#green baize

[differenthead]

Volume 243

Listen to Different Head, Vol. 243: "Illusions" (Feb. 25, 2023) byDifferent Head on hearthis.at

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0:00:00 — "Paradise" by Quadrophenia (1989)

0:04:26 — "Dream" (7" Version) by A.S.K. (1990)

0:07:51 — DJ

0:11:53 — "Elements" by Leo Anibaldi (1991)

0:16:52 — "Open Your Dreams" by Last Rhythm (1992)

0:18:39 — "Brownstone Express" by Metro (1990)

0:22:23 — "Save Me" (MB Trip) by Underground Nation Undertour Sensation (1992)

0:27:28 — DJ

0:31:24 — "Holy Dance" (Percy Mix) by Agua Re (1992)

0:35:35 — "Time Unlimited" by High Tide (1990)

0:40:24 — "This Is Paradise" (Latin Age Remix) by MBG (1989)

0:45:17 — "Deeper Atmosphere" by Deep Choice (1992)

0:50:18 — DJ

0:54:26 — "Free" (Instrumental Bonus Version) by Stonehenge (1991)

0:59:14 — "Audio Trip" by Dreamatic (1991)

1:05:47 — "Illusions" by Optik (1991)

1:11:17 — "Unrest" by Green Baize (1992)

1:16:44 — DJ

1:20:06 — "Just Can't Stop" by Simon (1989)

[talesfromthecrypts]

In this fucking movie this vampire has a billiards table with a stuffed dracula underneath like its a coffin

[spookdoodles]

"he'll only get to heaven when the angels carry guns" is absolutely insane line to have come from a cockney vampire snooker musical

[art--harridan]

[Image description: A digital drawing of the character Billy Kid from the film Billy the Kid and the Green Baize Vampire. He's wearing the outfit he wears for the grudge match, but sans the suit jacket. His pose is unconfident, knees together and one slightly bent. He hunched over slightly, loosely holding a snooker cue. There's a sheepish grin on his faces as he gazes off into the distance, noticeably sweating. There's a snooker table behind him, it's perspective warped. Above it, there's a fringed lamp that gives off a pale yellow light. The rest of the room is in shadow. All of the colours in the piece are warm but this makes the yellow light and green baize feel sickly. The lineart is starkly dark, with exaggerated shadows.]

Inktober - Day 16 (Grungy)

Film - Billy the Kid and the Green Baize Vampire (Alan Clarke, 1985)

[reasonsforhope]

[Warning: Graphic (some very graphic) shark-fishing pictures at the link.]

"Suhardi isn’t your average snorkeling guide. Born on the Indonesian island of Lombok, he’s spent his life on water. While he now seeks out sharks for the enjoyment of tourists, he once hunted sharks to help earn money to feed his family and educate his two children.

Suhardi was a fisherman for more than 20 years. He first started fishing working on his parents’ boat, but was then asked to join the crew of a shark boat where he was told he could earn a lot of money. Back on deck, he looks embarrassed to divulge what a meager wage it was, but finally confesses he earned around $50 for up to a month at sea.

Now he and 12 other former shark fishermen are part of The Dorsal Effect, an ecotourism company that helps ex-shark hunters find a new vocation. Each week, the team takes groups of tourists, schoolchildren and university students to off-the-grid locations and guides them around pristine reefs. Each trip is designed to take guests on an exploratory journey of both the shark trade and marine conservation through the eyes of the Sasak people of Lombok.

Lombok is a hotspot for marine diversity, sitting just east of the Wallace Line, a biogeographical boundary separating Asia and Australia and their respective fauna. Pristine coral gardens and around 80 species of sharks can be found in its waters. The island is also part of the world’s largest shark-fishing nation. Only the whale shark (Rhincondon typus) is protected in Indonesia; all other sharks can be legally caught.

The Dorsal Effect first launched in 2013, a year after Suhardi met Singaporean ecologist Kathy Xu, who had traveled to Lombok to find out more about the shark trade. The diminutive but quietly determined Xu wanted to protect sharks, but because she knew shark fishing was poorly paid and dangerous, she wanted to hear the fishermen’s stories too. They told her how once they could fish for sharks close to shore, but now with the shark population dropping, the fishermen said they needed to travel farther out to sea, only to come home with a relatively poor catch. The reduced catch also meant reduced pay, so they often couldn’t cover their costs...

Yet, when Xu asked why fishers didn’t seek out another trade, she learned they didn’t want to be separated from the sea. They saw it as part of their heritage.

But as they spoke longer, the shark fishermen talked about the coral gardens that could be found under the waves, ones that only they knew about. Inspired by a whale shark diving trip she’d taken with scientists on the Great Barrier Reef, Xu had an idea. “If such spots exist,” she recalls telling the fishers, “I could take tourists out with you and pay you more than you earned shark fishing”.

At first, Xu guided the former shark fishermen on how to become eco-friendly tour operators. They dropped anchor away from the reef, served guests plant-based dishes, and made sure all trash was taken back to shore. But then Xu saw that something special was happening: The former fishermen had started to take the guest experience into their own hands, making sure tourists felt at home. Suhardi painted “Welcome” in large letters over the front of his boat, fitted green baize to the top deck for outdoor seating, and hung curtains in the cabin so his guests could enjoy some shade.

Suhardi has already bought a new boat with his earnings from snorkeling trips. “Every day is my best day,” laughs Suhardi, whose smile always travels from his mouth to his eyes.

While they were receiving tourists from across the globe, there was another group that Xu wanted to reach out to. “I think it was the teacher in me who felt impassioned about influencing the young,” she says. She reached out to schools and created a five-day program that would help students understand the shark trade and local conservation efforts. During the program, paid for by the school and students, participants would not only meet the ex-shark fishermen so they could ask them about their lives, but also hear from NGOs such as the Wildlife Conservation Society about their efforts to slow the trade. The Dorsal Effect also hired marine biologists to host nightly lectures and help the students with their field surveys...

The students were faced with the realities of the fishing trade, but they were also encouraged to take a balanced view by The Dorsal Effect team. The villagers weren’t just taking the fins, and throwing away the rest of the shark; they processed every piece of the animal. While they did sell the meat and fins to buyers at the market, they also sold the teeth to jewelers, and the remains for pet food.

The Dorsal Effect also takes students on an excursion to the fishermen’s village, a small island that lies off the coast of Lombok. Marine biologist Bryan Ng Sai Lin, who was hired by The Dorsal Effect team, says that on one trip with students he was surprised by how quickly the young people understood the situation. “One of them said it’s good to think about conservation, but at the same time these people don’t really have any other choice,” Lin says....

Conservation scientist Hollie Booth of Save Our Seas, which does not work directly with The Dorsal Effect, says the need to provide legal profitable alternatives to shark fishing is critical: “We are never going to solve biodiversity and environment issues unless we think about incentives and take local people’s needs into account. These kinds of programs are really important.”"

-via Mongabay, December 15, 2023

[devilevlls]

Please, lord. Just a drop of Solomon content…

Ask you wish, anon 😋

Magic tricks on the pool table ⋆.˚

Gender-Neutral MC༘ ⋆｡˚

📌 TW: Implied sexual acts, but not described. Make out sections.

In a magical dimly lighted room, MC and Solomon, both enthusiasts of the ancient art of sorcery, found themselves in a rare respite from their rigorous training. The air was thick with anticipation as they stood on opposite ends of the snooker table, each eyeing the other with a playful glint.

Solomon couldn't resist his mischievous streak, using his subtle magic to nudge the ball just slightly every time MC took a shot. Each time, the ball seemed to move just out of reach, forcing them to stretch and contort their body over the table in an effort to make the shot.

With a sly grin, Solomon watched as MC's frustration grew, their movements becoming more fluid and graceful with each attempt. But despite the challenge, there was a playful energy between them, a dance of wit and skill as they sparred across the green baize.

A frustrated sigh escaped MC's lips, but there was a hint of amusement in their eyes as they straightened up, shooting Solomon a knowing look.

As he moved around the table to take his shot, their paths intersected, and a spark of electricity seemed to crackle between them. Their bodies brushed against each other, sending a shiver down MC's spine.

With a sly grin, the old sorcerer leaned in close, their breath mingling in the stale air of the room. He was smirking, he knew it was affecting them. But the game called them back to reality, and with a gentle nudge, MC pushed Solomon away, giggling as they break the subtle charming spell that had momentarily ensnared them. He lined up, but missed. It looked on purpose tho. MC scoffs and with a deft stroke, they lined up their shot, sinking the black ball with ease. As the final ball vanished into the pocket, they shot a glance at Solomon, a playful glimmer dancing in their eyes. Even though the game had ended, a potent tension lingered between them, thick as fog, weaving a spell of its own. "Nice move, defying my skill like that," Solomon remarked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Easy for you to say, you barely even noticed, you were concentrated elsewhere" they chuckle, setting aside their pool cue with a grin.

"Well, I had distractions," Solomon countered, his gaze wandering appreciatively over MC's form.

"Don't try to charm your way out of this, Solomon," MC teased, trailing a hand along his shoulder. "I know your tricks."

"You shouldn't worry about what I've done, focus on what I'm about to do to you right here on this table." Solomon suggested with a wicked grin, his hands sliding possessively over MC's hips.

Without hesitation, Solomon pressed MC against the table, their bodies flush against each other. His hands roamed eagerly, guiding them to sit atop the smooth surface. With a sharp breath, he captured their lower lip between his teeth, his hips moving in a tantalizing rhythm, creating a lewd friction between their bodies that made both pant against each other's lips.

With a snap of his fingers, soft jazz filled the room, masking their growing moans. The night was young, and there was much yet to explore between them.

Masterlist

[lessthansix]

‘I have your plates,’ he said, holding out a green-baize parcel. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Stephen. What a good fellow you are. Here’s elegance, damn my eyes. How they shine! Oh, oh,’ his face fell. ‘Stephen, I do not like to seem ungrateful, but I did say hawser-laid, you know. The border was to be hawser-laid.’ ‘Well, and did I not say, “Let there be a hawser about the periphery” and did he not say, the shopman, God’s curse upon him, the thief, “Here, sir, is as pretty a hawser as Lord Viscount Nelson himself could desire”?’ ‘And so it is. A capital hawser. But surely my dear Stephen, you must be aware, after all this time at sea, that a hawser is cable-laid, not hawser-laid?’ ‘I am not. And I absolutely decline to hear more of the matter. A hawser not hawser-laid – what stuff. I badger the silversmith early and late, and we are to be told that hawsers are not hawser-laid. No, no. The wine is drawn, it must be drunk. The frog has neither feathers nor wool, and yet she sings. You will have to sail up to the Downs, eating the bread of affliction off your cable-laid baubles, and wetting it with the tears of misery; and I may tell you, sir, that you will eat it without me. Essential business calls me away. I shall put up at the Grapes, when I am in London: I hope to be there well before Michaelmas. Pray send me a line. Good day to you, now: God bless.’

Post Captain, Patrick O’Brian

[waywardxwords]

Empty

Summary: Ten months ago, Sam threw himself and Lucifer into the cage. While Dean went off to live happily with Lisa and Ben, you couldn’t bring yourself to live a “normal” life. While on a hunt, your trail leads to Lansing, Michigan where you get your hopes up when you stumble upon the Sam Winchester in a dive bar. Instead, bumping into the man you had fallen for years before leaves you feeling empty. Pairing: Soulless!Sam x Female Reader Word Count: ~4.1k Warnings: IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, PLEASE STOP READING. THIS IS RATED M FOR MATURE. Soulless!Sam, swearing, smut (p in v, unprotected), slightly angsty, sadness, feeling used…Sam is kind of a douchebag in this (hello, he has no soul) - I would also like to preface that I'm still new at this whole ~writing smut~ thing, so please be kind but I am 10000% open to critique/feedback!

A cloud of cigarette smoke pooled above the bar as your boots clicked upon the hardwood of a little dive bar in Lansing, Michigan. It had been ten months since everything changed–Sam in the pit as Lucifer’s vessel, and Dean off living the life he had always deserved with Lisa and Ben. You were happy for him, truly. But that life wasn’t your life. Once you knew about all that went bump in the night, there was no going back. Thankfully, you had found Alice McCaffrey. Bobby had introduced you when you told him you wanted to get back out there. “You don’t hunt alone,” he had warned you. Alice was a little older than you, but you seemed to gel well. It wasn’t like hunting with the Winchesters, but it was still fine. 

The two of you found a small, round table towards the back of the bar where there were billiard tables and took your place on the stools.

“I just don’t get it,” Alice gnawed a little at her bottom lip. “We tracked that trail all the way here…there’s no way it just goes cold.” There was plenty of evidence floating around that the Shapeshifter was here, in Lansing. And when you said ‘the’, you meant the one and only: first of its kind, Daddy Shapeshifter; the one who created all shapeshifters. 

“I mean, this thing has been alive for how many years?” You toyed with a round paperboard coaster in your hands. “He could just be that good. He’s used to evading hunters for centuries.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she grumbled, but you knew she wasn’t going to let it go. That was fine by you, but in the meantime…

“I’m gonna grab a beer, you want anything?” You asked her as you thumbed to the bar.

“Yeah, one for me, too. But none of that light shit…see if they have a Guinness or something,” she pulled out her laptop and her leatherbound journal. 

Just as you turned to walk towards the bar, you caught sight of him. Him. The him you had mourned (and were still mourning, if you were honest with yourself). Your breath caught in your throat as his tall, broad frame stood over a billiard table. The bright light above the table accented each of his features–nothing had changed, really, besides his hair maybe being a tiny bit longer and it looked like he had been working out again. His eyes grazed over the green baize fabric on the table to check his next move. 

You didn’t want to make a scene, but this wasn’t possible…there was no way in Hell this man could be standing in front of you. You quickly pulled your cell phone from your pocket and dialed the familiar number. You refused to pull your eyes away as you watched for any sudden movements.

“Bobby?” You asked when he answered after just the third ring. “You got any idea why I’m standing in a bar in Michigan looking at Sam Winchester right now?”

As if on cue, Sam seemed to feel your gaze as he pulled his eyes up from the table and found yours. 

“Balls,” Bobby grumbled as you listened to his drawl through the receiver of the phone. “Listen, it’s Sam…but I didn’t say anything ‘cause I didn’t want ya to get hurt…” you weren’t sure what that meant. Sam had already started his pace over to you. There was a smile upon his lips, but it seemed different. “Something’s different about him. He ain’t been the same since he got pulled out of Lucifer’s cage. You hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear ya, Bobby,” your words were soft. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you later.” You hung up quickly just as he approached.

Your name fell from his lips, almost inquisitively. That same old Sam Winchester half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“Sam,” you breathed in return. It was difficult to keep Bobby’s warning in the back of your mind when the man you had hunted with for so long was standing just in front of you. While hunting with the brothers, you had never allowed your feelings to see the light of day. They were professional, and they had taught you so much about what looms in the dark. But you would be a liar if you said you had never felt butterflies when Sam smiled at you, laughed at your joke, or the way it felt when his fingers grazed your skin…

“Hey, wow, it’s been such a long time,” something did feel a bit off with his words, but even more so with his demeanor. You had mapped out those hazel eyes over the two years you spent hunting with the boys, and there was a lightness missing. They just felt empty. 

“Sam, how are you here? I saw you fall into the cage myself,” the thought alone made your eyes burn. Watching Sam and the strength he had to throw himself (and Lucifer) into the cage was devastating. 

“Yeah, uh, I don’t really know?” He chuckled softly. You searched for the light, but still couldn’t find it—even behind his laughter. “I just sorta woke up and I was back…”

“God, it’s so incredible to see you,” you couldn’t stop staring at him, afraid if you blinked, he’d disappear. “Is Dean here? Are you guys trying to figure out what brought you back?”

Sam broke his gaze from yours, but only for a second. He slipped his hands into his front jean pockets. “No, uh, I didn’t want to pull Dean back in. It’s rare to get an opportunity to get outta this life. He seems happy,” he nodded. You couldn’t help but notice the lack of emotion in his tone or on his face. “I, uh, I actually found some of my mom’s family. They have a compound here in Lansing, so I’ve been hunting with them.”

You tried to hide the way his words stung. He was so stoic, you didn’t want to look like a fool. But you were hurt…he had to have known you were still hunting. It made you doubt yourself—there were probably better people to hunt with and he had found them. You had always wondered if you were just a tagalong for the Winchesters; maybe they had just felt bad for you, after all. 

“Oh, nice,” you forced a smile and a small nod. “That’s good. Hunting with family is good…” your words trailed. 

Sam matched your nod. As if he realized he should be asking you about yourself, he continued with, “What about you? Are you hunting still?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you turned back to your hunting buddy as she watched cautiously from your table. “This is Alice McCaffrey,” you introduced as you stepped back to the table and Sam followed. “Alice, this is Sam Winchester. Alice and I have been hunting together."

Alice’s eyes widened. “The Sam Winchester?” She asked, incredulously. 

“The one and only,” he chuckled as he shook her hand.

“Wow,” Alice’s eyes drifted to you—you knew immediately what she was thinking: shifter? Demon? Shifter-demon?

“It’s really him,” you confirmed. While you hadn’t tested him yourself, you trusted Bobby. Bobby seemed very certain. He just also made it explicitly clear that Sam was different. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I just…I thought you were in the pit…”

“Yeah,” Sam tucked some strands of brown hair that had fallen forward back behind his ear. “I was, but somehow got a way out. We’re still trying to figure that out.” He explained. 

“That’s great,” she seemed a little hesitant, but that was why you loved Alice. Alice was wary of anyone and everyone; she didn’t trust at face value. There were still days you wondered if you had earned her full and complete trust. 

“What brings you to Lansing?” Sam shifted the topic, his eyes on you now. 

“We’ve been trailing a shifter,” you kept the topic brief. It felt weird not delving into all the details of your case, but you couldn’t quite shake the fact that Sam had been back and hadn’t tried to connect with you. 

“Oh, the original?” He looked between the two of you. Alice narrowed her eyes at Sam. 

“Yeah, are you hunting him too?” She questioned. 

He looked between the two of you, still emotionless. “Yeah, we got him. A few hours ago, my team had him killed.” 

“You…you managed to kill him?” Alice looked at him with the same level of shock as before. 

“Sam, he was the original shapeshifter. Like, father to all shifters,” you added in, wondering if maybe he didn’t realize.

“I know,” he looked between the two of you. “He was a beast. But we’re a team of six. We had it covered.”

Alicia glanced at you—you knew the look. She wasn’t sure of this Sam Winchester guy. 

“Hey,” Sam's fingertips grazed your hand. “Would you wanna get outta here? Some place we can sit and catch up. Somewhere quiet?” Between his fingertips on your flesh, and the way his voice had dropped lowly, you shuddered internally. 

Somehow, you still seemed hesitant. Had this been ten months ago, you would have leapt out of your chair and been halfway to the door by now. But it wasn’t. And this version of Sam just felt different. You pushed past the hesitation. “Yeah, okay,” you nodded. 

“Let me just go let the guys know I’ll be back in a while,” he thumbed back to the billiard tables where you finally noticed an older man, bald and eyes that you felt like could see through your soul. You managed a quick nod before he headed back that way. 

“Can I say something and you promise it won’t piss you off?” Alicia asked as soon as Sam was out of earshot. 

You were fairly certain you knew what she had to say, but you pulled your eyes from Sam’s back and looked back at her. “Of course.”

“I listened to you go on and on about this Sam Winchester guy. Even when you didn’t realize you were talking about him. You talk about him in your sleep,” she emphasized. Warmth crept up your neck and into your cheeks. You hadn’t realized you were sleep-talking about him… “But the Sam Winchester you’ve been mourning for almost a year? Girl, that’s not him.” Her eyes bore into you. 

“I know he seems a little…rough around the edges,” you tried to reason as your eyes found him talking to the bald man in the corner. The man had returned his gaze to you as Sam spoke. “But we have no idea what happened to him in that cage. That would change anyone, Alicia.” You looked back to your hunting buddy. 

“I get that, I do,” she agreed. “I’m just asking you to be careful. A lot can change in ten months. Especially when we’re talking about someone coming back from one of the darkest depths of Hell…if not, the darkest depth of Hell.”

“I’ve got it handled,” you watched him as he moved back towards your table. “I’ll meet you back at the motel later.” You managed a quick smile and hopped off of your bar stool. 

“Ready?” Sam asked as you approached. You nodded once, but couldn’t help the feeling of the bald man watching you. Sam began to lead you away from the table. 

“It was nice meeting you,” Alicia practically yelled over the sounds of the bar. Sam nodded once nonchalantly back at her. 

“Yeah, you too,” it was strange, but then Sam’s hand snaked around yours and held it in his palm, and any uncertainty you had in your gut went out the window. 

When Sam suggested going some place quiet, you had assumed that would be a café or diner; somewhere public, but where you could get caught up. It surprised you when he pulled into a motel parking lot and had you wait in the car. He wasn’t staying here…why was he getting a room? You were smarter than this, but somehow Sam Winchester had always had a way of emitting a haze around you; a haze that more than clouded your judgment. 

“Why a motel room?” You finally managed to ask as you stood behind him while he unlocked the door. 

“I just figured it would be nice to get caught up…” you noticed his eyes trailed down the front of you. He was looking at you in a way he had never done so blatantly before; a way you had always imagined in your mind, but never experienced. Your throat ran dry as he opened the door and held it open for you to step through. Suddenly you felt nervous. 

“I really missed you, Sam,” you felt a lump of emotion knit together in your throat. Your eyes moved up his torso to find his hazel gaze. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. 

A surprise to you, his arms snaked around you and pulled you into his chest. “I missed you, too,” you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sam was saying it because he knew he was supposed to. 

“Sam…” you started cautiously. There were two parts of you, and they were at war: on one hand, you had wanted this moment to happen for so long–you had willed for Sam to come back. But the other part of you had so many questions that you felt needed answered before you could fully open up to him. “How long have you been back?”

“Just about ten months,” he answered with little-to-no hesitation. He seemed a little surprised when your eyes widened.

You moved away from him to sit on the edge of one of the double beds in the room. Your eyes found the multicolored carpet that lined the motel room floor. “You’ve been back almost the entire time we thought you had been gone, and you didn’t call?”

“It’s…complicated,” he breathed out as he moved to sit next to you on the bed. “Things aren’t like they were ten months ago,” he tried to explain. You kept your eyes on the carpet as he spoke. “Things are different now. The Campbells are different…” there was that word again: different. Your eyes didn’t budge until your name fell as a whisper from his lips. “I really did miss you.”

You watched as his eyes trailed over you once more. Across your face, down your neck…you felt the heat rising again. “I feel like I’ve had this dream a million times–you coming back. And now it’s real, and it just feels…”

“I know,” his words were soft again as his body shifted towards you.

Before your brain could argue with your heart again, you felt your hands pull at the collar of his plaid button-down shirt. His face moved closer until your lips crashed against each other in a hasty motion. His movements were quick, but thorough, as his hands traveled to your waist. He pulled at the hem of your cotton t-shirt until his fingers slipped underneath and grazed against the flesh of your hips, causing goosebumps to bubble on the surface of your skin. 

Your hands tangled in the locks of hair at the back of his neck just as his hands lifted you and pulled you onto his lap so your legs straddled his waist. His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt again until you instinctively raised your arms and broke where your lips met as he tugged the garment over your head. His fingers tangled in your hair once more as he stood up with your legs secured around his waist and turned to lay you on the bed. Once your eyes fluttered to see him pulling his button-down off, your brain kicked back into gear.

“Sam,” you breathed. He was back hovered over you now, his fingertips tracing a line of goosebumps down your neck, then your clavicle, to the tops of your breasts. Your breath hitched in your throat once more. “Sam, should we…are we doing this?” You were still trying to wrap your head around the idea that this was happening.

He paused for a moment and looked back down at you; your eyes tried to find old Sam once more–even just a glimmer. But you were coming up empty, yet again. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” his emphasis on the word ‘long’ made your heart and stomach flutter simultaneously. “I should have before. But I was stupid, and then I was saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer, and I never thought I’d see you again.”

Your brain wanted to remind him that he could have called you, hell, he could have shown up at your doorstep and you would have welcomed him back with open arms. But your heart decided against it as he leaned closer to your lips.

“I thought maybe you wanted this too,” he breathed as his lips gingerly touched against yours once more.

Words failed you, so instead you reached up and tangled your fingers in his hair once more. The way you moved your lips against his gave him your answer.

His fingers strategically moved behind you, expertly unclasping the black bra that constrained your breasts. With a quick flick of his fingers, you felt the material relax and the straps slipped off of your shoulder blades. Your eyes found his once more–the only thing you saw was want and lust. 

You relished in the feeling of his lips as they trailed from your lips to your neck, sucking on the skin just under your earlobe. You closed your eyes at the sensation; your heart allowed your fingers to move through his hair, down to the nape of his neck. He moved against you in a way that warmed you to your core. You hadn’t realized Sam had moved his fingers down to the metal button clasp on your jeans. His fingers very quickly and skillfully moved so the button popped through the denim material and loosened. As he worked, his lips trailed down to your breast and attached to your nipple. His tongue moved over the already hardened bud, massaging in a way that elicited a moan from the back of your throat.

The break of the suction of his lips from your skin evoked a pop that echoed to your ears. In one swift motion, he pulled your jeans from your hips, bringing your underwear with it. He took a moment to stand at the edge of the bed. You watched as the muscles in his fingers, hands and forearms flinched as he worked his belt and jeans from their own metal clasp. He pulled his jeans down along with his boxers until they were at his ankles and he could step out of them.

“So fucking sexy,” he breathed. Your breath hitched once more–that wasn’t something your imagination had come up with when you had thought of this moment. The burn from the pink glow you had felt on more than one occasion tonight crept back up your skin once more, but this time you couldn’t hide.

“Sam,” your breath hitched in your throat, yet again.

Sam moved back over you at that moment, no additional words exchanged. You felt his length harden just between your legs upon your thigh. Your eyes closed once more as he kissed you with a force you had never felt before–you couldn’t place it. It wasn’t passion, it was need. 

His hands moved yours just above your head so they were bent at your elbows. With one hand, he clasped them there. His other hand moved down the side of your face, down your breasts until they wrapped around his cock. You felt his knee move between your thighs to part them. His hand shifted until his fingers deftly found your center. Sam’s index finger slipped between your folds, finding out for certain just how excited you were for this moment.

“You’re already so wet for me, baby,” his breath tickled just below your earlobe as he whispered. He picked up the pace with his fingers as he rubbed your swelling nub with his thumb. He moved in small circles that made you begin to grind your hips with his motions. Without warning, he plunged a finger inside of you once, twice, three times before he added a second finger.

A gasp escaped your lips as you pressed your head back into the mattress even further, your mouth agape. “Jesus, Sam,” you couldn’t help the words as they toppled out between your lips. After a few more thrusts, he reached down to pump his hand between his legs again. Without his touch, your brain started working once more. “D-Do you have a condom?” You didn’t mean to stutter, but you were lucky to even get words strewn together that made any sense at this point.

“It’s alright, I’ll pull out,” he kissed just below your ear on your jawline. Goosebumps flooded the surface of your skin once more as his stubble trailed over you. Your brain didn't have a moment to respond.

As he lined himself up against your center, you opened your eyes to find his gaze. His eyes were dark–a dark you had never noticed before. The normal flecks of gold, green, and blue were suddenly a darker yellow, forest green and gray. It was beautiful–lustful, even–but you didn’t see any emotion. They were still just empty.

Your mouth fell agape as he pushed into you, releasing your hands above his head so he could reach down and pull your legs and hook your ankles around his back. Instinctively, you moved your hips against him, meeting him with each movement he made.

Sam ducked his head so his lips could connect with the sweet spot he had found just above your clavicle. You couldn’t be sure, but by the feeling you knew it would leave a mark; you didn’t care. You focused on the raw feeling of him inside you, the way he grunted with each thrust. You flattened your palms up his back, the feeling of his muscles under your hands adding to the pooling warmth in the pit of your belly.

Strategically, Sam reached between the two of you and pressed his thumb to your clit once more. The continuous motion of the small circles sent a shudder over you.

“Sam…” you warned. 

He nipped at the skin below your ear. “I know, baby. Let me get you there,” the words dropped from his lips in a whisper once more.

You moved your hips to the rhythm of his hand and his thrusts. The muscles in your abdomen tightened and trembled as he pushed you over the edge. The pace of his movements picked up as he removed his hand and gripped your hips again–he pumped in and out of you with such fervor, you thought you might break.

With a shallow grunt, he quickly pulled out as he found his release–and suddenly, you felt empty.

Sam removed himself from the bed quickly and retreated to the small bathroom to clean up. As he came back, he handed you a towel. While you never could have known what being with Sam would be like, exactly…this wasn’t what you had expected. 

“That was…” your voice trailed off as you tried to catch your breath. You rolled to your side and propped yourself up on your elbow as you watched him. Instinctively, you pulled the rustled sheet up just under your chin to cover yourself.

Sam’s eyes found you as he pulled up his boxers, and then his jeans. His chest heaved only slightly as he got dressed. “Yeah, that was nice,” a smile pulled on his lips. “I’m glad we bumped into each other again.” Your throat felt dry again. Words failed you; you didn’t know what to say to that. He pulled his shirt over his head and fixed some of the buttons. “I paid through the night, so you can crash here, if you want,” he gestured to the room.

“You’re…you’re leaving?” You tried to shove the emotions bubbling up so they went back down. It felt like you were underwater–Sam was different. There was no hiding it or trying to deny it anymore. 

He looked back at you quizzically, as if he couldn’t understand why you were asking him this, but then turned his attention back to his boots as he tied the laces. “Uh, yeah. We have a lot of work to wrap up, and you’re just passing through,” his words trailed off a little, but it didn’t seem to be because he felt bad. “It really was good seeing you again.”

He managed one more small smile before he grabbed his remaining belongings and walked for the door.

The emotions finally bubbled over, but all you felt was empty.

A/N: Please, please don’t hate me. If you love Soulless!Sam with zero feeling and emotion, then this might be your jam. If you prefer loving, kind, caring Sam–you’re probably wanting my head on a platter. This is part one, I have a part two in the works and I promise I’ll fix everything <3

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

"Hey There, Dio"

July 2023 prompt "pool" / 442 words / rated g / tw; Eddie is drunk (don't know if that counts as a trigger) / @steddiemicrofic

Steve glances over the pool table, watching dark curls fall in front of the other man's face. Tattoos stretched out on his skin as he moves his arms out while holding the cue stick aiimed at a dark green ball. Steve lets a soft chuckle rip through his chest when he realizes the guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. Either that or he was too drunk to realize his mistake. 

“Hey there Dio, you're supposed to hit the white ball into the striped balls.” Steve comments amused as he holds the stick against his chest. Snorting as he watches the other drunkenly move around the table to the white ball. 

“I knew that.” 

“Sure you did, pal.” 

Steve shakes his head as his eyes land on the Dio patch on the other’s vest. Tracing the details on the image as he waits for the other to hit the ball. Which never comes as the guy misses and falls face-first into the baize. It was absolutely pathetic and Steve forces himself to hold his laughter back. Not understanding why the other was so determined to play a match with him if he was to wasted to see straight.

Instead of teasing the other like he wanted to, he moves and wraps his arm around the others waist. Sliding his arm underneath the leather jacket as he pulls the others arm around his shoulder so he could help him walk.

“Oooooh, gotta buy me a drink first big boy,” The flirting is new and it causes Steves brain to shortwire with confusion. He did walk in a straight bar right?

“Well good thing waters free then.” Steve says amused. He doesn’t know who this guy was but he was determined to make sure he was safe for the night. 

“Noooo, not water.” The man tosses his head back almost causing both of them to flop back onto the pool table. Steve grunts a little at the amount of weight he has to lift before he gets a better grip on the other to help him walk over to a booth. Being dragged down to sit next to the orher as the man tosses his legs over his lap. Tilting his head a bit, before moving forward and licking the side of Steve’s face.

“Finder Keepers.”

Steve's face scrunches up a bit as he tries to lift his hand up and wipe the spit off from his face. Trying his hardest to be mad at the other whose eyes have grown wide all of a sudden. 

“You’s the most prettiest boy I ever met.”

And oh god tonight, was going to be a long night.

[panoramicireland]

Typical Ireland in winter, snow on the slopes higher up and green as it gets on the flat.

Even without this being a lofty altitude scene the snow still sticks.

Like snooker table baize across the landscape.

[gabessquishytum]

I came across this Instagram page of a male model and immediately thought that this is so Dream coded. (Maybe in a mafiaboss!Hob au where Dream is his partner in crime - quite literally - and active on social media and he loves to tease Hob with these posts...

VERY Dream coded tbh... he's Hob pretty little mob wife and his favourite hobby is posting lewds on social media and making his big bad husband so jealous.

After Hob sees this last picture, he grabs Dream by the waist, hauls him away from whatever he was doing, and carries him straight to the pool table. He dumps Dream down in the middle of it, pins him there with one hand, and makes him give the most pathetic, whimpering apologies for showing off his body to the entire world yet again.

Of course it's just a game - Dream has Hob’s full permission to flaunt his pretty self wherever he likes. As long as he remembers who he belongs to at the end of the day.

Dream gets absolutely ravished on that poor pool table. The green baize is totally ruined and stained, covered in marks where Dream has clawed into the surface. Hob fucked him hard and fast so that he could see the bulge of his cock through Dream’s pale flat stomach, and he's left with his hole gaping and cum drooling down his thighs.

Hob snaps a picture of the ruined table for Dream’s instagram story. Just to make sure that everyone knows that his pretty little wifey is very well taken care of.

[bethanydelleman]

Why You Should Read Mansfield Park

Mansfield Park is consistently voted the least favourite Jane Austen novel, much to my despair. A lot of people don't even read it based on that reputation. If you are an Austen fan, or even just a book fan, this is why you should read it.

Mansfield Park: Something for Everyone

Are you an extrovert who wants to understand the other side, have you ever experienced: “pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied to her“? Try Mansfield Park and live inside the head of an introvert!

Are you tired of everyone loving the highly extroverted and witty Elizabeth Bennet, Fanny Price is your heroine! Watch her go from unappreciated and ignored to, “the daughter that he wanted,” by being quietly helpful, moral, and kind, not bright and sparkling.

Do you enjoy watching university-aged people creating drama, being selfish, and having elaborate love triangles? TV ratings seem to indicate yes. Look no further than Mansfield Park! Sisters who love the same guy, unrequited love, hidden jealousy, and can the bad boy finally go good?

Not into drama? How about intelligent critiques of the Church of England, a good deal of it still relevant today? Mary Crawford has you covered!

Into Poetry? Fanny Price thinks in poetry! Check out her monologue on “tyrannic memory” or her reflections on sunlight when she’s staying with her family in Portsmouth. Mary Crawford didn’t pay attention, but you will love it!

Do you love free stuff? Who doesn’t love free stuff? Watch the master of mooching, Mrs. Norris, abscond with all the extra jellies after the ball and sponge a heath, some eggs, AND a cream cheese from Southerton. Have you ever made someone feel better by stealing green baize?

Want romance? Only read Ch 30 and forget everything else that happens!

Mansfield Park, give it a first chance, or another chance.

(Also, neither movie (1999 or 2007) follows the book. The 1983 mini is the only one true to canon. If you’ve watched Fances O’Connor as Fanny Price you don’t know the real story. And these aren't small quibbles, they completely changed Fanny's character in 1999, it's the forerunner of Persuasion 2022)

[ltwilliammowett]

This portable writing desk (date  1751-1813) belonged to Captain Silas Talbot (1751-1813), who served as USS Constitution‘s second captain from 1799 to 1801 during the Quasi-War with France. Talbot may have used this desk to compose some of his voluminous correspondence with the Secretary of the Navy and the officers under his command.

Easily transportable from ship to shore and back again, portable writing desks like these were more than just writing surfaces. They were personal organizers that allowed officers to keep important documents and correspondence in a safe place. When the desk is opened, a sliding door in the left side provides additional storage space. The green baize-covered writing surface, bordered by strips of ebony, lifts to revel additional storage for papers. Ranged along the head of the writing surface are five compartments for pens, inkwell, wafers (for sealing letters), sand (to help dry wet ink), and other writing implements. A silver capped glass inkbottle is all the remains of these tools.

[mariana-oconnor]

Wisteria Lodge pt 2

Right, so thinking about it since last time I came up with some other reasons, like maybe Mr Garcia was scared of something coming for him and that was why he asked Mr Scott Eccles over for a few nights. Or alternatively, it was a pure coincidence that he asked him over and then someone from his past turned up and threatened him. But why did the whole household disappear overnight. They must have some connection.

Anyway, now I am free for the evening, onto the actual reading. When last we left off, Mr Scott Eccles had woken up after utterly missing his chance at a booty call to find himself abandoned and needing to do the walk of shame.

"I called at Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been rented."

This seems pretty extreme, although I guess what has happened is quite extreme. And if it had happened to me, I'd be all over the internet trying to work out what had happened to everyone. I'd probably at least think of asking the next door neighbours if they knew what was going on. It's different in a time with servants and stuff, though. You'd expect the servants to still be there, even if the owner has gone out or to work or whatever. Still 'no one was in when I woke up so I went to the estate agent...

He does then go to the mutual friend who introduced them - and also the Spanish embassy - which again, seems a bit like overkill. I don't think I'd go to the Spanish embassy, not if I still had all my stuff. If it seemed weird and suspicious enough I might report them to the police as missing, but then maybe they have a good reason. idk.

"My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.” “I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone.

Is that amiable as in appeasing, or amiable as in believing? I'm not sure I'd believe all of that, although it does fall into the realm of too weird and unhelpful a story to be faked. If you're going to invent a story about how you're not a murderer when you really are, you want it to sound more plausible.

“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?” The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.

Ah, Watson, you're back in fine form with your descriptions of police officers, no animal imagery here, but at least you managed to convey your utter disgust at his appearance. Bravo.

"The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says: “Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. — D.

What a very specific and detailed description of the note. Purple wax is particularly extra of them, I have to say. And not in keeping with the colour scheme.

I have a feeling that the green and white are going to be associated with something I have no knowledge of, a badge or flag of some Spanish political movement or other. I also feel like the mixed race cook is going to be important in some way, but I don't know enough about the politics of Spain and its colonial empire at the end of the 19th century to make any guesses.

Green baize is a snooker/billiards table, though, usually. The open and shut might be shutters painted in different colours as some sort of signal to people outside (or an indication of the house Garcia is supposed to go to, but there would have to have been previous instructions in that case, because otherwise it could be any house in the country.)

These are clearly directions and instructions. I kind of want Aloysius Garcia to be an assassin now, and these are indications of where he can find his next hit. But why they would specify a snooker table, I don't know. Although there were probably card tables lined with green baize as well. It is the fabric, rather than the table itself.

But clearly he was killed either because of following these instructions or before he could follow them.

“I'm bound to say that I make nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it.”

Once again, we have feminine handwriting. And, as a woman, I don't know whether to be amused, proud, or insulted that apparently we're at the bottom of everything. All three, I suppose.

“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded."

If his head has been bashed in that badly, how sure are you that it's Mr Garcia at all? Who identified the body? I mean, if you were an assassin bumping people off, it would be terribly convenient if people just happened to mistake the body of your victim for you. Terribly convenient.

"...but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault."

Either a crime committed with absolute rage and no forethought or the complete opposite where the beating continued specifically until the body was unrecognisable.

“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hard on me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?”

Sir? Sir? Excuse me. A man is dead, sir.

Wow... Yeah, this is very hard for you. So very hard for you. I'm glad you didn't get laid last night, Mr Scott Eccles. You did not deserve it. Even if Mr Garcia is secretly an assassin for a group of Spanish revolutionaries, you did not deserve the hot assassin sex. Nope. 'How do you come to be mixed up in the case?' Maybe because you were sleeping in his house and were one of the last people to see him alive? (If he's dead. Not convinced on that point.

“The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address."

Yep, they got his ID from a letter in his pocket. Got to love policing before the days of DNA and fingerprinting. A+ identification methodology right there. No way that could be anyone but Aloysius Garcia.

Also, I am amused by the idea that someone deliberately set up Mr Scott Eccles for this. It's not nice, no, but eh the guy's a bit of a pompous racist asshole, and I doubt he's actually going to be charged with anything. They identified a man from a letter in his pocket after all, clearly they will believe anything.

“He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time, and his death had certainly been before the rain.” “But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client. “His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour.”

And there's the random one am booty call coming into play. Of course we have no evidence it was one am other than the reported word of the possibly late Mr Aloysius Garcia himself. Making Mr Scott Eccles' role in all of this that of impossible alibi to a dead man.

And is his voice really unmistakeable, or does he just have a Spanish accent? If three men with Spanish accents spoke to you in the dark would you be able to pick out Mr Garcia? I don't trust you to be able to do that.

“There were,” said he, “one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out and give me your opinion of them.”

I am irritated now because I want to know what these things are, but at the same time I am very impressed with Mr Baynes for not doing the thing I always yell at fictional detectives for doing and revealing key evidence in front of suspects. So... Fine. You win this one. I will be patient.

“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”

Mystification is an excellent word. If this were a modern novel that would be the title: The Mystification of Scott Eccles.

"There is, on the face of it, something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles."

Homophobic!

I know Mr Scott Eccles is kind of a dud, but everyone is someone's type. You can't just assume that because Mr Garcia was hot and young he wouldn't be into that.

Although, yeah, it probably was Victorian Catfish. Which leaves me in two minds. On one hand - hot Spanish assassin... undeniably cool. On the other hand - preying on the closeted gays... not cool. Even if Mr Scott Eccles is a Tory. You can't just have different rules for Tories, as much as you may want them.

"He called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply?"

"I see no charm in the man. He is not particulary intelligent—not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin."

So stereotypical. I've said it before - you can't know what a person's type is just by looking at them. And let's not kinkshame Mr Garcia for what he was into.

"He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.”

Honestly, I wasn't going to question it either, but mostly because of narrative reasons and because the guy just seems too boring to be able to come up with anything halfway as interesting on his own. But I don't think I'd take anything that came out of his mouth as true. Honest, maybe, but factually accurate? Definitely seems the kind of guy to quote opinion as fact.

“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an assignation."

I know 'massage' is a typo, but it fits in so well with everything else, that I must point it out.

"As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them."

I was so distracted by the illicit romance of it all, that I didn't even think about the size of the house. Seven doors along a corridor is a big house, and if it does have a billiards table, then that's a sign of a big house as well.

Of course, Garcia would still have needed to know where he was going. There are six people in Holmes' list.

I kind of hope it's Ffolliott, just because of the three double letters in his name. But The Dingle and Purdley Place are excellent names, too. As is Nether Walsling. And I didn't even notice that Mr Hynes Hynes is called Mr Hynes Hynes... is that another typo or is he just so good they named him twice? And a Justice of the Peace (or at least I assume that's what JP stands for). Yeah, I take it back. I want it to be Mr Hynes Hynes. And is he the body that was found or is it actually Mr Garcia?

None of the names seems Spanish in origin, but we've already established that the writer of the note was English. Do any of the titles seem like they might be involved in some sort of Spanish political intrigue? The Lord perhaps? He'd be in the House of Lords, so politically involved in the UK. The Justice of the Peace could definitely be involved in something, but probably not internationally. I doubt the reverend is involved in politics, but there's always a chance of someone having turned to the church for redemption after a life of crime. Though Spain is a Catholic country in the main part, especially at this time, afaik, so it would be unusual for someone of that background to turn CofE. Not impossible, but unusual.

Maybe Spain has nothing to do with any of it, though. The colours definitely seemed like a hint towards something, though and political affiliation was the only thing my mind could come up with. If it's just the colours of the shutters in the house then why 'our own colours'? Also, if someone can open and close the shutters of a house, that means an inside person.

"...a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us."

Is that the tragedy that has already occurred, or is there more tragedy yet to come? Watson?

Also, what was that extra evidence, Mr Baynes? Very rude leaving us hanging like that.

Holmes is of course, right. I am theorising without enough data. I need to put the Spanish thing and any ideas of political motivation aside. While I doubt it's going to be as simple as a clandestine affair, it probably won't be a secret revolutionary group enacting assassinations on foreign ground in order to foment rebellion. Although such things aren't entirely without precedence in the Holmes canon.

And it's entirely possible that we're supposed to accept at face value that the dead guy actually is Aloysius Garcia even if his face was beaten to a pulp and their only evidence of his identity is a letter in his pocket. I know that's been used as a form of identification before and been accurate, and it annoyed me then, too.

Getting away with murder would have been so easy in Victorian times. Just make sure the body is unrecognisable and leave a note on it with your own name and address before disappearing into the night. No one would even think to look for you again.

[talesfromthecrypts]

On the topic of sports horror, allow me to bring up Billy the Kid and the Green Baize Vampire, which is not only both sports and horror but also a musical! (and it's on tubi)

Excuse me Billy the Kid movie… with vampires… and it’s a musical. And I can watch this for free right now? They just give this to me for free?

[silverfoxstole]

For the fanfic meme: 1, 5, 14 :-)

What is your favorite trope to write?

Either angst or fluff. That’s what I usually tend to write, though it’s more of the latter these days. I’m not a particularly fluffy or sentimental person but I seem to turn into one when I’m writing for some reason, especially at Christmas.

5. The fic you’re most proud of writing?

Probably Beyond the Green Baize Door and its immediate sequel The Garish Light of Day, the two Phantom fics I wrote and posted a chapter of every week for two years. They’re the longest fics I’ve ever written and I was really proud to have kept going, developing the plot as I went because I never plan anything.

14. First fandom you ever wrote fanfiction for?

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember so I expect it was for either Care Bears or My Little Pony. The first fanfic I ever posted online was for Doctor Who, and here I am more than twenty years later still writing for it.

Thanks for asking!