks quickly, afraid he’ll break her foot to get the door shut, “Please, I can show you, I’ll explain everything and if you still don’t believe me, I’ll go.”

The older woman puts a hand on Tommy’s arm, “Let her in, Tommy, listen to her.” She leans in close to his ear, “She has your eyes.” She says, trying to make sure Lucy doesn’t hear, but she does.

Lucy relaxes at the older woman’s words and looks to Tommy expectantly. Finally, he sighs and steps aside to allow her to pass.

The older woman, who Lucy learns is Polly, asks the maid to brew some tea and makes friendly small talk while Tommy sits, arms crossed and scowling at Lucy.

“Who’s your mum?” He asks roughly, “You look like you were born around the time I was in the war. I wasn’t-- I didn’t have anyone then.”

He had a good eye, you had just turned seventeen and were born at the very end of 1914, according to your research, his first year of service. “Yeah, I was born in December of 1914. My mother was a whore in France.” She takes out the diary, opens to a page she had marked, and slides it over to him, “She only writes about you as Tommy, but later goes into more detail about your station and platoon and I was able to figure it out from there.”

Tommy eyes her carefully as he takes the diary from her and reads it over slowly, flipping through pages. Lucy resists the urge to tell him to be careful, it’s all she has of her mother now. It’s a good ten minutes before he puts the diary down and slides it back to her. “You don’t sound French.” It was an accusation, but she didn’t mind.

“One of her other clients, after you, was another British soldier named William Bennett. After the war, he married my mother and took us back to England. I was only four or five at the time so as I was in school I dropped my French accent. My mother never learned English fully, though, so we always spoke French to each other.” She says some quick things in French to prove to him she wasn’t lying.

“Where’s William Bennett, then? Why isn’t he taking care of you?”

Lucy looks down at her hands, afraid he’ll see the shame in her face if he looks too closely, “He, um, he never much liked me. Kicked me out after my mother died. I took my mum’s diary and when I found you I moved to Small Heath, found a job at a shop, and rented a flat. Told myself I’d work up the courage to talk to you once I was settled.” He’s still quiet, and she realizes quickly what he must think, “I don’t want money, I can take care of myself just fine, I just-- I just wanted the chance to know you.”

“Know me?” He scoffs, “You live in Small Heath and you’ve done your research, so you know who I really am. What I do. Why would you want a father like that?”

Lucy swallows, “Yes, I’ve heard the talk. But I’ve also heard of the lengths you go to to protect your family. You care about them. I’ve never had a father who cared about me. Was hoping that-- well-- maybe--” She realizes how ridiculous she must sound, knowing no one in their right mind could love her once they knew the truth. It was why even her mother had turned her cheek to her in her last year of life. William had always seemed to know something was off, and finding out seemed like a victory for him. Lucy’s head spins as she recalls how he kicked her out the second her mother’s heart stopped beating. She realizes Polly and Tommy are staring at her blankly as she’s stopped talking and knows she has to go, “Nevermind, I-- I’m sorry--” She stands abruptly, snatching the diary and nearly knocking over the table, “I’m sorry to have bothered you, this was a mistake.” Lucy practically runs to the front door, ignoring Polly as she calls after her.

Tears stream down her face as she runs through the gravel driveway and unties her horse, hopping up quickly and riding away. She doesn’t see Tommy standing in the doorway, looking longingly after her.

“What are you doing?” Polly says, exasperated, “Go after her!”

Tommy shakes his head, “Not right now. She’s hiding something. I’ll have to find out what it is.”

“She’s your daughter, Tommy, who cares?”

“Yes, she’s my daughter. And that’s precisely why I need to make sure she’s not dangerous.” 

Polly rolls her eyes and walks away, but Tommy stays, watching as Lucy turns into a speck on the horizon, and then nothing. Only then does he finally go back inside and lock himself in his study.

His mind is reeling from the realization that he’s had a child this entire time and he missed out on everything. He knew what it was like to have a father who never cared and it pained him to know that one of his own children had to go through that, something he promised himself would never happen.

He would make it right with her, but first, he needed to know what she was hiding. 

***

Lucy sniffled and took a deep breath before walking into her flat where she knew Abigail was waiting. Abigail’s curly red hair bounced against her shoulders as she turned to see Lucy step in through the door. 

“So? How’d it go?” She said as Lucy was still taking off her boots.

“It didn’t. I chickened out.” Lucy lied.

“Well where were you the whole time then?”

“Riding,” She continued the lie, “Trying to work up the courage to knock on his door.”

Abigail pushed out her lower lip in a pout that Lucy found adorable and walked over to her, placing her hands on Lucy’s shoulders, “It’s probably better, Lu. I mean, he is a murderer.”

Lucy shrugged off Abigail’s hands and walked into the bathing room. “Lu, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” But Lucy shuts the door and listens to Abigail sigh on the other side before walking away.

Abigail hadn’t been very supportive of Lucy’s stalking of Tommy, had very nearly ended their relationship over moving to Small Heath. “I don’t see why you need a man’s approval so badly, and a gangster to boot. This is just going to end with you hurt again.” She would say, and Lucy would explain over and over again that Abigail didn’t understand because her parents both still loved her. And they would go around like this over and over again. She was tired of seeing the condescending look on her face, and besides, she didn’t know Tommy. No one did, except his family. She wanted to know him before she decided he was a no good gangster. But maybe she’d never get that chance. Maybe he didn’t want to know her.

***

Tommy had done some asking around and had found the residence of Lucy Bennett in Small Heath. Since finding her residence, he had been following her around, the way he assumed she had been following him for weeks. It bothered him that he hadn’t known she had been following him this whole time. A test to her skills and a hit to his own. The first day he followed her didn’t reveal much. She went to the shop early in the morning, stayed until late afternoon, and then she’d go to the stables. 

He watched her from afar and smiled to himself as he saw her tend to her horse, talking to him gently and petting him. She took him for a ride, which he followed as closely as he dared, but she only took him for a trot around the city and back. She then tied him up and left. He followed her just long enough to see that she had gone home and then turned back to the stables.

“Hello there.” He said to her horse when he got there, “Is she taking good care of you?” 

The horse huffed in response, but allowed Tommy to pet him eventually and Tommy whispered gently to him. He seemed in good shape, Tommy couldn’t find anything he or Curly would do different with him. And when he turned to look into the water trough, he couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face when he saw goldfish swimming around in there. “A gypsy through and through, eh?” He murmured to himself and then headed back to where he’d left his own horse.

The next few days were more of the same, but one day after arriving back from the shop, Lucy left her flat again. Tommy would’ve figured maybe she was running out for food or something of the sort, but she came out wearing different clothes, makeup done, hair curled and with a red headed girl on her arm. He didn’t think much of it, it was a Friday and she was young, she was probably going out with a friend to get drunk.

He followed her anyway, just in case. They go to a bar Tommy doesn’t recognize, and he waits in an alley next to it, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he waits for her. Finally, he hears a drunken giggle and sees two girls walking by. He confirms it’s Lucy, gives her a fair lead, and then follows her out. It seems to be exactly what he suspected it to be, a night out with a friend, and he feels a bit stupid for following her. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she’s not hiding anything. 

But, still ways away from her flat, Lucy giggles and pulls the girl into an alley. Frowning, Tommy picks up his pace and then quietly peers around the wall. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to what he’s seeing and his ears to accept that, yes, that is indeed what he’s hearing. Lucy has the red headed girl pinned to the wall with her body as her mouth and hands wander. The red headed girl starts moaning, but Lucy shushes her which results in lots of giggling and Tommy decides he has heard and seen more than enough. This is what Lucy was hiding from him.

***

It’s about a week after Lucy first showed up at Tommy Shelby’s door when there’s a knock at her own door. “Lucy, can you get that?” Abigail yells, “I’m in the loo!”

“Yeah!” Lucy yells from the table where she was sat reading and walks to the door. When she swings it open and sees Tommy Shelby, standing in his long black coat and hat, her face falls.

He doesn’t waste time with a greeting, “Is Abigail here?”

The blood drains from her face, “How do you know about--”

“Darling, who’s at the--?” Abigail stops dead in her tracks when she sees Tommy there.

“Do you mind leaving so I could have a private word with my daughter?”

“Excuse me?” Abigail huffs, “This is my flat!”

“Abigail, go.” Lucy says, eyes still on Tommy.

“Lu, you shouldn’t be alone with him, you don’t even know him--”

“I asked you to leave.” Lucy says quietly, “I can handle it.”

Abigail seems affronted and Lucy knows this will be an argument later, but she can’t bring herself to care. Tommy knew about Abigail and still called her his daughter, that had to mean something. Once she’s left, glaring at Lucy the whole way, she brings Tommy to the kitchen table and asks if he wants tea, which he declines.

“I’m sorry to show up like this.”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

“When you showed up at my house, when you were talking I could tell you were hiding something--”

“I wasn’t--”

“It’s alright, I’m not upset, you’re my daughter, I hide things plenty. But I wanted to know what it was before I brought you into my home, my family.”

Lucy is sweating now, “I suppose you know now and decided you don’t want an abomination like me in your family.”

Tommy scoffs, “An abomination? Because you fancy women? That’s a bit harsh.” Lucy frowns, confused, but he continues, “I admit, I was surprised and things don’t surprise me much anymore. But I was relieved.”

Lucy shakes her head, “Relieved?”

“Oh, Lucy, you come from a line of murderers, addicts, a long line of bad bad men and dangerous women. I thought maybe you were a part of a drug ring, or a part of a rival gang, or some sort of assassin. All I found out in my days of following you was that you love your horse and you like women so yes, I was relieved.” Lucy is still processing everything he’s said when he continues, “Now, when I found out I started doing some research on Abigail, when did you meet her?”

Her head is still spinning, “Research on Abigail, wha--? Why?”

“You met her around the same time you sorted out that you were a Shelby, yeah?”

“I--” She blinked, but then sorted through her memories, “Yeah, I guess so, why?”

“She’s been working really hard to deter you from trying to meet me, yeah?”

Lucy frowned, “Well, yeah, but she was just… She knew about what you did, your family, she was trying to protect me.”

“The reason she didn’t want you to meet me is because she comes from a family that’s just as dangerous as ours.” Ours. Lucy tried not to fixate too much on that word. 

“Wait, Abigail? No way, she’s-- Her family runs a farm on the outskirts of the country. They’re from Ireland, they’ve never even been to Birmingham.”

“That’s what she told you, but her father wants me dead. And she knows that. And she’s been staying with you because her father eventually plans to use you as leverage to get to me.”

“No,” Lucy, stands and backs away from the table shaking her head, “No, that’s not true. Abigail loves me. She--”

“Lucy--” Tommy rises too and he sees she’s about to bolt.

“No.” Lucy says again and goes to walk around Tommy who tries to keep her in the apartment, but she shoves him away, “Don’t. I need to talk to her. If you must tag along, fine, but I’m not leaving here without talking to her first.”

Tommy sighs, but follows her anyway to where Abigail is smoking a cigarette outside the building. “Do you love me?” Lucy says as soon as she steps out the door.

“Christ.” Tommy swears, feeling very uncomfortable having to watch this exchange, but he must because he knows no daughter of Alexander Galligan walks around without a weapon.

Abigail eyes Tommy, frowning, but turns back to Lucy, “Don’t be stupid, of course I do. What did he say to you?”

“He says your family is a rival gang who wants him dead and you’re just keeping me close to use me as leverage to get to him and that’s why you’ve been trying to keep me away from him.”

Abigail snorts and looks towards Tommy, “Did your research, did ya? You obviously didn’t do it well enough or you’d know I haven’t spoken to my family in years. I cut off contact. You’re right about one thing though, my father does want you dead. Has for as long as I can remember.”

Lucy is still shaking her head, “But you told me you were close to your parents, that they loved you even though you liked girls.”

“I lied,” Abigail brings a hand to her face, “I didn’t want you to know my family, I’m… I’m ashamed of them and what they do. And they’re ashamed of me so I guess we’re even.”

“Then why were you trying to keep her away from me?” Tommy butt in.

“Because I know better than anyone what being in a family like yours is like. She won’t find love with you like she thinks. You’re dangerous. You’ll just get her killed.”

“If anything what’ll get her killed is traipsing around Small Heath with you letting the whole world know you’re… intimate.” He ends awkwardly, “I don’t care who you love.” Tommy turns his attention back to Lucy who had reddened considerably at his last sentence, “I’ll protect you from anyone who thinks you’re fuckin’ less than because of it, but you two need to be more careful if you’re going to live here. Understood?”

They both nod, Abigail rolling her eyes. “And you’re wrong.” Tommy continues, looking back to Abigail, “I know what it’s like when a parent or a family member doesn’t love you. I wanted my father to love me more than anything in the world and I promised myself my children would never feel the same. She’s a Shelby and that means I will protect her and love her until my last breath. And if you stick around for long enough, though you can’t get married, that protection applies to you as well.”

Abigail softens a bit at his words, “Okay, Mister Shelby. But if you hurt her I’ll have to cut you.”

Tommy smiles, “Same goes for you, Abigail.”

***

Lucy came back to the Shelby house a week later, Abigail in tow to meet the rest of her family. “It’s gonna be fine, Lu, the worst that could happen is one of the Shelby brothers pulls a knife on you and tells you not to fuck his wife.” Lucy gives her a horrified look and Abigail laughs, “I’m joking, relax.”

Just then Tommy opens the door and wraps Lucy in a hug, which she is surprised but delighted all the same by the affection. He rests his head on top of hers and then says, “I am so sorry for everything you’re about to endure.”

Lucy frowns, about to ask him what he means, but he immediately whisks her into another room where there are immediate joyful yells as her new family pulls her into hugs and welcomes her and not one of them bats an eye at Abigail, not even when they hold hands. Everyone is lovely to her and makes her laugh until she snorts, but she most enjoys playing with Charles and Ruby, her half brother and sister.

Finally, when everything’s quieted down and Abigail is dozing off on the couch, Tommy asks to take her for a walk.

“You like horses?” Tommy asks.

She nods, “Begged my mum for one every day from the day I could talk until I was eleven and she saved up everything she had to get me one. His name’s Oliver, but I call him Ollie.”

Tommy smiles, “That’s the gypsy in you. Before the war all I wanted to do was take care of horses.”

“Really?” Lucy smiles, delighted to have something in common with him.

He nods, “I went to go see your horse one night after I followed you, you take good care of him.”

She looks shocked, “He let you near him? He never let’s anyone touch him but me, it’s a battle to even get him to let Abigail ride behind me.”

“It’s the gypsy blood. Never met a horse that didn’t like me. Anyway, I saw you put goldfish in his trough. Where’d you learn that?”

“My mum told me when I got him that she used to have a horse before I was born, but when she found out she was pregnant with me, she sold him, to save the money. But, anyway, she told me a soldier she serviced once really liked horses and went out to see hers. He also told her that putting goldfish in her water trough would keep it clean and free of bugs and other things that were dangerous to the horses. So that’s how I learned.”

When Lucy looks over to Tommy he’s got a big grin on his face, “What?” She asks.

“I remember your mum now.” He says, “I taught her that.”

Lucy’s grin matches his, “Really?”

He nods, “She had a beautiful horse.” They’re silent for a moment, “I’m glad that even though I wasn’t there for you when you were growing up, at least you got that small thing from me.”

“Me too.” They walk in silence for a few minutes before Lucy breaks it, “Did you mean what you said before, to me and Abigail? That you’d always love and protect me no matter… no matter who I love?”

He nods, “Yes.”

“It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Lucy, I would be a hypocrite if I judged you just because of someone you loved. We can’t help who we love and we certainly don’t choose it. I spent the better part of my adult life committing crimes and killing men. Bad men, mostly, but still. Knowing all that, you still wanted to meet me. Wanted me in your life. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You’re my blood. It changes nothing about how I feel about you. Alright?”

Instead of answering she flings her arms around his waist and pulls him close, “Thank you.” She says, muffled against his chest. 

He smiles and strokes a hand down her hair, using the other to pull her close to him, “You’re welcome.”

[ashelbygirl]

Dishonorable intentions. | Thomas Shelby x Reader Imagine.

Part I.

*Sidenotes: So... yesterday I was watching the notebook and thought it would be cute to do this! I totally stole the idea from there so... hope you like it.

*Resume: You’re a volunteer nurse in France, that when you meet Thomas. Months later he goes looking for you.

Thomas saw YN the first moment he arrived to the tent that served as “hospital” for the British soldiers. Her beautiful smile was the first thing he saw when he got there. He was walking, everything in him was numb, so numb he didn’t even realized almost every part of his body was wounded or fractured. He was stunned by her. They were seconds but Tommy could bet she walked in slow motion just so he could registered her face and never forget her. And then, she met his gaze. Her smile vanished while she ran to get to him. He looked terribly and YN was pretty sure he was going to die. But Tommy didn’t die. Soon, the doctors and other nurses arrived and helped him, his eyes began to close after seeing her smile ran away, after that he didn’t seem to remember anything else. He does remember thinking YN wasn’t supposed to be there. She was way to perfect, way to innocent, way to pure. Tommy could see the way she walked, the way she talked and he knew she wasn’t a street girl. She was classy in every single way, she was well educated and god she was beautiful. Her body, her face, her lips, her eyes. He wanted her and he’ll get her. Thomas didn’t remembered ever wanting someone as much as he wanted her. Tommy was in shock, and not for the beautiful girl who stole his mind, but because of everything that just went down right in front of him. Dani was going to get killed, Freddie was going to get killed and he was certainly going to get killed if he didn’t attacked those french soldiers and it wasn’t until two days later when YN arrived next to him to help him get up, that his mind went on again. It was like the pause was gone and everything came back to him just in a second.

YN on the other hand, was on her last year of college when she volunteered as a nurse’s aide for the First World War. She was a student on Sarah Lawrence College in New York. A british girl living in the new world. YN was a well known socialite who always felt like a misfit. YN always wanted more and in her biggest dreams, she wanted to became the first woman to be lawyer even if that wasn’t allowed, she knew since a toddler that the rules were made for being broken and creating you own. Her family being one of the wealthiest families in Europe made sure that their little girl could do anything she wanted, even if that was studying. Her dad was a big lawyer while her mother was an artist, her brother was a student in law school and also her best friend and confident, before he was called to service their country and went to fight in representation of England.

YN could still remember the day he said goodbye. She flew from Manhattan to London the same day she found out her brother, Alex was leaving for war. Funny thing was she never thought it would be the last day she would see her brother. He left. Months went by and no one had any idea of how or where Alex was, if he was dead or alive, it was unknown and for someone that loved control and knowing everything, it was killing YN. So she made a decision. She was celebrating the holidays at London with her parents when she got the news that the government needed nurses to go to war. They needed nurses that would be sent to France so they could help the wounded soldiers. So she enlisted herself and a month later she was in France trying to help whoever she could, with the hope of finding Alex in one of those injured man that needed her help. She was determinate to find him. To her, the broken man with shattered bodies who filled the war were all her brother or someone who fought beside him.

So there she was, in a tent that tried to be a hospital or at least the closest thing to it, at the middle of the night trying to take care of at least 50 men only at her watch. Checking in every single one of them every time she had the chance. Praying for one of them to be Alex. She was exhausted, her eyes didnt have the light that distinguished her anymore and you could sense how tired she was. She was about to lost her hope. She wanted to go home but she wasn’t the type of girl who would just give up. YN walked to one of the men who’s injuries where pretty serious. He was really beaten up. If she remembered correctly, he attacked some French soldiers while trying to save his mates but the results were him having fractured ribs and her face looking crazy with bruises and blood, while his leg was also fractured. There was something mysterious about him. He didn’t speak. Not once. He had two days there and not even a single word came out from his mouth, but YN wasn’t intrigued or shocked about it as the other nurses seemed to be, she was very busy trying to find her brother while saving the life of hundred of men to even look at him. Oh but when she did.

-Sir? I’m gonna lift you up, is that okay? We need you to start moving your body so it doesn’t get numb okay? -YN didn’t even waited for an answer before she started to hold him with all her strength and made him sit on the bed he was laying seconds ago.- Okay! There we go. Now I’m gonna bring this leg over. -She talked to him with a smile on her face. She was a true believer that a smile could save someone’s life. YN started to help him put his leg down on the floor.- Set it on the stool. Are you okay?

-Tommy. Thomas.- The blue eyed man spoke for the first time in days and she was pretty surprised. It could only meant he was starting to recover from the trauma. The thing was YN wasn’t sure who was Thomas or why he was looking for him, so she wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.

-Hm?-She grumped while taking his temperature and vitals. There was something strange about this guy, but being so close to his face made YN feel safe. Safe even when everything could explode in just seconds.

-I mean... My name is Thomas, Thomas Shelby.- Something strange happened in Tommy, he was really nervous and could feel his hands sweat every time she came close to him. He didn’t knew what was going on but the girl standing in front of him made him nervous, even when she also made him feel like home. YN didn’t knew this but for Thomas, being close to her made him feel secure. It made him feel better. It helped him forget or deal with everything that’s has been going on.

-Well, nice to meet you Thomas... I’m YN, YN Casiraghi.- She said with a true smile on her face.- So, Thomas, how are you feeling?

-Miss, can I ask you a question?- It was like Thomas didn’t listen to the question she just asked and YN didn’t do anything but get out a sight.

-Hmm?

-I noticed that you aren’t wearing a ring and I was wondering if I could take you out.-Tommy looked into her eyes trying to know what would the response to his proposition would be.

-Excuse me?- YN was surprised for the straightforwardness that Tommy had but she did was getting used to soldiers asking her out, the only difference was that normally, other soldiers would try to get know her first and even when they did that, YN always made them clear that she wasn’t interested. Oh but not with Thomas Shelby. She was interested.

-On a date. I was wondering If I could take you out on a date. And before you go and say no, I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent dancer and my intentions are completely dishonorable.-He started to cough after de efforts he had been doing, even if it was just minutes.- I want you YN and I’m gonna get you.

-Ok Casanova, come on. Let’s put you down. -She talked while laughing a little bit, she was sure he was crazy or probably just drugged.-How about this, let’s just get you better and then we’ll talk about a date ok?- YN just chuckled while she helped Thomas lay on the bed again.- Good night Thomas.

-Goodnight love.

Hours after her talk with Tommy, YN got the news she feared to get. Alex was dead and the body was never found. She could feel everything in her world turn into pieces. Everything was over now. She didn’t think it twice and left. Hours later she was on a plane that would take her back to London, a plane that would take her back to her old back. Everything was so fast and traumatic that she didn’t even remembered that she had met Thomas. Everything was a blur.

————-

The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and later, the months were years. YN graduated from college and deciden to go back to London to try help his father with work and try to apply the things she’d learnt at college. They time went by fast, she tried to go out, meet new people and even date, but there was always something missing. She, yet again, wanted more. She needed passion, she needed rush, adrenaline and someone reckless. She wanted everything she alway read on her favorite books. She wanted all.

Sponge cake, Russian cigarettes, Florentines, sugar tarts, and chocolate chip buns with dry-roasted chocolate bean grué follow in the wake of an exceptional tea selection from the prestigious house TWG. It was a Friday afternoon, she was walking back home from her favorite tea room with her friends on her sides. There is no ritual that YN loved more than the afternoon tea, that special late-afternoon moment of lingering conversations and secrets shared. While YN and her friends walked on the street laughing, YN could notice a car and a man in front of her house. Who was he and why he was waiting there?

-Hm, who’s him sweetheart?-Sophie asked her while eating the man alive with her eyes. Everyone could notice that her friends were undressing the man in their imaginations.

-Omg, he’s so dreamy ! I think I might be in love...-Louise said with a little chuckle. She loved to flirt and her heart was pretty big.- God, YN he’s staring at you!!!

-Shh... he’s probably looking for my dad or something.-YN didn’t even looked at him twice. More like, she didn’t even looked at him at all. She completely ignored him and passed thru him to start looking for her house keys so she and her friends could come inside. But she wasn’t dumb at all, she could feel the eyes of the man piercing her back. He wanted her to turn around. YN didn’t plan on turning around.

-Aye! Miss?- The man shouted at her, and everything froze for her in that moment. Slowly she turned around, even when she knew who was the man standing in there. After all this time, could it be him? He was waiting for her.- I’m all better now, so how about that date? -Thomas started to walk towards her, with an almost imperceptible cocky grin on his face. There was something YN needed to understand, Thomas Shelby always gets what he wants.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Meant to Be (DonnyxReader)

@owba-chan​ @war-obsessed​ @inglourious-imagines​ @tealaquinn​

Let me know if  you wanna be added to the taglist! :) Requested by @cybernobody44

The boys muttered and cursed under their breaths as they marched through some mud on the outskirts of the forest. Their vulgar and amusing strings of words becoming frosty breaths in the winter evening.

There was an agent that the OSS had let the British intelligence "borrow". And now the basterds needed that agent for a mission, or two.

Hrischberg muttered, "I don't see why we gotta have this spy tag along. We've been doin' fine on our own!"

Omar nodded, "I hope he's not snobby about being an agent and being smart and all that."

Hugo huffed, "Unlikely." He mostly didn't feel like dealing with one more person than he already had to.

The basterds crossed into the empty back alleys of a questionable side of a small French town.

Smitty narrowed his eyes, making out the dark figures of shadier characters scattered about and slinking around in the shadows. "Aldo? How are we supposed to know who our contact is?"

Aldo was glad to hear something that wasn't a complaint...for the first time in a week. The only thing keeping him sane by then was his supply of tobacco, which was running dangerously low.

He sighed as he turned around, "Two allied airmen will be escortin' our spy."

Wicki raised an eyebrow. "Allied airmen? Under what flag?"

Smitty nodded, "Yeah? Canadian? British? Australian? Soviets? Brazilian? It could be any-"

Aldo sighed as he sat down, and inhaled the last of his snuff, hoping the newcomer would be a peacekeeper among them. "They don't fuckin’ tell me shit, son."

The basterds stood around, hoping their silence would draw less unwanted attention.

About an hour passed...

Omar narrowed his eyes, having an ear for accents, as he found three figures appraoching them. "Fuck...it's the tommy's."

The basterds groaned in annoyance, as they heard one of the airmen muttering under his breath, "Bloody hell...it's the yanks!"

As they came into the clearing, light from a shattered street lamp revealed the spy.

And it stopped Donny's heart.

He whispered, astounded, "Holy shit...it's her..."

Smitty turned to Donny in confusion, "Her?"

Omar followed in confusion, "Who's 'her'?"

Wicki, Aldo, Hugo, and Hirschberg turned to Donny. Analyzing the loosness in his stance, the loss of words in his parted lips, and the sheer panic in his eyes.

Her...

From the stories Donny had told them about you, the way he once lovingly and painfully drew your face with his words, they knew what you looked like...

Hugo looked to the two younger basterds... and murmured, "Her..."

The last time Donny saw you was back in 1941...

Pearl Harbor had just been bombed.

Stories about nazi Germany, and millions of broken, tear-stained, blood stained, stories made their way across the Atlantic.

The US had just declared war.

Donny had enlisted without hesitation. He had a baseball bat, signed with names of people he needed to avenge...

And there you stood, by his side, just as you had for years...

He didn't want you there anymore.

He looked down at you, his thumb pressed against your cheek. You were no longer what he wanted most in the world... At least, that's what he made you think.

He loved you more than anything, more than his own life, but he thought it was selfish to keep you tied down.

Especially if he didn't know if he'd ever come home...

The most painful part of it was seeing the love still in your eyes behind the broken depth of the world he'd built with you... He'd built up the courage to say goodbye to you, forever because he thought it would be easier if he saw that world in your eyes collapse and go up in flames. But he was wrong. Dead wrong. Your eyes were the same eyes that had loved him for years, and probably would for a million more.

You saw the reflection of that very love and life in his eyes.

He still loved you... You knew that, and that's what made it worse...

All you could manage to do was whisper a broken, "Why?"

Donny lied.

He lied blatantly to you, and to himself.

"It never would have worked out between us, doll, I'm sorry..."

You shook your head softly as tears streamed down your face, pleading quietly. Begging him to rethink everything with two simple words. Words he'd only listen from you, words only you could string together to break his heart, "Donny, baby..."

He looked down at you, the pain of his torn heart taking over his eyes...

He would never tell you why.

And you knew that....

On December 6th, 1941,  Donny was sneaking away from you, and hiding around the shops in downtown Boston, looking for the perfect ring. He wanted you by his side for the rest of his life. He wanted more than anything in the world to make you his wife...

Everything changed on December 7th.

On December 8th, the US entered the war. And Donny enlisted. He finally had a chance to make things right, for his family, his people, and every single name on the bat he'd gotten signed that morning. At that moment, that was what he wanted most: justice...

Justice...

He loved you, more than he loved anything else in the world, but it wasn't right to give you the ring then.

Not when there was a chance you would have to bury him in a coffin wrapped in a flag...

But you didn't know all that.

And you knew he'd never tell you any of it.

You just nodded, tears still streaming down your face as you stepped away from him. You turned your back on Donny Donowitz that night. Something that nobody ever did. You didn't answer the phone when he finally wanted you to know why. You didn't open the door when he wanted to say goodbye...

That was goodbye enough for you. Years passed, and somehow, there you were.

It was January, 1944...

Hugo nudged Donny rather crudely, and he snapped out of it.

Your hair was tied up with a bandana. You wore a jumpsuit, and boots. You packed a gun, a knife, and cigarettes. You stood at attention, saluting Aldo, your current lieutenant.

You were introduced to the other basterds...

You looked at Donny, and nodded once, without a trace of the past in your eyes as you acknowledged your sergeant, "Sergeant Donowitz."

Donny clenched his jaw... He never thought he'd hear your voice again. He'd never heard your voice so neutral...

So loveless...

He'd never heard you call him by his last name.

He didn't know what to call you... He couldn't call you doll anymore.

You weren't his.

You were a spy under the MI6, agent under the OSS, a soldier under the allies, and as of that moment, a basterd.

You were a hero and a fighter in your own right.

You weren't his.

He nodded once after faltering for a milisecond, "Private..." He trailed off, unable to even call you by your last name after calling you so many beautiful names for years. Things you'd never expect a boy like Donny Donowitz to have known...

You managed to keep the bare minimum of contact with him for the next few days. Seeing those eyes, hearing that same old voice... It was almost too much for you...

And seeing you, seeing what he lost, what he once wanted more than anything...

It was too painful for him,..

The night before your mission, the basterds were sitting around a campfire, drinking and laughing...

At some point, you and Donny made eye contact.

And for a moment...there was something. The flicker of an ember. A distant memory, echoing from the beat of his heart...

You blinked and turned away... It was the last thing you needed.

Feelings.

You bade the basterds goodnight, and slipped away,

You were just inside your tent when you heard a slight shuffle behind you. You would've thought nothing of it if you weren't a spy.  But you knew better. You knew it was him.

"Y/n...I can explain..."

His voice was soft. It was almost a whisper. It was urgent, and stern, like a sergeant's. But it was candid enough to hear the droning guilt and pain in his heart.

"And what makes you think I want an explanation?" You turned, you faced him, and looked him in the eyes, scorn sculpting the expression in your face.

He looked at you, seeing through a spy's act. He looked at you, not the double or triple identities you held around the world to shield yourself from what could have been. His head tilted slightly, as he murmured, "It's harder to love someone that's dead than to hate someone who's alive..."

You unclenched your jaw. You lowered your arms. Your fists opened. Your eyes lowered.

You understood then...

That was why he broke up with you.

To Donny, the hardest part of all of that was leaving you. He loved you, and had loved you all along.

You took a breath, and admitted something you couldn't have admitted to yourself a day sooner, or perhaps a moment later.  "I don't...I don't hate you."

The  light of a bright white cloud, every color of the sunrise, every simple joy in life was shining through Donny's eyes at that moment, as he looked at you with all the hope a soldier could have. "You still love me..."

In that moment, it broke you to see he never stopped loving you.

What was worse was that you didn't know what you felt for him. A love lost to tears, years before...

"Honestly, Donny...I don't know..."

He knew you. You weren't a liar. He could tell that was the best you could do, and he admired you for it...

You shook your head before anything more was unburied, "We... we have a long mission tomorrow," and stepped forward, ushering him out. The ember was gone. The memories were meaningless. "Goodnight, sergeant."

But he noted the false frigidity in your cold words when he saw the longing and rememberance in your eyes. *****

The mission went as planned, and the OSS sanctioned another one. Then another. And another. You were to stay with the basterds until further notice. Nearly a year passed...

The basterds ambushed a patrol, and held five nazis captive, hoping one of them would tell them more than what they needed to know.

As you all knew, the basterds weren't in the prisoner taking business...

As you waited around for Aldo's threats to take effect, Wicki's translations, and Donny's 'show,' you and Smitty got along well...

A little too well, for Donny's liking.

He eyed you from behind the line of nazis.

He glared at Smitty...his bat fell to the ground, as he trudged through the melting snow.

You knew that look...

He was jealous.

And when Donny Donowitz was jealous, no one was safe. Smitty froze up, only able to move his eyes...and he mistakenly looked up at Donny. Smithson Utivich had never been more afraid in his life than he was at that moment.

Donny ripped Smitty away from the boulder he was sitting on with you. Donny's fists were clenched around Smitty's sweater. "YOU'RE GONNA TALK TO Y/N LIKE THAT?! IN FRONT OF ME?! YOU'RE GONNA TALK TO MY GIRL LIKE THAT?! HUH?!"

The basterds piled onto Donny, trying to pry him away from Utivich, but they couldn't move him.

Not even Aldo's orders worked...

Only one thing in the world could make him listen.

"Donovan." Your voice was stern, demanding like only yours could be. But it was familiar, and almost loving. One that he had known many years before...

Once, when he was younger.

He immediately let go of Smitty... He slowly looked beyond the basterds, and met your eyes.

Everyone was silent...

Then Aldo cleared his throat, and suggested the basterds get right back to business.

You eyed Donny, as he muttered a questionable apology to Smitty, and patted him on the chest twice, attempting to roughly and quickly patch up their friendship.

He went back, and took up the bat.

You watched as Donny disposed of each nazi that Aldo deemed useless. Smitty....well...he kept his distance from you for about a month or two after that.

You watched Donny raise his bat, just as you had amillion times before. Some things never change...

You watched as a spray of nazi blood shot onto nearby trees, and brain matter leaked onto the snow below.

You cleared your throat, and shifted a little as you watched Donny. It was impressive.

Donny was an impressive man, to say the least... After everything, even you couldn't deny that...

You looked away, fearing the things in your heart that might return if you looked too long at him. And just like that, the basterds had the information they needed. Aldo marked a lone survivor with a swastika on his forehead. The basterds took the rest of the night off... You were rummaging through supplies, taking inventory for no reason. You just wanted to avoid any other sudden bouts of jealousy and misunderstandings. But of course, the buckets of water you kept in your camp were just beside the supplies. And of course, Donny felt like washing off some blood after that. You knew him all too well. His grunts and muttering made you lose track over and over until you set down your paper, and looked at him, "Why're you mad now?!" He had been splashing water on his face. He was startled hearing you speak to him first... He wiped the water away with his forearm, and turned to you, unexpectedly reproaching you, "You called me Donovan in front of them!" You kept your temper as you cooly remarked, "And you called me yours." "No I..." He narrowed his eyes as he made a futile denial, "I didn't..." Knowing damn well he did. He sighed as you looked back at the paper where you kept track of the inventory. You thought about Donny's Freudian slip... How he called you his after all that time... You looked at him, and thought of when you called him yours... You saw him joining Aldo and Omar by the fire. You looked down at your paper as you sighed and thought, "Some things never change, Donny baby..." ******* A few months passed... The basterds were ambushed by a group of nazis in the forest. You were all split up and cut off from any viable and possible escape routes, from your ammunitions, and from each other. You and Donny were cornered by two separate groups of nazis, and pushed together. So... It was you and Donny against the world, just as it used to be.

In the midst of the blood and the bullets, you and Donny fumbled into each other. He practically enveloped you in his arms, and pulled you down to the ground behind a dense line of trees, saving you from gunfire. His arms were wrapped around you protectively, and he fell on top of you. His cheeks were flaming red in embarassment. He looked down at you for a moment by accident, and his heart fluttered seeing the same eyes looking up at him from years before. It was as if nothing ever changed... You giggled a little, seeing his embarassment and remarked, "Donovan, darling, I'm sorry but it never would have worked out between us." He smirked a little, knowing damn well he never should have worded it like that years ago,  as he pulled you back to your feet, and you got back to the firefight... Seeing as the results may be bleak, Donny turned to you, and started shooting at the enemies lining behind you through the trees. He gritted his teeth as he looked away from the nazis, and to you for a moment, "Y/n. I can't do this anymore. I want you back and you want me back. No more games."

You looked at him with a smirk and a squint as you aimed your shotgun to a nazi approaching behind him. You took a shot, looked up at him with a smirk and remarked, "Apology accepted."

He saw the laugh caught in your smile, and he saw your forgiving and loving eyes and the cheeky grin.

He smiled softly, and looked at you, silently but visibly wondering if you meant it. Suddenly, his eyes went wide with realization at something you didn't quite catch on to yet. Donny took you in his arms, he held you, and he spun you over, taking your place, as he shot a round at the remaining nazis.

You didn't understand yet. He looked down at you, perhaps for the last time, and kissed you. You kissed him back... You assumed the love and passion that went into it was to make up for the years that were lost. It wasn't until you felt the warm blood pooling through the back of his shirt, soaking your hand over his back.

"Donny?!" You pulled your head away from his chest and looked up at him. His eyes were glazed over with dullness and pain, but you could still see your reflection in them. The love of his life.

He exhaled shakily as his knees buckled. You held onto him tightly, lowering him down gently, as the basterds started emerging from corners and bends of the forest. *** Donny was bandaged up, laying against the backboard of dusty, ancient mattress, in a hidden attic from one of your contact's homes. A medic working under the French resistance was called for Donny under the mask of the night. Donny, feverish from the bloodloss, pain, and fear of losing you, started to get up, "I need to see her!" The medic had just finished sewing up Donny's wound. Donny blacked out before he was sure all the nazis was dead. He wanted to make sure you were alright. Aldo’s word was not good enough for him. "Stay down, Donny!" Aldo stopped pacing back and forth as Hugo and Omar held Donny down. He hadn't stopped screaming in pain as the medic pulled the bullet out of his back, without any medication. Wicki was ordered to stay downstairs with you and the contact, and make sure you didn't go upstairs. Smitty and Hirschberg were stationed at the doors to make sure no one followed. You had sat with the contact, an elderly French woman who's seven grandchildren were fighting in the war, or with the resistance. She tried her best to comfort and distract you, but nothing could tear your mind away from Donny's muffled screams. You understood everything then. That was why he didn't want to stay in your life... This was exactly why... You heard heavy, slow boots stepping on the creaking, ancient ladder from the attic. You were tense... It felt like the whole night passed waiting for the news to reach the bottom of the steps. Hugo cleared his throat, and you stood up. Hirschberg peered in from the door. Omar stood at the top of the steps. You rushed to Hugo, looking for a sign, but you couldn't read him. He looked at you, forced to go downstairs by Aldo to tell you that, "Donny is alright." You took a breath, and sighed, smiling, clasping your hands over your lips. Hugo acknowledged what Donny had done for you...frankly Hugo'd never admit it, but he thought you were sweet together. Unbearable as he found other people, somehow seeing you and Donny together amused him. "He always gets dramatic when he's hurt." You nodded with a reminiscent smile, "Oh, I know." He walked back upstairs with you. You and Donny looked at each other... He was sweating from the hack job surgery, and running a low fever, but he would alright. And he smiled, when he saw you. He stopped fighting against Omar and laid back the moment he heard your footsteps coming up the stairs. Aldo sniffed some tobacco, walked past you, and gestured to Donny, "Humor him, would ya, Y/n?" You smiled and nodded, though it hurt you to see him like that. That bullet was meant for you... "Y/n, come here..." Donny reached out for you, his fist was balled around something. Aldo cleared his throat, catching the rest of the basterds' attention. Everyone grumbled as they filed downstairs with him, leaving you alone with him. "Donny?" You sat by him, laying your hand against his face, noting the fever. "You're gonna be ok." He nodded, but that didin't mean he didn't have a lot to say.  He took your hand, and put something in your palm, and closed your fingers around it, "This is yours." You opened your hand and found a beautiful silver ring, with what seemed like a million stars from the night sky, studded over it. You didn't understand. You thought he lost his mind. Maybe he'd found it somewhere, and was just delirious at the moment... You'd never even seen such a beautiful ring in your life. You shook your head, trying to give it back to him. He refused. "It's always been yours. My heart's always been yours, doll..." "Don, you lost a lot of blood, you're not..." You took a breath, "You don't know what you're saying." He smiled at you, "This is the only time I've been sure about what I was saying. I know you might have moved on...and I just want you to be happy But I need you to know, this was meant for you, and I'm sorry I left the day I should have given it to you." You looked at him, and realized what he meant. "Donny, baby..." "I was going to ask you to be my wife three years ago...then..." You nodded and spoke softly, "Then we went to war." "I didn't want you to be a widow. I  just wanted to save you from this." He sighed, in defeat, "From myself..." You smiled a little, as you held the side of his face, "Some things were just meant to happen, Donny." He looked up at you, his eyes reflecting his confusion. "I'm still here," You smiled softly. He nodded, smiling, "You're still here..." as he watched you slip the ring onto your left ring finger. Some things really were just meant to be. In the end, not even a war could keep you apart. You kissed him... You'd always be there, and with that kiss, Donny knew it to be true.

[fvsdfdsfds-blog]

Hoppa Alba Hoppa

In the fifties the English café became a continental coffee bar with espresso changing tea. In The Golden Disc Harry and Joan (Lee Patterson and Mary Steele) convert Aunt Sara's decrepid café into a coffee bar (to encompass a document shop and a recording studio) eventually selling a young singer (Terry Dene) to No.1 inside the tune charts and cashing in on the begin of the rock and roll era. Unconsciously, it's far a picture of the past due fifties in Britain. It throws in a cornucopia of track styles, the manufacturers obviously try to section all. There is folk, instrumentals, skiffle, jazz, ballads and rock'n'roll. As a chunk of musical history it's far outstanding in capturing the sensation of changing times.

The fact that prime-time television or cinema could result in hysteria and phenomenally growth sales of rock'n'roll music was now not unknown. That said, the complete concept of those early pop musicals were in particular created for economic benefit in a failing film business with audiences that had dropped off because the late forties.

The opening song Dynamo by using Sonny Stewart's Skiffle Kings stretches from ambient diegetic to performance mode (through a dissolving montage of nightclub neons from one espresso bar into another) as the tune abruptly modifications from a studio recording to stay performance. This courageous musical edit did not idiot everyone. 'You can be annoyed through the way it every so often fades the music before the artists have quite finished' says Nina Hibben in the Daily Worker, (15/3/58)

Campbell Dixon's person view of the time sees 'a strange world of frenzied exhibitionism and phoney, cautiously 호빠 cultivated hysteria. He is aware of it exists... because the young playwrights guarantee us its big, and I'm sure it's far, idea just what its large of, besides own family forget about and bad teaching, I've virtually no idea. All that worries me here is that I locate it quite numbingly dull.

The change of the coffee bar throughout a musical number is sort of a religious transformation. The Gaggia espresso device is delivered into the newly refurbished espresso bar ceremoniously carried on a timber plinth like a pharaoh's mummy. It is located within the position of font on a bar serving as the altar. The jukebox pervades as the church organ and the Espresso espresso serves ritualistically as a relaxed form of communion. These easy traits are indicative of the brand new trend: the blood of rock'n'roll in religious undertones. The owner cannot believe the amount of coffee inebriated because the coffee bar begins to be successful.

The attractions of the espresso bar; that bizarre amalgam of pine, caffeine, bamboo and bullfight posters, were legion. The coffee bar offered teenagers a warm, welcoming assembly place. Not a determine in sight. They had been places you could hang approximately for an evening, spend a shilling on a espresso, go in at nine and pop out at eleven, and no one bothers you.

Terry Williams (as Dene turned into born) labored as a record-packer, who had a desire to sing at office parties (his Presley imitations were properly received) and become found by way of manufacturer Jack Good of 6.five Special. As Terry Dene, he almost had decent hits, however his cover of Marty Robbins' White Sport Coat turned into a larger hit for some other British group, and his second unmarried became overshadowed by means of a Sal Mineo version. Nevertheless he became an overnight sensation along with his Elvis impersonation.

Terry Dene's part within the film is overshadowed with the aid of his disastrously brief career (that could have matched any of the opposite artists mentioned). Scandal and his incapacity to address drink within the track clubs led him to be the primary UK rebel. In his documentary he bemoans that the ballads Decca pressured him to file had been no longer what he changed into about, he changed into a rock'n'roller while he played live. 'Girls swooned over him, boys wanted to punch him.' says manufacturer Jack Good inside the biopic of Dene's lifestyles.

After various tantrums regarding panes of glass and mirrors being drunkenly smashed, he lost the respect of his fans. The alcohol delivered out a violent streak in him that became now not there whilst he changed into sober. A slight and mild natured person from London's operating magnificence Eastend (Platchet), he was faced with National Service (following in Elvis's footsteps). The other soldiers taunted him and within 48 hours he had had a fearful breakdown and left the navy in disgrace. The press of the day scolded him for his pointless scandals and lack of ability to perform his obligation for his country.

The Golden Disc took him to achievement, which become quick lived, and he soon became portrayed because the 'bad boy' of British rock'n'roll. This left him jobless after his demobilisation. In 1964 he then located solace in Christianity and proceeded too produce gospel records.

The movie finale sees Mary Steele and American Lee Patterson launch a document agency and make a nation-wide hit with Dene's first report. A massive British enterprise nearly ruins them, but an even bigger American agency large-heartedly steps in and saves the day. As Nina Hibbin says in the Daily Worker (15/3/58) 'It's speculated to be a British film but its message is "Good vintage Uncle Sam".' This is in contrast to Expresso Bongo 'which is a rarity: a British film-musical of which we may be proud of and America envious.'

Expresso Bongo 1959 The Manager

A rowdy elegy to British kids culture inside the fifties Expresso Bongo 'plunges a savage paw into the mess that is display business.' It is a film spoof of The Tommy Steele Story, (written by means of Wolf Mankowitz), taken from the West End musical of the same name. So enter Bongo Herbert, the 'unbroken road Arab' as defined by his sensible supervisor Johnny Jackson (Harvey) into a lifestyles of Penny arcades, Prostitution, spaghetti, espresso coffee, garlic sausage, neon, parmigiani and salt beef and the whole plethora of necessary beatnik paraphernalia of props that shrouded the movie from tip to toe.

'In 1959, show business is entertainment of the morons, by way of the morons, for the morons. And you get not anything for nothing'.

This factor of view is put forward in Expresso Bongo. It may seem exaggerated but changed into no longer some distance from the fact in its portrait of Tin Pan Alley and Soho, wherein 'stars are made and broken by the chequebook' as Anthony Carthew found out in his scathing file wherein he also claimed 'This vicious story of display business may be very close to the truth.' John Waterman speaks of 'the penalty of writing a bitingly topical e-book or play or musical is that by the point the movie appears it may have lost some of its teeth.' Whatever the outcome it changed into his impression that 'in a single day making a song successes are not the subject of public interest as they had been 18 months ago, in the stage play.' Perhaps this comment spells the stop of the pop years, which are well known to be between 1956-1960, after which period the Beat Boom commenced which led to the 'British Invasion' of British Pop tune into the American charts. This started with the achievement of the Beatles in Richard Lesters Hard Days Night (1964).

[lgbtqiahistoricalromance]

Most Anticipated LGBTQIA+ Historical Romance Novels for 2019

Any Old Diamonds by KJ Charles

- In which we stick it to a duke. Any Old Diamonds is set in the late Victorian era and inspired by a number of things: a real historical crime (not telling you which, that would be a giveaway), the popular theatre of the time (hence the music-hall title), and my urge to find out what happened to some characters in my Sins of the Cities series, set twenty years earlier. I loved writing this one; I hope you enjoy a more-sociopathic-than usual hero.

How to Talk to Nice English Girls by Gretchen Evans (February 14 - @carnationbooks )(f/f)

- n the aftermath of The Great War, everything is changing. But not for Marian Fielding.Marian’s life is quiet and predictable in the solitude of the English countryside, where she plans to remain and care for her parents.But Marian’s world is turned upside down when she meets brash, confident Katherine Fuller. Katherine arrives at the Fieldings’ estate for the wedding of Marian’s sister and immediately shakes things up. Instead of keeping an eye on the ill-mannered American girl and keeping her out of trouble, Marian finds herself magnetically drawn to Katherine’s vivacious nature, and they are swept into a whirlwind romance that will change both of their lives.But will Katherine’s unconventional behavior ruin their chance at happiness? Can Marian leave her old life behind? Will two women from different worlds find a way to be together against all odds and expectations?

Royal Court (A Royal Romance Book Three) by Jenny Frame (January 14 - Bold Stroke Books)

- Captain Quincy is a steady and reliable Royal Marines officer, decorated for gallantry after a mission that nearly killed her and the men under her command. At a crossroads in her career, Quincy reluctantly accepts when her old comrade, Queen Georgina, asks her to join the Royal Protection Command as the Queen Consort’s new protection officer. Holly Weaver, Royal Dresser and self-confessed man-eater, starts to question her sexuality when she has a girl-crush on famous actor, Story St. John and, then, polo player and friend of George’s, Captain Quincy. The good-looking captain’s emotionless personality is the opposite of Holly’s exuberant lust for life. When a threat to the Queen Consort emerges, Quincy and Holly clash over the best way to protect her. As the fiery passion they can’t deny begins to melt Quincy’s heart, Holly must decide how much of her own she is willing to risk.

The Replacement Husband by Eliot Grayson  (January 4 - Smoking Teacup Books)

-  Goddess-blessed Owen Honeyfield is destined to enjoy perfect good fortune. The arrival of handsome and eligible Tom Drake in his country town appears to be the latest manifestation, and Tom’s whirlwind proposal is the fulfillment of Owen’s desires. When his betrothal takes a disastrous turn, Owen is left heartbroken and at the mercy of Arthur, Tom’s disapproving elder brother. His reputation ruined and his bright future shattered, Owen must choose between loneliness and a marriage of convenience, with love no longer in reach. Arthur Drake has always taken responsibility for Tom’s scandalous behavior, but this time is worse — it isn’t just the family name at stake, but his own happiness. When Tom’s impulsive selfishness threatens to ruin the lives of everyone involved, Arthur has only one honorable choice. He’ll need to repair the damage Tom has done and fight for his chance at love, knowing all the while he may never be able to take Tom’s place in Owen’s heart.

Deosil (Whyborne & Griffin series) by Jordan L Hawk (Second half of 2019)

Hexhunter (Hexworld series) by Jordan L Hawk (February)

- Finally, Isaac and Bill’s story in this wonderful series. Watching them work around each other, and hoping they would have an installment, has been one of my major reading wants for awhile now. 

A Place for Wolves by Kosoko Jackson (April 2 - Sourcefire Books) 

- Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe meets Code Name Verity in this heartbreaking and poignant historical thriller. (YA!!)

James Mills isn’t sure he can forgive his parents for dragging him away from his life, not to mention his best friend and sister, Anna. He’s never felt so alone.Enter Tomas. Falling for Tomas is unexpected, but sometimes the best things in life are.Then their world splits apart. A war that has been brewing finally bursts forward, filled with violence, pain, and cruelty. James and Tomas can only rely on each other as they decide how far they are willing to go—and who they are willing to become—in order to make it back to their families.

The Seventh of December by Garrick Jones (January 14 - Manifold Press)

- Even in wartime, London can still be glamorous, but for Tommy and his handsome American a secret mission for a Royal Duke puts life, love, freedom and the future of the world in desperate danger…

As bombs rain down over London during the Blitz, Major Tommy Haupner negotiates the rubble-filled streets of Bloomsbury on his way to perform at a socialite party. The explosive event of the evening is not his virtuosic violin playing, but the ‘almost-blond’ American who not only insults him, but then steals his heart.

The Seventh of December follows a few months in the lives of two Intelligence agents in the early part of World War Two. Set against the backdrop of war-torn occupied Europe, Tommy and his American lover, Henry Reiter, forge a committed relationship that is intertwined with intrigues that threaten the integrity of the British Royal Family and the stability of a Nation at war. Neither bombs nor bullets manage to break the bond that these men form in their struggle against Nazism and the powers of evil.

Diplomatic Relations (Si Regency series) by JL Langley (February 19 - Dreamspinner Press)

- Opposites don’t just attract… they sizzle.A lusty special forces soldier who lives by his own set of rules, Dalton Fairfax decided long ago to stop wishing for his father’s love, and he found his calling. Now that he’s back home and between assignments, he finds himself at loose ends. When the opportunity arises to play bodyguard and help out his country, Dalton jumps at the chance. Not only does it keep him busy, but it just so happens that his charge is the man he saw on leave last month and hasn’t been able to get out of his head.Heir to a dukedom and a conservative politician, Blaise Thompson strives to prove himself worthy of carrying on the family legacy as the next IN Councilman. However, his closest competitor keeps getting in the way and taking credit for Blaise’s ideas. Maintaining his stellar reputation isn’t easy to do while keeping his outrageous younger brother in line and foiling his rival’s personal attacks. He has no time for a guard and even less time for romance.When a priceless antique goes missing, Blaise and Dalton discover that Regelance has larger problems than just IN plots. Now the only way to stop a scandal that threatens both of them is to compromise, and they are forced to confront the risk of losing everything… even each other.

Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon (February)

- 1943 Montana. Wounded in the Pacific, Police Chief Robert Garrett was hoping for a little much needed Peace on Earth, but finds himself chasing after a “fiendish” killer on Christmas Day–aided by eager young reporter Jamie Jameson.

Nomad’s Dreams by August Li (January 29 - Dreamspinner Press)

- Two men, each with a hidden destiny. Can they defeat a web of deceit and dark magic to ensure their fates intertwine?Bedouin Isra al-Grayjaab’s dreams lead him to Janan, an amnesiac beggar on the street of Qena—one who steals his heart and starts him on a seemingly hopeless quest. With only their wits, Isra’s knowledge of the desert’s secrets, and the aid of a mercurial djinn, they must recover Janan’s past. But neither can predict his true identity or the lengths others will go to see that his mind remains broken and his true power out of his reach.In a sweeping romantic adventure that takes them across the Eastern Desert to the modern streets of Cairo and on to the luxurious Red Sea Coast, Janan and Isra seek a truth that will either bring them into each other’s arms or tear them apart forever.

An Impossible Distance to Fall by Miriam McNamara (June 4 - Sky Pony)(YA!)(f/f)

- When the stock market crashed in 1929, it took Birdie’s whole life with it. A year later, she’s still struggling with the collapse of her father’s bank and his subsequent disappearance, and she’s determined to find him. She finally gets a clue when she sees a picture of the Jenny biplane that vanished with him on a leaflet advertising a barnstorming circus. She heads to Coney Island to get some answers, and promptly falls in love with the majestic spectacle of it all, from stuntmen to lady pilots, and especially with pilot June. When signs point to her father having moved on to Chicago, Birdie decides to hitch a ride with the circus. But while the circus folk might be the best thing that’s ever happened to her, a privileged girl who doesn’t understand how things work in the real world might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.

Moonwitch by MJ Willow (January 30 - @lessthanthreepress )

_ When several soldiers are attacked by wolves in the Duchy of Kamare, Prince Athanes travels north to solve the mystery. But the more he learns of the attacks, the more he realizes there is far more at play than hungry, desperate animals looking for food. He finds an unexpected ally in Faelan, a local hunter, but even he seems to have his own secret agenda…

A Shimmer In The Night (Dark Is The Night 2.5) by Kelley York and Rowan Altwood (January 1 - x-potion designs)

- Benjamin Prichard has spent much of his life feeling like an outsider. Growing up, his odd behaviour and visions of ghosts left him isolated, not to mention being the child of an immigrant mother and an absent father. Benjamin walks the line between not being Chinese enough for one community, and not English enough for the other. Whisperwood School for Boys changes everything. More specifically, Preston Alexander does. Drawn into a close circle of friends for the first time, Benjamin finally feels as though he’s found somewhere he belongs. But life is never simple; his feelings for Preston are hardly platonic, and Benjamin doesn’t need one more reason to stand out—which means the option of pursuing those feelings is off the table. But after graduation, when tragedy flips his world upside-down, Benjamin will need to decide which path he wants to chase: the one his mother always wanted for him, or the one that follows the boy he loves.  

Ones to Watch (Up and coming authors I follow on Twitter that are winning awards in their own regions, some published, but I would like to see more of their work!)

Isabelle Adler - working on an arranged marriage, fantasy plot to be published by Nine Star Press - Frost?

Tamara Allen - has published some lovely works, and now that she has recently released something new, I’m hoping she has something else for us in 2019

Cristina Bruni - published the charming Hearts at Sea from JMS Books, and I like her work with the sweet plot line

Blake Ferre - working on a series based in Revolutionary France - The Scarlet Crest - The King’s Secret 

Drew Marvin Frayne - his The Bibliophile novel was one that should have been on my Best of 2018 list, but I wasn’t able to read it in time - a sweet May/December with a western them, but it also tackled the subject of US government’s mistreatment of Native Americans and the consequences it caused

Jude Lucens - author of Behind These Doors, one of absolute favorite novels of 2018, and indeed many years before it - must see a second full novel in the series

Aleksandr Voinov - writes so many beautiful stories, but hoping for a new historical this year; his talent shines with the details

Lee Welch - received a lot of acclaim for Salt Magic, Skin Magic, and though I am not a rabid reader of fantasy, I want more…

[who-is-the-king-of-new-york]

Letters(Newsies WW1 AU)

Summary: Blink and Crutchie stay home while the others go to war. (based on my really old hcs) 

Yes, this is long-awaited and it’s finally here (if I ever continue this I will post more parts but as of now this is all I have.) This also took a hell of a lot of research on what the American’s did when they first joined the war, so I apologise if this appears to be more like it is british because that’s what I go off normally. 

Dear Blink and Crutchie,

We have arrived safely. We will barely be here a week before we are positioned into British lines to replace a lost regiment, luckily we will remain together. While setting up camp we have seen many British soldiers pass through, half of them with bandages wrapped around various limbs as they head to their ships back home across the channel. We can only hope that they survive the boat ride back to England. Tommy says that they look like a shit version of that mummy that was discovered in Egypt when we were teens. The town we are occupying has some lovely French women who are helping out with the cooking in a mess hall. It makes it feel like home, unlike what we are used to when we have to cook our own meal with the measly rations.

There's more color here than what the papers made it out to be. Although, Tom and I have decided that it's probably just because we aren't on the front lines yet where Al is taking photos. I think I saw Racer walking around, taking pictures of us as we arrived, but I couldn't quite tell because we had to continue moving. The other fellas who arrived with us are taking their chances with flirting with the girls who live in the town. It's quite funny to be quite honest, apparently one of them called a girl 'an ugly cow'. I'm not too sure. Crutch, you might know what 'laid vache' means. At least I think that's what he said. The passing British general said that it was what you should say to them. Clearly, he was playing with us and I could hear some of the wounded following him snickering so I don't think that the boy knew what he was doing when he said it.

Currently, Tom and I are writing this letter because the other boys are struggling to sleep with the artillery in the background because they are terrified. Most of us are writing letters to loved ones but as we only have the ex-newsies we thought why not write to you to let you know we're okay. We also have a bet on how many of them are going to sign up to fight.

Tom wants me to mention the way we stopped at Lafayette's grave on our way here. He thought it was admirable that we did that. Bring part of the provisional division is quite strange, there are no other Americans other than the ones we brought with us. It's hard seeing what has happened to the British as we pass by their hospitals and camps. Apparently, we're here to assist the French and British lines because of the situation on the Italian lines. Something about them losing 60 miles? Has it been in the papes back home?

What's the coverage like? How are you two doing? Is the lodging house okay? How are your boys? Any improvements in the love life? I was beginning to think I was getting more than you both combined and I can't get a moment alone with a lady. Tell the rest of them that we're okay and miss them!

Love, Henry (with input from Tommy Boy)

Crutchie and Blink sent a letter in reply telling them about the status at home, about all of the boys putting their names into the draft, some of them being chosen to go already. They also put in a picture of Les in his uniform before he left weeks before their letter arrived. They knew the boys in the lodging house - which they took over from Kloppman when he retired - would want to send a message so they sealed a letter comprised of messages from all of them inside as well. All they had to do was wait the incredibly long time between the letters being sent and the arrival on the lines.

Just days after they sent that letter they had Davey breaking through the doors of the lodging house with the news. News that Henry was home. It was true. Henry was home with a bullet wound through his shoulder which rendered his arm useless for months. He could hardly lift a glass of water to his lips with it, let alone hold a rifle and dig trenches. Henry had money to survive and live with from his 5-year military career but he decided that he would get a job. He couldn't stand sitting around and waiting for his arm to regain strength. He acted on the dream he had as a kid, he wanted to open a bakery. Well, he started the first step towards that at least.

Jacobi was still going in his deli and taught Henry how to bake while paying him for the goods he produced. At first, he struggled to knead the dough due to the minimal use of his left arm and he settled on holding the bowls of whatever batter in his weak arm while kneading or mixing with the other. This allowed him to slowly rebuild the strength while still rapidly producing baked goods. The taste of them improved with each batch. Jacobi loved watching Henry bake, remembering the times as a newsie when all he did was stare at them because he couldn't afford to buy the pastries. Jacobi was proud of these boys and the men most of them had become.

The best part of Henry's recovery was him finding a girl. It was the stereotypical love story. She would come in every day just to buy his pastries and watch him through the door to the kitchen. Jacobi noticed and often let her stay after closing to talk to Henry. She was much younger than Henry, somewhere in her early 20s, parents nagging her to marry a nice upper-class man. She came from a background like Katherine's, rich businessman father and high standards. She didn't care much for the expectations for her to marry someone like Darcy. She loved Darcy to pieces but not in the way her mother wanted her too. The only thing that was playing in her favor was the fact that Henry had been honorably discharged from the army, something that her father would respect greatly but would appreciate the ambition to own a bakery.

Race would be home in a few days. That’s the only thing that was going through the groups' mind, the ones at home at least. Crutchie had been to his home to clean it before he came home, realising it was completely unnecessary now that Race had left it to his new fiancé while he was away. The girl had been a street kid like themselves, finding work at Medda’s as a stage manager and costume maker and really whatever Medda needed at the time. She had taken it upon herself to clean the house from top to bottom on her day off that week, excluding the office in which Race kept his cameras because he was very specific about how it was kept.

Race would be home soon and that was the glimmer of hope they had to a glimpse into what their friends were going through. They were praying it was better than what the British were going through. Although, all the information that they had was nothing more than a few snippets in the papers because of the increasingly isolationist country that they lived in.

The day when the first telegram rolled through the door was the beginning of the cull. The group held a mutual silence amongst their group as they mourned the short-lived life of their friend. Their brother. Blink and Crutchie focussed on the boys in their care, reminding them of what the lost member of their pack used to be when they first met all those years ago. The boys had noticed too, each of them making sure they were home on time to not cause them unnecessary stress. The young ones being brought home by the elder ones, giving Blink the peace of mind required to ensure that none of them attempted to sign up while underage. The silence was kept until a letter arrived.

Dear the ex-newsie pack,

I am writing to you from a hospital bed, or the closest thing to a hospital. I believe I’m at a clearing station run by the British until I can get transferred to an American one. Although, I’m writing to you now while the morphine is numbing the pain enough to tell you that I don’t think I’ll be able to get home. The doctors have taken the bullet out but the blood is still seeping through the bandage hours after, it’s an open wound in a shitty hut in the middle of France, I’ll either bleed out or get an infection.

Davey, you allowed me to live long enough to write this letter. The medical knowledge you gave me meant that I could survive off of my minimal medical supplies until I was rescued by the British. I tried to refuse the morphine they gave me but I came in as the fresh shipment came in. Thank you, I love you.

The rest of you better not miss me too much, take care of Sally for me.

See you in the next life,

Les

There were bloody fingerprints on the corners of the envelope and strange red mud stains on the letter itself.

[watery-lane]

Contradictions.

Pairing: Thomas x Reader

Summary: Human psychology has never been a mystery for him. Until she came around.

Warnings: Light angst.

Words: 4k

A/N: I promised myself to not get back into writing fanfiction again. Oh well that didn’t work. Anyway, new writing blog here, will probably fill your dash with angst. Enjoy!

There is something odd about the human mind. Something twisted, ironic. How we claim to be different to everything from our surroundings, how we distance ourselves from even those of our own kind and convince our sorry minds that we are unique, better somehow than the ones right in front of us. But, at the same time, our actions give away our thoughts in the exact same way everybody else does: a blink in a specific moment, a tug on a hair strand, a sigh after a touch. The human kind is an open book, you just have to know the language its written in.

Thomas Shelby was an avid reader. No, he was not a newspaper aficionado, nor a novel hunter— He liked to read people. And hell, he was good at it. He spoke the language of the unconsciousness, he understood the behaviour of the soul.

He also liked challenges, jigsaws that seemed to be a mix from different puzzles at first, strings that look way too tangled to untangle without a pair of scissors. No need to say that he could resolve them all, whether with scissors or by forcing each piece together.

He had the knowledge of a scientist and the mindset of a soldier.

And with that, he obtained the power of a monarch.

There was only a period of time in his life where he had to leave his books aside. Not because he wanted to, but because he lost his ability to read. Those four years where he lost his sight, the darkness of the tunnels blinding him and the war corrupting the sanest man turned him into an illiterate: he could not predict any move, he could not plan ahead.

But every con comes with its benefit. Sure he could not read in the battlefield, but he had tons and tons of books waiting for him in Small Heath. He picked his first read after four years at the cramped train station when he arrived back from France: Polly, who was waiting for all of the Shelby brothers with a serious countenance but a fast breathing that made her chest heave noticeably under her thick coat gave her true colours away to Tommy. Polly Gray, the strong stone cold woman was praying for her boys to come back in one piece.

Maybe that’s why he fell for Grace. She was a book hard to read, a puzzle that he set himself to solve, and solved it at the end of the day. A book that became his favourite novel, a novel that he carried close to his heart and ended up receiving a bullet for him.

What a great surprise he felt the day he saw you walk in The Garrison for the very first time: humble clothes wrapped around your body but a wealthy man clinging on your arm. His lips felt dry as he spoke, a bitter-sweet déjà-vu flashing in the back of his mind as he asked, “Are you a whore?”

Your response surprised him even more, your arm letting the oblivious rich man go as you grabbed the amber filled crystal glass, leaning towards the Shelby and resting your other arm on the bar counter, hooded eyes with a glimpse of mockery staring right through him. “What would you do if I said yes?”

Tommy studied your features, mind working like a factory. Your face looked way too pure for you to spit words like those, your manners way too sober to be someone who looked like the daughter of a humble family. You were a theory full of contradictions, and he was eager of solving you too.

“I would take you with me and put you to work, then.” He mumbled, taken aback when you gave him a side smirk and focused all your attention back to the man you came into The Garrison with.

That could be the reason why he felt the urge of moving all his strings in order to find you. Not your criminal records or medical report, but you. He wanted to play fairly this time, he wanted to enjoy the experience.

But you were difficult to read. He could find you at the market fabric bag in hand, stacking it with fresh oranges and vivid green vegetables, serene smile on your face as you smelled the crimson apples, enigmatic eyes as your irises made contact with his. You didn’t exchange any words, your looks doing the talk. 

Or he could find you in the most prestigious gala in Birmingham, the most beautiful dress helping you steal all the looks and get all the compliments, same man next to you with his hand on your lower back. But your smile was tense and fake, the same one he puts when he has business to do, he reckoned. Your eyes dull and wandering, as if your mind were in any other place but there.

“I must confess I am starting to fear for my life, Mr. Shelby.” Your voice rang in his ear like a sweet melody, his body turning around to face you. You knew his name. You might even know what he does too, while he didn’t even know your name. It seemed like you were a step ahead of him in his little game. “You’ve got the fame of the grim reaper and I am seeing you quite a lot around me lately.”

“Oh have no fear darling, I’ve met the grim reaper in person and he’s not the one we must be afraid of.” He said back, making you release a genuine laugh and pulling one out of his lips too. 

“What shall I fear, then?”

“A life where It doesn’t chase you.”

Although you knew his words were for pure entertainment they hit you right in your chest. Tommy seemed to noticed that, the funny spark in his eyes waning little by little as he detected your uneasiness. Before he could open his mouth again, someone blew up the little bubble your conversation created.

“(Y/n)!” A deep and authoritarian voice called. You breathed in, your eyes dull again and your posture rigid like a porcelain doll. You cleared your throat.

“Sorry, I must go.” You murmured shyly. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Shelby.” You walked away, the man you came with taking you with him again, resting his hand on the same spot, again.

“Nice to meet you too, (Y/n).” Your name rolled in his tongue like poetry, the sip of the whiskey he took afterwards sealing the taste after the words escaped from his lips.

“You should not mess with her, Tommy. That man she’s with has more nobility titles than men under our orders.” Arthur’s cautious voice talked behind him, worry seeping through his statement. But his eyes were still nailed on you, your figure barely visible as you reached the other side of the gigantic hall. “Don’t mess with her, Tommy.” He repeated again after hearing no response from his younger brother.

“You know them?” He asked, absorbed in his thoughts.

“Tommy...”

“Gather all the information you can find about them, specially about that lovely lady I was talking to.” He ordered. He tried, but he felt like he couldn’t solve you without cheating a little bit. “Tell Michael to write everything down and leave it on my office before noon.” He walked away without even looking at his brother who protested loudly, turning some heads who watched him storm out of the party.

He couldn’t understand what got him. As his eyes focused on the dark road in front of him, his mind wandered elsewhere. Everything was happening again, like a vicious circle: his eyes capturing the face of a beautiful woman, his mind filling his thoughts with images of her. His brain incapable of reading her, his hands unable to reach for her touch. The only thing that made you differ from Grace was that her secrets were based on family honour and morals, whereas yours seemed to come from sorrow. Thomas shut his eyes briefly, waiting impatiently to reach his bed so he could sleep and wake up with the story of your life resting on his office desk.

“This is a bad idea Tommy, you could get us all killed. We’re not talking about Russians, Italians or coppers, Thomas. We’re talking about fucking British nobility.” Arthur stormed into the office, John and Michael following behind.

“I can track them down if you want to Tommy, pay them a visit in your name.” Michael offered, ready to help.

“Shut up Michael.” Shouted Arthur, who was getting more and more impatient at the sight of his brother losing it again for a woman. Behind him Michael rolled his eyes at his cousin, lazily lighting up a cigarette. “How well grabbed by the balls must that woman have you to have to use half of your men to get to her, ey? We have business to do Thomas, we have business and all you’re thinking about is-”

“Wait, is this because of a woman?” John mocked as he leaned against the door frame, amused smirk perking his lips. “Thomas Shelby is pinning after someone who doesn’t even want to give him the time of the day?” Thomas shot him a deadly glance which made John’s smirk even wider for much of his dismay.

“It’s business.” He promised, his mind already tracing a map on how could he benefit his family with the outcome.

“Trying to stick your cock in a noble’s woman is not business, it’s a suicide attempt.” John supported his oldest brother, nodding slightly at his direction. “Just go and ask Lizzie or go and get a whore, we’ll pay all the charges.” Thomas rolled his eyes and sighed, stood up and grabbed his coat.

“Where the fuck are you going now?” Arthur shouted behind him, raising his arms and letting them fall on his sides as he talked.

“To the market, have to get Polly some groceries.” He shouted back as he walked out the door.

“Don’t we have maids for that?” Asked Michael sarcastically.

The market was unusually crowded today, people wandering around happily as the unusual sight of the sun shining above them made every person in Small Heath stick their noses out and sniff the fresh air. He needed no effort to walk through the crowd, every person who recognised him moving out of his way.

He found you at the fabric stall, a meek and plain dress adorning your body as you laughed with your head back to whatever the seller said to you, your features showing no worries and your body language showing your happiness.

“The silk looks pretty nice, how much?” Tommy asked to the lady behind the stall, whose face turned pale at the sight of a Shelby in front her. You looked at him, surprised at his presence but with a hint of pleasure and relief, as Tommy noticed when he vaguely glanced at you..

“On the house, Mr. Shelby.” The lady stammered, grabbing the piece of cloth clumsily.

“Oh no no no, no need for that.” He gestured with one of his hands making the old woman stop, confused. His other hand went to his pocket and grabbed ten pounds. “Here.” He handed her the note as she blinked gobsmacked.

“Thank you Mr. Shelby, god bless you.” She thanked, both of her hands feeling the ten pounds note with delight.

“Talking about God...” Tommy commented. “I was going to visit the local church, it’s been awhile since I’ve confessed my sins.” He turned to look at you, a small smile spreading on his face the moment he saw yours. “Will I have the pleasure of your companion, (Y/n)?”

“Sorry, not a religious person.” You teased, fighting your smile to become wider.

“Then let’s take a stroll around the lake.” Thomas proposed, offering you his arm for you to wrap around yours. “God can wait.” You calmly accepted, nodding goodbye to the seller, who was watching the scene in disbelief.

“So, not a believer, huh?” Thomas broke the ice. “Wouldn’t take you for an atheist.”

“God only takes care of those who are privileged.” You answered absentmindedly. Tommy simply nodded in support, not sure if you were merciful or if you were affected by such injustice, just like him.

“Wise words. Guess you are the compassionate kind.” He commented, watching your reaction through the corner of his eyes. You sighed, eyes losing brightness.

“I guess I am.”

“How about heaven and hell, huh? Not afraid of those?”

“It’s not like I’m living a life where the Grim Reaper keeps chasing my soul.” You sighed, remembering his words the second time you met. You stopped by the lake and gracefully walked down the muddy slope, not caring one bit about your dress getting dirty. Tommy watched your movements, brain filled with confusion as he watched a refined woman carelessly feeding the ducks as mud stained her dress. At that moment, he felt it. He felt the heat pooling his stomach, his cheeks warm and his heart skipping a beat. He shut his eyes for a second, collecting himself and concealing the wreck of emotions he was experimenting.

“I must assume by that statement that you want to be chased by it indeed?” He asked as he saw you returning with an empty bag. You looked at him, ignoring his question as you got closer to him, reaching for the cigarette Tommy had resting on his lips and putting it between yours.

“It doesn’t even matter. Neither heaven or hell exists for me, so what’s the point?” You whispered, releasing the white smoke from your lungs, getting closer and closer to Tommy as if you tried to reach the afterlife as you tried to drown in those crystal clear eyes. Like a reflex he automatically wrapped his arm around you and pulled you even closer, chests colliding as you looked up in order to keep your stare on his eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing. He lost himself in the book, he was way too distracted to think about the puzzle you were. He just wanted to get a taste from you. And so he did, as Thomas Shelby gets everything he wants.

And joy pumped through his veins when he felt that you were melting like wax with his touch just like he did with yours. He wanted to prove you wrong, he wanted to show you that heaven exists, and how this was closer to earth than you thought.

So he took you to a church and with heavy breaths and sinful words, he brought heaven to you.

“I can’t believe you fucking did it, Tommy. I can’t believe you managed to fuck a stuck up lassie with titles on her name.” John Dogs laughed at the backseat, an inexpressive Thomas swallowing his words.

“It’s not the first time he does, though.” John remarks. “Women like her love to mess around with bad men like us. Turns them on.” Tommy’s nostrils flared at the two men laughing in the backseat, his eyes still focused on the road as he made his way to your man’s mansion. For business, he claimed. Arthur simply sat next to him silently, looking through the window.

He walked his way through the long hall, his two brothers and John Dogs covering his back while a bunch of maids received them and guided them to the archduke.

Truth be told, there was not much business to do with that man. Tommy listened to his brags with an interested demeanour, his haughtiness testing his capacity of restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He had sent John Dogs to check all of his horses before the meeting, and he was informed that most of them were malnourished or did not fit the standard for competing. On the other hand, he kept checking the door, praying for a certain woman to show up. He didn’t care that you were not his. He knew you wanted him, and that was all it mattered. An archduchess, pinning over Thomas Shelby.

After a long speech and the realisation of the lack of interest Thomas was showing, the archduke cleared his throat.

“Well, seems like none of my offers are good enough for you, Mr. Shelby.” He clicked his tongue as he looked out. “It’s getting late, how awful would it be from me to not offer you and your men a stay for the night?” He exclaimed, raising his hand. A servant appeared next to him, ready to receive orders.

“Oh no, there’s no--”

“Oh Mr. Shelby I must insist. I have something that may be from your interest.” He said, a certain mocking tone tinting his words. “Bring them in.” He ordered, his servant nodding slightly and proceeded to approach the door, disappear behind it and then opening the gates widely for a trail of young looking maids. “These ladies will fulfil every single need for you during your stay.” The man left his chair and stood next to Tommy, who was wearing his cold expression like a mask, covering his uncertainty. “Oh, and here comes my favourite.” He celebrated, clapping his hands loudly as he laughed.

You shyly stepped into the room, your eyes automatically leaving the floor to lock your gaze with Thomas’ for an instance, humiliation washing over you as John Dogs snorted loudly. 

“A fucking whore! HA! She was a fucking whore, Tommy!” You couldn’t avoid looking at him anymore. Your pleading eyes scanned his face. His lips were parted, eyes wide open as he looked at you as if you were a complete stranger.

“Not exactly a whore,” The archduke corrected, making Thomas finally tear his gaze from you to look briefly at the man standing by his side, who was now moving slowly towards your small figure. “but she’s not in the position of rejecting anything I put her up to, are you dear?” He mocked as he grabbed you by the chin with his thumb and his finger, making you shake your head with disgust.

“I’ll take her.” Tommy decided, his two brothers who remained silent during the whole meeting looking at him with surprise. The archduke turned around to look at Thomas, who was now standing and fixing the neck of his shirt. “I’ll take your favourite whore.” He remarked, looking straight at you, a pinch tearing your heart and watering your eyes.

“Great choice, Thomas.” He called him by his name. “I’m pretty sure you’ll choose your future horse wisely just like you did right now!” He reminded. “Now (Y/n), please take Thomas to his room as his family picks, okay?” He slapped you in the ass as you proceeded to leave the room, making you flinch. Tommy, who walked next to you, did nothing but keep his stare straight.

As soon as you closed the doors behind you and turned around, Thomas grabbed your wrist and put a few coins on hand.

“I guess I am not very good at distinguishing actual statements from sarcasm. Here, this is for your service at the church.” He said coldly before walking away from you.

“I am not a whore.” You whispered weakly, hand still on the knob, fighting back your tears.

Opposite you, at the other side of the king sized bed stood Tommy, who had already taken off his shirt and was in the process of taking off his belt, ice cold expression looking at you, head slightly tilted upwards as if he was superior than you. You wondered if he was hurting just like you did. He did. Maybe not from sorrow, but from pride. You managed to twist his wires, you managed to blind him. You managed to make him forget about Grace, and you were not even half of a woman she was.

“Take off your clothes.” He commanded, something clenching in his chest as he saw the hurt cross your eyes.

“I am not a whore.” You repeated, your hand leaving the know as you got closer to him.

“Now.”

“I said I am not a whore!” You shouted, taking longer strides until you reached his side, hand flying across his face. Your hand stung the moment it hit his cheek, his head turning to the other side. “I am the daughter of a baron and you shall treat me with respect.” You didn’t know where did you get the strength of doing so. You didn’t know where you get the courage from. Maybe it from was the old you, the one who would fight anybody who doubted your worth, your bravery.

He looked at you, not ready to show his surprise at your words.

“A baron.” He repeated, still trying to put all the pieces together.

You stood there silently, giving up and letting all the tears stream down your face. He wanted to act upon it. He wanted to take a step forward, clean your face and pull you into a hug. But he knew he wasn’t in the position of doing so.

“A ruined baron who’s desperately seeking fortune and a higher rank.” You confessed weakly, fighting back the sobs as you proudly hung your head up high. “A baron who is willing to give her daughter to a heartless archduke who will use her as a token, who will use her as a deal sealer until he finds the “right time” to marry her.”

“And a daughter who’s willing to do anything for her family.” Tommy finished your statement, eyes looking down as he finally put all the pieces together. Sure he solved the mystery you hid, but why couldn’t he read you still?

What people also don’t understand is that no matter how good you are at reading those surrounding you, there will always be a book you will never learn to read: yourself. Because we will never be able to think outside of our own minds, because we will never be able to look past ourselves. Tommy couldn’t read you, because he’d have to learn to read himself first. Life had put you through circumstances so similar you two managed to shape ourselves in an almost identical way. You two were broken by the same reasons, but your remaining pieces were shaped differently.

“When I said that God only took care of those who were privileged,” You broke the silence, now an empty void where your heart used to be, making your voice resonate in a way that made Thomas Shelby flinch at his spot. “I meant the ones who had the freedom of choice.” You chuckled. “That wasn’t a problem for me, you know? Until you came around.”

“You have it now.” Thomas reassured, fighting for his legs to remain firm. “The freedom of choice, you have it now.” He repeated again, the real meaning of your words starting to seep into his bones, his heart starting to beat faster and faster at the premises. “I can get you out of here.” You shook your head at his words, which were sprouting out of his lips senselessly. “The Blinders have men that can protect you, we control half England and--”

“Is there anything you wouldn’t do for your family, Tommy?” You asked, finally taking a step closer, your hand cupping his face, silencing him.

The truth is that there wasn’t. But he would never admit it to you, not if that would give you an argument to leave him when he didn’t even get the chance of make you his. But you took that silence as a no, and you slightly pinched his cheek, trying to cheer him up.

“That’s what I thought.” You whispered, sniffing as you kept looking at him. His hands were now around your waist, holding you close as if it were the last time he was going to have you again.

“What would you choose?” Thomas asked after awhile, now his head resting on your hair, taking in your scent. “If you had a choice, what would you choose?”

You intertwined your fingertips with his, head resting on his chest, hearing his heart do the talking.

“I would’ve chosen a life with you.”

Wanna be tagged? Ask here

[e350tb]

Okay, so an article just appeared in the ABC regarding an auctioneer selling Nazi shit at an auction, including ‘great pictures of Hitler.’ (His quote, not mine.) And when I clicked on it, I was like “okay, this is a bit dodgy, but let’s give this a read. Maybe he’s selling some stahlhelms or some old photographs, maybe it’s not as bad as it looks?”

(warning: Nazi imagery below the cut)

Yeah, nah. That’s... nah. He’s not just selling old helmets.

So, this picture specifically (don’t worry, there’s more), sets off just about every alarm bell there is. This is not simply Nazi paraphenalia, this is straight up SS stuff. The picture is of an SS- Obergruppenführer, which is the equivilant of a four-star general in the US Army. I did some digging to find out who it was, and he looks pretty similar to Theodor Eicke. If it is, it’s a picture of a man as utterly disgusting as the SS ever got; he was instrumental in developling the concentration camp system in the 1930s and commandered the Totenkopf Division (which was literally formed from spare camp guards and has a brutal record of war crimes on both Eastern and Western Fronts). The dagger is SS, and the inscription reads ‘my honour is called loyalty’, which was the motto of the SS. And while the skulls could just be generic SS stuff, the patches look similar to the insignia of the Totenkopf Division. So yeah, this is bona-fide, unquestionably Nazi stuff.

The seller also offers a framed watercolour image of Hitler, as well as some cap badges, belts, signs, pamphlets and what appears to be a sword. The article links to the auction pictures on Facebook, so I can share a few ‘choice’ items.

Why the fuck would you want this? It’s not even that good a painting! (I mean it’s better than what Hitler could do but still)

The colouring of the helmet leads me to think it’s an SS dress helmet from the 30s. I mean, if you absolutely must buy a stahlhelm, can you at least get a non SS one? (They had a lot in WWI and they look nicer anyway.)

Why would you buy this if not to put it up? And how the hell would you frame that? ‘It’s a historical artifact.’ THEN WHY ARE YOU HANGING IT UP IN YOUR LIVING ROOM YOU STRANGE MAN

It goes on like that, with Nazi objects weirdly stuck among Elvis statues and US flags without context. (There’s also some Japanese occupation money from Malaya, if you want mementos from the IJA’s brutalisation of that country.)

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m sort of throwning stones in a glass house here. When I was younger and dumber I bought a Nazi war medal because I thought it had genuine historical value. (Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.) I can see why people believe that getting these things is just buying a piece of history. But it’s not - it’s making money off of a hideously appalling regime. If they must be displayed, it needs to be in context, in a museum.

So, as is natural, the Anti-Defamation Commission, which is a Jewish group against anti-semitism, advised that selling this stuff was inappropriate. The response is so utterly mindboggling I have to quote directly, because otherwise you’d never believe a rational human being could say it.

Warning: the following comment is so dumb, you brain may bleed out of your ears.

Our servicemen, our diggers, went over and fought and they actually liberated the Jewish people," he said.

"It's the Jewish people that are the ones up in arms about it but we actually liberated them, and then they brought back souvenirs to say, 'well we won the war'. And now when those people pass on, [the Jewish community] expect us to destroy history.

"As far as I'm concerned — and a lot of my buyers are concerned — that's just not on.

"I can understand it was a terrible Holocaust and that was bad, but our guys went over and fought for them and liberated them, so they need to respect that as well."

Wow.

Okay, I would like to respond to this with three points.

One - go fuck yourself.

Two - ‘Our diggers’ - meaning Australian troops - did not liberate the Jewish people. The last Australian division was withdrawn from fighting the Nazis at the end of 1942, when Australia’s war effort pivoted to fighting Japan in the Pacific. There were airmen still in Europe in 1945, but they were mostly attached to Bomber Command. The people that liberated the camps were British, American or Soviet troops. Further, as far as I’m aware, the Australian Army fought the SS exactly once, and given the circumstances (full-scale retreat from Greece) there wasn’t a lot of time to pick up souvenirs, so the idea that these are being sold by the families of old diggers to pay for funerary expenses, or that it is their history, is so utterly false it beggars belief.

Three - this is an incredibly paternalistic way to view the Jewish experience of WWII. Jews were not passive victims waiting for a passing Tommy or GI to bravely liberate them, they fought back. Just look at the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, the massive Jewish resistance movements in Poland and the USSR (which often met with indifference or hostility from Gentile resistance groups) or the Jewish-Germans who joined the British and American armies. And once the camps had been liberated, European Jews still faced anti-semitism from the Western Allies and the Soviets - Patton’s diaries, for example, are full of absolutely shocking anti-semitism, and it seems he had genuinely convinced himself that America had fought on the wrong side within months of the war’s end. The Jewish people don’t owe us a god damn thing.

And may I just say, it reflects really badly on yourself that your immediate response to being called out for selling Nazi paraphernalia is “THE JEWS” is decidedly concerning.

Oh, and souvernirs? Yeah, soldiers brought back Lugers. They brought back flags, helmets, badges, all manner of Nazi things. But that has context. This was something they could bring home as a trophy - as a monument to defeating the Nazis. Now, there’s a whole argument about the ethics of war trophies and military triumphalism, but it’s very different from just popping onto eBay and buying yourself your own Reinhard Heydrich Happy Funtime Playset or something.

This guy enrages me, as you can probably tell. He gives people with an interest in political and military history a bad name (although if I’m honest, so do about 60% of people with that interest.) He is a smug, flippant and arrogant man, who doesn’t give a damn about people’s feelings as long as he gets his blood money. This... ugh. Just ugh.

(And as a bonus, what his customer base probably looks like.)

[fmp2connorbaldry]

Dunkirk:

Source of Image: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5013056/

Dunkirk is a film adaptation of the real life operation Dynamo, also commonly known as the Dunkirk evacuations that occurred in 1940 directed by Christopher Nolan.

The film focuses on three stories of three people with a short story going with each of them. The film starts off with a young soldier called Tommy who is seen running along with his squad from German soldiers, Tommy is the only one who survives the run where he is saved by a small group of French soldiers holding a certain area of Dunkirk who kill the soldiers trying to kill Tommy. The viewers see that Tommy has found the beach where thousands of other British troops queuing to get away from Dunkirk and return back home. Later on Tommy along with some other members board one of the ships docking and then returning to England which is then attacked, causing it to sink.

The second story focuses on a pilot called farrier, A pilot whose job is to warn other pilots of incoming German planes across the channel. Throughout his endeavours, Ferrier has to come face to face with the disadvantage of having low fuel, whilst in the middle of the channel and dealing with a couple of planes trying to shoot him down.

The third story is focused around Mr Dawson, a member of his community who takes his son, Peter and a boy named George on the way to Normandy in order to bring some soldiers home, However, their plan is sped up when the army want to use their ship as their own and not let any of the public help, Mr Dawson and the others manage to get off with their boat and begin their trip to Dunkirk, Halfway there they encounter a sinking ship with a lonely soldier on the top wrapped up. They pick up the soldier and begin to question him about what happened to the boat and his men, He doesn't answer as he is in shock and dealing with PTSD. His symptoms get so bad that he lashes out at George, which resulted in him falling onto a blunt object, permanently blinding him and eventually killing him. Throughout the journey to Dunkirk, Dawson picks up multiple soldiers and some pilots who fled alongside with Farrier in the sky before being shot down.

I think the film is nicely done with how three different stories lead the film to an ending that relates all of them together with all the soldiers being safely escorted off of Dunkirk.

[ariofourpointo]

By the Order of Peaky Blinders

Cillian Murphy is an amazing actor. I had realized this long ago when I watched him portraying the antagonist on "Red Eye". His acting was so eye-catching that I didn't even mind looking for the name of the protagonist (Rachel McAdams - damn she's attractive, and her performances are convincing). "This guy is something else", I reckoned. I never regret those thoughts.

Murphy is a constant presence on Christopher Nolan's filmography. Scarecrow on Dark Knight Trilogy? That's him. The rich man with father issues on Inception? Him as well. Disturbed soldier on Dunkirk? Yeah, you got my point. Cillian Murphy is a legend in the making, IMO.

Lately, I discovered that Murphy casted as the main protagonist on a British television series: Peaky Blinders. It is a historical epic drama which takes post-World War I (WW-I) Birmingham as its setting. Economy depression is seen in the foreseeable future. Communist revolution is looming as labor strikes plague the industrious island of Great Britain. Irish Republican Army (IRA) is ready to strike whenever there is chance. It is a time of tumultuous situations. Yet, some group of people see it as golden opportunity to rise beyond the top.

Introducing Thomas Shelby, the second oldest son of the Shelby family. He is a WW-I veteran alongside his brothers, Arthur and John. After returning from the war, they start to run racketeering activities (bookmaking, protection, smuggling, and robbery) under the flagship of Peaky Blinders.

Yes, it is a name of a "family company" belongs to the Shelbys. They are respected, or maybe feared to be exact, around their district of Small Heath. They own a pub named "The Garrison" which is iconic as the place where they hold family meetings to defend their territory, or sometimes to expand their empire.

"This place is named The Garrison. Today, it will be our garrison against Billy Kimber," says Tommy, just before the beginning of the bloody confrontation on season 1 finale.

Figuratively satisfying.

That battle near The Garrison is a milestone for the Blinders. They manage to expand their territory of bookmaking dealings to racecourses outside their traditional coverage. Thanks to Tommy's intelligent and diplomatic ability, the family company starts to be recognized among the big fishes.

[Opening scene of the pilot. Thomas Shelby was born riding, as his Gypsy blood implies.]

The second season portrays how Tommy schemes to enter the London market. He finds the opportunity arrising from the conflict between the Jewish and the Italian mobsters. The Jews gang's leader, Alfie Solomons, is played flawlessly by Tom Hardy, another A-list British actor who has worked with Chris Nolan on several occasions. Do you like his performance as Bane on The Dark Knight Rises? You will absolutely love Hardy as Alfie, a Jewish Bane.

["Arfur? Arfur! Shalom!"]

The season 2 finale is so crispy. It doesn't end in blood bath but surely there is enough blood being spilled. Twisting as it might be, it turns out satisfying. From this point onward, Tommy is focusing his effort to make his business completely legal, abandoning the old business. What can go wrong, right?

Season 3 begins with a bang (literally), and things keep banging throughout the episodes. You may recognize the word "Bolshevik" if you pay enough attention to the world history between WW-I and 1991. But do you recognize "Minshevik"? Well, you better start to enlighten yourself if you want to enjoy this season. There will be scenes of "mad house" owned by Princess Tatiana Petrovna (a charmingly mad woman herself) and her family seeking refuge from the "red scare" in their homeland. There will also be priest, there will be separatists, and finally, there will be horror, especially if you have kids.

The latest season of all, the fourth, is my personal favorite. The Shelbys must deal with "black hands" from across the Atlantic, whose capo is seeking vendetta for his late father, gunned down by Arthur as an act of mercy. It was during this season I just realized how good Adrien Brody is (he is an Oscar-winning actor apparently). His Brooklyn slash Italian-American accent resembles Marlon Brando's Vito Corleone. It is mindblowing, methodically hooks me on point, reminds me why I cherish The Godfather trilogy highly.

["What accent is that?"; "American 😎."]

John is dead. But his life is avenged thanks to Michael (cousin to the brothers) who is sent by Tommy as delegation to deal with Alphonse Capone (yes, that Al f'in Capone). Yes, that is a spoiler (muhahaha) but I even could enjoy watching "Red Wedding" episode of Game of Thrones even though I already knew how it would end. So, don't let this review stop you to enjoy the perennial art works of this classic British TV series.

You will learn many things: family value, rise from the rags to riches, class struggle, how to woo rich women, and most importantly, furbizia.

Watch it, and let me know your opinion.

By the order of Peaky f'in Blinders!