All I care about is love

Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Writing Blog | Sideblog

[oldtinlizzy]

woven hand

run to your grave the grave will not hide you

I was going to do more but then

Bustling along the cratered town with a mission pinned to his back, his quiet breaths were becoming irregular. He was an eyesore of a target to any Jerry who were stumbling about rooftoops and tumbled debris. But, he had to get fresh medical supplies. Damn those bleed outs and blown off limbs.

For a moment, he pondered why he joined the military for the hundreth bleeding time.

He should of stayed as a humble house rat.

[oldtinlizzy]

Lousy wwii au shit for Downton, Really just snippets of scenes I want to write with back stories but can't. Why? Because I'm lazy.

Clutching his chest, his breathing couldn't keep pace with the pounding his ears. The far off shouts and barking dogs filled his ears and Thomas could swear that his eardrums were going to burst. God, where did he go wrong? This wasn't suppose to happen. None of this.

--

Rolling on his stomach, he wretched and groaned into the cold air. All the man could see was red against the white ground. The air sting his lungs, making it even more difficult to live. Fuck. Writhing in pain, he managed to roll back over onto his back. Watching the planes race overhead, he couldn't tell who was who, the orders and shouts blurred into some foreign language. All the while, all William could start to picture was that soup kitchen girl from home.

--

Watching everyone loosen their collars, and sit back in a tobacco haze, the Captain couldn't settle in. Hands joined behind his back, his skin was uncomfortable. It didn't feel right, not with this ringing in his ears that he left his men to scream alone.

--

Whatever hopes he had died when James fell over from the Officers bullet wound. The man in black turned, a snarl imprinted on his face, gun waving towards Thomas. "Ausfstehen!" Sharp and meaningful in what it meant, the man marched towards him to make do of his word. "Jetzt!"

[oldtinlizzy]

From despair to where?

He was sick, and looked the dreadful. Uniform torn and frayed, blood and mire shaded his features while his cheeks had begun to look sunken. His eyes were shadowed with doubt, and his ribs were poking through his skin. The man was beginning to resemble every photograph sent back home to some unsuspecting sweetheart. 

Rubbing his mouth, the medic heard some far off shouts and orders. Perking in self-serving interest, he crinkled his nose. Shuffling to his feet in a lazy fashion, he glanced around for the men. Part of him didn't care if he was found or left to die in this sinking ship war. Sighing heavily, he strained his eyes while beginning to move slowly towards to the wary shouts. Blindly, he fumbled for his trench knife out of habit.

*

Mustering half-hearted chuckles as the men shot sloppy jokes and stories, Thomas snorted while spitting over his shoulder. He found some delight in being whisked away by these dirty beings. They all seemed so hopeful, full of life and certainty this insanity would end. It almost added a spark of life in the mans eyes. Picking up his tin, he threw his head back with closed eyes, downing the diluted water. At least they had ambition.

It beat talking to the dead with his scarred hands and soaked rags.

[oldtinlizzy]

leather wings

Milling over today's incidents, the actions had left clear marks across the mans face and frayed clothing. Dried blood had stained the skin beneath his nose. How could the other find the audacity to rebel like that? He didn't even do anything wrong.

Whatever happened to the empathy they shared had vanished. Drugs was no longer a factor. Death was no longer a factor. Friends never existed between them, and acquaintances often clashed. Their families hated them, and everything about it.

He didn't know why or how anymore. But he did know something.

Teeth gritted, Philip's nose crinkled in hatred. 

[oldtinlizzy]

I might make a PhilxThom 8tracks or something like that...

[oldtinlizzy]

blown out

Can't get the feeling if you don't know the sounds, kid.

"I believe he's dead."

He couldn't take it. No, not another one. Staring down at the soldier, the mans innards sat atop of him in a grim mosaic. How his fingers had curled into fists out of pain, mouth stuck open in a feverish twitch of agony. How life had only filled his eyes moments before-- ah! But they had failed him.

Quivering in defeat, the dark haired lad took his red stained hands back, wiping them on the cloth stuck between his belt and tunic. Sparingly, the weary medic could remember the man giving him some water only hours earlier. How he hated it when he had some sort of relation to the other soldiers, it made his job that much more burdensome. It intertwined him to their will and fight to live, he didn't want to fight any other corner but his.

It only made a mess of things, but he wanted this.

Oh,

did he ever.

[oldtinlizzy]

So when

Messy and short, really just playing with wording and feelings. Not all that coherent.

Their relationship was queer, farce and too trivial. It consisted of tattered letters, too much impulsive masturbating, and incessant fucking whenever the chance arose. Too little sustenance, not enough emotion. But that’s just how it played out, and what eluded to their little, stupid quarrels.

“Why don’t you treat me like that?”

“Because you don’t deserve it with that foul tongue of yours.”

So on and so forth, the footman and Duke would banter back and forth of who’s the victor and who’s the martyr. These confrontations often happened late at night, out in the open with little to no empathy on feelings. The fights generally ended with someone storming off in disgruntle swearing, or the young man backed against a wall, sitting on the ground with hands over his head and tears rushing defeatedly down his face. What an ugly picture.

But.

You had these tender glimpses of affinity, fleeting moments of genuine love. Mostly spent during late afternoons was their time spent. Talking listlessly about people of wealth, weaseling truths and daring one another on the most paltry things. Reciting classical authors to outwit themselves, dancing by chance, and giggling drunkenly into their shoulders. Their cheeks flushed red with rapture, succumbing to the lightest of touches. The smiles and laughs they shared were priceless and bustling with joy.

One could never guess or assume this relationship existed between them; a footman and a Duke. And even if they did, it’d be hard to see underneath the ruthless, sneering exterior.

[oldtinlizzy]

Miscellaneous Writing

I forget the dimensions of his room.

Stiffly, he’d stumbled to his room, and sat down on the bed with a loud sigh of sore relief. A small moment to finally sort through everything’s that happened and his honest feelings. On the spot, he’d say he honestly felt like shit. He also knew that he was knee deep in it. But what else was he suppose to do? Not like he would lie his way of this one.

Rubbing his mouth, the ache for a cigarette had long since passed. Shifting, gently letting his head fall back against the wall, another sigh slipped. So this is what he's become, a beat down sight for sore eyes. Catching himself in his mirror, he had to laugh. I mean, just look at him. He was a joke.

And that's all he ever was.