#ww1 summer

[ww2yaoi]

seems to me that the conditions of ww1 were especially horrific because of the stagnant nature of the fighting. having to live in the mud amongst the corpses and the rot. at least during ww2 soldiers were often on the move going from place to place capturing cities and gaining ground (with exceptions obviously) but ww1 was fought over the smallest strips of land in farmers’ fields. I’ve been to the western front I’ve seen the craters leftover from shells but it’s still hard to imagine the conditions now that grass and crops have long since grown over the slimy mud and the dead and the ordnance. I’m always thinking about otto dix’s drawings of soldiers trying to exist surrounded by bodies and maggots and corpses bloated with gas. anyways

[opelman]

Triplane by Treflyn Lloyd-Roberts Via Flickr: Sopwith Triplane N6290 flies over Old Warden during its display at the Shuttleworth Collection's 2024 Summer Evening Air Show. Aircraft: Sopwith Triplane replica N6290 "Dixie II" (G-BOCK), built in 1988 by Northern Aeroplane Workshops. Location: Old Warden Aerodrome, near Biggleswade, Bedfordshire.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Canukr 12 for the dialogue prompts

I have no idea what's going on in this fic anymore but it's written so voila. The usual siblings suffering in a trench having a conversation about love, life and what have you with background ukrcan.

Spring, 1916

Jack might have been dead, as stiff as a corpse well into rigour mortis in this cold. His toes wouldn't flex in his boots, and when he peeled back his mitts, the skin on his fingers was cracked straight through. They should have bled, but his hands were too cold. He shoved them under his armpits and shuddered into the tent's wall. If he got any closer to the anemic fire, he'd set himself alight, but there was no point in living in this kind of cold. He wished he could close his eyes and see his home's cracked, desperately thirsty surface rather than that of his own hands—dry, warm sun and blue instead of the endless grey. Or that Zee would get off duty and nick some whiskey. Either would do.

“Hey,” came Matt's low whisper, gentle but as freezing as a polar wind. “You still awake?”

“No,” Jack muttered but shifted and opened his eyes: Matt was tall and sharp and the pale green of a blade of frosted grass. He was still damp from the showers.

“Jesus, Mattie. You sick?” Jack asked him.

Matt shot him an odd look and touched his greenish cheek. “Oh, right. No. Not sick. Just woke up on the corpse pile again,”

“Fuck mate,”

“Ah, all fine. Just was looking for something, it was stupid.” He knelt to sit next to Jack on the sandbag bed, and for the first time, Jack noticed he was out of regulation even more than usual, a blue sweater over their grey army-issued undershirts poking out from under his unbuttoned coat.

“You going to sleep?"

"Nah, can't get any proper sleep when I've got snow balls.”

Matt grinned, a flash of snow blindness. “Bet I can help with that,”

He produced an earthen crock, its contents held by butcher paper held shut with twine, tore it open with his teeth and thrust it into Jack's hands, displaying it with a proud grin.

He blinked.

“It's warm,” He said dumbly. He could feel it with his own two hands, warm and still steaming. Oh, there might be a God.

“It was hot,” Matt said sorrowfully, but Jack paid him little mind. He smelled things he had half-forgotten. Onion, garlic, celery, carrots, peas, potatoes, pepper. Curry. Fucking miracle of miracles—

"Is this... curry?"

Matt grinned again. "Curried lentils, yeah."

“Soup?” He gaped. “Like actual soup? Not from a tin?”

Matt smiled. “Fresh from the cookfires of the Indian division. Aditya says you're welcome."

He dug his mess kit from deep in the pockets of his great coat and scooped some into his mouth. But it tasted as good as it smelled. Vegetal and garlicky. No meat but— Oh! Lentils. Right, some of the Indian divisions were vegetarians.

“God, that's so good,”

Matt snorted. "Is it? Good!"

"Didn't you get any?"

"I didn't have scurvy last month," Matt said. "Speak of, how's the teeth?"

"In my head," Jack said. They ached. But they were firmly in his gums, at least. "Get over here and help me eat this, you sad bastard. I'm cold just looking at you."

"I'm okay." Matt said.

"Oh, get off the cross, we need the wood." Jack rolled his eyes. "No ones going go lose the war because you only martyred yourself once today. Get over here."

Sheepishly, Matt sat, and Jack dumped some soup out for himself. He gave Matt his half in the warm redware.

"Thanks," He said. He looked oddly worn out, even for him, and Jack kicked another log onto the anemic fire.

"What got you this time?"

"Concussive blast, I think." He grimaced, one hand floating over his shoulder before he realized what he was doing and put his hand back to hold his soup.

"Do you want to go bunk with the old man? He's got a few rooms in some ponce's chateau. Warmer than out here."

Matt shook his head. "They'll be fucking."

"Who's... oh your... yeah." Jack grimaced sympathetically. "Can't blame you there. Fucken awkward just being in the same room at those two much less when they're your... whatever Bonnefoy is."

Matt hummed a particularly miserable agreement, and Jack elbowed him. "Hey, you carked it. Means you'll get another care package from Alfred, right?"

Matt snorted. "You keep more track of when those arrive than I do."

"Well yeah, where else am I going to get the good shit?"

Matt shouldered him, jostling their seat. "You just want chocolate."

"Always." He grinned and was awarded the slightest smile from Matt for his efforts and thought he might press his luck. "What are my chances of you translating some Baudelaire for me?"

Matt stirred his soup and gave a flat, dead stare. Jack laughed, uncomfortable.

"Take that as a no."

"Not a no. Just... Not today."

He gave Matt a wry grin. He’d pushed his luck, and he knew it. He gave Matt a gentle elbow and took up some more soup. He was grateful. Extra calories were a small thing in the grand scheme. However, Matt, the blessed bloodhound he sometimes was, could sniff out and scavenge spare calories at a thousand paces. The smell of soup and broth was so… normal compared to damp wool, a soggy tent, and French soil. Wet, horrible, cold French soil. He kicked at the duckboards and the hard-packed earth beneath his feet.

“Thanks for this, by the way.” He said.

Matt glanced up. “Of course. You looked like you needed a hot meal and rack time as badly as I do.”

“… About that rack time.” He grimaced, remembering the envelope in his pocket with all the odd markings Zee had told him to pass on when he saw Matt. “It’s encrypted, so it's probably urgent.”

“No.” Matt lifted one finger. “Not until I’ve eaten. This is going in me, I’m going to pretend I didn’t just crawl my way out of a corpse pile for a bit and then Dad can ruin my day.”

Jack snorted. “Look at you, not coming like a labrador just because Dad called.”

“Ah, piss off you.” Matt gave him a gentle whack. He was the best of their father, sometimes. They ate in companionable silence for a long while, silent except for the fire. Matt finished and tossed himself on the berth Zee commandeered when she was so sick of the posh limey nurses she worked with that even the comfortable billets they had weren’t worth the fucken poms and gestured for it.

“All right, I’m human, give it up.”

“Ah, bloody hell, where’d I stick it.” He went patting himself down.

“Half of me doesn’t want you to find it.” Matt shook his head. “Try your cartridge pocket. You’re always sticking things in there and forgetting.”

“Am not,” Jack said, putting his hand there anyways. Fuck, Matt was right. “All right, never mind. Am so.”

Matt shook his head, hand out. “Give it up,”

“Arsehole,”

“Sieve for brains.” He got a shoulder squeeze as he handed over the dirty envelope. Matt barely had it in his hand before going white. This was somewhat disturbing, considering he was practically green even in the firelight, and his knees collapsed beneath him as he sprawled onto the bed again.

“Matt? What... is it that bad? Why did they have to send it in code like that?" It was covered in circles, stabbed through, or otherwise backward-written.

“It’s not code…” He fumbled for his pocket knife and opened it carefully. “That’s cyrillic.”

“Cyrillic? What, like the Russian stuff?”

“Ukrainian!” Matt blurt out. He’d lit up from the inside out, colour coming into his face for the first time in weeks. He kissed the envelope.“It’s from Katia.”

“What, that scary blonde lady with the braid things?” He gestured to his head, and Matt sighed, lovelorn. Actually lovelorn. Christ was a kookaburra. The Russians occasionally tossed boats on his front doorstep whenever Ivan felt he didn’t get enough attention from Dad. He had occasionally glanced at her on other occasions, dressed well and fierce looking even when she laughed.

“Most beautiful, terrifying woman on planet earth.” He sounded instantly drunk—bloody hell. Jack had never known him to sound like that. He watched Matt clutch it to his chest like a father when he was being a mad and sentimental old bird and sigh.

“Mate.” Jack watched with amused befuddlement and more than a bit of concern. Creatures have behaviour patterns. The koalas had diets of almost nothing but eucalyptus, were riddled with chlamydia and clung to their mothers' past reason. Matt, too, mostly put away narcotics, was riddled with venereal disease and hadn’t disobeyed their father in a solid decade. Wombats mated in spring between September and December, shat in cubes and lived in their mother’s pouch. Matt mated every leave, probably had the only solid shits in the entire British army and did what their father said. It was the way of the world. He scavenged food, slept poorly, and murdered many. And now he was grinning as his eyes passed over the letter. As much as he tried, Jack couldn't help but worry.

“Mate,” He said again, dropping onto his berth and leaning over, squinting to catch a glimpse as if he’d understand even if he could see the letters. Matt looked like someone had cracked him over the head with a trench shovel again. “What does it say?”

He grinned, holding it to his chest. “It’s from Katia.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” He said, brows raised, bemused. Still concerned. “But what does it actually say?”

“Haven’t read it yet.” He said. “I’m just… she wrote me…”

“Why would she write you? Isn’t the eastern front in collapse?”

“Yes,” He said. “The Russians are getting trampled over there and she still wrote.”

Jack gawped. The words were grim against his brother’s delighted expression. “Okay. So why is she writing to you?"

“Might’ve… sort’ve married her.” He mumbled.

“You did what?” Jack stared. “Yoi’ve always been a few roos short of a mob but– you did what?”

“It’s not official. Bread, salt, and sex, mostly. I just–” He took a breath, but that dopey look hadn't left. Jack watched as he kissed the envelope and suddenly felt like doing what he did when their father shagged the frog across some canvas. Fleeing the country.

“Does Dad know?” And if it was possible, Matt’s grin widened.

“Old man hates Ivan so he loves her.”

“You’re telling me that our father, who art an arsehole, hallowed be thy church of him, let you go and– how did you pull that off?”

“I’m older than you,” He said, looking smug, like that explained anything.

“What has– never mind. What does it say?”

“She has these eyes.” He said dreamily.

“Reckon she does,” Jack snorted. “Most people do.”

“Shush,” Matt said, but there was no fire. “They’re alive. They burn. It’s like when the sun comes out.”

“Do you have brain damage? Are you ill?” Jack reached over, putting his hand on Matt’s forehead.

Matt tossed his hand off. “Paws off.”

“I’m serious.” Jack said, seriously scanning him now. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Can’t I be happy without something being wrong?”

“Not this happy!”

“I’m fine. Just, hush a damn minute and let me read. If it isn’t sexy, I’ll translate some of it.”

“Oohohoho now you’re talking. Story time afterall.”

They sat there for a long while, in a strange happiness, the anemic fire higher. Both were relaxed, concern absent from Jack as Matt ripped through the letter. Jack busied himself with stupid little things, straightening their few belongings, pouring each a bit of what whiskey was left from Uncle Alasdair’s last trip back home. He nearly dropped the bottle when Matt yelped.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Which one of you fuckers sent her a photo of me?” He broke into laughter. “With my hair short? Oh my god.”

“That’s a Kiwibird maneuver if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Shitheads, the lot of you.” He was still laughing, fist against the bottom of his ribs. “Jesus Christ.”

“Why, what’d she say?”

“Sit down, its story time.” Matt shook his head, incredulous and overjoyed.

“Dear…” His brother squinted, frowning. “I don’t actually know what that word means. It’s got something to do with spooky and tree and the ending is a diminunitive. Anyway.”

He started again, and Jack listened as he read out loud.

Dear 'word I can’t translate',

We have brought the harvest in. Most of the men are gone, and it was not as easy as it may have been. However, the wheat fields were yellow under the bluest skies this year. You might not recognize this village, even with your head as complete with me as it is with hundreds of thousands of mine now yours. We planted winter wheat, which the British passed on via the Red Cross. To my surprise, I found it was Canadian Soft Red winter wheat. It was a pleasant surprise, I think. You might also thank your sister for that as well.

Regardless, children and seedlings grow, and wheat and men are reaped. On and on it continues. However, with this wheat, a photo and letter were passed onto me. You can imagine my surprise to see you looking so… different. You changed your hair. I like it well enough; you may tell your sister she did a fine job. I do, however, expect it to be of its preferable length when I see you again. I also expect you to remember what I asked of you last we spoke. Remain yourself, Matthew. Also, I would ask you to inform your father that I expect you to be in one piece come the end of this war. He may recall in short order how it was in Miklagarðr.

May the winter be kind,

Katia

Jack raised a sarcastic brow. “She’s romantic.”

“Isn’t she?” Matt said, for once not hearing any of the ironies. “She’s so beautiful with words.”

“Must be prettier in Ukrainian, eh?” He said. Matt sighed and ran a hand through the short curls that made him look like Alfred.

“I wish I hadn’t let them cut it.”

“It’s not like you had a choice," Jack said. His was shorter than usual, and he’d never let it grow long. The thought, 'Even with hundreds of mine now yours,' came unbidden into his mind.

“Do you love her?” He blurted. “Is it love when its like that?”

"Yes," Matt said instantly. He constantly pondered and always considered things before he said them. But not this.

“Is it easier than humans?” Jack tried not to let the green-eyed Irishman he had let himself go arse over heart for flood into his mind. He had to clench his fists.

“Yes,” Matt said. “In a lot of ways. There’s always more time for us. Even if we die, we’ll live. But its no less nerve wracking. I haven’t had a letter from her since the war started. I’m sure Zee had to redirect some serious funding to deliver one and get this back. Remind me to get her something, would you?”

“Fork over that fancy yank soap next time you get a packet from Alfred, and I’m sure she’ll settle.” Jack said because he could easily say that while his thoughts tumbled through his mind. Tossing Will a Yorkshire pudding as he ducked a splatter of tea, laughing when they’d been camped under the pyramids. Blood. A heart-shaped disk he’d hacked out of a bit of scrap iron and slid into Will’s pocket. Screaming. Will’s hand in his as they cuddled too close in their funk hole. Aunt Brighid in black as he’d shovelled the soil over an ancient family plot in an ancient churchyard on a rainy spring morning with Australian autumn in his bones.

His fist clenched, nails puncturing his palm.

“Jack.” Matt was suddenly very close, gently squeezing Jack’s knee. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

His eyes sprang open. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them.

“It’s fine.”

“Jack.”

“I said its fine!” He snapped. “I’m glad you can fuck our own–”

Matt squeezed his knee again, unflinching and looking like that letter had restored him to his whole self.

“We have a bit of leave soon. Why don’t we order and take a whole crop of snowdrops to Will’s grave? Dad doesn’t need to know." As soon as his anger was there, it was forgotten. The bastard was so fucking reasonable sometimes.

“Yeah.” Jack released his fist and sagged, flopping over onto his berth. “Yeah that sounds nice. Be nice to go up there when I don’t want to shoot Dad for once.”

“There you go.” Another tender pat on his knee as Matt pulled a blanket over him, but Jack shoved his face into the pillow.

“Mattie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad she wrote to you. You deserve it.”

[fischerfrey]

TOWER members; nestor and esmeray carrow

nestor and esmeray are founding members of TOWER. they attended hogwarts, nestor being sorted into gryffindor, while esmeray was a slytherin. after graduation, they married and have two children together. they both hold blood-purist ideas and want to effect change according to their beliefs. they feel that the ministry has become too pandering towards muggleborns.

nestor was the original leader of TOWER and still views himself as such and is thus constantly at odds with ren godfrey. they both want to take the organization to different directions. esmeray secretly agrees more with godfrey, and assists him in.... getting rid of nestor.

the tower people; @potionboy3 and @cursed-herbalist

[vikkicomics]

Schulz & Wachtmeister fanart for WW1 Fiction art exchange with @tristandelarkadien / @schulzandwachtmeister. Schulz & Wachtmeister is a WW1 RPG about a Lieutenant and a Sergeant stuck in the Alps. Play the demo here!

[lonestarbattleship]

USS NEW YORK (BB-34), part of Battleship Division 9, in Scapa Flow, Scotland during WWI.

Photographed sometime between December 1917 and summer 1918.

Imperial War Museum: IWM Q 18581

U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command: NH 45143

[humboldtidecomics]

Summer's day at Zoppot

Outfits I designed for Siegfried and Peter's summer trip to Zoppot, an East Prussian Seaside Resort town, which is Sopot, Poland today.

Siegfried has a lot of flamboyant, self-conscious, tailored suits, while Peter dresses in German-Baltic folk style. to reflect his interest in the peasant revolts, and lack of care for how others might judge him. Here is an excerpt from the script wip.

[madbadash]

Howdy gang

Am very busy tonight.

So no post! However!

Feel free to talk to me tomorrow!! I shall be air conditioned and free. Rambling and drawing/doodles may happen.

[rabbitcruiser]

World War I: The United States declared war on Germany on April 6, 1917.  

[tenth-sentence]

On the other hand, they didn't smell nearly as bad as in the summer.

"The Way Back" - Erich Maria Remarque

[opelman]

504 by Treflyn Lloyd-Roberts Via Flickr: 1918-built Avro 504K E.3273 over Old Warden during its display at the Shuttleworth Collection's 2024 Summer Evening Air Show. Aircraft: A.V. Roe (Avro) 504K E.3273 (G-ADEV). Location: Old Warden Aerodrome, near Biggleswade, Bedfordshire.

[cyborgknight]

Something I'm working on. While I'm doing summer assignments and working on my tf aus, I added another project, it's about time traveling robots from the future and WW1 soldiers, it sounds pretty cool in my head, and the story too lmao, feel free to ask about it if you want, I'm happy to talk about it, the characters, or the story lmao :)

[mesetacadre]

Hello! I'm currently debating with a good friend of mine, a democratic socialist, on a few topics. Namely the function of a vanguard party, centralized state power in socialist nations, and the use of violence in a revolution. They're a very open minded person, and are engaging with me in good faith, but in my opinion, their ideas rest on a few idealist assumptions about liberal democracy, and misinformed views about "authoritarianism" in the Soviet Union and "Violent Revolution" rhetoric (used the French Revolution as an example :/). To clarify, we are both in the Imperial Core. I'm a Marxist-Leninist who is critical of the USSR in some respects but admire the progress they achieved as the first major Socialist project, and believe it was a more democratic and fair state than any bourgeois republic.

I'm already working on my response, I'm not looking for you to formulate by arguments for me, but I find your analyses of specifically historical socialist movements to be very compelling, and I'm wondering if you had any insights you'd be willing to share on the topic(s)? In particular, the idea that vanguard parties are uniquely susceptible to opportunism or autocratic consolidations of power, and the Bolsheviks' dismantling of the worker's councils and opposition to the Mensheviks. These subjects in particular I'm a bit less familiar with.

Thank you!

Hi, the Mensheviks (of which Trotsky was a part of until late summer of 1917!) emerged as a defined faction within the RSDLP in the 1903 Second Congress, with the divide only widening after the 1905 failed revolution and the outbreak of WW1. Mensheviks were closer to what demsocs are today than any kind of revolutionary marxist. They consistently showed no interest in the armed overthrow of tsarism and capitalism, something which became crystal clear after the February revolution of 1917, after which they joined the provisional government of the Cadets (liberal monarchists) joined with the Narodniks, abandoning any of the more "radical" demands they still had in the process, such as the seizure of land by the peasants. Of course the Bolsheviks opposed them, they were opportunists who only held revolutionary words in their mouths until they managed to grab some scraps of power in a capitalist and imperialist government.

About vanguardism. The class consciousness that emerges spontaneously among workers from their everyday exploitation is of a different definition and character than the class consciousness one acquires through praxis and theoretical work (by praxis meaning practical work for revolutionary politics, not a broader sense of activism). I've talked about this difference a lot on this blog, so I'll keep those brief strokes and not go into more detail. This is the main fact from which vanguardism emerges. The instinct that guides the greater part of the working mass is imperfect, it can be easily misguided or turn away from revolutionary politics on its own. So there should be an organization, such as a party, that is able to politically lead, like a vanguard, one step ahead, not two ahead or one behind, of the working class' mass. This is not a case of elitism or dirigisme, not by any measure:

Vanguard parties do not lead by decree, they never have. They consist of the most politically-educated (i.e. the workers whose non-spontaneous consciousness is most developed) members of the working class. These members exist in the core of the working class, they are supposed to become known coworkers and neighbors, people who can talk with the mass of workers, teach how to avoid the unavoidable mistakes that come with spontaneous consciousness or a developing non-spontaneous consciousness. It is from these interactions that the party members learn, pass on to the party itself, which is then able to combine all that information into decisions, concrete tactics, and to perfect its own activity. The members of a vanguard do not know more than the average worker about the general state of the working class as a whole, they both are individuals just the same. But what they do know are the frameworks most suited to analyze the bits of experience they receive, and an effective vanguard party is able to collectively analyze the state of the working class as a whole. Again, not because they know more than anybody else, but because the party members have set up an organization that can extract information from all walks of life. An effective vanguard party that is properly weaved with the working class is almost akin to a statistics institute collecting data to unify it and reach conclusions about the state of society.

That is how vanguardism works. It is wholly democratic because in the context of holding power, it is the most able to carry this out, and the entire working class actually participates in decision making. If your friend considers bourgeois democracies a good standard, where the participation of everyone is reduced to a single vote however many years, why would they consider a process through which the conditions of the working class are actively taken into account every single time a decision is taken? The CC of the Communist Party of Cuba knew more about the average sugar cane harvester in Matanzas of the 60s than Kennedy ever did about his neighbors in DC. The CC of the CPSU knew more about the average fisherman in Kamchatka than the European Commission knows about the people who clean their building. And I know these are not exaggerations because there is a clear and intentional bottom-up flow of information in a vanguard, leninist party, and there isn't in, say, the nordic social-democracies, which I think is pretty safe to assume your friend has a soft spot for. And what consolidation of power? The consolidation of power into the hands of the proletariat? The Communist Party is the unified party of the working class, much like the various parties that, in liberal democracies represents the interests of the capitalist class in the state administration. Through the democracy enabled by vanguardism, it is the entire working class that holds power. Not as the addition of all individual workers, but as a class. This is necessary in the transition to communism, it would be idealist, counterproductive and effectively counter-revolutionary to call for the total decentralization of power after a revolution, that would strip the proletariat of any hope at defending itself.

Now that I feel that is cleared up, the soviets/workers' councils. They were very relevant in the period of tsarism because they were the most advanced forms of mass workers' organizations, where the emerging russian proletariat would most effectively learn from its experience and gain trust in its own strength. The slogan "All Power to the Soviets!" was also adopted once the tsarist, semi-feudal state transformed into the seeds of a fully capitalist state, as the sudden destabilization of the Russian state following the February revolution left room for dual power to exist, simultaneously in the provisional government and the soviets. The context of that slogan was that of a working class that had only just begun to accelerate in its political consciousness, not as an absolute reclamation of workers' self-organization. Conditions changed rapidly and, with the joining of the provisional government by the mensheviks that I mentioned earlier, the many Soviets that the mensheviks had a hegemony in also turned into arms of the capitalist, imperialist government. Just as quickly as the Soviets had turned into the forefront of revolutionary development, they had also become mostly reactionary, and the slogan was dropped. Mass organizations in general, which the Soviets were, can become a tool for the advancement of the activity of the Communist Party. They are useful places where communists can more easily access already receptive workers. But the goal is not to get more workers organized in ideologically-deluded mass organizations under a capitalist state, it's to advance their consciousness by any means necessary. As soon as the conditions became such that the Soviets no longer represented that golden opportunity, it made no sense to continue to claim all power for the Soviets. Conditions changed, so strategies changed.

After the October revolution, Soviets still existed. They were not dissolved, rather the existing structure was incorporated into the new proletarian state, as its instance that's closest to the proletariat. Hence, the Soviet Union. They used the structure of the Soviets because soon the civil war of intervention began, and they could not afford to create another completely new structure. But still, it's not that the Soviets themselves should be independent and somehow make up a different source of authority than the Communist Party, an already completely democratic organ and more capable than any loose confederation of councils. They were, before the revolution, one of the main ways the bolsheviks reached the Russian proletariat. After the revolution, the formal organ at the factory or city level that made that democratic connection between the workers and the party.

[mlmxreader]

Closer | Alfie Solomons x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "I want you - need you" + "Don't moan so loud, you'll wake the others" +  biting (in the trenches perhaps... maybe the My Lieutenant pairing-> I miss them, but again, doesn't have to be) ❞

: ̗̀➛ it's a sleepless night in the trenches, and when Alfie gets woken up by his favourite Lieutenant, there's only one thing he can think of to get both of them to sleep.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ Anal sex, anal fingering, gagging, biting, dom/sub, sex without lube, depictions of war (ww1), swearing, smoking, cum swallowing, praise kink, spanking, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking

↳ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

↳ (1) Eastern Front Chills, (2) My Lieutenant

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Summer drew to a close, the last few stretches of unbearable heat flooding down constantly; even the nights were sticky and restless. Men fidgeted and stripped to keep cool, only to be chewed up by fleas and lice the moment their skin was exposed; at least the mud had dried.

No more losing boots during charges, no more having to steal from dead Jerries unless a boot was broken.

Food was scarce, but no one worried about eating; a few stale biscuits a day were enough. It was too hot to eat. Too hot to move. The smell of boiling tea had started to dwindle. "Home by December", but they never said which.

The last time you had seen a newspaper, it had been two years since the war had begun.

Two years of shit and piss coated leather boots. Two years of flea bites and lice in your hair. Two years of having to shit in a fucking pit and trying not to fall in. Two years of lugging around heavy bags and trying not to fall into the mud and die.

Two years of asking: what was it all for?

You sighed as you looked over at Alfie. The sound of mortars and shells were banging against the thin wooden walls that made up the Captain's quarters. You wondered how the fuck he could sleep in the conditions.

Cramped and squashed together. No door for privacy after it had been blown off during the last attack, nothing left but charred splinters. You swallowed thickly, wriggling your way out of the bed; you were glad he didn't stir.

Another shell dropped, shaking the ground. You nearly fell, steadying yourself against one of the coarse walls for a moment. A few seconds to make sure, and then you grabbed the cigarettes from the pile of rations, and lit one up.

You didn't bother to go outside, there wasn't a fucking door anymore. What was the point?

Alfie stirred, then, slowly pulling himself up and rubbing his face with his hands; his beard was getting long, and his age was beginning to betray him. Bits of grey amongst the brown.

"The fuck're you doin' up?" He muttered out.

You shrugged in response, tugging at the collar of your shirt. "Too hot to sleep."

For a second, he nodded. "Fancy a quickie?"

You scoffed as you flicked the cigarette ash on the floor. "That's what's on your mind?"

"Ain't like there's anythin' else," he pointed out. "Besides, sex is meant to help. Y'know, fuck you to sleep an' all that shit."

You thought about it for a moment, watching as he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt; the sweat dripped down his skin, down all the intricate tattoos on his chest.

His stomach that hung over the edge of his trousers and rolled when he bent over; you swallowed thickly, hardly able to say a thing. He was fucking wonderful to look at. A field of daffodils amongst a pile of shit.

"Alf?"

"Hmm?"

"Think I might take you up on that offer," you mumbled, tossing the cigarette away and sitting beside him on the small bed. You let your hand rest on the waistband of his trousers and cleared your throat. "You alright if I go there?"

He nodded, helping you to undo his zipper and push his trousers and underwear down; the second your hand wrapped around his cock, he let out a long breath, closing his eyes.

Slowly, you began to stroke his cock as he moved to kiss you; he started with nibbling and biting at your bottom lip before your neck drew his attention. He bit down hard, the sound of his moans muffled by your skin as he reached for the waistband of your underwear and snapped it.

"You alright if I go there?" He grumbled against you.

You agreed, a long moan getting drawn from you when he started to touch you. You could only let out a muttered few curses, biting at the inside of your lip as he continued to bite down on your neck; he moved between spots, leaving indents with his teeth that you knew would be there in the morning. But it was difficult to care.

You picked up your pace, pulling your hand away from him for a moment; you spat on your palm, taking hold of his cock again.

You could feel his precum staining your fingertips, smearing it over his cock as you whimpered and caught him in another kiss; open mouthed and breathy, you were eager to lick his tongue before diving in again.

You picked up your pace, the soft squelch of his skin against yours, precum coating his cock; he wasn’t going to last long, it was easy to see, able to feel himself let loose as he started to pant heavily, sweat on his brow.

He was so fucking close, he couldn’t even hold back when he came on your hand, groaning softly when you pulled away and licked it from your fingertips; thick and white and glistening with your saliva.

Alfie leaned back, panting heavily and grinning at you as he raised his brows. He could only watch in awe as you moved so your mouth was nearly on his cock; your tongue dripping will drool and hitting his hot skin.

"If you start suckin' me off, I'm gonna have to get a rabbi first thing in the mornin', mind," he threatened jokingly, each word accompanied with a harsh puff of air.

You licked your lips, daring to meet his eyes for a moment. "You might wanna figure out how to get one here, then."

You leaned over, and when Alfie closed his eyes, he could feel something warm and wet around his hard cock, and did his best not to buck his hips at the sensation as it rolled over him, forcing his head back against the wall as he grunted out softly.

Fuck, he could not remember the last time he had had his cock in anyone's mouth, and fuck, he certainly remembered how much he had missed the feeling.

Your mouth was so warm and wet, taking every inch of him as much as you could and trying to suppress the gags coming from the back of your throat.

Drool slipped from your mouth, pooling down his cock as you looked up at him and smiled, humming around him and only managing to make him moan even louder.

"Alf!" You pulled away, laughing softly as you shook your head. "Don't moan so loud, you'll wake the others!"

Alfie searched for a moment, grinning when he saw your handkerchief; he grabbed it, and stuffed it into his mouth with a wink. "How's that?"

You couldn't help but to laugh at how the words were muffled, shaking your head fondly before eagerly taking his cock into your mouth again. He grabbed the back of your neck, bucking his hips and doing his best not to grunt and growl too loudly.

He wasn't going to fucking last that long.

"You take me cock so fuckin' well," he praised, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he growled.

Fuck.

"Swallow it all, now," he told you, the movement of his hips slowing down before he stilled; he watched as you eagerly swallowed every drop before licking his cock completely clean. "Fuck... me..."

You grinned, a little bit of cum on your bottom lip as you swiped your tongue along it. "You up for that, Alf? You seem a bit knackered, matey."

Alfie glared at you, taking the handkerchief from his mouth so he could kiss you again; doing his best not to groan at how he could taste himself on your tongue. He looked down at your groin, doing his best not to smile as he quirked a brow. "It looks like you need it, Lieutenant."

You nodded, heat coursing through your body as you swallowed thickly. "Aye, Captain."

"Stand against the wall with your back to me," he ordered, grinning at how eager you followed the order. "Strip."

You did as he said, and once you were finished, you planted your hands against the wall.

"Good," he praised, giving his wet cock a few firm strokes before he came up behind you. He held onto your hip, his fingertips digging into your skin. "You ready?"

"Hurry up, Alf," you hissed out between gritted teeth. "Please, you know I want you - need you to fuck me already."

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, quickly grabbing the handkerchief again and pressing it against your lips. "You alright to keep this in?"

You agreed, eagerly biting down on the soft fabric and quickly giving him a thumbs up; he put two fingers into your ass, stretching you as much as he could with the saliva from his cock. He swallowed thickly, lining himself up with you before slowly pushing in until he felt your body firmly against yours.

With one arm, he took hold of your chest, and with the other, he placed it against the wall to keep his balance; he bit down on the back of your neck, slowly rolling his hips until he was sure that you had adjusted to his size properly.

You slapped your hands against the wall, pushing back against him and begging for more through the fabric in your mouth; it soaked up the drool that left you, and suppressed the soft gag at the sensation whilst Alfie picked up his pace.

It was easy to hear the sound of skin slapping against skin as he fucked you; keeping his teeth buried into your skin to stifle his own moans as he muttered out a few choice praises here and there.

Egging you on and coaxing you as much as he was able to.

Sweat dripping from his forehead and splashing against your skin; it mixed with your own, the droplets racing down as quickly as they could.

You squirmed, desperate for more and more as Alfie did his best to give it to you; his grip on your chest moved so that he could grasp one of your nipples. Flicking and rolling it between his fingers just to get more of a rise out of you.

You let out a loud moan, thankfully stifled by the handkerchief. A few splatters of drool flicking against the wall in front of you. You took one hand off of it, daring to touch yourself as Alfie kept going.

He swapped hands so he could start playing with your other nipple, trying not to laugh at how you pleaded and begged for more; he was certain that it would have woken everyone up by now, had it not been for the shells outside and the handkerchief to keep your big mouth shut.

"C'mon, Lieutenant," Alfie grunted out against your skin. "You're takin' my cock so fuckin' well, think you're gonna last till I cum?"

You nodded, desperate to have him fill you and breed you; the mere thought of it only pushing you further as you wildly bucked against him, clenching around him and trying to milk his cock.

Fuck.

He wasn't going to last, his thrusts becoming erratic before slowing down completely as he dumped his load in your ass; he gave it a firm smack, taking a few seconds to grasp his breath before he continued.

You weren't far.

Your toes curled, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you panted and moaned against the handkerchief, body shaking as your legs slowly went weak; you could feel your cum coating your hand as you weakly called out his name.

Alfie coaxed you through it, only daring to pull out once he was sure you were finished; gently, he turned you around and removed the handkerchief, grinning breathlessly.

"You feelin' alright?"

You nodded, grabbing his arms to steady yourself. "Are you always gonna fuck me that well?"

He licked his lips as he shrugged. "Well, I'll fuckin' try."

༺═──────────────────────────────═༻

thank you for reading!! but now I'd like to draw your attention to something important: Deyaa and his family are currently in need of funds so that they can escape Gaza and survive the genocide. just £1 would go SO FAR in ensuring that this family can continue to live, so please, if you can, consider donating. please.

[lonestarbattleship]

USS NEW YORK (BB-34) in Scapa Flow, Scotland during WWI.

Note: she is painted in an experimental Camouflage Measure.

Date: circa December 1917-summer 1918

Photo from Henry Sabuda's Collection: link

U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command: NH 45142

[wearethekat]

Anticipated New Releases of 2024

**As anticipated by Me. Mostly SFF. Links are to goodreads because that's what I use, sorry. Anything marked "new to me" I haven't read anything by that author before and therefore can't vouch for the quality. I just think the premise is neat.**

Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands, Heather Fawcett (16 January)

Sequel to the charming novel about the fairy anthropologist.

Exordia, Seth Dickinson (23 January)

Well, it isn't a new Baru Cormorant, but this modern SF about first contact may be the next best thing.

City of Stardust, Georgia Summers (30 January)

New to me. A young woman descends into the underworld in order to break her family's fatal curse.

The Tainted Cup, Robert Jackson Bennett (6 February)

New to me. A sherlock holmes flavored duo solves the mystery of the murder of an imperial official in a labyrinthine fantasy realm.

What Feasts at Night, T Kingfisher (13 February)

The sequel to the mushroom horror book What Moves the Dead.

The Warm Hands of Ghosts, Katherine Arden (13 February)

A ghost story set in WW1 about a woman searching for her missing brother.

The Fox Wife, Yangsze Choo (13 February)

New to me. A detective in 1908 Manchuria investigates a young woman's death in an area full of mythical foxes.

Redsight, Meredith Mooring (27 February)

New to me. Unpowered priestess and Imperial pawn is set on a collision path with a pirate with a grudge for the Imperium (Gay romance).

Sunbringer, Hannah Kaner (12 March)

Sequel about the professional godkiller Kissen.

Jumpnauts, Hao Jingfang (12 March)

New to me. A SF novel in translation from Chinese, with three scientists joining forces to deal peacefully with a first contact situation.

The Woods All Black, Lee Mandelo (19 March)

I liked Mandelo's debut novel very much so I'm excited to read this queer horror novella set in 1920s Appalachia.

Floating Hotel, Grace Curtis (19 March)

New to me. A series of cozy character vignettes on a space cruise ship after a murder has occurred. One of the four (!) space hotel murder crimes books coming out this year.

The Emperor and the Endless Palace, Justinian Huang (26 March)

New to me. Reincarnation gay romance set in 4 BCE China, the 1740s, and modern-day LA.

Alien Clay, Adrian Tchaikovsky (28 March)

Far future space xenoarchaeology by a man trapped on a prison planet.

Someone You Can Build a Nest In, John Wiswell (2 April)

New to me. Bizarre lesbian cannibalism monster romance from the point of view of the monster.

The Familiar, Leigh Bardugo (9 April)

Glad to see Bardugo writing more adult fantasy, and this one is especially exciting because it's a fantasy set in early modern Spain with a Jewish main character. Fun to see a more original historical period.

A Sweet Sting of Salt, Rose Sutherland (9 April)

New to me. Lesbian selkie romance.

Death in the Spires, KJ Charles (11 April)

Charles branching out from romance into historical Oxford murder mystery about a group of friends with dark secrets.

Audrey Lane Stirs The Pot, Alexis Hall (22 April)

The new Hall thinly veiled british baking show romcom. Libby says it's releasing in April but I've heard nothing from the author so I think it may be Alecto'd (shifted to next year)

Necrobane, Daniel M Ford (23 April)

Sequel to the dungeons and dragons-esque low fantasy lesbian necromancy book.

A Letter to the Luminous Deep, Sylvie Cathrall (25 April)

New to me. Sweet underwater epistolary academic romance.

How To Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying, Django Wexler (21 May)

New to me. A young hero caught in a fantasy time loop gives up and tries being the villain in an attempt to escape.

Goddess of the River, Vaishnavi Patel (21 May)

Another woman-centered retelling of Hindu mythology, this time based on the river goddess Ganga.

Escape Velocity, Victor Manibo (21 May)

New to me. Evil and toxic private school alumni jockey for position in a space hotel event in an attempt to escape a dying Earth.

The Fireborne Blade, Charlotte Bond (28 May)

New to me. Gay dragon slaying knight novella.

Evocation, ST Gibson (28 May)

New to me but looks very cool. Attorney and medium David attempts to escape his deal with the devil with the help of his ex boyfriend and his ex boyfriend's wife (Poly romance).

Service Model, Adrian Tchaikovsky (4 June)

In an SF future, a robot kills its human owners and ventures out into a world where human supremacy is beginning to crumble.

Lady Eve's Last Con, Rebecca Fraimow (4 June)

New to me. A con artist seeks revenge on the man who hurt her sister, who's coincidentally also on a space cruise ship (Sapphic romance subplot).

Triple Sec, TJ Alexander (4 June)

An actual mainstream published poly romance (!!) by trans author Alexander.

Running Close to the Wind, Alexandra Rowland (11 June)

Gay! Pirates! Scheming! Alt fantasy world! Monks! I liked Taste of Gold and Iron a lot and I'm very excited for this one.

The Knife and the Serpent, Tim Pratt (11 June)

New to me. Space opera about an interdimensional organization. Also, there's a sentient starship.

The Witchstone, Henry Neff (18 June)

A childhood favorite of mine's adult debut, featuring a demon who suddenly has to shape up at his curse keeper job after eight hundred years of slacking.

Rakesfall, Vajra Chandrasekera (18 June)

VERY excited to read more weird queer sff from this author after a fantastic debut. Looks weird. I'm in.

Foul Days, Genoveva Dimova (25 June)

New to me. A witch in a Slavic fantasy inspired world flees her evil ex, the Tsar of Monsters. There's also a plague and a detective.

Saints of Storm and Sorrow, Gabriella Buba (25 June)

New to me. Filipino inspired anticolonialist fantasy novel about a nun who is secretly practicing the religion of her goddess.

The Duke at Hazard, KJ Charles (18 July)

A queer regency with an incognito duke by one of my particular favorite romance authors.

Long Live Evil, Sarah Rees Brennan (30 July)

!!! Very excited to see a new adult fantasy by Brennan. A reader is dragged into a fictional world and finds herself the villain.

A Sorceress Comes to Call, T Kingfisher (20 August)

A retelling of The Goose Girl from reliably good fairy tale stalwart Kingfisher.

Buried Deep and Other Stories, Naomi Novik (17 September)

Collection of Novik's short stories.

Swordcrossed, Freya Marske (8 October)

VERY excited to see a new book by talented writer Marske. A man falls in love with the duelist hired for his arranged wedding. MEANWHILE. details of the fantasy world wool industry.

Feast While You Can, Mikaella Clements and Onjuli Datta (29 October)

New to me. Small town queer cave horror.

The Last Hour Between Worlds, Melissa Caruso (19 November)

Multiple reality murder mystery spy vs spy type antics, with lesbians.