#ww2!au

[amymbona]

1950s Patrick is cool, but imagine how tragic the story of 1940s Patrick is...

The war started and he is taken into the army, you cry and are afraid of losing your wonderful beloved husband. You can never be sure whether he will live or not, but can only believe and hope that at least he will remain alive, not to mention the injuries both physical and psychological, since war does not spare anyone. You spend your last night of love with him, whispering to him how much you love him and that you won't let him die. Maybe the conversation will even get to the baby, about how they want a baby and what you would name the baby after him. Patrick or Patricia :)) When a tear runs down cheek, he comforts you, says that he loves you, that he will never die and leave you alone. You end up falling asleep hugging him, and you look at him for the last time, knowing that tomorrow he will leave. In the morning you see him off, constantly kissing and hugging him the whole way, 'cause you understand that this is the only chance to be satiated with his love and adoration. You wave your handkerchief at him, shedding a tear, and here he is, leaving. All that remains is to believe that his service will be easier than others and that he will return to their home with the same wonderful smile and bright, shining eyes that you fell in love with.

Every time I realize that I'm a damn director, not a screenwriter. Give me my lovely screenwriter!!!

I haven't written to you for a long time, girlie. Amy, how are you?! What's up? 🤗🤗

- 🐦‍⬛

I'm gonna give you a blow job for this one, little bird. How am I doing? After reading this? Absolutely fucking wonderful.

One thing people must know about me is that I love angst and THIS..... 🫦🫦🫦 SO SO SO GOOD!

Imagine Patrick somewhere in the trench, the sun is falling down and he's shivering, purple bruises on his cheeks, his hair a complete mess. Unwashed, starving, the lack of sleep and warmth is very much evident in the way he's shivering but by some miracle, he hasn't gone crazy yet.

Perhaps it's the image of your beautiful face that he keeps in his pocket, a little photograph he has torn out of your family memory book that you keep in the living room, just to have you with himself at all times. All the men in his troop know about you, know your name and age and what flowers you like, that you love to dance to Glenn Miller's songs and wear the prettiest dresses. Patrick keeps talking about you nonstop.

And currently, he's writing a letter to you, one that he's been writing for the past there weeks and he honestly has no idea if his writings are ever gonna be seen by your eyes. Patrick is desperate to remain in contact with you, but he knows that even if all the letters would remain stuffed in his pocket, you'll know damn well what messages he is attempting to send you.

Luckily, through some begging and mutual contacts, he manages to give the letter to some guy. Patrick kisses it a thousand of times, hoping you'll get a whiff of his scent, even though he smells like dirt and piss.

My darling,

I miss you dearly and I miss you every day. Remember how I told you Remarque was a stupid fool? How I couldn't believe a single word from his book? This place is worse than All quiet on the western front, it's worse than hell itself.

Every day I thank myself for taking that little picture of your beautiful face to look at. It keeps me sane, I think, and I look at it more than I used to look at your real face. Forgive me it I've ever made you cry, my love. I cry every night.

Don't waste your words asking me how I'm doing, write about your days instead. Are you doing all alright? Are you keeping the place clean and that stray dog that keeps sneaking into our garden well fed? Has your mother's flu been treated and is she feeling better?

Please, darling, spray your perfume on the paper when you write me a response. Use the whole bottle it you feel like it's not enough. I just need to feel you somehow. If you can and find away, send me some food. Anything. In cans, preferably. Me and the boys are starving. They want to meet you when we're all back home. I talk about you and our memories every night.

I will be missing you until my heart stops beating.

Yours, Patrick

[thorn-rosed]

have a few long ahh posts in drafts, which to finish first?

skittles and their roles/relationships/storyline during ww2

character and story analysis and deep dive of fallenangel!evan and priest!barty

character/childhood analysis of finnish!rosiers comparison between twins & felix

Voting ended onDec 19, 2024

[saawek]

Gift for @elnawen​ based on this AU (you won’t understand what’s below if you don’t read/click this link)

My dearest Cas,

I hope you’re doing well since you sent your last letter. I heard the bombings at the French Front haven’t been going well. I guess if a member of the Team Free Will trio had been killed I would have heard, but I’m very worried.

After months of trying to forget the “greatest betrayer of all time,” the guys in charge have finally realized I actually am loyal to my country. Perks of being the best spy; nobody trusts me. I am still frowned upon and some want me executed. The only thing that’s convinced me that I still deserve to live is reading your letters.

I have an assignment with the army nerds now. What we do is obviously classified, but you love ‘enigmas’ and I know you have the clearance. The team is full of geniuses. There is a girl named Charlie and I can barely understand what she says most of the time, exactly like Kevin. She’s a lesbian, though not openly, of course. Kevin looks like a Jap, poor boy, though I think he’s Vietnamese. We are the trash the army would like to get rid of, but they can’t because they need our talent.

I had a nightmare the other day. Not like one of the nightmares about Alistair. It was after debriefing. They told me leave, so I went to a bar for the night. When I was leaving, I was ambushed. I fought, of course, thinking they were some of Alistair’s men, because I’m sure the bastard is still tracking me down.

But they weren’t Alistair’s. One of them was my captain and when I recognized him, he told me undercover agents like me were a liability for the Allies, and I had to be executed.

I woke up screaming. I consider myself fortunate to know you and your powerful family. I am sure if you hadn’t been there to pull some strings, I would already be dead or worse - back with Alistair.

On another subject, you should find a little package with this letter. When I saw this necklace I knew it was for you. The color is just like your eyes. How sappy is this? I was told it’s a lucky charm. I guess we should put all chances on our side, right?

I am sorry this letter isn’t really happy. I feel so useless in the back, worrying for you, Sam, and Meg. I know you are all freaking gods of the sky, but the three of you are in my thoughts every day.

Please bring back my baby brother alive and well. Come back to me, my love. I am waiting.

All my love forever,

D.

please don’t delete caption or you will be blocked. no repost either duh.

[a-forger-and-a-point-man]

SHOT DOWN?!?!

HOW COULD YOU?! 

it wouldn’t end in a fiery death it would end in--

-sobs-

hello 911? yes i’m being attacked on my own dash

[childishzombiejellyfish]

Broken Crown 

Chapter 9

[childishzombiejellyfish]

whoo, new chapter

Broken Crown, Chapter 5

so much angst...

[childishzombiejellyfish]

oh cool, a new chapter. 

Broken Crown

Chapter 2

Notes:

Oh gosh, I listened to The Theory Of Everything soundtrack while reading through this. I'm not saying you should do it, I'm saying that it was pretty perfect though.

Eggsy's POV

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

The day awoke, groggy and vomiting clouds, and it smelt like it always did. By now everyone had probably lost the ability to actually properly smell anything at all, and while Eggsy was more than a little grateful for that, he was also afraid that maybe when he returned… maybe there wouldn’t be any scents left there anymore either. He certainly couldn’t remember what it had smelt like in England, no matter how hard he tried. Apples, or some shit. Grass. Breezes. Harry. Okay, he knew how he smelt, all he needed to do was rewind the clock and start with his fingertips: Harry's fingertips were… clean, on the first day.

*******

Eggsy had noticed those clean, polished nails and felt suddenly incredibly self-conscious, but he'd covered it up with enough casual flirting to turn the tables. Luckily it had seemed that the flirting had paid off. Not only had he not been fired (or arrested for treason of some sort), he'd been invited to dinner, right then and there, inside the manor itself. Harry had asked him to wait by a tiny side-door as he’d gone inside to tell all the servants that they could go down to the pub. And suddenly the entire space had been empty, but for the two of them and a nicely laid table. Eggsy had spent the entire evening wondering what the charming bastard had wanted from him, and realised that he'd be willing to give it all. At least, what he had to give.

At some point he’d been seated at a solitary grand piano, all alone in an empty, echoing room made of marble or some shit. He hadn’t watched Harry’s reactions to his playing, because this – for now – had been better even than dinner. The sounds so loud and soft, the keys so pliant, the melodies so easy beneath his clever fingers. Harry had told him afterwards that he wanted him to come back and play again. And Eggsy had continued to wonder.

At the end of it, standing outside the door again, Eggsy hadn't quite been able to contain himself. “So how about a kiss then? I've always wanted to kiss a prince.” Said flippantly and with a grin that had hinted at a lack of sincerity.

For a second he'd been sure that he'd gone too far. Harry had looked at him for the longest time, with the most indiscernible look, as though he were waiting for something. And then he had kissed him, moving fast enough that Eggsy hadn't been prepared, and pulling away again before he'd been able to enjoy it. Eggsy had pouted, aware that he'd looked like a sullen child and not caring. Harry had appeared amused, like the royal bugger he was. Kissing people like that without a moment's thought as to how they might want it.

“Well, that was… short,” Eggsy had said, trying to picture what exactly that second of lips had felt like and failing.

Harry had smiled faintly. “I just wanted to be sure that you were being serious.” And he had kissed him again, and this time Eggsy had felt everything.

*******

That time when Harry had helped him dig up weeds from the flowerbeds, there his hands had become covered in dirt, filthy. The cleanliness… how did clean hands smell? Dirt. Dirt he could figure out. After all, he was currently surrounded by dirt. But it was a different dirt from the dirt that had been there then.

That dirt had been filled with worms and insects and it had been soft and a little cool. There had been… roots… and the first layer had crumbled inhis hands, but the second had been firm and slippery, coating him softly and roughly, beneath the nails and in the whorls and whirls of his palms. Forgetting that he'd been covered in dirt, he’d attempted to wipe a smidge from the side of Eggsy’s cheek and only made it worse, and he’d drawn back and actually been apologetic – as if Eggsy wasn’t always covered in some dirt or other – and Eggsy had drawn the palm back and laid it gently in place, inhaling deeply through his nose against the side of that large, soft hand. Now how had that smelled?

Or what about in bed? That had been… also firm, also slippery, and gentle, and rough, depending on when. The smell had been different though. There was an inherent difference in the smell of dirt and the smell of sex, he knew that, of course he knew that. He also knew that some of the other lads mucked about in secret when the officers weren’t around, but not him. Not here. Not with them. The smells would be all wrong.

*******

Another letter arrived for him that day. It was in answer to his last question: He had asked the king when the war would be over. Not so directly of course. He had merely hinted that the sooner it was all bloody over with, the sooner they could forget this pause in who they really were, this stutter in humanity’s heartbeat, and return to good old earth and summer days and the occasional – common – rains. But rain was good. Rain cleansed the earth and made the flowers grow and the dirt hard and wet.

Besides, on the days when it had rained, they had stayed inside from morning until evening. The rushing sounds of the rain beating the grounds, and the un-rhythmical panting and moving, firm, slippery, gentle, rough, sounding like its own little harmony. While all he’d actually heard had been his own heart and Harry’s gasping and the throbbing of the tension in the air, and the violence of the rain outside, his mind had concocted symphonies with great sweeping movements of power, and tiny pulsating arias. He’d saved the pieces that worked for the piano, and concocted long ballads and tiny preludes.

Not now. Here, the rain was discord and disjointed. It was harder to write music here. It was all rather terrible. Still he took what he could get, and if the world was telling him it was terrible, then by god, he was going to write something terrifying.

The letter started with a “darling.” He smiled a little. However, the rest disappointed. How could a four-page letter be so vague in actually providing an answer? He picked up a piece of paper and scribbled: “Harry, is this fucking war going to end??? Soldiers want to know.” He destroyed that immediately and began again, regretting the waste of paper.

He began with “you charming bastard,” and ended in a “my sweet…” he considered prince, because it sounded equally sarcastic and romantic and he wanted Harry to appreciate his sense of humour. But no. if anybody else were to read it… and he’d sworn to be secretive, sworn to keep himself – and the crown – safe. “My sweetest Rose,” he wrote.

“Oh, yes,” he said aloud. Thinking back… palm, sweaty, dirty, faintly musky, placed against his cheek. And in his other hand the rose held towards him. Romantic idiot.

*******

The rose had smelt like his lips had tasted. That’s how it had been. That's what Harry was. Harry was how he remembered home.

*******

He finished the letter and was about to go and post it, when there was a whistling. A call to arms.

“Fuck.”

The letters were both placed beside the ones he had received. There were many “my darlings,” and “my dearests,” and a single one that lay at the top, as a promise to never forget him, or maybe a... a promise. That after the war something between them would be acknowledged, somehow: “My boy.”

He touched it once, for luck. His boy.

Notes:

Good news, next chapter is up tomorrow. Gosh I love being able to write that.

[acebarduil]

queenstardust a réagi à votre billet “okay so I knew what northerntrash‘s Barduil Hobbit Big Bang was about,...”

IT IS GOOD! At least the first part that I´ve read yet. I hope she will send me the rest too, soon. If not there will be sad fanart instead of happy fanart (I hope the second part is more cheerful?!)

happy fanart, sad fanart... just knowing you’re working on that Big Bang is enough to make me jump up and down impatiently