#England seamlessly

[nfllivescores]

England's New Recruits Train Before Nations League Matches, Plus Coote Updates

  The England national team is in the spotlight again as new faces join the squad to prepare for upcoming UEFA Nations League matches. With the inclusion of emerging talent alongside seasoned players, England’s roster is undergoing a promising evolution. Fans have much to look forward to as these young recruits bring renewed energy and anticipation to the team, raising hopes of clinching a strong…

[theorist-fox]

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

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Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are. 

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words? 

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately. 

You are your worst enemy. 

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming. 

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw. 

He���s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?” 

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling. 

You sigh. 

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent. 

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is. 

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know. 

“Off.” He states. 

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.” 

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash. 

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded. 

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt. 

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot. 

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion. 

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood. 

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable. 

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.   

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems. 

“The fuck are you doin’.” 

It is not, in fact, a question. 

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air. 

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?” 

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters. 

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment. 

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts. 

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?” 

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic. 

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms. 

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd. 

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth. 

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to. 

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it. 

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you. 

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes. 

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. 

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile. 

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice. 

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs. 

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.” 

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax. 

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back. 

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes. 

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside. 

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration. 

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw. 

You stiffen. 

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view. 

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade. 

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite. 

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood. 

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces. 

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t. 

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now. 

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks. 

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest. 

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. 

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier. 

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then. 

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and – 

He stops you.  Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal. 

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip. 

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you. 

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle. 

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath. 

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples. 

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted." 

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often. 

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between. 

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere. 

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut. 

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words. 

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets. 

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths. 

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt. 

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side. 

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning. 

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him. 

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted. 

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new. 

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together. 

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets. 

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose. 

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily. 

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.  

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you. 

Right? 

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts. 

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. 

You shudder. 

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust. 

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear. 

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied. 

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away. 

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside. 

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact. 

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead. 

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening. 

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin. 

Skin still untouched by him.

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice. 

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative. 

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand. 

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere. 

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary. 

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music. 

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it. 

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace. 

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low. 

This is his time. 

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He asked for one thing. 

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.” 

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you. 

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once. 

Your body perks up. 

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore. 

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space. 

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips. 

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon. 

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

[reality-detective]

I have posted about the Khazarian Mafia before... Here's 👇 more.

The Hidden Empire of the Khazarian Mafia 👇

The ancient Khazarian king, under the guise of adopting Judaism, covertly engaged his elite in dark practices of Babylonian black-magic, termed Secret Satanism. These rituals, deeply entrenched in Baal Worship, involved heinous child sacrifices, where the innocent were bled, their blood drunk, and hearts consumed.

Despite assurances to the surrounding nations led by the Russian czar, the Khazarian oligarchs seamlessly blended these satanic practices with Judaism, giving birth to a sinister, secret religion known as Babylonian Talmudism. This became Khazaria’s national religion, perpetuating the notorious evils known from its past.

Over time, the Khazarians escalated their atrocities, mastering identity theft from the travelers they murdered. This mastery over deception persists, alongside their gruesome, ancient rituals.

Retribution and Diaspora 👇

By 1200 AD, Russia, along with neighboring nations, had witnessed enough. They invaded Khazaria, aiming to dismantle the pervasive child sacrifice networks. This led to the birth of the term 'Khazarian Mafia' to describe the fleeing royal court, which continued its dark rituals in secret across Europe, sustaining their sinister legacy.

The Khazarian Mafia’s Modern Influence 👇

Centuries later, leveraging financial prowess, the Khazarians orchestrated political upheaval in England through Oliver Cromwell, facilitating regicide and sparking the English Civil Wars. This chaos paved the way for the establishment of the City of London as the financial nucleus of Europe, initiating the rise of the British Empire.

Centers of Power: Symbols of Occult Practices 👇

The City of London, the Vatican, and Washington D.C., stand as independent states, owned by the Rothschilds and the globalist elite, symbolizing their deep-rooted occult connections. Each houses an obelisk, representing freemasonic allegiance to Lucifer, whom they revere as the god of enlightenment, contrary to Christian beliefs. These obelisks are not just architectural feats but are emblematic of malevolent energies and the perpetuation of ancient, male-dominant power structures, echoing the rituals of Egyptian sun worship. 🤔

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Sweet Dreams

Selkie Jenny Lind x Fem! Acrobat Reader

Summary: A chance encounter on a blurry English morning leads to the stolen moment with a siren with the soul of the sea. Years and many miseries later, the jaded acrobat finds companionship in an all too familiar song.

Warnings: Melancholic circumstances, Barnum is a historically accurate cunt, reader almost prostitutes herself, allusions to domestic violence against Jenny, the circus is a miserable place

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: This is for you, P. Sweet dreams!

Act 0- The Fool

The sand on the Welsh coast wasn’t soft and coarse like the beaches you’d been to before. It was rocky, the stones smooth and flat, the kind you could skip over the dark grey-green waves. Wind gushed against your cheek, cutting sharply with the winter cold. The waves were high, upset with the storm that raged throughout the endless sea. Right now the tide was inching out, revealing some sandier patches of beach as the water surrendered its dominion. It wasn’t the safest to be out here tonight, but the sky was clear and you reasoned the tide far back enough that you wouldn’t get caught. In the moonlight that shone so bright overhead, you could make out all of the shadows of the large boulders. Some shadows seemed ominous, making grotesque faces. Others were more subtle.

Are there whales in Wales? You’d dumbly asked the circus coordinator, P.T. Barnum. He’d shaken his head. There wouldn’t be time to see the whales, no time for boat rides or long walks. Except a storm had grounded you here, stuck in a tiny village on the way through to England. Even steamboats couldn’t ride out the harsh storms that made winter here so miserable. You kicked at the rocks around your feet, watching the skid up and over each other, crawling and shuddering out of the place they’d been in when the tide had moved them last. None of it would be permanent, and that soothed your temperamental soul. It was like a dream; shifting and indeterminable.

The wind whipped around you and through you, clawing your blouse open. Pulling over your coat, you found the chill greatly diminished, but still the cold air bit at your nose and ears, reminding you of the true power of an ocean so stirred. White foam clung to the exposed beach, proof of the life that the ocean greedily gulped away with the rest of the water. As you walked further along the shore your eye caught long stretches of green, clumps of seaweed coughed up by the calming ocean. It was all very dim here, hours before dawn. You could see the faintest blue peeking out above the water, the promise of a later sun bright in the sky.

But the seaweed and foam wasn’t the only thing the ocean had released from her bosom. A song, faint and sweet sailed over the wind, kissing the hairs that trembled by your ear in the wind. It lingered. First in your mind, and then slowly worked its way into your bones. A melody so unforgettable it would surely play in the dull moments of thoughtlessness. Again you got the sinking, strange feeling that this could be a dream. That this was mystical, hallowed ground, the kind that swallowed a person up and spat them back out changed. You saw her then, dark hair whipping in the wind. The faintest copper tinge that betrayed more color than the grey atmosphere around. Pale skin, exposed so carelessly to the winter wind glimmered under the slow dawn. Your footsteps didn’t seem to startle this spirit of the sea, rather she seemed to sing softer as you drew closer, the song more intimate. 

Warnings of faeries and spirits clamoured dimly in your mind, none of them ringing louder than the gentle tones of her song. Why would one fear a spirit if it was just a dream?

Even as you stood an arms-reach away, she didn’t stop singing. The waves blended seamlessly with her voice, lulling you deeper into her song-induced trance. She turned, staring up at you with the softest blue-grey-green eyes you swore you’d seen before in a long forgotten dream. The grey pelt that protected her skin from the wind was spotted, the same pattern you’d seen on the seals that lounged on the beach in mid-afternoon times. Even as you drew closer she was unafraid, the two of you settled together on that big rock. Your speech was quick, blending together quickly, like all dream speech.

“You’re a siren.” you whispered, taking in the curve of her nose, her jaw as she stared out into the awakening light of early morn.

“No. A selkie.” she murmured. “They call me Jenny Lind.” she said, an accent so unfamiliar you couldn’t place it.

“Are you an Irish selkie?” you whispered, reaching out to play with the soft red tendrils of her hair.

She shook her head, damp curls shaking in the breeze.

“I’m from a northern coast far, far away from here.” she whispered, a secret for your ears only. “I don’t know its name, not for your foreign ears. Sverige, the land of the Svea. That’s where I’m from.” 

Your cold hands found hers, tangled in the pelt of her discarded mammal form. And her hands were warm. She radiated warmth, an immunity to the biting chill that crept in, even through your thick coat. Jenny, as she was called, leaned against you, a curiosity and interest flickering in her eyes. The two of you stayed silent for a while, both fighting the initial awkwardness of a meeting so tender and… Foggy.

“You sing beautifully.” you whispered, leaning in enough to trace the freckles that dotted her hands and forearms.

“It is a love song. Meant to lure only the good. Your soul heard it before your ears did, I’ve been singing for you since the tide began to recede.”

Her eyes sparkled, a shy smile overcoming her as she leaned in closer. Her nose crested against yours, a greeting. You repeated it, clumsily knocking the bridge of your nose against hers. She laughed, a pleased glee slipping over her face. She stood at once, playful and energetic as she pulled you towards a crevice in the jagged hills. You followed her, tripping over rocks in your boots even as her bare feet danced over the stones with a pixie grace. In the ridged opening of the cave you stumbled, pulled deeper into the unassuming cave. It smelled damp, but clean. As your eyes adjusted the dimmer light, you could make out the faintest glow. She pulled you further inside, into a bed of sea grass. It all happened so fast you weren’t sure if happened, or if this was happening now.

In the darkness of that secluded chamber you heard her song again, soft and tender, pulling you closer, deeper into the embrace now freely given. She was everywhere and anywhere, hands floating in and away like the wind that whipped outside. Jenny tasted like the sea, the salt of the breeze, and the warmth of the sun-warmed rocks. She was soft, smooth like the stones of the beach, warm everywhere as she enveloped you and released you like the tide. Breaths in and out, regular and sometimes desperate; shared gasps for only your ears. As you slowed your affair, she grew quiet. Snuffling around in the dark, the two of you found a quiet embrace. As dawn crept over the sky she sang once more, a quiet lullaby so gentle and deceptive, lulling you asleep.

Only when the sun burst through the cave at midday did you wake, seabirds screeching and careening through the frigid air as the tide crept over the beach once more. You awoke with a start, reaching across the seabed for your lover, for your Jenny. She was gone, and with her the smell of salt and sunshine. The beach was empty, devoid of any song, any trace of the seals that had barked and rolled about in the waves days prior. She was gone, your Jenny. Gone with the tide, with the storms that had washed her in, the winter fit that had taken your love, your innocent amour. As the group toured, crossing oceans, exploring venues, dancing across various European stages, you remained trapped in that midwinter dream, coughing up phlegm and crying for anyone and everything to hear.

“Where’s my Jenny Lind?”

Act I- The Magician

Trapped in another alcoholic haze you dreamt. The same grey beach, the same siren song that never left your ears. Again and again the melody played, the lullaby that would linger until you were dead. Initially, the alcohol had killed whatever haunted reimaginings of that night, along with whatever dreams dared to tremble through your grief-stricken head. She was there. Always at the ends of your fingertips, never close enough to grasp, to touch. Your hands would find her hair, touching the reddish-brown strands in the dim light. Again your spectre would turn, her face always too blurred by the dim light to identify. Just as her features seemed to take distinct shape, just as you’d get closer, your circumstances would end your dream, prolonging the torment once more. 

But life wasn’t like that foggy night, in between reality and vision.

“Wake up, kid.” a gruff shove knocking you off of the box you’d passed out on.

An equally tired, abused face stared down at you, enough to have you shuddering awake. Work never stopped. Not when you were being exploited by the ever tyrannical Barnum. You coughed twice, feeling your stomach lurch alarmingly.

“I’m up.” you eventually managed, pushing yourself off of the ground. “The show never stops, I know.”

Your eyes struggled to take in your surroundings, but your nose immediately picked up the smell of excrement. The animals were restless this morning, clamoring for food, water, attention and always freedom. You felt bad for them, throwing the monkeys an extra handful of apricots. Not that they would be any good, Barnum never bought food to the quality they deserved. Elephants were next, and to your dismay you were met with a cage full of hot, steaming crap. The joys of the circus. The smell was enough to trigger the bile in your stomach, and your upset mixed with the waste you shoveled into a wheelbarrow. 

“Hey, my bird of paradise!” a baritone greeting slammed through your throbbing head. It almost knocked you off your feet with the way your bones seemed to ache. Hangovers; god’s gift to alcoholics.

“Fuck,” you swore under your breath, “Good morning Mr. Barnum!”

He was in a good mood, of course. 

“I need you on stage tonight. One of the acrobats is ill.” he sighed.

“Sure.” you nodded, not even bothering to beg your personal circumstances.

Alcoholism was a sickness that was rampant in Barnum’s circus. It was debilitating, contagious, and easy to exploit. Give a man his wages, buy cheap spirits in bulk, take back those wages for alcohol without limit. Everyone had ghosts here, things they wanted to forget. Yours was named Jenny, but Grace, Thomas, Penelope, Sam and a dozen more lingered here as the night crept over the sky like a diseased bearer of melancholy. You wondered if the animals had ghosts too. An elephant trumpeted mournfully, answering that thought.

“I’m investigating a new edition to our troop. A Swedish gal, sings like the legends of old. She’d be perfect for high brow events.” Barnum mused.

“Swedish? Hmm. How’d she end up here anyways?” you asked, half-listening.

“Oh, she’s an immigrant. Came with her husband to Maine a few weeks ago. She sings out of her window, her husband is… A piece of work.” Barnum sighed.

Your eyebrows flew up in alarm, and you gave him your full attention. Barnum wasn’t exactly father or husband of the year, so such a comment as that coming from him… Immediate pity was what you felt for this poor woman. Sure, the circus was a hard life, but all kinds of people escaped here from harder circumstances.

“So what’s the plan? We buy him a dozen rounds and steal her away?” you asked. 

“See, that’s why I need you performing tonight. He likes pretty things, comes to visit when lady acrobats are on display. I need you in the red costume. I know you hate it, but I need his butt in the seat the entire night. I’m giving him a free ticket, but still.”

You nodded along to that. The red costume was awful to wear. Mostly sheer, showing off an amount of skin that the Virgin Mary never dared to show Joseph. It brought jeering, whistles… It was a nightmare, hence your hatred for it.

“Well. If it’s for the liberation of women I’ll consent to it.” you sighed. “Viva la revolution and all.”

“Wonderful!” Barnum beamed, expression darkening as he leaned in. “But bathe before then. Full body, use the special lotions and soaps. If things go sideways I need you cozying up to our guy after the show.”

Again, you begrudgingly agreed. It was for a good cause, and a bath with the special soap was a treat indeed. Expensive french lavender, the kind with a smell that lingered in the air minutes after you left. Leaving the shovel embedded in a pile of dung, you travelled to Nellie’s trailer. You had a performance to prepare for, two performances. A person had to earn their wages, after all.

{-----------}

Corny circus music blared long into the night, and your arms ached as you prepared for the fifteenth trick of the night. A big breath of air in, a jump, and the smack of your chalked palms against the aerial hoop. You spun, careening and flying like a bird of paradise as you posed inside the hoop. The roar of the audience didn’t excite you like it once had. Sure, it still exhilarated you to hear them gasp in awe as you flipped and grasped hands with your fellow acrobats, but the haunting song of the hidden woman blurred and dulled the high you’d chased for so many years. As the final act came to close, your eyes caught Barnum’s. He gestured you forwards, and you curtsied as he bowed, the audience crying out their final praise. Your whole body ached, and you longed for a nightcap and a warm bed, but Barnum had other plans.

“It’s taking longer than we thought. I need you to distract our guy.” Barnum whispered into your ear as he pulled you towards a man with dark hair and a hard-set jaw. “Norman, did you enjoy the show?”

The man’s eyes bugged out as you approached, and he adjusted his coveralls.

“Yes. I’ve never seen a fairy so brilliantly confined in a performance such as this.” he spoke, accent thick, distinctly nordic.

You smiled, offering him your hand.

“Oh, you flatter me.” you smiled, analyzing the brute up close. “I’m pleased that you enjoyed our show tonight, any special guest of Barnum’s is a guest of mine.”

The honey you were pouring on him was all Barnum needed, and with a not-so sly hint that you should explore the backstage set up, you led the poor bastard into a prop tent, mindlessly chattering about costumes, animals, anything you thought would dazzle him.

“This is all very nice. I must be going home, my wife is lonely.” Norman insisted.

Your charms weren’t enough, it seemed. This was the part of dealing with men you hated. Words rarely worked, sweet talk was so difficult to pull off when you felt like hitting him rather than kissing up. But men didn’t truly care how much you liked them if you were showing skin.

“Well, if you must be going.” you shrugged, taking your head piece out and slowly letting your hair down.

If your words couldn’t keep him here, your body certainly could. Norman watched transfixed as you removed the stage makeup then as you pulled off the costume piece, clad only in a red leotard. You met his eyes very briefly as you stepped behind a thin partition, throwing your tights and leotard over the top of it as proof you were indeed naked. A dressing robe was what you returned in, and the promise of your nakedness made his eyes burn. That assumption, the hidden nature of the dressing room gave him all the security he needed to do what he did next. Men were brutes, and you wish you were shocked when he lunged forwards, meaty paws encircling your hips, breath hot on your neck. You didn’t want to have to bargain with your body, but this wasn’t about you. This was about distraction, about keeping him intrigued enough to stay. For better or worse you had his full attention.

“You’re not a fairy, you’re a siren, using your charms to seduce an honest man.” Norman gruffly spoke against your neck.

“An honest man would never come so close to the fantastical. Not if he truly believed it was a con.” you whispered, tone wavering in fear.

The threat of rape wasn’t uncommon in the circus. Generally you steered clear of men after shows, going with friends to ensure your safety. But this was different. This man didn’t have the morality to consider consent a true worry when a pretty woman was this close, and in his eyes, begging for it. A hand slid up, pawing, trying to tug free the double knotted fabric belt of the robe. Your ears rang, you were shaking, you couldn’t get out the words to tell him to stop. But it was timing, the silver-tongued devil Barnum determined to give this abuser nothing but a hard wake up call that brought an end to this assault. The crack of Barnum’s gloved hand slapping down on Norman’s shoulder with enough force for the man to release you without delay, startling you in the process. You didn’t meet the ring leader’s eyes, covering yourself as best as you could. It was Barnum that put himself in between Norman and you, Barnum who used his height to grab the shorter man by the neck in a gesture both threatening and casual.

“Norman, I’d say it’s about time for you to return to your lovely wife.” Barnum grinned, too-white teeth bared in what could be a scowl.

As Norman was led out of the small tent, you returned behind the partition, pulling on familiar trousers and a loose blouse. Still you couldn’t get in enough air, but tears, hysterics would buy you no sympathy. Bigger things were afoot. As you walked back towards Barnum, you gave no hint of how shaken you had been. Prostitution wasn’t uncommon here, especially among the acrobats. Barnum never sold his women, not like a pimp or a brothel mistress. But he didn’t exactly protect them from men too excited to keep their hands, and their dicks out of their way. Perhaps it was his hatred of the man, the moral stipulation he carried against hurting women that had saved you. Up until now you’d managed to escape the rape, the sexual slavery some of the elder veterans had experienced. Tonight you’d come too close, and tonight you’d been saved again by a man both resented and revered among your bunch.

“Well done. We’ve got our girl, and the trunk she was so desperate about.” Barnum sighed. “That’s what took so long, locating a damn trunk. Porter said she refused to leave without it, the fucking diva.”

You flinched at his tone. Barnum was never happy for long, not if he wasn’t close to a whiskey bottle. His tone hurt a little more, being as emotionally vulnerable as you were.

“Well, I’ll pay her my respects.” you sighed. 

“You might want to do it sooner than later. Porter said she came in with a bruised face and a fractured arm. Our nordic gentleman appears to be quite the lady’s man.” Barnum commented dryly. 

“So she isn’t going to be singing anytime soon?” you inferred, the cause of his foul mood clearer now.

“Not until her face fades enough for the paste to cover it up. I want to debut her in New York. I can’t do that if her arm’s in a sling and a purple stain over her blue eyes.”

You nodded along, running a hand through your loose hair. He was slowly getting out of his temper. 

“Well. The community will help her find her voice soon enough. Send my hello to the Mrs.” you nodded your head, ending the conversation before his personal temper could show.

“Send my hello to your dream Jenny.” he cruelly fired back.

You flinched, walking away before he had the personal joy of watching your face fall. How were you to know when he was or wasn’t fighting with his wife? How were you supposed to do more for a man that was never satisfied?

As you walked past the trailers sprawled out on the half-frozen grass, you glanced at Nellie’s trailer, noting the soft glow from within. You approached, intending to introduce yourself to the new troop member, pausing at the door as you heard hushed voices. Softer crying. She wasn’t ready for a new face, you knew that. Not tonight, not when the threat of her husband hung over her head, staining her hope like bruised blood vessels stained her face. A part of you was relieved. All your life you would never, ever tell her what you’d paid for to grant her your freedom. And you’d never tell another. 

Act II- The High Priestess

The new ward, Jane Karlsson, was a shut-in. She practiced her songs while the circus goers practiced their acts. None except Nellie saw her regularly which meant that first introduction stretched further into the future. Barnum grew impatient, Nellie’s pleas for more time grew less effective. Alcohol lost its effectiveness. You didn’t bother with Barnum’s stash, none of it was any good. You drafted up new routines as the insomnia soberness produced left you awake until the final hours of night. Over the net you worked, stressing your body into exhaustion, the kind of tiredness that gave you dreamless sleep.

Tonight was no different, pushing your body to the limit until you missed the bar, falling straight down. The falling was always bittersweet. The familiar terror as you realized you were falling, followed by the brief relief as you made peace with a death that never seemed close enough. The net would always catch you, shuddering as it saved your life, prolonging your misery for another night. You lay there, panting and boneless, almost tempted to fall asleep right there. It would be better than another night alone in the old mess trailer you’d made home.

“...That was impressive.” an unfamiliar voice murmured, stirring you from your trance.

You sat up, looking at a face you weren’t sure was familiar. You saw a lot of faces after all, and sometimes they blended together. What was interesting about this one was that half of her face was purple, and it tipped you off to her identity.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, making conversation.

“I walk until I get tired enough to sleep without dreaming.” she admitted. “I’m Jane, by the way.” 

She seemed sweet, well meaning. Her arms was still wrapped up, and she covered the bruise with her hair, but Jane was still pretty. Red hair, blue eyes. A nice face, and a good person behind it, you decided.

“It’s nice to finally meet your acquaintance. I’m-”

“I know who you are. I watch you sometimes. You’re always too focused on the bars to see me. It’s mesmerizing to watch.” she answered quickly, as if trying to prevent the awkwardness that could come if you had known she watched.

You caught her accent, the same nordic muddle that Norman had spoken in. You had heard it so rarely as to have an inkling of a concept of its true origin. It made sense that she watched you then, you thought. The people she’d come from were either awful voyeurs or didn’t get out much.

“Barnum said you’re from Sweden.” you smiled, not unkindly.

“Originally, yes.” she nodded. “I came here with my husband four years ago. Before that I travelled the sea.” Jane sighed.

Your eyebrows went up in surprise. You wouldn’t have guessed that upbringing from her reserved demeanor, but it made for the perfect origin story. A sailor, and then a circus performer.

“A sailor?” you chuckled, “That’s where you get your songs?”

A secret, sad smile bent over Jane’s face, and she shrugged in a way that tugged at your memory. An uncomfortable deja vu, one that sometimes appeared with exhaustion. You didn’t think much of it, or her.

“Yes. I was a sailor.”

Sitting up from the safety net, you yawned, cupping your sleepy face.

“Well, Jane, I think I’ll be heading back to my trailer. I’m sufficiently exhausted.”

Jane hummed, following you out of the tent. You could feel her questioning stare on you as you drew further and further away. And as you laid down on your cot, the dreams of Jenny, the ones that never ended well left you alone. But a song, a lullaby that felt woven into the very night remained, the melody long forgotten by the time you woke, as it always was. But the feeling it evoked, that uncomfortable reminiscence in between awareness and preconsciousness echoed. 

{-----------}

Breakfast was calm. The usual jokes flew around, and the same low quality sourced, high quality cooked food was served. In your half-asleep state, you didn’t recognize the change in mood, the utter silence until your eyes met several shocked faces. But they weren’t looking at you. Next to you was more accurate. You turned, and for a moment you swore you were about to remember exactly where those blue eyes came from. The sureness of recognition hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath out of your lungs only for that almost answer to slip away again. But it wasn’t those eyes. It was just the newbie.

“Good morning Jane.” you cleared your throat, shaking your head and looking away to hide whatever dumb expression must’ve overtaken your face for a few seconds.

“Morning.” she murmured, quietly eating next to you. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.” she said quietly.

One of the longtime circus members, Matthias chuckled, eager for a jest.

“It’s not her fault. She went out to the beach during a storm, came back soaked to the bone. The pneumonia she caught cooked her brain a little, that’s what the doctor said.” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes at his rude comment, hurling an orange rind at him. Leave it to the jokester to use your most painful memories as conversation starters.

“It did not. That was nearly five years ago. I’m fully recovered from whatever it was that did me over.” you replied, staring him hard in his beady little eyes.

Jane grew quiet at this, a peculiar expression coming over her face. The damage was already done, Matthias had said enough to ignite her curiosity, and now you were forced into telling your woe.

“Which beach?” she asked.

“I don’t remember. The pneumonia wiped my mind of that entire troop season.” you shrugged. “I was sick for half of it, half-lucid for the other half.”

“Like I said, it cooked her brain.” Matthias interjected again. “It was when we were in Europe, visited the Queen, saw Paris and Berlin. She didn’t, she was in a cot, but you get the gist.”

Jane nodded, but she wasn’t willing to let the topic die.

“Did you ever stop by the Welsh coast?” she quietly asked again.

This conversation was unpleasant, awkward. It felt like an interrogation, and your lack of sleep was starting to wear on your patience. 

“Jane, I’m sorry I don’t remember.” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “No matter how you ask me where I was when I got sick, I can’t tell you. I have one single token from that time period, and it’s just a recurring nightmare-”

The following words died in your throat, and you shook your head, signaling the end of whatever monstrous life misery you were about to deliver on the newest member of Barnum’s troop of the tormented. Matthias saved you, as he usually did, moving on to playfully jest with a sword eater. By the time your plate was clear, a sickening grief had clawed its way into your throat, holding your tongue hostage, your lips captive.

Five years ago you’d gone to a beach in the middle of the night. Nobody remembered where and you’d never bothered trying to stay on Barnum’s good side long enough to ask to see the records. The story was simple. You left in the middle of the night and came back at noon soaked to the bone and babbling a name none of them could make sense of.

Jenny. My Jenny Lind, where is she? My Jenny of the sea, where’d she go?

It was assumed you’d just gone mad from the cold, the pneumonia that came overnight manifesting in a distress of the mind that remained up until now. And the nightmares of course. Those you knew all too well. 

It was your rest day, the day where you spent tending to the animals and generally trying not to think about the missing memories Jane had so effortlessly drawn a finger to. You didn’t feel any real resentment, she was only curious. It might’ve been a conversation starter, perhaps she’d been wondering if she had seen the troop somewhere on a dock. Jane was a sailor once upon a time after all, but you doubted it was of any importance.

With the freedom of the day came the opportunity to walk along the empty caravans as the troop set up for a show. At the peak of the show, as the audience cheered, you drew closer to Nellie’s trailer. It wasn’t curiosity, it was a song burrowing out of the wooden planks and into the night air. The softest melody, notes perfectly polished, drifting in an aria that was… Masterful. You drew closer, staring through the open window at Jane’s silhouette. Her red hair was loose down her back and she was dressed in a soft blue dress, worn and patched in a few places. You listened, eyes shutting as the tone soothed the unkempt question mark of your wounded psyche.

The song lingered long after it ended. Long enough for you to be surprised when the door swung open. Jane peered down at you, expression amused. Not a word worked it’s way past your lips, not when she stared down at you with that tiny smirk.

“Spying on me? Shouldn’t you be in the ring right now?”

Smiling nervously, you cleared your throat, feeling silly in your slacks and men’s button down. It was comfortable, but so out of place when you stared at Jane’s pretty blue dress.

“Just repaying your late night voyeurism.”

Jane smiled widely, gesturing you in. Returning that same grin, you entered Nellie’s trailer, sitting on the familiar floral couch as she adjusted her music sheets.

“I almost have my set list nailed down, but I can’t decide between the aria you just heard or a personal piece.”

“A personal piece? Original song?” you asked, surprised by her musical diversity.

“Well. It’s a song I learned as a child. It isn’t new, but I’m sure it is new to American ears. The only issue is there is no orchestral arrangement. I’d have to arrange it, or sing it acapella.”

“Well, let’s hear it.” you smiled.

Jane took a deep breath in. A song erupted from her lips, haunting and soft, lingering in your bones and in your soul in an eerily familiar way. It was beautiful, and for a moment you swore you were sitting on a warm, dry bed, the breath of another on your ear as light faded in…

The room was so still, and you swore it still echoed with her voice, the timbre falling and working its way into the fabric of the couch cushions, the glued paper of the wall.

“You have a beautiful voice.” you managed, still struggling to shake yourself from the dream spell she’d brought you into.

“... That’s all?” Jane asked, expression unreadable. 

“No, no. La petite mort. I get it sometimes, randomly. And you have the voice that stirs my dead memory. It’s beautiful.” you nodded, hoping it was more of an adequate compliment. “Definitely include it in your performance.

The room went quiet, and the stillness was a bit uncomfortable. Jane seemed lost in frustrated thought, and you figured she wanted her time alone to practice once more. Standing on legs just a little too wobbly, you made in the direction of the door.

“Wait, stay for tea?” Jane asked, attention snapping back to you. “I feel like we’ve never had a proper introduction.”

Her expression was hopeful, the sullen silence that had followed your commentary gone. You supposed it was a performer’s perfection, anxious that there wasn’t something more constructive to be said about her performance. There was no need to take offense, especially when she was so kindly offering tea; from Nelly’s cupboard no less.

“I’d be honored.” you smiled, settling back on Nellie’s couch.

Watching her mill about in Nellie’s kitchen was comforting. She wasn’t in her element per se, but she looked relaxed. The faded china tea pot and cups she set on the weathered coffee stool were a nice touch to the ambiance. Jenny smelled like the good lavender soap, the kind Nellie almost never gave anyone, lest her signature scent be stolen by another. But the soft spot she had for Jane was obvious.

“Are you intending to live with Nellie from now on?” you asked, noting her mild trepidation at beginning a real conversation.

Jane shook her head, taking a breath in.

“No. I want to move in with someone else. She’s overbearing, and…” 

You let her sentence die, picking the conversation back up when she’d only just managed to lose it entirely.

“My trailer has a vacancy. If you’re willing to share, that is.”

Jane smiled softly, cocking her head coyly. There was an amused glint in her eyes, like she knew something you didn’t. It unnerved you, almost as much as her nonchalant answer.

“I’ll think about it.” 

As you left her trailer, you felt her gaze linger. But this time you were brave enough to turn around. She shut the curtains before you managed to wave goodbye. What did she know that you didn’t?

Act III- The Empress

Sickness swept through the troop like a passing storm. First the children caught it, coughing and hacking everywhere, followed by the older men and women. Barnum grounded the troop to camp somewhere in Massachusetts. The young people, a group that made up about half of the circus, caught it intermittently. There was no danger in a small case of winter cough, not for the adults. But young children and the more alcoholic veterans had it bad. Beds were laid out in the biggest trailer, the sick temporarily quarantined from the well. Someone had to take care of them. It was taking care of a couple of sick kids and an alcoholic or shoveling animal poop.

“Maise hold still.” you quietly begged the squirming toddler, running nose and teary eyes leaking in between hoarse coughs. 

She wouldn’t still, crying for her mother who was taking a moment to simply rest. No matter how you pleaded, promising her the best pick of toys, even sweets, the little girl wouldn’t quiet. Maise hollered on, disturbing the two other children and One-Eyed Pete laying in the other beds. The urge to shake her, to make her quiet was insufferably difficult to suppress, frustrated tears pricking at her eyes. If she would just quiet, be still for two seconds. You did the next best thing, muffling her sobs and coughs into the front of your blouse as you breathed in and out, reminding yourself of the need for good rest, rest you hadn’t gotten in days. 

“Alright, Birdie, my Mrs is waiting for me.” Paul groaned, leaving his post at his appointed time.

You stared at him in shock and frustration as he left two whining boys, a hacking old man begging for water and a disquieted toddler to you. Abandoning you just when you needed the most help. You shut your eyes, succumbing to a few exhausted sobs as he left you to fend for yourself without assistance. The second time the trailer door swung open you didn’t bother to keep your tongue still.

“If you’re just going to stand there like an oaf you can just get the fuck out! You’re no damn help anyway.” you cussed, assuming Paul had turned back as the hysterics in the trailer grew to a fever pitch.

Through your teary, exhausted eyes, you could make out the startled face of Jane, an apron around her waist and a bonnet holding her red hair back.

“No… I came to help.” she said quietly, moving forwards regardless of your outburst.

She took the wailing Maise out of your arms, giving you the chance to tend to One-Eyed Pete. 

You took a moment, catching your breath, turning away from her. You wiped your eyes and went about tending the hollering old man. Propping him up, you wiped your tears on your sleeve, too ashamed to meet Jane’s eyes as you gave the old man water. Out of the corner of your eye you watched as she rounded up the children into their cot, quietly shushing and soothing them in her soft contralto.

“Now stay very still for me. You can’t listen to the song if you’re wiggling around.” you heard her coax.

All three children obeyed. Perplexed and amazed by her technique you watched as she leaned in, and the softest lullaby you’d ever heard spun out like a web from her lips. It soothed the children, and their eyelids closed, all three slowly settling into the bed, blinking slower, and slower… A nostalgia slipped through your bones, an image of waves, of soft murmurs and the feel of silk fur beneath your fingers came back. For a moment you could taste the salt, hear the waves, like a long forgotten memory. All three children were quiet, sleeping soundly. And you were left grasping for memory, trailing after the threads that still lingered and desperately attempting to put it all back together. 

The room was silent. Your periods of spacing out, periods of listlessness kept getting worse. And now Jane was noticing.

“... You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Jane said softly, turning to look at you as she tucked a stray strand of red hair back into her bonnet.

You shook your head hard, standing up. There was a pit of something in your stomach that felt an awful lot like grief. 

“It’s… Listen. What Matthias said about the pneumonia cooking my brain, he wasn’t wrong. I struggle with concentration, I space out, and I can go days without sleeping only to pass out mid routine.” you spoke softly, cheeks flushing shamelessly. “Everyone has issues sleeping here, unless you’re sixty or below the age of say 12. But I can’t sleep because I get these dreams that have been with me since the pneumonia.”

You weren’t quite sure why you were saying all this, telling a stranger your issues, but the circumstances… You were tired. And she was listening.

“I have dreams too, ones I don’t like.” Jane smiled thinly. “But most of all I think you need sleep.”

She stood, offering a hand. Accepting help wasn’t a common occurrence for you, but she was probably right.

“My trailer is-”

“I’m not taking you there.” Jane interjected, bringing you towards Nellie’s trailer.

There was no sense arguing. So you followed. Into the small little box, into the second bedroom and into Jane’s world. It was neat, and clean, and smelled… Like lavender. There was not a tense bone in your body as she had you slip off your shoes, and then your dress. She did it all so gently, her hands tracing your stomach and guiding your wrists through the sleeves of a nightgown. The room was whisper quiet, and then she settled. 

“Good night, my dear. Sweet dreams.”

A/N: More parts coming soon ;)

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @bjoerkumlaut, @lovelyy-moonlight, @coffee-is-my-oxygen, @appparadox407

Send me a message if you'd like to be added!

[karlachismylife]

Flutter Into the Skies

CW: fem!reader, girly reader (dresses, makeup, all that jazz), flirty banter, mentions of alcohol, Ghost is a menace as always, toothrotting fluff.

(Title from "Butterfly, Butterly" by a-ha)

You're excited.

That bubbly feeling of sincere happiness for someone else is filling your chest with lightweight foam, rising as if you're the most perfect, airy meringue that has ever graced anyone's kitchen - and it's soft too, not choking or overwhelming like any strong sensations tend to be.

You're literally beaming on someone else's wedding day. It's good.

Even Ghost and his ever so heavy, even unintentionally, presence seem to have nothing on you and your metaphorical butterfly wings of a flowing dress, fluttering behind you as you're running around to finish getting ready to head out. He considers himself already good to go, a sharp suit matching colour with your dress, grown out hair styled neatly, keeping the subtle waves it naturally has whenever he lets it go. You even got him a half-face mask that matches his tie and pocket square, no black allowed to your sweet friend's celebration. He's wearing it already, getting used to the feeling of unfamilar fabric on his face, as he stands in the hallway, leaning on the wall in a lazy manner, hooded eyes watching you with a deep satisfaction and a crooked smirk of a predator in its den lurking somewhere behind the satin mask.

You hear a distinct chuckle as you zoom past him in your festive frenzy, looking for a particular eyeshadow palette in your impressive collection - so, naturally, you turn on your heels and give Simon a mockingly stern look.

"What's so funny, huh?" You demand, pointng your eyeshadow brush at him, right between his dark, magnetic eyes. Sparkly glitter smeared on the soft hairs makes it look like you're about to zap him with some pixie dust magic. "I wanna look good, it's her special day, can't ruin it by being a mess! You could put some effort in too, Mr Riley."

That's when you get him - light eyebrows sliding upwards in a quizzical look, eyes dipping down to give himself a quick one-over before coming back up to stare at you. Daring you to tell him he doesn't look exquisitely and magnificently. He would go meet the Queen of England herself looking like this, not to mention a friend of his own little queen.

"Your tie, dummy," you giggle and put your formiddable weapon of artistry and glitter on the nearest surface, dancing up to Simon and gripping his unevenly tied accessory.

"Could've fixed it meself before headin' out," he grumbles in response, standing upright for you to adjust the tie into a straight line and tighen it up just the right way. Sure, he could, but that's what he gets for being a menace and teasing you for fussing over every detail of your appearance today.

You lift your gaze to retort with some smartass quip, but Ghost is already two steps ahead, staring at you with a heavy, sultry look he knows you can't resist - eyelids half-closed and lazy, white lashes fluttering slightly as he assesses your expression, notices the way your half-done makeup blends together into a colourful picture, bright, sparkly, not subtle at all and screaming "this is a happy day for me too!"

You must be a fairy or some other mythical creature to posess this wonderous ability to dissolve seamlessly into other people when they need your support and then emerge unscathed; complete, full and whole on our own - and yet always there to be a part of a bigger thing.

He knows, because you've seeped under his skin every time his own shell crumbled, and held the fortress for him, mending every crack with your pink pixie dust and golden unicorn fur. They are still there, still visible, still hurting - but not threatening to collapse on top of him, crushing whatever soft and alive still is kept inside.

If there is a pang of guilt prickling him for never supplying you with something this good to melt into, sharing happiness instead of a deadly burden, it disappears too quickly once Simon sees the simmering adoration in your glitter-eyeliner emphasized eyes.

Sliding the knot of his tie up and adjusting it around his collar, you don't let go of it immediately, instead opting to tug on it - an indication of your intent clear enough, you think. But of course, the mountain that is Ghost, doesn't move.

"Come on, I wanna kiss you," you murmur, yet to realize that Simon didn't misread your gesture as a part of fixing his tie.

The bastard ignored it on purpose.

"Oh, I can tell," his smugness rains down on you through the slyly narrowed eyes of his and the undeniably satisfied smirk unable to be contained discreetly with the mask alone.

It takes you a few seconds to go from charmed and adoring to scandalized and outraged.

"Fuck you, Simon Riley," in sincere wrath, you jerk your fist up, choking him with the tie, and yank the asshole's face towards you, pressing a loud, mocking smooch directly over the light fabric of his mask. It's his fault he didn't want to remove it and give you a proper kiss.

"We'll be late if ya do," unfased by the silky hanging noose around his neck, Ghost hammers in the last nail.

You're pouting at him the whole way to your friend's wedding, his poorly muffled chuckles only digging his grave deeper as you glare at him, no threat in your butterfly princess appearance whatsoever. The only thing that keeps you from elbowing the self-assured dog or telling him what a bastard he is, is the sweet revenge you're gonna get once everyone at the wedding sees him with a stupid, bright-pink, sparkly kiss print on his mask that he still hasn't noticed is there.

That's what he gets for being an ass: mighty image completely ruined, reputation of a scary, battle-worn beast shattered. Everyone will see just how wrapped around your finger and domesticated he is (as if it wasn't obvious already - or as if he didn't have you wrapped around his himself).

It's only at the afterparty, when everyone's letting loose and your cheeks are definitely tingling from the sweet alcohol you drank in the name of your friend's union with her sweetheart, when you suddenly get jumped by Ghost on your way to the bathroom. He's just leaving it himself, and you know from the look in his eyes that he finally had a chance to look in the mirror and see what a pretty sight he had been the whole day.

"Were ya even planning to tell me, ya little minx?" Somehow he growls right into your ear, already caging you against the wall. Good thing he does - your head is spinning, you're tipsy, charged with the best mood, buzzing from hearing good music at the dancefloor, full of sugar and sweet, sweet aftertaste of someone else's love wafting through the air.

"Took you long enough," you giggle, resting your palms on his shoulders - even through the blurriness of your lightweight happiness you clearly see that he's smiling, little lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes and warmth in his voice as he nuzzles into your temple. "Not so sharp-eyed anymore, Lieutenant?"

"Jus' didn't expect blatant betrayal in me own home." You roll your eyes and that's enough to miss him sliding his marked mask down. "Ya will pay for this, lovie."

"I'm shaking in my- mmph!"

Whatever you were shaking in, gets cut off by a whole tornado of smooches, light alcohol taste on Ghost's lips and tongue too. Should've known he'll get like this after a couple of glasses.

But then again, do you really mind?

[pitchprowler27]

Hearts On The Sidelines

The energy in the stadium was electric, pulsing beneath Ellie’s feet like a living thing. It was a chaotic symphony of chants, cheers, and clapping—a sensation that might overwhelm most, but for Ellie, it was oddly comforting. Chaos wasn’t foreign to her; she thrived in it. As a paramedic, her life was a series of high-stakes moments and adrenaline rushes. This? This was her version of peace.

Beside her stood Bobby, her childhood partner-in-crime, arms raised in a roar as the Arsenal team burst onto the field. Bobby was as loud and commanding as Ellie was quiet and reserved—a six-foot-tall force of nature to her compact, toned frame. He was the extrovert to her introvert, the life of the party to her quiet observer. They were opposites in nearly every way, save for their shared queerness and their unbreakable bond. They’d joked often that they were each other’s emotional support queer.

Their friendship had roots deeper than most. They’d grown up together, survived the Army as field medics, and now found themselves sharing a new chapter of life in England. Ellie had needed to escape the States and her family, and Bobby, ever her loyal shadow, wasn’t about to let her go alone. England was as far from home as they could get, and Arsenal games had quickly become part of their new routine.

Ellie didn’t know the first thing about football, or as Bobby loved to tease her, soccer. What she did know was that the women’s team had a roster of ridiculously attractive players, and she wasn’t above enjoying the view.

“Honey girl, close that mouth before someone thinks you’re catching flies,” Bobby teased, nudging her with an elbow. Ellie snapped her mouth shut, her face going beet red. She hadn’t even realized she’d been staring.

“Shut up,” she hissed, shoving him playfully. “If this were the men’s team, you’d be drooling all over the place.”

Bobby threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming over the crowd noise. “Touché, little one. Touché.”

Their banter was cut short when a woman in front of them suddenly slumped in her seat, unconscious. Ellie and Bobby shared a quick look—a silent, shared exhale of here we go again. Even on a day off, work seemed to follow them.

Seamlessly, they fell into action. Bobby stabilized her head and neck while Ellie checked for a pulse, her hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline. The woman’s clammy skin and shallow breathing were telling, and both friends suspected dehydration and heat exhaustion. By the time stadium medics arrived, the woman was starting to come around, but Ellie and Bobby insisted on accompanying her to the medical tent to make sure she was okay.

Inside the tent, it was clear the crew was green—two young EMTs who looked as if they’d just graduated. Ellie didn’t waste time. Flashing her badge, she barked out instructions while Bobby set up monitoring equipment and Ellie established IV access. They moved as one, the rhythm of years working together palpable in the ease of their movements.

The woman, Amanda, gradually improved under their care, her color returning as fluids worked their magic. Bobby kept her distracted with easy conversation—he had a gift for making people feel at ease, and Ellie was grateful for it.

“I’m Amanda, by the way,” the woman said, sitting up a little. “My daughter plays for Arsenal. She’s going to be worried sick when she finds out.”

Ellie smiled softly, finishing her checks. “She’ll be worried, sure, but relieved when she sees you’re okay. Just make sure you hydrate better next time—it’s no joke in this heat.”

As the game ended and Amanda prepared to leave, her daughter appeared, jogging toward the tent. Ellie glanced up, and her heart stuttered. The woman—blonde, tall, and impossibly fit—was instantly recognizable. Leah Williamson. The Captain of Arsenal. Ellie had seen her on posters and in headlines, but in person? She was breathtaking.

“Mum! What happened?” Leah’s voice was tinged with worry as she knelt beside Amanda. Ellie found herself frozen, her brain short-circuiting as Bobby’s smirk widened beside her.

“Ellie and Bobby took such good care of me,” Amanda said, gesturing to them. “They’re absolute angels.”

Leah turned her attention to them, her piercing blue eyes locking on Ellie. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “I’m Leah, by the way.”

Bobby, ever the charmer, extended a hand first. “Bobby. And this shy one here is Ellie.”

Ellie managed a nod, her voice caught somewhere in her throat as Leah turned her attention to her. Leah extended her hand, and Ellie shook it, the contact sending a jolt through her. She forgot to let go, and when she realized, she dropped it like it was on fire, heat flooding her cheeks.

“Uh… yeah. No big deal,” she stammered, rocking nervously on her heels. Bobby’s silent laughter was palpable next to her.

Leah’s lips quirked into a smirk, her gaze lingering on Ellie. “Well, I appreciate you both taking such good care of my mum.” She paused, her tone turning playful. “Hope to see you around, especially you, pretty girl.”

Ellie’s jaw dropped, and before she could formulate a response, Leah had turned, leading Amanda away. Bobby grasped Ellie’s shoulders, shaking her gently.

“Oh, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie,” he teased, grinning from ear to ear.

“Not one word, Bobby. Not one,” Ellie muttered, though her wide-eyed stare said everything she couldn’t.

[nihonio]

Character Summary: REX TURNER

FULL NAME

Rex Turner

ALIAS • "Pyro" (callsign) • Lab rat (general), manwhore (general) • The brit guy (by Víctor), weirdo (by Víctor)

AGE • 25-27 (beginning) • 35+ (current)

DATE OF BIRTH • October 23rd

PLACE OF BIRTH • [CENSORED], Cheshire, England.

NATIONALITY • British

TRAINING

Royal North Adshill Institute, Great Britain. Specialization in Chemistry.

Royal College of Military Engineering, British Army training. Specialization in Chemical Warfare Countermeasures.

Advanced Training Course for the Special Air Service (SAS).

Active training at the SCP Foundation, Mobile Task Force Beta-7 ("Maz Hatters"). Specialization in Analytical Chemistry and Anomalous Procedures.

RELEVANT EXPERIENCE

Operation "Green Door." British SAS in coordination with the SASR. 20██.

Joint operation with U.S. Marine division. Classified location.

Anti-terrorist operation in collaboration with the MI6. Several European countries, 20██.

SPOKEN LANGUAGES

• English (main) • Portuguese (second language) • French (limited)

PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT

Reading the previous interviews of Agent Rex "Pyro" Turner did not truly prepare me for the experience it was going to be to actually have one firsthand. The psychological profile of the agent is characterized by the predominance of a choleric temperament… To say the least. It seems that the previous specialists had to write their reports trying to keep the best possible tone, as I found out after our first session.

His background suggests a family environment of financial difficulty, which is why he enlisted as soon as he finished his studies, in order to pay for his university studies on chemistry and to be able to prosper. Several years in the Navy and his talent for science earned him a place in the SAS. Despite his accomplishments, he says he never felt entirely comfortable with his ranks; he was too eccentric and rebellious for the liking of his superiors and frequently clashed with them.

The first time I asked him about how he got his scar, he told me it was because of a lab incident. I was about to check the records on the alleged incident, until he started laughing and told me the real reason. The way he joined the Foundation was just as turbulent as the way he joined the military. He was hospitalized for several months in one of our hospitals, after defending himself against the Type Blue that caused the distinctive mark I had asked about. (Honestly, I've seen plenty of burn scars throughout my life, and this one is definitely different from the rest).

Behaving exceptionally well right after the attack, he was offered a position as an agent once his recovery was complete. His general knowledge of science, specifically chemistry, led him to join the Beta-7 task force seamlessly. He said that he was paired with agent Marcelo Oliveira ("Marcelinho") several times during the operations, and that they generally got along well in their work.

He currently seems to be comfortable doing what he does, and there are no reports of clashes or difficulties with other agents, at least within his time working at the Foundation, that have come to my attention. It seems that, after all the bumps in his road, he was finally able to find where he belongs.

— Dr. William T. Falcone, Department of Psychology.

-----

APPEARANCE Black-haired male, 175cm, weighing about 78kgs (172lbs). Fair skinned, slightly tanned. Notorious burn scar covering about 1/3 of the body, from the upper forehead down to the left tensor. Usually seen donning v-neck shirts and relatively tighter clothing. Posseses a tattoo depicting a white sword (Excalibur), pointing down with a pair of wings representing the Special Air Service logo located the bicep region of the right arm. — Surg. Steffano Damiano González, SHRP Head.

STORY SUMMARY Due to his family's declining economic situation, at the age of 16 he decided to enlist in the Royal Navy in order to pay for his higher education. Upon completion of his secondary studies, he entered the Army Foundation College in Harrogate, majoring in Chemical Engineering. Upon reaching the age of majority, he formally enlisted into the Common Military Curriculum, where he received his nickname “Pyro” due to his habitual habit of burning himself slightly while soldering pieces of military equipment. Eventually, through specialized education he would attain a degree in Chemical, Biological, Radioactive and Nuclear defense awarded by the Royal School of Military Engineering Group (RSME).

Having completed the course and received his commission as an officer, he decided to further his role in the navy by going through the basic special operations course and joining the special group British Air Service (SAS) after a couple of years of service. While there, he managed to achieve the role of High Mountain Specialist serving in Troop 19 of the 22nd SAS. Over the years and with the growing problem of domestic terrorism, he was moved to the counter terrorism unit where he was able to put into practice his in-depth knowledge of CBRN defense as applied to metropolitan environments.

A subsequent incident within the unit led to Specialist Turner being placed on standby, taking him out of the field for an extended period of time. These events occurred during an emergency deployment requested in response to a possible terrorist attack. Operator Turner's squad encountered a pyromantic threat without understanding the actual nature of the threat (anomalous). Due to miscommunication and poor operating conditions within the deployment, Rex ended up neutralizing the entity on his own, but suffered third and second degree burns to approximately one third of his body. He was hospitalized in the intensive care unit at Site-44, where he was subsequently offered a position within Beta-7 due to his extensive history of expertise in the subject matter of interest, supporting the Chemistry Department in the development of new technologies focused on containment.

ADDITIONAL READING: SHRP series hub written by me and oniricshogunsoldier

[naturistgirl]

Naked - the Best way to Relax

It's Sunday and a great day to relax. For me it's a bonus day. Saturday is my rest day but it's also a day to be naked with family and welcome people around. Sunday is quiet where we live. We get up a little later. As we don't wear clothes it's just a shower and a late breakfast. This is a great day for myself and my husband to get lost in each other, to enjoy being intimate together and to relax.

I start my day with freshly ground coffee; made with a Mocha Pot or a cafetière. Like being naked, making coffee properly means taking things back to basic principles and enjoying coffee the traditional way. I always feel that coffee (and food) tastes better when I'm naked, preferably out of doors. Today sadly in Northern England it is cold, wet and rainy! It feels like Autumn now (another reason to enjoy intimacy).

I try to keep sex out of this blog simply because people can confuse naturism and sex. Please don't assume however that naturists don't indulge in it! Both naturism and intimacy are beautiful natural things; there for us to enjoy. Neither is shameful. Neither needs to be hidden or taboo. When a wife is around the house tantalisingly naked all day and her husband too, it is easier to slip seamlessly from everyday tasks to love and ecstasy. Those of you who follow all my blogs can will be aware of that side of me.

These photos however were part of of training session with my husband (photographic!) trying to teach me how to light a portrait using different techniques. I asked him for a few of the photos so that I could share them with you :-)

Here's my attempt at a photo of him relaxing with his laptop. I shoot with an old Minolta Dynax film camera, but I still have a long way to go, learning these techniques.

and one of him bouldering naked up in the Yorkshire Dales.

I hope you enjoyed today's little blog. Please feel free to like, share and re-blog with our blessing. Photos remain our copyright.

Enjoy your Sunday!

Jane x

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

walter deville teaser

In the magnificent ballroom of a majestic Tudor manor, a spellbinding scene unfolds. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a mysterious woman glided across the polished floor, her movements as graceful as a swan. The haunting melody that filled the air seemed to possess her, guiding her every step between each guest. In the depths of the shadows, a figure stood, his presence both alluring and enigmatic. His face remained concealed, adding an air of intrigue to his already captivating aura. Their eyes locked, two souls drawn together by an invisible force, and the world around them faded into insignificance.

As the music swelled, reaching its crescendo, the stranger took a bold step forward. His voice, filled with a whisper of longing, broke the silence, confessing a love that seems to transcend time itself. “you have no idea how much I love you, Miss Stoker.” The woman's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat, as she was swept away by the intensity of his words.

In the moment frozen in time, their lips finally met in a passionate kiss. It was a collision of desire and longing, a union of souls that defied explanation. But as their embrace deepened, a peculiar taste lingered on the woman's tongue, a metallic tang that sent a shiver down her spine. Suddenly, a surge of curiosity mixed with a hint of fear flooded her heart. The taste of blood upon his lips was unmistakable, a jarring contrast to the tender moment they shared. Questions swirled in her mind, like whispers in the wind. Who was this faceless man? “(Y/N)?” he whispered. “(Y/N)?”

With a sudden jolt, the woman catapulted out of her seat, causing Evie to quickly reach for her pills. "We've landed," Evie whispered, handing her boss a pill with a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry about it," she added, noticing the beads of sweat on her forehead. "Oliver's waiting for us, let's go!" with a nod of her head (Y/N) slowly stood from her seat.

“So, who lives here again?” Evie asked as (Y/N) sat in the car, cruising along the secluded roads on the outskirts of Whitby, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The ever-changing weather, a characteristic she had missed dearly, played its whimsical game once again. One moment, the sky was a brilliant canvas of blue, devoid of any clouds, and the next, it transformed into a murky grey, with gusts of wind that seemed to dance through the air. “The De Ville family.” As they continued their journey, (Y/N)'s gaze was drawn to the enchanting woodland that enveloped their family estate. It was as if nature had painted a masterpiece, with emerald green shades blending seamlessly into fern green's vibrant hues. The lushness of the trees and foliage created a mesmerizing tapestry, inviting her to explore its hidden secrets. “But our family will be staying the weekend for the festivities.”

“Holy shit. are they royalty or something?” as the manor came into view (Y/N) felt a sense of familiarity. Nestled amidst a sprawling landscape, stood an opulent white brick mansion exuding an aura of wealth and influence. Its majesty matched only by the pristine gardens that surrounded it, meticulously manicured to perfection. Every corner of the magnificent abode reflected the abundance of riches it houses, while the walls remained untouched by even the tiniest speck of dirt. “No, it's just old money. England's full of it.” the artist knew something felt strange about the manor. It felt like home to her, and she couldn’t tell if she liked it or not.

“Welcome to New Carfax Abbey. Let me find our host.” As Oliver wandered off to find the owner (Y/N) also started to wander around the outside of the beautiful building. As she approached the entrance, the pillar carvings beckoned to her with an irresistible allure. Intricate and mesmerizing, they depicted a whimsical dance of enchanting forest creatures, each one brought to life in the bleached stone. These were no ordinary animals; they were the very same majestic beings she had encountered in her adventures. The sight filled her with an overwhelming sense of wonder and curiosity, igniting a fire within her. She yearned for the owner's permission to document every intricate detail, to capture the essence of this extraordinary building. Her excitement surged through her veins, as her mind raced with a flood of ideas, eager to be transformed into words on paper.

“I hope you don’t mind I brought a friend with me, Lord Deville,” Evie spoke pointing towards (Y/N) as she traced the pillar with her manicured nails. “(Y/N).” She called out but the girl seemed to ignore her. evie and the lord watched her closely, the rich gentleman listened to her breathing slow down as if slipping into a trance. “(Y/N)!” Evie called once again but still no reply. As the man gracefully approached the mesmerized woman, his presence seemed to cast a spell of intrigue. With a gentle touch, his large hand found its place on her shoulder, as if to guide her deeper into the enchanting world of his home. And there she stood, lost in a trance, her gaze fixated on the captivating artwork that adorned the brick. “miss are you alright.” His voice as smooth as milk snapped her from her brain her twinkling eyes locking with his stormy ones. The two matched their gaze smiling lightly at the sense of familiarity of each other.

“I'm sorry were you both calling me?” she stuttered looking towards Evie was an embarrassed look. “don’t worry (Y/N) your probably jet lagged.” She laughed picking up the poor girl's bag from the ground. “Walter, this is (Y/N). the artist I was telling you about.” The man now known as Walter stared back at (Y/N) his storm eyes now swapped with a flash of light of excitement. “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stoker. I am a very big fan of your work. obviously.” The sun-kissed hue of his skin suddenly blushed with a fiery red, as if caught off guard by his own rambling. It was almost endearing to witness him in such a vulnerable state as if his emotions were laid bare for all to see. But there was no denying the transformative power of the new face that had entered his life, for it had swiftly altered his entire demeanour. “I'm glad you enjoyed them Mr Deville and thank you for the generous donation to the gallery I can assure you there are big plans for it.” his smile couldn’t get any bigger, but it did. The sound of her voice lulled his heart into a stuttering beat as if it had been out of service for many moons.

“come let me show you around the manor. I hope you like how I've displayed your art.” His cotton-covered arm poked out to her as an invitation to his home. She slowly slipped her arm into his feeling a familiar spark ignite in their touch. His smell was so calming and alluring sending her into a high, her doing the same to him. Walter held her small hand in a comfortable tightness not wanting her to slip from him again.

[its-time-to-write]

Hello! I absolutely love your work. You’re a fantastic writer. Is it possible for you to do something based a bit off of the song London Boy by Taylor Swift? If not I understand. I just feel there’s some cool way to tie it with Jamie Tartt. Sorry if it’s a bit of a generic request

ALRIGHTY gotta preface this, I actually hate this song 😂 Lyrics aren’t bad, but the like accent thing she does makes me die a little bit. BUT. I saw what you were going for (I think)! So here it is, I suffered through listening to this song bc you asked for a fic and I am nothing if not eager to please.

This is also a response to two other requests. So if that was you, ✌️😗 y’all were on the same page, congratulations. This is also my first song-based fic, although all of my works are (very, very loosely) based on songs. That’s why they have such insane titles😅 ANYWAY that’s enough talking from me. Enjoy!

i fancy you

i love my hometown as much as Motown, i love So-Cal

Richmond in London is very different from your hometown in Southern California. It’s colder, for one. And older. Things in California don’t have the same extended history as they do in England. You’re here visiting family for a couple months, although your cousins are trying to convince you to stay longer. 

“What do you really have waiting for you in California?” Holland asks.

“Uh, the beach. Sun. Great Mexican food.” you respond.

Holland isn’t buying it. “When else are you going to be able to live here? We can help you get a job and all that, not a huge problem.”

Holland is very convincing. You decide to stay for a year, single year, and see what happens.

Holland is four years older than you, and has always been the cousin you’re closest to. You’ve had a long-standing bond since being the two eldest sisters in your family. Holland takes you to clubs and introduces you to her friends, including a Miss Keeley Jones who thinks you are “abso-fuckin-lutely adorable.” 

“You have to bring her to a Richmond match, babes,” Keeley says. “Lots of fit footballers.” She winks.

You ask Keeley of she’s dating a footballer.

“Oh god no,” she shudders. “A coach.”

You don’t really see the difference.

saw the dimples first and then i heard the accent

It was a good match, even you can tell. The Richmond team played seamlessly, passing the ball back and forth without letting the other team even touch it. Their conductor of sorts, the one mediating the passes, was crazy. He never seemed to get tired, anticipating his teammates’ moves and those of the opposing team. It seemed like he was always five steps ahead of everyone. Holland notices you watching him and pokes Keeley.

“You like Jamie?” Keeley laughs. “Makes sense. Anyone with eyes likes him. He’s right fit, too. Good in bed, shit with feelings. Well, used to be. Still fucking cocky.”

That’s interesting. “You’ve been with him?” you ask.

Keeley gives you a 50/50 hand motion. “Sort of. Don’t really count it, do I? Was with him at his fucking worst. That’s why Roy fucking hates him.”

“He’s much better now,” Holland chimes in. “Something happened last season and he stopped being such a dick.”

“Holland!” you reproach, laughing. “That’s not nice!”

She and Keeley shrug. “It’s true though, innit?”

You don’t know if it is, because when you first see Jamie up close in the club later that night, he seems perfectly fine. You see a flash of a smile, a dimple, then he says something (you don’t know what) but his accent is… something else. It’s not like Holland’s, or any of your family, but you know enough to pinpoint it to Manchester. 

“The accent got you, didn’t it?” says a voice near your ear and you yelp as Holland slides her arm around your shoulder.

“Gets the best of us,” says Keeley, grabbing your hand. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

She drags you over despite your protests.

he likes my American smile, like a child when our eyes meet, ‘darling i fancy you’

Regular dinner dates are scary, but dinner dates with a Premier League footballer are downright terrifying. 

You made Holland help you figure out what to wear, and when she showed up at your aunt’s house she had Keeley in tow.

“Heard you’re in need of a bit of a makeover,” she grins. “Lucky for you, that’s my specialty.”

Keeley and Holland have brought some of Holland’s dresses and you’re in a dark green one that “does fucking wonders for your hair, babe.”

Keeley did your makeup while Holland curled your hair and just like that, you’re ready to go.

You groan, “God, I fucking hate first dates,” while shaking out your arms. 

“It’ll be fine,” Holland promises, and she’s right.

It’s more than fine. It’s fucking fantastic.

“I like your smile,” Jamie says. “Fuckin’ American, it is.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

Jamie shrugs. “It’s bigger. Brits are more reserved. Like Roy. You met Roy yet? Biggest fucking twat I ever saw,” but he says it with such affection that you’re sure he means something else.

His eyes are electric, blue and dazzling. They betray his every thought and feeling and right now you feel like if you hold his gaze any longer you’re going to say something completely stupid. 

Turns out your not the one to say something stupid; he is.

You’re walking back to his car, holding hands and swinging them in between you when he stops and says, “Darling, I fancy you.”

You grin and he returns it. He asks, “Was that British enough for you? Feel like you got the whole experience?”

“Definitely,” you say. “Was I American enough for you?”

“Dunno,” he replies, “Got to test one more thing.”

His lips are very soft on yours.

met all of his best mates, so i guess all the rumors are true

“This is Isaac, Colin, Dani, and Sam.”

Jamie is introducing you to some of his team. You’ve been dating for a month now, and your first picture together just popped up in the papers the night before.

The boys of AFC Richmond were pretty sure Jamie was seeing someone, but they didn’t know who it was. Jamie had set up this dinner thing a while ago, it just so happened that the tabloids got to you first. 

It’s not even that great a picture honestly, but you’d been around Nelson Road enough that the boys were able to recognize you. 

It’s a little unnerving to meet them, what with Isaac’s intense stare and Dani’s wide, wide smile. You’re grateful Colin and Sam are acting normal.

“We have an American coach,” Colin says in an attempt to break the ice. It does, because you’re all laughing at the absurdity of his attempt. 

“We have heard very much about you,” Dani says and you wonder if he ever stops smiling. It feels so weird and so normal to be at Jamie’s house with a pile of food and FIFA queued up on the TV, ready to go. You figure that if you’re meeting his friends, Jamie must be at least a little serious. He finds your hand and squeezes it under the table as Isaac cracks his first smile of the night. It’s weird dating a footballer, but you think you can get used to it.

babes, don’t threaten me with a good time

Jamie’s house is the largest you’ve ever been in, and it used to be strange that it was only just the two of you, clattering around that big home. 

It’s a cool night after a warm day so you both decided to lay in his backyard under the stars. 

It feels so much like something you’d do as a teenager, and you tell Jamie as much.

“Used to sneak on me mum’s roof,” he tells you. “Didn’t even do dumb shit, I’d just go to look.”

You lay there in silence for a few moments until you feel something tickle your side.

“Jamie!” you shriek.

“I didn’t do nothing!” he protests. “Must’ve been a bug.”

You don’t believe him, but you don’t push it until you feel another tickle.

“Babe!”

“Babe, it weren’t me, I swear,” he says and you really don’t believe him, especially when he tickles you again less than a minute later.

You laugh. “Fuck you, Jamie Tartt.”

He smirks. “Babe, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Hm, maybe I want a good time.”

Jamie’s grin widens and he sits up. “You know where the bedroom is, love.”

you know i love a London boy

“I don’t fucking get it,” Jamie says. You shrug. 

“I literally don��t either,” you say. Your dad leans over to Jamie. “So basically…” he begins.

He’s halfway through his explanation when Jamie pokes you. “Babe,” he says, “can we switch seats so I can hear your dad better?” You chuckle then wiggle your way into Jamie’s seat while he gets into yours.

“Why the fuck is it called ‘football’ if it’s with their hands?” Jamie asks.

Your dad shrugs. “Not a clue, son, not a clue.”

The game progresses and one of the teams scores a touchdown.

“Hold the fuck up,” Jamie says. “Why did their score change that much?”

“I know this one!” you exclaim. “Different types of goals get different points. And there’s something called a lateral which has to do with moving backward I think?”

You dad just shakes his head with a grin and doesn’t attempt to clarify. 

Your dad spends the second half explaining everything to a very focused Jamie, and he asks questions the entire car ride home. It’s funny have Jamie here in America, staying at your parents house and seeing where you grew up. 

When you’re finally back home and in bed, you pull him as close as you can and whisper, “I love you very, very much. You know that, right?”

You can feel Jamie smile against your hair. “I love you too, very fucking much.”

[folcanta]

rubbing my forehead to cope with reading an article where the author claims Zaibach is like the USSR. unnngggghhhhhh only if the USSR resembled ridley scott's 1984 apple ad, lol.

well, aside from the deutschy name and being inspired by industrial revolution era england— a colonial power— headed by a protestant english symbol of western thought creating the world as he wants/understands it straight from the 1700s to 1996, i see the show as using his belief that god must necessarily have a hand in driving the natural world (Newton insisted that divine intervention would eventually be required to reform the [planetary] system, due to the slow growth of instabilities) extrapolated to him eventually viewing himself as such a god. but forgetting all of that,

Zaibach

i think the name is mostly nonsense, but fwiw the hebrew verb "zabach" primarily means to sacrifice or to slaughter, particularly in the context of offering an animal to God as an act of worship.

Metropolis (1927) concept art by erich kettelhut

Zaibach

Metropolis was made during the era of the weimar republic (the german reich.) things were really shit because of WWI, then oh! prosperity! while the resentment and hatred from the right boiled, then the great depression ended that prosperity, then the nazis came into official power. Metropolis is known for having been greatly edited (endlessly recut and with versions lost) such attempts in part were to remove the communist-sympathising subtext in a film about a false and fairly explicitly german utopia— inspired too by the tower of babel and 1920s new york skyline— for the wealthy elite... wherein those same elite plot and scheme to construct clever events to keep themselves in power and remove the need for workers at all by destroying them and relying instead on machines (see: the great worker riot of 2026.) don't get me wrong though— there's plenty to criticise about Metropolis, much of it coming from Lang himself.

there are 3 major, interconnected machines which run the city. this one is called The Heart Machine.

the "Heart Machine", which is the central dynamo that generates most of the power to the entire city. Every day it produces an average of 1000 megawatts of power that is transferred through various power nodes throughout the machine room complex. The machine has run non-stop for 25 years with the exception of pausing for preventive maintenance. Unlike most equipment build in the late 1900s to the 2020s, these machines were built not to be replaced. The heart of the city system was built by Fellar, Inc. and came with a price tag of 78.7 million M.

The Heart Machine is under the charge of one man, Grot, a worker who has maneuvered his way up through the ranks by "helping" uncover covert information about the workers. 

(from here)

Metropolis, osamu tezuka

also, if you're interested in the approach to design—

The film's use of art deco architecture was highly influential, and has been reported to have contributed to the style's subsequent popularity in Europe and America.

art deco had no goal or philosophy of restructuring society/lifestyle. it glamourised the industrial revolution, moreover the opulence that everyone but the workers enjoyed, seeking to symbolise wealth and sophistication and rejection of tradition. Art Deco design exemplified opulent consumption, crass commercialism, and the acceleration of contemporary life summed up in the Futurist credo "Speed is beauty." (here. also would like to add that most? all? in the futurist movement were italian fascists who went and died in the war, effectively killing the futurist movement too.) however, in america, whose infrastructure was impacted far less by the war than europe, the style continued almost seamlessly into the new international movement— such is the case with any decade and its trappings; there's no actual definitive beginning or end to an era, especially for poorer people (whose customs and ideas are upcycled by the wealthy.) all of this art was continued or discontinued more randomly than that. ftr though i'm using generalities as opposed to finer details here only for the purpose of discussing what/how things appear in Escaflowne.

the exterior of Zaibach is more art deco while the interior, as well as that of Escaflowne itself, are from the movement of the pre-WWI art nouveau— since they're both related to Atlantis/draconians, who within the series have the strongest association with art nouveau as if a symbol of their elegant idealism, that makes sense. art nouveau sought to establish a "synthesis of the arts" (Gesamtkunstwerk) breaking down the previously firm distinction between fine art and applied art— incorporating the lushness and assymetry of nature into architecture, stained glass, metalwork, etc. etc., allowing rooms and practical/functional objects to "become" art as well, with the same approach as illustrations. it also should be said that art nouveau pulled heavily from japanese prints, as seen previously in the orientalist """japonisme.'"""

hôtel tassel, the peacock room, myst III exile

Decorative artists experienced a rise in status following the turn of the century; similarly, a rise in wealth and social as well as technological progress gave birth to the widespread luxury industry. This golden combination solidified the Art Deco movement.

William Morris, the founder of the art nouveau arts & crafts movement in england, was a staunch revolutionary socialist/anti-imperialist. he believed one should "have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." according to him, the main goals of the movement were "to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce use, that is one great office of decoration; to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce make, that is the other use of it." during a time which saw the beginnings of mass-production, the intended effect of this was to restructure a person's relationship to even the mundane items in their possession (see: commodity fetishism) and in that process, exposure to and relationship to art.

art deco suffered heavily during the aforementioned great depression because the materials to make it were no longer affordable and the labour classes exploited for other means. so i view it as... dornkirk claims he did all the shit himself but we know he's building on these ancient ideas and amassing/hoarding resources to achieve this, and he's keeping these organic forms— as representative of the natural world and part of that world being humanity— for himself exclusively as he burns the world down. however, we're not moralising art here, just as fritz lang regretted focusing on the moral over the social. escaflowne is also a weapon of war and must be put to rest as part of van's own break from punitive tradition.

ultimately, what we see in Escaflowne is people— while retaining any surface-level, or even essential and difficult differences, made even more clear by the sheer amount of different cultures/customs to which we're exposed— changing the calamitous course of fate when committed to a common goal, quintessentially represented by communal, mutual love and respect. i would say that's much more communist than what Zaibach represents.

[wexhappyxfew]

CHAPTER 16 - SOMETHING ABOUT SOLID GROUND

September 4th, 1943 Camp Mackall, North Carolina War Correspondent Esther Armstrong

Before her company shipped out to England, I did a sit-down interview with her in the Hotel Manhattan. Armstrong came in a little bit fidgety, but I disregarded it nonetheless once that first article had come out about the successes of the Airborne and I had read her writing and was vividly amazed by what she was able to put on the page. She introduced herself and shook my head and sat down a bit stiffly in the chair across from myself. She adorned her Class-A's and her Jump Wings proudly from what I could tell; it made me all the more excited to interview her. She had a lot of stories and ideas and thoughts that all blended seamlessly into a story and she was able to keep your attention with whatever she said; I thought, this girl's incredible! I could tell though how serious this was for her and I could see what other articles meant when they spoke to her. She had a job to uphold, a serious one and she wasn't going to risk that, especially in the public eye. I respected her and she respected me. - Calvin Sparrows, TIME, on Esther Armstrong, War Correspondent; Excerpt from Stroke of Luck

[read the rest on AO3!]

taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow

-> if you would like to be added to the taglist, please just let me know! :D

[mccreesun]

Dracula’s plans for arriving in England

Step 1. Blend in seamlessly with the English masses for easier hunting

Step 2. Instantly become a beloved local celebrity while in wolf form the very same day you arrive in England

Step 3. Failed step 1

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

I'm reading Babel, and, in regards to the research projects that the Hermes Society has been undertaking, there's a footnote attached that essentially complains about how white European translators add too many footnotes with explanatory context in non-European texts, thus leading the reader to read the text the way they want it to be read.

And I just find this funny, because this is the exact criticism I have of R. F. Kuang's use of footnotes. I wonder if she added it in some bout of self-awareness, or if it was just another fun fact. ( Long ramble under the cut. )

Don't get me wrong, the added context is appreciated; there are a lot of people ( myself included ) reading Babel not because they have an extensive knowledge of the 19th century and Victorian England, but because they heard the book is good and popular. The historical context helps the reader understand the circumstances of a situation or the character motives much better.

But it also has a flaw I always notice in a book, which is when the author's voice intrudes upon the narrator's voice. You can clearly hear the author's own grievances and opinions in the tone and the language, even in the choice of highlighted facts. On one hand, I get it: a Chinese-American author is writing a story set in colonial England, told through the third-person lens of a Chinese boy. The story is steeped in commentary about colonialism and racism, and when the protagonist you're following is directly affected by the issues raised in the book, you would expect to see a lot of criticism of said issues. It would he decidedly weird if it wasn't this way.

However, Kuang specifically wrote Robin as someone who is not entirely immune to lies and propaganda. Robin is not as educated, nor did he suffer humiliation at the hands of the white European bourgeoise as, say, Ramy did. Robin is not, at all times, as critical of Victorian England as the real author is, and as the real author likes to emphasize. So in this case, the author is speaking over the narrator when she adds footnotes providing further context that carries her subjective tone. It pulls the reader out of the text, reminds them that this is the real author's opinions and observations; not Robin's.

The funny thing is that I'm not saying an author isn't allowed to show their feelings on a subject unless the author is also the narrator of the book. In fact, R. F. Kuang achieves this in Babel consistently and within full reason: the characters have all the right to point out and discuss the prejudice and injustice they're facing, as well as many other topics that Kuang is clearly passionate about ( this even applies to the discussion of different topics in the field of linguistics in the book ). Like, yeah, of course they would! And this is the ideal place for the real author to do so, where they won't interject themselves into the book.

But by doing so in the footnotes (which, I have never seen so many and such wordy footnotes in a book before), and at times throughout the book, the real author does what, to me, she is exactly complaining about. ( I also have to complain, briefly, about how awkward these sometimes feel, almost like the author wanted to say something more but didn't know where to put it, so it was all thrown into the footnotes. ) I don't think this is a matter of whether these footnotes are objectively correct or not. Her criticism was that non-European texts were burdened with context from white European translators, which implies that this context was subjective, incorrect, misleading, or at the very least, trying to lead the reader to think about the text one way or another. And I agree; context should be objective, it should help fill the gaps where the majority of the reading audience might not be as knowledgeable about a topic, event or person, might not understand a quip or comment because of the missing context.

But Kuang doesn't incorporate these seamlessly enough. In fact, these would be much less jarring, if not at all, if the book was written from Ramy's or Victoria's point of view. Because they're much more aware of the world they live in, are more resistant to and firmly critical of colonial England just like Kuang, because this kind of context, even if it slightly carried the author's voice, would match Ramy's or Victoria's better than Robin's. The point isn't whether Kuang is right to point out the many injustices of the white European man, and whether the white European man is right to add his own context to a non-European text.

The point is how they do it, how prominent their voices are, how much they affect the way the reader will consume and experience and view the book. When you blur the lines between fictional and real communication, when the author is not covert enough in a heterodiegetic narrative, you form a direct, unobstructed line between author and reader that, in this instance, feels out of place. The reader will have to wonder, while reading the text, whether it's the author or the narrator speaking to them, and how this might affect their perception of the events of the book.

Feel free to disagree with me on this, and also I fully admit I am not that well versed in narratology (which is why the terminology is a bit all over the place). In fact, I would appreciate insight from someone who is more knowledge about it than me. These are just my personal feelings on how the author unnecessarily interjects herself into the book, when I feel like it's something that could have been changed during the editing process. I can tell she struggled a lot with the footnotes, because she had a lot more to say without knowing how to add it seamlessly into the book.

(I might revise this, too, at some point in the future; halfway through writing this I stumbled upon Manfred Jahn's Narratology 2.3: A Guide to the Theory of Narrative, and now I'm super curious about it.)

[notewell5]

on pinterest this morning and realized i had a lot of pins saved that were archival photos of items recovered from the franklin expedition

followed them back to the source (ultimately the national maritime museum in greenwich, england) and just getting emotional again about how much thought was put into creating the costumes and props for the terror

it's genuinely so beautiful? how seamlessly they were incorporated. just these little gems everywhere.

[writer-or-whatever]

On The Ground

Wrote a little Harry/Draco pre-relationship piece for prompt #2 (Rival) on my 100 prompts list. Read under the cut or on AO3

Summary: After two years of being rivals in the professional quidditch league, Harry and Draco are both selected for the English National Quidditch Team for the next Quidditch World Cup. They’ve now got to learn to get along.

Rating: T | Word Count: 1.3k | Fluff & Humor

Harry was being ridiculous. He knew this. They were on the same team and there were bigger things at stake than his own pride. But, Merlin, he still could not stand Malfoy. 

Yes, okay, he’d mellowed out a little since the war. And maybe he grew into his obnoxiously blonde hair and his sharp features. And he’s a reformed and productive member of society now or whatever. 

Doesn’t matter. They’re still rivals, Harry reminds himself, repeating it like a mantra in his head as he exits the locker room and heads out to the pitch. 

He wasn’t the last one out of the locker room, but only barely. So when his eyes adjusted to the bright sun, he’s met with twelve of the other players, both starting and reserve, for this year’s English National Quidditch Team. And off to the left side, talking to one of the beaters, is Malfoy. The red and blue of the National Team jersey suits him better than the bright orange Chudley Cannons uniform that Harry’s grown accustomed to seeing him in over the last two seasons. Not that Harry is taken in by the way the blue brings out his eyes or anything. 

Harry is mercifully brought out of his not-at-all-creepy staring by an arm being slung over his shoulders. 

“Come on, Potter. Can’t keep the rest of the team waiting,” Ginny said, grinning and almost vibrating in place with excitement. Making England’s National Team had been Ginny’s childhood dream, and even two seasons of professional quidditch hadn’t dulled her excitement. 

“Right,” Harry agreed, letting her pull him along behind her. 

Upon their arrival, the coach smiled and whistled a shrill sound that jolted everyone to attention. “Right! Okay! Welcome to day one. I want everybody in the air. We’re doing drills until I’m satisfied and then it’s skirmish time.” He whistled again and then they were off. 

Drills were easy. He felt himself relax and start to focus in, paying Malfoy no more mind than any of their other teammates. At least, until they were split up for the first practice match. 

“Alright. We’re going to start with startings versus reserves. We’re going to gradually mix up our combinations as we go. I need all of you flying seamlessly together in any formation, especially if France plays as dirty as they did in the last cup. Except you, keepers and seekers. Some rivalries live to see another day,” Their coach said, giving Malfoy and Harry a look. Their quidditch feud was legendary. It’s at least half of the post-match wireless commentary every time they’ve played in the last two years. “But only on the pitch. I need you two to at least pretend to like each other on the ground,” he continued seriously.

 Harry and Malfoy both gave him a nod and then they were off. 

The practice match was brutal. The starting players were evenly matched with the reserves and everyone played like they were out for blood—Malfoy especially. He played a lot more offensively as a professional seeker than he ever did in school, and, while Harry was used to it after two seasons of fierce competition, he was playing particularly viciously today. Malfoy was as physical of a player as he could possibly be without getting penalized. He jostled Harry when they happened to be flying side by side. He chased the snitch into, around, and even under the other players or pretended to—a feint that caused Harry to very nearly crash headlong into Oliver Wood, who was the starting keeper, in his pursuit of Malfoy. He was, all told, an absolute menace on a broom. 

His strategy did have its merits though, as Malfoy managed to catch the snitch—jostling Harry hard to the left and wrapping his fingers around the ball the second Harry’s were out of the way—ending their three hour practice game. 

Despite Malfoy catching the snitch, the reserve team lost the match by 20 points, a point which their coach commented on—loudly and at length—to both Harry and Malfoy. By the time they were done for the day, Harry’s ears were ringing with the refrain to ‘pay attention to the damn score before you catch the snitch.’

He and Malfoy were the last ones to the locker room. When Harry finally stepped out of his very long shower, everyone else was already gone except for Malfoy, who stood in front of his locker with just a towel around his waist. Harry’s locker was on the opposite side of the aisle, so thankfully he could pull his own clothes out and dress without looking at Malfoy. 

He had no reason to shy away from Malfoy. They hadn’t been truly antagonistic over anything but Quidditch in several years. Harry didn’t exactly like him, but he’d grown out of the horrible kid he’d known at school. And it wasn’t like Malfoy was the first fit bloke that Harry had shared a locker room with since he figured out he was gay. There was absolutely no reason for him to be this nervous around him, wanting to sneak glances at the other man while simultaneously wanting to be looking elsewhere at all times. Harry was twitchy and awkward as he pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, and trainers, resolutely not turning around to where he could hear Malfoy doing the same. Once he was dressed, he shouldered his bag and started toward the door, forcing himself not to look over at Malfoy on his way out. 

He was out of the locker and almost to the floo when a voice stopped him. 

“Potter! Hold on a second!” Malfoy called as he jogged to catch up with him. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said, though it lacked venom. 

“Come get a drink with me,” Malfoy said as he stopped next to Harry. He was still a little damp, and some of his long hair was still wet and clinging to his neck. Not that Harry was looking or anything. 

“Er-,” Harry said as his brain short-circuited. “I thought about maybe grabbing some dinner with Ginny.” He definitely had not been. He was going to go home, get enough take-away to make the team’s nutritionist a little bit crazy, and watch The Weakest Link on the charmed television that he bought recently. 

“Planning on crashing your ex’s date with her girlfriend are you?” Malfoy said with a laugh. 

Harry blushed as he remembered that Luna and Ginny were going to a fancy celebration dinner. Ginny had gushed to him the day before about how Luna had arranged a portkey to Paris for dinner and a fancy night out. “How did you know about that?” 

“I helped Luna plan it,” Malfoy said with a bright smile. 

“Right.” Harry had forgotten that Malfoy and Luna were friends. They’d gotten close after the war ended. Harry just happened to miss every pub outing or game night hosted by Luna where Malfoy had been invited too. He’d been busy is all. 

“Right. So. Drinks?” 

“Won’t it be weird?” Harry blurted out, unable to think up a reasonable reason to say no.

Malfoy shrugged, though he was still smiling. “Maybe. But you heard what coach said—you have to at least pretend to like me while we’re on the ground. So come get a drink with me and practice.” 

Harry bit his lip lightly as he looked at Malfoy, who looked earnest enough. It didn’t sound like a horrible way to spend the evening and Malfoy had a point—they were teammates now. 

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy said after a moment of silence from Harry. “It’s just a drink. I don’t bite.” 

“Of course not, Malfoy.” 

“Alright then. You, me, drinks at the 3 Broomsticks.” 

“Yeah, alright, Malfoy,” Harry agreed with a smirk. “But you’re buying the first round.” 

“Fine,” Malfoy replied with a smirk of his own.