Jul 18, 2022
My entry for the @dunkirk-creators university au prompt!
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Yemen
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Tajikistan
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
My entry for the @dunkirk-creators university au prompt!
I know we haven't done any Dunkirk concepts for a while but how do you think Alex would react if the missus had some complications after giving birth? Maybe she was bleeding way to much and had SO many tears? Maybe he senses there's something wrong before the missus does?
OH MAN. If we’re staying historically accurate, he wouldn’t be in the room with her (which I feel like would make it 100x worse). And I’m guessing she would deliver at home with the help of community midwives. He’d probably be in the kitchen or something waiting anxiously and then all of the sudden he hears a lot of commotion down the hall and he immediately knows something is wrong. One of the midwives would probably come rushing out asking him to call for either the community doctor or for an ambulance (I’m guessing based on what I’ve seen on Call the Midwife lol). He would probably be terrified and demanding to know what’s going on!
Okay but here’s a little thought
You and Alex are dating and while he’s away you find out you’re pregnant and have a baby and when he gets back he’s just expecting you but there’s a little baba waiting for him too and he’s just so !!! he spent all those months fighting to get back home to you, hoping he’d come back alive to start a family and spend the rest of his life with you, and now here you are with his child and he really is so overwhelmed and happy and— someone please put me out of my misery
Would you be able to write about dunkir K Alex getting really sick at night an d he has to wake his girl up because he's going to be sick and he can't get up in his own?
(First time writing Dunkirk! Alex so like… I hope it’s alright darling! Let me know what you think! x Also deals a bit with trauma so just a CW for that.)
He wakes up with a start, though this certainly isn’t thefirst time it’s happened. Chest heaving as his eyes nervously dart around theroom, it feels as if the walls are closing in on him. He’s practically drenchedin his own sweat, his bedclothes sticking to him almost like a second skin ashe struggles to breathe.
Hello there! Do you know any good Louis/Alex fics? Thank you so much!
Here are a few!
1) I Want To Sleep Next To You. | Explicit | 8801 words
The Dunkirk AU where Alex (Harry) goes to war and comes back a shell of a man. It’s Louis’ responsibility to bring him back. And if they fall in love it’s just destiny.
2) Baby Honey | Explicit | 14744 words
When the next great war strikes, all alphas have to ship out. Alex leaves a little more behind than some of the others.
Hi it's me back again with another funkirk post that no one asked for
2 beaches
You already know it’s sad bitch hours! I wrote this a few weeks ago after seeing this pic of harry. It’s a lil bit of Dunkirk harry and idk how over everyone is of that but here I am loving every bit of it! It’s 3.5k words of mostly dialogue telling a story and it’s a bit flowery. Hope you guys like it!
Elise sits on the splinting wicker chair, pinpricks of flecked white wood scratching along her thighs. She’s come from her present home in the city all the way to her childhood one, 2 hours south into the countryside. The late afternoon is filled with an intense orange, sunlight washes over the fields of wheat before meeting the horizon. The sun stretches as far as it can before it ducks below the earth. With a light grimace and rubbing at her legs, she turns to look at the woman next to her, wearing a near identical pair of eyes only more worn, more misted. Elise’s face instantly melts into one of comfort.
Her grandmother, Sarah, is a familiar presence, having raised Elise for the better part of her life. On this little strip of land containing rolling hills and bushels upon bushels of poison ivy, coupled with a rocky stream winding through the woods and the largest weeping willow you’d ever see, Elise found herself. She found herself throwing her body down the hills with her friends, seeing who could reach the bottom the fastest. The sleepless nights spent itching at her skin, waking up her grandmother to have her rub the special homemade salve she always had onto the agitated hives, gently singing her to sleep. The rocks she collected that were slowly weathered down by the quick moving stream, hurrying on its way to get to the seaside. The weeping willow where she learned to climb, weaving herself in and out of its large body and hiding between the curtains of greenery when life seemed too much to handle.
The day they had to cut it down, Elise cried.
Sarah cried even harder. Elise could hear it that night throughout the house, accompanied by the wind whistling and the rain hitting the roof.
Sarah kept only a piece of wood from the graveyard of branches. A jagged piece, about 6 inches wide, with the initials, “H.S. + S.J.”, lay towards the back of her dresser. It lives next to a book, a book that’s never been moved from its spot for as long as Elise had been there, collected so much dust it’s turned gray. Elise had never asked. The memory of it seemed too painful.
The two have been chatting here and there on the rickety front porch, allowing the sounds of the country side to fill the pauses and smooth out their words. The glass jug next to them clinks with fresh ice as Sarah pours her second glass of lemonade with shaky hands. Elise reminds her of her health, to take it easy on the sugary drinks as her body isn’t the best filter for her sweet tooth anymore. Sarah just scoffs, one that turns into a harsh cough, says, “This body carried 4 children, it can carry another glass of lemonade.”
Elise smiles, although it’s a tight one. All she does is care but her grandmother has always been indifferent about the inevitability of aging, staring into the future with a mask of almost boredom while her body deteriorates. Sarah’s mind, on the other hand, is as sharp as ever.
Gazing up to the empty sky where Elise used to watch strings of willow leaves swing in the breeze, she’s reminded of the carved, rotting wood sitting atop a dark cherry dresser. As the sun sets and streaks of pink and red are thrown across the sky, Elise feels an overwhelming urge to ask about it. She’s getting older and with that, the fear of going to sleep one night and waking up to a world without her grandmother in it.
She asks about the piece of bark from the willow because if not now, she never will.
“Who’s H.S.? I know who S.J. is. That’s you. But who do the other initials stand for?” Sarah pauses and blinks once, shock written on her face and glass of lemonade stuck halfway to her open mouth.
Cicadas move in the tall grass, calling out for another in the suspended air. Elise gauges the reaction as Sarah moves to put the cup down on the porch, shutting her mouth with pursed lips. She’s almost positive she won’t get an answer, until Sarah moves to get up from her cushioned rocking chair. Elise jumps up to help her, thinking that she’s just going to leave the question hanging and turn in for the night. Sarah quickly waves her off, grunting a bit as she hobbles into the house.
A little deflated, Elise sits back down as the sun disappears almost completely. If she unfocuses her eyes, she can see the faint lights of the fireflies nipping about the grass and woods surrounding her.
A few minutes pass and the screen door creaks open, causing Elise to startle and kick her drink, causing it to spill all over the worn wooden planks. She hadn’t expected her grandmother to come back. Swearing lightly, she picks up the glass and raises her head to see Sarah turning on the porch light, an unfamiliar object tucked in the crook of her elbows, folded over like she could keep it safe. Like it needed to be kept safe.
As her grandmother steps further into the yellow light cast by the dingy bulb, Elise’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. She recognizes the black leather book only without all the dust piled on it, the same book she’s never seen moved from the spot next to the jagged piece of willow.
Sarah shuffles over to her designated chair, rocking back slightly and she puts all her weight onto the paisley cushion. Clearing her throat, she opens the book. The splitting sound of the leather spine indicates it hasn’t been opened in years. With unsteady hands, she pulls out a frayed piece of paper from somewhere in the middle, small and rectangular. It’s the color of sand with black ink on the side facing Elise, who is unable to read what it says.
Sarah closes her eyes, sparse eyelashes fluttering onto her gaunt cheeks. “You know when people ask you if your house was on fire, what would be the only thing you’d run through the smoke and flames for? This photograph is that thing.” Opening her eyes and meeting Elise’s, she hands over the fragile piece of paper.
Turning it over carefully, as if the soft night breeze could snatch it out of her grasp, Elise first glosses over the ink on the back. The date reads out, “25th of April, 1939. H on the beach.” Turning it over, she finds herself looking into the sepia toned eyes of a young man, no older than 20, handsome as can be with curled hair flying about his face, surely from the sea breeze in the background. The look in his eyes bore into Elise’s, holding a serious yet mischievous glare. The rest of his face is in a relaxed state while he squints head on into the lens of a grainy camera. The tall grass behind him caught in mid sway has her thinking she can hear the ocean waves if she tries hard enough. Tearing her eyes away, she carefully watches her grandmothers expressions change. She’s never seen such an open book.
On Sarah’s face, multitudes of emotions come and go, passing over like clouds in the sky, the most prominent of them; anguish, nostalgia, happiness. Love. Unparalleled love. Whole heart love, the kind that seeps from your skin and onto everything you touch, spreading like the sea in that old picture.
In awe of this beautiful photograph and part confusion from the sudden openness her grandmother is showing, Elise asks an important question, the only question: “Who’s H?” Sarah’s mouth quirks up in the smallest of smiles.
“Harry,” she says, the syllables of his name cracking, like she hasn’t voiced it in decades. It sounds bittersweet on her tongue, like lemonade, though more on the sugary side. “Harry Styles. A man I loved for a very short time, and a man who left for a very long time, the bastard,” she laughs but the sound isn’t very humorous. “Just had to go and be the first to enlist. Had to leave me here on this side of the war.”
Before Elise can say anything, protest that she really doesn’t need to hear this story because of how hurt the older woman sounds, Sarah shakes her head. “I’m going to tell you about Harry. I’m going to tell you about the willow tree, the beaches. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I never even told your grandfather. How could I? I would have ended up comparing the two and that would be unfair to everyone. Fantasizing about Harry while in the arms of my husband. It was easier to try and just...forget. At least until they had to cut down my tree.
“When I met Harry, it was September of 1938. It had turned out to be an Indian summer, not cooling down until mid October. I sat underneath the shade of the willow tree, fanning myself with some paperback I’d stolen from my fathers collection. I saw Harry riding his bike, basket full of plucked berries. As he rode by we made eye contact and even from the safety of my tree trunk, I could see the green of them, greener than the curtain of leaves draping down my arms. He didn’t look away and neither did I, until he hit a rock and flew off his bike, berries flying everywhere and splattering red and black on the ground like a crime scene. He tumbled a bit onto the grass not too far away from me.
“I remember gasping and it turning into laughter. Whole belly laughter. I remember him looking up from his skinned knees, sea soaked eyes opened as far as they could in surprise. I remember his smile growing wider and wider until I thought his face was going to break in half. I’d never seen such pretty teeth in my life. I know it’s a weird thing to say. It was even weirder to think. They were neat, white little blocks that shone with his happiness. I fell in love with that smile right then and there. It was the first time I made him laugh and I told myself that it certainly was not going to be the last. I got up and introduced myself. I held out a hand for him to take, to help him up. I think I miss his hands the most.
“He said his name was Harry and he was out and about getting some berries for his mothers pie, said he got a bit lost and didn’t quite know where he was. I remember that single brown curl sticking to his forehead in the immense heat. I offered him some refuge, leading him inside this house.” Sarah waves an arm, countless bracelets jingling as she gestures to the familiar structure around them. She continues.
“This house has stood here forever, you know. It’s been in our family since it was built. If I concentrate really hard, I can still hear the weight of his steps on the floorboards behind me. I led him to the kitchen and helped him clean his bloody knees. His pants were absolutely ruined, ripped and stained with dirt. He wanted to act like a strong man, like it didn’t hurt and that he didn’t need any tending to because he could handle a little pain. But once I laid a washcloth on the broken skin, he whimpered. He was sweet and soft inside, like a pastry.”
At the sound of a sharp coughing fit, Elise is torn out of her storybook haze. Rushing inside to grab a glass of water, she hands it to her grandmother, who gratefully takes it and gulps half of it down in one sip. Sarah takes a breath, regains her composure and closes her eyes, launching herself back into the nostalgia.
“He left that afternoon with no berries and a promise that he would be back, that Friday, for a proper picnic underneath the willow. My parents came home that night to my giddiness. They kept asking what had made me so restless but I didn’t tell them, couldn’t tell them. Wanted to keep Harry a secret to myself for the time being. He seemed like a mirage, something I had conjured up in my head short circuiting from the head. I Just excused myself up to my room. That night, I took out my last sheet of canvas paper and sketched the outline of his eyes to what I could remember. I remembered thinking if I never saw his eyes again, I would at least have this.
“That Friday, he came to my house with a bouquet of wildflowers. Knocked on the door and introduced himself to my parents. Said he was a friend of Sarah’s. I loved the way he said my name. We sat in the privacy of the draped leaves and talked for hours. Ate so many blackberries I thought my stomach would turn into one. We took turns throwing the sweets into each other’s mouths and, of course, he was much better at it. They stained his two front teeth. It was the most endearing thing I’d ever seen. After that there were many more days spent together, at the base of the willow. It was smaller then. Younger.
“One day, before the first snowfall in November on a particularly cold day, he took out a pocketknife in his right hand and put his other cupped to the tree to hide what he was carving. I was laughing, tugging at his hands trying to see what he was doing. When he finally pulled his hand away, I stopped in my tracks. He kissed me then and time unfroze. That winter was full of them. The kisses. Full of more than kisses. Full of love and tenderness and nights by the fireplace under heavy blankets and the weight of his hands on my body. His hands were beautiful. Wide and blunt, a single rose ring adorned his middle finger. I used to kiss it when he got sad or frustrated, trailing my mouth up his arm, to his shoulder, dragging my lips across his neck and finally landing on his mouth. They were very pink, bowed like a dolls. I thanked the heavens everyday I got the chance to taste them.
“Winter faded into spring. The leaves of the weeping willow grew back and it became our spot again. The photograph in your hands was taken on the beach near his grandparents house that spring. They were well off and could afford a camera and, well, a private beach. He looked so beautiful pressed up against the endless ocean, I had to capture it. I wish it could’ve showed how green his eyes were, especially next to the tall grass.”
Sarah stopped for a second, opening her eyes and contemplating her next words. Elise was completely enticed, soaking in every single word down to her bones. She didn’t want to forget this vulnerable moment. All around them, the night came alive. Above them, the stars shone silver and circled their heads like halos. In the light of the moon, as well as the dim yellow one on the porch, Elise watches her grandmothers eyes well up.
“Isn’t it funny how he loved me on this beach, but died on another, miles away, a year away?” She sniffled once and that’s all she allows herself. She continues on.
“Harry took it upon himself to immediately join the war. He was one of the first waves. Sure, they were drafting everyone but he really wanted to fight. Said he was getting nowhere in his fathers small textile business. He wanted do something right, he said. When he told me, I didn’t speak to him for a week. He would come by, sit under the willow while I sat on my bed. As it was getting closer to his departure I knew I had to suck it up. This was bigger than us, as much as I didn’t want it to be. I wanted to forget about it all and stay here until the war was over. I climbed up the tree and showed him my favorite branch that was perfect to lay on, the same branch I used to sit on all the time just thinking about life in its entirety. We spent those whole two weeks before he left together, never leaving each other’s sides.
“It was the first time I’d seen him cry. It was in my arms, in his bed, the night before he was supposed to leave. He said he loved me so much it hurt him. He said he would write to me every goddamn day. He said he needed me to wait for him. I’ll never forget the shine of the ring in the moonlight. He proposed to me, tears in his eyes. I said yes. What else would I say? No? Of course not. No matter how much I hated his choice to leave, it would have never been greater than the amount of love there was in me, for him. All throughout the night the only words said were, ‘I love you’. In between kisses, in between sighs, roaming into the air and disappearing out the window. I ran my hands through his hair, I licked his two front teeth, I kissed his ring, his fingers, I stared into his eyes and found myself wanting to dive into them for the millionth time. I was hoping, hoping so hard that it wouldn’t be the last time his hands held me.
“He left the next morning. I never saw him again. We didn’t even have a body to bury. He sank somewhere off the coast of a beach in France. Dunkirk. I felt my heart shatter, the pieces floating up my throat, stabbing my lungs, cutting up the inside of me. The pain was just too great. I cried for what seemed like a lifetime. I slept with this picture in my hands every night. I started to forget how green his eyes were. Whenever I looked at the ring on my finger, I wanted to throw it in the stream and have it be carried into the ocean and the currents would bring the ring to him, somewhere in the deep. But the ocean is far too large. I wore it, for years after, telling men I was married, that I was so, so lucky. The war ended in 1945 and whoever was left, beaten and battered as they were, came home. I was bitter. How come they all survived, how come all of those troops on Dunkirk survived, but not my Harry ?”
Elise’s breath shudders. The intensity of her grandmothers words were too much. “Grandma..” she trails off. She doesn’t know what to say. How could she? “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine.”
The older woman nods her head, a small and tired smile slipping onto her face. “These are the memories I would try to forget. I look back on them many ways,” she admits. “In anger, in sadness, in all-consuming love. Don’t get me wrong. Time lessened the hurt. If only microscopically. I took off the ring eventually and found your grandfather and created what would soon lead to you. I loved Harry so much. I still do. It’s unfair that he stays in my mind as a young, vibrant man so full of life. While that will never be what happened. While I grew old. If I didn’t have this photograph, I wouldn’t even remember clearly what he looked like. It would be watery, whittled down to only the basics; curly hair, sharp jaw, face-splitting grin. I just wish I could remember the color of his eyes. I never painted in that sketch I made. Not that I could ever do the green of them justice. I know how much those eyes loved me. I just wish I could look into them one more time, you know?” She trails off.
Elise didn’t know. She hoped she never did.
Sarah shakes her head as if to rid herself of the indulgent thought. “I’m going to go to sleep. It’s getting late and I have to run into town tomorrow morning,” she announces while slowly standing up, her body cracking under the weight. She stops and turns to face her granddaughter. “Thank you for asking about the tree. About the initials. Nobody’s ever asked. I would have never told anyone. I would have carried him to my grave.”
Elise goes to place the picture of a young man, who existed a very long time before her, into her grandmothers hands. Sarah shakes her head again. “I want you to keep it for now,” she says. “The memories are fresh enough.” She turns around and walks through the same front door she walked through with Harry trailing behind, all those years ago. It seemed like it happened in a different universe.
So much love, Elise couldn’t even dream of it. She was drained from just listening to the story. The moon rose higher and higher in the sky and the wind was starting to rattle through the house in a familiar sound. Harry existed once in this house. He knew the nooks and crannies of it intimately, just as Elise does. The childhood home took on a new form, more solemn and full of shadows. As she tip toes behind her grandmother, whose arms are slung around the little black book, she ensures she climbs the stairs safely. As her grandmothers bedroom door closes, ever so softly, Elise wanders into her old room.
Falling into bed, she puts the picture of Harry standing up against her bedside lamp, bright pink just as young Elise liked it, the sepia colored rectangle a strange contrast to the loud color. As she slept that night, fragments of green, adorned by thick eyelashes, float in and out of her dreams. And she thinks she can almost hear the ocean.
dunkirk au
where everything’s the same except instead of the ocean they’re at a waterpark called Funkirk and everyone is happy and no one dies.