Fireproof #1 - The Beginning - An Alex Mini Series

Originally posted by antogriezmann

**An Alex, Harry’s Character from Dunkirk, fic was highly, highly requested. For the most part, this is an original story simply based around his character and there will only be a few references to things that happened in the film – just in case some have yet to see it, there won’t be any spoilers. 

Well, I hope you all enjoy it and be sure to let me know what you think! :) 

**Word Count- 4,397


3 March 1939 

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anonymous asked:

Imagine if Jamie travelled through the stones, but instead of finding Claire in Boston he found himself having arrived years too early, when the War was still happening and Claire had yet to meet him... What would he do?

Notes from Mod Bonnie 

Trying something a bit new as a palate-cleanser, lads and lasses! 

Please do note that I am blissfully, unapologetically putting next-to-no effort into making this historically accurate. Soooo, if you’re in a military history/fact-checking/date-referencing mood… best take those efforts elsewhere ;D 

Hope you enjoy! 

The Last All-Clear 

September 17, 1942: A Rusty Nail 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

17 September

Daytime rotation today.

No new battle casualties & all quiet in the distance, thank God. 

Did tend M. Danton (scored on the arm w/ rusted nail; antibiotics & sterile bandage to finish; strict instructions to report in 3 days for follow-up). 

A strange sort, and no two ways about it. 

“Claire—darling—dearest—You know how much I ADORE you, don’t you?

I was already smirking—fondly, but smirking nonetheless—by the time I turned from restocking the supply cabinets for tomorrow. “How much do you adore me, Nance?”

“So much that I’ll do absolutely any of your chores—ALL your chores!!—for a week if you’ll go tend Danton??”

Danton? The frenchman?” A glance revealed a familiar set of hunched shoulders (spilled over with filthy black hair) just visible through the cracked partition of the infirmary tent. “What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing serious. Says he got scraped by a nail or screw or something this morning and needs to be cleaned up a bit, but oh, please, Claire??” Nancy whined, grabbing both my hands in hers. “I know you were supposed to go off-duty at eight and it’s nine-thirty already but puh-LEASE will you take ten minutes before you go and be the one to tend him?? Please-please-pl—” 

“Good Lord, no need to go into a tizzy about it,” I laughed, a bit taken aback by how truly distraught she seemed. “Surely the man doesn’t bite!” Though in truth, I didn’t know that for certain.

I’d never spoken to him, nor even so much as looked him in the eye, but Danton—was his first name even known?— was a legend in camp. He’d joined the company a month or two ago, they said, one of the men-of-all-work that alternately served as laborer, orderly, handyman, gravedigger, or any other role requiring a strong back. Though I’d always gotten the sense he was past his prime, from the state of his clothing and posture and hygiene, a strong back Danton did have, and whatever his age might be, he was indispensable.  The camp always had to be ready to go into action, or even pick up and move entirely at a moment’s notice. In this chaotic wartime reality, with life and death so often on the line, a spare set of hands was always needful. 

There were a dozen such men in camp, all of them civilian frenchmen, but Danton was the only one people seemed to talk about; which was quite the irony, given that he was a man of notoriously few words. He kept always to himself, speaking only when directly addressed, gruffly and shortly when he was, crossing the verge of sheer bad-temperedness more often than not. Rooms tended to shift to low whispers when Danton entered, if not empty entirely.

It didn’t seem to bother him. The entirety of my experience with the man consisted of glimpses from across the camp or mess-hall. Yet, even that barest of acquaintance was enough to have convinced me that the unsmiling, grubby Danton—with his hunched shoulders, with that profoundly-unkempt black hair and drooping cap that together hid his eyes—wished to be left alone. 

My skin had prickled, though, whenever I had studied him, crawling with something I couldn’t quite put into words or even—

“He gives me the absolute heebie-jeebies!!” Nancy summarized neatly in a whisper. “I can’t do it, I just can’t! Anything you ask, Claire, and it’s done, but PLEASE be a brick and get me out of this??”

I would have agreed in any case—if for nothing more than to satisfy my own slightly-morbid curiosity— but I had absolutely no qualms over letting Nancy take my bedpan duties for a week out of the bargain.

….and surely the man DIDN’T bite?

“Monsieur Danton?”

He JUMPED as though shot, and I startled so violently (absurdly searching for elongated canines in the momentary panic) that I swore and dropped my tray, the bowl, cloth, and other impedimenta clattering and scattering all over the floor with great metallic crashes.

I was utterly mortified, positively dove to my hands and knees to gather the scattered supplies and hide my face, and then the sensation doubled to realize that the frenchman was on the ground beside me. I had only enough time to notice the juxtaposition of the fine leather glove on his left hand with the wretched filth of his clothing before he was placing the last item on the tray. “Thank you,” I mumbled awkwardly, glancing up to smile in thanks, and caught a momentary glimpse of vivid blue eyes before he recoiled, leaping to his feet and busying himself with getting the tray on the table. 

Shy, whatever else he might be. 

“Well, we’re off to a bumpy start, sol—Sir,” I managed with a weak laugh as I got to my feet, throwing myself fully into that ‘jovial commanding-officer’ character that had weathered many an awkward encounter in my career to-date. My usual script felt a little bereft without the useful address of ’soldier.’ “I’m Nurse Randall,” I said more briskly, clearing my throat with a smile.  “I’m told you need medical attention for your arm?”

He rolled up his sleeve without so much as a word. Very well, down to busin—

“Good LORD! I gasped, stepping forward and reaching for the arm, then pushing him down into the chair. Not merely a scrape: it was a slash, a wicked, deep one, about two inches long, just below the right elbow. “This needs stitches! What the bloody hell happened?” 

No answer. 

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I said more kindly in French, “Monsieur, will you tell me what happened to your arm?

No nod. No grunt. The brute didn’t bother even to raise his chin from his chest. 

No language barrier, then: just an arse.  

I reached for the antiseptic, my nostrils flaring. “Will you look at the state of this?” The blood had long since clotted, but the wound clearly hadn’t been washed, let alone sterilized. “Why in God’s name didn’t you come and get help for it right away?


“Excuse me, I am TALKING to you,” I snapped, choosing to stick with French for castigation as I prepared the suturing supplies. “Why didn’t you bother coming for help unt—?”

“Do what’s-must to prevent the festering and I’ll be going, yes?” he snapped back with such venom that I would have gasped if I weren’t so grounded in pique. 

So: he was both capable of speech and every bit as ill-tempered for it.  Lord, give me the strength not to SLAP this man. I bit my tongue and cleansed the wound in icy silence.

“Far from home?” I blurted testily, when the tension became too insufferable even for me. 

His head snapped up.

Your accent,” I clarified as I reached for a clean cloth, genuinely curious despite my ire, “—your syntax. It’s not a standard dialect…nor like the other frenchmen in camp, I think?” 


I had about an ounce of pleasantness left in me and I scraped it up to force a smile. “Grow up in the country, eh?”


“…Care to share where?” 


“Well, you’re just a blooming basket of violet-scented rainbows, aren’t you?” I snapped in English. “Hold bloody still, this will hurt and you’ll deserve every blasted bit of it.” I gritted my teeth and swore under my breath as I began stitching, in absolutely no mood for grumpy man-children. “Jesus H. Roosevelt CHRIST.”

By complete chance, standing bent over his arm as I began to stitch, I happened to be looking down at his mouth as I said it. To my absolute gobsmacked surprise, I saw a smile twitching at the corners, small and restrained, as though he were trying very much not to show it, but clear as day: a tiny smile verging on a grin. 

Well…! Not a *complete* automaton, then. 

I was taken still further aback when the mouth opened and said quietly in French without looking up, “Forgive me, please, Madame. I do not mean you ill.” The tone told me he was being genuine.  “It is only that I do not very much like—speaking.

“It’s good to work at things you don’t like doing,” I said, fixing what I could see of his face with a sardonic glare between stitches, but trying not to smile. “Builds character.”  

Another infinitesimal twitch of the lips before he dropped his head, strings of wavy black hair hiding his features entirely. “It is—a small bit more easy to manage, in French.”  

We’ll stick with the Français then,” I said, letting a smile show in my voice.

I finished the stitching and sterilization in a more comfortable silence. He took the hypodermic needle without so much as a wince, though I could see him watching it intently, sternly almost, as though not entirely sure what to make of it. From the country, indeed. 

You’re so much younger than I would have supposed.” 

“…I beg your pardon, Madame?” 

I could hardly fault him for being taken aback, as I had blurted it with absolutely no thought for context, let alone grace. I recovered as best I could, all things considered, focusing over-intently on wrapping the bandage around his forearm. “From a distance, I had assumed you to be far older.”

Honestly, for a man with such a beard and posture, that default manner that could charitably be described as cantankerous, it was alarming to find that not only was he not middle-aged, but he couldn’t possibly be older than— 

“Thirty? At most?”

Thereabouts.” After a pause, he added with a shrug. “I am far older in spirit, Madame.”  

I made him promise to come see me in a few days so I could see how the healing was progressing and give him more antibiotic if need be. He nodded, then stood and shrugged back into his coat (Lord, was he huge), and was just beginning to move toward the doorway, when—

“Are you well-treated here, M. Danton?”  Why could I not keep my bloody mouth shut tonight??

“Why is it that you ask such a question of me, Madame?” Though I still could barely see his face through the hair, I could hear the wariness in his voice. 

“You just seem…” I struggled to find the word in French, to express my concern without giving offense. “…..hunted.” 

Yes, a beast at bay. That’s what I had discerned and yet been unable to name in those vague, distant glances across camp: the utter wrongness in the sight of a man so tall and strong keeping his head low, avoiding eye contact, as though cowering before an invisible blow. Then there was this slash to the arm…

He caught me looking at the bandage, so I summoned my courage enough to ask directly, “Is someone bothering you? Hurting you?” 

No.” He relaxed, and I saw his throat muscles working.  “No, it truly was a rusted nail; an accident, entirely my own.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the first statement. “And my manners and ways are mine as well, Madame. Of my own choosing, I mean to say. Better, it is, that I keep to myself.

There was nothing morose in the way he said it, nothing maudlin or self-pitying.

 ….but it still was so very sad. 

Nonetheless,” he added quite suddenly, one hand on the tent flap, “I thank you for having asked.” He gave a graceful bow and said in heavily-accented English before vanishing off into the night: “You ‘ave a kind ‘eart, Nurse Randall.”

Strange, yes. But not as bad as all that. 


5 1 9

Ye touched me, today, mo nighean donn. 

Spoke to me. Looked at me. Stopped my beating heart. 

You were supposed to go off-duty at eight. I let that damned wound go untended all the day because I was waiting for when I kent you’d be away and abed. I couldn’t take the chance of it being you. God above knows I meant for us never once to come face-to-face in this camp.

More than a year since I ran up the hill after ye and the world went black; more than a year of trying to find my way in your world; of trying to find youthese last months of staying hidden in plain sight that ye never should see my face…. All undone by a rusted nail and your damned heedless self working at all hours instead of taking to your damned bed. And yet…. ye always did see fit to undermine my plans, my wife. Mo ghraidh. 

….Lord, and you’re so young, Sorcha; so heartbreakingly young, and it makes me want to weep. And yet I weep still more to have witnessed with my own eyes and ears that you’re exactly the same. Even now, at three-and-twenty, you’ve the same fire that I myself have known in you, that same brilliance and compassion and—


Oh, God, Claire. 

From a distance, keeping to my duties, I have been able to separate myself from it all; keep myself and my thoughts in check by mere will, knowing that it is my place only to watch over you, never in any circumstance to know you or seek you out.  But so close to ye today, mo chridhe, SO CLOSE with you touching me, that deepest part of yourself reaching out to heal and care for me, even in disguise, even though ye dinna yet know me— It took all my strength not to take ye in my arms and crush you to my heart.

I long for you, mo nighean donn. I long for my wife; to hold ye again; to speak all my heart to ye. My truest friend. 

And yet, beyond longing, there is that uttermost of terrors that fills me day and night. 

I wait for this war to end—this war of unspeakable horrors, the like of which I could never have fathomed—and still I dread the sounding of that last all-clear. At least here, now (and for three years more, at the least) I have a place in your world. I can watch over ye, see your face each and every day, if only for a moment from afar, and be able to close my eyes at night only because I ken that you are safe. 

But when the fighting has ceased, when ye leave France, I shall have to bid you yet another farewell….silently, this time, unseen….and hope that in April of 1948—

Pray with all my soul that you and the bairn make it to April of 1948. 

That you won’t be— That you haven’t already been—? or that you aren’t now—?

Lost among the years. As I have been.  

camp memes:
  • soldier/nurse, holding out their hand for any given object: “Clamp.”
  • “Frank Burns, known Mennonite”
  • in response to literally any question: “ask the Oracle” 
  • (the Oracle is Radar)
  • “Where does this go?” / “Into a box of things you can’t swallow.”
  • if anyone is in a fight over anything: “Well maybe if you hadn’t touched your nose, we wouldn’t be having this fight.”
  • pointing to a bucket, crate, small pond, the supply shed, anything: “Look, BJ lost one of his shoes.”
  • in response to any form of hysterics: “Listen, Hawkeye, I’m upset too.”
  • “Radar O’Reilly would never treat me this way, and frankly, I’m shocked.”
  • (while making an obscene gesture) “In honor of Trapper John, may he rest in peace.”
  • “Tell that to Klinger’s trousseau.”
  • (chanting) “KP, KP, KP, KP, KP”
  • “What’s the password” / *incoherent shrieking*
  • (while anywhere BUT in a jeep): “I’m gonna have a baby right here in this jeep, and not one of you people can stop me”

add your own!

anonymous asked:

Trace's new skin looks like Britney Spears in the Toxic music video. Do you know if the cap is something that military really wear?

Yeah, it is! 

It’s actually a type of cap that used to get worn by soldiers, nurses and other infantary in WWII.

See below:

Consequently, we also know from Sombra’s emote bow which is animated directly out of a Britney Spears concert that there are Britney fans on Blizzard’s staff, so it’s also probably a nod to this:

The little nurse

No guns and soldiers this time. I just happened to stumble upon this photo and I think this little one deserves to be remembered. IMO, she’s proof that a strong character knows no age.

8 year old Róża Maria Goździewska was the youngest nurse to serve with the Polish forces during the ill-fated Warsaw Uprising of August-October 1944.

According to her sister, despite her young age, Róża stubbornly insisted in helping out at the insurgents’ hospital located in the basement of No.11, Moniuszki Street. She ended up being allowed to do small tours such as giving water to the wounded and keeping the flies away.

Róża and her sister survived the Uprising and moved to Silesia were Róża attended the Silesian Tech University at Gliwice. In 1958 she moved to France, got married and had two children. Sadly, Róża passed away in 1989 at 53.

Original: Eugeniusz Lokajski (Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego)

King - Robb Stark

Anonymous said:

Hello lovely! I was wondering if you could write something for my child Robb Stark based on the song perfect by ed sheeran. If you don’t want to that’s completely okay I just love your writing. Thank you! 💕

A/N: I tried a thing…tell me what you think…. (Words: 3140)

Y/N Hornwood, whose House was sworn to the Starks, had known Robb Stark once. They met as children, but now they met through war. Would things still be the same or would Robb be too caught up in the war to even notice her?

Originally posted by dreamofspring

Music flooded through the tarps of Robb’s tent as he loomed over his map of Westeros. His mind wasn’t on the celebration outside; while his men drank to the victory at the Whispering Wood, the Young Wolf thought out his next move.

Robb was so enthralled by possible strategies, he didn’t notice his mother walking into the tent. When Catelyn walked into his line of sight, her son’s back straightened and he gave his mother a tired smile.

“Sorry, mother, I was thinking about the next attack. Tywin is going to want the Kingslayer back, but he’s too far-”

“Robb,” Catelyn interrupted, “please, take a breath.” She placed a comforting hand on her son’s shoulder. At the contact, Robb’s war-ready spirit wavered. “Your father would be proud of you,” Catelyn said, causing Robb to furrow his brows.

“For sentencing two thousand men to die?” He shook his head, feeling tears sting at his eyes. He would be his father’s biggest disappointment.

“No,” Catelyn whispered, “he would be proud of how you fought. With honor, for your family.” His mother’s voice faltered, cries threatening to spill out her throat. The loss of Ned was still fresh on her heart, just as it was for Robb.

Feeling his mother’s pain, Robb wrapped his strong arms around Catelyn as she felt tears spring free from her eyes. She held onto her son and as she closed her eyes, she could see the day Robb was first brought into the world. The days that passed when Ned met his first born son. Oh the plans her husband had for their child; all for not now.

“This is not the life he wanted for you,” she choked out, “he wanted you in Winterfell, married with children of your own.” Catelyn pulled away from her son’s embrace, “to give that up, the easy way in, your father would be proud.”

“Thank you, mother,” Robb said lowly. His tired smile relaxed as he looked into his mother’s comforting gaze. A crashing sound from outside disrupted the moment and called the celebration outside to Robb’s attention. “How are the men?”

“Drunk,” Catelyn stated bluntly, making Robb smile a little. “They are hoping to see their King celebrating as well,” she coaxed. Her encouragement was met by a frown from Robb; he had no desire to watch his intoxicated force dance to old tunes. “It would do them, and yourself, some good. Tomorrow’s fighting can hold for the evening.”

“That sounds like an order,” Robb said, his smile holding firm.

“You may be the King in The North, but I am still your mother,” Catelyn pointed out. Robb grinned, feeling the weight of command lifting off his shoulders for a moment.

“I will drink,” Robb said reluctantly, “but only to put your spirit at ease.” Catelyn smiled at her son, linking her arm in his. As Robb walked her out of the tent, men clapped and cheered. Robb’s heart beat raced at the sound, the admiration of his men.

“Goodnight my boy,” Catelyn said softly, “and make wise choices.” She unlinked her arm and Robb watched as his mother walked through the camp. He knew where she was going; to question Jaime Lannister on his sister’s whereabouts.

Before he could even think about going with her, a man handed him a mug of ale. The old soldier clapped Robb on the back with a toothless grin.

“For you mah King,” the man cheered. Robb gave him a nod of thanks and lifted his mug to the surrounding men.

“For you, as you have fought valiantly for this victory! May there be more victories to come!” The men yelled in agreement and took swigs of their drinks. The ale burned as it traveled down Robb’s throat. It was more bitter than the wine his father would allow him at supper but it was a drink all the same.

Robb nodded and thanked men he passed as he made his way towards the largest bonfire he had ever seen. Bards surrounding the flames sang and played upbeat tunes, coaxing some people to dance. Field nurses danced with soldiers happily, as if the war didn’t exist at all.

“Robb!” The Young Wolf turned his head in the direction of the voice. Theon, seemingly tipsy, wandered over to him. “You finally decided to join us!”

“Aye,” he said, his Tully-blue eyes scanning over the crowd, “I couldn’t resist.” Robb’s tone was meant to be somewhat sarcastic, but the Ironborn didn’t seem to notice. Theon grinned and took a gulp of whatever he was drinking.

“Try to get lucky tonight, yeah?” Theon said drunkenly, “live like you might die tomorrow!” Robb rolled his eyes as the ward bounded off, trailing after some poor nurse girl. Robb had no intention of sleeping with anyone tonight, he’d be lucky if he slept at all.

He looked around once more and couldn’t help but marvel at the banners that surrounded him. All vassal houses of House Stark, formed together in a Northern union. Robb only wished his father could see the Bolton’s flayed man sitting beside the crossed chains of the Umbers; or the fierce Mormont bear drinking with the Hornwood’s black moose.

A change of music broke the King from his thoughts and pulled his attention to the lack of dancers. The song was now slow, as if meant for a galla. Some couples, mismatched warriors and their prostitutes, danced along to the beat. The sight made Robb’s heart swell a little as he thought of Sansa; she had always dreamed of a dance with a prince. If, When, she were to return, she’d be one of the Princesses in the North. He could almost see her smile.

“My King,” the soft voice pulled Robb’s eyes away from the flames. He turned his head to the right and saw the owner of the melodic tone. Y/N Hornwood, the Fiery Winter Rose; she was one of the last Hornwood Ladies.

“Lady Hornwood,” Robb said, respectfully dipping his head. Y/N smiled, but shook her head at his words. Robb raised an eyebrow at her.

“Lady Hornwood was my mother,” she said bittersweetly, “please, call me Y/N. We have known each other long enough.” A bit of her fire shown through her beautiful face and rosy cheeks. Robb now understood her accurate nickname.

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Travelin’ Soldier Part 6

Summary: Reader is currently deployed in the army to an undisclosed combat area. She has been deployed for nearly two years. Anxiously awaiting her return is her husband and brother as they film for Supernatural. Letter comes informing the family that she may not be heard from for awhile and soon devastating news comes. In italic bold in the story is lyrics.

Characters: husband!Jensen x reader, Jared x Reader (twins), Dr. Maria Halstead (OC), Dr. Will Harold (OC), Dr. Jason Xavier, Nurse Kelly and Sasha
Words: 2078

Disclaimer: I do not own the title of the song Travelin’ Soldier by the Dixie Chicks at all even with the minor change of lyrics to fit the story. I simply thought it could be a little fighting. Not hate towards Danneel either, as this is simply fiction and not real. I do not own any songs, images or gifs in this either.

Warnings: Possible swearing, memory of torture, angst, FLUFF, hospital, mention of death and injuries.

Author: Caitsy

Tagging a few at the end. Send an ask to be tagged, or request something.

A/N: The long awaited part 6! Guys there’s a lot of fluff! I was going to not do what I did to end it but JENSEN IS IN THE SAME BUILDING AS Y/N!

Also thanks for the lovely comments that made tear up and laugh so hard! I’ll try and do this again but below are the lovely fans that said something about part 5! Follow them!
@bottlebrunettebarbie @humanandangel @humanandangel @awkward-s1tuat10ns

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Master List

Prompt List


Originally posted by canonspngifs

*Two weeks later*

Your eyes fluttered open to see the bright lights in the white room. You were in more pain than you ever remembered. The cuts were painful and you knew your body was littered in a rainbow of bruises. You saw a nurse with mocha skin humming as she fixed flowers in a vase before she returned to see you panicking. You had noticed the tube going into your throat that was now gagging you.

“Sh, calm down.” The nurses soothed, “I’ll call for the doctor and we can removed this.”

“H-hmph!” You choked.

“I’m Katherine.” The gorgeous nurse smiled as she pushed some hair off your forehead, “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

The next half hour was tense and fast paced as you gulped water down still feeling the tube being removed. Everything hurt and you couldn’t remember the last few seconds in that building.

“Mrs. Ac-“

“Private Y/N Ackles.” You whispered closing your eyes tight, “Actually can you just call me Y/N…I do…I can’t.”

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So I decided to make Jughead and Betty British in this AU because as a Canadian I know more about Britain’s part in the World Wars than I do America’s part. Someone or some people REALLY wanted this prompt so here goes y’all, I gotchu. Also even though this is AU Betty, Jughead, and Archie are all still childhood friends, the romance between Betty and Archie never happened. This is an incredibly long one shot.

Forsythe Pendleton “Jughead” Jones the Third had not been born when the first war hit, the Great War to end all wars Jughead allowed his biting sarcasm to colour the voice in his mind.  So Jughead knew nothing about how life had been before the war. He had grown up in the failing attempts at rebuilding both the country and his family. While the Allies had won the war, the country was in shambles, historic places destroyed, families torn apart by death. His family wasn’t torn apart by death, but by survival.

His father, Forsythe Pendleton “FP” Jones Jr., was 18 when the war began, and he signed up right away,  eager to defend his home and his lovely wife. From what his mother had told him, his father was once a gentle man. Gladys and FP had fallen in love as children and married at 16, two years before the war began. His mother always thought wistfully back to their first years of marriage, saying that his father had been the sweetest man she ever knew…Not that there was much contest Jughead thought, remembering the fear that caused the hair at the nape of his neck to stand the first and only time he had met her father, his grandfather.

The war had changed FP Jones, it made him hard. The father that Jughead knew was a drunk and an angry one at that. When his father wasn’t sleeping, he was either in a rage, or at the tavern. They, like most people at the time, were barely scraping by, but the war had destroyed FP’s mind so badly that it didn’t matter to him.

Since Jughead’s childhood had been so cold and broken, he turned to the written word. When he was a child, it meant reading every single word that crossed his path. Eventually he began to frequent a bookstore, even though he didn’t have the money to buy anything. There he met Fred Andrews, the owner of the shop, a man who, instead of being made cold by the war, as his father had, was instead made warm. Fred always told Jughead that he had had a choice after he had seen his friends killed, either hate everyone or love everyone.

So Fred had chosen love, and had become a surrogate father to the young Jones, giving him books and letting him stay for dinner, even though the meager amount that he had wasn’t enough. Jughead also became fast friends with the man’s son, Archie, and the little girl whose mother had known Fred Andrews since childhood, Betty Cooper. The three were inseparable children, Betty and Archie always dragging Jughead into the light, Jughead always telling them stories when the days would storm.

Though things were never good, the children could never have known that they were about to get much, much worse.

“I heard something interesting.” 19 year old Betty Cooper plopped delicately into a chair at the Andrews’ family kitchen table. Jughead and Archie shared a look, Betty was always hearing things she shouldn’t, was always further into the mysteries of London than either boy thought was safe, but it didn’t matter to her what they thought was safe, if the beautiful blonde was anything, she was stubborn.  She was determined to become a journalist, even though that was not something that ‘proper ladies’ did, they both knew that Betty would, because Betty didn’t give up without a fight.

“What did you hear?” Jughead raised a dark eyebrow at her

“There’s going to be another war.” Betty replied solemnly. Fred’s eyes closed as he leaned back on the wooden counter, slumped in a manner that none of the young adults had seen from him before, but Jughead recognized the look as one he had seen many times on both of his parents, defeat.

Betty was right, as always, there was another war. Jughead originally wanted no part of it, but when his best friend, always attempting to be valiant, signed up, Jughead knew he had no choice. When they were children, Archie and Jughead had always protected each other, and that wasn’t going to change in the face of war. Even though Jughead would rather sit behind a desk and let the written word be his life, he knew that he would go to the ends of the Earth for Archie Andrews, because that is what best friends do.

The day that the train carried Jughead and Archie away, Betty was nowhere to be seen. Jughead felt his heart aching, he had wanted to see her beautiful green eyes one last time. Jughead had no illusions that there was any guarantee he would ever see her again.

Jughead Jones forgot to count on the fact that Betty Cooper was precisely as loyal, and twice as stubborn as he was. They saw her again two weeks later. Jughead had barely felt the bullet graze his arm until Archie had reached out, bringing his hand back from Jughead’s arm, coated in the dark haired boys blood. Jughead stumbled his way to the old town hall of the small city for which his regiment was fighting, the town hall serving as a medical building. The moment he made it through the doors, he collapsed to the floor.

When Jughead came to, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. The soft green eyes that he thought he would never get to see again, surrounded by the smooth halo of honey blonde hair, filled his vision.

“Hey Juggie. You need to be more careful, I was so worried about you.” As he reached up to touch her face, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his arm. It wasn’t a dream, he definitely got shot. But Betty Cooper was here. In the thick of a war zone. With him.

She procured a flask and held it towards him,

“I’m about to pour some of this on your wound and it’s going to hurt like the dickens. Most men want a bit to drink before to handle the pain.”

“I don’t want to be FP.” Jughead explained as he shook his head, his dark curled staying matted to his head with sweat. Betty brushed the curls from his forehead and brought her hands to rest gently on either side of his face.

“You’re not your father, Jug.” Her eyes met his and he nodded. She brought her hands back towards his arm, pouring amber liquid onto the drying, darkening blood on his arm.

“FUCK” he screamed, teeth clenched. Betty wasn’t wrong, it did hurt. After she had redressed his wound, she told him that she had to go finish her rounds, but promised that she would be back, before she disappeared into the throng of people rushing around the makeshift hospital.

And she was back, as the darkness began to fall around the city and the sounds of war began to quiet for a moment’s rest, she returned to his side. They talked until the sun creeped up on the city, and the deafening sounds of violence rung in their ears.

This repeated every night. She would sneak into the cot that was barely big enough to hold him and they would lie curled up around each other, talking about the past, and the future. She told him that she had tried to enlist but had been laughed out of the office, so she became a nurse because she wasn’t going to let her best friends go risk their lives without her. They talked about how they were going to write about anything but war, how they were going to have dogs and how she would start a paper, and he would be a novelist. Their stolen moments pushed the horrors of war from the forefront of his mind. For a few hours he could think of fields of wildflowers and seeing laugh lines develop around the emerald eyes that it had taken him too long to realize that he loved.

Until the day that it was decided that he was healed enough to go back. He wasn’t healed, not really, but they were sure that there wasn’t going to be any gangrene, they had lost enough men to it to know when it would happen, and they knew he wouldn’t need an amputation.

As Betty helped him put his tunic back on, he could see the tears stream down her face as it began to crumple, her soft pink lips downturned into a frown, trying to prevent the sobs from escaping her chest. He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes as the tears slid down his face as well.

“I’m in love with you, Juggie.” Betty’s confession was muffled, her face still pressed into Jughead’s chest.  Jughead remembered what his mom had given him before she had disappeared into the night when he was thirteen years old. Jughead pulled back from his tight embrace and knelt on one knee,

“Elizabeth Cooper, if I survive this, I want to spend the rest of my days with you. I’m in love with you too, and I think I have been since I was six years old.” He held up his mother’s simple gold wedding band. When she left, she told him to give it to the person he loved more than anyone, that the ring needed a little bit of luck. He didn’t know it at the time, but it had always been her. It would always be her.

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. He slid the ring onto her finger as he stood up to take her back into his arms. They didn’t know if this embrace would be their last, but they did know that even if the war took their lives, it would never take their love.

Anonymity Is Dunkirk’s Biggest Strength

When I went to see Dunkirk, I was fully prepared for an emotional war movie. I was familiar with the story of Dunkirk and had also heard reviews from people focusing on the lack of blood and the emotional turmoil of there not being enough ships to save these men. I did not expect it to be so emotional and also give a really moving visual to the breadth of this loss and almost disaster. 

I think Dunkirk’s strength lies in how it doesn’t focus on one character trying to get home to his pregnant wife or a specific battalion who are good friends but picked off one by one. There are those elements–we know everyone is going home to someone and there are groups that stick together, but that’s not the focus. Instead the focus rests on this enormous group of men to the point where it’s almost hard to tell them apart. The movie mostly follows a lot of youngish (18-25) white male soldiers with brown hair who are wearing matching uniforms. There are two soldiers in particular that we follow for most of the movie, but I sometimes lost them in the crowds they were in. And there’s reason to criticize this–there were black troops fighting at Dunkirk, the movie certainly would have been improved with some diversity (I think there is literally one passing shot of any non-white troops). But the use of only white brown-haired boys aged like 18-25 did solidify this story into the broader picture of the sheer numbers who needed saving. When you can’t pick a face out of the crowd, you’re forced to focus on the crowd, and that’s powerful for this kind of film. 

To add to the blurring of faces, names aren’t really emphasized. In the arcs containing the British airmen, and the father/son and friend (or servant?) taking their boat to Dunkirk, names are said and they’re dressed differently enough we can tell them apart. We’re meant to, then. But in the main story of the soldiers on the beach, everyone is named like this: Lone Private, Blind Man, Engineer, Nurse, Sailor, Lifeboat Soldiers 1 and 2. Even when they have lines, they’re not always named because their individuality doesn’t matter. And on the other hand, there’s even more anonymity for the more big name actors, like Tom Hardy–his face is obscured for almost all of the movie. I frankly didn’t even realize it was him until the end when he pulls off his mask, and then he doesn’t even speak for the rest of his time in the movie. This anonymity, the almost faceless group of stranded British soldiers, emphasizes the enormity of 300,000+ trapped soldiers.  

We also never see a single enemy face. There are German planes flying over the exposed British army, but we don’t see whose inside–they could be drones 100 years too early for all the viewer knows. And there’s no one for the soldiers to actually fight–they’re reduced to just trying to leave, and cowering under tiny helmets to protect their whole bodies when enemy planes fly over. There’s shots fired but we never see at who. It makes the whole evacuation seem even more futile and horrifying because we don’t really know who is attacking. I mean from history we know, but there’s no villain for us to look at and hate. Normally in movies we have a clear villain who we can look at and say, “You are causing the characters I sympathize with pain, and I dislike you for that.” Even when we love villains, we mostly love to hate them. 

On the other side, some officers in the British army talk about how the higher ups at home won’t send more warships because they think it’s too hard and pointless to try saving all these men. It’s down to resources–they think it’s a waste of resources to send ships that will just get sunk. We understand they are leaving them to be killed, just another sacrifice of war. These soldiers the viewer watches die become just another resource, a thing, to the men directing this war back at home. In this discussion, Churchill is quoted as only expecting 30,000 to be saved–there are over 300,000 men there. We can hate these higher-ups in a sort of theoretical way, but because we don’t see or interact with them, the anger remains theoretical, we can’t pin it on them. We can’t look Churchill in the face and think/say, “Fuck you, you asshole, for being willing to sacrifice 270,000 men.” And because we don’t get to excise this fury it just morphs into more and more helplessness as more and more men die. 

And I think that’s was a great choice. I bow down Christopher Nolan and everyone involved for risking going with anonymity to tell the larger story. At the end of the day, the enormity of the potential tragedy at Dunkirk is the point. It was never about one hero. The anonymity is what makes the story great. 

Photos from IMDb.

The Unimaginable

George Washington x Reader

Words: 1882

Warnings: Angst, injury, character death, REALLY SAD STUFF YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

A/N: I’ve managed to muster enough courage to post this fic that I’ve written long ago! I hope you all like it! Please tell me what you think, and please feel free to drop me a message! My inbox is open and I don’t bite~! Enjoy! =D 

Originally posted by alexanderhxmiltrash

“Shh, I know. You did everything just right.”

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This website doesn’t flip out about Agatha Christie nearly as much as it needs to. She aided and nursed WW1 soldiers while writing cold blooded muder for kicks, formed an all girl theatre group with her pals, went on to write the longest running play and once vanished, throwing the whole nation into panic-mode and they couldn’t find her for ages because she had lodged under the name of the woman her husband wanted to dump her for.

Promise Me. (Pt. One)

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You meet Bucky while he’s stationed in Italy before he’s captured by Hydra and the two of you form a connection.

Word Count: 2,466

Warnings: None

The 107th Infantry had arrived at the base at Azzano in Umbria, Italy only a few days after you arrived with the Army Nurse Corps. When you stepped out of the truck, Colonel Phillips started to make a remark about a woman’s place when a feisty brunet with deep red lipstick stepped out from behind him. He quickly stopped talking and moved so the Corps could get to the medical tent and set up. It was customary that when an infantry arrived at a new base, the soldiers get a quick physical. It had been a while since these men had been around women and it was showing.

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Writing Research - World War Two

World War II (WWII or WW2), also known as the Second World War, was a global war. It is generally considered to have lasted from 1939 to 1945, although some conflicts in Asia that are commonly viewed as becoming part of the world war had begun earlier than 1939. It involved the vast majority of the world’s nations —including all of the great powers —eventually forming two opposing military alliances: the Allies and the Axis.

It was the most widespread war in history, with more than 100 million people, from more than 30 different countries. In a state of “total war”, the major participants threw their entire economic, industrial, and scientific capabilities behind the war effort, erasing the distinction between civilian and military resources. Marked by mass deaths of civilians, including the Holocaust and the first use of nuclear weapons in combat, it resulted in an estimated 50 million to 85 million fatalities. These made World War II the deadliest conflict in human history. [1]


  • Social Security - Top Names of the 1940s
  • British Baby Names - Top 100 Names in England and Wales in 1944
  • Essential Baby - Top 100 Australian Baby Names in 1940
  • Baby Med - Top German Baby Names in 1940s
  • - Japanese Baby Names for 1915 - 2000
  • Popular Japanese Names in 1945 - 1949 (In Japanese - Use Google Translator)

Society & Life

  • Wikipedia - Conscription in the United States: World War II
  • - United States Imposes the Draft
  • The National WWII Museum - The Draft and WWII
  • Swarthmore College - Military Classifications For Draftees
  • The Art of Manliness - World War II Fitness Test
  • World War Two Gyrene - Recruit Training in World War II
  • The New York Times - The Old Army, It Turns Out, Was the Fitter One
  • National Park Service - The War Relocation Camp of World War II
  • - The U.S. Home Front During World War II
  • History Learning Site - Britain’s Home Front in World War Two
  • Wikipedia - Japan’s Home Front During World War II 
  • Wikipedia - Germany’s Home Front During World War II
  • Canadian War Museum - Life on the Homefront
  • Canadian War Museum - Women and the War on the Home Front
  • Reddit: Ask Historians - How was it that Sweden managed to stay neutral during WW2?
  • Reddit: Ask Historians - What was going on in Ireland during World War II?
  • Canadian War Museum - Canada and the Second World War
  • Mount Allison University - Canada’s Role in WWII
  • Wessels Living history Farm - The Home Front in Rural America During World War II
  • Living Family History - Living in the 1940s (Australia)
  • BBC - WW2 People’s War: My Memories of My Childhood in South London
  • BBC - WW2 People’s War: Growing Up in London 1939-45
  • Time Witness - Memories Project: Stories from the 1940’s
  • BBC - The Blitz
  • - Worst air raid on London
  • EyeWitness to History - The London Blitz, 1940
  • LIFE Magazine - World War II: London in Color (Photos)
  • Local Histories - Life in Britain in The Second World War
  • Telegraph - WW2: Former Evacuees Look Back
  • British Council - A 1940s Childhood in Wartime
  • The Wartime Memories Project - Evacuees
  • My Learning - Children’s Experience during WWII
  • Imperial Wartime Museum - Children During the Second World War
  • Reddit: Ask Historians - It’s 1940, a lovely day in England and I want to write to my German cousin. Was that possible? What was international communication between the civilian populace of warring WWII powers like?
  • The New Yorker - The New Yorker in the Forties
  • The Atlantic - World War II: The Battle of Britain
  • The Guardian - Children of the Wartime Evacuation
  • NY Daily News - 1940 New York census records are now searchable by name
  • New York Historical Society - WWII & NYC
  • - World War II In Brooklyn: Places to Visit
  • New York Historical Society - New York during WWII (Photos)
  • Wikipedia - History of New York City, 1946-77
  • Business Insider - Take A Tour Of Manhattan In The 1940s (Photos)
  • Madison Magazine - Ida’s Wyman’s Photography Documents Life in the 1940s and ‘50s
  • Growing up in Inwood, New York City in the 1940’s and 1950’s
  • Reminisce Magazine - Brooklyn Stoop Served as Sisters’ Stage
  • NY Times - Working-Class New York Life and Labor Since World War II
  • Wessels Living History Farm - Rural Life in the 1940s
  • Historic Color Photos of U.S. Life in the 1940s (Photos)
  • Wessels Living History Farm - WWII Causes a Revolution in Farming
  • Partners in Winning the War: American Women in World War II
  • World War II: Women and the War
  • Building Bombs & Planes
  • Women in World War Two
  • Wikipedia - Canadian Women in the Second World War
  • Canadian War Museum - The Canadian Women’s Army Corps, 1941 - 1946
  • - Canadian Women in World War II
  • Veterans Affairs Canada - The Second World War: Canadian War Brides
  • Global News - Looking back at the role women from western Canada played in World War II
  • Canadian Red Cross - History of Women in the Red Cross
  • Women Under Fire in World War Two
  • How did women fulfill their romantic/sexual needs during WWI/II?
  • Women at War
  • Life During World War II
  • Everyday Life During World War II
  • World War 2 - Growing Up in Wartime
  • Wartime Homes
  • World War 2 - Blackout Time
  • What was it like for children?
  • The Huffington Post - Memories Of 1940s Childhood
  • The Life of a Teenage Before and After World War II (PDF)
  • School and War Work
  • I’m a 13-15 year old in 1939 USA. What is youth culture like during this time?
  • A Black Nurse, a German Soldier and an Unlikely WWII Romance
  • What was it like to be in the Forces?
  • World War II - A Soldier’s Daily Life
  • My Army Service in World War II
  • WWII: A Soldier’s View
  • Loose Lips Sink Ships
  • Eye Witness To World War Two
  • World War II First Person Accounts, Letters Home, Diaries, & Journals
  • Pictures of African Americans During World War II (Photos)
  • Daily Life of the Average African American in the 1940’s
  • Veterans Affairs Canada - Second World War: Black Canadians In Uniform
  • The Memory Project - Black Canadian Veterans of the Second World War
  • University of Washington - Japanese Canadians During World War II
  • Vancouver Public Library - Chinese-Canadians in World War II (1939-1945)
  • Canada at War - Video & Footage: World War II
  • Canadian War Museum - Canadian Newspapers and the Second World War
  • Veterans Affairs Canada - Second World War: Diaries, Letters, And Stories
  • Library and Archives Canada - Canada and the First World War: War Diaries
  • Veterans Affairs Canada - Second World War: My Grandmother’s Wartime Diary
  • The Canadian Letters and Images Project - WWII
  • McGill University Library Digital Collections - Canadian War Posters Collection
  • World War II Military (Photos)
  • World War II Records
  • World War 2: A Day in the Life of a German Soldier
  • The Life During World War II
  • Nazi Germany
  • The Role of Women in Nazi Germany
  • Diary of Second World War German Teenager
  • Germany During World War II: A Child’s Experience (PDF)
  • Reminiscences of a German World War II Veteran
  • What kind of physical training would a German soldier in WWII have to do?
  • Jewish Life in Europe Before the Holocaust
  • The National WWII Museum - WWII and Holocaust Bibliography
  • Blacks During the Holocaust
  • Conditions for Polish Jews During WWII
  • Understanding the Treatment of Jews during World War II
  • There’s a lot of close-to-combat photographs from WWII, but I don’t often hear much about the photographers. Were WWII war photographers armed? Were they subject to neutrality/immunity/respect? Were they deployed with soldiers as part of the army?
  • World War II Weapons
  • List of World War II Weapons
  • Canada at War - WWII: Weapons & Arms
  • Small Arms Pt. II - The World War Two Era
  • Technology During World War II
  • WWII Military Ranks
  • WWII Japanese Soldier Diary
  • World War II Japanese Military Training
  • Canadian War Museum - The Second World War: Information, Propaganda, Censorship and the Newspapers
  • When was the last shot of World War 2 fired?
  • Post-War American Life: Culture of the late 1940s & 1950s
  • Library of Congress - Postwar United States, 1945 - 1968
  • American History: Life in the US After World War Two
  • Student Pulse - America in the Post War Period
  • PBS - Women and Work After World War II
  • PBS - New York After WWII
  • BBC - Life in Britain after WW2 (Video)
  • The Atlantic - World War II: After the War
  • Digital History - Overview of the Post-War Era
  • Mount Holyoke College - Background of Post-WWII German History
  • Youtube - Germany After WW2 | A Defeated People | Documentary on Germany in the Immediate Aftermath of WW2 (Video)
  • Der Spiegel Magazine - Out of the Ashes: A New Look at German’s Postwar Reconstruction


  • The Cost of Living in 1940
  • Prices and Wages in 1930 - 1939
  • The People History - Food, Groceries and Toiletries in the 1930s: Prices
  • The People History - Clothes in the 1930s: Prices
  • Library at University of Missouri - 1940-1949 Prices and Wages
  • The People History - Food, Groceries and Toiletries in the 1940s Prices
  • The People History - Clothes in the 1940s Prices
  • Datafiles of Historical Prices and Wages
  • Curbed NY - What Would $50 In 1940 Rent A New Yorker Today?

Entertainment & Food

  • What did people eat in the Second World War?
  • Why was food rationed?
  • Rationing
  • World Ward II - Food and Shopping
  • Food on the Front Home
  • Wartime Recipes
  • What Did Children Eat During World War 2? (PDF)
  • World War Two Recipes
  • History Cookbook - World War 2 Recipes
  • The 1940’s Experiment: 100+ Wartime Recipes
  • Retro-Housewife: In the 1940s Kitchen: 1940s Recipes
  • A 1940s Menu: Food in the 1940s
  • Food Timeline: 1936 to 1940
  • Vintage Food Advertisement of the 1940s
  • World War II: Rest and Relaxation (Photos)
  • Chocolate! The Wars Secret Weapon - America in WWII Magazine
  • Chocolate - Energizing Soldiers 
  • U.S. Coffee Rationing
  • The American Scholar: Rum and Coca-Cola
  • Wartime Canada - Food on the Home Front during the Second World War
  • Alberta Online Encyclopedia - World War II: Homefront in Alberta: Rationing
  • Wartime Canada - Recipe Ideas from BC Electric
  • Pop Culture Goes to War in the 1940s
  • WWII Guide: Wartime Hollywood
  • Rationing and Scrap Drives in Rural America
  • Baseball and World War II
  • Baseball Goes To War: The National Pastime in World War II
  • Entertainment in Britain During WWII 
  • Entertainment Industry During World War II
  • World War II on the Radio
  • Wartime Entertainment WWII
  • Wartime Entertainment
  • Canadian War Museum - Art and War: Australia, Britain and Canada in the Second World War
  • The Forties and the Music of World War II
  • World War II Songs
  • Music 1940 - 1949
  • List of Billboard Number-One Singles of the 1940s
  • American Music During World War II
  • Role of Music in World War II
  • Entertainment in 1940 - 1949
  • Food Rations in the Japanese Forces
  • Makeshift Cooking, German Army, WW2
  • Radio in Nazi Germany
  • Newspapers in Nazi Germany
  • Films in Nazi Germany
  • Art in Nazi Germany

Hygiene, Health & Medicine

  • Medicine and World War II
  • Social Security - Life Expectancy from 1930s+
  • WWII Disease Table
  • History of WWII Medicine
  • The Use of Atabrine to Fight Malaria During World War II
  • The Use of Plasma During World War II
  • The Use of Morphine as a Pain Killer During World War II
  • Nursing and Medicine During World War II
  • The Army Nurse Corps in World War II
  • Equipment of a WWII Combat Medic
  • Personal Accounts of WWII Medics
  • WWII African American Combat Medics
  • Penicillin: Medicine’s Wartime Wonder Drug
  • Medicine in Germany, 1918 - 1945
  • World War II Exposures 
  • Controlling Disease during World War II, 1939 - 1944
  • Health on the Home Front - Health Care and World War II
  • WAR & Military Mental Health
  • Mentally Ill and Jewish in World War II
  • U.S. Veterans Affairs Lobotomized Soldiers After World War II
  • Lobotomy For World War II Veterans: Psychiatric Care by U.S. Government


  • 1930-45 in Fashion
  • Clothing, 1930-45
  • Rationing Fashion in the United States
  • Fashion in the 1940s
  • 1940s Make-Up Guide
  • 1940’s Beauty Secrets
  • 1940s Fashion: The Decade Captured in 40 Incredible Pictures (Photos)
  • 1940s Rationing - Utility Clothing Fashion and Costume History
  • Women’s Clothing in 1940s
  • Fashion in 1940 - 1949
  • Fashion in the 1940s: Clothing Styles, Trends, Pictures & History
  • Fashion in the 1940s - Prices & Examples
  • What did they wear? Gas masks for all
  • What is Utility Wear?
  • The Front Line of British WWII Fashion
  • World War II and Fashion: The Birth of the New Look (PDF)
  • The impact of World War II on women’s fashion in the United States and Britain (PDF)
  • The History of Fashion WWI to WWII
  • Women’s Shoes in 1940s
  • Authentic WWII Era Hairstyle & How To
  • United States Army Uniforms in World War II
  • World War II German Uniform
  • List of World War II Uniforms and Clothing
  • Nazi Style
  • - Fashion in Post-War Paris


  • WWII US Naval Dictionary
  • Glossary of German Military Terms
  • Military Slang: Terms Used By Soldiers in WWII
  • FUBAR F***ed Up Beyond All Recognition: Soldier Slang of World War II (General Military)
  • Military Slang For WWII
  • List of Ethnic Slurs by Ethnicity
  • The Racial Slur Database - Germans
  • Morse Code
  • Military Time Chart for 24 Hour Time Clock
  • Converting Standard Time to Military Time
  • WW2 Civilian Slang
  • Teen Slang of the 1940s
  • 1940s Slang
  • Forties Slang
  • Words That Were: 1940–1949 (Canada)

Law Enforcement & Crimes

  • New Jersey State Police - History: 1940’s
  • New York State Police - History: 1940’s
  • Anaheim Police Department - History: 1940
  • - British Police Training in the 1940s and 1950s
  • Art Theft and Looting During World War II
  • Rape During the Occupation of Germany
  • War Rape in World War II
  • Allied War Crimes During World War II
  • Nazi Medical Experiments
  • World War II Crimes
  • Nazi War Crimes
  • German War Crimes Against Soviet Civilians
  • Nazi Crimes Against Soviet POWs
  • Execution of Women by the Nazi during World War II
  • World War II and the Holocaust
  • World War Two - German Prisoner of War Camps
  • List of WWII POW (Prisoner of War) Camps in Germany
  • German Prisoners of War in the United States
  • Japanese Prisoners of War in WWII
  • Sexual Slavery - Germany During WWII
  • German Military Brothels in World War II
  • Rape, Murder and Genocide: Nazi War Crimes as Described by German Soldiers
  • 1940s Crimes
  • History of Drug Abuse: The 40’s
  • 25 Vintage Police Record Photographs (Photos)
  • Grisly Crime Scene Photography of 1940s New York
Chapter 3: Jesse changes his name | Gabe makes a call

My apologies for this taking so long…

Author’s Notes:
1) Again, I am sorry this took so long to write. Life’s been weird.
2) Lori and Sandy are nurses that used to be my nurses. The things they say in the story are either verbatim quotes or akin to what they said.
3) Heacanon abounds
4) @one-doesnt-simply-walk-in-bagend, I hope you enjoy this! Your comments on my previous McCree and Reyes stories made me want to write something just for you!
5) I know this isn’t how name-changes actually happen - I took literary liberties.
6) I hope you enjoy this

Update: Here is the table of contents for the Gabriel Reyes stories:

Wordcount: 5150-ish
Copyright: Overwatch and its characters belong to Blizzard. OCs belong to me.

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Send a number for a specific au or ⚀ for a randomly generated one

1. Pirate
2. Royalty
3. Tattoo parlor
4. Mad scientist
5. Supernatural
6. Punk
7. Bandmates
8. College
9. Flower shop
10. Angel/demon
11. Rebel/soldier
12. Nurse/soldier
13. Cheesy horror movie
14. Serial killer
15. Different eye color until they meet soulmate
16. Red string soulmate
17. Touch each other and see color soulmate
18. Magic
19. Pokemon
20. Steampunk
21. Cyberpunk
22. Stranded together
23. Mermaid/merman
24. Superpowers
25. Western


Author Julia Alekseyeva’s great-grandmother Lola lived to be 100 years old – long enough to see the birth, and eventual collapse, of the USSR. Lola made a record of her life as a Jew in the Soviet Union, and now Alekseyeva has turned her great-grandmother’s memoirs into her debut graphic novel, Soviet Daughter.

Alekseyeva tells NPR that she chose to tell her great-grandmother’s story in the graphic novel format to help readers visualize her experience. She says, “I think it’s hard for a lot of people who didn’t grow up with the same imagery to really understand what these people were, what was going on in those regions — the uniforms, the parks. The idea of just Soviet living is so far, far removed from what most Americans expect.”

‘Soviet Daughter’: How A Great-Grandmother’s Diary Became A Graphic Novel

Give Her Back

Pairing: Thomas Jefferson x Reader

Words: 1205

Triggers: Sexism, Kidnapping, Screaming


“Mr. Jefferson, I hate to inform you this but your wife has gone missing. Her carriage was attacked and she was taken.”

Thomas couldn’t breath. His love. His wife. His whole world. Gone. How? He had just seen her this morning.

He couldn’t think. Did he even kiss her goodbye?

He stood up. Grabbing the messenger, he started talking quickly.

“Where? When? Did anyone see this happen?” Thomas asked, trying to get as much information as he could.

“It was near the bookstore I believe. It was only about a half an hour ago. I came right away. I think that someone named John Laurens was on his way to talk to General Washington. That’s all I know sir,” Thomas immediately took off, rushing to where he knew he could find Washington.

He burst into the room, the door slamming open with a loud bang. Washington, Hamilton, Mulligan, Laurens, and Lafayette were all there.

“Ah Mister Jefferson thank goodness you are here. I assume that you know about your wife?” Washington asked.

“Yes. Do you have any information on what happened to her?” He asked rushing to the other side of the room.

“I saw her being taken from in front of the bookstore. Apparently these men didn’t like that she was reading so they took her somewhere. I was able to follow them to broadway before I lost them. I’m really sorry. She put up a good fight, however. Oh and I found this on the ground,” John told him.

He held out his hand, Y/N’s wedding ring sitting on his palm. Thomas took it and gripped it in his hand, worry coursing through his veins.

He turned to Washington.

“Will you help me find her? Please?” Thomas asked, his composer dropping and worry showing on his face.

Washington nodded.

“Mulligan and Laurens. Go to the area where you lost her and scout around. Hamilton and Lafayette get a small group of soldiers to come and help us get her. Jefferson come with me. We’re going to get your wife back.”


You were scared and tired. You just wanted to get some new books for you and Thomas to read together before bed. The men had basically come out of nowhere!

You were just about to get in your carriage when you were suddenly yanked back. They were dragging you around, and you were screaming and thrashing. During the whole fiasco, you lost your wedding ring.

So right now you were sitting in a dark room, tired, scared, and your wedding ring was gone. All you wanted was to go home and rest in bed with Thomas, while he read to you out of a book that you both would choose.

You didn’t know if that would happen tonight or even anytime soon. Would they let you go? Would somebody find you?


Where are you?


Thomas Jefferson could not sleep at all that night. If he was able to get to sleep all he saw was his wife, scared and alone. He clutched your wedding ring close to him, as if it was the last thing that he had of you.

At four in the morning there was a knocking on his door. It was Hamilton.

“We think we’ve found her.”


Washington briefed him on the way there.

“Apparently this group of men are against women reading, learning, or doing much of anything. They’ve pulled stunts like this before, and the women are usually let go during the next few days. They were sloppy this time, so it was easier to find them. We currently have the place surrounded, but nobody has gone in quite yet.” Washington told him. Some of the worry dropped off of his shoulders.

“What are we going to do?” Thomas asked.

“You’ll go in with Lafayette on one side and Hamilton and Laurens will go in on the other. Mulligan and I will wait out here with some soldiers and nurses, just in case these men try and pull something. We’re putting all of our caution into this. I know I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Washington. You and everyone else here.”

“Of course Mr. Jefferson. They would all do the same even if it was somebody else’s bride.”

“Thank you sir.”


You hadn’t slept much and when you did it was with one eye open. It was cold and dark.

They hadn’t touched you. Just yelled and screamed about how a women shouldn’t be reading. You just sat there with your head down, shaking slightly.

You hadn’t seen them in a few hours, they were probably sleeping. There was some sort of tension in the air, but you couldn’t tell what was going on.

You were trying to rest again when you heard the noises. Footsteps is what it sounded like. You hoped it would be help and dreaded if it was anything.

There were whispering sounds, names being called softly, and more footsteps, but you couldn’t make anything else out.

“Y/N! Are you down here darling? Sweetheart? Y/N?” You knew that voice.

It was Thomas! He came for you!

“Thomas? Thomas is that you? I’m in here!” You whisper shouted. The door slowly opened and a couple of people walked through. One of them being Thomas.

Relief was clear on his face, and he ran to you, gathering you up in his strong arms. He started peppering your face with kisses, hugging you tightly.

“Oh Y/N. Oh thank God. Oh Y/N.” He muttered. He picked you up and started walking out with you. You were shaking pretty badly so he just held you closer, muttering sweet nothings into your hair.

He took you out of the building where you were flocked by nurses trying to take care of you.

General Washington approached you.

“Mrs. Jefferson. How are you feeling?” He asked you as the nurses checked you over, Thomas never letting go of your hand.

“I am quite tired and hungry Mr. Washington. They have not harmed or touched me in any way.”

“Very good. Thomas can take you home as soon as the nurses are done giving you a once over. I have arranged for the two of you to take my carriage home.” He gave you a small smile and walked away.

All of the sudden your kidnappers were lead out of the building by the soldiers, cursing and screaming. You started shaking again, and Thomas took you over to the carriage.

The sun was rising as the two of you rode home, Thomas never letting go of you.

The servants got you food quickly and you ate as fast as you could without throwing up.

Thomas took you to bed, helping you change and tucked you carefully under the covers. He went around to the other side and got in next to, holding you close like you were going to disappear at any moment.

“Will you read to me Thomas?”

He gave you a small smile and picked up the book laying on the bedside table.

You started to fall asleep listening to his deep voice.

“Never let me go Thomas.”

“I would never dream of it my love.”


I love this.