#Cladding Removal London

[cherrycranes]

Private Show (Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader) [+18]

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x female reader Summary: You're a burlesque star who caught the eye of the infamous Tommy Shelby, and one night after your show he decides to pay you a little visit backstage. Word count: 3,292 Contents: (Minors DNI) Unprotected sex, hair pulling, semi public sex? pull out, cum shot. Author's notes: Once more, my bestie @fuckiingloser and I collaborated to make this. Give her some love! I've had this in mind for quite a while now so I hope you enjoy it. Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer. ILY!

The roar of your beloved London audience followed you across the backstage hall. You were a star. A burlesque princess adorned in sequins and rhinestones, enamouring the audience with your unique presence and charm that got you where you stood at this very moment. Adrenaline coursed madly through your veins, mapping out every inner crevice of your risqué scarlet costume. Another job well done. Another night of the glory of bright lights, music and performance.

Every single sound got muffled out right after you entered your small private dressing room. A privilege of being the main attraction. No more snarky comments and unhealthy competition between a stressed out dance troupe. It was just you in your velvety stool, admiring your own self in the vanity mirror. What a beautiful woman. Carefully, you removed your feathered headpiece and let your hair down in relief, finally winding down.

You removed your bracelets and hairpins, carefully placing them in their respective decorated boxes when a soft knock on your door interrupted you. Definitely the stage manager, you thought, already picturing what he would say to you about your next show. To your surprise, however, when you opened the door you met with a completely different man…

Thomas Shelby, in all of his infamous gangster glory standing right in front of you, that signature cheeky smirk upon his devilishly handsome face. 

He looked like he wanted to swallow you whole. 

You knew of this man. The Shelbys had risen to power throughout the years and now, anyone with a working brain knew who they were. The name Tommy Shelby made many shudder, and now, you had him just a step away. 

“Can I help you?” You looked straight into his perfect blue eyes, fearlessly. You owed nothing to anyone and you had no reason to cower in front of him, no matter how dangerous or handsome he was. 

“I don’t know, love, can you?” His smile grew a bit, his voice was husky and rich in a Birmingham accent. He didn’t bother to conceal the way his eyes roamed all over your scantily clad body, so beautifully adorned in red jewels and feathers and so deliciously leaving little to the imagination.

“Backstage is private, you know…” You pretended to chastise him, leaning against the doorframe like you didn’t have a feared criminal shamelessly checking you out. He didn’t even try to hide his intentions. He laughed a bit, your heart raced. No security could ever stop him from doing what he pleased and you both knew it.

 “I've seen your pretty picture on flyers all over town…  Figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about…” He remarked as your eyes locked on each other finally. 

“And?” You asked with a pretty smile. “Was it everything you dreamed and more?” His smirk grew to a big grin. He knew you were a tease, feeding him with playful banter that he absolutely enjoyed.

“You were a sight to behold out there, love… Body like that, face like that and voice like yours… I’ve never seen anything quite like you… You were a goddess up there.” Thomas practically purred to you in that thick accent that made your pussy tingle and sent shivers down your spine. His tongue, quick yet unmissable to your eyes, wet his lips after speaking. So subtle but incredibly sensual. You wanted to drop down to your knees…

But you also wanted to make him work for it a little…

Charmingly, you invited him in for a drink. An irresistible offer. You shut the rest of the world out and closed the door behind him. Just you and him in your little shoebox dressing room. He sat down on the small futon across from you and you sat at your vanity, pouring you two glasses of whiskey from your secret stash. The room was so tiny your knee brushed against his when you spun your stool around to face him and hand him his drink.

“There was buzz amongst the other girls of a Shelby brother in the crowd tonight…” You started, lipstick staining your glass and your legs crossing. “I was hoping it was you…” Thomas smirked like a devil, your admission feeding his ego. 

“And why’s that, love?” He took a large sip of whiskey like it was a sip of you, savoring the burn like he wanted to savor you. It made you nervous, restless… And you were a performer, your nerves were supposed to be of steel. But Tommy had something about him, an aura, a natural disarming confidence that made you want to bow down in submission. You swallowed a bit, just to gain some confidence back, knocking your head out of the trance his accent and icy blue eyes put you under. 

“Well you’re the leader right? The big man in charge…” You charmed through your smirk like he was your audience, looking over at his crisp, expensive navy blue suit. Tommy laughed, pulling a cigarette out and rubbing it against his plump bottom lip before lighting it up.

“That’s right…” He smirked, a puff of smoke adorning his words. He leaned forward a bit, his large calloused hand finding its shameless way to the exposed skin of your knee and rubbing it softly with his thumb. Naughty girl, not even wearing a pantyhose for your performances. A mischievous glint shimmered in his eyes. 

You couldn’t help but bite your lip and clench your legs together at his touch. The sexual tension hung thick and heavy in the air of your tiny dressing room, threatening to burn you both alive. 

“I'm known for getting what I want… When I want it, love…” There it was, expected yet it caused a strong reaction in you. The closer he leaned in, the more he spoke with that deep voice of his, the more you wanted it. He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray next to you on your vanity, your faces now inches apart. 

“And I'd love a private show…”  He whispered, his voice raspy. His hand reached out and the tips of his fingers brushed over the red jewels on your breast, nearly feeling the pulse of your racing heart. You could feel yourself soaking through your underwear from just the thought of what he wanted to do with you. To you.

“I'm not a whore, Mr Shelby…” You retorted softly, finding pleasure in resistance despite how turned on you were for him already. Tommy, accustomed to most women giving in easily, smirked, thrilled by the challenge.

“But you could be, couldn’t you? Just for me…?” His voice was attractive, persuasive. One of his hands came up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, his eyes bearing into yours deeply. There was always something so captivating about a man with no shame about getting what he wants… And this man just so happened to want you.

Hungry eyes moved from your alluring cleavage towards your gaze again. You had found yourself completely speechless at his proposition, not even a single witty comment popping into your head at that moment. For a second, you got lost in the crystal blue, enthralled by the obvious knowledge of what would come next for you both.

Without another word he sat up and leaned forward, closing the gap between you. His plump lips met yours, the taste of cigarettes and whiskey melding in your mouth. You closed your eyes, letting him sink you to the depths of his desire, your tongue melting slowly against his. You took your time with each other, just soaking in the sensuality of it all, sharing a few gentle moans before his hand came up to grip the back of your head.

You made out slowly, almost teasingly for around a minute, then finally pulled back for air. There was that smirk again, Tommy reveled in as his hand snaked between your thighs and his thumb rubbed gently over the satin of your costume, right over your pussy. He pressed against your clit through the fabric and you bit your lip, stifling back a moan.

He took in every single detail of your reaction and loved each one. You felt a nice shiver running down your spine as his mouth came closer to your ear.

“You little minx… This little pussy’s already wet for me and all I had to do was kiss you…”. His hot breath on your ear mixed with his words had your brain buzzing, expertly knowing how to push your buttons.

Soft kisses peppered the skin of your neck, sending another shiver through your spine and goosebumps all over your body. His rough, greedy hands reached back to undo the fastenings of your costume, then gently pulled it down your chest, your warm tits finally bare for his eyes to rake over.

“Jesus… You are just gorgeous…” He rasped, unable to stop himself from tracing the soft underside of your breast. Not that he would have to stop. But even then, for such a rugged, scary gangster, he was so gentle. So reverent. It truly took your breath and words away, filling the now empty space with butterflies instead. From your chest to every nerve ending of your fluttering pussy, a deep need for him ran rampant. 

“You've got me rock hard…” Tommy whispered, proudly proving it to you. His growing bulge in his trousers looking right at you, mirroring your own desire. He rose slowly, looming over you and your vanity set.

“Stand up for me love… Let’s get this costume off you,  I need to see this beautiful body naked and bent over this vanity for me…” 

Your eyes widened, but you weren’t against his request. Without thinking it twice, you stood up, one of his hands slid off your red satin costume bottoms, the other took your hand and helped you step out of them. The metallic jeweled necklace around you felt heavy with all the loss of clothing items, you reached behind to unclasp it, but Tommy stopped you.

“Keep it…” He whispered, slowly turning you around until you faced the mirror of your vanity. You looked utterly gorgeous. Completely naked besides the beautiful ruby necklace you had on. You watched his smile widen in the reflection and his strong arms wrapping around you.

One hand came up to squeeze the soft flesh of your breast, the other now traced slow tempting patterns over your skin, down your stomach and between your legs. One finger rubbed between your slit tortuously slowly, making you moan and close your eyes. You melted against him, perfectly placing your ear close to his hot breath. 

 “Ah ah ah… Keep those pretty eyes open… I want you to watch yourself fall apart on my cock…” Tommy purred, his voice so deep and sexy you wondered why your arousal wasn’t dripping down the inside of your legs already. Obediently, you nodded and opened your eyes, locking gazes with yourself in the mirror. 

“Yes, sir…” You moaned back, his fingertip rubbing painfully slow, hard circles on your clit. He grinned, proud of just how easily you yielded to his touch, how easily you submitted yourself to him.

Slowly, he grinded his aching hard-on against you back, a reminder of what was to come. Gentle, wet kisses left a fiery wake on your neck that extended to your earlobe, he nibbled it, his finger never once forgetting your clit.

“Bend over…” He commanded, a little whine of protest leaving your lips when he withdrew his finger from you. Hoping to get that much needed stimulation back, you did as he said, bending over your vanity and displaying yourself for him. Tommy responded with the sound of his belt unbuckling and the rustling of his trousers being undone. 

In the reflection of the mirror, you watched him pull down his trousers and briefs in one go, his large thick cock springing free and slapping obscenely against his pelvis. Its head was already red and dripping, aching to be buried deep inside you.

Not wasting a single second, he palmed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart a bit to get a better look at you and your puffy wet folds. He groaned, knowing that in a few minutes his cock would be buried deep between them.

He looked up into the mirror, locking eyes with you and giving you a sexy smirk. It was an unforgettable image, with you laid there, bent over your vanity panting in anticipation. The lighting of the room cast a warm glow over your naked body, making the rubies around your neck glimmer. 

“Looks like it’ll be a tight fit love… But we’ll make it work… Won’t we?” He cooed, voice dripping with need like you were dripping wet for him. 

You nodded, your eyes on the mirror, paying close attention to every movement of his and hoping it would lead him closer to fuck you. The way he licked his lips, how he reached down to line up behind you. It all seemed so slow in your own arousal-clouded mind. When he gripped your hips, you felt relief, and when he finally started to sink into your dripping center, you moaned. It was a breathy, soft moan with a grateful undertone. Such a sweet relief after centuries of teasing and foreplay. 

Tommy groaned loudly, one part for pleasure, one part for being proved right. You were indeed really tight. Your pussy stretched and swallowed his aching cock, already feeling so full and he still hadn't pushed all the way in yet. You whimpered, getting split open further like never before in your life. Any discomfort from adjusting to his length and girth completely outshined by total and complete pleasure.

“Fuck me… This pussy is so perfect… Gripping my cock so fuckin’ good…” Tommy groaned, managing to push even further and finally filling you full. He gave you a merciful second to adjust before moving his hips, slowly pumping in and out of you.

Involuntarily, your eyes shut, moaning repeatedly for him in this newfound sea of pleasure. You felt his hand tug around your hair hard, your neck craning up to look into the mirror. A warning. Remembering, your eyes shot open, you whimpered like an apologetic prey to the mixture of pain and pleasure.

“I said… Keep those eyes open…” He growled, stern eyes looking at you through the mirror. As discipline, he pistoned his hips faster, you whined loudly. He drilled into you relentlessly, skin slapping with fury against skin and filling your changing room with obscene noises.

“Y-yes sir…” You managed to moan out, noticing how the pale blue of his eyes never once left the reflection of your deeply fucked form. Your mouth hung open, your eyes were half lidded and struggling to follow his command. In your mind, every single thought disappeared, all of them fucked out of your head until only him remained. 

The thick tip of his cock nudged that special spot inside you, over and over with every perfect, hard thrust of his hips. You babbled incoherently, still watching like he wanted. Your reflection bouncing and jiggling with each hard and fast movement. 

Tommy smirked, but even through his triumph he was lost in the pleasure too. He panted hard, his fingers sunk into the flesh of your hips and made sure there would be evidence of the encounter tomorrow morning. As if you minded. 

The vision of you falling apart on his cock got to him in the best way possible. From the way you were moaning to how you almost drooled as he fucked into you hard. It was obvious you weren’t going to last much longer, and neither would he.

“Jesus Christ-  This pussy’s so good- I think it was made for me… Won’t last much longer…” He groaned to you, a hint of vulnerability escaping in between the words.

At this point, your body and mind had a major disconnect, so well fucked forming a coherent sentence took all your brain power.

“P-please… please come..” You stuttered pathetically, eyes fixed on his reflection. His hand tightened its grip on your hair for leverage as his thrusts got sloppier and sloppier, his strong hips pistoning into you. 

His left hand left its vicious grip on your hip and snaked around to find your clit, beginning to rub hard circles on it. The combination of his long cock poking your g-spot with every thrust and his fingertips rubbing your clit had you seeing God… Your orgasm built in the pits of your stomach, threatening to boil over any second now…

“I want you to come first love…  Want this perfect pussy to cream all over my cock…” He rasped, his voice deep and thick with need, almost like he was begging you to.

And that’s what did it for you.

The pressure in you finally reached its peak and exploded into the best orgasm you had ever experienced. Every nerve of your body relented to the sinful pressure, making you cry out a string of loud whiny moans and mindless curses. Your pussy clenched him tight, like you never wanted to let him go. For a moment you disobeyed his previous command, as your eyes rolled to the back of your head and lost track of the private show your reflection in the mirror was giving.

He moaned loudly, feeling you clamp around him. The satisfaction of seeing the reflection of your face contorting and twisting in pleasure was priceless, Tommy truly understood just how much he loved to see you fall apart for him… Because of him…

He fucked you through your orgasm, chasing him. The feeling of your pussy spasming around him had his usually crystal clear mind completely hazy with pleasure. The way you looked, sounded, felt… It was too much for him… So much it sent him over the edge.

His hips slowed their movements a bit and it hit him.

 “Oh fuck love- I’m coming…” He warned with a strangled moan. Quickly, he pulled out, shooting thick hot ropes of his cum onto your ass cheeks, eyes still focused on the mirror. 

You watched too, biting your lip at the feeling. Tommy’s brows furrowed together while he moaned for you, his warm load slowly dripping down your ass and taking over your senses. You both stayed there for a second, catching your breath, basking in the afterglow together.

After a while, Tommy tucked his tired cock back into his trousers, grabbing a shirt off your vanity and wiping you clean. You finally stood up, turning around to face him despite how weak and wobbly your legs felt. Being bent over your vanity felt like forever, although it was the fastest a man had ever made you finish.

“Well, that was certainly something…” Tommy smirked cheekily, eyes still on you and arms wrapping around your naked waist. You couldn’t help but laugh and blush a little, his presence alone making you feel so shy, as if you hadn’t been moaning like a whore for him just a moment ago.

“You really do put on one hell of a show, love. You’re a natural born performer…” He smiled at his own words, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against yours before giving you a hot kiss. Then, he pulled back, just enough to whisper his proposition against your lips.

“How about we make this a regular thing? I come to all your shows… Maybe even bring you flowers… In return you be my naughty little showgirl and let me fuck n’ fill that perfect cunt and make you scream?”

You smiled without even having to think of your answer… How could a girl say no to that?

Pinterest board made by @fuckiingloser

Random Tommy playlist made by me cause why not

[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"

[keepingupwithzaynmalik]

Zayn Malik’s eventim Apollo Show Is An Emotional Triumph

The second of his sold out London shows…

Zayn Malik isn’t particularly fond of touring. It’s the word on the lips of everyone in the scrum outside the eventim Apollo tonight, an expectant London crowd awaiting the return of a generational pop icon. Since the closure of One Direction, Zayn’s solo career has been stop-start, as he navigated personal issues in the process. He remains, however, Zayn Malik – and the tension, excitement, and longing in the air is palpable.

Squeezing past some disappointed punters left outside, CLASH retrieves its ticket from the booth, only to discover that we’ve been handed a second ticket, too. Spotting a mother and daughter looking confused at the ticket desk, we do a swap-around with the kind man behind the desk, and suddenly we’re in a different seat, and the parental duo are joyously climbing the steps into the Apollo.

With good karma under our wings, we trot down to our seat, slightly bemused by the looks we’re getting from the crowd. They’re young. Sometimes very young. We are… maybe not? Upon finding our seat we’re immediately cross-examined by the pair of Zayn stans placed next to us.

“Are you REALLY a Directioner? Really?” they ask.

“Oh, obviously,” CLASH responds, in a tone so flatly assuring that not even the FBI could crack it. Sensing an awkwardness, we offer: “Are you a big Zayn fan, then?”

It’s then that she fixes her eyes mid-distance with a burning intensity, and answers with the kind of explosive assurance that only youth can offer: “He is the most beautiful man in the world.”

It’s the screams that get you. When the curtain falls and Zayn emerges the voices are deafening, almost beyond belief. It’s a wall of noise, a shuddering screech of pent-up desperation – joy and lust, longing and relief, all fused into one titanic tidal wave of sound. For his part, Zayn is bashful – shy, even. The voice is pristine, the band are exceptional – it’s a tight sound that blends R&B, pop and (especially) Americana, reflective of the journey he’s been on.

For someone who seemingly doesn’t enjoy touring, and the pressure of live performance, Zayn doesn’t hold back. It’s an 18-strong set list, delivered succinctly, with the minimum of fuss – all music, no hype. He’s clad in a Nirvana t-shirt and a loose top, a porkpie hat annointed on his head. Every detail, every hand gesture counts – when Zayn opts to remove his top, the screams reach new, almighty levels.

At times, he’s semi-stunned, not sure how to respond. “Fuck yeah, you guys are loud!” he offers, laughing self-consciously in the process. It’s been a long road to get here – at one point, fans could be forgiven for feeling that Zayn was lost to music. The gospel touches in opening song ‘My Woman’ offer something soothing, while ‘Dreamin’ and ‘Lied To’ are early highlights. The pacing is patient, the band behind him immaculately well-rehearsed.

It’s never marbled, or overly professional. There’s a humanity to Zayn Malik that he can’t hide – the Yorkshire twang is still there, and for all his evident shy reserve there’s also a quiet joy at being onstage. Repeatedly thanking the crowd – “you guys are sooooo loud!” – there’s a sense of genuine relief onstage. ‘Ignorance Ain’t Bliss’ is a wonderful mid-set vignette, ‘Sweat’ is packed with the lust, while ‘iT’s YoU’ is a deft duet between vocalist and piano.

There’s a couple of surprises, too. ‘Last Request’ honours Paolo Nutini, and serves as a great vessel for the soulful aspects of Zayn’s own voice. There’s a revealing introduction to ‘PILLOWTALK’: “The reason – one reason – I didn’t tour for so long was that I was afraid to sing this song…”

Zayn needn’t have worried. The audience acts as a cushion underneath him, their love and support pushing him up when needed. ‘PILLOWTALK’ is gorgeous, rapturously received, while a home run of ‘Alienated’ and ‘Gates Of Hell’ ties up a punctual performance that offers everything fans could have wanted – and more.

There’s a sense of quiet exhaustion at the end, when a tribute to Liam Payne flashes up onscreen. ‘Stardust’ plays, and there’s a moment of pause as the crowd engages in mutual reflection. One Direction helped to frame the coming-of-age experiences of a generation, their music bringing incalculable joy to millions across the globe. It’s a true sin, then, that the intense experiences of fame brought so much pressure and pain to the young men who powered that phenomenon. Zayn Malik is a wonderful vocalist, someone with fantastic pop songs in his solo canon – he’s also, as the girl next to us so succinctly put it, one of the most beautiful men we’ve ever seen onstage. He may not tour that often, but we wish him nothing but happiness.

ROBIN MURRAY FOR CLASH

[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 :>

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 8: Never-ending Consequences [C2]

Pairing: Judge Turpin x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Continuation of: Prompt 4. Darkest Night [C1]

A/N: It's Sunday, Second Advent, and time for Turpin's story to continue! He is quite the elusive mystery in this fic and I'm having a blast writing Julianne Brimmer - gosh, I adore her and I feel so connected with her even if we're not the same at all. She's so cute though! 🤭👏

Also, Turpin is very harsh and unyielding in this fic - not in an evil manner but he shows very little and gives very few indications of feeling or thinking anything at all and, honestly, I've been super excited about writing him like that for a change- I¨m all for the swirling storms in his eyes and all that which I usually write him with when he finds his SO but there's just something about him showing basically nothing that has me hooked this year 👀🙈❤

Tags/TW’s: Talkative Character, Harsh Judge Turpin, He Offers Her Sanctuary For The Night, Instant Attraction, Secret Pining, Harsh View Of Oneself, Negative Self-image,

Word Count: 1.5k

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Never-ending Consequences

The carriage drew to a halt no more than half an hour later in the middle of central London. “Miss Brimmer,” the judge said in a low, incredibly clear murmur. “I shall provide shelter for the night, my lady.” “Oh, my lord, how good of you,” I said, a wide smile adoring my lips as the man with steel for eyes looked at me in a manner I could not fully determine to be neither good nor bad. Consuming, yes, but unknown to me.

The door opened and the judge stepped out gracefully before offering his hand for me to support my own exit. Such a gentleman, I thought as I grasped his glove-clad hand. It was sturdy and strong, holding me with stability. “Thank you, my lord.” He smiled in a stoic sort of fashion. “We shall send a search party for your carriage when morning comes, Miss Brimmer.” “Thank you, sir. You are most helpful, such a gentleman.” “I can be,” he drawled, releasing my hand and turning a second later with a look to his features I was not certain about.

I followed in his wake, entering the grand townhouse through a large black door only to be met by a gloom that seemed to cling to the very walls of the man’s home. Well, that’s a rather unpleasant feeling for a home. Where are his decorations? Christmas is nearly here, yet there are no garlands or adornments to tell of it.

“Good evening, my lord,” said a woman dressed in a black dress with a white apron and grey hair pinned up. “Miss Brimmer shall stay the night, order the room.” His voice was harsh and direct yet I found it rather thrilling as it filled the entrance hall. Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought? “Yes, my lord.” The maid stiffly bowed her head as the judge removed his out garments and I found myself lost in adoring thoughts of the manner he was dressed underneath that thick winter coat.

“Miss Brimmer,” the maid said. “May I take your cloak, my lady?” I jolted. “Why certainly, thank you,” I replied in a rush, feeling heat creep up my neck as my eyes finally left the man dressed fully in black with golden details to his frock and vest. There was something about him… I could not put my finger on it yet he drew my attention in a manner none other ever had while his entire being had this unapproachable hardness to it — a harsh power that appeared unyielding. Yes, yes I have absolutely hit my head. I must have, this man is…

I could not term it. Dangerous? Cold? Unreachable? Well, for me, most certainly. Oh, this is grand, to be attracted to a man far out of my reach — that infernal bad luck seems to remain. Pity, I would have liked for things to change but no matter. I am a woman with no consequence to the world, and so I shall remain even when the world seems to throw consequences my way from left and right simultaneously. Perhaps I shall find myself with a cow falling atop my head someday, would be no far stretch to assume bad luck would fall upon me from above, too, given it flanks me on either side.

“Come, I shall walk you,” Judge Turpin said in that dark rumble that seemed to go through me. I blinked, seeing his gaze travel up and down myself. “Thank you, my lord,” I managed to push out as the inferiority of my dress to his exquisite clothes had me nearly sighing. Rid yourself of the idea that there is even a chance, Julianne. Rid yourself of it. This man is not for you, nor will he house any interest in you. He is a man of the law, acting like a gentleman ought to by helping a damsel in distress, obviously.

I followed two steps behind, walking up the stairs toward the upper levels of the house. “You mentioned the Christmas Ball?” he said without looking back at me. What a good thing too or he would have found me admiring the broadness of his shoulders. “Oh, why yes, yes. I’m not one for such frivolous things usually but one must endure for the sake of one’s future, my lord.” “Is that so?” I smiled for myself, a contrite thing covering my lips. “Yes. As you already pointed out I ought to be a Mrs rather than a Miss, my lord. I am not one men find attractive, or interesting, for that matter. I do not mind, bad luck follows wherever I go and I pity the man who ends up wed to the equivalent of a black cat crossing a road under a ladder and knocking a mirror down with its tail simultaneously, my lord.” He did not react to my words, not that I could tell at least.

We stepped through a hallway while I spoke rather freely. There was no need to hide myself from the harsh man, he was not within my reach either way — I still continued to allow myself the handsome view of him, though, I was not to be in his company for long so I ought to make the most of it I figured.

“You speak harshly of yourself,” he said in a rather darkened tone after a moment. I chuckled. “No, my lord, I speak honestly about myself when possible.” “When possible?” he asked, stopping outside a door and once more turning toward me, those steely eyes hooking mine without a flicker of motion in them yet I was utterly trapped. A bunny in a snare. “Yes. Should you be within my reach I might not disclose my faults so freely but I am a woman of little consequence in the presence of a gentleman of the law. Truth must find its freedom in such situations, do you not agree, Judge Turpin?”

I kept eye contact, a tingling sensation filling me within as he viewed me most harshly. I rather liked that, truth be told. There was no insincere smile, no false pretence or acting.

He arched a brow at me, the action sharp and well-practised it appeared. “Truth, you say?” “Yes, my lord. I do endeavour to be honest but that almost always lands me in some form of predicament. I am simply not made for society and all its falsities. I try, my lord, yet I fear I shall never master the skill.” I smiled at him as my cheeks heated. Well, this is going jolly good. I am already making a fool of myself in his presence. Even though it does not matter I am truthfully saddened by my own words, I think.

“You declare me out of your reach,” he drawled. “That is quite the freedom you’ve claimed, Miss Brimmer.” My eyes widened as the warmth left my cheeks. “Goodness, no, sir. I meant to take no freedoms or liberties, I am merely aware of my standing, my lord. One ought to always remember one's standing in society, to know one's place is most important. Especially when in the company of someone far grander, my lord.” He arched his brow again. “Grander?” I spluttered, my body not knowing if it wished to pale or blush. “Y-yes, my lord. I am merely the daughter of a master smith, a woman who has known hard labour and little comforts. I would never assume myself grand enough to stand in your presence or be offered aid from such a grand man so I am remembering my place in your fine company, my lord.” “Talkative, are we?” “Oh, yes, my lord. One of my many faults. I apologize for occupying your time with my—” “None occupies my time.” “My lord?”

He stepped closer and my back stiffened as a waft of the musty scent he smelled of hit me. It was quite the delicious scent, truth be told, and I had to stop myself from inhaling deeply. “None occupy my time. My time is spent how I see fit,” he said in a manner that was both decisive and commanding. “Yes, of course, sir. I apologize.” Well, this is going utterly great. Gosh, if I have to endure another hardship on this wretched earth I shall surely implode. “I shall see you in the morning, Miss Brimmer. Eight o’clock sharp.” I bowed my head, feeling idiotic and like a nuisance to the man who so kindly helped me far beyond what necessity required. “Yes, sir. Thank you, my lord.”

He walked off toward the end of the hall without another word. His steps were long and the thudding of his footfalls loud. What a man… No, no, get your head out of the clouds! This is all bad luck one more time. Do not-, Julianne, do not fall for the gentleman you cannot have. Stop it, right this instance. And why am I still looking at him?! As my tirade ended he opened his bedroom door and closed it behind him. “Foolish, Julianne. Not only foolish but you made yourself into a fool in his presence. Well done, absolutely fantastic of you. Wasting the man's time with your blabbering. Idiot.”

To Be Continued...

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NEXT PART » Prompt 10: Lingering Touch [C3]

A/N: He does tell her she's not occupying his time - that has to mean something, right? 👀 Gosh they are such a mismatched pair and I can't wait to solve how they're going to end up together - I'm thinking some drama, some darkness, and perhaps a close call or two? 🤭❤

TAGLIST: @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight41 @caseydoodles98 @slytherinprincess03 @theconsultingdetectiveswife @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @dontwanttobeanamercanidiot @sunnylikesfrogs @dianilaws @snapesno1thighrider @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87 @leah1243 @cherihan @poetry-and-tea @evans23 @mamawolfsmith87 @snapesrn @severussimp @slyckman @liv2post @clawsthecactus @goldenglowwoman @elizabeth-baelish @severuslovebot @thethotthatbreathes @rickmandowneyjr @yellowbadgermole @snapesangel @commodoreseverus @reinekefoxart @lght-n-drk @cathym1102 @ankhmutes @theheartwants-what-itwants @slyckman @thatlittlefangirl @sanji-simp @ankhmutes @lessdepressy @snapesrn @theheartwants-what-itwants @slyckman @daddythanatos @sanji-simp

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[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,

[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>

[anteroom-of-death]

Spin in the City, chapter 1

Synopsis: Malcolm Tucker is back in London and trying to gain employment. He grieves and plays himself openly.

A/N: another story from ME! I layer and add symbolism. There's many things wrong with me. Comments and thoughts appreciated...

Malcolm brushed his teeth, a task that got harder every day. Fuck, his depression and his arthritis starting to flare up every day for making it harder to operate this useless sack of cum.

He fucking understood he was sixty-two. He fucking got the message. Loud as the tinnitus he had from decades of screaming into a phone.

The taps stayed on as he paced in his old home. Sam convinced him to keep his Tottenham home when they got married and moved into their cottage in Wick. Storage and they could rent out the parking for a small fee.

His chest began that familiar widower’s ache.

Here he was back in the radioactive shithole that was England, yet alone London, their little home for a few years on the market. He couldn’t bear to keep it. A happy little thatched-roof where he saw his niece married last year. The place where they genuinely tried to live a life far removed from the cunts who framed him and used his existence to pass legislation.

The cozy little sitting room where the best fucking woman to ever exist breathed her last in May. (Possibly even the best fucking human to ever exist, but Malcolm admitted he may have heavy biases.)

He couldn’t bear it.

Fuck that.

Fuck this.

He just needed out and for something to do. Someone else to be for a bit.

He was shocked to find someone who was willing to interview him. Especially so quickly.

Maybe it was just because it was an American woman… no one from this Island or Northern Ireland would probably have him.

She sounded posh and mature, if not a tad bit full of herself.

He googled her separately from the firm she partnered with when he first saw the offer slide through his inbox from the recruitment service.

Confident, blonde and everywhere. She embodied the social elite of New York City. Dated celebrities and moguls, was friends with sex columnists and lawyers, hosted extravagant parties and had an endless string of sexy outfits. She seemed plenty intelligent and had eyes like a hawk with the posture befitting and outclassing any model.

Not particularly his type. He always liked demure brunettes with something deeply wrong behind the surface. Both of his wives were.

Not that Sam and Elaine were anything alike. No, Elaine was some hag bitch journo from hell whom he frequently thought of trying to start some political movement her for the entire goddamn world’s protection. Sam just was both a sadist and a sweetheart at once.

He shoved those thoughts down as he called an Uber and collected the folder he made of his accomplishments over the years.

He didn’t want to cry before his interview.

Or give off the impression that Malcolm F. Tucker was someone who had the capacity to cry.

The suit felt itchy and constricting against his being. Not unlike a noose, it felt so alien to wear one after years of Aran sweaters and jeans with flannels. The man who wore suits was executed for his alleged crimes in 2012. This man? In 2021? No.

This man was a new man, older, tired and more timid than he liked to admit.

He just needed to do something, be something. Anything but some begrieved widower with increasingly dead eyes.

The firm was a stone’s throw from his old stomping grounds in Number 10 and Westminster.

Nonetheless, he trudged onward into the office.

It was modern and luxurious inside. Nothing too ostentatious, but the bright lights and plush chair the receptionist led him to wait for Samantha Jones but his teeth on edge. Her desk was simple and glass, only a small stack of papers, a pen and a sleek laptop were on display.

He would have thought something vulgar, but he was trying not to. He was also on display.

The woman glided in, clad in something that seemed custom-made. He was no fashion expert, Sam always just bought him his suits and gave him the bill to forward to treasury for reimbursement. Once in a while he’d recognize a name from one of the designers on the high streets or the luxury shops in richer areas that were bespoke.

His perfect Sam. Knew him better than he did himself…

Malcolm got up and offered her his hand. She took it, her handshake firmer than any man in politics and twice as assertive. She had a bizarre smile on her face. One that was un-fucking-readable.

Probably some American blow-off look. They did love their meaningless grins and fucking pointless niceties.

It was fascinating to him how an entire country operated on the same system of etiquette as pointless cabinet members with worse agendas.

She sat down and clicked something on her file and looked at his CV. The half-second she held each in her line of vision seemed to go on for eternity.

“Cut the bullshit, Malc. Why does someone like you want to demean yourself working for me?” She leaned back and bore her eyes into his soul, (he highly debated that he had a soul, but if he did, Samantha Jones was staring straight at it…) her index finger resting just behind a broach cleverly disguised as an earring.

Now Malcolm had the luxury of choice. Did he tell the truth or did he fabricate and spin a nice little falsehood?

What did he say to that emaciated Oxbridge twat that stole his place? Rabbits and hats? That rant came barreling back and hit him clearly between the eyes.

He had to act.

“Retirement isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, isn’t it, love?”

She clearly didn’t enjoy that response. Her eyes narrowed and he felt like he was melting quicker than a cone in the hand of toddler with ADHD during a heatwave. He had to amend his statement and do a little backtracking.

“Samantha, can I call you Samantha?” He felt his hand extend and the glimmer of his old self surface.

“Miss Jones.”

“Right. Miss Jones.” He nodded along. “I don’t expect you to care, but I can’t live how I was living. A man’s got to have a purpose. Can’t sit by the sea waiting to fucking pass from Parkinzeimers, can he?” Blatant honesty covered in bravado.

He thought he saw a flash of something behind her eyes, he didn’t want to dig himself a bigger hole. So he left that statement at that.

She was judging him. He felt cornered.

He didn’t like this.

“Don’t play games with me. I know there’s more than- “She gestured broadly towards his entire being, “Being purposeless.”

He deflated and decided to tell an unvarnished truth. No spin, no anything, he even pulled himself back from swearing. “I’ve worked since I was 8. I haven’t not worked my entire life. I spent a few years living a life I didn’t know a boy from Gorbals could get. It’s dead and gone. Give me something to do.” He gave plaintive plea as a firm demand.

He could physically see the gears turning in her mind. He obviously was a risky investment.

She pursed her lips.

“Trial period, I’ll have my assistant send you a temporary contract.”

Thank fuck, he relaxed.

“Don’t pull anything like you did to Mr. Tickel or I’ll have you unable to even run the tills at Iceland.” She levied against him as she got up and offered him a hand. The interview was over and she wanted him out of her office.

“Fair fucking offer.” He took her hand, yet again noticing her grasp and the fact you could feel her obviously well-earned cockiness radiating from the cells in her hand alone.

He felt himself crumple in the lift ride down.

Maybe it was too soon to work?

No, this was the right thing to do. There wasn’t anything for him left. Might as well fucking slide back in the old skin suit and concern himself with every wanker’s business except his own. Would keep his mind torn off of his intelligent, beautiful and loving bride dying from breast cancer than neither of them knew she had. She got the diagnosis too late and the chemotherapy was too rough.

It fucking shattered her.

She took the peaceful route, die with dignity in her home, surrounded by loved ones.

That was the type of woman she was. Quiet, simple and dignified. She did the job and did it well. Even dying was a class-act from her.

He missed her more every moment.

He got home and let himself cry, first time since he watched the life slip away from her eyes. It took hours and he felt literally disemboweled after it.

The email app on his phone pinged.

It was Miss Jones’ assistant. His contract was in for him to review and sign.

He didn’t know how he’d spun this far out of control…

[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!

[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:

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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:

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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.

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Choosing the Right Pressure Washing Service:

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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 crashed 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.

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