#1917 fic

[ias2xoo]

☞𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴; will schofield

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨; angst, war trauma, ptsd, arguments, smut included

..••°°°°••..

“ˢᵒᵐᵉᵈᵃʸ ᵈᵃʳˡⁱⁿᵍ, ˢᵒᵐᵉʷʰᵉʳᵉ

ⁿᵉᵃʳᵉʳ ᵒʳ ᶠᵃʳ

ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐˢ ʷⁱˡˡ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗʳᵘᵉ ᵈᵉᵃʳ

ʷʰᵉʳᵉᵛᵉʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ,”

The soft summer breeze sifted around your bare legs as you sat in your backyard. It was the beginning of April and you could already see the summer pink blossoms on the trees. Thus marking today the perfect day to have a barbecue. You & Will’s friends; Amy and Booker - whom he had met in the war - to spend the day with you.

“Oh, look at those clouds.” Booker exclaimed, hand equipped with a charred spatula flicking up towards those sky.

“Yes, they always look so beautiful this time of year.” Amy calmly noted as she sat in the lawn chair next to yours with a glass of lemonade in hand, handing you one as well.

“You tend to find yourself looking up a lot,” Booker murmured, eyes wandering a bit. A habit you often found your own William doing. A mindless habit, one you probably would never notice if you weren’t aware of what the two young men had been through. Booker never seemed to finish his sentence as Will walked out the house with a case of beers.

You stared at your fiancé’s back as he set the case on the table which also held various buns, condiments and drink for your little get together. It had been your idea at first, enlisting your neighbor and long time friend Amy who then convinced her husband for the barbecue. You had known Amy for years, originally growing up together then being there for each other as you both watched those you loved walk in to battle, some never returning.

But Will did, and you couldn’t wish for anything else. Every day spent waiting in the living room for that knock at the door, every night staying awake with the thought of his face - it eventually turning blurred and scarred behind your eyelids.

Yet even when he had came back, you felt some part you loved of him had been left and not to be returned. Forever lost on that battlefield with the remains of the war and other lost soldiers never to return to their families. And you hated to say it but you missed it. You missed when he would happily kiss your forehead, not grimace at the sight of your eye contact. You missed him yet there he stood.

Which is what he had done often since he had returned. He stood with a odd sense of uncertainty, that of a ex-soldier that was waiting to be ordered to return to the battlefield. His back - that he rarely let you caress anymore - seemed to shake with tension. You lowered your eyes as your heart ached, mind trailing back to the multiple arguments you both had had on the subject of his return. Where you would scream for him to just look at you again, with that look he once held of you. That look that held so much love and not sadness. Where he would just stare at you before leaving the house, not returning for hours. Your heart yearned for a man that had been lost amidst bullet showers and smoky fire.

As the soft jazz continued, suddenly Amy jumped up in excitement. The unexpected noise from the chair snapping shut undoubtedly causing the rigid tremor in Will’s throat. “Oh, I adore this song!” She sang, putting her finished cup on the side table.

“Yes, we know dear.”

“Mm, dance with me, Book.” She muttered as she kicked off her peach heels. You smiled at the image of your friends.

“Darling, I’ve gotta tend to the food.” He sang in the same tune. He seemed he didn’t mean his words though as Amy’s hand would later replace the spatula. They would enter a rehearsed routine to the jazz number. Their bodies seemed to melt into tune with each other as if they were made for one and other. You stood from the chair softly, smile still tight as you silently cheered on your friends.

In an effort to show your admiration to your fiancé, you turned to where he had just stood yet the yard was barren. This instantly took the smile from your face replacing it with worry. Had he gone again? Not to be seen for hours?

Leaving the jazz and laughter behind, you walked into the eerily silent house. It was empty save for your dog which you had gotten to keep you company all those years. You started with the entryway then the kitchen yet no sign of Will. Finally hearing a soft thump from the floor above you, you began your way upstairs to the bedroom where he awaited.

“William?” You whispered, slowly moving the door open with your fingers.

“Y-yes, I’m here.” He responded from within.

Your feet hesitantly trailed inside, eyes uncertain of what it may see. He sat with his back to you, crouched over attending to something on the floor.

“Are you oka-“

“I just needed a moment, is all.” He quickly shut you off.

Silence befell you both as the soft pangs from the vibrations of the music outside sounded throughout the room. Whenever he was like this you had zero idea how to comfort him. It was like he was a rose, beautiful but hurt to touch. Moments would pass before either of you would speak again.

You stood in place in front of the door as Will rose from the bed, car keys in hand. You starred at his clenched fist as he crossed the room to retrieve his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Seemingly not hearing your question, Will continued stopping in front of you, waiting for you to clear his path.

“Will,”

“I need to go.” He refused to make eye contact with you.

“William, please.”

“Move.” He muttered.

You didn’t speak. You had never seen him like this. His hands clenched tight, arms rigid and unmoving. It scared you for he was almost unrecognizable.

The next moments would go by in a flash. Will would slam the keys on the stand next to you, turning his back to you. You jumped backwards at the speed of his movements. His back seemed to rise and fall abnormally like he was out of breath. He moved across from you, resting his hands on the dresser that stood on the opposite wall.

Despite every bone in your body telling you to leave him, you stayed. You slowly began to move his timid breathing. You now stood behind him, hands hesitantly moving up his back but not touching it out of fear. “Will?” You murmured, finally trailing his muscles. “Baby?”

His back jumped at your touch before slowly relaxing. You felt it vibrate under your fingertips as he seemed to speak. “Hmm?”

It was then he would turn around, eyes slowly trailing up your form to meet with yours. They seemed to scream at you yet he stood perfectly still inches in front of you. Both your bodies pulled towards each other in a almost mindless motion.

Your hands carefully rose up to cup his face bringing towards yours. You both would envelope into a small kiss as if you both were slowly testing a invisible waters within each other. Slowly backing up towards the bed, you both helped the other undress.

Your fingers would make a symphony of his scars as you caressed his chest. He touched you as if you had blossomed into something new, marking words into your flesh to be revised later. You knew he’d come back yet he showed you he had never left. He showed you he had never truly left, that his touch had resided on you, his words traced your being.

He may have been through death itself yet you loved the man who walked out of it. And his touch assured you that you’d find him, wherever he was.

#sam mendes 1917 #1917 schofield #1917 film #will schofield #x reader #smut #william schofield #tom blake #1917 (2019) #1917 fic #I totally didn’t rush the ending #mournfulgoobler🧅

[schofieldshelmet]

Even When We’re Gone

Ao3

A/N: Hellooo! This is my first 1917 fic so. Please be nice lol (Also, the fic title comes from one of my favorite songs, It Goes On by Sir Rosevelt and Zac Brown Band) Anyway, I started writing this fic to deal with the horror Scho must have gone through climbing out of the river and getting stuck briefly in the bodies, and then it spiraled from there. So enjoy :P

Bodies.

Damp and rubbery and rotting beneath his palms, rolling in the water, tangling between his legs. Tripping him as he stumbled desperately through the shallows, splashing and sinking and tumbling over the corpses of men and women and children, their skin swollen from the river. Their eyes stared up at him, empty and black, their faces stretched and gray and sagging, lips pale and torn like paper.

Get out, get out, he had to get out–

The overgrown riverbank seemed miles away, just out of reach of his desperately extending fingers. The bodies clung to his calves and ankles, gripping his skin with decaying flesh, pulling him down, down, down into the cold and crushing deep—

“Lad?”

Sunlight.

Grass. Sharp beneath his splayed fingers.

Blue sky stretching over his head, flecked in wispy clouds.

Cool air on his skin. Fresh, not bloody and rotted. Clean, not tinged with smoke and ash.

He is dimly aware of sucking in rapid breaths that don’t quite fill his lungs.

(In, out. In, out. In, out).

Breathe.

A hand on his shoulder.

He jumps, blinks, jerks backwards all at once, banging his elbow on the tree behind him. (The same tree under which he and Blake’s fate was sealed, less than a week ago).

“Sorry, corporal. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

A face swims into his vision. Schofield coughs, pushing himself out of his slumped position and fumbling with the laces of his boots. “No harm done, Sarge.”

His fingers shake as he knots the cords together. Sergeant Sanders’ hand is cold through the rough fabric of his tunic, a gentle pressure against his shoulder that grounds him to the earth. “Excited to go on leave soon?”

A choking sensation grips Schofield’s throat, constricting his air flow. “Yes, Sarge.” He sits back and picks at the bandage on his left hand, worn gray cloth concealing his injury from view. It’s healing, slowly but surely, even after a bloody carcass and muddy river water and rotting flesh beneath his palms.

(Some other things refuse to heal).

Sergeant Sanders sits cross-legged on the grass beside Schofield, following the corporal’s gaze to the spring-green field beyond. “Pretty, innit?” At Schofield’s belated nod, the sergeant continues, “Hard to think that all that beauty is out there, and then you go back in the trenches only a couple hundred yards away.” He pauses, gaze flicking to Schofield again. His words are stilted, awkward, tripping over each other. “I…know you’ve had a rough go of it. But it doesn’t do to think about it too long, do it? That’s the secret to survival out here.”

Schofield gives him a haggard look, remembering the Captain who had told him the same thing as he was about to depart for Écoust-Saint-Mein a week ago. He had tried not to think about it. That was something he had learned after the Somme, after the bombs and the blood and the decaying limbs plastered against the earth like broken branches.

It was easier to forget when thousands of others had the same experience as himself, when the men who fell screaming beside him were people he didn’t know firsthand.

(But when he knew them personally, and their blood was soaking into his hands with a metallic, heavy scent, and their voices were laced in terror that he could practically taste in the air, it was hard to forget).

(When the bodies were fresh and rotted beneath his palms, when the blood had congealed on the riverbank in a crusty stain, when their skin was loose and sagging from the water, it was hard to forget).

(When his hand plunged into the soft and meaty carcass of a soldier blown open by a bomb, when the intestines squished beneath his torn and bleeding fingers and the dead man’s face was pasty white, it was hard to forget).

(When it was just him, alone and desperate and frightened in a world of smoke and ashes, when the fire singed his skin and the yells dragged against his ears in the dark, it was hard to forget).

“Corporal?”

Schofield pulls himself out of the reverie he had tumbled into like a shell crater and glances at Sanders again. The sergeant is looking at him expectantly. “Did you ask me something, Sarge?” His voice is faint. He digs his fingers into the grass and reminds himself that he is not a corpse.

“You know not to think about it, don’t you, lad?”

Yes, he does. He’s known since the Somme, since the fields washed in blood that made the ground slick beneath his feet, since the bodies strewn across the grass like ash.

He tells himself every hour of the day not to think about it.

(He thought he had gotten used to death. It was just something he had learned to accept, because those who didn’t accept it never got very far).

But minds have a way of playing tricks on people.

So do hours of traveling alone, terrified and carrying the weight of the world on one’s shoulders. Bearing the burden of the dead, and the fate of the living, as he stumbled through the dark.

“Yes, sir. I know.”

Sanders’s lips twitch upwards in a half-smile, and he claps Schofield on the back. “Good lad.” He pauses, looking like he wants to say something else, but then shakes his head and gets to his feet, brushing dirt off his trousers. “Keep pushing forward, corp, one day at a time. That’s how you’ll make it through the war.”

“Yes, sir.”

Footsteps recede through the grass. Schofield rolls his lips together and sinks lower against the tree, eyes dropping to the position a foot or two away where Blake would have been lying had he been here, helmet tilted over his eyes and hands folded across his stomach, probably snoring a little in the afternoon sun.

Tell her I wasn’t scared…

Schofield draws a slow breath through his nose, flicking his gaze to the sky and focusing on the puffy clouds floating there. He lets his fingers lace through blades of grass, exhaling air again from his mouth.

(In, out. In, out. In, out).

Breathe.

He tilts his head back to rest against the tree trunk, eyes glazing over. He has yet to write the letter to Blake’s mother, explaining her son’s final wishes and reassuring her that he was not alone in his final moments. He can’t quite bring himself to compose it yet, to relive Blake’s anguished screams, the blood soaking through his tunic. Ever since he returned to the 8th Battalion, he’s blocked the memory from his mind, focusing instead on making it through each day, second by painful second.

(The other soldiers watch Lance Corporal Schofield with wary expressions, noticing the way he sits alone beneath that same crooked tree, barely deigning a nod or a smile to those who pass by. They think he’s snobbish, stuck-up, too good to fraternize with the other men. They know little about him, save for the fact that he is always quiet, always alone. Always looking out into the wild field beyond with a vacant countenance.

And they know he was one of the few among them who endured the Somme, who managed to make it through the bloody madness with his sanity, though fragile, still intact. They know he was one of the two men sent on the most recent hellbound mission, that he went out as part of a pair, stoic and somber with fear in his eyes, and returned alone, silent and haggard, with something akin to grief permanently etched on his features.

They claim to avoid him because he is haughty and aloof, but deep inside they are afraid of the haunted expression that clings to the corporal who sits eternally alone. They are terrified of the emptiness in his eyes).

Schofield swallows, digs his old blue tobacco tin from his pocket, fumbles with the faded pictures inside. Through all his years as a soldier, through the tears and the mud and the bombs and the barbed wire, these pictures have kept him sane, have kept his traumatized mind from slipping into a pit of insanity.

He brushes calloused fingertips over the faces in the pictures. Someday he’ll get to tell his two little girls about Blake, about cherry trees, about a gentle hand guiding him through tunnels he was unable to see. Someday he’ll get to tell his wife how Blake’s vivacity sometimes reminded him of her, his relentless optimism in the face of death. Someday, when the war is over and he’s with them again, not stuck in these dark and muddy trenches that have become frighteningly like home.

(He’ll see them soon, but not for long. And they’ll watch him go with tears in their eyes, not knowing if they’ll ever see him again).

Schofield tucks the pictures back in the tobacco tin with a reverent lump in his throat and refastens the lid, then sits with the tin’s light weight in his hands and looks out across the field.

The sun is setting, and the sky is pink and gold.

There’s a smell like cherry blossoms in the air. Schofield smiles and closes his eyes.

#1917 #1917 fic #william schofield #thomas blake #sergeant sanders #1917 schofield #schofield #will schofield #lance corporal schofield #my writing #1917 movie #1917 fanfic

[jayvrontio]

The bloody hell are ya doing Blake?!

(Inspired by this silly photo of George Mckay and Dean-Charles-Chapman the actors who played the characters)

#1917 movie #art #fanart #1917 fanart #1917 fic #1917 film #blake #schofield #digital art #thomas blake #actor #george mckay #william schofield #dean charles chapman

[pilot1917]

Sale in :

http://tee.pub/lic/Pilot1917

Sale in:

http://tee.pub/lic/Pilot1917

#1917 fanart #tumblrshop #camisetas #fashion #hoodie #moda #redbubble #ropa #ropadeportiva #ropafemenina #tshirt #teepublic #cars #clasica #vintage #vintagescarf #otoño 2022 #otoño #pilottraining #1917 fic

[morgcn]

hey 😃

i’ve written fanfiction for 6 years. i’ve always used tumblr but had never written on here so i decided to give it a go. i really hope to make friends and find people in the same fandoms as me

i write blurbs, headcanons, full fics, and anything in between. requests & asks are open

shit i like

Star Wars

Harry Potter

Brokeback Mountain

1917 (2019)

The Last of Us

Shameless

who i write for

but mainly will poulter and anyone else i start finding attractive lol

#guardians of the galaxy #will poulter #will poulter x reader #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #tlou #tlou fic #fanfic #shameless #1917 film #1917 (2019) #star wars #harry potter #brokeback mountain #callum turner #callum turner x reader #george mackay #george mackay x reader #the last of us #gotg3 #the covenant #marvel #movies #my writing #fanfiction #writing #adam warlock #adam warlock x reader #gotg fanfiction #mcu

[frunbuns]

Schofield’s Wound Stripe

“Blake heaves him to his feet - his uniform is identical to Blake’s, same rank, the only difference is the brass wound stripe on Schofield’s left sleeve.“

“A wound stripe is a distinction of dress bestowed on soldiers wounded in combat. It was typically worn on military uniform jackets.”

“The award of a stripe to soldiers who had been wounded during the war was authorized by Army Order 249 of 6 July 1916. This order allowed those who had appeared in a War Office casualty list to sew a two-inch stripe of gold Russia braid onto the left sleeve of their service jacket.”

“Officers and men reported ‘wounded – gas,’ or ‘Wounded – shock, shell,’ are entitled to the [WOUND STRIPE].“

BLAKE: Was it like this before Thiepval? 

The name does something to Schofield. Fear clings to him. He pushes it away. 

SCHOFIELD: I don’t remember.

BLAKE: You don’t remember the Somme?

SCHOFIELD: Not really.

“In August 1916, coincidentally a month after the massacres on the battlefields of the Somme, the British Army began issuing wound stripes to Allied Soldiers and Officers who had been wounded in combat or campaigns since 4th August 1914″

#surely no one cares enough about this movie to do this #like only I am delusional enough to want to highlight a small costume detail lol #that being said I did write that one fic about it so #1917 #1917 (2019) #1917 movie #1917 film #will schofield #william schofield #lance corporal schofield #schofield #Sam Mendes #krysty wilson-cairns #ig I'll tag them since they wrote it lol #mine

[lzrusrising]

i dont think ive ever experienced a fic like 91w

#its clawed its way into my brain #and i cant stop thinking about it #kinda having a war-related-media hyperfix atm #1917 and 91w are sooo <3 #GOD eveey time i think about this fic i feel ILL #spn #deancas #destiel #91w #ninety one whiskey #91 whiskey

[weirdstrangeandawful]

B's got their arms around A so they can at least try to sleep sitting up. The fever's unforgiving but maybe now that they won't be waking up choking every five minutes they'll be able to get some fitful rest. But how are they supposed to sleep when C's putting an icicle cloth on their neck?!

A feels tears run down their cheek. They're too weak to hide them. C's kissing his forehead and apologising softly but A doesn't know what do do with that! If C's sorry, can't they please stop with the icicles!

#whump #whump prompt #sickfic #fever whump #comfort #this was actually initially written about carroll rowan and kyte #in the original fic (can you believe A Good Man's Heart isn't the first version?) #the original is set in 1917 #and got too complicated to write #so it's now just a dumping ground for my friend and I #(mostly me I think oops)

[pennylanefics]

i low key wanna get back to writing on here. i kind of miss it

#starting with a 1917 fic i never finished writing

[lostdrarryfics]

Hello, I'm looking for this one fic. I know some specific details, but somehow i can't find it. I also believe it was on fanfiction.net, but i'm not sure. It's a fic from before 2012 for sure.

PLOT: after the magic war the muggles start a war against the wizards in big scale. protego doesn't work against bullets so that's a big problem and hermione tries to learn spells that could work. she's also working in this big spell using some form of ancient magic from merlin's time. she believes they can open a door to avalon. they work on it. they send mail to every wizard registered around the world because to open the door they have to use the whole magic in the world, so every wizard that stays behind will die including even the muggleborn kids that aren't 11 yet. at some point hermione gets shot and die. they open the door to avalon and aberforth chooses to stay behind. i remember the ending well, it says that in the morning of that day thousands of people were found dead without anyone knowing the reason. adults and kids. also a lot of buildings that people never saw before were discovered, including the ruins of an old castle.

it is a drarry fic, it has romance and all, but the main focus of the story is the war against the muggles.

Sorry, we could not find this fic. Maybe one of our followers can help!

#request 1917 #lost fic #drarry #drarry fic #drarry fic search #drarry squad #anon

[abusivelittlebunny]

Angelic af

He iiiiiiiiiiiiis ah God my sweet little angel baby♡♡♡ can't wait to get him pregnant

Scho is in so much denial over how pretty and desirable he is he doesn't understand why all the alphas want a piece of him when he's literally the prettiest little angel they've ever laid eyes upon. Tom is a little annoyed and jealous at Scho for getting all the attention from alphas but no worries he'll also be getting himself his own alpha in a bit...

#last two pics is when he gets told he can't keep his bond with the german alpha that mated him and knocked him up #and that he'll have to choose himself a new alpha in camp that could either accept his bastard baby or make him abort it #obviously scho is absolutely devastated by this and he doesn't know what to do or who to choose... but that's for later howl chapters #william schofield #1917 #george mackay #i don't want to spoil too much of my fic but the drama will be juicy

[schofieldshelmet]

Wip

#1917 #wip #william schofield #thomas blake #1917 fic

[jayvrontio]

Some screenshot edits I’ve made with the 1917 bois lmao

#1917 movie #art #funny #1917 fic #1917 film #1917 fanart #thomas blake #tom blake #fanart #screenshot #fan edit #the owl house #hunter toh #toh amity #william schofield #schofield #tomblake

[pilot1917]

Sale in: la tostadora.com

#tumblrshop #camisetas #fashion #hoodie #moda #redbubble #ropa #ropadeportiva #ropafemenina #ropahombre #teepublic #redbbuble #otoño 2022 #verano #1917 fanart #1917 film #1917 fic #teepuplic #tshirt #spain 2022

[editorbit]

(Antiques of Ours anon here) tysm for the rec!! Just finished reading it and I'm a sucker for fluff and the double identity trope haha. Was wondering if you had any other recs? idk how alive the 1917 fandom still is rn.

The fandom is definitely not what it used to be but ik there are still quite a few people around on here. A lot of them are very talented and I’ve read so many great fics

"A Love Ode of the Times" by LVRBY is one of my favs. It’s so so beautifully written (https://archiveofourown.org/works/41169285)

"Pick a man. Bring your kit" by WafflesRisa is one of the most popular ones in the fandom I think. It’s not completed, but it’s still so good and so interesting and I highly recommend (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682791/chapters/54214288)

"If Gold Rust, What Shall Iron Do?" by looncandy is another one I love. It’s a medieval AU and it’s so well done (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912747/chapters/54766486)

"A Kinder World" by thenightwindow is one of the fics that inspired me to write Antiques of Ours. This is also a reincarnation fic and it has a part two. This one is Will’s POV and the other one is Tom’s (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22642489/chapters/54116794)

"Will Nature Make A Man Of Me Yet?" by fringehead1 is not completed but I wish it was bc I love this one so muchhh. It’s so British and so 90s and so good (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23499976/chapters/56351923)

I’ve read practically all of the fics in this fandom but these were some I could think of that I highly recommend. The 1917 fic writers are just on another level

#1917 #blakefield #antiques of ours #ask #1917 fic recs #fic rec

[grbookworm1818-writes]

Holy shit. Chapter 15 is finally up. Go check it out on AO3!

#my fic #william schofield #blakefield #1917 film #tom blake #pride 2014