#Cladding Removal London

[thirstywoso]

LESSONS IN PHOTOGRAPHY

Jessie Fleming x Reader

A/N: a little short one that I wrote in an hour

W/C: 1k

Warnings: not really smut but a little suggestive and some masturbation so MDNI 18+

so if you're looking for hardcore smut this is not it

Will do a part 2 which will be actual smut if I get a request for it

After your girlfriend signed with the Thorns your life in London was uprooted and together you made the move to Portland.

You'd both been to the city on occasions in the past but after living in Portland for a month now yourself and Jessie realised neither of you had really explored the place you now called home.

Your girlfriend clad in some white shorts and a black tank top yourself in dark blue shorts and a loose fitting white shirt, you found yourself downtown with a checklist of places you "MUST" visit according to Jessie's teammate Sam.

No surprise to you, your better half had her camera hanging off of her shoulder with one hand in yours and the other holding a large cup of what she calls "liquid heaven"

As you wondered down the streets you noticed the way Jessie would stop occasionally, snapping photos of the roses, lining herself up to get the correct angles of the buildings she liked the look of. Jessie would spend sometime perfecting her shot at each place you went to.

Yourself a fan of history would read out facts from your phone about said buildings or architecture Jessie was capturing. Unbeknownst to you a few of those photos she captured were of you in deep thought or in awe of what you were looking at. You really were the perfect match.

Jessie loved her camera almost as much as you and was hardly seen without it. That being said one of the few things she loved more was capturing you, from every single angle.

She enjoyed capturing the way your lip would tuck between your teeth as you would concentrate on one of your crossword puzzles, the way that vein would pop out of your neck when you were frustrated with whatever had you occupied. She would never get sick of taking these photos, especially the ones capturing your smile and the warmth behind your eyes.

You'd never really known this about Jessie until the day was almost coming to an end and you'd caught her taking a photo of you. After questioning Jessie and adding slight pressure when she wouldn't tell you anything and mimicking zipping her mouth shut, locking it and throwing away the key. You finally broke her finding out all about Jessie's little habit profusely blushing as she told you.

Returning to the apartment later on that evening you has begged Jessie to show you the photos she'd taken of you. Opening her laptop you saw the folder titled 'My girl" and your heart swelled, then almost combust when you saw the number of photos in the album. 4,332 to be exact.

"Oh Jessie" you say looking at her

She returns your gaze nervously "too much?"

"You're perfect Jess" you say leaning in to kiss her.

Pulling away Jess can't help but look into your eyes as she fiddles with her fingers. "I have a question... well more of a request which I've kinda wanted to do for awhile"

She pauses for a breath unsure how to go on. "Go ahead?" You say anxiously waiting to see what the request was.

"Iwanttophotographyounaked" she rushes out, once noticing your confusion she repeats herself this time a little slower, taking a deep breath "I want to photograph you naked, if that's okay?"

"Yeah?" You question excitedly.

"Yeah"

After discussing how you were going to go about it Jessie led you into your shared bedroom. Kissing you before she helped you remove your clothes.

"Are you sure, if you want to stop we can at anytime"

"I'm sure" you confirm.

"I want you to lay on your side with your head propped up in your hand" she begins to direct you.

You do as she says and get into position, after a few clicks Jessie then asks you to change position. Repeating this for awhile as you pose in various ways for her, occasionally complimenting you, telling you how good your jawline looks or the way the light cascades down the swell of your breasts.

She couldn't help but be in awe of how beautiful you looked.

Getting more bold Jessie then started directing you to pose in some more compromising positions like with your head thrown back or your hands squeezing your chest.

You couldn't deny that it was turning you on being told exactly what to do by Jessie.

Eventually being more bold yourself you began to touch yourself for Jessie, the clicks of her camera becoming faster.

Your hand snakes between your legs finding your evident arousal.

You slid your fingers along your folds spreading your wetness, Jessie's mouth watering as she captured the way your sex glistened.

She made sure to take in the way you bit your lip, your legs as they spread wider, the way your hand furiously rubbed between your legs your finger tips as the swiped across your clit.

"Fingers inside" Jessie demands

You'd be a fool not to comply and with that two of your fingers are swallowed into your wanting pussy with ease.

You were embarrassingly wet but showing off for Jessie you didn't care.

"Curl those fingers baby I want to see the pleasure on your face"

Taking photos of every inch of you she couldn't get enough wanting to capture every single part of this moment.

After a few more directions from Jessie regarding position and how to touch yourself you were right on the edge.

Your girlfriend practically drooling as your face contorted in pleasure, snapping the pictures of your screwed up face as you came and the arousal spread across your thighs.

Taking your fingers and sucking them clean putting on a show for Jessie as she continued to snap away with her mouth agape.

"Fuck it" she groaned almost throwing her camera to one side as she pounced on you.

"I need to taste you"

Shoving your fingers covered in your slick into her mouth, her eyes roll back as she swirls her tongue around your digits releasing them with a pop.

"I think it's only fair I get to fuck you after that little show"

[hellsburners]

soft release

summary: steven got a little rough with this one pairing: steven grant x male reader word count: 1.5k warnings: 18+ warning, s3x, top!steven, rough stuff, nods to comic steven, maybe ooc idk a/n: based on this request.

masterlist | more moon knight

His silence was deafening, all you could hear was the sound of the car speeding through the streets of London. His hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. Your hands were cold and clammy. 

You were on the way home from a gala with your partner, famous museum curator, Steven Grant of the National Art Gallery. The gala featured new historical findings from a site in Egypt funded by the Grant Foundation. 

There were at least fifty people in the museum. Everyone was clad in pristine clothing, gowns, and expensive suits drinking equally expensive champagne. You came as Steven’s partner, a surprise to a lot of his colleagues. He wore a dark pinstripe tuxedo with the brightest white tie, his shoes were polished so bright it shone under the moonlight. 

He made you wear a similarly luxurious midnight blue tuxedo that complemented his. He introduced you to the other curators in Europe. You tried not to get bored but it definitely was. Steven said he hated it himself. You anxiously downed a few glasses of champagne, which you eventually regretted.

He was still silent when you arrived at the manor, removing his coat and his tie. He looked at you with his sunken eyes, a glare you would only see from Marc but you knew it was still Steven. He licked his lips and let out a sigh.

“If this is about earlier—” you tried to say, but Steven pulled you into your shared bedroom, your back against the hardwood door. 

“Flirting with my co-workers, ‘Do you think that was nice of you, love?” he said, his face so close to yours you could feel his warm breath on your lips. His hand is above your shoulder.

You shook your head, speechless. “Don’t think so,” he pulled back and went onto the bed removing his silver cufflinks. “Come here,” he gestured to the bed, his voice deep and serious, like a general giving away orders. 

“I’m so sorry—” you uttered. He let out a few tsks before pulling his belt off. On the usual, it would be you who would be the more aggressive when it comes to stuff like this. You went to sit on the edge of your white king-sized bed, Steven looking down on you with shadows in his eyes. 

He caressed your cheek with his thumb, it was so warm against your skin. His thumb went to your lips as he bent down to kiss you. You let out a soft moan as his lips left yours. He smirked. “Can we play?” he asked. You nodded before he placed his tie around your eyes, it was soft against your nose bridge and your temples. 

Steven started to undress you, your shirt, your pants, your underwear. Before he laid you down he took the tie around your neck and wrapped it around your wrists and secured it with a knot. He gently placed you against the wide bedspread, your arms above your head. 

“I hated the way he looked at you, the way he touched your hand as he talked to you,” he whispered in your ear leaving wet kisses around your neck. You could feel the stubble prick your skin. “Is it fair, my love? To let me see all that?” he said. You shook your head before he spun you around so your face faced the sheets, your ass cold against the air. 

He smacked your rear with a loud clap, like a thunderstrike. A red print is left on your skin. He massaged it with a grip that grew tighter and tighter. You let out a cry from impact, tears forming in your eyes. Steven knew how much this might have shocked you, how it wasn’t really like him. But he saw the way that man looked at you, filled with so much lust and want, he wanted to hurt him. “Shit, I’m so sorry love was that too much?” he shakingly said. 

“No, it—it’s good I liked it,” you witnessed a new side to him, your sweet and soft-spoken boyfriend was now all rough with you. You felt your center turn and harden. Steven’s own hardness grew, the visual of you prone on the bed bound and blindfolded, he cursed. It was Marc’s idea. He heard him whisper it in the car. Do it, teach ‘em a lesson.

“You’re so naughty, what will I do without you, love?” he said as he undressed his trousers. He bent down to kiss your nape, you could feel his tip rub against your back, leaving a wet trail. He took some lube and prepared your hole, his big digits inserted in you opening you up. He left kisses against your ass, leaving a few bites. You wince from the slight pain. 

You hear a foil wrapper being opened and an elastic being stretched. “Can I be rough with you?” he said, you let out a whiny yes. He gently pressed into you, his hardness entering you. The two of you let out a loud groan, his hands gripping your waist. 

He proceeded to thrust into you with fervor, he let out loud needy noises. You could feel his fingers press into your hip bones, his skin slapping into yours through each thrust. You could feel the hard tip ram into your most sensitive spots. You cried out curses and his name. The bed started to creek and rock back and forth, your fingers dug into the soft sheets. 

The sheer amount of force he was letting out was enough to push you to the edge, you could feel your cock leak so much pleasure. Stop, he’s close, a voice whispered to Steven. He pulled out, you let out a sob from the loss of sensation. 

“Steven—babe,” you were a whimpering mess.

“Not yet pretty, ‘need to show you how mad I am right now,” he sulked before turning you over and placing hips between your legs. He started to press wet kisses around your torso, his tongue playing with one of your nipples. The lack of vision made your whole body feel much more sensitive. 

Your bound hands tried to touch his hair as he kissed you down to your leaking cock, he swiftly took your wrist and pinned them back above your head. He went to kiss around your neck, his hand going to your cock, he stroked it so fast, and with the precum, it was so slippering you were sure you’d finally cum. He stopped when your legs began to close, you let out another cry. 

“You’re leaking so much, love. No one can make you like this but us.” 

“I know—”

“Just the three of us for you. Is that not enough?”

“You’re m—more than enough.”

“So it won’t happen again?” he sounded like he was begging, pleading for you to only care for him. 

“Yes—”

The moment you gave out your answer he pressed his cock again to your hole and began to fuck you again. He was harder, it was stiff around your rear, but pleasurable sliding across your muscles. His hip bones clashed against your skin, wet sounds filled the room. Your eyes rolled back from the sensation, your legs trembling. 

The constant rubbing loosened the tie from your eyes, you saw Steven covered in sweat, glistening under the moonlight. His curly hair was all tousled and the veins in his hands were visible as it held your waist. He looked at you and noticed that you could finally see him. He placed a wanton kiss on your lips, it was lousy at best but filled with so much want. You placed your hands around his head and pulled him close. 

He untied you and your hands began to snake across his wide back. The feeling of his cock inside you was starting to make your head feel light, your eyes half-lidded and your toes curled. You were a moaning mess under him. 

He whispered that he was close. His thrusts became erratic but still hard. You asked if you could ride him and he obliged. You began to ride him as he sat on the edge of the bed. Your hips moved up and down, his hands clenched on your ass. The two of you shared one last kiss as he came inside you, your own cum shooting on your torsos. You felt the room darken as your eyes closed. 

You woke up to the room still dark, the moon shone on the window. You felt a cold wet towel on your rear. It was Steven, cleaning you up as he pressed soft kisses on the redness around your waist. 

“You’re awake,” he said, placing the wet towel on the basin near the bed stand. “‘Sorry if it was too much.”

“Marc got you into this?” you giggled. He nodded like a scolded puppy. You stroke his wet hair before you place a light kiss on his lips. “Cuddle me into bed then, my body is sore,” you said as he took out your softest blankets and covered your naked bodies. He peppered you with kisses before you went back into slumber. 

interactions are greatly appreciated btw if u liked this fic and want more send me a prompt and i'd gladly make something from it :>

[ravencincaide]

When the dead talk

Summary:  Sometimes you wonder whether Dazai seeks you out because of your ability or if there is an obsessive element to your encounters. Either way as long as he keeps his part of the deal, you’ll make the dead talk for him. OR the real reason Dazai is always dirt poor. 

Pairing: Necromancer!reader x  Dazai

Inspired by Sweetober prompt 19: Teeth Brushing 

Warnings: This is a somewhat morbid and contains: Necromancy, toxic-unhealthy relationship, hint at suicide (lets face it, it’s BSD and Dazai!), hint at Odasaku, cursing,  

Polish polish polish bones, grimy bones, dirty bones 

Polish polish human bones, my fair lady

You ran the slim blush over each and every tooth; first the top ones. You paid  extra attention to the canines. Then down the jawline and up to the second row of teeth. There you scrubbed a little harder to brush away the dirt that got in between the crevasse. You changed brushes several times; first the normal toothbrush, then onto a different thin one and then into an even thinner one. Each one able to get more easily into the crooks and gaps. 

Once satisfied you went back to brushing the jawline, focused on removing any of the dirt gathered there before you  flipped the skull over. You did a similar meticulous job of cleaning the underside. Being thorough to remove soil and all the other nastiness from the precious bone. Under your breath, you were humming the tune of “London bridge is falling down”, though you replaced the words of the familiar nursery rhyme with more bone related appealing lyrics. That was until you heard the metal door far above open, while its hinges squealed loudly in protest. The sound made you lose yourself in the made-up lyrics; a groan of annoyance making it past your lips. 

“ Was that really necessary?” you whined as the worn out dress shoes made an irregular tip-tapping sound against the concrete floors. 

“ Still working donna?” was the reply you got instead. The voice was neither warm nor icy, something lukewarm. It grew closer, the steps tipp tapping away until they came up right behind you. A bony bandage-clad hand placed a paper bag with a take away container and some other items beside you. The hand lingered there for a moment longer, waiting until you fully acknowledged the generous gift he brought you. When you didn’t, the hand snapped upwards, grabbed your face and twisted it to the side. 

Face to face with the young devil. 

 “ I told you to be done by the time I arrived.” Dazai’s expression was displeased, raw chewed lips turned downwards into a frown. The hand on your chin tightened; no doubt tomorrow you would wake up with finger-shaped bruises on your skin. 

“ You pay peanuts, you get monkeys” you replied back, meeting his hollow gaze with your unafraid one. Still your hands slowly lowered the skull you worked on onto the table, the gentle clang of bone against metal seemed to snap him back into reality. He gave you another warning look before he shoved your face away from himself.  

You danced away; twirled to the opposite side of the otherwise tiny room and the metal sink placed there. Hands reached for the soap, scrubbed at the dirt and pieces of flesh before running your digits under ice cold water. You were not about to dig into much needed dinner with dirty hands- even you had standards.You held them there until you lost feeling; skin red- almost blue from the cold. Then you turned the water off with your elbow, while you wiped your hands onto a nearby paper towel, Then back you went towards Dazai and the paper bag he had gotten for you. 

“ Awwe Rice on Tea again?” your smile dropped as you opened the half-cold container. “ C’mon really? Even prisoners get more variety than this!” 

Dazai chuckled at your reply, a humorless sound at your choice of words, while his eyes watched your every move with hawk like dedication. Dazai tried to look unbothered, tried to hide the itch in his hand and the frustration which brewed in the pit of his stomach.  “This is plenty in return for your services” he replied stiffly. 

You dug your chopsticks in, twirling the half soggy rice around the plastic bowl. Then brought a grain to your lips. Although tasty the food left you to craving a new blend; “ I bet Port Mafia’d give more” 

“ You’re not cut out for Port Mafia” Dazai growled, his one uncovered eye narrowed. Just daring you to continue this conversation. You knew he wouldn’t kill you- but that did not mean starvation and torture was off the table. “ You're still too weak; its safer here” 

I don’t share.

That was what he was actually saying. The underlying threat right there; care twisted into sadism with you balanced on a thin beam between. One wrong step and begging for mercy would be the least of your worries. Setting the food back down, your eyes shifted onto the rest of the bones beside the human skull you had spent the last few hours cleaning. Your fingers reached out towards the femur and you picked it up with interest “ Can I keep these?” 

“ No.” he answered in a heartbeat. “ Not these ones” 

You frowned and turned to face him. A pout on your lips “ Oh come on, pretty please. I already do so much for you and you get me so little in return” you moved closer, practically in his face.

“ I SAID no!” You tightened your grip on the bone, the brittle thing beginning to crack in your grasp. The sound made Dazai snapp, his hand moved faster than your mind could register. But you knew what he’d do; whenever he got emotional he was so much easier for you to read. 

“ Ahh ahh ahh marvelous, are you gonna shoot me? Let this ugly flesh rot away until my sceletton can join the others, to be feasted on by vermints and rats, or tossed outside as vulture food. Please hurry up, you’re getting me all so excited” you clasped your hands and held them cutely to the right side of your face, tilting your head to the side and giving him long flaps of eyelashes.  The sight might have looked cute- endearing even were it not for the bone covered in dirt and half rotten flesh clasped in between your hands. 

You were flirting with death; literary. 

“ Do that again and I’ll shoot you to pieces, inch by inch” Dazai hissed in warning, nudging the gun closer to your temple. You grinned in response, yet your grin dropped the second he whacked you with the weapon. 

“ Holy fucking shit- ouch!” you yelped as you took a step back, your back hitting the metal table, adding insult to injury. Your head clasped in your hands; part in actual pain and part in a feeble attempt to guilt a softer responsible- a gentle reaction out of him. 

Seeing right through your act, Dazai took a step closer, almost suffocating you with his murderous aura.  The look in his eyes told you, you were going to regret pushing and toying with him. “ How long until you’re done?” Dazai barked, not a sign of the usual softness he’d use whenever he wanted something out of you. 

You were unbothered by it; neither his loudness nor the gun in his hand scared you any longer. You could see that the rage was there to hide the more vulnerable emotion; longing, fear and desire. Human emotion not reserved for the demon protege. 

“ Hmmm about an hour” you answered without even flinching as he slammed his gun against the metal table behind you, right beside the remains, careful of them, less careful of your hand.

“ An hour? I told you to get this finished before I come!” 

“ You pay peanuts, you get monkeys” you repeated a second time, softer this time. You watched the infuriated emotion pass over his face, then saw it twist into something almost gentle. A caring seductive look that did not suit this terrible man. 

“ You disappoint me Bella,” his voice a silky purr, a heart-wrenching sigh; his body in your space again. Arms on either side of you, head bowed to rest on your shoulder. “ I thought you weren’t going to do that” he turned his head to the side, hot breath fanning your neck. 

You barely resisted a shiver, then felt your knees grow weak as his lips landed on your skin, right above your pulse. You could feel his smile as he pressed more open mouth kisses. Making your mind a jumbled mess, your body an involuntary respondent to his advances. 

God this man was a demon; a monster who played you like a flute. 

You gasped, your head thrown back as his teeth nipped at your skin. Your knees shook, growing weaker with every touch; “ ahh h-he is w-waiting in the other room.”

At your words Dazai let out a low hum, finally stopping his assault on your skin. When he pulled back, he wore a smile. The kind of sweet hopeful look that was not reserved for you. 

Never you. 

You felt his finger tap your nose, bringing your mind back to reality. “ Make sure you keep it up for longer this time, and you’ll be well rewarded” Dazai flashed you a smirk and then stepped away from you. There was a slight skip in his step, a humm that wasn’t there before as he moved towards the door on the opposite side of the room; a bottle of whiskey he swiped from the paperbag in one hand and two glasses in another.  

You heard the door open; Dazai’s sing-song voice calling out “Odasaku~” and a less pleased reply before the door slammed shut. Keeping you out locked out of their conversation, yet just close enough that your ability wouldn’t fade. Not like you would be going anywhere; not when his kisses had turned your body to jelly. 

A dirty yet very effective trick. 

But it was okay; as long as Dazai kept his part of the deal, you did not mind making the dead sing for him. 

Author note: An anon asked if i'd be posting more Dazai fics. And my answer is basically this. Another one with unclear dynamic between reader and Dazai but still I hope you enjoyed,

[usedtobecooler]

long hot summer | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Pairing | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), stripping, boob fondling, coming in pants (times two cause i'm a heathen), cunnilingus, eager ralph, rude reader, train sex

Word Count | 1.9k

A/N | listen i really should be working on prompts i know, but i needed to try out writing for our little ralphie and my heart wouldn't rest until i did it ))):

The steam train was stuffy, a warm July day making the heat onboard unbearable. You'd never witnessed muggy heat like this, so used to the cool sea breeze in Spain that the air in central London was disgustingly dense in comparison.

You're only in a chemise, cooling yourself with your fan but inevitably still warm enough that drops of sweat slide down the dip of your breast, pooling into your corset. Damn this weather, damn the Brits, damn Victoria for subjecting you to this horrid trip. You made a mental note in your head to never return after this trip.

Things weren't being made any better by the fact that Victoria's ridiculous twin brother, Ralph, had been expected to chaperone you during this entire journey north. He was always so loud, unable to shut off at any given moment, he always had something to talk about. You swear this was the quietest he'd been the entire train ride, as if the cat had gotten his tongue.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

"How long is left of this journey?" You snap, fanning yourself a bit harder, but all it does is wave the warm air back to you, prickly heat attacking your skin and making you feel disgusting, in need of a bathe.

Ralph shrugs, doesn't even lighten up any as you talk, smile faltering and failing to appear, "I'm not sure, an hour, maybe."

The heat truly is getting to him, you can tell. He isn't his usual bubbly, ridiculously puppy-like self, he sounds worn out. Tired. The blistering heat becoming too much.

You sigh, "This is ridiculous," you fuss, slapping down your fan on the table to make haste of unfastening the top clasps on your corset, grateful that today your chemise adorned buttons along the chest also.

"What - what are you doing, madam. You can't undress yourself here." Ralph strains, unable to take his wide eyes off of you as he watches your breasts spill from their confines, slick with sweat and flushed pink in the heat.

"We are in a private carriage, Ralph. The blind is down, nobody will come in. Do you have a problem?" You quirk an eyebrow at him, continuing to undo buttons with your eyes on his, unable to decipher how he feels right in that very moment.

He looks distressed. Hand tightening on the rim of his hat on the table, his cheeks flushing darker than before, and you don't think it's from the heat this time. You smirk a little, removing your hands from the boned material of your corset and setting them prettily on the table, fingertips dancing along the solid mahogany.

"Ralph, have you ever seen a woman's breasts outside of their undergarments before?" You're teasing him, a glint in your eye. You hit the nail on the head, clearly, because Ralph can't meet your gaze anymore and he's turning away, suddenly the ceiling becoming ever so interesting to him.

"I, um, well I - you see," Ralph stumbles over his words, cheeks burning hot, the flush beginning to spread down his neck, "not - not really, no."

"Not really?" You ask, faking wonderment so he'll keep going. You toe your heels off under the table, your stocking clad foot connecting with Ralph's calf and eliciting a gasp from his bitten lips as you run it up and down, "A pretty boy like you, never been with a woman?"

Ralph stutters, sucking in a sharp breath as he lets your foot glide over his leg through his pants, the feeling making his cock spring to attention fully, as if he hadn't been at half-mast the entire journey just by watching you fan your bosom, "They say I'm too eager, madam. They'd be right, but I don't think that's a bad thing."

Your tummy tightens at his admission - eager. How could a woman deny an eager man willing to please them? It's a crying shame, that Ralph had never laid his hands on a woman and pleasured her - even if he lacked experience, eagerness would always make up for that.

"Would you like to see mine?" You say eventually, foot rising higher and higher until you're rubbing the inside of his thigh and he's positively whimpering, hazarding a glance back at you.

You make a show of it for him, unbuttoning and unclasping your layers until your plush tits fall loose form their confinements, nipples hardening in slight temperature change in the air. You never take your eyes off of him, keep your foot running up and down his inner thigh, "What do you think, Ralphie? Is it everything you dreamed it'd be?"

"Can I -" Ralph starts, fingers gripping onto the edge of the table as if he's stopping himself from lunging over, "Can I touch them, madam?"

You suck in a sharp breath, a tiny little moan escaping you, "Of course you can, Ralph. Anything you want."

He barely allows you to finish the sentence before he's reaching a hand out to cup your left breast, thumb running over the hardened nub of your nipple curiously, eliciting a breathy whine from you, "Wow, this is brilliant!"

You roll your eyes, as usual his silly mouth ruining the illusion, so you shut him up by running your foot up higher, ghosting over the hard outline of his cock in his pants. And something unexpected happens;

"Gosh, madam, I'm going to -" Ralph cuts himself off with a groan, hunching in on himself, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard as he comes in his pants. You blink at him, almost stupidly, as you watch him moaning, feeling his cock pulsing under the sole of your foot as he unloads in his confines.

"Oh, Ralphie, I didn't realise you'd release so quickly," You pout, because what a crying shame that is, over before it had even began, "I was only just starting to have fun having my way with you."

Ralph blushes, looking up at you with watery eyes as his fingers fall deftly from the curve of your breast, "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I don't know what quite came over me."

You have to stifle back a giggle at Ralph's choice of words, inappropriate considering what just happened, "Maybe I have a way you could make it up to me?" You hazard, core still aching and cunt desperate to be touched, you just hoped Ralph truly was as eager as he said he was.

"Anything, madam. Anything you want." Ralph's pleading with you - begging, even. It's adorable, has you clenching your thighs as a blooming begins in the pit of your stomach.

"Why don't you slide under this table and take a glance up my skirts. You'd like that, right, Ralphie?" You coo, a dirty smirk spreading over your features and darkening them. You spread your legs as an invitation, getting yourself comfortable.

He doesn't have to be asked twice, sliding under the table and pushing his head under the skirt of your dress, the curls in his hair tickling at your thighs, "Gosh, madam. No panties?" He gasps, and you giggle as you lift your skirts up to watch him wide eyed, face to face with your glistening wet pussy.

"I always wondered if the day would come where my lack of underwear would come in handy," You quip, feeling proud of yourself, unable to tear your eyes away from Ralph's fascinated stare at your anatomy, "Come on then, Ralphie. Don't you want to work that mouth of yours?"

Ralph nods eagerly, gripping at your thighs and nuzzling into your cunt, flat of his tongue coming out to tentatively slide between your folds, catching your clit on the upstroke. You gasp, hand coming out to grasp at his curls, winding them between your fingers.

"Oh, Ralph," You moan, his inexperience telling in the way that he's trying to find his footing and there's no real rhythm to his movements, but his tongue feels delicious on your pussy, the occasional slip over your clit driving you mad, "Such a good boy, Ralphie."

Ralph moans into your cunt at your praise, and your eyes glisten, delighted that you'd hit a nerve with him. Of course he had a praise kink, he was as puppy like as a man came, you're almost positive if you threw a bone at him he'd chase it. Adorable, almost pitiful to some, but maybe not to you.

You find the knot in your tummy winding up unexpectedly, his large tongue deftly licking over you just enough to have you teetering on the edge all too quickly, and you're almost saddened by how fast this will all be over.

You glance down at Ralph, and he must feel his eyes on you because he looks up, a pleading look on his chocolate brown, wet loser boy eyes, almost like he's asking if he's doing a good job. His nose perches prettily on your mound, nestled in amongst your trimmed hair, and well, if it isn't the prettiest sight you've ever seen.

You open your mouth in a quiet moan when Ralph licks over your clit and stays there this time, "That's it, Ralphie. Right there, what a good little pup. So good for me," You praise, and Ralph whimpers into your skin, you feel him rutting against the air, "Oh, oh!"

You come with a sharp cry, tipping your head back until the vast expanse of your sweat slick neck is bared, thighs squeezing at Ralph's head as fireworks explode behind your eyes. You shake and shudder through your orgasm, body feeling impossibly hotter as the coil unravels in the pit of your gut.

Ralph's hands grasp onto your thighs pathetically tight, a broken, choked, wet moan escaping his mouth as he shakes against your leg, a tell-tale sign that he's coming again. Your pussy clenches as he whines into the meat of your thigh, eyes squeezing shut whilst he ruts against you.

You pet his head to help him through the last of it, and he keens into the touch. Ralph truly was like a puppy, it was so endearing.

You glance out of the window, eyes widening as you see the train station in your near sights, "Ralph, Ralph!" You hiss, shaking at him, "Get up and compose yourself, we're almost here."

Ralph waves you off like an idiot, your fingers fumbling with your clasps to tuck your bosom away before somebody saw you, a wreck over a virgin boy who touched you. Mortifying, truly.

When you both eventually step off of the train, Victoria is there to greet you, and her smile falters, a grimace taking over her features, "Good grief, you two. You look disgusting, like you've been working like dogs in the prison. Up to, you need to bathe before tonight's party."

She claps her hands, turning around without a second glance and you roll your eyes once you're sure she's not looking.

She really was not your favourite Penbury.

[jj-5656]

Compromise  With; Anthony Lockwood

A/N: An anon requested angst, and who would I be not to deliver? This one took a while, apologies for the wait. Thank you so much for all the recent love, it means so much. I hope you enjoy.

TW: Descriptions of injury, arguing, suicidal ideation(?), Lockwood being a self-absorbed prick :)

Summary: The one where you and Anthony are at odds, and there seems to be little room for reconciliation. 

Taglist: @sunshineangel-reads @fox-bee926 @helpmelmao @galactidiot  @soupsaurus @nekee-lilac02​ (Tagged ppl who seemed to like my last story, lmk if you want to be removed <3)

       Lockwood isn’t accustomed to your anger. 

Well...That’s not entirely true. You have a bit of a short fuse, sometimes. Accustomed to your occasional irritance, sure. He fancies teasing you, pushing your buttons for the sake of admiring the way your nose scrunches up, how you huff that ever-stubborn strand of hair from your vision. 

This, though. Whatever this is, it’s different. You’re practically seething as you search around the lamp-lit kitchen. Booming thunder and relentless London rain the only noise accompanying your movement. That and the boot shackled around your left foot, which thumps pitifully as you rummage the first aid kit. He feels like a disobedient child sat in the headmistress’ office. Ragged hair still damp from the rain after a grueling mission. One that’s left a nasty gash across his forearm, having been forced into a picture frame in the midst of fighting a vengeful type two. 

George and Lucy had long gone off to bed. A brisk debrief over a final cup of tea before slugging off to their respective bedrooms. Luckily, your bastard of a boyfriend had suffered the only injury. You’d missed all the action considering your current state, though that hadn’t ceased the fierce beating of your heart as you slumped into the seat in front him. Drawing the oil lamp nearer for better light as you motion for his arm. He obeys immediately, silently, face pulled with the kind of tension only present when he’s really worried. 

Good. You honestly hope he’s terrified. Serves him right. Your tense mood is not only due to his ailment, but the lingering frustration from your argument earlier in the evening. 

**************

“Absolutely not. You’re not coming along on any missions ‘til that boot is off.” 

“Anthony, I’ll be alright. I’ve been getting around the house just fine so far!” “You shouldn’t even be on it as much as have been.” He’s got the audacity to scoff, almost amused. “More stress will only make the healing process longer.” You cross your arms, looking toward your bag-clad friends for support. 

“We should check on the cab.” Lucy offers a tight-lipped smile as George nods, ushering her out the front door before you can direct your anger toward them.

“You said yourself this case is going to be especially touch sensitive. That the client reported how evasive the problem was. Sight and sound won’t be as useful.” 

“Precisely. Perfect that George is coming along, yes?” Your eyes narrow at his condescension, you’d grown tired of his babying ever since your incident two cases ago. It felt like ages since you’d been in the field. 

“George will be too preoccupied with all the evidence! I won’t even go further than a few feet from the threshold. Just let me get a feel of things so I can-” 

“I said no, y/n. It’s final.” 

“Says who?”

“Says the leader of this company.” You choke a laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. 

“Right, yes. The one who makes all the calls?” 

“Sounds about right.” His brown eyes narrow in challenge, frustrated you’re failing to understand he’s only trying to keep you safe. 

“Same one who made the call we go into the Hope residence without well-rounded research? The case we rushed into without enough information and it ended with me on house arrest?” It’s a low blow, undoubtedly. A twinge of wounded guilt flashes across his face before the venom seeps back in. Lump in his throat burning horribly before he swallows it to dissipation. 

“Same one who knows if things go South this time ‘round you’ll only slow us down.” Your stomach twists with the distaste in his tone, vision blurring with tears as he turns toward the door. Jumping as it slams shut and takes him with it. 

********

“Won’t need stitches.” You note simply, surveying the wound gently. He nods, shoulders straightening in preparation for the oncoming pain. “Still some glass debris, I’ll have to take it out.” He’s lucky, from what it looks like the gash could have been much worse. 

“I can manage it just fine on my own.” You bite your tongue. In the year’s biggest plot twist, Anthony Lockwood insists on suffering alone in lieu of his own pride. 

“You can’t. You’re not risking any more damage to the arm that wields your rapier. Just let me.” He doesn’t listen, of course. Pinching the tweezers in his grasp and looming forward to get a better look. Dizzying at the sight, he’s not strong enough to prohibit you from taking them back. Pushing at his shoulder so he’ll relax against the chair. 

It’s not your typical bedside manner. Usually when injuries happen its gentle touches and muttered sorries or other affections. Soft and kind. 

The intruding thought pulls Lockwood’s frown deeper. The throbbing in his arm practically minuscule to the war zone in his mind. It’s awful...He misses you and yet you’re a mere foot away. 

His fist clenches as the tweezers near his skin once more, hand taking hold of your wist to cease the uncontrollably trembling of your appendage.

“Love-”

“Shush, I can do it.” You take a deep breath. Wordlessly combatting your conflicting emotions with slow, calculated inhales. You’re an agent. You’ve trained for this. Though the textbooks help little with the patching up tactics when it’s someone you love, when you’re at such odds.

You approach again, steady this time. He sucks his teeth at the particularly intricate extractions, but remains still for you. You move with as much efficiency as possible. Trying to remove the person from the wound, just as the books suggest. Though it’s nearing impossible with his eyes trained on you. Trying to steal every thought from your mind as if they’re his own. 

When you’re applying sterile gauze after thorough disinfection, he finds the courage to speak. 

“Thank you.” He clears his throat after it falters...From emotion or lack of use, you aren’t sure. Doesn’t matter, honestly. You’re still keen on grilling him. 

“George said you followed it up the stairs without telling him and Luce.”

“I was in a hurry. Wouldn’t have found its’ source in time if I hadn't.” You don't event try to conceal the roll of your eyes. Anger sinking back in as you collect the wrappers on the table and toss them into the bin. 

“So you’re allowed to be reckless on the job as long as nobody else is?”

“Reckless. I’d argue, is an exaggeration.” 

“Exaggeration? Christ, you’re impossible.”

“Yeah?” He stands as you do, holding his wounded arm to his stomach as he leans against the counter. “How’s that?”

“You’re fine with breaking protocol so long as you’re the one doing it. Putting yourself at risk any chance you get without a second thought. It’s maddening!” 

“And how do you suppose you got yourself in that boot?”

“Not by beckoning death! Mine was an accident, Anthony. I swear, sometimes it’s like you want to get yourself killed!”

“You don’t-”

“No! I’m not finished.” You step toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest to accentuate your wrath. “You have people depending on you. People that care about you, love you to bits. And you’d rather spend the better half of missions taunting death than preventing it. If you wanted to be so fucking careless, you shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you. Now here we are, both vexed and in varying casts because of you can’t seem to understand the sanctity of your own life.”

He knew that much had been true. Lockwood would risk just about anything in a case so long as it granted him victory. Hadn’t that been in the fine print, though? Guaranteed in this line of work? So long as you were granted this talent, this curse, you had a responsibility to utilize it to the best of its ability.

“Sweetheart.” It’s strained, nearly a beg with the amount of exhaustion ridden in his tone. “We can continue this tomorrow. Let’s go to bed, please.”

“I can’t,” his knuckles go white with their grip on the cold countertop as you hurriedly wipe at your eyes. “I can’t go to bed angry with you.” 

“Then don’t.” He takes one, two careful strides toward you. Fingers pinching at your elbow in an attempt to satisfy the burning need to hold you. “Let’s forgive each other for the next seven hours. Then you can go on hating me, okay?” You huff a laugh, forehead instinctively pressing to his chest. He bathes in it as long as you’ll allow, pulling back seconds later and headed toward your room with him in tow.

********

Anthony’s eyes follow your frame as you approach the stove. Taking the cup of tea he’s prepared for you and taking your usual seat between him and George. He pushes your chair out with his foot to allow you easier access, nudging a plate of buttered toast your way. It’s not an apology, not even an olive branch. Lockwood simply refuses to cease these small acts of service no matter how angry you are with one another. It’s practically instinctual at this point, second nature. His brows furrow when you let out a relieved exhale once sat. Joining along your accomplices’ conversation about your ongoing case he’s drowned out momentarily in order to observe you.

“It hurts, doesn't it,” he unknowingly interrupts George’s spiel, “your foot.” 

“Only a bit. Just this morning.” It’s a meek defense. An evident dismissal so as not to prove his bench-warming call the right one. 

“You’ve been on it too much.” 

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” 

“You’re not. And if you had just listened-”

“Are we really starting this up again, right here?” Your eyes bore daggers into his frame. Doing your best to conceal your rage in leui of your dear bystanders beside you. Theres a few beats of silence, a moment of peace before the sorry fuck plates the nail in the coffin.

 “George, any word of upcoming cases? The sooner we leave for the day, the better.” Your chair scrapes against the hardwood as soon as he’s finished, silverware trembling as you force yourself upward. 

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” It’s practically a whisper, ridden with rage and overwhelming upset. His brown eyes meet yours, cold and distant. Completely unfamiliar. 

“So you like to think.” He quips, eyes following your form as you exit the kitchen twice as quick as you came in. There’s silence again, impossibly more awkward than before. 

“Dick move, Lockwood.”

“Stay out of it, Luce.”

“She’s right. Real dickish move there.” 

“George-”

“Right. Staying out of it.” 

*******

Lockwood prides himself for a lot of things. Communication, definitively, has never been one of them. 

How’s he supposed to explain it’s easier to put himself in front of the all the danger you face? That the rest of you need each other much more than you need him. 

That he’d rather die than lose someone again. 

He’s quiet as he creeps in, the usual love-lorn quip forgotten as he enters your shared bedroom. You’d been laying in bed, had been since breakfast. You weren’t usually one to sulk, but you were still in pain and definitely still angry. At your boyfriend, this damned boot, the world. 

“Word is your boyfriend’s been a right prick, lately. I’m hoping this can be my opportunity to stake my claim. If you’re cutting him out, that is.” He’s kneeling at the bedside, chin pressing into his forearms as he supports his head. You can feel his heat from here, hate how it weakens your cold resolve. His fingertip traces the skin on your back where your shirts ridden up, a ghost of a small passing his lips when you shudder. You’re pulling up the duvet, ceasing his touch while a trace of you wishes it hadn’t. 

You can’t see any hint of amusement leave his features. The dim of his eyes and the stutter of his heart. He swallows, subconsciously shuffling nearer. The need to be close growing tenfold. 

“Lovely, will you look at me?” Lockwood can’t help but cringe at how desperate it sounds. Whispered, rushed, fragile. Every indication he cares much more than he’s used to. 

He almost wishes he had’t asked. Dread consuming him when you turn to face him, tear stained cheeks and blotchy eyes. Lashes stuck together with moisture, blinking slow and strained. “Darling.” Is all he can manage, wounded and hushed. It makes you want to cry even more. 

“Why can’t you see I’m worried about you?” You croak out, voice strained and scratchy. His knuckles brush the moisture from under your eyes, brows furrowed with an expression you can’t quite read. 

“I do.” He wets his lips, “I see that.” An implication of I see you and I’m sorry. He’s never been good at apologies, but this time you need one. You need something, anything more than the breadcrumbs he drops. The urge to invite him in plagues your mind, broken expression tugging at your heart strings. You know better than to brush this one off, it’ll only have the same conflict arising again and lead to resentment. The realization reforms the burning lump in your throat, vision blurring with fresh tears. 

“I just-we need space.” Don’t we? Lockwood rears back, mustering up resolve he doesn’t have. You don’t mean indefinitely, you don’t mean a breakup, he knows that. Doesn’t make the words burn any less. 

“Okay, fine then.” If that’s what you really want.

He’s grabbing the dog-eared magazine at your bedside before you can say anything else. He hesitates at the door knob, begging to force himself to turn around and plead. Anthony Lockwood’s ego is somewhere near the sun, but its no match for how he feels about you. 

*******

You know when you suddenly become conscious of blinking? And it starts to feel a little odd, manual instead of automatic? You can almost forget what it was like to not have to consciously do it...

Breathing is kind of like that too

At least, that’s what Lockwood thinks when he’s sure he’s suffocating. 

His heart thrums so roughly against his chest he’s sure it’ll burst. He wonders who’d find him, huddled in the corner of the library. Cold and lifeless. He must be trembling, it feels as though the whole ground is vibrating, or-sinking. Swallowing him entirely. 

Then there was the pounding. His head, yes. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. But this is different. A rhythmic thumping approaching. Closing in on him, eager to push him into the sinking floor to meet his imminent demise. 

You’re in the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, eyes trained on the tap filling up your glass. The bed feels empty without him. And sure, you’d probably sent a clear ‘fuck off to the couch’ message with your latest conversation...But it hadn’t made falling asleep without him any easier. 

You’re taking a deep breath in, preparing for a right pitiful sigh when you hear it. Some sort of squeaking. Your head cocks to the side, discarding the glass in search of its origin. Surely one of the sources wasn’t acting up, that’d be right terrifying when you’re alone. It leads you toward the study, louder and more frequent as you draw closer. 

It’s when you cross the threshold do you see him. Tall frame curled into the corner as hiccuped gasps rack his frame. 

He scoots impossibly closer to the wall as you approach. Dropping to your knees and lifting his face to study him. A foreign sheen of panic clouds over his eyes, sending your stomach turning. 

“Anthony, it’s me. I’m here, I’m right here.” 

You’ve coached him through as many panic attacks as he’s allowed throughout the years. The first time, in academy, you were sure he was choking. A plate of biscuits strewn over the floor as he gasped for breath. 

They’re unpredictable, no matter how many times you’ve handled them. He needs something different almost every time to snap him out of it. Though it’s mostly physical touch. 

“C-cant breathe.” Your boot thumps as you draw closer, eliciting another wince from him. Clutching into the fabric of his shirt as if trying to pull it free. You undo his tie and the first couple buttons, grabbing at the sides of his face in a desperate attempt to get him to focus on you. 

“Anthony please, listen to me. I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it you just push at me, alright?” A curt, gasping nod in understanding before you’re enveloping him in an embrace. Squeezing so tight you can feel his panicked heart thrumming against your chest. It makes you want to cry and scream and hold him even tighter. Willing his pain away with all of your might. 

It’s not working this time ‘round. He can’t seem to collect himself despite your efforts. You pull away, fearing your persistence will only send him further spiraling. But he’s tugging you to him again. Arms tight around your waist as he buries himself into your neck. 

“Dont. D-don’t go. Don’t leave.” The usual cool and collected tone is manipulated to something unrecognizable. Rasped and unsure. 

It’s then you remember the look in his eyes when you’d dismissed him. The abandonment he’s feared his entire life. The little boy who forced himself to stay awake all those lonely nights, just in case he heard the lock turn and the front door open to bring them home. His adamant refusal to ignore your connection for years in lieu of protecting his broken heart. 

“Hey, look at me.” You’re pulling him back by the sides of his hide, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Lockwood, I’m not going anywhere. Doesn’t matter how angry I am,” you wince when he hiccups a sob. “Doesn’t matter how much you try to push me away.” He shakes his head, something short of a disbelieving chuckle passing his trembling lips. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here. With you, always. You understand?” He manages to nod, an inkling of solace flashing across his form.

“Just breathe, Anthony. In…and hold…and out” 

Your words sound a mantra in his mind. Your scent flooding his senses, skin on his bringing him back to reality. A morsel of relief prodding its way in as you caress the sides of his face and up into his hair. 

“I’m sorry.” He swallows, focusing on formulating the words. “I know I haven’t said it. Never say it enough.” Shaky arms wrap tighter around your waist, keeping you close. Afraid you’ll disappear despite your affirmations. 

“Consider yourself forgiven.” You bite back a smile when the tension unknowingly spills out of his body. Frame drooping with undoubted relief at the simple words. “I love you. Even when you’re a right prick.” 

“I know.” He pulls you so you’re between his legs. Your back against his bent appendage and your own pair over his other outstretched one. Right side of your body pressing against his chest. You try to push away, unable to fight his affections off despite his weakened state. 

“See? Right prick, you are.” 

“Shush. You know bloody well I love you.” He presses a kiss to your temple, smoothing over your hair and gaging your reaction. Still catching his breath from before. “I know I don’t say that enough either.” He’s quiet then, brown eyes looking to yours with such sincerity your breath catches in your throat. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.” 

“That’s sort of what I’m afraid of, if you don’t recall.” You’re both solemn then. Your fingers intertwining with his in a familiar dance. He can only hum, swallowing thickly. 

“What if,” his eyes rake your frame. Studying you again. “What if you came along the next assignment?” You light up at that, searching his features for jest. 

“Really?”

“Just outside. Making sure we’re all alright. And I don’t go off getting myself killed.”

“But-” 

“Dove.” The nobility in his tone finds him again. A subtle warning. “This is me. Anthony Lockwood, attempting a compromise.” You bite back an abashed smile at his raised brows, urging surrender. 

“Noted.” You fiddle with the cool, silver ring adorning his index finger. “I get to select the case, then.”

“Alright.” 

“And I get to intervene if things go South.” 

“Absolutely not.”

“Figured that was ambitious.” 

<Masterlist>

[scotianostra]

On 22nd November 1869 the clipper "Cutty Sark" was launched at Dumbarton on the River Clyde.

Cutty Sark was built for a firm of ship owners called Willis & Sons, headed by John ‘Jock’ Willis, whose ambition was that she be the fastest ship in the annual race to bring home the first of the new season’s tea from China.

She was designed by Hercules Linton, a partner in the Dumbarton firm of Scott & Linton. It is believed that he moulded the bowlines of Willis’s earlier vessel Tweed into the midship attributes of Firth of Forth fishing boats, creating a beautiful new hull shape that was stronger, could take more sail, and be driven harder than any other.

The company had never built a ship of this size before and ran into financial difficulties, eventually going bankrupt before she was completed. The final details of the fitting out had to be completed by William Denny & Brothers, Scott & Linton’s landlords and the guarantors for the completion of the work on the original contract.

Cutty Sark was towed to Greenock for final work on her masts and rigging. She was then taken to London to load her first cargo for China in 1870.

The ship was named after Cutty-sark, the nickname of the witch Nannie Dee in Robert Burns's 1791 poem Tam o' Shanter. The ship's figurehead, the original of which has been attributed to carver Fredrick Hellyer of Blackwall, is a stark white carving of a bare-breasted Nannie Dee with long black hair holding a grey horse's tail in her hand. In the poem she wore a linen sark that she had been given as a child, which explains why it was cutty, or in other words far too short. The erotic sight of her dancing in such a short undergarment caused Tam to cry out "Weel done, Cutty-sark", which subsequently became a well known catchphrase. Originally, carvings by Hellyer of the other scantily clad witches followed behind the figurehead along the bow, but these were removed by Willis in deference to 'good taste'. Tam o' Shanter riding Meg was to be seen along the ship's quarter. The motto, Where there's a Willis away, was inscribed along the taffrail. The Tweed, which acted as a model for much of the ship which followed her, had a figurehead depicting Tam o' Shanter.

Unfortunately for Willis, the launch of the Cutty Sark coincided with the opening of the Suez Canal and the growing popularity of steamships. Steam-driven ships could pass through the canal, whereas clipper ships like the Cutty Sark could not. That meant that steam, ships could cut thousands of miles off the trip to China to collect tea. The Cutty Sark, though one of the fastest clipper ships ever built, was outmoded almost before it sailed.

While the Cutty Sark's career in the tea trade was less than a success, her next career in the Australian wool trade was where she truly shone. From 1883-95 the ship made the Australian run, bringing wool exports back to London.

The Cutty Sark consistently outsailed her competitors, and she dominated the wool trade for over a decade, earning a reputation for exceptional speed on the 2-month voyage. She famously once overtook and passed the steamship Britannia, travelling at a rate of 17 knots.

But once more the steamship spoiled the Cutty Sark's career, and once the steam vessels made the Australian wool trade their own, the Cutty Sark was sold to a Portuguese company. From 1895-1922 the ship (renamed Ferreira) was a tramp vessel, carrying cargo between Portugal and the far-flung corners of the Portuguese Empire.

In 1922 the Ferreira put into Falmouth to repair damage suffered in a gale. A retired sea captain named Wilfred Dowman saw the ship and determined to buy her. Dowman restored the Cutty Sark to approximately how she had appeared during her days as a tea clipper.

The ship was used for naval training until 1951 when it was sent to London for the Festival of Britain. She might well have been scrapped following the festival, but the ship was saved by the National Maritime Museum and put into dry dock at Greenwich in 1954, beside the Old Royal Naval College.

In 2007 a devastating fire broke out aboard the Cutty Sark, and it appeared that the ship might be completely destroyed. Thankfully total disaster was avoided, but the subsequent restoration lasted until 2012.

The Cutty Sark is in permanent dry dock at Greenwich, London as a museum ship, check their web page here https://www.rmg.co.uk/cutty-sark/history

[ricardian-werewolf]

Thank you for answering my ask @corpsebasil - here’s how my idea of that prompt is going: basically my idea is based HEAVILY on the 1995 Richard III set in the 1930s where he’s a fascist dictator.

Kate Beckinsale plays Cecily-Anne. She’s jaded and also unsure of her political leanings in her father’s hellscape; but I love her!

*********

London, 1931.

Cecily pushed her chair back from the desk, and swiveled aimlessly in her seat.

On the desk before her sat a simple, cream embossed letter headed with the seal of a two headed eagle grasping within its claws a mace and three arrows. Three rounds of checks by her father’s advisors had ensured the letter to be free of toxins or poisoned ink. Still, she dug around in her desk drawer and removed a pair of simple, inexpensive leather gloves.

Slipping them over her hands, Cecily held the paper between her thumb and forefinger, and began to read the beautiful calligraphy that spilled across the page. She’d been expecting this letter since she was a mere 3 year old girl, and her father, as compos mentis as he was in 1916, had signed her away in a betrothal deal to secure England’s future.

He’d mistakenly assumed the nation-state to be a mere emissary of the Russian Empire, which would collapse within a year's time. But this state had problems of its own. A swathe of darkness that covered the entire middle of the country and created two from one single state, brought what seemed to be endless war down upon the people’s heads. It was no place for an English princess to marry into. Its royal house, while eight centuries deep into the ground, was small, and prone to marrying one's own cousin. So, the King - Alexander III, had spread his net out into Western Europe to provide a wife for his small, royal spare of a son.

Rumors spoke of a sickly boy, prone to creating chaos wherever he went. Apparently also the black sheep of the family, the boy had left court at 16 to join the army as an enlistment. Some rumored him to be harboring Grisha abilities, but since he was the spare, no one bothered testing the poor thing. Regardless, he’d done his two years of service, seen action in the northern expanses and then gone off to apprentice with a Fjerdan shipbuilder and Zemeni gunsmith. The rumors from court also proposed that he spoke 7 languages and couldn’t sit idle. But, he was charming enough to manage to hold out on this proposal for a shocking 15 years.

Maybe no one assumed Father would remember it’d be a thing he would bother to keep in his head once he got corrupted by the desire to kill his brothers?

Cecily shook her head. Her father was a murderer and power-hungry, but he wasn’t stupid. His bloodthirsty behavior masked a cold and calculating mind that could turn entire armies to fleeing the battlefield with their tails between their legs. He’d been the first to use mustard gas on the Lancastrian forces in the wake of the Great War, but since the Lancastrians mainly polled from men not drafted into the BEF, no one had any idea of the ways gas could be combatted. Yorks’s army of veterans slaughtered the lancastrians at Barnet Heath easily enough.

But now the Wars of the Roses had come to a bloody and frightening end. Cecily rubbed her arms with her palms, and stripped off the gloves. Casting them into the rubbish bin across her solar, she picked up the letter, kicked her heel-clad feet up onto the desk, and began to read the letter from one Nikolai Lantsov.

To Her Highness, Princess Cecily-Anne of England, Lady of Gloucester and Oxfordshire, Princess Royal.

Cecily harrumphed in pleasured surprise. It was something to write to her so openly, but at least it seemed this Prince had done his research. Too many others simply went by “Her Highness,” and left it at that. The added nicety that made Cecily smile was that he’d gone for the correct spelling of her name. Too many called her Cecile, which while the french spelling, was something entirely different. She scanned the letter further.

Instead of inquiries into her health; studies or the like, Nikolai Lantsov had instead endeavored to inquire about which books she loved to read. Did she have a preference for history? Her languages, he hoped, were numerous, and he inquired into her love for certain types of guns in hunting. Archery seemed to be a particular favorite, along with tinkering. Cecily slid open her desk drawer and rolled a small glass cylinder between her hands as she stared down at the letter further. The longer paragraphs inquired about what she did in school, was she privately or publicly educated? He hoped to know if she had gone to university. Had she served in any capacity for the state or civil service? Could she drive, or was she chauffeured? How was her governess? Harsh? Kind?

Cecily spun in her chair and continued to read, grimacing to herself. How the letter had gotten past her eagle-eyed father perturbed her. Unless…

She shook her head. Impossible. He wouldn’t dare send her off to Ravka to get rid of her. She was important to her father. Too important. Though she hated his fascist leanings with a blinding passion, Cecily couldn’t conceive of the idea that her own father would marry her off simply for convenience. But he was a man of centuries. She was, too. In a way. Shaking her head again, Cecily sighed, and dropped the paper back onto her velvet-desk cover. She got to her feet and moved to part the curtains.

Glaring out over Bloomsbury, the English Princess Royal licked her upper teeth, and rubbed a hand over her eyes. If she was being married off as a means of convenience, at least her husband wouldn’t be a bore. She’d tracked Nikolai Lantsov’s childhood with the same detail the Cheka did to anti-communist dissidents. She knew all there was to know about him, and she knew also that Ravka’s beloved royal spare princeling needed a wife desperately. This must have been done behind her back.

Whipping her gold wire-framed glasses off, Cecily pressed her forehead to the cool glass, sighing deeply. The letter awaited a reply. She would need to give it at least a day’s thought, though some part of her wanted to give a simple telegram back containing just one word: Yes. She would shirk the shackles of fascism for the wilds of a country lurching towards hopeful democracy. Balls and promenades would fill her days. She’d need to brush up on her Ravkan before she left. And if she showed just too much interest, her father could cancel the wedding on the grounds of defection. She must not appear to be overjoyed over a chance of breaking from her fathers’s fascist roots. At least, not yet.

There would be screenings. Ravka must appear gullible to the mantles of English Fascism. The ideas of Molesey and Spode had to whet the Ravkan palate. According to the papers, a communist sect of the Duma was in talks with Nikolai to be the major political party. Nikolai advocated for restricted capitalism or democratic socialism, taking from the Nordic states and their programs that worked to offset the Great Depression. He must appear to squash them.

How Cecily hungered to send more than a cursory note back indicating her interest!

She returned to sitting at her desk, pulled pen, paper and ink bottle to her, and began to pen a note in Old Ravkan. Let her father’s spies attempt to translate that! She copied out the bare bones of the letter in English, and had Nikolai’s title written out on that envelope. Slipping it into her outgoing mailbox, Cecily pocketed the other letter and grabbed a stamp from her upper desk drawer. She was just about to place it on the English envelope when a knock came at her door. Right.

Lehzen.

Her governess, cruel, callous, and somehow not a hundred year old vampire - yet she acted as such. Cecily rolled her eyes and settled back in her chair. She did not kick her feet back up on the desk, nor did she slouch. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and she pushed her spectacles up her nose to hide the evident glint.

“Come in.”

The double doors swung wide and in a swirl of 1850s woolen skirts and black velvet edging, Louise Lehzen marched into the room. Stopping once on the edge of the persian carpet, the governess curtsied to her charge, and then sat herself neatly in the wing-backed chair opposite Cecily. Whipping open a vietnamese-esque wooden-hand fan, Lehzen rapped the fan’s ribs on the edge of Cecily’s desk.

“Your correspondence to Prince Nikolai?”

“There,” Cecily pointed to the English note, and watched Lehzen examine it.

“You have no stamp. How are you planning to send it? By carrier pigeon?”

Carrier volcra. All the rage in Ravka apparently since the last Sun Summoner hopped the twig on her first Fold crossing. A shame. She was a cartographer and all!

“Here.” Cecily held up her pointer finger, to which the penny stamp was stuck. Lehzen sighed.

“You are much too old for your childish games, Princess.”

“I could say the same, Baroness.”

That retort earned her a hard whack across the knuckles with said fan, and Cecily winced, refusing to show the pain in her face. She shakily unfolded her clenched fist and breathed out in a steady stream through her nostrils. The longer she held out, the less painful it would be. The Baroness was getting into her twilight years and Cecily knew that she was the last person this woman would ever dare to educate. Nevermind that it wasn’t much beyond the greatness of the British Empire and how to run a household of hundreds of servants, ensure that the finances were set and a million other little things. Lehzen had doubted the likelihood of Nikolai continuing as Cecily’s betrothed.

Nikolai had proved everyone wrong, and Cecily gloated in that fact.

Finis.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Feb 26, 2024

[ Credit: Miriam Elia ]

Far away in the land of Sylvania, some woodland creatures have gathered to celebrate Pride. There’s a cross-dressing fox, a PVC-clad boar, a rabbit in full drag on a float. Rainbow flags and bunting abound. But just out of sight, perched above an ice-cream kiosk, are three sinister little figures in black face masks. They could be hedgehogs. They could be squirrels. One of them has a machine gun.

Isis in Sylvania was the work of the satirist Miriam Elia, a set of tableaux which was meant to be shown at the Passion for Freedom art exhibition at the Mall Galleries in London in 2015. The pieces were withdrawn after police said they might cause offence. That the gallery capitulated so easily would suggest that its self-declared “passion for freedom” was limited.

Elia’s display brilliantly lampooned our infantile response to the growing threat of Islamic terrorism, and it seems more relevant today than ever. After the police had sent emails to the gallery declaring that Isis in Sylvania was “not art” and that “all mentions of it should be removed from the promotional materials, social media etc”, Elia responded:

“The decision to censor shows that our establishment is more threatened by satire, clarity and truth than by young men willing to kill, rape and pillage in the name of Islam. Apparently my images were ‘potentially inflammatory’ to terrorists. This is the equivalent of saying an anti-Nazi cartoon in the late 1930s was offensive… to Nazis. Those who justify and protect barbaric totalitarianism, in whichever form, are on the fast track to becoming totalitarian themselves.”

The reaction of the police, of course, exemplified the very problem that Elia had been satirising in the first place.

It should be clear to everyone by now that kowtowing to the wishes of terrorists only encourages them. Last week Lindsay Hoyle, speaker of the House of Commons, was pressurised into overriding parliamentary convention because of an apparent risk to security. He spoke of “absolutely frightening” threats directed at MPs because of their reluctance to call for a ceasefire in Gaza. He also alluded to the murder of MP David Amess by an ISIS sympathiser. “I never want to go through a situation where I find a friend from any side has been murdered,” he said, “I also don’t want another attack on this House.” The word “Islamist” was not mentioned, as though not talking about the problem might make it disappear.

Hoyle is correct that the threat of violence is very real. Nobody would seek to downplay the murder of David Amess at his constituency surgery in Essex in 2021, or the beheading of schoolteacher Samuel Paty in Paris in 2020, or the massacre at the offices of satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in 2015. But our tendency to forget these atrocities, and move on as if nothing has happened, is chilling. Many of our politicians are too afraid to address the issues out of fear of being branded “islamophobic”, an absurd neologism often deployed to conflate anti-Muslim hatred with legitimate criticism of Islam.

How much reflection was there after the Manchester Arena bombing in May 2017 in which children and teenagers were slain? After the killing of Amess there was endless discussion in parliament about how we needed to crack down on social media, as though the radical Islamist responsible was motivated by online trolling rather than the creed of a medieval death-cult. We are like the woodland animals in another of Elia’s scenes, blissfully enjoying a picnic while armed and masked assailants appear on the horizon.

[ Credit: Miriam Elia ]

So while I have sympathy for Hoyle’s very human reaction to the spectre of violence, it is clear that the failure of politicians to accurately diagnose the problem is only making matters worse. Those few brave individuals who are prepared to speak out are putting themselves in danger. But with a collective effort the risk could be spread and at least become tolerable. After the Charlie Hebdo atrocity, media outlets refused to show the offending cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed, but if all of them had done so simultaneously, the threat could have been diluted.

If the speaker of the House of Commons is prepared to modify parliamentary procedures due to threats from far-left cranks and radical islamists, where does this leave our democracy? It is hardly surprising that increasingly we are seeing commentators claiming that the values of liberalism cannot be sustained against this particular brand of authoritarianism. They suggest that liberals are too weak to tackle those who do not share their commitment to individual freedom.

It is true that too often exemptions have been made out of fear of causing offence to religious minorities. Police in the north of England failed to enforce the law against predominately Pakistani grooming gangs for fear of being branded “racist”. The inquiry into the Manchester Arena bombing found that security guards held back from intercepting the killer for similar reasons. Sharia courts have been operating in the United Kingdom for decades and, although their rulings have no legal standing, they do hold authority within Muslim communities. And we have seen how police have overlooked some of the worst behaviour at the now regular pro-Palestine marches in London.

But this is not a weakness at the heart of liberalism; it is the failure to properly follow its principles. All branches of liberal thought – from the conservative liberalism of Friedrich Hayek to the social liberalism of John Rawls – share an understanding that the rule of law is paramount. Individual autonomy cannot be preserved if the state is unable to maintain the peace and impartially resolve the natural conflicts of human existence.

A well-intentioned commitment to multiculturalism has enabled parallel societies to flourish within the United Kingdom. In turn, this has granted authority to the most reactionary elements within religious communities. Sharia law may be an ambition for ultra-conservative theocrats, but many female and gay Muslims will not find it such an appealing prospect. We need to stop appeasing these minorities within minorities, small groups of extremists that by no means represent the average British Muslim. And this means that our parliamentarians must retain their courage, even in the face of violent threats.

More than anything, we need to be able to talk about this crisis with honesty and candour. However comforting it might be in the short term, our political class cannot go on living in their Sylvanian fantasy, wilfully oblivious to the masked elephant in the room. This denialism is a form of procrastination, putting off the inevitable for another day. The values of our liberal democracy and our hard-won rights are under threat. It’s time to grow up. 

A limited edition book of all the images in Miriam Elia’s “Isis in Sylvania” series is available to buy here. A signed limited edition print of the picnic scene is available here.

==

We have to stop being panicked when people claim to be offended.

[exhibit-of-the-century]

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, Paul Delaroche, 1833, Oil on Canvas, 246 x 197cm, National Gallery, London

Masterlist

BUY ME A COFFEE

I would not do this painting justice in my analysis of the work; I doubt words can ever do justice to that which is painted. Art forces us to attach and feel whatever the artist has placed before us, to empathise and connect to its display. No painting does that, in my opinion, as much as the painting “The Execution of Lady Jane Grey”.

An oil painting by Paul Delaroche, painted in 1833, completed long after the actual historical events, the painting attempts to represent the historical execution of Lady Jane Grey. It has been one that I’ve seen making the rounds on many “mentally ill girlies” Instagram posts and TikToks, due to the connotations of loss of innocence and girlhood. It is a painting that has come back into circles of discussion through its ability to emotionally connect to those feelings, and its forlornness, through the delicate portrayal of Lady Jane Grey.

Historically a Protestant believer, Lady Jane Grey was dubbed the “Nine Day Queen” due to the length of her reign. Proclaimed Queen of England during the Tudor period (1485 to 1605) was overshadowed by her relatives Mary Tudor and Elizabeth I, more so by Mary Tudor, “Bloody Mary”, a Catholic, as she succeeded her to the British throne, overthrowing Lady Jane Grey with the support of the English people due to the conflict of Protestant and Catholic beliefs of the time. Imprisoning Lady Jane Grey in the Tower of London on charges of high treason, wherein she was placed on trial and handed a death penalty. Presumed to be executed at the age of just 17, the painting takes on another layer of mourning and grief.

Located in room 45 of The National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, London, the painting hangs at 246 cm x 297 cm, taking up a quarter of the wall, it demands an audience. Drawing our attention in further with its colour composition, the Lady stands out against the dark background, aided by the gallery’s darker choice of wall paint, she becomes a beacon of white within the grey space.

(Visual Analysis under cut)

The painting depicts a white clad woman, Lady Jane Grey (LJG), surrounded by figures covered in far darker clothes. This choice of colour, specifically the choice to place LJG in a white silk dress, gives her an ethereal glow, almost angelic, symbolising her soon to be death and perhaps the hope that she passes onto heaven. Moreover, these ideas and themes prevails through the iconography in the background, tall pillars with details chiselled and carved into its walls. Patterns that you’d find in monasteries, cathedrals and catholic churches, known for their grandeur of detail. Furthermore, her hands outstretched and eyes blindfolded, she is guided by the man behind her, presenting her as a lamb to the slaughter, reinforced by the white dress and the straw laid at her knees.

The background is dark; the use of greys, blacks, and reds creates an oppressive atmosphere. Working in tandem with the white of the dress, the contrast highlights her, singling her out. To her left are two women, both clearly in states of distress, as shown by their positioning and expression. One hides her face, hands reaching skyward as if in prayer. However, the choice to hide her face, away from the execution implies mourning and a loss of hope; her prayers not being heard. While the other woman looks defeated; shoulders slumped, she loosely clutches a rosary, unlike the other woman she shows no desperation. From this body language we can infer that these women care for LJG, and from their golden jewellery and elaborate velvet dresses with embroidery, that they were of high status, perhaps ladies in waiting. This comparison between the ladies in waiting and LJG makes her seem bare, stripped of any layers of fabric and clothing that could protect her, or any representation of status.

On the right of LJG are two men, one further removed from the scene and one who guides her. The man closest to her, leans in with his arms around her, guiding her to the executioner’s block, while shielding her in some manner from the executioner’s presence, forming a greater divide, prolonging the inevitable. His body is close, head leaned in, as if whispering. LJG seems to wear a sombre expression, almost peaceful, hinting at her knowledge of what is going to happen to her, while simultaneously having given up the fight. The man’s bald spot suggests that he is a member of the clergy, and reinforcing this idea are his heavy long clothes and chain. His greying hair suggests ideas of a wise judgment, that this is what must happen to LJG, as she blindly (literally and figuratively) follows him. It could also be said that his wise demeanour backfires and suggests a perpetuation of old ideas surrounding the monarchy and needless violence in Britain at the time.

The other man stood a distance away is clearly the executioner as he wields a large axe and other objects of harm around his belt. He does not display the stereotypical characteristics of a willing executioner, as he holds the axe away from the scene, unwillingly handling it with a loose grip. His objects around the belt are on display but small and seemingly insignificant and lost to the greater detail of the scene. Through his body language, the executioner is also prolonging the inevitable demise of LJG, reinforcing the narrative of her as a beloved figure.

Despite the painting implying prevailing ideas of martyrdom surrounding LJG’s depiction of her execution, and how beloved she was by those around her, in the background you can make out spears and lances raised upright. Pocking out from behind the stage on which the execution is taking place, as if making a spectacle of her death, these lances are a show of strength. Perhaps here to represent her inability to escape or be aided by outside help, forced to die. Or perhaps to symbolise the overshadowing presence of Bloody Mary and her rise and dominance of power over this situation.

Next to her hang other, much smaller, paintings in comparison. This makes her the focal point and the main subject on this wall in the gallery. Furthermore, she is displayed next to the title “Academic and Romantic Painters”, which goes on to explain the 19th century artist’s mentalities and ideologies. Romantic painters, during the Romanticism period of art and literature, are defined by their new intrigue in human psychology, expression of personal feeling and interests in the natural world.

This artwork does just that. The painter, Paul Delaroche, was a French artist, during the time in which France was going through a phase of Anglomania: the excessive admiration of English customs. One might say they were just a bit obsessed with British history and reinventing it. More specifically this artist, who came from the romanticism period, was obsessed in capturing the emotions he had invested and read from historical accounts. However, there is a dramatic flair to the painting, as a lot of what is on display- such as the ladies in waiting, wailing in the corner- would not have actually been present at the execution.

As virtuosic as this painting is, we must bear in mind that this is a romanticisation of the execution and a departure from reality.

However, these creative liberties do not subtract from the painting’s genius, they afford the painting an even deeper feeling of despair at her demise, precisely the of a romantic artist. Although this painting comes from an artist who would’ve only had the capability of reading about this moment in time, it, to me, makes the painting all the more impressive in its ability to create such anguish, from 2D words into a painting that feels 3-Dimensional.

As I type my analysis and breakdown of the painting and its historical aspects, I sit in front of it as it gives me a greater chance to analyse the work in detail. A photographic reproduction can only do so much justice to a painting as they tend to lose their size, colour, and impact of when you first walk into a room and see it for the first time.

While sat down before the work, it gave me the chance to listen to and sometimes discuss aspects of it with other gallery goers. Some of the things that I’ve overheard have shaped my own understanding, interpretation, and further reflection from a modern perspective of the work.

“You see what you expect to see” – while this isn’t a false statement in the slightest, it is a shame to only look at a painting for what is just on the canvas. While the title given to this piece rightfully describes the scene exactly to us, there is a greater layer of representation and emotion. Also not all works will have a title, or name, that relates to what is on the canvas, looking at the greater context of who Delaroche was reveals many details about this work (please refer to the visual analysis). But also this was a very dry sarcastic quip made by a very tired British person, the humour of it is not lost on me.

But this did make me consider and reflect, as when you read the statement for the first time, I doubt you read it with that dry sarcasm. Which got me thinking on if it were just a plain, monotone, statement. Consider the title and the brutality behind the word ‘execution’ one that you may associate with medieval and outdated practices, but is still preformed today in prisons, consider the distancing of emotion when you hear that word. Consider: a brutal death execution delivered to a young girl. Historically it was an execution, but why not use the word death?

the carrying out of a plan, order, or course of action.

the carrying out of a sentence of death on a condemned person.

“This one is so pretty” – how can the planned murder of a young girl be ‘pretty’, why is this painting considered so beautiful? There was some intent in making her ethereal yes, but pretty? Was that what he intended, or was that a by product of the time of painting and style? Was this perhaps driven by the Anglomania gripping France at the time, and yet people today consider her pretty.

This line of thinking and pursuit of knowledge led me into considering the female form, her age, and the cultural (modern) obsession with making women beautiful in death. Although I’m not going to analyse this in detail here or deep dive into the history. But to highlight this phenomenon most prominently, through the photo of Evelyn McHale, hailed as the most beautiful suicide and reproduced in great detail over the centuries following the release of this photo.

I personally will not be posting the photo, but you can find it in one of the articles below.

These articles are for further reading, I do not fully agree with everything said and always read articles with a grain of salt, remember that there is always intention in any work.

Most notable ideas that followed suite were of objectification in art of women portrayed by men. Is this painting perhaps exhibiting some aspects of that?

I leave you to draw your own conclusions and understandings, as that is what art is all about.

(Feel free to let me know your thoughts, I’m always very curious)

Sources:

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

Tomorrow (May 10), I’m in VANCOUVER for a keynote at the Open Source Summit and a book event for Red Team Blues at Heritage Hall and on Thurs (May 11), I’m in CALGARY for Wordfest.

#15yrsago SF fanzines prefigured blogs: Roger Ebert https://web.archive.org/web/20080501000000*/https://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/05/fanzines_beget_blogs.html

#10yrsago Breathtaking ATM hack nets $45M in hours https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2013/05/how-hackers-allegedly-stole-unlimited-amounts-of-cash-from-banks-in-just-hours/

#10yrsago Porno copyright troll to Georgia judge: “Ignore California judge! They have gay marriage!” https://www.techdirt.com/2013/05/09/prenda-says-judge-wrights-order-is-inapplicable-georgia-because-california-recognizes-gay-marriage/

#10yrsago US State Department orders removal of Defense Distributed’s printable gun designs https://www.forbes.com/sites/andygreenberg/2013/05/09/state-department-demands-takedown-of-3d-printable-gun-for-possible-export-control-violation/?sh=6db85b27375f

#10yrsago Bake a Mean Spirited Censorship Pie with the Electronic Frontier Foundation https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2013/05/baking-eff-not-derby-pie-trademarked-treat

#10yrsago Warcraft numbers plummet; 14% drop in Q1/13 https://web.archive.org/web/20130608102812/http://paritynews.com/business/item/1053-world-of-warcraft-loses-13-million-subscribers-in-2013

#10yrsago Forcing your employees to do dumb Scientology exercises creates a “hostile work environment” https://www.eeoc.gov/newsroom/eeoc-sues-dynamic-medical-services-religious-discrimination

#10yrsago Anatomy of a state-sponsored phishing attack: how the Syrian Electronic Army hacked The Onion https://theonion.github.io/blog/2013/05/08/how-the-syrian-electronic-army-hacked-the-onion/

#5yrsago Amazon has a real fake review problem https://www.buzzfeed.com/nicolenguyen/amazon-fake-review-problem?utm_term=.mtVwea25G#.kkjrZxKao

#5yrsago Victory! Fourth Circuit rules that border officials can’t subject electronic devices to suspicionless forensic searches https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/05/fourth-circuit-rules-suspicionless-forensic-searches-electronic-devices-border-are

#5yrsago Trump’s Labor Department is planning a rollback of teen labor laws, allowing kids to work in “hazardous” jobs https://news.bloomberglaw.com/daily-labor-report/trump-administration-wants-to-train-teens-in-hazardous-jobs

#5yrsago Leaked Grenfell Towers papers: Tory politicians rejected fireproof cladding proposal for a 5.7% savings https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/may/08/grenfell-tower-more-costly-fire-resistant-cladding-plan-was-dropped

#5yrsago Chinese law professor: AI will end capitalism https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/theworldpost/wp/2018/05/03/end-of-capitalism/

#5yrsago Senators will be forced to vote on Ajit Pai’s decision to kill Net Neutrality https://www.theverge.com/2018/5/9/17333108/net-neutrality-congressional-review-act-cra-resolution-vote-senate

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, DC, Gaithersburg, Oxford, Hay, Manchester, Nottingham, London, and Berlin!

[xxnightmaregirlxx]

Funny day 5 draft for kinktober I forgot to post / finish due to a wedding

Tags lol

Collaring, gimp mask, pet play, AMAB X AFAB, ( it is gender Neutral it just has a dick uses it/ him ), , vague Resemblance to a dog. Read this if you'd wanna top the shit out of my OC lol. His name is doug, bottom but will top maybe in this ? Idk. Masterbastion, grinding, licking, kinda oral?? Not really, dirty talk, kinda relationship? Horn grabbing, ridding, this is just straight porn okay I wanna touch men And I can't right now cause I'm busy with work and no man actually wants this tight Cunt right now. She her pronouns for the reader sorry ( if you want u can just take it And put it into a Google doc and change it you got my permission but if you post it please credit Me <3 dubious con, / con non con, vaginal sex,

The day was old, the sun was low; the night had just come into attendance. You sat on the bed reading a book waiting for sleep to make itself evident enough to try and rest after a 10 hour work day. Doug stumbled into the room as if he were drunk which you knew wasn't the case with him. He crashed to his knees next to the bed after wobbling towards you. He scuttles on his knees To be able to place his head on your upper shin.

He lets out a drained groan and you place a hand on the back of his latex clad head. His hands fly up from his sides and he grips your leg. You see him rub against his legs in a way to move his thighs closer together and you can infer what he needs.

“Does my Doug-y dog wanna play?” You ask flirtatiously and he lets out a moan.

“Yes Master.. I need you right now…” his deep hoarse voice is more audible when he moves his head to the side to look at you; the right side of its head on your shin and its arms lax, and it's hands lay and your leg in waiting.

You push it back a little bit so it's looking up at you while it's on its knees. His black eyes seem to hold a drawn out yearning that could've been for days.

He always waits until the last moment before he asks for what he needs.

“Get on the bed for me, okay Doug-y Dog.”

“Yes master! Of course master!”

He says coming up from the ground and stammering on to the bed next to you sitting on his knees and you meet him in the same position.

The zipper of his mask is closed and you gently open It and his breath gets labored.

You slowly peel the masks’ mouth apart to get to Doug's real mouth with your left hand and you scoot closer to him on the bed.

His mouth unnoticeably tightens just a little but you see The action because of how close you are to him.

His lips are chapped, one of the key indicators that it had not been taking care of itself unless you do the task at hand.

Your thighs are mere inches apart as you carefully lick at Doug's lips making them wet. Doug's body tenses at the sensation of your wet tongue against his mouth and craves for what's to come in the night.

Your tongue prods at his lips begging to come visit inside. Your hands are around Dougs head. He lets out a small moan and opens his lips a miniscule amount for you to plunge your tongue in his mouth forcefully.

You do just that and before you two inevitably exchange saliva your tongue dives into its throat and the vibration of a moan tickles your tasting muscle.

You remove it quickly and as Doug makes a complaint in the form of a horny whine your mouth is already connected to its own and Doug And you begin To make out.

Your hands remain on the back of Doug's head and Doug stumbles around on the bed still enveloped in your maw, moves you onto his thighs so he can get a better grip on your waist as your tongue penetrates his mouth, and he merely, so ever dainty, laps at the inside of your mouth with a desperate desire to show you how much you mean to him.

The both of you are tense and beginning to feel that all familiar pent up feeling so you tug on one of the ears on Dougs mask to let him know you want something else from him now.

You both pull away and spit is left in the wake of the moth merging passion.

“Yes Master, what do you require of me…?” He asks, placing his head on your chest and looking up at you with his widened eyes.

“Lay on the bed Doug-y dog, now.” You demanded it.

“Y-es Master! Anything!” you climb off him and it's quick to lay in the middle of the bed waiting for you.

You get off the bed and go to the closet where all the toys are. You take out a claiming collar and the key that goes with the lock on it.

You hide it behind your back and look back to Doug. You see his pleading cock through his leather pants and you curse yourself for not fucking him sooner as you needed this to.

His horny To the point of dumbness look always made you wild.

He looked at you expectantly as you revealed how you were gonna play with him. The collar you were holding was your favorite, you could lock it around his Neck, to be a reminder of even after you were finished making him shoot till The point Of blanks, it belonged to you.

You didn't know his favorite toy, cause even after stating your opinion on what he liked the most didn't mater he'd tell you whatever you wanted was his favorite, but you could tell he liked this one alot based on the cocky remarks he'd make only while wearing it so you'd be rougher with him to show your affections.

He let out a sigh.

“Awe~ you love me~” He says fidgeting with one of the masked ears.

You climb back onto the bed and straddle his pelvis with collar and key in hand. You lean closer To him and wrap it around his neck; then close the small lock to close it.

Your mouth is right next to his ear.

“I love you more than anything, my pet.”

Your hand flies up to his hand, still holding the masked ear and you gently hold it. He lets out another groan, one deep and destroyed. It was grained and desperate.

“...Fuck..i..”

His breathing is shaky and he pulls you flesh to his chest onto the bed.

“I love you master! I love you so fucking much! I need you! I..I!”

It sounds like he's hyperventilating. But you know he just does that when he's getting what he wants and he's happy. If he had a tail you'd know it'd be wagging.

“I need you to hurt me! ….hurt me good master please! I need this now!”

It says thrusting up into your clothed cunt, in defiance you dig your cunt down to tease him and he is quick To swipe a hand into your hair to pull it when he's enjoying himself.

He makes a quick High pitched whine, as He Began whine more rapidly.

“..N..ot fair..!” he says excited.

It takes some force and pushes you down on to your back and straddles you, not uncommon. He laps at your face as his own little demented form of affection.

[featurenews]

Seven years after Grenfell disaster, thousands live in fear of cladding fire

As the final report on the fatal London blaze looms, many developers have not begun safety work • Rowan Moore: The Grenfell inquiry is exposing a culture of contempt that has run deep in Britain Grenfell was an avoidable tragedy, the inquiry’s counsel said on the final day of hearings. Yet with the report into the blaze that claimed 72 lives due this week, residents of other tower blocks fear that not enough has been done to prevent another catastrophe. One of them is Gemma Lindfield. The 45-year-old barrister is still waiting for flammable cladding to be removed from her eight-storey apartment block in east London. It took three years before anyone even realised there was a problem. The following four years have been mired in indecision and wrangling about exactly who will pay to fix it. Continue reading... https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/article/2024/sep/01/grenfell-seven-years-cladding-fire-blaze-safety?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

[pspowerwashing1]

Rejuvenate Your Property's Exterior with Pressure Washing Services in London

London's vibrant streets are filled with a rich tapestry of architectural styles, from historic townhouses to modern skyscrapers. Yet, regardless of the architectural era, one thing remains constant: the need to maintain the exterior appearance of buildings and outdoor spaces. Over time, dirt, grime, moss, and pollution can accumulate, dulling the beauty of your property.

Fortunately, pressure washing services in London offer a powerful solution to restore and rejuvenate your property's exterior surfaces. In this blog post, we'll delve into the benefits of pressure washing and why it's an essential service for homeowners and businesses alike in the bustling city of London.

The Benefits of Pressure Washing:

Revives Curb Appeal: The exterior of your property is the first impression visitors and passersby have of your home or business. Pressure washing effectively removes dirt, stains, and discoloration, instantly enhancing curb appeal and leaving a lasting positive impression.

Protects Against Damage: Built-up grime, algae, and mold can not only diminish the appearance of your property but also cause long-term damage to surfaces such as brick, concrete, wood, and siding. Pressure washing helps prevent deterioration and prolongs the lifespan of exterior materials.

Improves Hygiene and Health: Mold, mildew, and algae growth not only look unsightly but can also pose health risks to occupants. Pressure washing eliminates these harmful substances, creating a healthier environment for residents, employees, and customers.

Enhances Property Value: A well-maintained exterior significantly increases the value of your property. Whether you're looking to attract potential buyers or simply take pride in ownership, pressure washing is a cost-effective investment that yields impressive returns.

Areas that Benefit from Pressure Washing:

Building Facades: Whether your property is clad in brick, stucco, vinyl siding, or another material, pressure washing removes dirt, grime, and pollutants, restoring the original beauty of the façade.

Driveways and Walkways: High-traffic areas such as driveways and walkways are prone to staining from oil, grease, and tire marks. Pressure washing effectively cleans these surfaces, enhancing safety and aesthetics.

Patios and Decks: Over time, patios and decks can become discolored and slippery due to algae, moss, and mildew growth. Pressure washing removes these hazards, making outdoor spaces safer and more enjoyable.

Roofing: Moss, algae, and lichen can compromise the integrity of your roof and detract from its appearance. Pressure washing safely removes these organic growths, extending the life of your roof and improving its curb appeal.

Choosing the Right Pressure Washing Service:

Experience and Expertise: Look for a pressure washing company with years of experience and a proven track record of delivering exceptional results.

Equipment and Techniques: Ensure that the company uses professional-grade equipment and employs safe, effective pressure washing techniques to avoid damage to your property.

Eco-Friendly Practices: Consider hiring a company that uses environmentally friendly cleaning solutions and adheres to sustainable practices to minimize the impact on the environment.

Customer Reviews: Read online reviews and testimonials from previous clients to gauge the company's reputation and customer satisfaction levels.

Conclusion: Pressure washing is a highly effective way to restore and rejuvenate your property's exterior surfaces, enhancing curb appeal, protecting against damage, and improving overall hygiene and health.

Whether you're a homeowner looking to maintain your investment or a business owner aiming to attract customers, pressure washing services in London offer a convenient and cost-effective solution to transform your outdoor space. With the expertise of experienced professionals and the power of high-pressure water, you can enjoy a clean, vibrant property that stands out in the bustling cityscape of London.

[arjaandsimoni]

South to Sri Lanka

Long Long Ago…

Once upon a time, there was an order of Faerie Warriors known as the Dullahan. The Headless Knights of Arcadia.

These deathly fae feed on the fear and terror of those doomed to die, often travelling the land with banshees to sup upon those who hear the footsteps of the reaper drawing near.

Clad as they often are in night-black armor, long cloaks, and riding nightmarish steeds, they are sometimes even mistaken for Death himself. (Which is a mistake, Death is not a man at all.)

They often served the darker gentry as soldiers, sometimes going to war against their rivals in Arcadia, sometimes sent to the mortal realm to harass and terrify the mortal agents of those who had earned their master’s ire.

She was one of them, so long ago. Her lord was aligned with the Tuatha de Dannan, but like Izzy and her leprechauns they broke from their allegiance with Clan Fullmoon upon the forging of Claiomh Dorcadas.

… except, when the trods closed, she was on the wrong side.

Trapped in the mundane world, her memories of Arcadia slowly withered away. The woman even lost her ability to remove her head to inspire terror in the mortal populace. She soon forgot she ever was anything but a mortal woman.

She lived for a very long time of course, centuries, but did not question this. She thought it odd, but had no desire to die, so she would simply move on from a village when her unchanging nature began to draw undue attention.

This went on for years and years, through the ages… until…

September 7th, 1940, London England

Claire, as she had taken to calling herself, awoke suddenly to the sounds of sirens. Screams came from outside as she climbed out of bed and wandered to the window. It was dark, but she saw shapes moving in the sky… then she thought she saw small objects falling from them.

Then the explosions came.

She fell to the floor with a gasp, scrambling to her feet as she peered out the window again, and saw the buildings on the far side of the Thames were ablaze! She could see people fleeing the fire, heading for the safety of the underground or sturdier buildings, then more explosions rocked the city.

Claire threw her clothes on and rushed down the stairs, having no desire to die in flames, and made it out onto the street as a panicked crowd of Londoners charged past her… and she smelled something.

A deep acrid smell, but not unpleasantly so. It felt like catching the scent of a meal she had so long ago that she’d forgotten she’d ever eaten it.

She stumbled a bit in confusion, looking around again... and her vision swam. Some of the Londoners suddenly didn’t look all that human to her. They had cloven hooves instead of feet, or multifaceted eyes. Some were pale skinned with fangs. Some were hairy, almost obscenely so, and able to run faster than the others.

She felt like she might be going mad. She leaned against the wall, taking another deep breath, and the thick stench of pure pungent fear filled her senses.

She shuddered, and suddenly she began to recall who she was.

She looked around, breathing in again, drawing the smell… the fear… the glamour into herself… and grinned.

Then she looked up at the planes that were flying overhead. She smelled no fear there…

She grinned wider, her eyes becoming black as pitch. Perhaps it was time to fix that.

There was an eruption of ghostly flames, the people in the crowd crying out in panic as they feared one of the German’s bombs had landed nearby… then the screams began as people saw what was there when the smoke cleared.

A woman clad in armor black as night, holding a battleaxe with a wicked sawblade edge to it, and a head swirling with pale blue flames. She whistled loudly and there was a clatter of hooves that seemed to echo all around them as a pale white horse emerged as if from nowhere.

Good god what IS that?! cried one of the people in the crowd.

Lord have mercy! Its one of the four horsemen! The end has come for us! shouted another.

A Dullahan… GO! RUN NOW! I’D RATHER BE BLOWN TO BITS THAN GO BACK THERE! shouted a man in the crowd with goat legs and horns, rushing off with two of his friends for the nearest tunnel down.

Claire ignored them all, leaping astride her steed which reared and let out an ear-shattering scream. The crowd cried out, their hearts catching in terror, and Claire drank deeply of their fear. Then the steed ran down the street before leaping up, and again, and again, racing up into the sky!

She rode into the sky, drunk on power and glamour, heading towards the airplanes above. She drew close to one and with a swing of her axe the plane’s wing was severed, the pilot screaming inside as the plane spiraled down to crash into the Thames!

She guided her steed towards another, then another, and soon the Germans realized they were under attack! They radioed back and forth, but none of them could figure out what was doing this!

Is it some sort of new weapon the English have?

I don’t know! I saw something that looked like a woman on horseback before it took down one of our’s!

A woman on horseback?! Are you mad or stupid?! That’s impossi-

Didn’t copy that! What? SHIT! I THINK THAT’S HIM GOING DOWN NOW! SHIT SHIT! ITS COMING FOR ME! SOMEONE RADIO IT BACK TO BASE! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK FROM… FROM… I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL IT IS! I- AAAAAAAAAUGH! IT CUT THE PROPELLER, AND THE TAIL!

Claire cackled as the German planes crashed one by one, a dozen of them in flames on the ground below. Those who survived found themselves in the middle of London injured, alone, and surrounded by those whose homes they were attempting to destroy… and Claire drank deeply of the horror they felt at the realization of their fate.

Finally, the bombers retreated back to their base, not willing to continue with this new unidentified threat and feeling the need to report it to their superiors and Claire arced down towards the ground. As soon as she landed, however...

NOW LADS! came the cry!

Claire snarled as a net woven from wire was thrown over her and her steed, the horse screaming as it vanished in a burst of ghostly fire, the Dullahan trapped under the net as four men dove atop her.

She struggled, but her weapon was no use against this! It wasn’t just wire, it was cold iron worked into threads! It burned just to touch it!

Behind the men stood an older woman wearing a cloak of raven feathers and a silver circlet set with a Celtic knot.

I think we got her. What should we do with this one Matriarch Eliza? asked one of the men.

A rogue Dullahan… aye, cannae deny I enjoyed seein’ ‘er show those German arseholes what fer, but we cannae risk 'er gettin’ captured by ‘em. Cannae kill 'em, they’re too close ta dead already… ‘n cannae send ‘er home either. said the older woman, sighing and shaking her head.

Nothin’ fer it, its Inishmore fer this ‘un.

Inishmore it was. The hidden prison of those supernatural threats that Clan Fullmoon couldn’t kill, banish, or remove by other means.

Trapped in a cell with cold iron bars, in a pit lined with fragments of void iron, the Dullahan slowly withered back away to the woman she had been before, her memories fading away like morning mist…

Until…

Inishmor Island, Several Decades Later

Claire looked up, hearing a loud roar and the sound of metal snapping and breaking, to see a giant of a woman with one huge eye standing outside her cell.

Aftó eínai állo éna. Xekína! I éxodos eínai ekeí! grinned the woman.

Claire looked up at her in confusion, cocking her head. Whatever the woman had just said was no language she recognized.

The woman sighed in an annoyed way, flicking a silver clip on her ear as if trying to prod a broken device into working again, then she just pointed at Claire, then pointed towards the exit to the prison.

That was when Claire noticed the bodies of her jailers, and the fact that several other cells were missing their doors.

She gasped, then nodded in understanding and raced up the path out of the pit towards the fresh air… and as soon as she was out.

She smelled it again. From the Fullmoon agents who had been trying to defend their prison, to the group attacking them as they realized one of their own had unfortunately decided to go to far.

Fresh. Pungent. FEAR.

She laughed, and suddenly was clad in armor once more, her head bursting into ghostly flames as she tucked it under her arm and summoned her steed again, then took to the skies, leaving the island behind. The world was vast after all, and there were other sources to feed from well away from her captors.

Claire, the Dullahan Knight, formerly of the Tuatha de Dannan rode into the night sky once more, grinning as she imagined all the new sights and flavors of fear she could encounter.

Thalassery, Present Day

Arja stared down at Indrajit, then roared in fury, “NO! He has the arrow! SIMONI! GO! WE HAVE TO GET IT BACK!” she shouted. Together, still invoking the firebird, they dove towards Indrajit only to face a sudden deluge of debris being heaved at them! Tires, streetlamps, bits of broken concrete, anything that his rakshasa could lay hands on became a missile as the Prince fled the city with his guardsmen!

They tried to keep up, but the rakshasa favored anything they could find that was inflammable, and soon Simoni was forced to gain altitude or risk being knocked from the sky! She swirled upwards the flames dissipating as she watched the prince disappear into the horde of retreating monsters, then stared. “How did he… oh no, Arja! If he has the arrow, what happened to the temple?!” she gasped.

Arja’s eyes widened, “TURN AROUND! FAST!” she shouted as Simoni nodded and banked around, flying with all speed back to the Temple of Rama.

The girls fears were unfounded however, the Temple was damaged, but intact. Outside it however Nelen had a young priest by the shirt, holding him against the wall with one hand raised as if to punch him.

“Nelen!” she called out, landing and letting Arja off her back as she changed back to her human form. “We have to go! Indrajit has the arrow!”

Nelen nodded, “I know…” he growled, staring daggers at the priest. Next to him was Dawn, her face bruised and her claws and fangs bared, hissing like an angry cat at him.

Fifteen Minutes Ago, Inside the Temple…

Tex sighed, shuffling the Very Useful Deck nervously. “I just feel like we could be out there helpin’…” he frowned. He was wearing a plain teeshirt and jeans under his duster coat, his gun holstered under it to hide it.

Dawn shrugged, leaning against the wall, her arms folded behind her head. She was dressed in her usual violently clashing look of a neon pink sockhat, aviator glasses, a purple teeshirt with the legend ‘When you’ve understood this scripture, throw it away. If you can’t understand this scripture, throw it away. I insist on your freedom,’ a pair of baggy cargo pants, and sneakers. “Look, Nelen and the others can handle the rakshasa, he needs someone inside incase Indrajit decides to try something sneaky again.” she nodded.

Tex shrugged, “I suppose… just… I mean Stephy is out there ‘n…” he sighed.

Dawn grinned, “And you wonder why Sammi keeps calling you ‘Prince Cowboy.’ He’s a changeling and a Fullmoon, he’s got this… worry about… eh?” she paused, seeing someone coming up from the vault room.

Tex looked over and saw him as he headed towards them. He was dressed in the garb of a priest, but was very young, and his clothes looked new. He might have just joined the temple recently.

He stumbled along, not really watching where he was going, and stumbled into one of the tables in the main area of the temple. He gasped as it knocked into his arm and an object fell out from under his clothes, a long metal tube that could be unscrewed at one end.

Tex pointed a finger at it, “HEY! That’s th’ carryin’ case for th’ arrow!” he shouted, “What’re ya’ll doin’ with that?!” he demanded.

The priest’s head snapped to look at him, then he let out a strangled cry, grabbed it, and ran for the exit as fast as he could!

“SHIT! GET HIM!” shouted Dawn as she vanished, Tex running after him as fast as he could go (which was quite fast indeed) but the priest seemed to be driven by terror.

As he got outside he ran around the corner of the temple, heading for the wall surrounding the building… and suddenly Dawn appeared infront of him, whipping off her sunglasses! “NOT TODAY! TIME FOR SOME BAD DREA-…” she began, then let out a loud yowl as the priest panicked and slammed the case into her face as hard as he could!

Dawn fell to the ground, clutching at her nose and cursing as she kicked her legs in fury, the man getting to the wall. “THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT ISN’T IT?! J-JUST TAKE IT AND GO AWAY!” he shouted, throwing the carrying case over the wall just as Tex tackled him from behind.

Dawn sat up and growled, wiping the blood from her nose, then she looked up and teleported atop the wall, looking out into the streets.

She saw eight rakshasa, one of them opening the tube and examining the contents, then grinning and nodding to the others before they began to retreat from the temple grounds, heading to Indrajit with their prize.

“… dammit…” she hissed, then she vanished again.

The Temple of Rama, Now

The priest whimpered as Nelen glared at him, “Well? Wanna explain yourself?” he snapped.

He struggled, “T-the monsters wanted the arrow right? Its just one old arrow! If we didn’t give it to them they’d have killed us all! I-I don’t want to die!” he insisted.

“Lemme claw him Nelen… lemme give him something to remember me by…” hissed Dawn, the Cheshire clearly furious. It was very rare that an enemy was fast enough to hit her, and this wasn’t even an enemy, it was just some random mundane who got a lucky shot! It was hard to tell which he hurt worse, her nose or her pride.

Then they heard footsteps as the head priest approached, “Ravi… let him go please Mr. Fullmoon.” he sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Ravi only joined the temple recently, his faith in our Lord Rama has much room to grow it seems.”

Nelen grunted, then dropped him on the ground and stepped back. “H-head priest! I was trying to save us! Its just one arrow, now that the monsters have it, they’re going to leave!” stammered Ravi.

The older man shook his head, “It is not just an arrow. It is the prison of King Ravana, and now the rakshasa have the means to free him.” he nodded.

The other priests in the crowd gasped in shock and horror, and Ravi’s eyes widened. “I… n-no… oh no… what have I done…” he whispered, clutching at his head as he looked at the ground.

The head priest nodded to Nelen, “Leave him be Mr. Fullmoon. This is a matter for the temple, we will deal with him.” he nodded.

Nelen sighed, but nodded back and stepped away as several of the priests led him back inside the temple walls. “So… Indrajit has the arrow… now what the fuck do we do?” he frowned.

Arja stepped forward, “I know what. Before I came out here King Hanuman came and talked to me. He told me that Morrigan has a backup plan, but we gotta get to Sri Lanka first. That’s where Indrajit is heading now.”

The group looked at her, then Nelen nodded, “Yeah that makes sense. Sri Lanka was Ravana's seat of power before Rama defeated him. Indrajit probably wants to make sure he’s on his old home turf when he frees him. Did Hanuman say what Morrigan’s plan is?” he asked.

She shook her head, “No, just that we need to get to Sri Lanka first.”

Nelen grinned, “Easy enough.” he replied, walking to a wall and knocking on it. “Open up, you bastards!” he called out in Lemurian, and once more the door to the Wulfshead appeared.

Sri Jayewardenepura Kotte, Sri Lanka, a few minutes later

Nelen stepped out of the club with the others in tow, Arja’s phone to his ear. “Yeah, so we need you to get in touch with whoever is in charge here and explain that those monsters that attacked Thalassery are on the way here now. We’ll do what we can when they arrive, but if we can at least get some mundane soldiers standing by… well… bullets will still hurt a rakshasa if you use enough of them.” he said into it.

“I will see what I can do, but Jaipur has few dealings with Sri Lanka…” replied Rajesh, “Still, after what has been happening they may believe us.”

“We can hope…” he nodded, then ended the call and handed the phone back to Arja. “Well, one advantage we’ve got. It takes about two days or so by car to get here, so Indrajit’s army won’t be here immediately.”

Arja nodded, “Rakshasa move fast, but not that fast. We probably have…” she checked her map app on her phone, “… at least three, maybe four days to prepare.”

Nelen nodded, “Right, lets find a hotel somewhere and get ready.” he replied as the others agreed, Natasha moreso as she could practically feel the sun creeping up over the horizon. They had been fighting for a good chunk of the night. While it may not kill her anymore, she did not like being unable to move.

As the group headed off in search of lodgings Arja hung back, and so did Simoni.

The two glanced at each other… then finally Simoni spoke up, “Arja… are you okay?” she asked.

Arja sighed, “Not really, no. I hate that this is happening, I hate that we caused it even by accident…” she glanced down at the ground, then back up and set her jaw, “But, I can’t just let that crush me. I’m the scion of King Hanuman. If I don’t stand against Indrajit, who will?”

Simoni smiled at her, then took the vanara girl’s hand in her own and gave it a tight squeeze. “We will Arja. Both of us.” she nodded, turning to face her.

Arja grinned, then pulled her into a tight hug, heedless of where they were, and kissed her, the garuda giggling and returning the kiss.

They both paused as the heard murmurs around them, a few early morning risers giving them some looks. Public displays of affection were frowned upon where they were, especially for couples like them...

Arja looked around, ready to defend them if anyone got any funny ideas… then Simoni spun around, shapeshifted into her garuda form, and bent down with her wings fluffed out at her sides as she let out a furious bird-like shriek, then spun to face the rest of the onlookers and did it again, louder! Each one caused a blast of wind to shoot through the area, the crowd quickly dispersing in shock at the strange sight!

Simoni stood up straight and changed back, shaking herself, then noticed Arja’s bemused expression.

“Did… did you really just puff yourself up and scream at them like a pissed off owl?” she asked, biting back a laugh.

Simoni raised her eyebrow, “It has been a hell of a few months Arja, and I’m rapidly running out of shits to give.” she replied, “Now lets go find the others so we can get things sorted for when Indrajit arrives.”

As the two set off however, the rakshasa were making better time than they might expect…

Somewhere north of Sri Lanka

The armies of Indrajit pushed through the jungle, the Prince resting inside a palanquin being carried by four of the larger ones as he carefully examined the arrow.

“Such a small thing to contain my father’s greatness…” he murmured, “But how to break it? A hammer will do naught, and the arrow shaft is just wood. The arrowhead must be where he is… I suppose, hm… perhaps…” he sighed, gazing out the window as the jungle drifted past.

“Oh Sulochana, if only I could have you here for my moment of triumph…” he shook his head, wiping his eyes, then scowling. “Once we have restored our kingdom my first goal will be to track down this ‘powerful wielder of ice’ and make an example of them.” he nodded firmly, then glanced down at the arrow again.

“Can you hear me father? Does my voice carry into your prison? Do not despair, soon you will be free once more.” he whispered, sliding the arrow back into the case and closing it tight.

Next Story

Previous Story

[atharianwriter-archived-2023]

James Bond Drabbles: Apple Pie for the 4th July

From a flat in the heart of London, the sweet fragrance of apple wafted from its open windows.

Inside, the sounding of a timer elicited an excited reaction from the flats youngest occupant, as she peered through the closed oven door to catch a glimpse of the now golden brown bake within.

For the duration of the baking time, she had sat watching proceedings on the floor in front of the cooker much to the amusement of her parent, who had chosen to keep the child company on the kitchen floor; both to ensure she didn’t try and open the oven unsupervised and because if anyone from MI6 had entered the flat at that moment - the sight of James Bond dressed in flour speckled sweats and T-shirt, sitting on his kitchen floor with his back resting against the cabinet’s and arms draped across his bent knees in front of him, would have caused some double takes.

“Daddy, it’s ready.” Kaley announced unnecessarily, as she spun around on her bum to face the agent who offered a quirk of his lips in amusement as he moved an arm from his knee to switch off the timer on his phone which lay on the floor near his hip.

“Yes it is,” the agent agreed, sitting up straighter and mirroring the girls crossed legged position so that their knees were touching. “Shall we see how it went?”

“Yeah!” The girl replied enthusiastically, as James’ lips curved into a more fond smile.

“Alright then.” James moved gracefully from his crossed leg position into standing in moments before holding his hand out for the little girl, who immediately latched on and giggled as he pulled her gently to her sock clad feet. Putting his phone on the counter, he picked up the previously discarded oven gloves (Alec’s contribution to the kitchen accessories) and put his hand into one of the mitts while turning off the cooker.

“Step back,” he instructed, before opening the oven door and moving his head away from the heat and wafting smoke (he was teaching his daughter cooking safety after all). “Remember to wait for the heat to pass before you put your head and hands near the open oven,” he continued as he squatted down to pull out the oven dish containing a pie. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of Uncle Alec’s eyebrows.”

Kaley giggled at the memory of Alec Trevelyan’s singed eyebrows. “No,” she agreed amongst giggles as James stood up and moved the dish to a waiting cooling rack; using his leg to close the oven door again as he smiled at the amused youngster, who had moved to grab the small step she had been using earlier to stand beside the agent at the counter top.

Removing the oven mitts, James rested his elbows on the counter top so that he and Kaley were eye level before picking up a small knife from the knife stand, holding it blade up in front of them both.

“We’re going to use this to test if the middle is hot enough.” He said, as he faced Kaley whose own hands rested flat on the counter top - the slight fidgeting he felt against his shoulder the only sign of childish impatience. “We don’t want to bring an undercooked apple pie with us later.”

Using the very tip of the knife, James broke through the top crust and watched as steam immediately rose and frosted on the blade. “So far, so good,” he muttered as he pushed the blade in further before pulling it out again with remnants of the apple baked innards clinging to it. Bringing the knife back toward them, the Double Oh made a show of blowing on the knife before running the flat side of the blade between his lips to taste what had been on it. He gave a small ‘hmm’ as he nodded to the young girl and put down the knife.

“It’s perfect.” James concluded as Kaley gave a small whoop.

“Do you think Uncle Felix will like it?” The girl asked quietly, as she moved to rest her head against Bond’s shoulder in shyness.

Felix Leiter was currently on a three day layover in London and had invited Bond and a few others over for a 4th July meal. Bond had initially turned him down citing childcare - Felix had learned of Kaley shortly after the Dominic Greene affair, and often asked after the youngster when the two men reunited sporadically in the field - but the CIA operative had been happy for the youngster to come along as long as Bond was okay with it.

This had led to Kaley shyly asking if they could make an apple pie for the man after learning a little about the 4th of July in school, which Bond agreed to (after a quick text to Felix who had been delighted with the idea).

James rested his head slightly against Kaley’s before turning his face to plant a kiss in soft brown strands and lifting his head back up. “I’m sure he will.” the agent assured. “And, not to mention Mr. Tanner will also be there with his wife and possibly Maisie.”

“I like Maisie.” Kaley shared, thinking of the older red headed girl she had spent time with during a brief stay with the Tanners while both James and Alec had been on mission, as she lifted her own head back up.

“I know.” Bond spoke softly, before straightening back up. “Come on,” he said, moving behind the young girl and picking her up from behind which caused Kaley to give a surprised shriek that turned to giggles as the agent brought her up to his chest so that her legs dangled against his own. “Let’s get ready to go.” He said planting another kiss on her head as small hands lightly gripped at his biceps.

( wrote this listening to music on the tube home last night. hope it’s okay. debating to add a small second part with Felix tasting the pie but not sure yet 🙈 it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything fanfic related )

[reclaimedflooringcoo]

Purchasing Reclaimed Floorboards in London and the UK

As more and more people re-evaluate their impact on the planet, environmental awareness and conscious consumption have increasingly been on the rise.

The use of natural material is at the top of the agenda — with designers, professionals, and homeowners embracing “greener” lifestyles and finding brilliant ways to incorporate organic textures whilst maintaining a more current aesthetic.

Besides being good for the environment, natural materials are durable, improve the microclimate of indoor spaces, and look stylish regardless of interior design and changing styles.

For many, this means not just using sustainably sourced products, but ones that last for decades without being shipped to the landfill.

Reclaimed timber, also known as salvaged, re-worked or antique wood, is the epitome of the world of natural materials and for obvious reasons. Not only is it the most renewable and sustainable resource you could possibly choose, but it evokes a profound sense of nature, has therapeutic properties, and ages beautifully, developing a wonderful patina over time.

Reclaimed wood flooring, reclaimed wood cladding, reclaimed wood siding, reclaimed wood beams, reclaimed wood stairs, reclaimed wood furniture — it’s everywhere… and it represents impactful stories of repurposing and making use of what would have otherwise been abandoned and wasted.

What are reclaimed floorboards?

The use of reclaimed timber to finish and decorate both residential and commercial buildings isn’t a new concept, but it’s seen a surge in popularity especially with the green building and remodelling boom.

Reclaimed flooring (often oak, chestnut or pine) is simply “upcycled” wood finish with a past life used for a new purpose.

Perhaps it was a storage crate, wine barrel, retired ship or a part of a building, typically an old barn, factory, warehouse, and it is of good enough quality to be milled and fashioned into new antique floorboards.

Discovering the beauty of reclaimed floorboards

For many, the true beauty of reclaimed timber is in its rich history as well as distinctive charm, beauty and narrative. Used in and around the home, the flooring provides whispers and echoes of the past and looks beautifully aged yet timeless. It is these character qualities that make reclaimed floorboards popular throughout the UK.

The use of sophisticated, warm wood textures lends a rustic look that almost seamlessly connects your living space to the natural world. For some, it’s more than the aesthetics — it’s the conservation element that makes reclaimed wood their number one choice for their next interior project. Still others, it’s its durability and strength that captures their attention and makes reclaimed floorboards a meaningful design component.

What goes into a reclaimed wood floor?

Unlike virgin floors from freshly cut trees, milling reclaimed floorboards have far less impact on the environment.

Traditional methods involved in the creation of floorboards can be a depleting process requiring enormous amounts of energy output for harvesting and an energy-intensive milling process.

The process of designing reclaimed floorboards bypasses this environmental harm. Many of the steps required to prepare the salvaged wood to relieve pressure on our forests and uses 13 times less cumulative energy. Having already survived through decades or even centuries growing in clean, pollution-free air and soil, the wood has also matured within the projects it has graced and taken on the glow of many years of exposure to the elements too.

This makes reclaimed wood flooring even more sustainable, as no extra trees need to be felled to create a beautiful wood floor with a look and feel that cannot be duplicated. After saving the wood from the demolished site, manufacturers set about reworking the old wood planks into exceptional reclaimed flooring, removing the nails and bolts, cleaning and finishing the wood, mostly by hand, and dried in a kiln to sterilise and ensure it is dried down to the proper moisture content intended for interior application.

Here it undergoes a plethora of delicate restorative and transformative techniques to obtain a good top and a good bottom. A lot of skill and creativity gives the wood a new lease on life, making the manufactured floorboards ready for yet more decades of experience in the heart of a newly built project.

Throughout the process of extending the service life of old timber into new floorboards, the wood retains carbon, keeping potentially harmful gas locked out of the atmosphere. This alone, makes reclaimed wood sit in a very strong position of what a truly, naturally sustainable product is all about.

Being recycled between key stages of its lifecycle and lasting for generations whilst ageing gracefully within the built environment makes reclaimed floorboards instrumental to the circular economy model. These environmentally friendly credentials also mean newly reclaimed floors can last another 100 years — meaning low energy and waste manufacturing as well as an overall happier and healthier planet.