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hussyknee · 5 months ago

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Two weeks ago, female wrestler Vinesh Phogat became the first woman from India to make the Olympic finals—and was promptly disqualified for being 100 grams overweight.

On August 9, Vinesh Phogat announced her retirement from the sport of wrestling in a post on X. After the previous day’s incidents, it was a message that many had been expecting.

Vinesh experienced the highest of highs at the Paris Olympics. She defeated an unbeaten Olympic champion wrestler who was considered not just the favourite in her weight division but across every weight division at the quadrennial event. She became the first Indian woman wrestler to reach an Olympic final. However, Vinesh also faced the lowest of lows at the Olympics. No one had ever reached an Olympic final only to be denied the chance to compete because they had failed to make weight on the day of the competition.

Vinesh had taken her case to the Court of Arbitration for Sport, seeking at least to be awarded a silver medal by virtue of reaching the final. If she had succeeded, she would have set a precedent, but, much to the disappointment of the nation, her appeal was turned down by the sole arbitrator, Annabelle Bennett.

...

Vinesh has always been a fighter. Tragedy has followed her, yet somehow, against the odds, she has emerged victorious.

When she was nine, her father was shot dead by someone in her village, believed to be a mentally disturbed relative, just outside their front door. Her mother, a young widow, refused the custom of marrying her husband’s brother. She battled cancer single-handedly. Through it all, she raised a firebrand daughter, who refused to back down.

Her cousins, who grew up near her home, were the more famous girls of the family. Geeta and Babita were among the first to win gold at the Commonwealth Games. They had a movie made about them — Dangal — which made the ‘Phogat sisters’ iconic in Indian sports.

Vinesh didn’t feature in that movie. The events described in it took place too early in her career. But she wouldn’t be satisfied with being one of the Phogat sisters — she would become ‘The Phogat’ sister.

Talk to any of her peers .— and even some of her rivals in Indian wrestling – and there is, in some cases, grudging, genuine respect. She is considered the most instinctive and natural wrestler India has ever produced in women’s freestyle wrestling.

Her career is as much a highlight reel as anything out of a movie. No one in women’s wrestling compares. No Indian woman wrestler has won three Commonwealth gold medals as she did in 2014, 2018, and 2022. No one has won an Asian Games gold medal as she did in 2018. No one has won two World Championships medals as she did in 2019 and 2022.

The one medal missing from her collection is the Olympic medal — which she fought bitterly for.

...

Vinesh has had terrible luck at the Olympics — the only competition that seems to matter to Indians. In 2016, she was one of the favourites in the Indian team before her knee was bent out of shape in the quarterfinals. In 2020, she was one of the world’s favourites to medal in the women’s 53kg weight class. Then, suddenly, a freak weight cut left her physically and psychologically broken, unable to coordinate her movements on the mat. She lost to a wrestler she had beaten comfortably just a month before. Now, in Paris, another poor weight cut left her at the lowest point of her wrestling career.

Her battles, though, haven’t been restricted to the mat. Perhaps the most significant one Vinesh has fought has been for the safety of young girls in the sport. In pursuing this fight, she took on one of the most powerful men in Indian sports — Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh.

When her rivals were preparing for the Olympics, Vinesh was fighting on the streets of New Delhi, where she, and few other fellow wrestlers, accused Brij Bhushan, a five-time member of parliament and the long-time president of the Wrestling Federation, of sexual harassment.

The longer she stayed on the streets, the slimmer her chances on the mat became. Yet, she continued to prioritise what she felt was right. In doing so, Vinesh showed the kind of courage almost uniformly lacking in most sportspersons in India. Most of them, as the saying goes, “crawl when asked to bend.” Vinesh’s spine has been ramrod straight. She had the courage to take on the system without caring about the consequences. She displayed it even though it cost her what she loved the most — the chance to wrestle.

Only when her protest was forced off the streets and entered the court did Vinesh finally get a chance to compete.

This article delves into her struggle to rein in her weight as the Olympic timeline unfolded. It's horrifying to read.

TW for fatphobia and people with eating disorders and body dysmorphia: fatphobia:

Even as she had been winning, Vinesh’s nutritionist had been nervously monitoring her food and fluid intake.

She had a celebratory glass of juice in the morning right after she had first made weight – 300 grams. She had another couple of litres of fluid to rehydrate herself before her bout - another 2000 grams of body weight gained. A couple of light snacks throughout the day to keep her energy up meant 700 grams more.

By the time Vinesh was done with her day’s competition, she weighed 52.7 kg.

August 7:

As the hours rolled into the night, it was clear that something had gone very wrong. After weeks of dehydration, the human body, once it gets rehydrated, simply refuses to give up water. Even urination becomes impossible.

Vinesh didn’t sleep all through the night of August 6. She was on the treadmill for six hours and in the sauna for another three. She didn’t consume a bite of food or drink a drop of water. Every few hours, she stood on a weighing scale. The numbers were getting smaller but not fast enough. In desperation, her coaches trimmed the elastic in the bottom of her costume. They thought of chopping her hair and then did it.

But the scale didn’t budge.

The function of weight classes is to prevent outsized mismatches in strength due to body mass and minimize injury. Pathologizing what is clearly water weight to this extent and subjecting athletes to this kind of psychological torture due to minute variables is simply making what is essentially a safety measure into a punitive arbitrary criteria that has huge implications for racialized fatphobia for female athletes and the reinforcement of toxic diet culture across the board. It's misogynistic, unscientific and fucked. This article goes into more detail about Phogat's career-long battle with her weight— a yo-yo of losing too much, and then too little. Indistinguishable from an eating disorder, only one imposed by the standards of international sports.

You will never convince me that a white athlete would have been disqualified in the lightest weight category for a weight less than a bar of soap. The disqualification retroactively places her dead last, which is added cruelty. The refusal to revise this and even award her a joint silver is just adding racist insult to racist injury.

Phogat spoke two days ago about her devastation at being disqualified by racism and fatphobia with a three page post on twitter.

And on top of all of this, because the Indian National Congress political party welcomed her with a road show that outshone the alt-right BJP's own planned welcome, the Hindutvas in her own country have launched a hate campaign against her.

This copy-paste has "disqualified in Rio 2016" trending on twitter. It's doubly cruel and fatphobic because she wasn't disqualified for being overweight, she sustained a knee injury.

After the witch hunt against Imane Khelif and Lin Yu-ting, I'm just so fucking done with the Olympics. The outsize importance of this competition is nothing but an anvil to break entire careers on and offers female athletes of colour on a platter for all the world's vultures.

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assortedseaglass · 2 years ago

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The Seamstress & The Sailor- Chapter Four

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 4.3K

Note: I know I said this chapter would link up with the series, but that will be the next chapter now – I didn’t want Tom getting in trouble with the police to be so sudden. I hope you don’t mind! More detailed notes at the end!

August 1939

Monday morning, two days since the dancehall, and the street was alive with activity. Two women were pushing prams along the pavement, a chatter of children following in their wake. Satchels of schoolbooks swung at their sides, and a few of the little boys already looked ready for playtime. Some of the older women were beating rugs over chairs, making the most of the early morning sun, and Dennis Warley had just been by with the morning post.

Outside the Vaughn’s house, Cora was seated on an upturned bucket from the yard, polishing a pair of her father’s shoes. Bess sat on the bottom step, reading her newly delivered fashion magazine. Dot peered over her shoulder.

“That one,” Dot pointed to a buttercup yellow tea dress. “Could you make it for me?”

“I could,” Bess puffed out a stream of cigarette smoke. “If you buy the fabric.” She flipped the page and Dot huffed.

“Do you know how much most girls pay to have dresses made by Bess, Dot?” Cora said, not looking up from her work.

“Not enough,” said Dot.

“Amen.” Bess shut the magazine and handed it to her younger sister. At that moment, Fergal appeared in the doorway, plate of bacon and eggs in hand. He stepped, with socked feet, between his daughters and sat on the step.

“What are you up to today, Bess?” He said through a mouthful of breakfast.

“Going over to Robina Chase’s, that suit of hers is finished.”

“You watch yourself on the roads, my girl.”

“Yes, dadda.”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs and a second later, the long legs of Albie Vaughn were stepping over his sisters too. “Double, double, toil and trouble,” he teased. Dot pretended to put a curse on him as he crossed the street and knocked on the Bennett’s door. Bess watched him curiously. He didn’t usually fetch Lois in the mornings.

“There you go, dadda.” Cora passed Fergal his shoes, which he slipped on as he handed his plate to Bess. The Bennett’s door opened, and Albie exited with Tom trailing behind him. Fergal went to join them.

“Dadda said he’d got Tom a shift at the dockyard,” sniffed Dot. “Good to see he’s got him some honest work.” Bess and Cora raised their eyebrows at Dot’s air of superiority and smirked at each other. Just as she looked to the three men, Bess caught Tom’s eye. Her cheeks prickled with anxiety but she didn’t let her nerves show. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to see from his side of the street. Instead, she stared him down. Tom watched her a moment, then smirked. Bastard. Fergal clapped him on the shoulder and the three men began their way to the dockyard.

“See you later, girls!” Fergal and Albie waved behind them. Tom Bennett swaggered forward, staring resolutely ahead.

“Ah, here she is!” Lois appeared at the doorway, tucking a stray curl under her scarf.

“Ready?” She called. Cora and Dot stood.

“We’ll be back around 6, ta-ra!” Cora kissed Bess on the cheek, and she, Lois and Dot made their way to the factory. Up ahead, the men were just rounding the corner, and Bess could have sworn she saw Tom cast a sideways glance in her direction. They hadn’t spoken since Saturday night. Not that the chance had been given; the curtains of his bedroom remained shut and Lois said he was nursing a hangover and an almighty bollocking from Douglas.

“Can’t imagine your dad raising his voice,”

“It’s Tom we’re talking about Bess,”

There hadn’t been a moment to forget about the night either, for the next morning it was all Dot could talk about.

“And then Tom told me to go inside so I went to find Cora and Bess but heard this sound like a gunshot and that black-haired man that Bess had been dancing with was on the floor and then then Tom hit the other two before punching the man-”

“Breathe, Dot,”

“-and I went and got Albie and him and Lois’ fella pulled Tom off them. You’ll never guess what Tom did next, dadda. He spat on him! Tom spat on that poor man!”

When the police arrived at the Bennett’s, searching for Tom, Dot had nearly screamed. Fergal shook his head.

“Can’t the police leave us alone on a Sunday?”

“Don’t think crime has Sundays off, dadda.” Albie said.

That night, when Bess was finishing her final checks of Mrs Chase’s suit and the rest of her family were in bed, she saw Tom climbing the drainpipe outside his and Lois’ room. She had half a mind to go and tell Douglas until she saw Tom shimmy back down the drainpipe and bolt away. Bess wasn’t going to break first. She wasn’t some girl he could charm with a flash of his smile and a quick fumble at the back of the picture house, and if he didn’t know it yet then God help Tom Bennett.

Gravel popped under Bess’ bicycle wheels as she pushed it up the Chase’ drive. Robina Chase was a client of the Manchester atelier. When she discovered that one of the girls who trained there lived nearby, she had ceased her journeys into the city and had Bess attend her personally. She never came to the Vaughns, like most of Bess’ clients. No, each time she insisted that Bess come to her.

Bess looked up at the enormous house. On her street, some families were crammed seven or eight into a two-bedroom house. In their own home, the Vaughn’s had five. Here, it was just Robina and Harry. Still, nothing could make Bess swap their cramped home for the halls of the Chase’s. Each time she stepped through the door a chill descended on her, no matter if it was midwinter or midsummer. The door opened before Bess could reach it.

“I saw you coming.” Robina said curtly. Bess opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Chase was already walking towards her lounge. The spacious room was the lightest in the house and best, therefore, for Bess to do her work. Someone had brought down a silk screen from Mrs Chase to change behind and when Bess entered the room, this was where she was, clothes laid on a chaise lounge and, stood in her cotton chemise. Everything that Bess used to visit Mrs Chase had to be portable and light enough to strap onto her bicycle, and so, she took out the foldable tailor’s platform that her father had made her and placed it on the ground. Mrs Chase stepped onto it and watched Bess continue unloading her things. She said nothing. When Bess held up the red suit for her to examine, she simply said “Lovely,” and pursed her lips. For half an hour, Bess added the final touches to the suit; taking the hem up a centimetre, adding a little embellished stitching along the collar.

“I’m off to see the boys before I go,” a knock sounded and Harry Chase, with his weary eyes and boyish charm, appeared at the lounge door. “You look lovely, mother. Oh, hello again.”

Robina was waving off his compliment when she stopped. “You know each other?”

“We met at a dance,”

“Mm, well, don’t be home late or drunk. I shan’t wait up.” She turned back to Bess, whom Harry nodded to before leaving. When the front door slammed and the car engine kicked into life, so did Robina Chase. “Harry told me he stopped a fight at the dance on Saturday.”

“That he did,” Bess said, still looking over the garment to make sure everything was in order.

“No doubt over some woman.”

“I don’t know what is was about,” Bess grew quiet, and Robina continued.

“Who was the man? Do you know?”

At this, Bess stilled her work and hesitated. “Tom Bennett, ma’am.” She said quietly.

“Bennett? He’s not related to that Lois girl, is he?” There was a definite air of disdain in Mrs Chase’s voice and Bess fought hard to control herself. We need the money, we need the money, we need her money.

“Her brother, ma’am.”

“Well, with her spending the night in a cell it only makes sense that her brother is the very same. I met that father of theirs, Dougal?”

“Douglas,”

“Quiet as a dormouse and mad as a March-hare. No wonder his children are so wayward. And I can’t imagine living in Longsight helps, amongst all those ruffians. You’d think modern Britain would be rid of slums but here we are.”

Bess wanted to stick her pin in the papery flesh of Mrs Chase’s thigh. She resolved, however, to walk back to her sewing box and place it neatly with its fellows. “All done.”

“It’s lovely, thank you. It was £5 for the remainder, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bess took the cheque from Mrs Chase and began strapping her tools to the bicycle.

“I’ll be in touch soon with some ideas for the spring. A new decade surely brings new fashions.” Her ignorance was astounding. Her son was back from war torn Poland, about to go back, and news of Hitler’s plans for the rest of Europe was spreading like wildfire. Not to mention what she thought of the poor.

“If I may say something, ma’am,” Bess took a shaky breath. She could count the people that scared her on one hand. One was stood in front of her, perfectly manicured fingers waiting to close the door, eyebrow raised in challenge. “I can’t make excuses for Tom’s behaviour, but no-one could ask for a kinder confident or supporter than Lois. And I mean no-one. Rich or poor, kind or cruel, she’ll look after you. And as for Douglas, he is one of the gentlest men I’ve ever known and we’re lucky to have him as our neighbour. Yes, our neighbour. He’s been a great friend to our father.” She swung her leg over her bike as Robina stood a little higher and haughtier. “Make sure to tell your friends the new suit was by a “ruffian” of Longsight. See you in the spring.” She pedalled away before Mrs Chase could raise her snobbish voice in argument.

By the time Bess had cycled the hour from Mrs Chase’s to Longsight, the summer dress she wore was soaked in sweat. Leaving the bike outside, she dumped her tools on the kitchen table and ran upstairs. Stripping down to her underwear, she filled a bowl with cold water, opened the window of her room and let the curtain down. Cora and Dot would thank her when they got back from the sweltering heat of the factory. Grabbing a flannel, she dipped it in the cold water and ran it over her body. Goosebumps rose across Bess’ skin and she sighed. Hair tied in a loose knot, held in place with one of her mother’s silk scarves, Bess held the flannel against her neck. She squeezed it in her palm and let the droplets fall down her back. In the breeze, the net curtain shuddered and brushed against her skin. She looked through the window. Their bedroom faced Lois and Tom’s. As children, Lois, Cora and Dot would wave to each other and commune in their own secret language. When they had gone to sleep, or first thing when they hadn’t woken, Bess and Tom would hold their palms to the windows. They never did anything else, and they certainly didn’t talk about it in the day.

Dressing in a light blouse and yellow skirt of linen, Bess padded barefoot downstairs and opened the front door, before retreating to the kitchen and doing the same to the yard door. Cool air filled the little house. Back in the kitchen, at the foot of the stairs, was the piano. Bess lifted the lid protecting the keys and sat at the stool. A photograph of her great-aunt Iris sat proudly atop the upright. Her face was gentle, white hair pulled back, a shawl draped round her shoulders. The eldest of five, Iris held dreams of becoming a great concert pianist, but her family couldn’t afford to continue her lessons once more children came along. She worked as a parlour maid from fourteen to save her own money and, at seventeen, bought a ticket to London. Feigning sickness, she caught the early train from Manchester and within hours found herself at the steps of the Royal Academy of Music. Iris had written her own application with the help of a kind woman from central library and was invited to audition. She played a programme of Liszt, Chopin and Rachmaninov for the admissions board and had impressed them with her sight-reading skills. She was back in Manchester in time for supper. When a letter bearing the academy’s emblem arrived two weeks later, Iris pocketed it in her apron and ran to the yard to open it. She’d never know such a fleeting whisper of joy as this again, for below her congratulation of acceptance, were the academy’s fees. Iris Vaughn lived the rest of her days teaching, playing piano on Saturdays for the cinema’s afternoon showing.

Bess had no dreams of becoming a concert pianist, but she intended to forge her own path. For herself, and for great-aunt Iris. Kissing her fingers then touching Iris’ photograph, Bess began to play. A few Bach preludes to warm up. Iris loved them. Rigid and mathematical, they were beautiful in their ornamentation and meandering grandeur. As her fingers danced over the keys, she thought about how Bach managed this feat of emotional engineering within such a confined structure. Rigidity, confined structures. Suddenly, Mrs Chase’s pursed lips and flared nostrils entered her mind. The music stopped. Bloody bitch. Bess moved to the jazz standards; My Funny Valentine, One O’Clock Jump, Frenesi, On the Sunny Side of the Street. Surely Mrs Chase hates jazz, it’s something Harry likes.

Bess played for an hour or so, lulling herself into a waking dream. The breeze cooled her calves, the sounds of the piano drifting with it into the street and, occasionally, the peal of a child’s laughter reminded Bess that she was in her family kitchen, not the Ritz. The scent of cigarette smoke from the street beyond gave Bess pause and she grabbed the packet hidden in the cutlery drawer, the packet Cora thought no-one knew about. Cigarette lit, she played a little Joplin in honour of Iris before the sun fell behind a cloud and the breeze turned from calming to crisp. Bess near skipped out of the kitchen and to the front door, such was the affect of an hour’s playing to alleviate her mood, but her steps came to an abrupt halt as she rounded the door into the hallway. A man was sat on the front step, collar up against the chill, a plume of cigarette smoke rising into the early evening sky, the effect making his blond head look alight. He turned slowly round, cigarette held loftily between his thin lips.

“Don’t stop playing on my account,” he grinned.

“You’re back early.” Bess folded her arms and stood firm in the hallway.

“Your dad and Albie have taken an extra shift.” He stretched is arms in an exaggeration of tiredness. “Besides, I don’t think labouring is for me.”

Bess gripped the door. “Right, well, if you could move, you’re letting in a draft.” He did as he was told and stood from the step but as Bess moved to swing shut the door, he placed a boot between it and the frame.

“Bess.” An edge of desperation lined his voice.

“Tom.” Hers was weary.

“Bess. That man was a prick, and if I hadn’t sorted him out some other bloke would have. But,” he placed his palm on the door and pushed it open a little, revealing Bess to him fully. “But I am sorry for what I said to you. You didn’t deserve that.” She scanned his face. The smirk had gone and his usually bright eyes were solemn, but all Bess could to do was nod and rapidly blink back tears. Tom stepped away from the door and allowed her to close it.

I’m not jealous of a bloke who dances with the only girl who doesn’t say no because she doesn’t say anything at all.

Her eyes stung, and she flicked away a tear before it had the chance to fall. Cora and Dot would be back from work soon, and they couldn’t know she’d been crying over Tom Bennett. Even if he had broken her heart a little. All those years she thought Tom hadn’t seen her as a freak or recluse. An oddity worthy of stares and ridicule. With one fell strike, he had proved she was wrong.

The evening passed quickly. In a heavy-hearted haze, Bess made soup and sandwiches for the Vaughn’s supper. Cora and Dot were exhausted when they returned from the factory. A long day in the oppressive heat of the factory had worked up an almighty appetite in both of them, though they could barely lift their spoons. They retreated to the cool of their bedroom at 8.30. Bess sat in the dim of the kitchen, the comfort of her father’s armchair easing her unrest a little. She stood when he and Albie arrived home, but he waved her down, kissed her cheek and took a plate of sandwiches to his room.

“What’s happened, Bess?”

“Hm?” She looked up from her perch by the hearth. Albie stood in the door to the hallway, dishevelled and ready for rest. The middle Vaughn children were closest in age and closest in mind. She didn’t begrudge it of Cora and Dot; Cora had to bear too much responsibility for the family, and Bess would not steal Dot’s youth from her. But she sometimes imagined that she and Albie were connected by an invisible string the others didn’t have. When one felt sad, elated and anything in between, the other felt the tugging of the string that had hooked itself neatly beneath their ribs.

“What’s happened?” Albie repeated.

“Oh nothing,” Bess reached for her book and glass of whisky. “Was over at the Chase’s this afternoon.”

“Ah, say no more,” Albie smiled but his gaze lingered on his sister, and she knew that he didn’t believe her. “Night, Bess.”

“Night, Albie.” She listened as he trudged up the stairs and shut the door to the room he shared with their father. Bess opened her book but instead of reading, stared into the empty room around her. The light outside turned from fuchsia pink to ashen blue and, just as she finished the last sip of her drink, she heard the patter of running footsteps on the street outside. Any moment now, the door would click open, Tom would smile boyishly at her and settle himself on the end of the kitchen table. He always did hang around a little more after they had argued. Bess waited for his shadow at the window. Breath hitched in anticipation, she edged to the hallway and watched the door. Now. The door handle would turn and he’d appear.

The night was quiet. The faintest snuffled snoring from upstairs punctuated Bess’ breathing. The door didn’t open. Bess hurried to the kitchen window and pulled back the netting to see a leg disappear through Tom’s window. He didn’t close it.

Next day, Bess had no clients. After making breakfast for the working members of her family, she cycled to the dockyard. There was something about the hum of industry sidled up to the crashing water, and the canal leading to the sea beyond it, that thrilled Dot. She spied Albie and her father ascending cranes to deliver goods. Sure enough, Tom was not with them. As the sun continued to rise in the sky, the heat along with it, Bess retreated home. Turning into the street, Douglas Bennett passed her on his on cycle and touched a finger to his cap.

“Morning!” She called to him. Leaving her bike where Douglas’ would have been minutes before, Bess rapped on the Bennett’s door. No answer. Lois would, of course, be at work with Cora and Dot. She tested the handle. It opened.

“It’s rude to just walk into someone’s house without being invited.” Tom was slouching down the stairs, pulling a shirt over his head. The pale skin of his abdomen drew Bess’ eye and she blushed a little, looking down so that her hair fell forward to cover her shame.

“You do it often enough at ours.”

By way of an answer, Tom lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. As he did so, she saw the smattering of red cuts across his fingers. They were small, like little paper cuts, and certainly hadn’t been there yesterday. She looked to his other hand. He was covered in them.

“Better get them sorted or they’ll get infected.” Bess nodded to his hand. He merely shrugged, picked some bacon out of the pan Lois had left on the stove and wandered into the sunlit back yard. Bess took the pan from the stove and filled the sink with hot water. Lois, like Cora, needed any help she could get when it came mothering her family. Once the pan was washed, Bess filled a pitcher with warm water. Rooting around in the cupboards, she found a bottle of Douglas’ whisky.

“Sorry, Douglas.” With a clean cloth, bandage, the whisky and pitcher of water, Bess pushed open the yard door with her foot and sat by Tom. His head was leant against the brick of the house, exposing the lean muscle of his neck. The cigarette in his mouth was barely lit, and he pursed his lips to puff it into life. Bess watched the smoke unfurl in the air and caught site of his shadow against the wall. Sharp, harsh and angular. He looked like a Roman statue. Not one of a great emperor, mind. One of those spoilt man-childs that fucked their way around Rome before dying of syphilis. Bess snorted as she sat on the bench beside him. Tom eyed her sideways.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Bess took his hand in hers, soaked the cloth in the water and brought it to his knuckles. “So, where were you last night?”

“Met a girl down Belle Vue,” Bess hummed to at least sound interested, but she had no inclination to hear about his conquests. Now his hand was clean, she dabbed a little whisky on the cloth. “Showed her a real ride, if you know what I mean.” His wink turned into a grimace when Bess pressed the alcohol into his cuts. “Steady on.”

“Where did these come from?”

“Got them working down the dockyard,” he sniffed. His nose always wrinkled when he was lying, or annoyed. Bess caught his eye as it darted to the end of the yard. Looking down the little garden, she saw a pile of scrap metal hidden under an old dust sheet. She didn’t let on that she’d seen.

“At least you’ll get no more cuts, now you’ve retired from hard labour.” She took out the bandage and began rolling it around his hand. “What are you gonna do now?”

Tom watched Bess at work. “Ah, you know me. I’ll find my way around.” She hummed and, as she tied the bandage, instinctively brought it to her mouth where she kissed his open palm. Fuck. Bess could feel heat rising up her neck, every muscle tensing. The opposite happened to Tom, who huffed a laugh. They spoke in unison.

“Sorry, I always did it to Dot when she hurt herself.”

“If you wanted to kiss me, you could just ask.”

They froze.

Tom’s bandaged hand closed around Bess’.

Her eyes flickered to the smirk slowly disappearing from Tom’s face. He licked his lips.

“Hiya!”

Just like at the dancehall, Tom dropped Bess’ hand faster than Queenie Warren’s knickers, and knocked on the window that adjoined the yard to the sitting room.

“Out here, Lois!” Tom turned back to the yard. The door leading to the narrow alley behind the house was swinging shut, a flash of copper hair disappearing behind it.

Note: Hello pals! Just a note to say that I (finally) caught Covid, and there has been a huge ecological disaster where I am from. Not being able to go back and help due to having Covid is really hurting and I’m feeling pretty weary. That being said, I am hoping that writing this will keep me going, though if updates take longer that’ll be why.

£5 in 1939 is about £250 in today’s money, and Belle Vue (Tom references it when he’s in the Paris hospital) is an area not far from Longsight that had an amusement park and zoo. The jazz standards that Bess plays on the piano were all released in 1939 or before, have a listen if you’ve never heard them! My great-great aunt Ida (!) was a pianist for silent films and I think that’s just the coolest job ever, she’s the inspiration behind Iris. Shout out to @myfandomprompts for the amazing gif!

I’m not particularly happy with this chapter, I know I said I wanted a slow build but crikey. It’ll pick up in the next few chapters. We all know what’s coming…

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @sophielangdonx

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #ewan mitchell x reader #world on fire #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

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hinatastinygiant · 1 year ago

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1 | Crimson Glory

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x Fem!Reader

Serpents and Roses

You see George, you really had a wonderful life. Don't you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?

"You're watching this again?" your older brother, James, grumbles as he opens the front door to your shared apartment and sees you sitting on the couch shoving popcorn in your mouth. "You do know it's only August, right?"

"Yeah," you nod, not letting your eyes leave the screen. "But I like this movie. It's-"

"I know," James cuts you off and you can feel his eye roll from across the room. "It's a 'classic'."

You pause the movie and look over at him, "What's that supposed to mean? Don't you think it's a good film?"

"Sure," he sighs, setting down his stuff and walking over to the small kitchen. "But you watch this movie any time of year. Why not wait until Halloween and watch it then, too?"

You groan as you reach for the remote and once more continue what you were watching. It's not long after that James comes over, sorting through the mail as he sits beside you. "Anything interesting in the post?" you ask, glancing at him quickly between handfuls of popcorn.

"Huh," he replies, piquing your interest.

"'Huh', what?" you say, putting the bowl aside.

"It's a response."

"Ooh," you say, getting a closer look at the envelope. "You think you've actually found a stable job, James?"

"Oh shut up, you," he laughs, swatting at you with the letter before going back to open it. You wait with bated breath, hoping this isn't just another rejection. James has been struggling to find a job ever since graduating high school. And since it's just the two of you, well, there's just that much more pressure on him.

"Who's it even from?" you then question him. "What'd you apply to this time? Gonna go shake some ass at Chix N Dix," you begin to laugh.

"No!" he snaps, glaring at you. "I met this guy... Black, he said his name was, a few weeks back. He offered me a job on the spot but I really didn't think he actually meant it."

"Really?! And you didn't tell me?!"

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" he groans. "There was something off about him, I've got to say... I mean, if he wants me then he's got to be desperate."

You roll your eyes at your brother's comment. He always was smart. If only you had money, he'd thrive in college. "Huh, well the letter does look strange... Open it."

James does. But just after he rips the seal, the letter forms into a mouth and begins to speak. Immediately, you let out a scream and grab onto him. James laughs at you as though he's seen this happen a hundred times before.

"I-Is this normal to you?" you ask, gulping hard to still your nerves.

"I must be tripping so hard right now," he shakes his head.

"Idiot," you say, punching him in the arm. "I can see it, too."

"James Bennett, you have been cordially invited to join the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as its newest Muggle Studies Professor. Please report to the school immediately to begin your employment," the letter says aloud.

"Hogwarts? A what kind of school?" you ask him, trying to process everything from over his shoulder.

"Don't know, but it must be a private boarding school or something," James nods.

"This letter's all fancy," you reply, taking a closer look. "That sounds like a really big deal. Are you sure you're up to it? You're barely twenty thr-"

"Please, this isn't just about me. It's a high school. You could attend. It would be great for your senior year!"

"I'm eighteen. It's not like I'm just starting high school. Besides, I don't have the grades to-"

"You can still get in," James says, placing his hands on your shoulders. "They must want us for a reason. We should at least try it."

Before you can object, James replies to the letter, saying that he accepts the offer to work at Hogwarts. Immediately, it deflates like some sort of balloon, leaving the two of you to sit there and stare at each other like the two idiots you are.

"Well, better get packing," James says as he stands up.

"What?! So we're not even going to talk about-"

"Nope. Go and pack your things, Y/N. You heard the letter. Immediately," he tells you as he begins to walk out of the room.

"James," you call out, following him as your bowl of popcorn falls to the floor. "What about our home? Where is this place? We don't have a car."

"This place has housing. Black told me," he insists. "We'll be okay."

"But how do you know that?" you hum.

He lets out a sigh and turns around to face you. With worried eyes, you watch as he drops his hands on your shoulders. "Because I just do. I've got a good feeling about this, Y/N. I promise. And I think you'll like it there, too."

"Fine," you sigh, giving in. "But if you're wrong and it's awful, we're coming right back here and we're done with whatever this is. You have a year to make it work."

"Sounds fair," James grins as he goes back to walking down the short hallway to his room.

In the meantime, you walk back to the main room, turn off the television, and pick up the spilled popcorn. You unload the DVD from the player and carry it to your bed. Then, begrudgingly, begin to back.

"James!" you shout once you've finished. "Hey! I'm all packed! Where exactly did you say this place-"

You stop once you set foot in James' room. He isn't there. "James?!" you call out again, looking everywhere in the small apartment. But he isn't anywhere to be found. "Fucking asshole," you grumble as you reach for your phone. But suddenly, there's a whooshing sound right in front of you and you see a tall man dressed in a black suit staring down at you. In a panic, you scream and drop your phone. But before you can make a run for the door, he grabs you and somehow teleports you out of your room.

"Holy shit," you say once your world stops spinning. You fall to your knees, thinking you're about to throw up. "What the fuck just happened to me?!"

You look around the room, an office of some kind, and see James sitting on a couch nearby. "Are you okay?" he asks softly. All you can manage to do is nod.

"Hello, Miss. Y/N. My name is Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black. I do apologize for the way you were brought here. I am quite aware that it can be disorienting. However, it is the best way to enter and exit Hogwarts on such short notice."

You look at the man, standing beside the door. He must have been the one who brought you here. It all happened so fast you can't quite remember his face. You smile at him like a drunken idiot.

"Professor Bennett, Miss Y/N, please do not worry about your things. I will have Scrope, my house elf, fetch them for you," he nods politely.

"House... elf..." you mutter. You must be hearing things.

Finally, you decide to get a good look at what Headmaster Black looks like without your vision completely impaired. He's got his hair slicked back and is wearing what must be a suit more expensive than your home. But his face is kind so it does help you relax a bit.

"Again, I am sorry for the last-minute notice, but this is a new class we're offering as some of our students don't quite understand muggle life and are not very empathetic to them," he explains to the both of you.

"I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to give me some time to get familiar with your jargon," you hear James say, and it nearly makes you laugh. "Could you explain what a muggle is?"

"Why, it refers to a human who has no knowledge of the magic community. And no magical abilities. Which is why we're bringing the two of you here," he explains. "This is a school for witches and wizards to learn their craft. There are classes such as herbology, defense against the dark arts, charms, transfiguration, and many more."

You're still kneeling on the floor. You can't seem to bring yourself to stand up as you listen to him drone on and on.

"So, what about this new class?" James finally asks for the pair of you.

Headmaster Black approaches you and holds out his hand. You accept it and allow him to walk you over to where James is sitting. You thank him as you fall back into the softest sofa in the world.

"This new class, taught by a muggle, will educate the students on what life is like in the muggle world. Things they'll need to know in the future, as all of them will deal with the muggle world at some point in their lives if they haven't already," Headmaster Black tells the two of you.

"Shit, I must be tripping so hard right now," you shake your head, earning a nudge on the shoulder from James.

"I accept your offer, Headmaster. I'm happy to teach. Though, I'd appreciate if you could explain the jargon," he then says as a woman walks in and steals your attention.

"All in due time my friend," Black bows. "And to you, Miss Y/N, our newest seventh-year student, you will be able to finish out your last school year at Hogwarts, and then you'll be free to pursue a career of your own choosing," he smiles at you.

"Wait, what?!" you gasp, shooting up from your seat.

"Professor Weasley," he continues, ignoring your outburst. "Would you be so kind as to escort Professor Bennett and Miss Y/N to where they will be staying?"

"Of course, Headmaster," she nods. "Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Matila Weasley. I'm sure you're both very confused and overwhelmed, but I'll be happy to answer any questions you have along the way."

"Where's the bathroom?" James immediately asks. "I'm going to throw up."

After a ten-minute break, once James has emptied all the contents of his stomach, Professor Weasley begins to walk the two of you through the castle. "It's quite late now, but tomorrow you'll be able to explore the grounds at your leisure," she tells the two of you.

"So... this is real?" you ask as you guide your hand along a moving wall.

"Quite," Professor Weasley nods. "This is the reality. The muggle world is merely an illusion."

"And what the hell are we supposed to tell our friends back home? That their world is a lie?" James then asks.

"The truth," Weasley shrugs. "But no one will believe you. Most people assume we're a myth. You'd have a better chance convincing them you've met a talking lion than telling them you work and study here."

"Oh please, James," you roll your eyes. "Your only friend is the pillow you kiss every night."

"Shut up," he groans.

"Here we are," Weasley announces. She steps aside, allowing the both of you to get a good look at your new living quarters. "Y/N, this will only be temporary for you. Once school begins in a week, you'll be sorted into one of the four houses and will move into your dormitory."

"Okay," you nod, not wanting to get much more info on that right now.

"James, this will be where you live. I do hope you find it comfortable enough," she adds, turning her head towards him. "It includes a bathroom and a muggle kitchen for you to use at your leisure. As a member of the staff, you have full access to the grounds and all of its amenities."

"This will be nice, thank you," James smiles, taking a few steps inside.

"Of course," she says, returning the gesture. "You two get a good night's sleep. Professor Bennett, I'll see you tomorrow to show you to your classroom. You've got a lot to do in just one week."

"Thank you," he nods, waving her off. "Good night."

"Good night," she says to the pair of you before walking off.

Once the two of you are alone, you let a big smirk grow on your face. "I'd appreciate if you could explain the jargon," you say, mocking the words he had said before. "Please, James, do tell me what you know the word 'jargon' means."

"I swear I'm gonna kill you," he sighs. "You better not mess this up for us."

"I'm sure I'll be fine as long as you don't poison me with your shit cooking," you snort.

"That was one time!" he groans. "Can't I ever live that down?"

"Nope!" you laugh as the two of you head further into the small flat.

"Anyway," James says, changing the subject. "Let's unpack and get some rest."

"Sure," you nod, heading to your room.

Once you get there, you notice all of your things have been brought and neatly arranged inside. It makes you feel a little less homesick. Even though you've barely even left.

"Oh, Y/N, one thing," James calls out, stopping you in your tracks.

"What?" you groan, turning around to face him.

"No fucking the professors, alright?" he smirks, waging a finger at you.

"Oh please," you laugh. "If anyone's gonna have an inappropriate relationship, it's gonna be you. But don't worry, I'll stay away from your little boyfriend, Black."

"God, you're such a bitch," he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

"You love me," you blow a kiss to him. "Night, James."

"Go to bed, you little brat. I'll see you in the morning."

Serpents and Roses

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lboogie1906 · 4 months ago

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Usain Bolt (August 21, 1986) known as the “fastest man on earth,” has won eight Olympic gold medals in the 2008, 2012, and 2016 Olympics, making Olympic history. He has broken multiple world records

He was born in Trelawny, Jamaica to Wellesley and Jennifer Bolt, owners of a local rural grocery store. He began running for his parish in the annual national primary schools meeting. He was the fastest runner at his elementary school.

In his final Jamaican High School Championships, he broke both the 200- and 400-meter records. He was awarded the IAAF Rising Star Award.

In 2004 he went professional and ran in the CARIFTA games in Bermuda, where he became the first junior sprinter to run the 200-meter in under 20 seconds. He chose the University of Technology, Jamaica as his professional training ground.

He ran in the Osaka 2007 World Championships, winning a silver medal. He broke the 100-meter world record before the 2008 Olympics.

By winning the 4 x 100-meter relay in 36.84 seconds, he set a new world record at the 2012 Olympic Games. He beat the Olympic record in the 100-meter dash after winning the final with a time of 9.63 seconds, setting the second-best record in history. He triumphed in the men’s 200-meter final, becoming the first athlete to win Olympic gold medals in two consecutive games in both tests.

At the 2016 Olympic Games, he beat the Olympic record by winning three consecutive gold medals in three different sprints. He retired from track and field after the 2017 World Championships where he finished third in the 200-meter final.

He has been awarded the Laureus World Sportsman of the Year on six occasions (2009, 2010, 2012, 2013, 2014, and 2016), the IAAF Male Athlete of the Year five times (2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, and 2013) as well as many other awards. He endorses some of the top brands in the world, including his clothing line with Puma and his watch made by Hublot. He is a branding partner for Soul Electronics and is the owner of a restaurant in Kingston, called “Tracks & Records.”

He and his partner Kasi Bennett have one daughter. In September 2021, he released his newest video, Living the Dream. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

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sexysapphicshopowner · 2 years ago

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🤎💋 Hello and welcome to my lovely little blog 💋🤎 A little bit about the owner of the shop:

🤎 Call me Mars or Marceline or whatever you want really so long as it's respectful!!

🤎 I'm 19 years old <3

🤎 I use they/them pronouns

🤎 I'm trixic (non-binary love women), demisexual and currently single

🤎 I'm from the south- Texas born and raised

🤎 I love baking, writing, reading, music, dancing, and napping

🤎 I do makeup, hair, and nails

🤎 My birthday is April 1st making me an Aries <3

🤎💋 That's the basics for now I'll do an all about me with some more details later

🤎💋 Request rules and restrictions 💋🤎

🤎 MINORS AND MEN DO NOT INTERACT

🤎 Requests are OPEN and encouraged!!

🤎 I write any attractive women but here's a rough list of fandoms/People I will write for (because I'm simping for these people at the moment):

Arcane- Sevika, Grayson, Ambessa, Cassandra, Mel or really any female characters (note: I have not watched Arcane yet...I'm just gay- and I don't like Vi)

Addams Family- Morticia Addams (note: Anjelica Huston version)

Resident Evil Village- Alcina DImitrescu, Donna Beneviento (note: I will do other women I'm just a slutty simp for those two)

One Piece- Nico Robin (note: open to other women so long as they are 18+)

WWE- Rhea Ripley/Demi Bennett (note: it's Mami, don't judge me)

Marvel Cinematic Universe- Carol Danvers, Valkyrie, Yelena Belova, Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff (note: just ask tbh)

🤎 I will write these things:

Most of my fics are written with a black reader in mind because I'm black and we need to see more people of color shipped with these women

Female reader and AFAB gender neutral reader

Character x Character, Character x OC, Character x Reader

Poly relationships

Most kinks except scat play, piss play, weapon play, incest, stepcest and I can't think of anything else for now so just ask

This blog is trans inclusive but cis men exclusive- you will be blocked- so just specify if you want a trans reader but my focus with be for the queers cause that's who this shop is for

Smut, fluff, angst, all of it

Just ask to be honest, this is the shop of all shops for lesbian fics

🤎 I tend to write longer styled content so bear with me if I don't get fics out as fast as some other blogs. The more detail in your ask the better for me, even if it's just like a line or so to give me an idea of what you want.

🤎 Masterlists 🤎

🤎 Winter Collection Masterlist- Dated/seasonal fluff/angst fics that take place in the winter months of November to January

🤎 Fall Collection Masterlist- Dated/seasonal fluff/angst fics that take place in the fall months of August to October

🤎 Spring Collection Matserlist- Dated/seasonal fluff/angst fics that take place in the spring months of February to April

🤎 Summer Collection Masterlist- Dated/seasonal fluff/angst fics that take place in the summer months of May to July

🤎 Intimates Section Masterlist- Smut Fics

note: that's my picture on the left of the welcome banner, i be looking good sometimes

#💅🏾💋 paramour parlor 💋💅🏾#💋🤎 welcome to the shop 🤎💋#©️ sexysapphicshopowner LLC #welcome to my blog #wlw and nblw only #wlw blog #mdni #minors do not interact #men dni #men dont interact

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fettesans · 5 months ago

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Left, Adam Putnam, Finger, 2022, Wood and nail polish, 45,7 x 2,5 x 2,5 cm. Photograph by Daniel Greer. Part of the group exhibition The Secret History, organized by Alissa Bennett on view at Gladstone. 64, June 20 – August 2, 2024. Right, photograph by Robert Frank, What Is Sin? September 1999, Gelatin silver prints, 80.3 × 50.2 cm. Via. More.

Taking light and vision to be two aspects of the same phenomenon leads us into a whole other area: the seemingly metaphorical meaning of light in the context of the "light of consciousness." For example, when we dream, we see things in a kind of light. This light illuminates psychedelic visions, dreams, daydreams, and all visual imagery that occurs with our eyes closed. There's some sense in which our imagination, our image-making faculty, is self-luminous. In the case of vision in normal physical light, the light comes first and vision comes second. If you shut the light off, you can't see. But in the visionary sense, vision itself may generate light, at least subjectively. Visions are self-luminous. If someone has visions enough, according to religious traditions, they start developing halos and their bodies become luminous. The point I'm trying to make is that if physical light has conscious vision associated with it, then the reverse may also be true: conscious imagery may have light associated with it.

Rupert Sheldrake, from Chaos, Creativity, and Cosmic Consciousness (authored by Rupert Sheldrake, Terence McKenna and Ralph Abraham), 2001. Via.

#diptych #linked excerpts

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xmencovered · 2 years ago

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