#( * elizabeth march / writings. )

[opheliapenning]

In these pages, I first understood what it meant to be another person. True empathy. Even if I was just a fledgling being constantly adapting, I could always dip my toes into the lives of others. It wasn’t imagination, as such, because I was there. These characters sunk their teeth somewhere inside my soul, and I was glad of it. No greater teacher existed. 

- Ophelia Penning

[embodies]

send me 💬, and i’ll use a line from a sentence meme i’ve reblogged to make a starter. @goesblind.

❛ dangerous to be out so late. ❜ the words cut the air, hiemal crisp of winter cleaved by a sharp and silver tongue. it is not quite a snowfall that graces them at cainhurst castle at present but the bite of frost is seen to glimmer upon every surface and the nobles' attire has shifted from laces and silks to furs and velvets. hearth fires surely crackle and spit inside the castle walls, yet elizabeth has not always played well at the behest of expectations nor pleasantries. joining the chattering crowds bequeathes her little fascination : the same idle small talk, conversation superficial at best given how often hands are changed and new faces are acquainted. the scholars that have joined their midst are interesting, she's sure, but she will glean little from them so early into their envoy. with time, she hopes to leach knowledge from them like sap from a tree. knowledge is power.

for now, she is content to approach the one failing ( or refusing ? ) to conform to those aforementioned fireside rambles, subtly excused from the group to ( she presumes ) reap some fresh air. above them, the moon gleams brightly in an opalescent sky. it is full, pregnant with light. she envies it. caught for a brief moment enraptured with that all - encompassing lunar presence, she permits but a harshening of her jawline for a moment before resuming her train of thought. she wonders, does the moon enthrall you as deeply as it does i ? could kinship be possibly found in these outsiders welcomed into their not so humble abode ?

❛ the castle grounds can be home to some . . . unsavoury guests at this hour. ❜ she is all teasing and allure, a half - crescent curling her rouged lips in an effort to coax some level of camaraderie. really, her curiosity lies in his being here — both in the literal sense of the outdoors, escaping the slowly livening murmurs of regals and academics excitably discussing, but also what his role is in this delegation. what motivates, excites, intrigues. show thou heart unto me. ❛ we wouldn't want you getting lost so early into your stay. ❜ the countess stands adjacent to him now, taking in his taller stature with a tilt of the head. an unspoken question mark. a tinge of hope. of opportunity.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Mix Sahaphap gets to perform (and has the performance chops to perform) in a style that I’ve never seen any other male actor get to embody. Mix gets to unironically play the #strongfemalecharacter. The Beatrice, the Elizabeth Bennett, the Jo March. Strong-willed, emotional, kind-hearted.

Not only do the plot points line up, but Mix, more than any BL actor I’ve seen, fully leans into the embodiment of this archetype. In his roles, he rolls his eyes, pouts, banters flirtatiously, softens his posture and expression at small details. He doesn’t over-exaggerate and imposition other characters but his face also doesn’t hold back his character’s thoughts and judgments. And when the moments arrive, he lets all the hurt and anguish pour out in shatters of tears and visible heartbreak—the star-counting scene, anyone????—in a way that harkens to the operatic emotionality of well-done melodramas, soap-operas, and their contemporary Thai equivalent of Lakorn. It’s only that these have never been men’s roles in those.

It’s no surprise that one of Mix’s roles—Cupid’s Last Wish—is explicitly a gender body-swap, and Tian in A Tale of Thousand Stars is (albeit explicitly denied within the show) heavily connected to gender body-swapping. What Mix specializes in as an actor, and does exceptionally well, has been defined as feminine. To depict a kind of queer expression in this style is novel because it’s not camp, it’s not okama, it’s not a soft or femboy, it’s not a BL twink (Mix has been mostly excluded from the schoolyards and quads of the BL universe except for a role as a senior crush in Fish Upon the Sky). It’s too sincere and too adult for any of that.

In Moonlight Chicken we get to see, without the pretense of gendered mysticism, this performance style’s seduction, warmth, wit, and explosiveness within the framework of a general gay form of expression. It says that this kind of femininity might just be a gay thing. Not all gay men exhibit it, obviously—queer men aren’t a monolith. Still, it gives us something to consider about how we observe performance of queerness on screen, especially in front of an audience that puts so much more emphasis on ships, heat, and pairing chemistry to assess how well they perform a BL role. Could we look for other features to judge performance of queerness instead of how well they kiss?

Seme and uke roles would be the major performance style categories loyal BL fans assess actors with, yet even within the archetype his character’s fill within BL narratives, Mix’s performances differ from the typical uke depiction in BL because he really doesn’t perform them as passive. Rather, Mix’s characters and his portrayal of them are dynamic and demanding. It certainly fits certain stereotypes of ukes (Gilbert!) and their gay stereotype equivalent of bottoms as pillow princesses and brats. Mix’s characters, though, have more drive, agency, and compassion than that, and he plays them with all of those currents running underneath.

We certainly have openly gay writer/director Aof Noppharnach to thank for writing this kind of queer character for Mix to play in Tian and Wen. But for Mix’s specific commitment to the performance starting off with his (debut!?) role in ATOTS, we first have Earth to thank for believing in Mix’s ability and recommending him to portray the role of Tian, and then Aof’s acceptance despite his differing initial expectations for the character. Mix, Earth, and Aof have all been open about how Mix in his personal life and nature holds a lot of similarities to both his role as Tian in ATOTS and Wen in Moonlight Chicken. Some people might knock points off his performances because he’s like them. But his relationship to the characters, rather than dampening my enthusiasm for Mix’s performances, helps me appreciate his willingness to give an authentic performance in a style that hasn’t been encouraged on screens previously. It’s made more impactful that he chose to risk vulnerability to bring something personal that had previously been excluded from screens because of its gender deviance (and in broader society explicitly condemned). This doesn’t make a claim on Mix’s actual identity, but simply shows his willingness to understand and perform the expressions of his queer characters with an effort at empathy that many other actors would feel challenged to bring.

Some actors are chameleons, but some actors have a gift of a type within which they can explore depths and range that no one else can best. For me, that’s what Mix does in his work when directors and casting understands his talent. There’s a BTS video of Mix actually fainting during a scene while in Earth/Phupa’s embrace on the mountain that immediately brought to mind the wildly famous final scene in the film Camille where Greta Garbo as Marguerite dies in her lover’s arms.

For Mix, it was a serious incident due to regrettably extreme conditions and requiring the on-set paramedics, but these levels of theatrics, for me, are emblematic of what Mix is capable of as a performer, as well. After all, he had to faint in Phupa’s arms multiple times on purpose. It’s the kinds of Old Hollywood and heightened sentimental romance realms Mix takes his performances to! Then he can turn around and make it look easy to take that same character into grounded quips or dedicated everyday tasks. It only takes writers, directors, and audiences willing to see that men can feel this way and act this way. Mix has paved the way.

[socksracoon10]

Hi love here I come with my first spontaneous idea 🩷

Reader is the Commodore's sister but sick of the ways of society. When Jack saves Elisabeth, reader is the one who persuaded James not to kill Jack and also the one he happens to threat in order to escape. She’s somehow drawn to the Captain and later gives Will the keys to the cell to set him free. Jacks thoughts circle around her, too and they reunite when she swings last minute from the Dauntless over to the Interceptor to join the pirates making way❣️

Curious of The Seas

A/N: Literally fell in love with your ask oh my god, couldn't stop thinking about it before I began writing!! Thank you so much for this request! Pairings: Jack Sparrow x F!Reader, Will Turner x F!Reader (Platonic), James Norrington x F!Reader (siblings)

"Don't slouch, stand straight," Commodore Norrington hissed at you. You glared at your brother, curving your lips downward. You hated how strict and loyal he was to the British Crown and how he enforced his rules onto you, despite being his "precious baby sister." 

Your brother didn't hate you, but he sure did a good job of making you hate him. He was pacing his quarters back and forth, rehearsing what he would say to Miss Elizabeth Swann upon meeting her. You rolled your eyes at the pathetic scene, realizing that if your brother were to marry Miss Swann you were next on the list for the most eligible bachelorette in Port Royal. Your body cringed at the thought and you wriggled your back to shake off the eerie feeling crawling down your spine and focused on trying to ease your brother at the moment.

"James, there is no point in stressing over something as simple as this. Tell her you are in love with-" You began but frowned when he interjected,

"Love? Don't be ridiculous!"

"So, you're not in love with her?" You inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no, I very much am in love with her. But it is not proper for a man such as myself to say trivial things to the daughter of the Governor!" Your brother reasoned and you sighed in an exasperated tone, shifting your gaze out the window.

Elizabeth had stared at you with a quizzical look on her face when your brother and you had first approached her. You both shared the same expression of disdain for the situation. It was very clear to see that she was indifferent to your brother and surely was the very last man that she had any interest for. You, on the other hand, dearly loved your brother and wanted to save him from any heartache that she would cause him. You chewed your lip nervously, watching them exchange a few words of greetings before walking away. The commodore glanced over his shoulder, mouthing a few warnings to reign your behavior in for the biggest moment of his life before stalking away.

Huffing in annoyance, you picked the ends of your dress up and marched past the Governor who was just about to start a conversation with you. He awkwardly shut his mouth and watched you walk away to stand on the other corner of the pillar where your brother and Elizabeth stood. He leaned backward to get a good look at you, sending you another glare before returning his full attention to the woman in front of him with a nervous smile. You sighed, gazing out to the sea. Your brother had taken you once beyond Port Royal when you were a little girl and he swore it was something he very much regretted; all you could ever do since then was talk about sailing the seas. You desired to travel across the world, collect artifacts, and live a free life. Your brother scoffed at your desires, stating that he would rather die than see his little sister galloping around like a pirate of all creatures.

As you gazed out into the horizons with a look of yearning, you heard the loudest splash from below. Peering over the edges of the wall, you frowned at the ripples that seemed to bloom near the rocks and you instantly pulled back from your position and walked around to notice your brother screaming Elizabeth's name.

"What did you do?" You exclaimed, resting a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away from your grasp, beginning to take his coat off but you grabbed hold of him,

"The rocks, James! She's lucky that she didn't hit them on her way down! Come, we can reach her at the docks!" You urged him, yanking his arm. He seemed instilled with distraught, at a loss for words, "She must've jumped by your mere presence!"

Your brother sent you a nasty scowl and the playful smirk on your lips faded away instantaneously. You knew this was no joking matter; the poor woman could've died on her way down and she was to be betrothed to him anyway. As your brother scampered off with the rest of the guards, you found your feet rooted to the ground as you stared up at the sky. Something was amiss. The clouds darkened and circled about gravely, and the sea no longer held its silky blue blanket to comfort you. Before you could try and comprehend what must've occurred, you felt an urgent tug around your arms and you sharply turned to find yourself facing the Governor.

"Come now, my dear, you mustn't dawdle around when my daughter's life is in danger!" He exclaimed and you frowned at his words, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at him. Even if you wanted to help Elizabeth, there was surely no way you could swim into the waters with this puffy dress around you. You followed him down to the docks, pushing past the British officers to find yourself facing Elizabeth coughing up heaps of water from her lungs and then... a pirate.

With all the rifles surrounding him, you nearly thought they were aimed at your brother who stood in the way. You could only make out half his face, oblivious to the ensuing conversation that your brother was currently engaged in. You peeked around the Commodore's shoulder, carefully eyeing the strange man in your presence when his eyes flickered over to you for a sharp second before returning to your brother. Your breath hitched at the moment, taking in his disheveled and wet appearance as your brother remained as the shield between the man and you.

"He's a pirate," Your brother growled, his jaw clenching as he barked orders for his arrest. He ignored your gaping stare as he continued, "Sparrow, I assume?"

"Jack Sparrow?" You interjected, your mouth practically on the floor as you stared at him. The corner of the pirate's lips curved into a small smirk,

"It's Captain Jack Sparrow, love," He smiled with a wink. You smiled back before your brother forcefully shoved you behind him once again. He made a mental note to have a discussion with you about your behavior as soon as you returned home. He took the pirate's belongings and derided him for his lack of proper weapons, but it bothered him so deeply that you were so enchanted by the man. It irked him to think that his sister would fall foolish to a PIRATE of all people. He forcefully grabbed onto Jack's arm and began dragging him off before you cut him off,

"James! James!" You cried out, and your brother halted in his tracks and sent you a menacing scowl.

"Not another word from you, (Y/N)." He hissed, and you scoffed before pulling your skirt up ever so slightly to march up to your brother,

"This man, pirate or not, has just saved your betrothed's life! I suggest you at least show some mercy upon him!"

"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man's life of wickedness," Your brother corrected you as Jack was being handcuffed by a Redcoat.

"Though it seems enough to condemn him," Jack added, and you offered him a sympathetic look before turning to your brother with pleading eyes.

"Brother, please. I beg of you, consider an alternative for this man." You prodded him, as your eyes fell onto Elizabeth who smiled softly at your words.

"Please do so," Jack muttered, before dragging his bound hands around your neck. You gasped in response, tugging at the chains as your brother panicked.

"No one shoots!" The Commodore bellowed, holding his hands in the air, "Let go of my sister."

"Only if you return my belongings," Jack taunted with a haughty grin. He leaned closer to lowly utter into your ears, "You must be regretting your kindness, do you not?"

"I don't, but it seems that you'll regret it," You whispered, as you watched the guards hand in his belongings in a bundle. Jack nudged your back with his knee ever so lightly to grab hold of his things and you begrudgingly did so, before sharply turning around to face him.

"Now if you'll do me the pleasure... my, I don't think I know your name..." He said with a sly smirk. You frowned at him,

"It's Miss Norrington to you," You spat, placing his hat on. As you placed his sword, belt, and other personnel around him, you could feel his intense stare burning deep into you. If it was of lust or attraction, you did not know and at the moment did not necessarily care. Your mind was fixated on other things, and your brother was seething in rage as he watched Jack give him a look regarding your body against his that made him want to hurl. To think his sister was so close to a gruesome pirate! It was preposterous!

As you tied the last remaining string of his belt around him, you looked up at him with disgust. Not only was he a pirate, but this would be the talk of the town, and your brother's and your reputation would be spoiled. Your brother could easily regain his good fortune, but you were never as lucky. You hated the way the women would gossip and to think it was all spoiled over one man you decided to be too merciful with because your curiosity could not be controlled made you ready to commit arson.

"Is this how you repay me?" You hissed and the pirate smirked at your words,

"I saved your friend's life, and now you save me. Besides, you did after all wish for me to live. Now, suffer those consequences. When shall a beautiful lady such as yourself realize to never mess with a pirate?" He chuckled, before harshly turning you around with his gun aimed at your head. Your brother flinched at the sudden movement, making sure you were alright. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will always remember this as the day you almost caught Jack Sparrow," The pirate's voice boomed from behind you and the very next second you found yourself thrust upon your brother and Elizabeth. As Jack Sparrow hurriedly began his escape, he did not fail to include a personal message from his heart, "Thank you very much, Miss Norrington. I shall not ever forget such kindness!"

And you weren't ready to forget him, either. It would be for another reason. As the night raged on with a surge of pirates infiltrating Port Royal, you felt a growing desire to do something about it. Your brother had joined the Governor for his safety and left you at home to be tended to by the maids. Upon realizing that the front door would burst open regardless of the circumstances, you quietly slipped out the window in your nightly attire and made your way to the blacksmith's quarters where you knew for a fact that your good friend Will Smith would be. Will and you had grown as siblings; he was there for you more than your brother had been. He had anticipated your arrival anyway but found himself in jeopardy when his ears gathered the news that Elizabeth Swann had been abducted by the pirates. He was pacing around when you arrived and he quickly latched onto your shoulders,

"They've taken Elizabeth! I tried my best but-" Will began but you silenced him, bringing a hand to his mouth.

"I know what you must be going through. But there is not enough time. I heard you helped imprison Jack Sparrow." You whispered and he nodded his head, eyes wide as he tried to make the best of the situation, "Come, I have the key with me, we can both interrogate him and seek his help." Your hand fell to his own and led him towards the streets.

"Wait a minute," Will stopped you, and with a glance over your shoulder you already knew what he was about to say. He was going to prevent you from going. "(Y/N), I know you've always wished to escape Port Royal, but I cannot bring harm to you once you step foot onto the waters."

"Will," You chastised him, "I am no longer a little girl. I am very capable of handling my own matters."

"You are inexperienced, that's all I can say." Will rebuked your claim and you gasped at his words, before furrowing your brows,

"So are you!"

"Ah, but I shall be bringing Sparrow with me to help find Elizabeth."

"Oh, don't be so dull! I can help Sparrow and you as well. Do not prevent me from doing so! If it is out of fear that a pirate may do something towards a woman of my status, I assure you that no such thing will occur! If he dares to even look at me, I shall see to it that his eyes are gouged out by his blade!" You reasoned and Will took a step backwards, his lips parting in shock at your words. You had the spirit of a pirate in you that was for sure, and that was exactly what he feared.

"I cannot let you join. Your brother is... already facing loss," He replied in an awkward tone, considering how much he cared about Elizabeth, "He would be devasted to find you gone as well. Just stay put for now. I'm sure there shall be something more exciting for you in Port Royal."

You muttered a few unladylike curses under your breath and reluctantly offered him the key to the jail cell, "At least tell Sparrow that I was... delighted by his presence."

Will raised a suspicious eyebrow at your remark, unsure of how to respond. He nodded his head and then left you alone, as you brought your hands over your arms as your mind wandered towards the sea once again.

To say that Jack Sparrow was surprised by Will's statement regarding you would be an understatement. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you so willingly offered him the key to his escape, considering how he had humiliated your brother and especially you in front of everyone at the docks earlier in the day. He chewed his lip, his eyes dilating at the thought of you. The way you stared at him in defiance, your temples rising and falling with the way you clenched your jaw. Of course, who could forget the sensation of your fingers pressed up against him as you fastened his belt? As much of the ladies' man that Jack was, there was something different about you. You weren't like Giselle or Scarlet, complaining about superficial things or just merely trying to get into his pants. He could tell there was this curious spirit fighting to break free when he first laid eyes on you. The way you cautiously peered over your brother's shoulder had made him... well, he certainly wouldn't say his heart skipped a beat. He wasn't a silly little boy. He was a man! A grown man, a pirate! CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, mind you. And yet here he was, trying to justify to himself that what he felt for you was nothing more than just infatuation that would surely pass on.

But it didn't. It never did. While of course, his thoughts about stealing The Interceptor were his priority, he just couldn't stand still without his mind fleeting over to the very image of you, dressed in that regal bright blue gown and your hair all curled and pinned to form the most exquisite portrait of a woman he'd ever seen in his life. He smirked to himself at the thought of you, wondering what you must be doing at Port Royal at the moment. What if your brother had you married off to someone else? What if you were to live the rest of your life as a boring wife to an equally boring officer? He shook his head, wriggling himself free from those imaginative concoctions. He was a pirate, damn it. He had better things to think about than just a woman he had seen days ago.

"You've got to be kidding me," Your brother grumbled as he pushed past you. You had boarded The Interceptor with him, not because you had wanted to - even though you took every chance out on the sea with gratefulness - but because your brother was so worried about the possibility of your abduction that he wished you were beside him at all times. Including those incredibly still moments of him gazing out into the sea. To him, he seemed to have an air of control, all the world's burdens upon his shoulder. This was his duty. When you gazed out into the sea, however, it was a plethora of possibilities. The unmarked territories you could claim, the desire for you to seek out treasure from all corners. You could be free. And no one would stop you. Save your brother, but that was something he'd always do anyway. Your attention focused on The Dauntless a couple hundred meters away as you noticed flocks of the British crew on small boats were paddling towards the ship you were in. Your brother gazed through his telescope and snarled at the sight, hesitantly passing the device for you to see as well. From afar, you saw Will Turner and... Jack Sparrow? The pirate? Both of them were flapping their arms around trying to make use of the mast. You guffawed at the sight, laughing at them. You turned to face your brother who quickly reminded you with his gaze about your behavior and you swallowed the amusement away as fast as you could.

The two ships - The Dauntless and The Interceptor - were locked horns now and your brother ordered you to come with him to board The Dauntless and put an end to Sparrow's madness. You reluctantly agreed, your eyes scanning around to see any sight of the familiar pirate you had so longed to see. 

"Search every cabin, every hull," Your brother barked, before turning back to you, "And you stay close to me. Do not go wandering about like a fool like you always do." 

You glowered at him, electing not to anger him any further as you stood on the deck. You watched him disappear among the surge of officers onto The Dauntless. You sighed, pacing back and forth when you noticed two men swing over to The Interceptor. It was Will and Jack.

Eyes widening in surprise, you tried to call attention to the situation but your cries fell on deaf ears. You stomped your foot and watched Jack cut off the rope ties, one by one. His gaze was fixed downwards until he looked up momentarily, and there you stood. He stood there for a few more seconds, completely surprised by your presence. Deep down, as much as he hated to admit it, he feared that he would never see you again.

"What are you doing? Cut the rope!" Will cried out in confusion before he followed Jack's eyes to you. Jack looked upwards at the rope still connecting the two boats before turning back to you,

"Jump, Miss Norrington!" He instructed, and you stepped forward, holding onto a long piece of rope. Upon hearing your name, your brother rushed out of the Captain's Quarters, pushing past his men.

"(Y/N)!" He yelled, his eyes daring you to make another move. Realizing that this was the only opportunity to acquire what you had spent so long yearning for; the deep blue seas, the adventure, and the whimsical treasures, you sent him one final glance before running off the deck of The Dauntless and swinging onto The Interceptor. With the final rope now gone, and the ship sailing forward at full speed your brother looked at you as if you were dead to him.

When The Dauntless was far behind and there seemed to be no danger at the present moment, you walked towards your friend Will and the pirate beside him. Will seemed elated that you were there, and he hugged you so warmly that you nearly forgot that he was not related to you by blood. Releasing you from his arms, he sheepishly stepped aside as Jack Sparrow stepped forward.

"Miss Norrington, it is a pleasure to have you on board with us. I almost feared you might not have the guts to swing over," He teased, his hand graciously wrapping around your own as he kissed your fingers with such gentleness that it surprised you. You cracked half a smile at him, narrowing your eyes, before responding,

"You may call me (Y/N), and please, I never turn down an opportunity for adventure."

[embodies]

truthfully, the countess doesn't know why she cares so deeply. the juxtaposition is clear to anyone around her, for so often she cares very little if at all. there is room there for very little, so what still fits inside means more to me than ever. it means everything. it is as instinctual as breathing to her, the need to safeguard the vulnerable and take them under the wing. there is no immediate connection to why she yearns to protect these ugly ducklings : she was no outcast in society in her prime, was in fact moderately successful, beautiful, admired. but inside she housed her ugly truth, has maybe always related more to the trolls than the starlets. hollywood is not immune from taboo, perhaps more of a secret cesspool of scandal at its core. she has seen the affairs, the assaults, the lies. she has been a thread in the fabric of debauchery. let it unravel.

the echo of her mantra permits for a pang of pride, warm and sticky in the cavity of her chest. a salve to years of abuse. she has known what it is like to pick up the pieces of one's self, shattered and irreparable one makes oneself anew. when the artistic process is complete, the masterpiece one's left with is not recognisable to its previous parts. elizabeth and the countess are two sides of one thoroughly rusted coin. she can only hope jane finds her counterpart in the walls of the cortez. ❛ that's it. ❜ gentle susurrations of encouragement, barely a breath on the wind, a nod of the head, a squeeze of the arm. she senses the girl's cup filling to the brim, close to overwhelming from the revelations beheld unto her. poor thing.

she thinks of the girl's questions, considers who hurt her — james is shackled to this hotel as tightly as she. not a day passes where she doesn't wish he could be extinguished, snuffed out as simply as blowing out a candle. she has looked at spells and incantations, entertaining any and all rumoured solutions to her vermin problem. that man has taken everything she has loved away from her and built his empire on top of it, trapped her in like a bird in a cage before taking away her light. maybe chasing your assailants for vengeance is not always as glorious as it initially seems.

❛ it certainly might. sometimes it's enough just to be rid of them in your . . . presence. ❜ life is too sensitive a word. they are both dead as leaves crisped in fall's wake, as cobwebs in neglected ceiling corners. their only solace is one another. ❛ you must be exhausted. think not on it for now. you've done well. ❜ praise is warm and enveloping, eyes seizing the child's once more. ❛ we've got all the time in the world. ❜ don't they just.

@shadowedvales.

she was supposed to inherit her mother's glee and father's compassion. she succeeded terry's incomparable grief and andrew's doomed fate, instead. the womb was barren, the child buried, the name janessa alexandra ives bore a birth and death certificate at a mere thirteen years. a weaker descendant may have crumpled, but she'd grasped her afflictions before, burned them in her body and continued carrying. she would prevail as long as it took. assumption rots in the mouth, similar to the seeds of a pomegranate; lost inside suffocating shadows seeking clarity that her battle forth proposed triumph. it did, jane realised [now more than ever, with this guardian hovering, welcoming her in], but it was akin to a flame facing a jarring breeze than any provided stability. look to the right, look to the left: never assume nor allow perception to lose its clutch on the horrors of reality.

she watched elizabeth carefully, the way she investigated, cradled her arm under profound tenderness; it sent a chill down her spine, merciful and unfamiliar. unaccustomed to touch so cautious, she became the lifeboat that jane clung onto in the ocean of her rocky, uncertain memories. held so very tight, anchoring to a better place. it's why she didn't shy back, why she allowed her skin to be explored, why her gaze didn't leave the bewitching face peering upon her as if she were worth the attention. she even offered a smile, small and not quite representing her emotions, but there. it failed to send the infested tragedy astray, but it existed, and that was enough. "yes." she is quick in admittance, feeling like she'd be caught in the lie if she denied the pain. "not always. just sometimes. it is okay, i am used to it."

hesitation tempted her, but that stammering heart of hers resisted. people like him? jane scarcely remembered fragments of his malevolence, and somehow more like him roamed about? walked amongst the world she was so horribly deprived? "we..." the woman's voice vibrated throughout her rotting framework, a demanded mantra, laying a claim of strength, refusing release. jane pulled in a harsh breath, [the night was forever, its terrors ceaseless; best remove yourself quickly as possible, little one. she is offering you power, take it!], jutting her chin in some weak challenge of capability. "we possess," she repeated. tone lacked true demand of control, but her shoulders squared a fraction, and her glance no longer faltered. it mightn't last, but it was a start.

why did she care so dearly? there's a devotion present which jane hadn't experienced before. the air is thick, heavy, sticks to her flesh, to her lungs— for the first time in decades something seemed to be churning to life in the disintegration of her being. a kind of confidence proven by her features narrowing, her grip in elizabeth's losing its intensity, slowly relaxing. "maybe. i do not— i think—" far too much to mull over. with this newfound simmer of assertiveness, she turned her eyes directly into her companion's, daring to speak out. "would you?" all that was happening around her, recognition placed by such an intelligent, beautiful figure had jane fumbling, speech not stringing together in the way she wished. "if. if somebody bad hurt you. would finding them... help?"

[secular-jew]

I’m a Palestinian American. Here’s Why I Can’t Support the Anti-Israel Protesters. By Elizabeth Gillanders. August 16, 2024

Walking past Union Station in the nation’s capital, I recently was met with a heartbreaking sight. Vandals had defaced the Columbus Memorial Fountain with spray paint, writing the words “Hamas is coming” in big red letters.

Trash and signs discarded by anti-Israel protesters littered the ground. A burnt shopping cart stood off to one side with piles of ash beneath it.

Most depressing, however, were the three bare flag poles that had been robbed of their American flags. Protesters had burned the flags, the only remnant a charred piece of fabric atop another pile of ash.

This was the aftermath of the July 24 “pro-Palestinian” protests in Washington, D.C., organized in response to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s address that day to a joint meeting of Congress.

As an American of Palestinian heritage, some expect me to cheer on these people. They expect me to condemn the U.S., hate Israel, and support Hamas, a terrorist organization dedicated to wiping out the Jewish state.

But these expectations don’t represent me, nor my family.

I inherit my Palestinian background from my mother’s side of the family; her parents emigrated to America from the Middle East. My grandma was born in Israel and later moved to Ramallah in the West Bank and eventually to Jordan.

After arriving in America in her 20s, my grandma worked hard to become a U.S. citizen. She learned the English language while raising my mother and uncle. She opened a restaurant with my grandpa, lovingly named the Chicken Pantry, in Hamtramck, Michigan. When that business closed, my grandma worked as a real estate agent before eventually retiring in the land of prosperity.

America brought my family prosperity. My grandparents taught my mother to “kiss the ground you walk on” because they knew what a blessing America is.

They passed this lesson on to me.

Although many seem to think that my Palestinian heritage should cause me to align with protests that supposedly are “pro-Palestinian,” it’s precisely because of my heritage that I cannot do that.

Israel went to war with Hamas in the Gaza Strip only after Hamas terrorists slaughtered 1,200 and kidnapped about 250 in a rampage of rape, torture, and murder Oct. 7 in southern Israel.

About 10 months later, as pro-Hamas protesters march in this country to “free Palestine,” they call for the death of America. As they burn the American flag, they burn all that my family has worked to achieve.

As the protesters pledge their allegiance to Hamas, they encourage a group that my grandmother wouldn’t hesitate to call a terrorist organization that operates with a strategy of human sacrifice.

Think about it. Why are there no Hamas military bases in the Gaza Strip adjoining Israel? Because the terrorists hide behind their own people.

They dress like noncombatants in Gaza. They establish bunkers in hospitals. They commandeer ambulances for transportation.

These actions are all in direct violation of Article 18 of the Geneva Conventions, the international pacts that set minimum standards during armed conflict for the treatment of civilians, soldiers, and prisoners of war.

One example is Hamas’ use of Gaza’s most important hospital, Al-Shifa. According to the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, Hamas uses a bunker under the hospital as a base for military operations. This not only makes the hospital a target, but takes medical resources needed for the sick.

In contrast, the Israel Defense Forces have given civilians in Gaza opportunities to evacuate and warned of impending attacks. No other nation goes this far to protect enemy civilians.

How can I support pro-Hamas demonstrators who wish to end the nation that brought my family so much? How can I back a terrorist group that uses its own people as human shields? How can I hate Israel, when the IDF has worked to keep Palestinian civilians out of harm’s way?

I believe it’s important to point out that, contrary to popular belief, not all Arabs think the same. Some of us do see this conflict differently. And our thoughts and beliefs should not be snuffed out because they go against the “narrative.”

To some, perhaps our stance makes us walking oxymorons. But we are proud ones, nonetheless.

[onceuponatown]

Elizabeth Cochran was born on May 5, 1864 in Cochran’s Mills, Pennsylvania. The town was founded by her father, Judge Michael Cochran. Elizabeth had fourteen siblings. Her father had ten children from his first marriage and five children from his second marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, Mary Jane Kennedy.

Michael Cochran’s rise from mill worker to mill owner to judge meant his family lived very comfortably. Unfortunately, he died when Elizabeth was only six years old and his fortune was divided among his many children, leaving Elizabeth’s mother and her children with a small fraction of the wealth they once enjoyed. Elizabeth’s mother soon remarried, but quickly divorced her second husband because of abuse, and relocated the family to Pittsburgh.

Elizabeth knew that she would need to support herself financially. At the age of 15, she enrolled in the State Normal School in Indiana, Pennsylvania, and an added an “e” to her last name to sound more distinguished. Her plan was to graduate and find a position as a teacher. However, after only a year and a half, Elizabeth ran out of money and could no longer afford the tuition. She moved back to Pittsburgh to help her mother run a boarding house.

In 1885, Elizabeth read an article in the Pittsburgh Dispatch that argued a woman’s place was in the home, “to be a helpmate to a man.” She strongly disagreed with this opinion and sent an angry letter to the editor anonymously signed “Lonely Orphan Girl.”

The newspaper’s editor, George A. Madden, was so impressed with the letter that he published a note asking the “Lonely Orphan Girl” to reveal her name. Elizabeth marched into the Dispatch offices and introduced herself. Madden immediately offered her a job as a columnist. Shortly after her first article was published, Elizabeth changed her pseudonym from “Lonely Orphan Girl” to “Nellie Bly,” after a popular song.

Elizabeth positioned herself as an investigative reporter. She went undercover at a factory where she experienced unsafe working conditions, poor wages, and long hours. Her honest reporting about the horrors of workers’ lives attracted negative attention from local factory owners. Elizabeth’s boss did not want to anger Pittsburgh’s elite and quickly reassigned her as a society columnist.

To escape writing about women’s issues on the society page, Elizabeth volunteered to travel to Mexico. She lived there as an international correspondent for the Dispatch for six months. When she returned, she was again assigned to the society page and promptly quit in protest.

Elizabeth hoped the massive newspaper industry of New York City would be more open-minded to a female journalist and left Pittsburgh. Although several newspapers turned down her application because she was a woman, she was eventually given the opportunity to write for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World.

In her first act of “stunt” journalism for the World, Elizabeth pretended to be mentally ill and arranged to be a patient at New York’s insane asylum for the poor, Blackwell’s Island. For ten days Elizabeth experienced the physical and mental abuses suffered by patients.

Elizabeth’s report about Blackwell’s Island earned her a permanent position as an investigative journalist for the World. She published her articles in a book titled 10 Days in A Mad House. In it, she explained that New York City invested more money into care for the mentally ill after her articles were published. She was satisfied to know that her work led to change.

Activist journalists like Elizabeth—commonly known as muckrakers—were an important part of reform movements. Elizabeth’s investigations brought attention to inequalities and often motivated others to take action. She uncovered the abuse of women by male police officers, identified an employment agency that was stealing from immigrants, and exposed corrupt politicians. She also interviewed influential and controversial figures, including Emma Goldman in 1893.

The most famous of Elizabeth’s stunts was her successful seventy-two-day trip around the world in 1889, for which she had two goals. First, she wanted to beat the record set in the popular fictional world tour from Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. Second, she wanted to prove that women were capable of traveling just as well as—if not better than—men. Elizabeth traveled light, taking only the dress she wore, a cape, and a small traveler’s bag. She challenged the stereotypical assumption that women could not travel without many suitcases, outfit changes, and vanity items. Her world tour made her a celebrity. After her return, she toured the country as a lecturer. Her image was used on everything from playing cards to board games. She recounted her adventures in her final book, Around the World in 72 Days.

In 1895, Elizabeth retired from writing and married Robert Livingston Seaman. Robert was a millionaire who owned the Iron Clad Manufacturing Company and the American Steel Barrel Company. When Robert died in 1904, Elizabeth briefly took over as president of his companies.

In 1911, she returned to journalism as a reporter for the New York Evening Journal. She covered a number of national news stories, including the Woman Suffrage Parade of 1913 in Washington, D.C. Elizabeth often referred to suffrage in her articles, arguing that women were as capable as men in all things. During World War I, she traveled to Europe as the first woman to report from the trenches on the front line.

Although Elizabeth never regained the level of stardom she experienced after her trip around the world, she continued to use her writing to shed light on issues of the day. She died of pneumonia on January 27, 1922.

[embodies]

their conversation is going at the same pace and tempo as a dance, delightful footwork resembling a waltz. elizabeth senses the notion of words held back, reservations beyond those the cortez offers. hunger radiates from the girl like an all consuming force, saltwater on the tongue, an eater parched. but the countess is not one to chase for answers and if their newest visitor is apprehensive about her pleasantries then so be it. onwards they proceed, elizabeth exchanging a knowing glance with liz who peers over her current read as she goes by. this picture of naivety is not her first conquest and will certainly not be her last. she has often lived in the past, but for now the present beckons.

she ponders the newly poised question with a genuity that is rare for her. james' claws are still clutched around every facet of this hotel, its architecture planned down to a fine art by his sadistic mind alone. dead or not, his stamp is certainly prominent. but she thinks of how the staff cower at her presence, gaggles and groups parting like a red sea ( not of water but of blood ) when she walks through. she certainly commands the space and there are few who don't harbour some obligation to her for what she has created. eventually, she settles on a non - committal shrug. not because she is holding back on her answer, merely a demure acceptance of the impression. ❛ if the shoe fits. ❜

liz has made the smooth transition ( tongue in cheek from elizabeth ) as they walk, departing from the receptionist role to host herself as their bartender as the two arrive.

❛ please, sit. can i get you anything to drink ? a martini, soda, bloody mary ? ❜ her jabs are so deftly placed they often feel as fluid as normal conversation, immediately pausing her question to order herself a southern comfort manhattan. it is not long before she is plucking the glacé cherry from her glass, a childish gesture were it not for the person enacting it, and chewing in thought. sickly sweet as it were, she still savours it as if it were a miniature beating heart.

❛ liz here is tremendously talented, she can conjure up any drink you might like, i assure you. ❜ if she notices the roll of the eyes liz gives her in the back of her head, she neglects to mention it. her attention is devoted solely to her new ( and dare she say, enthralling ) guest.

countess. that's not a title that has ever been used in front of her before. it feels fantastical, altogether made up. as if maren had stepped from the streets of new york and onto the pages of some obscure fantasy novel. oddly enough, she finds that the concept does ease her worries somewhat. she had read narnia and alice in wonderland enough times to think that she knows how to identify a hungry mouth full of sharp teeth behind a pretty facade. the first step in their faux maternal, faux nurturing manipulations was always an offered treat.

both of the woman's offers go ignored, much like her own questions had. her stomach rumbles & she doesn't follow. not before taking a moment to glance around the grand hall of the hotel, finding that her neck itches with the familiar sensation of being watched. but there was no sully anymore, no lee. these ghosts didn't belong to her.

" i've never met a countess before, " maren says, coming up behind her, now. the soles of her boots squish awkwardly against the carpeted floors. maren can't imagine how anyone would want to live in a place like this, dark wooden walls and red, cushiony floors; coffinesque. " does that mean the same things as owner? —-do you run this place? "

[bethanydelleman]

I saw a post you reblogged at some point about Fanny being stuck in a time loop and it got me thinking: if the main men (both protagonists and antagonists) of the different Austen novels time travelled back to the day they first met their love interest/the start of the novel - whichever is latest so wentworth, knightley, and Edmund Bertram would travel to the day the main events of their novels start - who do you think would end up changing the least of the events and the most (intentionally or not)?

Because I feel like Knightley would change the least and Henry Tilney and the three S&S gents would come next. But like Wentworth would immediately throw the entire novel off track and like Darcy and Henry Crawford would come in close second trying to change their truly awful first impressions

(Also I just want to add that I really love your Austen takes and discussions 😊)

Thank you!

This is a fascinating idea. Here are my thoughts:

Wentworth just marches into Uppercross Cottage and proposes again. Doesn't even wait to be properly introduced to the family. He's getting Anne back NOW. (She says yes, of course)

I can imagine Darcy having a tiny little crisis as he decides if he really wants to be married to Elizabeth, maybe he could just not accompany Bingley to Netherfield and his life could go the way he planned... nah, he can't resist. Off to Netherfield he goes and he lets Bingley introduce him to Elizabeth at the assembly ball. Things progress unimpeded and by Christmas there is a double wedding and Wickham's character is known throughout Hertfordshire. He skips town and Lydia is packed off to Pemberley to benefit from some better society. (Side note: Mrs. Bennet would push Mr. Collins on Mary if she had any inclination that Darcy liked Elizabeth).

If Bingley knew everything, he'd never leave Jane. He'd return from London and marry her, no matter what Darcy or his sisters said. (I wrote that once actually)

Does Wickham count as a main? Because I don't want him having the ability to predict the future. Yikes on bikes!

Henry Crawford is very interesting, because does he actually understand where he went wrong? I'm not sure he does. Can he resist a flirtation with two very pretty sisters? That would be a fun fan fiction to write. Because if he went for Fanny right off the bat and she knew nothing else about him... he'd probably succeed with her, secret Edmund love or not. And she certainly wouldn't have a leg to stand on in refusing his proposal.

Does Edmund come back in the same timeline as Henry? That would be so agnsty! If not, he'd probably be doing whatever he could to keep Maria and Henry apart, but he's shockingly ineffective in canon, so would he even be able to change anything?

Henry Tilney would probably just try to prevent Catherine being sent home alone. He could easily come back early.

Mr. Knightley's best move would be to tell Robert Martin to propose in person. I doubt Harriet could have resisted. Then he could just sit back and watch everything else play out.

Honestly, I don't know if Frank Churchill would change a thing, other than making sure his final letter was posted to Jane. He enjoyed the subterfuge.

Poor Edward Ferrars has to travel back while engaged to Lucy? I feel like he wouldn't even want to relive the novel, there is nothing he can do anyway.

Colonel Brandon would probably change a lot. He could immediately save Eliza and challenge Willoughby. He might even spare Marianne from a lot of pain.

Reginald de Courcy (Lady Susan) would likely act as well and save Frederica earlier than in the novel.

[embodies]

' our valued destiny comes to nothing. '   ↪ @swervdcity : jack & elizabeth.

❛ nonsense. ❜ her response is curt and unrushed : she has learned of the timeless nature of the cortez, where nothing is as it seems and all is to play for. she perceives him as perhaps a realist : has never taken to the taste herself. much more preferable are the whimsical winds of delusion to anything grounded and remote. where's the fun ? still, she entertains the company : all souls are plentiful and abundant in fun, eager to be nurtured should the right person provide it. ❛ i've seen people come and go through this place that have lives far drearier than ours. ❜ she accentuates her statement with a tip of her glass, notes of red - berry wine tinging the air. blood - like. she always loved a stereotype.

❛ if we're nothing, what do you call the miserable men that use our rooms for their illicit . . . dealings ? ❜ they've all seen the kind : pot - bellied with cash in hand, the john smiths with young lasses hanging on their arms, dollars in their eyes. one night only, then the clean - up. it doesn't deter elizabeth, quite the opposite. the countess loves to provoke, gaze boring into her bar companion with interest that is anything but subdued. ❛ you and me, we're divine in comparison. ❜

[hedgehog-moss]

Hey!

I thought maybe you could help me in my quest. I've made two bookmarks for a friend with watercolors. One of them is a small fox looking at fallen leaves flying above his head, as if he were mesmerized by them. And I've been trying to find a good quote to accompany it on the back of the bookmark, but I haven't been successful so far.

I'm looking either for a poetry excerpt (my bookmark is 1/8 of an A4 sheet of paper, so nothing that would be very long [like a full sonnet haha] but I still have some space) or a quote of any kind, in French or in English, both are fine.

Would you have any that would make a good fit? Maybe an autumn-y one?

[I don't want to influence you, but for example, for the second one which is a sky at almost-dusk-time with a washed-out blue sky and soft pink clouds, I have a quote from one of the Anne of Green Gables books by Lucy Maud Montgomery:

"In daylight I belong to the world, in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I'm free from both and belong only to myself."]

Much thanks, and scritches to your various animals :)

Handmade watercolour bookmarks are such a nice idea for a gift, I love it <3

I vexed myself thinking about your request because I learn poetry by heart so often, or small book excerpts, but when someone asks me to dig up a topical quote my mental library is suddenly empty. I wish I had a tag system for my brain.

I vaguely remember an Alfred Desrochers poem the first stanza of which was "Le vent est froid, le ciel est gris, la terre est rousse / L'automne est revenu par septembre apporté / Et les arbres, devant la mort du bel été / Pleurent des larmes d'or [?quelque chose?] sur la mousse." And something by Francis Jammes about "ces jours qu'empourpraient les agonies solaires de l'automne" but no recollection beyond that...

I also remember some meager excerpts from "Matin d'octobre" by François Coppée, "A travers la brume automnale / Tombent les feuilles du jardin / [???] / Une blonde lumière arrose / La nature, et dans l'air tout rose / On croirait qu'il neige de l'or."

And one of my favourite poems by Marie-Claire Bancquart, "Je marche dans la solitude des livres", "Beyond the garden, beyond the moment at hand, are the fallen shells of chestnuts, the fire of leaves in the mist..."

And a verse by Ernest Dowson that went "And are we not better and at home / in dreamful autumn...? "

Maybe a couple of lines from this e.e. cummings poem? What my brain retained of it was "the glory is fallen out of the sky, this is the passing of all shining things"...

(if a fox could write autumn poetry I think it would sound like this poem. "no lingering no backward-wondering straight glad feet fear ruining lead us into the serious darkness...")

I also like this sentence by Elizabeth Coatsworth, from her book Personal Geography: "The magic of autumn has seized the countryside; now that the sun isn’t ripening anything it shines for the sake of the golden age; for the sake of Eden; to please the moon for all I know."

Anyway, love the idea of handmade illustrated bookmarks :) It reminds me of a calendar I made for a friend years ago, I wrote a little poem for each month and illustrated it. One of the poems was about having a snail friend:

[embodies]

perhaps it is exactly that cherry - blossom naivety that elizabeth is drawn to, the scent honeysuckle sweet and just as easily crushed into bruised petals. no, not quite naivety, which would imply a lack of experience. this is hope in the glaring face of downfall, hope in spite of the odds. of the past. the countess finds this emotion foreign to the palate as a new cuisine, delectable despite the aftertaste. the question leaves her expressions visibly pinched, a struggle to understand. everything is wrong with falling in love. it is a tumultuous sacrifice, beautifully poetic in its utterance, bloody in its eventual heartbreak. for it must end in heartbreak. this is the natural order of things.

❛ by falling in love— ❜ her tone is declarative, words commenced with a slow certainty. an interval for another sip of merlot is necessary and taken, her wine glass drained, stem light in her fingertips. ❛ you are making a decision. conscious or not. you are handing your heart to another . . . ❜ arm extended with glass still claimed, lissome and fur - embellished. a mimicry of royalty.

she drops the glass without losing diana's eye contact, a face turned to marble. cold as ice. the vessel shatters into lilliputian shards upon the floor, a mirror to the chandeliers above them, crystalline and gleaming. slick red liquid still clinging to the sides, a bloodied mess.

❛ knowing they will not pick up the pieces in the end. ❜

@embodies said: "don't talk to strangers or you might fall in love." - elizabeth!

into her wine, does diana prince smile; red lips on clear glass, staining but not smudging, and yes, there is a subtle difference. she likes the shape her mouth makes to say elizabeth's name, the moniker elegant and ancient, yet she decides not to speak it in this moment. instead, she searches with her gift of sight, searches for an answer to a question she has not yet posed.

with strangers, she has fallen in love, and with strangers, she has had her heart shattered into pieces that were minuscule and sharp, sharp and miniscule. perhaps her face says it all, perhaps her face betrays as much as it portrays, the way her heart is this broken thing that still beats, that still loves.

❛ oh. what is so wrong with falling in love? ❜ is what she finally asks, and dark eyes gleam from the thrill of it, of love. diana is a mystery in so many ways, but her love for love is not one of these examples. she takes another sip of wine, smile spreading like a song. she was in deep love once, and has fallen in love everyday since, though no one has heard those words spoken from her lips in quite some time.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

By Leslie Patrick

1 August 2023

Anne Boleyn (c. 1501 or 1507 – 19 May 1536), King Henry VIII's second queen, is often portrayed as a seductress and ultimately the woman responsible for changing the face of religion in England.

In reality, she was a fiercely intelligent and pious woman dedicated to education and religious reform.

But after her arrest and execution on false charges of adultery and incest in May 1536, Henry VIII was determined to forget her memory.

Her royal emblems were removed from palace walls, her sparkling jewels tucked away in dark coffers, and her precious books disappeared from the pages of time.

One of Boleyn’s books that has reappeared is the Book of Hours, a stunning prayer book, printed around 1527 with devotional texts designed to be read throughout the day, features hand-painted woodcuts — as well as a rare example of the queen’s own writing.

In the margins of one of the beautifully decorated pages, she penned a rhyming couplet followed by her signature:

“Remember me when you do pray, that hope doth lead from day to day, Anne Boleyn.”

The book vanished with Boleyn’s execution in 1536, then resurfaced around 1903 when it was acquired by the American millionaire William Waldorf Astor (31 March 1848 – 18 October 1919) after he purchased Hever Castle, Anne Boleyn’s childhood home in the English countryside.

The hiding place of the disgraced queen’s devotional tome had been a mystery for centuries, until recent research by a university student uncovered hidden signatures that helped trace its path through history.

The discovery

The book’s whereabouts in the 367 years between Boleyn’s death and its reemergence remained puzzling until 2020 when Kate McCaffrey, then a graduate student at the University of Kent working on her master’s thesis about Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours, found something unexpected in the margins of the book.

“I noticed what appeared to be smudges to the naked eye,” recalls McCaffrey, assistant curator at Hever Castle since 2021.

Intrigued, she borrowed an industrial-strength ultraviolet light and set it up in the darkest room of Hever Castle.

Ultraviolet light is often used to examine historical documents because ink absorbs the ultraviolet wavelength, causing it to appear darker against the page when exposed.

“The words just came through. It was incredible to see them underneath the light, they were completely illuminated,” the curator recalls.

McCaffrey’s theory is that the words were erased during the late Victorian era when it was popular to cleanse marginalia from books or manuscripts.

But thanks to her extraordinary detective work, these erased words turned out to be the key that unlocked the tale of the book’s secret journey from certain destruction at the royal court to safety in the hands of a dedicated group of Boleyn’s supporters.

The guardians

Indeed, various pages throughout the text reveal the names and notations of a string of Kentish women — Elizabeth Hill, Elizabeth Shirley, Mary Cheke, Philippa Gage, and Mary West — who banded together to safeguard Anne's precious book and keep her memory alive.

While it’s unclear how the book was initially passed to these women, Anne Boleyn expert Natalie Grueninger suggests it was gifted by Anne to a woman named Elizabeth Hill.

Elizabeth grew up near Hever Castle, and her husband, Richard Hill, was sergeant of the King’s Cellar at Henry VIII’s court.

There are records of the Hill’s playing cards with the king, and there may have been a friendship between Elizabeth and the queen that prompted Boleyn to pass her prayer book on before her execution.

“This extended Kentish family kept the book safe following Anne’s demise, which was an incredibly brave and bold act considering it could have been considered treasonous,” says Grueninger, podcaster and author of the book The Final Year of Anne Boleyn.

Anne’s Book of Hours was passed between mothers, daughters, sisters, and nieces until the late sixteenth century, when the last name makes its appearance in its margins.

“This story is an example of the women in the family prioritizing loyalty, friendship, fidelity, and a personal connection to Anne,” says McCaffrey.

“The fact that the women have kept it safe is a really beautiful story of solidarity, community, and bravery.”

The book, currently on display at Hever Castle, is a touchstone of the enigma that was Anne Boleyn.

Castle historian and assistant curator Owen Emmerson points out that the book contains Anne’s DNA on the pages from where she touched and kissed it during her daily devotions.

“This was a really beloved possession of hers,” says Emmerson.

“Because of what happened to Anne Boleyn, we don’t have a vast amount of information in Anne’s own words. But the physical remnants of her use of the book, and the construction of that beautiful little couplet, have her identity in them.”

While Anne’s Book of Hours has finally found its way home, the research into this intriguing historical mystery is not yet over.

McCaffrey continues to chart the book’s provenance through the centuries to find out where it was hiding all this time.

The discovery of the inscriptions illuminates the book’s furtive journey, providing us with a glimpse into the controversy, loyalty, and fascination that Anne Boleyn has engendered for the past 500 years.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Thousands have hit the streets in NYC, Los Angeles, Washington DC, and dozens of other cities. A DC protest organized by Jewish activist groups drew thousands, and hundreds were later arrested, including two dozen Rabbis. An estimated 25,000 people showed up to a rally in Chicago. These events show no signs of stopping, with many more planned across the coming days. These actions have gone beyond marches, with protesters showing up at the offices and homes of politicians demanding a ceasefire. Six activists were arrested at a pro-Palestine rally outside the Boston office of Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA). A large crowd demonstrated outside the Brooklyn home of Senator Chuck Schumer (D-NY). Jewish protesters showed up outside the Brentwood house of VP Kamala Harris. IfNotNow members have held sit-ins at the DC offices of Schumer, Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT), Rep. Hakeem Jeffries (D-NY), and Rep. Katherine Clark (D-MA). Former staffers for Warren, Sanders, and Senator John Fetterman have publicly urged the lawmakers to back a ceasefire. On October 25, tens of thousands of students across more than 100 North American campuses united in a walkout to demand an immediate ceasefire, an end to unconditional support for Israel, and university divestment from the corporations funding the occupation of Palestine. On the night of October 27 Jewish activists shut down Grand Central Station, leading to the arrest of over 300 people. “This is bigger than we’ve ever seen,” US Campaign for Palestinian Rights (USCPR) Executive Director Ahmad Abuznaid told Mondoweiss. “This is the result of decades of work that we’ve put into this movement, and I think some of it is connected to the [George Floyd protests of 2020]. There was so much racial, social justice, anti-war building in that moment.

[...]

“The man broke my heart,” Palestinian-American comedian Maysoon Zayid told Politico on October 23, “I never in my life thought the empathizer-in-chief would sound the way he did. The Palestinians were given no humanity. Joe Biden should spend every breath he has condemning Israel’s genocide with the same zeal he condemned Hamas’ massacre of civilians, that same zeal. And we get nothing. 1,000 children are dead, and we get nothing.” “It’s really crazy to me that the Democratic party destroyed 20-years of worth of good will with Muslims and Arabs in just 2 weeks, losing an entire generation that was raised in the progressive coalition, possibly forever,” tweeted author and activist Eman Abdelhadi. “The rapidity of it, the finality–it’s astonishing.” “While Republican disregard for Muslim and Arab lives is clearly on display, some Muslim and Arab Americans also feel like the Democratic Party largely takes their vote for granted, though Democrats’ policies never reflect as much,” writes Dana El Kurd in The Nation. “One Arab American friend expressed to me that, at least under Republican administrations, ‘Arabs could find allies’ in their opposition.”

[taintandviolent]

go for a drive ; James March x reader

summary: 364 days of the year, you're the one who has to go see him. but on Halloween, you two go for a drive. w a r n i n g s: 5.2k words. smut, kinda slow-burn, smut with a little plot, female receiving penetration, sex toys, fingering, handjobs, mentions of ghosts/death. a/n: [🎃 part of lizzie's halloween fics! 🎃] inspired by this gif and @redwoodghost and @silverzoomies (also my beta readers thank you pookies)! Happy (early) Halloween, readers! May your Halloween night / Halloweekend be filled with spooks and fun, but if not... enjoy this smutty little fic. I wanted to at least get this one out on/before Halloween, even though I've been terribly behind on all of my writings. If you enjoyed, please let me know! comments and reblogs are appreciated. 🖤 full fic & taglist under cut!↓ / ao3 link here! /

October 31st.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh, James drove happily down the road, without a care in the world. The breeze that exhaled from the coastline fluttered your hair gently, twisting your delicate tresses as it blew through them. You wordlessly watched him as he drove, as he lived, memorising the way that his eyes would dart from the road to look out at the sea, then back again, head full of presumably thoughts. You let out a dreamy sigh; the same one you’d let out as you watched him get gas — such a mundane thing made important. You laughed as he waited in the car for someone to come out, frustrated with the lack of hospitality these places possessed.

Eventually, you’d pulled out your debit card and leaned out of the car to slide the card into the slot. James protested furiously, insisting that a lady should never pay for a date, but you shushed him with two delicate kisses to the corners of his mouth. He’d pay you back in other ways, you promised. That seemed to sate his intolerance.

As he drove, James’ pale complexion seemed to reflect the setting sun, flushing him with warmth. His forever pitch-black eyes were sometimes — when the sunlight hit them just right — the warmest, darkest chocolate brown you’d ever seen. You were so used to seeing them in the dim, moody lighting of the Hotel Cortez, it seemed that every day besides this day, you forgot that. Because three hundred and sixty four days of the year, he remained in the Hotel Cortez. He liked it just fine, after all — he’d built it. His own personal, torturous heaven. Now, of course, it was home to a few awkward (and unfortunately) permanent guests. Still, he never complained, unless of course, you weren't there .

Those were the days where his temper would sour; he’d snap at Miss Evers, or shoo away Elizabeth on the rare occasion she wanted to speak to him. The days where his little cream puff, his hummingbird didn’t grace the hallways with her rabbit soft steps and darling laughter… Those were the days where he wished he wasn’t stuck there for all eternity and instead, doing whatever you were doing in the outside world. It didn’t matter what it was.

While you couldn’t spend every single day there, you were so enamoured with James March that you took any chance you got to pull yourself away from your meddling little life. You would drive downtown and burst through those ornate, gold doors to fall right into his arms. You’d come to learn that it drove his ex-wife mad, the way he’d sense your arrival, and rush through the lobby like a mad man. He always wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you felt your breath rush from your lungs. He frequently kissed a line from your shoulder to your forehead, lingering on your lips for a second longer than any other spot.

He lingered much longer than normal last night when you arrived for his annual Devil’s Night Dinner Party. You hardly cared about that — to you, more importantly, it was his birthday , and no matter the circumstance, you’d be in attendance for that. You were never fond of his guests, and they were never fond of you, but be that as it may, you were spending time with James and that was your joy in life. In recent years, the dinners had seemed shorter to you; James peppered the evening with secretive touches, and whispered comments that kept you going through all the atrocities. Frighteningly, those atrocities had become less and less appalling to you. You watched, wordlessly, as the band of notorious serial killers descended on the unfortunate victims of the evening, and merely blinked, before turning away to look at your hands, or scroll through your social media feeds as they did their work.

Finally, as the night would draw to an end, it was your time. He’d let the psychos free to do whatever they wanted in his Hotel, and you two got to nuzzle each other’s necks for hours on end. You hadn’t brought a present as he insisted that the way you’d give yourself to him was a gift enough.

And give yourself to him you did. After a shower to rinse the sludge of his guests from your form, you gave yourself to him against the wall, with your leg hoisted into the air and then again on the dinner table, where, in a fit of passion, he’d knocked one of the wine glasses to the floor. There was rarely ever a night where James would only take you once. Once was never enough to him, he craved you in ways unimaginable to you.

James withdrew his hand from your thigh to place it on the wheel, navigating around a particularly tight turn. “Well, my dear. How shall we finish off our evening? Dinner as usual? See a picture perhaps?”

You’d spent the early part of your day having brunch at a quaint little cafe a few miles from the Hotel, a darling walk on the beach, and dinner at one of his favourite restaurants. James drove — he insisted. It was the one day a year he got to do anything besides sit in the garage. Someone had polished his cherry-red 1920s ReVere convertible the night before, perhaps Miss Evers, perhaps him. Part of you thought it might’ve been him, because you could easily picture him meticulously polishing this beauty of a car, readying it for a day of gallivanting around Los Angeles.

“James,” you replied, scooting closer on the seat, the silken fabric of your dress slipping easily on the leather interior. The breeze wafted his cologne in your direction and you filled your lungs with it unabashedly — god, he smelled good. “My answer is the same every single year. As long as I’m spending time with you, I’d do anything.”

Anything. He seemed to roll that word over and over in his mind. Any-thing. As though you were beholden with a need to fulfil his wants and desires, you never protested to anything he suggested.

“In that case… something new.” he murmured as he turned the wheel suddenly, veering off the main highway. The wheels crunched the gravel beneath as he wound higher up, before pulling into a small alcove that overlooked the ocean.

This was new.

He killed the engine, letting you both fall into silence. Aside from the crashing of the waves against the rocks and the occasional car driving by, there was nothing. Just nature and the two of you. You must’ve been somewhere around Malibu, you thought. Maybe farther. Perhaps Zuma. You hadn’t been paying attention, but regardless of where, the sight was breathtaking. A romantic spot. Had he brought other girls here? Perhaps to murder them. Surely, the ocean provided an excellent disposal system.

“It’s beautiful out here, James…” you whispered softly.

“As are you. Far more so.”

With your cheeks aflame, you turned away from the coastline to face him. He was staring at you, with one arm stretched casually over the back of the seat. You knew he was analysing you and shamelessly drinking in your presence — savouring the little things that the Hotel Cortez failed to provide; the way the salty air blew your hair about, the chill that made you shiver ever so slightly, the way the sun seemed to wash your skin in gold…

“What? What are you thinking? You’re always so pensive.” you asked, reaching out to cup the side of his strong jawline. He clasped his hand over yours, leaning into it, and turning his face so he could kiss your palm.

“Mm, perhaps — mm.” Another kiss and he brought your hand down to his lap, resting it upon his clothed thigh. “Perhaps I just take you here, my little hummingbird. Right here.” The way he spoke was threatening and lusty, and sent a chill down your spine. You shivered closer to him.

“Perhaps you do…” you said. Although you weren’t from his time, you found yourself mimicking his speech style, and he always seemed delighted when you did. A gem amongst a flooding sea of lingo that he loathed and refused to understand. He was a sharp fellow; he could decipher what certain things meant, but he was as bright as he was stubborn.

James leaned over in his seat, the leather creaking with his weight and with a murmuring sigh, he pressed his lips to the top of your shoulder, skin exposed where the hem of the dress had slipped down. He peppered delicate kisses along your collarbone, dipping down to the front of your décolleté and inhaled deeply. You shivered, tittering girlishly at the sensation of his moustache tickling your chest. “Such a delightful girl you are,” he crooned, his syrupy soft voice melting into you.

While he continued kissing, his large fingers trailed down the front of your dress, watching your reaction carefully. Your breath hitched as he neared your centre and James paused, looking deeply into your eyes. You bit your bottom lip, and crushed your mouth against his, warm and heavy. As he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping out to find yours, the sun sank below the horizon, and James slid his left arm behind your back, wrapping it strongly around your waist.

Even on the one day he was free to be amongst the living, he remained ghostly. His lips were soft and cool, and the inside of his mouth had a particular unnatural chill that sent a wave of goosebumps erupting across your skin. Still, you loved kissing him. You loved the way he’d devour you, encircling your tongue like it was caught in a tango. James always held you when he kissed you, asserting that either you’d not escape, or that you felt safe in his arms. Perhaps a confusing melange of both.

A car zipped past, the headlights illuminating your indecency and you jumped, suddenly aware that despite the privacy of the alcove, you two were still in a public place. More than that, you were fooling around like two teenagers in a public place, just off the main highway. Scandalous. “James! What if someone sees!”

“Let them, my darling. Allow them a glimpse of the greatest pleasures they’ll never know.”

James fingered the hem of your panties, before slipping underneath the satin. He stroked the mound of flesh tenderly, trailing down between the slit of your cunt until he found your entrance. The wetness greeted him quicker than he’d anticipated as told by the devilish smirk that tightened his features. On instinct, your legs spread slightly, giving him more room to work. The reality was that you were already craving more of his touch and hoped to entice him deeper. Still, you couldn’t help but be embarrassed that you were so wet already.

“It’s your kissing, James…” you explained. “It always gets me going… I can’t help it.”

“You’re apologising?”

“Well, no, yes— aaah !”

James clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His large hand cupped your cunt, middle finger encircling your clit gently. Throngs of energy shot up the front of your torso, making you tremble instantaneously. James watched as you writhed and wriggled underneath him, though his strong arm kept you close to his body. “Speak up, my dear.”

You swallowed hard, trying to find the words amidst your brain’s white, hot fog. “I… I’m uh… my god, I wasn’t sure if it… James, my god, please. I can’t get a word out.”

“That’s alright, I can gather what you meant. Nonsense.”

Carefully finding the entrance again, James slid two fingers inside and you let out a gasp, clamping your eyes shut and letting your mouth fall open. Exhaling desperate, breathy moans as his fingers curled inside, finding the spongey flesh with ease. You arched your back, bracing your neck against the back of the seat. As he worked your clit and your g-spot simultaneously, you blindly felt for his groin. Beneath ironed dress pants, you felt the shape of his cock, warm and stiff. James March was many things, and well endowed was one of them. With a playful pout contorting your plump lips, you stroked it outside of his trousers for a few moments, teasing him to the point of frustration. He clenched his teeth, hissing through them.

“James,” you purred. “Then, let me…”

Hips first, he scooted closer, giving you unspoken permission to touch him. You found the waist of his pants, slid the button out and reached in. Inside of you, James’ fingers stopped moving at the sensation, and he huffed breathily in your ear. Although you’d touched him many times, he never seemed to get used to the feeling and always responded to it with the most delighted, euphoric reaction. You yanked the waistband of his briefs down to free his cock.

Keeping eye contact, you worked the saliva up with your tongue, collecting it in your mouth. Once you’d had a mouthful, you bent at the waist and parted your lips, letting your spit fall onto the head, glazing it. James hissed, watching you with a depraved glimmer in his eyes. You were so polite, so innocent, and yet…

With a honeyed sigh, you began playing with him, gliding your fingers over the deep red skin of his head, pressing your thumb into the flesh and squishing more pre-cum from the tip. It was hot to the touch, and with no conscious decision of his own, it began thrusting into the circle of your grip. You made a loose fist, allowing the length of his cock to slide in and out of it. He found his natural rhythm again, pumping his thick digits in and out of your cunt.

Moving your hand further down his shaft, you reached the base, and squeezed gently. The addicting sensation of rigidity, paired with the soft, pliable skin had you biting your lip as you worked his cock in and out of your fingers. James let out a desperately hungry whine, and pressed his thumb into your clit. His chest was heaving now, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he leaned back against the seat.

You whimpered, and dragged your hand upwards, jerking him off faster. His cock was rigid and burning up — he liked this a lot . Perhaps it was voyeurism, perhaps it was circumstance, but whatever it was, it had him acting feral. In turn, that had you acting similarly. You spread your legs further, undulating your hips to further the sensation along. The coil in your tummy wound tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, and you gushed around his fingers, pulsating in tight clenches. Your lips parted, allowing a drawn out moan to flutter breathily out. To James, it was akin to music. Cries of sex and cries of agony were so similar.

As you came, his lips found the side of your neck, sucking and nibbling at the sweet flesh that greeted him. He groaned and snarled into your skin, murmuring lascivious words directly into your ear. You shivered with each one, laughing breathily between moans.

You felt a particular tension within him, and kept your speed, running your thumb along the underside of the head. His breath hitched in his throat. He pumped his fingers faster, curling them deeper into your cunt. His thumb repeatedly bumped into your clit, sending you into a blurry, eye-watering state of euphoria. Beneath your dress, your thighs quivered, trembled with overstimulation. There was suddenly a burn deep within your core that you knew all too well — the second orgasm.

“Don’t — don’t stop…!” He ordered. Despite your quivering muscles, you continued playing with his thick cock. With a coy smile, you leaned forward, angling your open mouth over the head of his dick. Teasingly, you’d lean away every time he bucked his hips upward, seeking out the slick, warmth of your mouth.

“Diabolical!” Sweat glistened across his forehead, his neck reddened with pleasure. You smirked up at him, peering at him through your lashes. Admittedly, you were being rather naughty, but it was so fun to see such a pristine man come undone.

James never worried about stains; Miss Evers could get anything out of anything. So, he came enthusiastically, his entire body tightening and convulsing with the waves of his orgasm. He bucked his hips hard into the grip of your hand as tears of white wept from the slit, cascading over your knuckles and dribbled in large, sticky droplets onto his pants. One hit the bottom of your lip, and as you pulled away, you made a show of wiping it from your mouth before flattening your tongue against the pad of your finger.

As he came down from the high, you watched him silently. You two were submerged in darkness, but the glow from the highway’s street lamps illuminated him in a shadowed, film noir sort of way, chiseling his jaw and bringing the soulless blackness back to his eyes. This was the James you knew. The dark one, the one that was soft for you, but underneath his lust and adoration, you knew he wondered what you’d sound like dying.

“Was that good?”

“That’s not the word I’d use, my dear…”

You grinned to yourself, fiddling with the hem of your dress. James heaved a sigh and tucked his softening cock back into his pants, adjusting it until it was comfortable.

“I’ve a splendid idea. Why don’t you show me your home?” He asked, though it was more of a demand; he’d already made up his mind as he started the car.

“My home?” Immediately, panic flowed over you as he began to drive back the way you’d come. Had you done the dishes? Was the bed made? That pile of dirty clothes on the chair in your bedroom — had you put that away? You didn’t have Miss Evers to clean up after you, and once you came home from work, you wanted to do nothing but relax. “God, there has to be something more interesting than that to do.”

James waved his hand at you dismissively, ignoring your concerns, before returning it to the steering wheel and pulling back onto the main highway, headed back to Los Angeles. Anxiety made the drive feel short; you spent half of the ride trying to visualise the state you’d left your apartment in, and the rest of the ride sheepishly giving him directions, pointing to the necessary exits.

Finally, he pulled up in front of the curb. You looked towards your front door, nervously. It wasn’t a dump, but it certainly lacked the lustre and grandeur of the Cortez.

“Love your costume,” a girl said to James as you passed them. He turned to protest, but you immediately grabbed his arm, towing him towards your front door with a hurried, “Thank you! We love the 20’s!”

You filled your lungs with air, took a deep breath and opened the door. You peeked through with one eye at first, lessening the blow. Thankfully, aside from a hoodie, and a pair of socks, the living room looked… clean. The kitchen was another story; you hadn’t done dishes in a few days, and the impressive collection of coffee cups and cereal bowls would remain in the dark.

James paraded around, taking in the place where you lived, where you spent the time that you weren’t with him. Casually, he muttered an order and he headed towards your bedroom. You straightened up, slightly confused, but reached around the back of your dress, feeling for the zipper.

He stood out front of your door, leaning his broad shoulder against the frame. “Is it here?” He asked, gesturing to the bed. “Is it here that you pleasure yourself?”

Holding the front of your dress to your chest, you turned, blushing. “S-sometimes. Other times it’s in the shower. But most of the time… most of the time - yes.”

“Touch yourself… go on. Consider it a late birthday present.”

He’d made the demand impossible to deny now. A birthday present? You couldn’t be rude. You whimpered nervously as you dropped the dress to the floor, stepping out of the circle of it. Eyes locked on him, you sat down on the bed, scooting backwards until you felt your pillows. With a shaky inhalation, you leaned back and allowed your fingers to trail slowly down your stomach towards your cunt. Once you found her, she was soft and warm, and the entrance was still slightly slick from earlier.

“I want to see what it is that you do…” he crooned lowly. “…exactly how you do it. The only difference now is that you don’t need to imagine anything, my buttercup. I’m right here.”

“Well,” you paused at that, eyes drifting to your bedside table. “Exactly? I usually use my uh…” You rolled onto your side, pulled the drawer opened and produced a deep red coloured vibrator. “This.”

“Ah, yes . A vibrator.”

Incredulously, you asked: “You know what this is?”

“Ahh, my dear.” Hooking his thumb around his suspenders, he pulled them down over his shoulders. “Electric vibrators were invented before I was a twinkle in my mother’s eye. Doctors used them to… relieve hysteria in females. By the twenties, they were a common household item — of course I know what that is. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.

You laid, stunned, at the momentary history lesson. You’d had no idea that James knew what a vibrator was, and moreover, seemed to know more about them than you did. One button at a time, James began undressing himself, watching you as you brought the vibrator to life with a muted buzzing. You neared the tip of the vibrator to your clit, but paused. James opened his shirt, draping it carefully over the end of your bed frame.

His pale chest, lightly muscled, was now on display for you. The visual blindsided you, and you found yourself staring, letting your eyes trail up and down his form. You’d seen him shirtless — and even nude — so many times that you’d memorized his body at this point, but it never failed in taking your breath away.

“Well…” you started, snapping yourself out of your stupor. “You were, but… not… actually yesterday. But you were born yesterday.”

“Quite right. In 1895. Therefore, I know what a vibrator is, and I know how you use one — so… use it.”

You bowed your head shyly, and pressed the vibrator to your clit. You’d turned it up high; the sensation sent a shockwave through your core, and you jerked forward up onto your elbows.

The sight of a shirtless James at the edge of your queen size bed was enough to make you cum again. He looked so out of place in your modern room, but there was something incredibly sexy about it — a fantasy. Something you’d pictured hundreds of times.

The vibrator buzzed on, drilling into the bundle of nerves with mechanical ease. You slipped it over your clit, and swept it side to side before plunging it deep into your cunt; it slipped in with a slick swallow. James wouldn’t take his eyes off you, watching every moment of this erotic torture that you were bestowing upon yourself. You writhed, kicked and moaned… and yet, you still continued. Your breathing was erratic, your breasts rising and falling with each breath you took. You brought the vibrator back out for more clitoral stimulation, and crushed your head into the pillow beneath your head, forcing it down into the mattress as you slid the smooth plastic between your folds.

“ Aaauuuuuggggh… . My god, fuck….”

“That’s it, good girl.”

Your cunt clenched, your lids falling shut. You continued pumping the vibrator in and out, feeling every throb that she gave. You rubbed the angled tip over your clit, edging yourself further. Your legs were shaking again, you were close.

“No no, eyes on me.”

Your lids snapped open, absolutely willing to take in the visual before you. For the first time in long time, you didn’t need to rely on your imagination; everything you desired was currently crawling up towards you from the end of the bed with his pants hanging open and a dastardly smirk on his lips.

“Ffffuuuuck,” you breathed. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

Your gaze hungrily dropped to his groin, gobbling up the visual; the outline of his hardened cock beneath his briefs. This had gotten him worked up again, and you knew what was coming next. Or maybe next, after you.

James interlaced your fingers, lifting your hand from yourself and freeing you from the pleasuring. It was his turn. The vibrator dropped to the mattress, still buzzing. Your hand came down on the bed sheets, blindly slapping around until you found it. With a hard press from your thumb, you silenced it.

You were gasping for air like a fish, begging for relief. He had stopped you, edged you just before you came, and the warning clenches were hot and angry. Wordlessly, James climbed atop of you, supporting himself with a hand on either side of your head as he gazed down at you. His eyes danced over your form, lingering at your pulse as it throbbed in your neck — he always was innately interested in your heartbeats and your pulses, he’d press his hand your heart during orgasms, feeling the organ as it hammered an erratic rhythm through your skin. You chewed your lip, gazing right back up at him. He was so handsome; your stomach feeling like a bundle of fried and deeply tangled wires every time you looked at him. You were never sure what about yourself had enchanted him so deeply, but it was an obsession. It was something that tormented him, and needed to be constantly sated.

He reached into his briefs, letting his cock bounce free. It bobbed heavily, bumping into the lower part of your stomach, twitching to find something to penetrate. Beads of pre-cum fell, stringing from his cock to your skin, connecting you two for a brief moment before it stretched and snapped, falling just below your belly button.

He lowered his arms, bringing his mouth to your breast, where he began peppering kisses along the fullness of them. His teeth grazed your nipple and your back arched, a moan escaping as he bit down, just hard enough to cause a twinge of pain — you jerked your hips upwards, pressing his cock back up against his own stomach. The pressure brought a syrupy “Oooh” from his throat.

His cheek was suddenly pressed against yours, his lips by your ear. “I can’t very well fuck you with these on…” His fingers hooked around the elastic of your underwear, snapping them back against your skin. You immediately swung into action, shimmying them down over the curve of your ass, and down your thighs.

“There… all better.” You whispered into his ear, kissing the side of his face.

At that, James straightened up and angled his hips down before pressing them hips into you, urging the head of his cock to breach your entrance. You scooted further down on the mattress to meet his hips, and pushed him just a little bit deeper than he’d already gone. You revelled in the sensations; the hot stinging stretch before the release as the head slipped in, the fullness of his girth pressing against your slick walls, and finally, the ache as he bottomed out, his groin bumping roughly against yours. 

His thrusts were quick and deep. You felt the immediacy of his need, the surging desire that coursed through him like electricity. Dark strands fell into his eyes as he slammed his cock into you, drilling deep into your cunt. Every slick, hungry pull of your cunt drove him wild, it was a feeling unlike any other. Not even Elizabeth, with all of her dominating energy, had made James growl in ecstasy like you did.

He straightened up, took hold of your hips and quickly found a rhythm of pulling you onto his cock — your eyes rolled back in your head. Your skin flushed, a sheen of sweat covering both your bodies.

“J-James,” you stuttered. He nodded in response, buried too deeply in his euphoria to respond. “It feels so good — oh god… oh-oh god.”

You felt the sensation of your hot, aching cunt tightening. A moan caught in your chest, and your breath shuddered.  As she released in a series of throbs, you rocked your hips against him, pulling James closer to you, wrapping your arms around his scarred back.

He bucked his hips a final time, bottoming out, before he moved his hips haphazardly, bunny humping you. Strings of white coated your insides, you felt it ooze from your hole as he pulled his cock from you.With a sigh, James rolled off of you, and flopped heavily next to you, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling as his breathing slowed.

“You are… sensational, my little pet. Sensational.”

A smile on your lips, you reached for your phone, tapping the side button to illuminate it. Your smile faded quickly; the sun would be rising within the next two hours and your romantic day would be over. Until next year. You weren’t ready for the night to end, and rotated your body on the bed.  

“James,” you murmured, stroking his chest with a single finger. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“You never need to ask, my dear.”

~

As soon as you two walked through the doors of the Hotel, you spotted her. Countess. Elizabeth. She was standing on the second floor, wearing a silvery house robe and presumably nothing else, arms spread out on the railing like wings. She glared down at you.

With a kind smile in her direction, you pulled yourself closer to James as he made his way towards the stairs. She glowered, all but snarling her plump, red lips at you as you ascended. James had told stories of how… tempestuous his ex-wife was, but further, how uninterested in him she was. Was she truly so cruel that the moment he took joy in having someone else, she wanted to crush that?

“James,” she sneered from above, not bothering to address you. You rolled your eyes so hard they ached; her constant bitchiness was alluring, terrifying at first, but it had now become nothing more than an annoyance, akin to the whining of a mosquito. “Have fun on your day off?”

“Immeasurably.” He replied, curtly.

“And what did you two do, hmmm?” Her voice was breathy and hoarse, and even given the tryingly aloof words, was still delicious to listen to. It was a shame she wasted her breath on such immaturities.

“Now, now. Jealousy doesn’t suit you, my dear. Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.”

You smiled. Of course she’d be jealous; after all… it wasn’t her that James had just pumped full.

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @redwoodghost / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @tatesdisasterofalover / @thewolveswithin / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @evansb1tch / @enchanting-evan / @yesdevineruler / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @violetharmonscupcake / @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @piecesofcain / @lilthbunny / @quickandsilvers / @tatelangdonsweater / @ifeeltoofuckingmuch / @howtobesasha / @randodummy / @poltoreveur /

[marchsfreakshow]

A Little Piece Of Heaven [James Patrick March]

Angst / smut implications/ fluff all wrapped up in a confusing bow.

You were just a victim all those years ago, now a rotting ghost stuck in a boarded up hallway. Wasting your ghostly days away, until the wall, suddenly gets knocked down.

Absolutely NOT inspired by an a7x song /sarc. I was listening to it and just thought of something I could write with it. :)

Warnings: small reference to necro (it's in the song too don't worry) misgendering Liz a few times I'm sorry. James touching your wounds. Fem!reader.

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

How long had it been since you saw day?

Since you saw a nick of sleep?

The faint burst of hunger in your stomach explode?

It was all unwelcome. The last you remember? Sleeping. Peacefully in your hotel bed. It was, a bit scratchy, but any sleep was sleep. The early dawn reaching you, just for your breath to hitch. Eyes widened as a gentlemanly figure stood tall over your tired body. Who was this person? Wasn't your hotel room locked? Nerves as your heart raced, locking eyes with your perpetrator. "If I hadn't sworn my heart to my darling Elizabeth, why, I would've courted you instead." The man sighed happily, a silky, transcendental voice. Confusion ran over your furrowed eyebrows. A dry throat as an answer was being racked in your brain. But his voice, my that could've sung you to sleep again if you weren't careful.

Being in your nightgown for so long...it was cold. Everything, all the time was cold. Why on earth? But, somehow always in the presence of...Ruldoph Valentino, and Natacha Rombav. It was always intimidating. The way they stared at your stature, and how you held your arms over your chest always; it was hunger. They've tried. They had tried for the past.... something years. Always tried to take a bite, and have some food, but nothing appeared. It infuriating to the pair. Stuck in here with you, since...since...whenever! Time didn't have a meaning anymore. The three of you begged, squealed, screamed and wailed in front of the uninviting wall. Just needing someone to bring you out of it. It was only as the angry years rolled by you realised you were probably dead. A ghost silently and angrily roaming. Such a soul, unable to leave a place like The Hotel Cortez. Was that why you were so cold? Unable to feel anything if the two nicked at your arms?

Questions just ran through your head always. Who was Elizabeth? Was she as beautiful as you thought? The mystery man only spoke of her and, how she felt, as he walked you down this hallway. His big hand on the small of your back, and a sinning smile plastered on his face. A smile almost resembling the devil's wicked smile. How he felt, similar to the sinners being condemned to nothing but pain for the rest of their lives. Sure what he wanted was wrong, but he didn't find anyone else as pretty, and never brought harm to his wonderful wife. She was too gorgeous to touch.

One or two open rooms, so he brought you into a random room, setting your hazy self onto the lonely bed. "Such a beauty.." the man whispered. Blurry eyes found his face again, eyes almost made to look friendly, a thin moustache adding to his look. What a feeling stuck to your heart. A feeling of want and belonging with this man, but knowing he was a married man. You weren't a harlot! Certainly not a tired one. Despite the blurry face, finding you beautiful, it was always certain that he adored his wife so much more. The way he spoke of her, it was like Lucifer had found another fallen angel...one just as similar as him, desperate for some odd chaos in the perfect chaos of heaven. if only you could find the odd in perfect.

But no, you were laid lazily, blinking back any tiredness. He was kneeled by a small heater. Putting some fuel in it. Your-

"HEY! I've been calling you for the past few minutes." Natacha's voice bringing your head up to meet hers. The dust and grey from her, falling onto you. You just nodded and stood, going to follow her. Leaving the room where your corpse had rotted away, and into the lonely hallway once again.

Light.

Light? Was it real? Two men walked into the hall nervously, shining torches? Down the walls. They only took a few steps before the desperate couple practically devoured them. Leaving no blood to waste. Nearly 100 years of hunger would drive anyone insane, you understood that even if you were just a ghost. Watching them feed scared you, but you thanked the gods you were dead. You were dead. That realisation you made years ago only rang true now. Now you were stepping outside of that trapped hallway.

It was only wonder that filled your 'innocent' mind. Taking steps like a fawn for the first time. Shaky, nervous, and feeling like falling. It was just, so bright outside the hallway. Unnaturally bright. It hurt. Why did it hurt so much? Feeling like a zombie despite only being a walking soul. A shell of someone once living. A shell of an unwanted, unloved human, living lonely in the background of others.

Other souls were amongst you, it seemed. Plenty of them. They were all just as bad as the blood-sucking actors you loved so much when you were alive. All craving to cause such chaos. Cause a little bloodshed when bored of living in their own heads. These living halls and walls were, identical. It would've maddened you, if not for the fact you followed the room numbers. This was a hotel, wasn't it? It most likely still was. But every wallpaper, every carpet and door were identical to the 20s. Almost like they weren't allowed to change anything about it.

legs at the edge of the bed, hanging over a little. Was the man putting the heater on? How kind of him. But he didn't fully put it on. Once stood up straight, he looked back at you. Blurry eyes now looking up at him normally. No ounce of softening in his heart. His eyes hardening on your torso. Blush settling on your face. This was absolutely wrong. However, there was an idea that running wasn't your best idea right now. Whatever was about to happen. Then, a small unsheathing. Heart rate quickening as the silver metal met your eyes. That was a knife. A knife?! No, no no...

The man noticed your eyes, your heartbeat, and gave a sadistic little chuckle. What on earth was he planning? Whatever you thought was pushed away as the cold metal pressed against your neck. The feeling made you shiver, your instinct to fight him large. The instinct to give him and let him murder you; larger. Your life felt useless, this would be the perfect way to go. Despite that, you placed a hand over his, to push him away. Such worked hands, such scars. A finger ran over his knuckles, without notice. But he raised an eyebrow at you, almost disgustingly taking your hand off his and placing it back on your chest. What had gotten into you? Whore... It made mystery man cut you quicker. Your chest, then your neck.

Death. It consumed you quick. Sweet, dark warmth, eating you. It wasn't like you expected. No purgatory, deciding heaven or hell. No. A few minutes of nothing before your eyes awoke to a scene you never thought you'd see. This mystery man, experimenting with your body. Using the heater against your, tempting thighs to warm you up. What would this Elizabeth think?! Nothing else crossed you, as you stood quietly, attempting to not pay attention to whatever it was he was doing.

"You seem new, but old at the same time." A person's voice rang out. It stopped you in your steps and looking up, you were met with a woman? He looked like a woman and spoke effeminately. He must have been a transvestite or something.

In light of your manners returning to you, you cleared your throat, but the voice that came out was still scratchy and throaty. "um. I have been in a hallway, the wall, has been destroyed." Looking down at yourself, you dusted down your nightgown. Then you remembered you were in your nightgown. How embarrassing...the worst thing you could have died in!

The person didn't respond, and instead, you heard his heels click as he walked behind you, probably towards where you had come from. Gulping nervously, you looked and then just swished your head away, carrying on. Now with the embarrassing fact that everyone will see you in your sleeping gown. Something meant for only you. Walking seemed fun now though. You weren't sure about the year, but everything truly was the same.

Ah, an elevator. Just waiting after you pressed the up button, and stepping into it. Oh, what floor were you going to? Uh, this one! You randomly pressed a floor button out of nerves, accepting that you would just get to explore for ages, meeting other freaks and surprises around. It was still such an interesting hotel, and there must have been some changes right? Well, you exited the elevator and started to walk. Walking this direction, this way, over here instead. Muffled noises went past you. Talking, screaming, moaning. Such a lively hotel.

Oh. An open door. 64 the number plate read. Even if the door was open, you knocked and heard a "come in." The voice was so familiar to you. But you couldn't place it. Like a faint memory, you could blurrily place together. It was smooth, sweet and transcendental. You stepped through your cloud of thoughts into the room and looked around.

"I truly am sorry for my appearance, I um, I'm unaware of this place and don't have any other clothes on me." You admitted sheepishly, eyes meeting the man's back. That suit. It was... something else about it. The voice, this, pinned suit, why was it so close but distant to your memory?

As soon as you spoke, the man spun on his heel, and almost dropped his drink when his eyes met yours. Oh. Oh! This was...your murderer. No. It couldn't've been. He would've died years and years ago. But, my he looked so similar to the one who took your last breath. "...you got out?" That was all he said. Shakily, you nodded and stepped back, barefoot on the uncomfortable frame of the door. The way he met your eyes after roaming your body, it was almost animalistic. An urge he'd never have again if he lost you.

Both of you snapped and you ran. You ran through the hallways. Mystery man chasing you slowly. But with every long step he took, and every look back, he seemed closer and closer. How was this real? No, dreaming. The both of you circled back to room 64. Rushing in, you shut the door and slammed yourself into the bathroom. Mystery man was just as fast. Entering the room a few minutes later with an almost sadistic chuckle. Oh, you shouldn't be feeling this pit of warmth right now. What was wrong with you? This chase, still unknowing of his name after this long... "You cannot hide for long my bird. I know you have questions."

It was true. Your brain was rattled with questions. Who was he? Why did he kill you? Why were you feeling this pit at his laugh? Why was he so- Absolutely not. He was your murderer. When did he die? So silent minutes passed quickly before you opened the door with a deep inhale and exhale.

Nervous eyes meeting dead ones. Practically soulless despite his soul standing in front of yours. He smiled a fake smile at you, taking your hand like a gentleman. Leading you to a chair and sitting you in it, placing a small drink of whiskey in front of you. "Ask me my bird."

"Who are you." It was a statement more than a question, but it was the one looming at the forefront.

"James Patrick March. I built this hotel, I ghost it." Your eyes flickered with a burn. Nearly all your questions were answered already. He was the creator of this building, it was something you had heard of, but you didn't take too much interest.

"Okay. Well then..who was Elizabeth?" Your heart tugged at the question. Always compared to such a lady before your death. A useful death, but with a comparison, you had to know. But, he told you. Everything. James told you every single little detail. She was still here but didn't care for him. A little bit of relief washed over you. A bit. Whatever this feeling was in your...stomach? was, it was annoying, and you despised it. Pushing it down with the mention that he still cares for her. Meeting with her every month for dinner, catering to any want to ask she asks of her. A pathetic puppy whining at its master's leg for some attention. James was so...proper...and neutral.

"...if that's the case, why did you say that if you weren't courting her, you would court me instead? All those years ago." He hasn't thought about your death in years. He's murdered dozens as time went on and on. He's experimented, failed some and won others. You remembered his words to you?

"You are indeed beautiful bird, and I would have. At that time, I loved The Countess dearly. I still do. She is my one. While I have not had any idea to court anyone else within the time of our agreement, it is occasionally a lingering thought." That raised more questions. More interrogating, what did he mean by that? Wouldn't she also have died plenty of years ago? Your eyes watched the table in front of you as you scanned your mind for plenty of reasons and questions.

"is...is she like the two that were trapped with me?" Eventually, you spoke again, hands clasped together and nerves boiling over.

Words merged together as the both of you spoke about everything and nothing. So, vampires were real. Technically...what an odd time for you to be un-living in. At least you would not be a victim. Dead for almost a century, and not the prettiest ghost here. The more modern deaths were certainly beautiful, knowing it, and flaunting it so happily. Just to murder...

Murder.

The word rang through your head as James talked about your death. About why he used your rotting body. About why he had that heater between those intimate thighs of yours always. He needed a body to experiment with. One he couldn't just dare put more slashes on. An open neck and open chest was good enough. You were bewildered. Dumbfounded and confused as he explained his reasoning. Simply because he could. He murdered and used bodies simply because he could. How deranged.

Oh. There was that pit again. Damnit. Whatever it is, you needed to be rid of it. Rubbing the part of your body where your womb was, you stared at the undrunk whiskey hard. Furrowed eyebrows and unmoving eyes. The murderer took notice and leaned towards you. "Are you feeling okay my dear?" His dead breath so close to you. Why, oh why was this pit in your womb so obvious to you? He killed you! Obviously, no feelings should be felt for him apart from hatred. Was it hatred in your womb? No. James probably knew what you were feeling and wanted to tease you with it.

Tease you? But of course. Such an untouched woman was easy to please and make fun of. A simple kiss on your cheek and a hand lingering on your jaw. The pit, it felt like it had just spilled. Like it had spilt and flowed from your womb to the chair you were sat on. Even more embarrassing than being in your nightgown only. You wouldn't mention it. You couldn't. You weren't shameless, and he was a gentleman. Still a gentleman even though his words said otherwise.

It was only when you stared blankly up at the ceiling and James had left the room that you realised what happened. Left on the bed, with the remembrance of those scratchy, desperately uncomfortable bed sheets. But this time you felt frozen, and...naked. Every single little fibre of the duvet on your skin, and feeling it move on top of you when you adjusted yourself. Still as uncomfortable as it was those years ago. Your feet met the ground as you sat up, and picked up the nightgown again. What a thing to die in... something meant for only you. Now everyone you would pass would see it, and judge you harshly.

It was put back on as soon as you stood. The pit in your womb just felt better once James finished. Like you just needed him to, make you feel warm despite the both of you being cold always. He walked in and was holding up some clothes. "My dear I have brought you a dress. You do not need to wear that anymore." The folded fabric was spread out on the bed, and it was a simple black one, floor length and full sleeves down to the wrist. Such a gorgeous dress, unsure of wether or not it would even fit you.

After just looking at James with worry in your eyes, he sighed softly and took your nightgown off you again, thumbs grazing the wound under your breasts. It was grotesque, but god it was such a sweet feeling on his fingers. Feeling his work, and admiring it. Romantic touches, with nothing but admiration for his murder behind it. It was like he was obsessed with it, unable to hide how much he loved his kill. He gave the same touches to your neck. Hearing the small whimpers leaving you as his fingers traced the edge of your neck. The way you were touched wasn't like anything before. Intimate and dangerous parts of you explored more than you were explored a few minutes ago. "So sweet.." He sighed quietly, before slipping the dress on you.

A perfect fit, and James admired it. He looked at you like you were...well like you were The Countess. Being stared at nicely was weird, but something you figured you had to get used to. He had claimed you, not like you knew that though. Such a beautiful victim, at the time unclaimable. Now as claimable as any other person in the god-forsaken hotel you were stuck in.

"you will be a beautiful accessory to murder my darling."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tag: @babygorewhore @taintandviolent @slvt4jamesmarch @slutforgarlogan @fear-is-truth / @coentinim @bluerthanvelvet444 @nahoyasboyfriend @carniv0reev @yandereunsolved / @briaroftheroses @doll3tt33