#i couldn’t find a good reference for c!copper :((((

[arkify]

they are going to beat you to death

( @fluffydancer618 and @copperexception )

[rhmg-au]

I couldn’t resist, okay? The idea came into my head one day and it was like “write me please”, so I did.

The prequel’s next part will be coming soon, so please stay patient with me, I’m no good at being on time-

This is not connected to the ficlets I already made, so you could see this as an alternate timeline if you like.

This AU belongs to @rhmg-au . Please follow them, reblog their art, give them fanart, support them in any way possible, etc.

Charlie and Copper created by FlamingRedAnon.

TW: Blood, gore, death

(Mod Swanno: Read more because of length and content! ^^)

———

Four to one.

It didn’t seem fair, not in terms of battle, but why this fight is happening in the first place.

Four unlucky and unfortunate souls twisted into weapons, machines, their only purpose to destroy the Toppats.

It all began when Right Hand Man was taken away from the clan, just before the launch of the spaceship. His sacrifice made it possible for the rest of the members to escape from a fate they didn’t deserved, at the cost of his freedom and free will. Now, he’s referred to as Green.

A while after the space station was set up completely, Reginald Copperbottom disappeared without reason or warning. Several search parties were sent down to Earth and even around the station, but no signs of him were spotted. No notes or messages were found left by him, only bumping the concern and fear up by a longshot. Toppats were getting killed off at a much faster rate, causing Henry to bring the remaining clan members into the orbital station to prevent more casualties, only allowing them to leave if they have a viable reason to or it’s deemed safe to go back, which it isn’t. After this decision was made, no further deaths were reported. Reginald was only seen again when they raided the Government to get their fellow Toppats back, but he wasn’t the same. He was changed into a cyborg too, against his will, and just like with Right, had his memories wiped clean. New name? Copper.

Charles Calvin was a pilot who worked for their enemy, while he may came from the opposing side, one can clearly see how uncomfortable he was with the General’s choices, and wants to help. Unfortunately, his motives were discovered and he too suffered the same fate as Reginald did. Charlie is what he’s called by now.

Similar to his co-worker, Rupert Price is a high-ranking soldier in the Government, and like the pilot, is uncomfortable with the decisions of the person he takes commands from. But he has another reason why, he’s been trying to convince them to save a friend of his, however they kept denying as he’s just an average citizen who’s not worth saving and it provided no benefit for them if they do. These were more than enough to push him to his breaking point. His life took a turn for the worst when he was caught by the monster behind all of this, and was changed into something he never wanted to become. Before this though, he was tortured mercilessly for defying the expectations of a soldier. Prize replaced his original name.

All of them were standing before her, the only one who could possibly match against them, Sabine Setorion.

She couldn’t believe it.

But another thing that made it even more unbearable was that it was all thanks to her adoptive mother, the one who saved her from dying all those years ago, who treated her like a daughter…Dr. Vinschpinsilstein.

Even after all of the things they did, what she told her about them, she still decided to throw her words and the horrid acts to the wind for revenge.

But this isn’t simple revenge. This was too cruel to call it revenge.

Sure, they held her at gunpoint, made her turn Right into a cyborg, but they had no other choice. How else could they convince her to work on saving his life? Besides, wasn’t saving lives her job? Like how she did for her? No matter how it was demanded?

But…she couldn’t bring herself to hate her.

She’s blinded by her anger, the need for revenge, and has done inexplicably dastardly deeds, but hatred was out of the question.

Even with those conditions active, her care still shone through.

For now though, the only thing she should focus on at the moment was the fight she’s thrusted into.

And it was incredibly one-sided.

No one else could stand against these four walking machines, she’s the only one who could at least manage a short confrontation between herself and them.

But that’s not the only reason why she’s fighting a near hopeless battle.

All of those she ever brought herself to care about would be destroyed if she refused, including her mother.

Galeforce was cruel, there was no doubt about that, but this was insane. Not only was he putting countless Toppats and their lives on the line, and those she calls friends, but even that of his assistant. Just to satisfy his need for vengeance.

Blood spewed from her mouth, her burn had been covered up with the crimson substance that has found its way to the unhealed injury she still possesses to this fateful day. The scar which was sealed off years prior has been reopened in a painful way, the sting lingered with her for the rest of the fight. The stitches had undone, and a new one has been made to criss-cross the wound, effectively creating an X shape on her face.

Pain coursed through the entirety of her being, it was as if she was waking up from a coma but it was a worse version of it, like someone beat you senselessly while you were still unconscious, and you had the misfortune to wake up to experience the assault of agony it brought alongside your awakening.

The metal used to reconstruct her new body has been damaged severely, with five to one, she was barely even breathing. She never harmed anyone, because she knows that all of them are still human, still people who are worth saving, even if some of them are not from her side of the playing field. They were disabled (by her will) for the majority of the battle, only relying on evasion and defense as strategy.

It hurt, physically, mentally and emotionally. Knowing that under these circumstances, there was no real way to win. And to know that those she cared deeply for are forced to watch her eventual demise, and to know that those who have to end her can’t stop themselves.

All she could do was lay there, almost lifelessly, as she heard a command from the General:

“Finish her.”

As they prepared to end her second trial of life, she weakly spoke. “It-It wasn’t your…faults. I-If you c-can hear me, r-remember t-that.” You could hear it if you leaned in close enough, but they were quieter than total silence. They did nothing to help. They couldn’t hear her.

Yet she still tried.

A single, solitary tear escaped from her eye mixing in with her blood, a smile plastered on her face.

This was the end.

Four individual blasts came soon after.

The last thing she heard were screams and scrambling.

And she was gone…permanently.

———

I gotta admit, this was kinda rushed-

But hopefully you enjoyed the end result regardless of shortness and how rushed it seemed.

My poor baby didn’t stand a chance against four cyborgs, there was no realistic way for her to win unless she managed to snap them out of it.

Also I would like to say the reason why she was killed instead of being brainwashed like the rest: Dr. V was now against Galeforce, and unless he figures out how to do cybernetic surgery by himself, or finds another doctor, he can’t have another walking weapon at his disposal, leaving him no choice but to kill off Sabine.

I legit couldn’t think of a name that fitted Rupert’s rehabilitated version of himself, so Prize had to do (and no I did not use his last name as reference for it-)

Maybe I’ll do an alternative route for that possibility, who knows? ;)

Don’t worry, I’m still working on the prequel, procrastination and demotivation are being assholes to me at the moment, but hopefully I can combat them to bring another another work to this AU!

[handlewcaare]

Reverence became irrelevant with each battle won. The triumph of an unparalleled blade could easily be usurped with another breezy battle. However, Kamikaze could never promise the fights he endured would be without injury. At least, not in the first few years of his training.

“AND STAY THE HELL OUT!” The lone disciple of Daisuke howled at the retreating members of the Fushikawa Dojo. His sanguine seeped through his red cloak and there was an evident flourish of a lavender bruise under his eye. Despite his injuries, he managed to petrify one of them by cutting through their ragged blade with his own.

Even as the Fushikawa Tigers barked back worse insults, Kamikaze was deaf to the fools by the time he closed the door.

“You’re hurt again,” a tired tone simmered from the far corridor of the dojo. From the corner of Kamikaze’s eye did he find his medic simply stare at him. The boy was five years his junior, yet dabbled in medicine as much as he dabbled in bladework. A devestating combination if the boy was ever in the midst of battle. The twelve year old continued, “d’ya need my help?”

“No,” The seventeen-year-old Kamikaze retorted. What lethargic melody he would conjure later in his prime had not fully developed. To master his swordsmanship required his utmost reverence, even if it was at the cost of a sliced shoulder.

Regardless of his protest, the little medic retrieved his first aid kit, “I’m gon’ help you.”

“Seriously, Yedo, I—!” The instant the boy tried to inspect his wound, he suppressed the urge to grunt out in pain. The odor of copper was as pungent as the harangue of his foolhardy onslaught.

“You’re gonna need stitches prolly.”

“Gee, I wouldn’t have figured that one out.”

“You wanna do this yourself?”

“Sure, just give me the needle,” as soon as Yedo actually provided it, Kamikaze couldn’t get a decent glimpse toward the gash over his trapezium. His brows furrowed at the smug look the medic provided him until he surrendered his attempt.

His pride was always a bitter pill to swallow, so much so that even his Sensei in his prime had noticed. What fervent yearning to blaze through his opponents had been questioned by the placid and composed Daisuke.

A powerful man, Daisuke was, underneath the masquerade of a humble and jovial elderly man. The aroma of lavender and honey tea simmered between Kamikaze and his Sensei as they played Shogi. Yedo slept soundlessly upstairs after a long day of bickering with Kamikaze.

“You seem disgruntled,” Daisuke noted without looking up at Kamikaze. His fingers tapped the piece along the shogi. It was often a beckon for him to pop open the lid of his emotions.

“I should have finished them,” them being a reference to the bastards who dared to insult Daisuke’s techniques. Albeit they were quick to hush under the heat of his temper. It wasn’t a flawless victory, but it was one that prompted the idiots to flee with their tails between their legs.

“Knowing your opponent is as good as knowing your own weaknesses,” Daisuke reminisced as he watched Kamikaze make a hasty mistake with his shogi piece. His forgiveness came in the form of a stalling move, “you should know better than waste your techniques in a fruitless battle, Kami.”

“They disrespected you,” the adolescent snarled as he snapped a piece.

“But they did not disrespect you,” his Sensei said, “you are as great as the villains you face.”

Those words would be what Kamikaze would carry heavy along his shoulders for the rest of his life. A word of precaution he would offer in times of his disciples’ ill-tempers. Blatant disrespect would not be forgiven if it was directed toward one’s own achievements.

He hadn’t known the weight of those words then.

Once, he, Bushidrill and Yedo were tasked to run small errands at the village had everything changed. It always is just a singular occurrence, but that breadth had sculpt him into the very man he needed to be.

Both he and Drill were just a little over 23 and Yedo had just grown into an 18 year old. Oftentimes would the errands be as minuet as getting groceries for an elderly woman or fending off a wild dog near the Tori gates.

“ ‘m just saying, the alphabet cities would be a nice place to live in,” Yedo shrugged as he carried the pails of water for the well near their dojo.

“What, and deal with the pollution? The expensive cheap garbage you can just make here?” Kamikaze quipped as he hauled the wheelbarrow.

“Maybe I want to be considered as a real doctor, ever thought of that?”

“You’re a real one,” Bushidrill assured, the strain of lifting a large stack of hay was hardly enough to make him sweat, “you tend to Kami’s shit all the time.”

“Aye-!”

Both the medic and the practical brick house spared shit-eating grins toward the petulant samurai. It never gave him an eery sensation that something was amiss. There was no poetic declaration, no shift in the ambiance near the trees.

The only omen was the destroyed paper walls. The wooden floors stained with sanguine petals and the furniture had been completely split in half. Only one man knew how to make a clean cut like that.

“...Sensei??”

Kamikaze dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow and rushed inside. The closer he got to the main room, the more trauma he witnessed. The two others also made as much haste as he had. The kois laid limp in a pond tarnished in poison, the branches of the neighboring tree caved into the side of the rooftop, even the deck had cautioned the three of them to keep such a memory of Daisuke alive.

Perhaps they should have, but Kamikaze’s vanity refused to keep him ignorant.

In a throne of destroyed furniture laid the crumpled king. Daisuke’s head bowed as his breathing had been interjected by the blade through his diaphragm. Each breath was but a whistle of a wheeze from his dying lips.

Yedo’s eyes widened as he cupped his mouth. Bushidrill could only watch in horror as Kamikaze practically scrambled to run toward his dying Sensei. The splinters were unfelt underneath the soles of his feet and even as he tripped over the disembodied table leg, he continued to hastily hold Daisuke’s body.

“Yedo,” His baritone quivered at the name, his brows twitched as he suppressed the urge to weep, “you... you gotta...”

No medical expertise could have healed the wounds Daisuke was currently enduring. Even as Yedo’s lips quivered and fat dewdrops of tears stained his supple cheeks, he could only muster a quiet shake of his head.

“C-C’mon!” He barked as he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that this was the end; that Daisuke’s final moments had already passed. It was over the moment they got there, but he didn’t want to let go of his Sensei just yet. “g-get your medical supplies an’ ... and...”

By the time Bushidrill’s hand rested atop of Kamikaze’s shoulder, he finally choked up his pride and wept. He couldn’t afford to let the others witness him in fragments, to stare down at the pride he couldn’t absorb and scatter along the limp body that he held upright.

Such remorse of untimely endings wrought grief. With such grief came furor at the familiar blade. The ones who disrespected his Sensei all those years ago, the ones who he challenged and chased off, held a similar weapon of this one’s caliber. The end of the hilt was accented with a insignia: a snarling tiger.

Kamikaze was fervent and peckish for a thrilling encounter at times, but he was no fool.

When he bid his farewells to his peers, he would have assumed it was the final one.

That evening hall marked him as the fastest samurai. The evening in which the Fushikawa clan celebrated the assassination of Daisuke at their respective dojo was when Kamikaze had fully rejuvenated a hellish speed. No demon—cybernetic or phantasmic—could have paralleled to the speed he utilized when he faced them in their entirety.

Even as their own blades punctured through his shoulder, he continued to persist. Even as he winced when the jagged edge of one’s dagger pierced through his side, he continued to persist. The aroma of salt and copper blended into a nauseating cologne he adorned for the event. Yet, with each injury only prompted him to accelerate his thrashing onslaught. To be extra spiteful, he diced through the flesh, muscle and bone as one would cleave the meat of a fresh kill.

The head of the Fushikawa clan offered a wistful smile toward his furor, as if expectant of it. “You know he wouldn’t have wanted you to do this.”

He didn’t care.

“Daisuke was always quite weak.”

I don’t care, Kamikaze thought as he unsheathed his blade.

“You must know, I—!”

“I don’t care.”

It wasn’t until the four samurai that stood to guard the headmaster had suddenly been sliced apart with but a thread of scarlet.

Nothing else quite sobered him up like the relentless glare Kamikaze spared him. He hadn’t even the time to hastily retrieve his blade when he felt his arm go numb by the bite of something unbecoming. When he realized his arm had been disembodied, he was already dead by the hand of an angered man.

By the end of the final blow, Kamikaze panted and attempted to return to his ruined home. His hair curtained over his shoulder and his sweat and blood felt like ice when he began to trudge through the greetings from winter. His feet felt numb as he carried himself through the thick penumbra of snow, only barely catching himself along his knees.

He didn’t know if the apparition of a figure through the blizzard was Daisuke or if it was someone else. He had only heard a minuscule of a shout before he fully collapsed into the snow. There was comfort in the cold, gelid embrace; something he found within as he let his consciousness seep from his fingers.

Every now and then, Kamikaze thinks back to when he was younger. He wouldn’t say he had aged that much, but Yedo’s relentless teases about it would provoke a guttural ‘can it’. The bastard has a PhD and still is a snarky little shit.

Yedo deliberately threaded the needle within pallid skin that surrounded the brutal gash. “Kama really did a number on ya, huh?” Kamikaze murmured to himself as he watched the doctor stitch up the quiet boy who made not a sound as the injury was tended to.

“Maybe he should have been faster~!” The dimpled girl chirped jovially as she twirled her deadly weapon along the edge of her hand. Truly, Kamikaze’s arrogance spread like a disease.

The pale boy made not a sound, but he did quietly exhale in frustration, “give me another chance,” he said with as much composite as he could muster.

“I think your both done for the day,” the samurai retorted as he folded his arms across his chest. Albeit, Yedo had finished, Iaian could not shelter his flustered demeanor.

“I-I can keep going!” Iaian protested.

“Iai—“

“I wanna prove myself and be—!”

“Iai.”

Immediately did the disciple hush and bow his head. His apology was completely unnecessary, but Kamikaze could only offer a soft chuckle as he rested his hand atop of the boy’s crown.

“You’re as great as the villains you face,” Kamikaze stated, “prove yourself when you’re physically able to.”

It was only after Iaian complied with a nod that he allowed the two youngest disciples retreat to meditate or idly play shogi with Drill.

Yedo couldn’t help but offer a quiet laugh when the two of them saw Iaian practice with a training dummy, knowing fully well he might pop a fresh stitch, “he’s just like you, Y’know that?”

To acknowledge the strong was to also be aware of their potential. Kamikaze only sufficed to provide a simper, “he is.”

[arigatouiris]

red right hand // t.h — [01]

pairing: 1920s mob!tom holland x f!reader

warnings: swearing, violence, sexual references, mafia au!, mentions of ptsd, trauma, anxiety attacks, a dash of sexism, angst, slow burn, alcohol and smoking mentioned

word count: 2013

a/n: heavily inspired from this show i’ve been watching, the peaky blinders. it’s been forever since my last update, but i will try and make it faster than before. the story won’t follow the plotline of the peaky blinders, but a fair amount will intersect. 

if you want to be on the taglist, just send an ask or drop a reply~

One. A Slave

▾

Thomas Holland was currently focused on turning his business around. 

There was nothing in the world more important to him than his family, and with what his father had left behind, Tom knew that he could turn things legal—and when that would happen, there wouldn’t be a single power in all of London that could stop him or his family from being the way they are.

Some would say to turn honest, especially after leading an entire life full of crime, is a dangerous task. It wasn’t as if Tom knew what being honest meant because even before the war, Tom’s life was tainted with the illegal. But, when he thought of his siblings, especially his youngest sibling Patrick, who hadn’t seen war or anything illegal in his life, his heart ached. There were a few things Tom was known for, all bad things, but the one good thing he believed was that Tom Holland knew how to love his family. That aching gentleness was still in him, tainted with the brokenness that came with being a man of war. Harry and Sam were both tainted as well, but none so far as Tom was. Tom was not just burdened with the war but being vulnerable was never a choice for the head of the Londoners.

He knew though—he knew that the coppers were after him. He knew that they would do everything in their power to find something bad off him and put him to death; he knew that if he were caught before turning legal, there was no turning back. He and his entire family would go to jail, hanged for the people that they were. From the people, they were running away from being.

However, that night was a night of celebration.

He had finally discovered something that could push his entire family into being legal again—a power move that would help him pay off his legal rights. He knew it was a long shot, but there was only one way and this was it. However, even the slightest bit of interference from the police would mean terrible consequences.

Except for Sam, no one in his family knew about the guns and he knew what his mother’s immediate response would be. It was police business, there was no need for the Londoners to get involved. Nikki was always more careful than Tom, but Tom was known to be far too risky than the regular chap. But, that night, something else caught Tom’s eye just as he was making an announcement.

A new barmaid.

She barely caught his eye, but it was when he walked in on her singing did things turn around. He stopped her, obviously not wanting any sort of reminder of war—songs being one of them, and he wondered why Harry hired her of all people. She was decent in the eye and didn’t look like she was from around the area. She would get eaten alive.

Women like her around these parts were only looking for trouble.

   “Who’re you?” Tom’s voice stopped the music instantly, however, the lady’s sharp (e/c) eyes stared back at him, fearlessly.

She said nothing, and neither did her gaze back down. Tom nearly felt his heart drift in a slight angle. It was strange.

   “Right, that’s (y/n), she’s our new barmaid,” Harry said, slurring already.

   “Who told you you could sing?”

(y/n) blinked once before replying strongly, “Back in my hometown, people would drop their glasses at the sound of a song. It’s needed around these parts.”

   “And you get to decide that, do ya?” Tom replied curtly, wanting to put her down, but she still did not back off.

It should have irked him. Made him angry. Yet, it didn’t.

She said nothing, and stepped back, heading back into the bar. The bar was once again filled with slow chattering, and Sam’s bellowing cleared the air of any remaining awkwardness. It wasn’t as if Tom hated music. It wasn’t as if Tom didn’t like songs. He didn’t want to be reminded of a time when there was no war yet. Because that only meant going back into one.

•

    “I have an offer to make and I don’t think the coppers are going to refuse.”

Nikki didn’t like when Tom was being vague. She liked answers that made sense in one sentence or no answer at all. Of course, she couldn’t kill her son so she had to make him spit it out. She knew it was all bullshit and when Tom was hiding something, he was hiding something big. It was better off for the entire family if one more person knew what the hell Tom was up to.

Nikki walked over to Tom after he had sent (y/n) inside and grabbed his arm. Tom, already a bit tipsy at this point, got up while the others started to laugh, knowing he was going to get an earful from his mother. Nikki wasn’t one to yell, she would merely just say sharp words that could pierce stone and that was one of Tom’s main weaknesses. The two of them walked over to the other room, when Nikki shut the door, blocking the view from everyone.

    “What have you done?”

For a second, Tom wondered if Sam had bailed on him and told their mother. But, he knew he would trust his brother with his life and that there was no possibility.

    “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nikki rolled her eyes, “Come on, boy. I raised you. I know every single expression of yours by heart. There’s no need to lie to me because I know there’s a lie there. What are you planning and what are you going to put our family through?”

Tom breathed in, not really happy with Nikki’s interference.

    “I’ve found guns, mum,” Nikki looked confused, “Guns of the army. Seven cartons full of AKs.”

Her eyes widened, “Thomas Holland, tell me you put them back. Tell me you have nothing to do with them.”

His silence was the answer. Nikki slapped Tom’s arm four times before he shushed her, calming her down. He looked into her eyes and forced her to do the same.

    “Mum, do you trust me?”

Oh, the problem was that she did trust him. She trusted him a bit more than she trusted the other boys (something she knew a mother shouldn’t do, but it was entirely because of Tom’s nature did she have no choice in the matter). She trusted him more than she trusted herself and that was indeed a problem.

    “Tom, you said we’re going legal. Is that a lie?”

He shook his head, “No. No, it’s not. We are going legal and the guns are going to play a big part in this. I’m not going to use them, I’m not going to sell them, I’m ultimately going to give them back to the coppers, but there’s only something that we need in return for keeping them safe,” Tom smiled a bit before saying, “Only one small obstacle we and the police need removing.”

Nikki didn’t understand all of it right away, but with the way Tom was assuring her, she knew she would let it slide for now.

    “What if there’s a spy? The coppers are keen on not letting gangs like us have the last laugh.”

Tom chuckled before kissing his mother on the forehead, “No one can break down a Holland’s walls, mother. Not after the war.”

Perhaps that was where he was wrong. What the two of them were unaware of was that the room they were in was directly connected to the bar aisle. A certain barmaid, who knew nothing about being a barmaid, had listened to every word they said. She moved away quickly before anyone would notice her absence.

•

(y/n) wouldn’t lie but spying wasn’t her favorite thing in the world.

It was simply because she owed the head inspector a debt that she had agreed to do this. Her heart and mind were stone, there was nothing more she was afraid she was going to lose. Even if her life was on the line, and she knew that it was considering how the Londoners were ruthless with people who even attempted to betray them, she couldn’t really care. (y/n)’s one and only dearest possession was taken away from her, and what was left was merely a shell of who she used to be.

    “Good morning to you, (y/n),” She jumped on her toes, shocked by the sudden voice that appeared behind her.

She turned around slowly and came face to face with the man who was hellbent on bringing the Londoners down. Inspector Martin Hamilton—aged and full of cunning—he had never fought in any war previously, but the one he was fighting now was with the Hollands.

    “Do you have any news for me, (y/n)?” He asked, walking closer to her.

The two of them were in the London museum, filled with posh people who wouldn’t bat an eye at people like her. To the outside eye, Inspector Hamilton looked like her father, and their interaction seemed innocent. Nothing out of the ordinary.

    “I believe the Londoners have come across some guns.” She spoke, her voice quiet.

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed and his expression faltered. He didn’t expect too much from her, he certainly didn’t expect her to bring such news on the first day of her work. He stared at her before noticing her look and walk away, admiring some of the paintings in the room that they were currently in. He walked over to her and grabbed her arm before forcing her to look at him, a frown set on her face as she tried to comprehend what this sudden action meant.

    “What guns?”

She scoffed before pulling away from him, straightening her dress, “Guns belonging to the army. They were found a few days ago and are currently in possession of the Londoners. Thomas spoke of them himself, yesterday.”

    “He spoke of them to you?”

She gave him a look of disgust.

    “Inspector, I’ve gone there as a spy. And spies eavesdrop to the best of their abilities. Even Thomas is not a fool to speak of such things in front of a new barmaid, no less.”

    “Did he say where?” Hamilton asked, before walking a step closer to her, the personal space was broken.

She looked away before shaking her head, feeling feeble in her mind. A second later, he handed her something—her eyes widened a bit before looking at him with surprise.

It was a small gun, as small as her palm. He nodded once at her before noticing her flinch. She held the gun, examined it with her fingers and perhaps, it was then, did she realize the seriousness of the situation she was in. She couldn’t do what she wished with the gun, it was merely proof of her enslavement.

The relationship that the two of them shared was bitter from her end. Hamilton adored her, down to the bone, but there was nothing about him that gave her even the slightest bit of gratitude. The stories he would say about her father and the debt he owed to Hamilton for saving his life were merely stories in her head, stories that she was paying for. He had once saved her father who died only a year later, and yet, here she was doing something against her will.

    “(y/n),” He traced the back of his finger across her right cheek, ignoring how rotten her expression was, “You don’t have to do this.”

She knew it was a lie. She knew she was merely a pawn in his game, and a disposable one nonetheless. Yet, she played along because she had nothing to lose. And maybe, once this is over, once Thomas Holland and his family are put behind bars, she can go looking for something that would give her life meaning.

    “I know.”

She didn’t realize that those words had chained her.

▾

series taglist:

@cyrusandhiscollaredahirts @plaidamoosette @rachaeldonnaspiteri1 @tanya-diggory @myheartonthemove @watson-emma @souldancerr @tomsirishgirl @averyfosterthoughts​ @yourwonderbelle​ 

[lokimostly]

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

James Conrad x Reader Word Count: 3,050 Warnings: mentions of smut, mild language, fluff overload Summary: Since returning to civilization, you and Conrad have forgotten Christmas for two years in a row. You’re determined not to miss this one.

A/N: This fic contains pre-established characters and references to a two-part series called Rainy Days/Home From War. While this can be read without context, you’re more than welcome to catch up with the series first! You can find the series HERE <3

Our beloved James Conrad is home for the holidays! I’ve always wanted to write a Christmas-themed fic, but never remembered until it was long gone. I’m so glad to have caught it this time around (barely). I love you guys, Happy Holidays, I can’t wait to jump into the next year (and next decade!) with you! <3 

The morning was crisp and cold when you opened the passenger-side door of the truck and climbed inside, blowing out clouds of steam with every breath. It was still long before sunrise. The canopy of stars above you were hidden from view by a thick layer of clouds. If you tried, you might be able to make out the silhouettes of mountains against the black sky, but for now the world was still dark and quiet. 

You rubbed your hands together to stave away the chill. Even though you were thoroughly bundled – with a pile of blankets at your feet, no less – the below-freezing temperatures seeped through your clothes and made you shiver. Two minutes out of the house, and your teeth were already chattering.

The driver’s-side door opened and then closed. Conrad leaned over to press a quick kiss to your forehead before buckling his seatbelt and turning the key in the ignition. The old truck rumbled to life, and you immediately cranked the A/C knobs as far as they could go. He watched you with an amused smirk as you made quick work of unfolding the blankets and burying yourself in them, tucking them all the way up to your chin and closing your eyes.

“You know, this was your idea,” He pointed out, stretching his arm across your seat as he backed out of the driveway. His accented voice was still low and raspy from sleep, the kind of tone that drove you crazy in all the right ways. But right now, you pressed a finger against his mouth and motioned for silence.

“Shhh. Tired.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head with a smile before shifting gears and turning his attention to the road.

It was your first Christmas together – not technically, but it would count as the first. There had been a Christmas while you were still recovering from your injuries. Yet another passed you by during your first year of travel: you were visiting Milan when you realized the fact, laughed about it, and moved on. Neither had been celebrated properly; you bought champagne and toasted, and caught the train to France the next morning, and that was it. 

It was too early to settle down. Both you and Conrad shared a mutual restlessness, a sort of wanderlust after everything you’d been through. Traveling during war wasn’t really travel. Conrad’s contract with MONARCH had paid handsomely, and it only took a look between the two of you to understand what you wanted to do.

We’re going home, you and I, Conrad said. Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

There were road trips, flights, train rides. Long walks, corner cafes; bar crawls through the city and sex in motel rooms when you couldn’t keep your hands to yourselves any longer. You could trace the scars on his skin unhurried, run your nails over his taut muscle and tease him to the point of begging beneath you. He had you memorized by now: the way your body arched and quivered, the kind of touch that made you dig into his skin and bring noise complaints down on your heads the next morning. You were fairly certain the hotel where you’d spent your wedding night had the Conrads on their blacklist.

“Home” had turned out to be a person rather than a place, like people so often say. Both of you were perfectly content about that fact; so long as you had each other, what else did you need?

It felt like he never let go of your hand for those two years. Even now, he reached over to stroke your hand resting atop the blankets, reassure himself that you were here.

While you only grew closer over the last two years, the road (finally) wore out. So, little less than a month ago, you found somewhere quiet: close enough to the mountains without leaving the sea behind. You had nothing but the clothes and trinkets in your carry-on bags when you signed the lease and pocketed the copper key. 

This Christmas nearly escaped you again-- nearly. You were lying with your head in his lap in front of the fireplace when the thought occurred and you shot up like a bolt of lightning. Conrad jumped, instincts kicking in with a serious expression and his hands outstretched. “What? What is it?”

“We don’t have a tree!”

Conrad gave you a puzzled look, raising his eyebrow. “We don’t have furniture, either,” he pointed out, realizing that this was less of a life-and-death situation and more a minor inconvenience.

“But it’s Christmas on Saturday!”

The corners of his lips twitched with amusement. “I’m aware.”

You stared at him. He didn’t seem to be picking up on the urgency of your current situation, so you gestured around you. “We have a house,” you said slowly, pointing to the bare corners of your living room, illuminated by the firelight. 

“We have a house,” he agreed softly.

You nodded. “We need a tree.”

Conrad sighed softly and took your hand, pulling you towards him for a kiss. He set his forehead against yours and smiled when you bumped noses. “We need a tree,” he agreed.

In the name of authenticity, you bought a tree-cutting permit (“tree lots aren’t as much fun,” you reasoned) and planned the day. A drive up to the mountains in the morning, returning with your quarry, and spending the rest of the day in full spirit of the season. Conrad made sure you wrote ‘drink hot chocolate’ on the to-do list. You would never have guessed that he had such a sweet tooth.

Now, you were fast asleep in the passenger seat amidst a pile of blankets and quilts. Conrad glanced at you whenever he could spare it, taking in the sight of you; even in sleep, your hand was outstretched to hold his. The rosy pale of dawn glowed pink on your skin, and his heart swelled so much it was almost painful.

He never thought he could love you more than he already did, but every day you proved him wrong.

It took another hour before the road broke the tree line, and you stirred, coming awake with a yawn and a stretch.

“Good morning,” He drawled teasingly. You laughed in surprise and smacked his chest. “I was tired.” 

Conrad smirked, catching your hand mid-hit and pressing a kiss to your fingers. “You should have gone to bed sooner,” he chastised, but his smirk was unmistakable -- and only grew when you gasped in indignation.

“If I remember right, you were keeping me up.”

“Former SAS, darling,” he reminded you. “Four hours of sleep are plenty in my book.”

“Oh, that’s not fair.”

He laughed, taking a turn down an unmarked road and giving you an expression of innocence that was almost convincing. “Are you suggesting I stop doting on my wife?” 

It wasn’t a new title by any means, but whenever he said it, your heart leapt. “No,” you admitted, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t ever stop.”

Conrad followed the road until he found a spot to pull over. You pulled off your blankets as he turned the key and got out, walking around to the other side and opening your door. He took you under the arms without question, lifting you down and setting you on the rocky ground before fetching the handsaw and tree tag from the truck bed. 

“Your responsibility,” he said seriously, handing you the red tag with comedic reverence. You accepted it with the same solemnity, only breaking into a smile when you pocketed the item and looped your arm through his, starting down the road.

~

You pushed the tree into the truck bed and shut the tailgate, wiping your hands on your jeans. “We have a tree!” You grinned, unable to hide your excitement. 

Conrad laughed and got into the truck. You followed, almost skipping, and pulled yourself inside the truck. You were fixing your seatbelt and preparing to bury yourself under a mountain of blankets when he turned the key, and the engine stuttered.

You paused. Conrad’s brow furrowed and he tried again, forcing the key forward. The engine spluttered, coughed, and refused to start. 

“Damn,” he swore, sitting back in his seat for a moment. You unbuckled and slid out of the seat, popping the hood as he came around, leaning against the metal with a pensive expression.

You could feel the frustration vibrating off of him and leaned against his arm. “Hey,” You said gently. “Nothing we can’t fix. Remember the ploat?” 

His gaze flickered down to you and he hummed in agreement. “I remember.” He pushed himself off and set his hands on his hips, nodding. “Alright. I think there’s a tool chest under the back seat.” He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

~

A few hours later, it was starting to snow.

“Babe, did you know we’re low on oil?” You asked, sliding the stick back into the cylinder and leaning down to peer at Conrad, who was lying on the ground.

“That’s not our current problem,” he grunted, his long legs splayed and muscles flexing as he twisted the wrench against something on the truck’s underside. You hummed, appreciating the view unabashedly-- and smirking when he noticed and scoffed. 

“You could help, you know,” he pointed out, grunting when the piece came off. He handed you the fuel filter and you reached down to take it, twisting off the cap. “Oh, yuck.”

Conrad slid out and leaned up on his elbows. “Clogged fuel filter.”

“Didn’t you check all this before buying the truck?” You asked rhetorically, pulling the oil bucket towards you and tapping out the loose debris, digging out the more stubborn clots with your hand for lack of an actual cleaner. 

Conrad watched the snowflakes as they landed in your hair like a feathery halo, sticking against your skin before melting. They clung to your eyelashes and made your cheeks flush against the cold. Your lips parted with a huff and you looked up to hand it back to him, pausing. “What? Something on my face?”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head. “No. Just...” he trailed off, and a faraway look crossed this face-- the kind you were all too familiar with. 

You knelt down and cupped his cheek with one hand, stroking your thumb against his skin. “Hey. I’m here,” you reminded him gently. His blue-green eyes flickered and he reached up, pulling you down for a long, sweet kiss. You relished the taste of his lips, inhaled the smell of sandalwood and vanilla cologne. He broke away and closed his eyes closing his eyes. 

“I know,” he murmured. “Sometimes you just make me wonder whether or not I’m dreaming.” 

“Oh my god, James, way too sappy,” you laughed, pushing against his chest and rolling your eyes. “C’mon, screw this thing back in so I can try the engine again.”

He chuckled at the suspicious shade of red tingeing your cheeks but spared you the dignity of commenting on it and took the filter from your hands, ducking under the truck and picking up the wrench. You fished the keys out of your pocket and got in, leaning out with your hand on the wheel until your husband appeared with the tool chest in hand and gave you the all-clear.

You muttered a quick prayer and turned the keys. The engine sputtered for a moment, wheezing and coughing before something caught and it rumbled to life. You whooped victoriously, sticking your hands up and laughing as Conrad came around. “We did it!” 

Conrad wrapped his arms around you in a brief, celebratory hug before you clambered over to your side and pulled your seatbelt on. The snow was coming down thickly now; there was already a sheet of white on the ground, and in the branches of the trees it was beginning to stick. You pulled one of the blankets up and tossed them over Conrad’s shoulders, pressing a kiss against his cheek for good measure before snuggling in and tuning the radio to something familiar: songs from your war days, which seemed so long ago. 

He put the truck into gear and turned out onto the road, reaching out to take your hand as you headed back down, towards home -- with your Christmas tree in tow.

~

By the time you pulled into the driveway, it was dark again. Conrad unloaded the tree while you stacked the grocery bags onto one arm, heading down the snow-covered sidewalk. It was still coming down in droves and inches deep; no doubt you’d be stuck inside tomorrow.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting the mail!” You called. “That’s a thing we have now, remember?” 

Conrad made a comment you didn’t catch as you slid up to the mailbox and opened it, retrieving the assortment of letters there before heading inside. You tapped your shoes on the porch before stepping in, letting out a soft sigh at the welcoming, warm atmosphere. Furniture or no furniture, there was a naked Christmas tree in the corner, and that meant home. 

“Hot chocolate?” James asked, taking the groceries from you with one hand and helping your coat off with the other. 

“Mm. Please.” You sat down on the floor and began unlacing your shoes, glancing at the pile of mail next to you. There was a thick yellow envelope amongst the pile that caught your eye, and you paused in undressing to glance at the return address. “Hey, Mason sent us something!”

“Who?” came Conrad’s voice from the kitchen.

“Weaver! The photographer?”

“Oh,” you heard him laugh. He came back out with two steaming mugs and handed you one, walking over to the fireplace and flipping the switch. “We’re on first-name basis now, I take it.”

“Apparently. That was fast, though,” you mused, walking over and motioning for him to make space for you to sit between his legs. He obliged, wrapping his arms around your waist and setting his chin on your shoulder as you tore it open and pulled out the letter inside.

“Conrad and L/N,” you began, reading it out loud. James hummed and reached for his hot chocolate. “She knows you’re a Conrad now, she was at our wedding.”

You elbowed him gently and straightened the paper, clearing your throat ceremoniously and beginning again. “Amended to, the Conrads,” you said. “Congrats on finally taking a breather for once. Now I can send you the film I’ve held onto for the past two years.”

“Perks of having a mail box, I suppose,” James nodded, inhaling quickly through his teeth when he attempted a sip of his scalding hot chocolate.

“The wedding photos are in a different letter, and will probably get there late. Oh, I forgot she took those,” you murmured, clicking your tongue. “Until then, enjoy these. I always figured something was going on with you two, way back when. P.S.,” you added. “For your eyes alone, as usual. Cheers, Mason Weaver.” You raised an eyebrow and tapped the envelope. “They must be from the LandSat project.”

Conrad hummed in agreement. “May I?” He asked, setting the cup down and reaching around your waist to pull out the pictures. You leaned back against him as he slid them into his palm, filtering through each one slowly.

Technically you, Conrad, and everyone else involved in the mission to Skull Island were under government oath not to talk about what had happened. You had no qualms with that; you wanted to put the whole experience behind you, anyway. But it wasn’t always possible. Rainy days brought aching pain to your left leg, and there wasn’t a month that went by without one of you startling the other awake from a dream that had once been all too real. It was part of the reason for your closeness: you and Conrad were poignantly aware of how close you had come to losing each other.

But according to the photographs, perhaps it wasn’t all that bad.

“Look at that,” he murmured, pointing to a still image of Conrad sitting beside your sleeping figure, aboard the wrecked ship. The lights of the aurora borealis were visible through the window, and evident in the hues of blue and purple that the photo was cast in. 

You laughed, tapping the laminate. “You gave me your jacket. I remember.”

“You almost got us killed that night, that’s what I remember.”

You rolled your eyes dismissively and set the photo aside. “Yeah, yeah, moving on.”

The next photo was a bit harder to make out, taken across the flight deck of the Athena. You didn’t recognize the angle, but Conrad made a noise and laughed through his nose. “What?”

“I saw you and jumped out of our helicopter,” he explained. “Ran across the deck and told her to take my seat.”

You made an “O” and nodded. “And startled me half to death. She really didn’t miss anything,” you mused, gazing at the miniature silhouette of both of you in the helicopter, the chopper blades blurry against the frame, with storm clouds brewing behind you.

Conrad took the photograph and set it aside. There were a few others inside the stack--pictures of your group members, candid photos of you and Conrad in your own separate settings. There was an image of you and Slivko made you smile. But more frequently than not, you and Conrad shared the same pensive and worried expressions. Every moment had been a life-or-death experience.

You and Conrad filtered through the deck until you reached the final one: taken on Marlow’s boat-- or ploat, as Slivko had coined it. You and Conrad sitting side-by-side at the stern, set against the lush green mountains with all your bags and gear at your feet. Your hands inches away from touching, the two of you looking upwards and listening intently to Marlow, whose arms were frozen in some descriptive gesture. Only, Conrad wasn’t looking at him: his eyes were fixed on you, gazing at you while you were oblivious, so full of tenderness that it broke your heart.

“You loved me,” you murmured, like you were realizing it for the first time. “Way back then.”

Conrad’s arms tightened around your waist. He nodded, leaning his head against yours. “I was more than a little lovestruck,” he agreed quietly, in a tone that made your heart flutter inside your chest. You nestled further into the comfortable expanse of his chest, reaching up and teasing his hair with your fingers.

“Still lovestruck?” You asked hopefully, smiling when his laugh vibrated against your back. 

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, looking out through the windows at the falling snow and holding you tight. “For as long as I live and breathe.”

- - -

A/N: Aaah! Thanks for reading. I loved writing it. 

Tag List: @neontiiger​, @un-consider-it​, @jessiejunebug​, @nerdypisces160​, @lokiisntdeadbitch​, @e-wolf-90​, @cursedmoonstone-blog​, @kikaninchen-2​, @bluebellhairpin​, @evy-lyn​, @midnight-queen-1​, @travelingmypassion​, @harrybpoetry​, @adefectivedetective​, @absolutecraziness13​, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7​, @timetraveler1978​, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin​, @ornate-ribcage​, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon​, @yespolkadotkitty​, @befearlesslyauthenticc​, @ladybugsfanfics​, @nancybenson

[sussex-nature-lover]

Wednesday 20th January 2021

History from Long Ago and a Bit of Nature Thrown In

See Update edit at the end of this blog*

Another dark day here, absolutely bogging as we might say. Wet and uninviting. There’s no way I want to venture into the great outdoors despite the younger Nature Watch flagging up this helpful article.

So instead, I’ve stayed snug indoors and embarked upon a history lesson. Settle down as you could lose an afternoon on this one. I do apologise for rambling on so much, but it was one of those that once you started, you I just couldn’t stop.

For obvious reasons photos today are not my own but are credited to the sites linked

On an historic day in American history, when a woman takes a presidential role for the first time, I’ve been focusing on women.

The question is do you know anything about Edith Pretty?

Edith Pretty (1883-1942) photo credit: National Trust

This is she.

Now I very much doubt that Edith Pretty is a name that springs to many people’s mind? but if it wasn’t for her, it seems Britain would have been denied one of its greatest national treasure collections.

I started off looking at Edith and her story at Sutton Hoo because I was looking into another little known but hugely influential woman who made an impact on natural history, with barely any recognition at the time and then I got side-tracked by news of The Dig, a new Netflix film, out at the end of this month - the 29th to be precise. Now I’m not a big film fan, but this tells the intriguing true story of how a wealthy and idiosyncratic widow with a ferocious sense of civic duty, lead an archaeological excavation just before the outbreak of World War II (1939-1945)

Just what I want on these horrid Winter evenings, history and mystery.

Edith had a very privileged background and travelled extensively with family in her youth, not just pleasure trips but educational journeys far and wide. The family were interested in ancient sites and antiquities and this stayed with Edith.

When she married at the age of 42 she purchased a marital home and estate named Sutton Hoo*in South East Suffolk. Frank and Edith went on to have a son born when Edith was 47, but sadly Frank only lived until the boy was four years old, after which it’s possible that Edith became more and more interested in spirituality and lives that had gone before.

Sutton Hoo derives its name from Old English. Sut combined with tun means the southern "farmstead" or "settlement" and Hoh refers to a hill "shaped like a heel spur"  Wikipedia

* when the Tranmer family Trustees later donated the house to the National Trust, it was renamed Tranmer House

There’s a far longer and more involved tale than I can unravel here. It started with curiosity, hunches and investigations into some strange mounds of earth in the grounds, with the help of Basil Brown.  Brown, who Edith was introduced to via acquaintances, was a self-taught archaeologist with an interest in astronomy.

The mounds of earth had undoubtedly been the subject of investigation by grave robbers centuries before, but fortuitously, they’d not gone far enough to make any significant finds and the land continued to lay undisturbed. It’s incredible to think that before the qualified experts became involved, the first excavations took place using household items such as penknives, pastry brushes and bellows. The whole wonderful significance of such an impressive discovery and the way it came about, is fairly earth shattering. 

Basil and Edith’s project uncovered the shape and remains of a ship which was at first thought to be Viking, but later determined to almost certainly be a burial chamber marking the death of an Anglo-Saxon king. Interred with it were many priceless, perfectly preserved gold and silver jewelled and highly decorated artefacts from the early 7th century and before. These treasures had been gathered from far and wide; the products of breathtakingly deft workmanship, which, even today, with precision tools and artificial lighting, cannot be matched easily. Some of the items seem, to me, reminiscent of Fabergé’s finest.

A gold shoulder clasp decorated with garnet and glass cloissoné

Image credit National Geographic

Cloisonné is the technique of creating designs on metal vessels with coloured glass paste. This is placed within enclosures made of copper or bronze wires, bent or hammered into the desired pattern. Known as cloisons (French for “partitions”), the enclosures generally are either pasted or soldered onto the metal body. The glass paste, or enamel, is coloured with metallic oxide and painted into the contained areas of the design. The vessel is usually fired at a relatively low temperature, about 800°C. Enamels commonly shrink after firing, and the process is repeated several times to fill in the designs. Once this process is complete, the surface of the vessel is rubbed until the edges of the cloisons are visible. They are then gilded, often on the edges, in the interior, and on the base

The collection of 263 objects included weapons, silver cutlery, gold buckles, coins, and a distinctive full-face helmet, of a kind never before recovered in Britain. 

The purse lid on this Link is photographed from various angles and the standard of the materials, design and workmanship is just mind boggling, as is the condition of something which was crafted in the 7th Century.

Bronze Washing Pot decorated with glass and enamel. The hooks are to hang it up. Image credits National Geographic

Two other women who played a key role in documenting the investigation were Mercie Lack and Barbara Wagstaff. People I hadn’t heard of either. They were both schoolteachers who had a passion for photography and for Anglo-Saxon archaeology. As friends they had previously spent school holidays photographing carved stone for the British Museum and they brought their skills to bear on recording the early days of the Sutton Hoo excavation. They likely responded to a public appeal for photographers to help out and turned the Summer break into a holiday stay as well. Their images, many of them neatly annotated, provide a fascinating insight into the project, and include some of the earliest colour photographs from an archaeological investigation in this country. Of all the volunteers their work was the most professional.

Image credit: National Trust, Twitter

The National Trust has undertaken a project to digitalise this collection and preserve it for posterity.

Unfortunately, as is often the way, in the dramatisation the film follows the book upon which it is based, where the author chose to replace them with a fictional (male) character. Like Edith, Mercie also bequeathed her artefacts from the dig to the British Museum. You’d really liked to have thought that the women’s contributions were recognised and noted and not airbrushed out of the story.

Incredibly, after a treasure trove inquest (August 1939 at Sutton Parish Hall) it was determined that the astounding find - which would entirely revolutionise historians’ understanding of the Anglo-Saxons - belonged not to the Crown but to the landowner and extraordinarily Edith donated the entire haul to the nation.

 In 1951, having been stored in Aldwych Tube station during the war, it went on display in the British Museum - albeit with no credit, not a single namecheck, for Basil Brown.  Sadly, Edith was no longer around to object. Basil was almost 90 when he died in 1977, but after suffering a blood clot on the brain, she had died in 1942, aged just 59.

Winston Churchill had offered Edith a CBE in recognition of her extraordinary generosity, but she declined the honour, almost certainly on the basis, according to Laura Howarth, archaeology manager for the National Trust, that she had ‘merely been doing her duty’  

Laura Howarth says ‘There have been notable Anglo-Saxon finds since, but nothing like this, a fully furnished, undisturbed ship burial. We know of only three Anglo-Saxon ship burials, two at Sutton Hoo and one near by at Snape. So it was a very localised practice’ 

Wikipedia Link Sutton Hoo

TIMELINE:

1926 Edith Pretty buys the site of Sutton Hoo, and becomes fascinated by the strange mounds of earth on her land.

1939 Basil Brown discovers a funerary cache of 263 objects in tumulus 1. World War II breaks out in September.

1946 After being kept safe underground during the war, the treasure—owned by the British Museum—is put on public display.

1990s Further excavations uncover another intact burial site in tumulus 17 containing a young man, a horse, and weapons.

The British Museum link to Edith and to the treasures

Photo: Harold John Phillips in the public domain. The ‘skeleton’ of the almost 90′ Ghost Ship imprint in the soil. This size ship would have accommodated 40 oarsmen

There’s also a piece about recreating the ‘Ghost Ship’ on this Daily Mail link and it has a good piece of National Trust video showing the site.

Rebuilding the Ship and why use Green Oak?

The Ship’s Company Team is a group of people with the collective desire to resurrect King Raedwald’s burial ship and turn the famous ghost imprint into a living reality.

Although there is no evidence left to examine the identity of the illustrious occupant of the burial ship, a strong guess is that it was possibly King Raedwald? It certainly must’ve been someone fabulously wealthy and highly regarded. The Sutton Hoo sword video from the British Museum at the end of this blog is very well worth a watch, exploring more about the man.

Within the ship, archaeologists found various treasures from across both the British Isles as well as the Byzantine (eastern Roman) and Frankish (western European) empires — including the famed Sutton Hoo helmet.

The grave itself is thought to belong to King Rædwald of East Anglia, a member of the Wuffingas dynasty which has been associated with the Wulfing clan of Sweden, who appeared in the Old English epic poem Beowulf.

If you’d like to read more and see some absolutely fabulous original photographs do go over to this Anonymous Blog. Edith was the cousin of the author’s Great Grandmother and it is a really personal and detailed account of what the family know of this incredible lady. I highly recommend it.

So there we are, you can see how I became utterly absorbed and went from internet site to site following all the history. I’m really interested in catching the film and seeing how the whole story of the people and the discovery is portrayed. Remember the date 29th January, if you have access to Netflix.

*UPDATE:

Please do read this blog about Basil Brown, written by John Cooper

WHAT ELSE DID I LEARN TODAY:

The Seventh Century covers the years 601-700 and I picked out this fact

Only one woman has ever sat on China's throne as Emperor in her own right. That woman was Wu Zetian (624-705) of the Tang dynasty

[scp5000orwhatever]

Item#: SCP-5000 - "Lumina"

 Object held at Site - 19

 Object Class: Euclid

 Level access: 2

 Special Containment Procedures:

Item is allowed to wander facility freely but is restricted from Euclid and Keter sections unless in use of testing with other SCPs. Such testing is to be approved by the O5 committee. Item must return to containment at 22:00 otherwise.

Item is to be forced into containment under the following circumstances:

a) There is a containment breach

b) Item becomes hostile

c) Item is in direct violation of its restrictions i.e. In restricted zones without O5 approval

When item is in use for testing, it is to be accompanied by no less than 2 armed guards and a level 3 scientist.

Should item become hostile, Class A sedatives must be administered in a double dose immediately.

Containment is similar to the dorms used by SCP personnel and must be kept at a constant 5°C.

Item is prohibited from looking at any pornographic material unless in testing... Dr. Bright is forbidden from giving adult magazines or websites to item.  See incident report SCP-5000-20██-1 No wonder you guys are virgins. First no SCP brand porn, then no 1471, now I can't give 5000 some porn to look at? Come on! -Bright

 For the record, we are not virgins and you know that. Please refrain from adding unnecessary notes to SCP files. -O5-06

 Description: SCP is a humanoid female with the appearance of 25-27 years of age, standing 1.8m in height and weighing 83kg. Its skin is devoid of all pigmentation except for two black streaks running from under its eyes to its jawline. Item has silvery-white eyes, long black hair and wears a blue silk choker with a diamond and sapphire pendant resembling a crescent moon. Item often wears black dress pants, a black tank top and a black cloak with markings of unknown origin embroidered in the front on the left flap in gold thread. Item also wear metal cuffs that cover half of her forearms. Items temperature is 5°C and although it is not required that it eats, it has a preference to do so.

SCP - 5000 is capable of passing through solid matter without difficulty. Item has stated that it can also pass through living tissue but prefers not as it would be "unpleasant to both parties involved."

Item has also demonstrated repeated telepathic and telekinetic abilities and is also skilled in the tinkering of most technology, "upgrading" them as she sees fit. These upgrades are often more advanced than human technology has reached and is often useful to other residents of the facility.

  Addendum 5000.1

SCP - 5000 has been heard on multiple occasions singing three-part harmony with itself. This has lead researchers to believe it has more than one set of vocal cords, although this is not likely (see Addendum 5000.4).

Dr. Bright has been seen "jamming out" with SCP - 5000 and as this does not violate what he is not allowed to do, Dr. Bright is allowed and mildly encouraged to continue these interactions with the SCP when possible. A request has been sent to the O5 administration to give SCP a permanent instrument of its own.

 Addendum 5000.2

SCP - 5000 assisted in reestablishing containment of SCP - 173. Despite violating its restrictions, the O5 council has decided to withhold punishment and gave a verbal warning to SCP - 5000 instead, to which the item understood and conveyed apology, stating it wouldn't happen again.

 Addendum 5000.3

SCP-5000 was exposed to SCP-999 in an experiment. Upon contact with SCP-999, SCP-5000 started referring to itself as "mummy" and treating SCP-999 like a child. SCP-999s usual effects do not seem to last long with SCP-5000, as item will usually describe itself as feeling down within a couple days.

Addendum 5000.4 SCP-5000 underwent explorative surgery on its throat, revealing 4 sets of vocal cords, 3 distinctly human in shape, the 4th unknown. Upon waking from recovery, item was notably irritated and demanded to speak with the researcher who approved the surgery. The following interview logs are as follows. --------------------------------------------------------- Interviewer: Elijah Itkin

Interviewee: SCP-5000 [BEGIN LOG]

Date:██/██/████

Dr. Itkin: Hello SCP-5000- SCP-5000: (Interrupting) Just what the fuck did you think you were doing having me cut open like that? You realize you can just ask me a question, I'll be more than happy to answer it for you! That was completely unnecessary! 

Dr. Itkin: We were unaware of that. Other SCPs aren't as willing to speak about themselves. Save for one. SCP-5000: (Object rolls eyes) Oh please, spare me the platitudes. Your organization is based on shoot first, ask later ideology. Everyone knows it. I'm already well trusted here, I don't see why you couldn't have just come to my cell and ask me. I'm no 682. Dr. Itkin: Very well. During your surgery, the surgeon carrying out the procedure made note of your 4th set of vocal flaps. Unlike the other 3, they look inhuman. Could you- SCP-5000: (Interrupting) They're incapable of human sounds if that's what you're asking. They're required in speaking my species language. Id demonstrate, but it's out of range of your human hearing. Best I can describe the sound as is a series of chirrups, squeaks and clicks. You humans have no hope of learning such a thing. Dr. Itkin: No need to be rude. It's just a question. SCP-5000: Whos being rude? I'm stating an obvious fact that even you could see. Next question. Dr: Itkin: Very well. Your blood is not any colour I've seen, in fact from what I've been told, there's been speculation that it is related to SCP-035s corrosive liquid. Could you tell me what it is, exactly? SCP-5000: Well my blood has never eaten away at anything before. Just sort of sits there and spreads… Sorry about that by the way, I know your cleaning services were working away at wiping it up for days. It's zinc-based. The zinc turns my blood black just as iron turns yours red or copper turns- (pauses) turned… my late husband' blood green. As for its viscosity, I find it useful for ink on occasion. But that's just me being morbid. And yes, cleaning it is a pain in the ass, trust me, I've stained many garments. Why do you think I wear black? Dr. Itkin: Off-topic of my list… You were married before? SCP-5000: Hm? Oh, yea. He died about… 300ish years ago? I’d say I'm doing pretty good for someone who never received grief counselling. (Item falls silent for a time and an audible sigh is heard over the recording) Dr. Itkin: How old are you? If that isn't offensive… SCP-5000: Nah. Fuck, I couldn't give you an exact number… Big brother is the one who keeps track, not me but... Id say I'm getting close to hitting the big six-K. Tell you what. When my brother comes to throw me a party, I'll let you know. Maybe you can partake in the festivities! Dr. Itkin: Ill have to decline. SCP-5000: Shame. Marcus makes the best god damn chocolate cake you've ever had. More for me, I guess.

[END LOG]

---------------------------------

Incident Report SCP-5000-20██-1

SCP Involved: SCP-5000 Date: ██/██/20██

Location: Site-19, Break room Report prepared by Dr. Bright and Dr. Rights on the reaction of showing SCP-5000 [DATA EXPUNGED] pornography. Item became aroused and began secreting a pheromone undetectable to Dr. Rights, however, when inhaled by the male staff present in the room, caused arousal in said subjects. The scent was reported as being sweet in nature. Upon inhalation, subjects' sexual needs increased and attempted to “mate” with SCP-5000, who promptly declined and attempted to push away the affected personnel. Affected personnel were moved to sickbay and continued trying to “mate” with any female they came in contact with. Upon questioning, SCP-5000 informed female personnel that the effects of her pheromones could be negated with multiple orgasms. The resulting dopamine would flood receptors in the brain and push and push out the chemical compound of said pheromones. Affected subjects were permitted to [DATA EXPUNGED] until the effects had worn off, some returning to normal anywhere from 3 orgasms, upwards to 10. Subjects have shown no further side effects and have since been released to carry on with their previously assigned duties.

[itsworn]

Installing a Vintage Air Heater with a Stewart-Warner 781 Heater Part 2

When we left you last (Installing a Vintage Air Heater with a Stewart-Warner 781 Heater) we had gutted our vintage Stewart-Warner 781 South Wind heater and converted it to a hot air distribution box and a great looking control panel for our Vintage Air Gen II Heater (PN 506101) with defrost unit. The Vintage Air unit would be mounted up behind the original glovebox while the Stewart-Warner unit would mount the controls and distribute some of the hot air.

The Vintage Air heater is a very compact unit with the ability to distribute a large quantity of hot air to the defroster, direct to the floor or blend hot air distribution to both defroster and floor, much like the heater in your modern car. With three fan settings the unit has the ability to provide warmth on a cool day in an open car.

We began this part of the project by disconnecting the battery. Mounting the unit involves some basic fabrication skills. The Vintage Air unit has a mounting plate with four holes attached to the unit. You will notice there is a thin layer of foam rubber between that plate and the actual heater, which prevents vibration being transferred to the car. To mount the unit up high on the inside of the firewall we welded two studs to the inside of the firewall. We did this rather than have bolts showing on the firewall. With these two studs in place we set about fabricating a lower bracket to mount to the firewall and to the two lower bolt holes in the heater mounting plate. The mounts proved to be very sturdy, mounting the heater securely.

After mounting the unit it was time to cut two holes in the firewall using a 1-1/8-inch hole saw. After just a little work with a file we were able to install the two heater hose grommets supplied with the heater. Next we drilled a hole below the hoses and installed a grommet for the main power wire on the heater. We have a grommet assortment we picked up at Harbor Freight and due to the lower shop temperatures and the fact that the assortment is several years old the grommet was a bit stiff. Luckily we have a grommet softening device in our shop (we have also heard some people refer to this tool as a microwave). We took a cap from a spray can, added a bit of water, and dropped the grommet into the water. We then put the cap and water inside the grommet softening device for 40 seconds and out came one very soft grommet. Be careful because the small amount of water is literally boiling hot and that hot water heated the grommet without damaging the rubber. This made installing the grommet much easier.

The next big piece of the puzzle was the wiring. As we mentioned earlier we picked up the main power source right off the firewall-mounted starter solenoid. The Vintage Air wiring includes a circuit breaker so we mounted that next to the solenoid. Keeping the circuit breaker close to the solenoid minimizes the amount of unprotected wire, in our case just 5 inches of wire. Note there is a power in and an accessory side to the circuit breaker and it is marked on the unit. Basically the copper stud is power in, while the silver stud goes to the accessory, in this case the heater.

Following the wiring instructions and schematic (I know, crazy as it seems, reading the instructions actually helps) we routed our wires down to our Stewart-Warner heater box while another set of wires were routed to the passenger side kick panel where it would eventually plug into the heater control valve potentiometer. While the Vintage Air heater is largely plug-and-play, we decided to modify the harness just a bit. We thought it would be best if all wiring could be unplugged outside of our Stewart-Warner heater. This involved cutting and adding a bit of wire to the heater control valve servo harness so the plug would be outside of the Stewart-Warner heater. We used solder and shrink tubing to modify the harness. If you used the control panel supplied in the Vintage Air heater kit you would not have to modify the harness.

Last but not least we had to connect 5/8-inch heater hose from our flathead engine to the heater. The heater comes with some neat 90-degree fittings that seal like an A/C fitting with O-rings. These fittings enable you to angle the hoses nicely. We also employed a molded 90-degree heater hose (Gates PN 28460) to direct the lower hose directly toward the lower hole and grommet in the firewall. We installed the heater control valve in one side of the molded hose and plugged in the Vintage Air wire plug. That completed our installation. Now here is the cool part. By keeping the hoses up tight to the cowl we were able to hide the hoses inside the kick panel, making for a very clean installation and we only sacrificed 1/2 inch of legroom at the firewall.

We did not make our final connections to the engine as we plan on changing the heads and purchasing new Bob Drake water pumps with a heater port. However, we did connect the battery and run the heater through its paces and we can report that the volume of air is impressive. We must admit the louvered South Wind heater may have too many openings aimed away from the passengers. Automotive climate control relies on directing the air onto the occupants. A cure for this would be just use the Stewart-Warner heater as a deco-piece with heater controls and route the hoses from the Vintage Air heater under the dash where they would blow directly on the driver and passenger. Having said all that we feel certain this Vintage Air heater will help keep passengers warm on a cool day and possibly help keep an engine cool on a hot day, after all we are running a Flathead. SRM

For the Jun. ’17 issue, we modified this Stewart-Warner South Wind heater to hold the controls for a Vintage Air heater and to act as a hot air delivery box, hence the louvers.

The Vintage Air heater is a very compact unit that should fit up under the dashboard of most early hot rods. We positioned our heater up behind the glovebox in our 1936 Ford Phaeton.

One great thing about Vintage Air products is they are always complete, with everything from grommets to hose clamps and bolts.

Before finding a good location for the heater be sure to install the two 90-degree fittings on the unit, as you must allow room for these connections.

After disconnecting the battery our next step was to remove the old glovebox. The new glovebox will have a few inches less depth and we will fabricate it out of sheetmetal rather than cardboard.

Looking up at the firewall from inside the car you can see the two holes we drilled. The heater has a mounting plate built in so these hole correspond the location of the top mounting plate holes.

We didn’t want bolts showing on the engine side of the firewall so we fabricated four studs by cutting the heads off the 1/4-20 bolts supplied with the kit. The double-nuts will help us thread the studs in the firewall.

We didn’t want bolts showing on the engine side of the firewall so we fabricated four studs by cutting the heads off the 1/4-20 bolts supplied with the kit. The double-nuts will help us thread the studs in the firewall.

We TIG-welded the studs using the slight protrusion of the stud as filler metal. A quick hit with a grinding disc and the firewall was smooth once more.

Now we had two studs on the inside of the firewall. We hung the heater from these studs as the initial location while we fabricated the lower mounting bracket.

Using an angle finder we measured the angle of the firewall. These are really handy tools; we picked this one up at Harbor Freight years ago.

After cutting a piece of 16-GA sheetmetal we laid out the basic pattern for the lower bracket. We drilled two 9/32-inch holes in the bracket to slip over the 1/4-inch studs.

Using the same angle finder we went over to our metal brake and bent the appropriate angle on the brackets.

Next we cut a piece of 1/8×1 flat stock and drilled two 9/32 holes to match the hole locations on the back of the Vintage Air heater. The piece is clamped in place for welding.

After welding the pieces together it was treated to a coat of Summit Racing primer and chassis black paint.

After installing our lower bracket the unit was rock solid. You may notice we couldn’t resist drilling some “speed holes” in the face of the bracket even though you must lie on the floor to see them.

Next we began routing the air duct hose from the Vintage Air heater to our Stewart-Warner South Wind heater. We are always amazed at the flexibility of this hose.

Since we were mounting all of the Vintage Air control switches inside our Stewart-Warner South Wind heater box we decided to extend the heater control valve (temperature control) harness. A shrink wrap assortment from Harbor Freight combines with basic electrical tools to get the job done.

Here is the completed harness, extended so the plug will be located outside our Stewart-Warner heater. This enables us to simply unplug the Stewart-Warner heater without removing the back panel.

Now it was time to route the heater hose and source the electrical connection for our Vintage Air heater. We drilled two 1-1/8-inch holes in the firewall and with just a little file work the Vintage Air grommets were installed. Note the small grommet below for the electrical power.

Our Harbor Freight grommet assortment is several years old and it is pretty cold in the shop this time of year, making it difficult to install the hard grommet.

The solution to pesky hard grommets happens to be the same place you re-heat your coffee. Yes, the shop microwave oven will come into play.

Since we wanted to heat the rubber grommet as opposed to melting it, we took a spray can cap, added a little water, dropped in two grommets, and “nuked” it for 40 seconds. That was long enough to boil the water and soften the grommets. Of course be careful because the water is literally boiling hot.

We decided to use a formed 90-degree heater hose for our lower hose connection. This made a very clean, straight shot toward our firewall holes. The Gates 2460 hose has one 4- and one 5-inch leg.

We installed the heater control valve into the Gates-formed hose. Be certain the arrow is pointed in the proper direction (toward the heater) and that you can access the electrical plug.

Here you can see the two heater hoses connected and feeding out to our Flathead motor. The electrical plug from the Vintage Air heater is also connected.

Now here’s the cool part of this heater install. By keeping everything as close to the cowl panel as possible we are able to completely hide the heater hoses connections with our kick panel.

On the firewall side everything is neat and clean. The Vintage Air circuit breaker receives power from the positive side of the starter solenoid and that feeds inside the unit.

We connected the battery and tested the Vintage Air heater. When the heater door opens it pumps serious air, or the switch will close the door and direct the air to the Stewart-Warner heater box. It all works and runs smooth as silk.

With the heater install complete we must be honest. The louvered Stewart-Warner heater probably has too many opening so you don’t feal a real directed blast of hot air, rather it just swirls around (the bottom of the heater is open too) but at the end of the day we still have one very cool heater.

The post Installing a Vintage Air Heater with a Stewart-Warner 781 Heater Part 2 appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/installing-vintage-air-heater-stewart-warner-781-heater-part-2/ via IFTTT

[mrstevenbushus]

Tiling Trends for 2017

A New Year brings new tiling trends and we’ve got some great options for your upcoming tiling projects! The main theme is to keep your flooring “organic” and use natural stone and materials to achieve a more unique look. The charm of natural stone is that there are no two tiles that are exactly the same and with certain tiles you can even see little fossils throughout the stone. For most, it is about stripping back and using good quality, hard-wearing products that have been used in homes for centuries. We are really passionate about natural stone flooring and know that this isn’t just a “trend” for the year. Natural stone is always in high demand and in our opinion you really can’t beat the “real thing”.

Relating to nature, another trend is neutral floor tiles, especially when they contrast with interiors of dark greys and charcoals. Keeping flooring fairly neutral usually provides more scope for exploration and experimentation with colour schemes in the area you are tiling. If you want a statement colour on the walls, it is best to keep the flooring muted so you don’t overwhelm the senses. Statement floors can certainly look great but you are more likely to change the colours of the walls and furniture more often than changing your flooring. A brilliant tile, which is very popular with our sister company deVOL Kitchens’ clients, is the Country Mix Tumbled Travertine, with its soft chalky tones complemented by warm copper and grey tones throughout, it sits well in most interiors.

Although natural stone is our speciality, we also have a fantastic range of porcelain which is specially selected to either imitate natural stone or remain simplistic in colour and design. We have a selection of new porcelain tiles which have drawn inspiration from our Dove Grey Limestone as well as the Dijon Limestone and Light Jerusalem Limestone ranges. They come in large format tile sizes which have been gaining popularity throughout 2016 and we expect this to carry on into 2017. These tiles look simply beautiful and even I couldn’t tell they were porcelain at first!

Patterned tiles are making a comeback and we have simple, elegant options which will look beautiful for years to come. Our handmade ceramic tiles are made on site at Cotes Mill by Hannah, our ceramicist. There are tiles with patterns that repeat and also bespoke patterns created by foliage foraged from the stunning Cotes Mill grounds. The tiles create pretty backdrops for sinks and kitchen areas and also look perfect as a feature wall.

One of the biggest trends of the year is marble – with its luxe feel and stunning detail, I am certainly not surprised. The trend is even spreading from tiles to furniture and accessories (Charlie received an imitation marble phone case for Christmas!). Whether it’s matt, tumbled or polished, marble oozes luxury and is a material which will never diminish in popularity. We have a new Bianco Carrara C Honed Marble Splashback tile which looks like a classic metro tile with a sophisticated twist. We know it is certainly going to prove very popular in 2017.

Some interior trends can look outdated in years to come but all of the trends I have mentioned, and all of our tile options, are chosen with longevity in mind. We focus on quality and durability, as well as style and flair. We don’t want you to choose a floor or wall tile with thoughts of changing it in a couple of years – we want you to select tiles that you can still enjoy in years to come. Make sure to contact us if you have any questions or queries regarding your exciting tiling projects for the New Year. Call us on 01509 234000 or email us at enquiries@floorsofstone.com.

You can also follow us on social media for all the latest updates, goings on at the Mill and inspiration. You can find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest and Houzz.

Article reference Tiling Trends for 2017