#the sleep 1781

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Nicolas-René Jollain (French, 1732 - 1804) Le sommeil, 1781 The Wallace Collection

[kelcemenow]

As The Snow Falls - Chapter 6.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 1781

Warnings Mentions of emotional abuse, strong language, the fluffiest Travis and a wee bit of smut.

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

You squinted your eyes, attempting to shut out the bright light reflecting through the bedroom window. After your second night of sleeping with Travis by your side, you awoke rested and content, his arm still curled around your back. You moved slightly to stretch your legs, causing Travis to stir.

"What time is it?" He groaned, his gruff morning voice cutting through the silence.

You craned your neck, glancing at the small digital clock on the nightstand, "Just after 5am." You whispered.

Travis tightened his grip on you, "You gotta be fucking kidding me? More sleep...more sleep." He yawned.

You giggled as you lifted your chin, pressing a small kiss onto his stubbled jawline, "I'm skiing this morning, and I thought you were too?"

Travis opened one eye, looking down at you, "Just me and you?"

"I think so." You grinned.

Quick as a flash, he clambered out of the bed like an excited child at Christmas, rummaging through his suitcase for suitable clothing. Your eyes scanned his body, your gaze drinking in his toned muscles and athletic physique.

"Hey, my eyes are up here." Travis joked.

"Sorry." You said with a breathy laugh, "I just, can't believe how good you look." You looked down, your cheeks darkening, "God, I feel 20 again."

Travis took a few steps closer to you, "I know what you mean. It's weird how quickly feelings can come flooding back, right?"

You raised your head, "Especially when those feeling never really went away."

A wide smile slowly crept up on Travis' face, his eyes twinkling with happiness, "You and me both, babe." He bent forward and gently kissed your lips, "You know I'm not gonna rush you into anything, right?"

You lowered your brows at him.

"I mean, anything that you're not comfortable with...last night-"

You reached up and rested his hands on his forearms, "Travis, I like you. I really do, and I'm so happy that you're here but I don't know what's going to happen when this trip ends and you go back to Missouri and I go to...wherever I'm going back to."

"Y/N-"

"Please, let me say what I need to say." You pulled him back down onto the bed next to you, "You've been so kind and sweet and holy shit, you're hot."

Travis breathed a laugh, a faint blush appearing onto his cheeks.

"So, I want to be completely honest with you."

You stared deeply into his eyes, feeling a sense of warmth radiating from him, further clarification of the trust and safety that you were looking for. Travis waited in silence, his hands gently holding yours.

You took a deep breath, "About three years ago, I dated a guy, Aaron." You closed your eyes and shook your head, "He was perfect in the beginning, I fell completely head over heels in love with him and he treated me so well. My friends loved him, my family loved him. But after about a year, things started the change." You dropped your head into your hands, "Jesus fucking Christ, I sound so cliché right now."

Travis lifted your hands away from your face, dipping his head to catch your eyes, "Hey, hey. No you don't."

"It started off with little things. The odd comment, a sentence here, a sentence there...something to upset me or make me doubt myself. Then it got bigger, arguments would come from nowhere, nothing I ever did was right." A lump was rising from your chest into your throat but you swallowed it down, determined to hold your nerve, "Slowly, I felt like I'd lost myself. I wasn't the person I was before and he would continue to say that to me. And I never had the confidence to tell him that it was his fault that I had changed. It was because of him that I was frightened, scared, nervous, shy...I wasn't the person that he'd fallen in love with. I didn't love me so why would he?"

Looking up, you noticed Travis was clenching his jaw, his eyebrows lowered.

"Yesterday marked a year since I left him. And for the last year, he has been harassing me."

Travis' face changed immediately.

"At first it was calls, texts, messages online but then he started showing up to my house, work...anywhere he could find me really. So I moved, and everything was good for a while but then he found me. I couldn't leave my house in case he was following me, I didn't dare go anywhere on my own, I didn't answer the phone unless it was call that I was expecting. So I moved again, and he found me again."

"Son of a bitch-"

"Travis, it's fine-"

You watched as he stood up from the bed, his fists balled up by his side, "No, it's not. It's not okay that you can't live your life because of some asshole. Fuck, if I ever see him-"

"Travis, you're not going to do anything because you're not going to see him."

He paced the wooden floor, his chest puffed out, "Have you called the police?"

"Travis, please, calm down. It's fine. I haven't seen him in a while, I think he's finally got the picture." You reached out for him, trying to keep him still. "But I'm worried that he finds out that I'm dating someone, someone like you, he'll come back."

He stopped to look at you, his expression softened and his shoulders relaxed. He kneeled down in front of you and his hands cupped the sides of your face. "I will never ever let anything happen to you, you got me?"

You smiled and nodded silently, tears rushing to your eyes.

"I mean it. Ever." He took a breath, "You are so incredible and don't let anyone make you feel any different, okay? You deserve to be treated like a Goddess and if I get the chance to, I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

You let out a small whimper as Travis' thumb wiped away the tears that were quickly rolling down your cheeks, "I always knew you were a sap."

"Keep that shit quiet, I gotta keep up my tough guy image." He winked with a smirk and pulled you closer to him, "Come on. I hate to see you upset."

"I'm fine, I'm fine...really. It's just tough talking about it sometimes." You cleared your throat.

Travis nodded, "Break ups are hard, but I can't imagine how you were feeling during all of that. You're brave, you know that?"

You snorted a laugh, "I don't think so."

"Well, I do. You're so strong and resilient...and you're so smart...and beautiful-"

"Travis, stop-" You said, waving him away.

He took your arms and turned you to face him more, a serious expression on his face, "I'll never stop telling you how awesome you are, okay? So, get used to it."

He leaned towards you as one of his hands snaked around your lower back, the other carefully holding the back of your head. Your eyes fluttered closed before you felt his lips on yours. Travis moved slowly at first but as you sunk into the kiss, the pressure deepened, pushing you down onto the bed. His arms were still holding onto you as you writhed underneath him, mouths colliding as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could feel your body pulsating and Travis' hands got to work, exploring your body. The cropped shirt you were wearing was quickly lifted, his fingers massaging your breasts, your nipples hardening.

Travis' mouth moved from your lips and onto the soft and supple skin of your chest. You grinned as his beard hairs tickled your sensitive areas and when you arched your back upwards, Travis took this as a sign of permission to go harder. His tongue rolled along your nipple, occasionally using his teeth to increase the pleasure. You hissed through your teeth at the gentle pain, your nails dragging along his solid and toned back. Your hips instinctively bucked forwards and as you closed your eyes and threw your head backwards, Travis lunged down onto your neck, his lips pink and swollen.

"Fuck, baby." He groaned breathlessly in your ear between kisses.

He quickly pulled down the waistband of your pyjama pants, and as you wriggled underneath to help in pulling them down, his fingers were already making contact with your underwear. Travis rubbed in circles over the top of the thin fabric, his touch causing your clit to throb and a surge of goose bumps to appear on your skin.

You pulled your legs apart slightly, bending them at the knee, allowing Travis undivided access to you. A trail of wet, tender kisses made their way up from your neck and onto your mouth, his eyes hazy and focused solely on you. You relaxed into the moment, pleasure shooting through your body as he continued to expertly work your clit. A small wet patch had begun to form, and Travis noticed that the fabric of your panties had darkened.

"Do that feel good, babygirl?" He said deeply, his eyes flashing with lust.

You nodded, "Yeah, so good."

Travis leaned close to your ear, his chest pressing onto yours, "Tell me what you want." His warm breath brushed against your neck.

You let a loud exhale escape your plumped lips, "I want you. I want to feel you."

His fingers had settled into a slow but steady rhythm and your clit was becoming increasingly more sensitive with his firm touch. Breathy gasps filled the air as you felt yourself become undone, the warm tightening in your stomach slowly letting go. You let out a quiet squeal and grasped onto the sheets underneath you, balling them up in your fists and clenching your muscles as Travis' movements slowed.

Travis smiled against your neck, "Fuck. If that's what happens when I'm barely touching you, I can't wait for more." He removed his hand before looking down to see the sticky wet mess he had caused.

You allowed your breathing to slowly return to normal and reached down to pull your crumpled pyjama pants back up your trembling legs. Craning your neck, you checked the time that was showing on Travis' cell phone that he had dropped onto the bed next to you. "Come on, let's hit the slopes."

Travis watched as you rose from the bed, smoothing your hair and wiping underneath your eyes, "What?"

You leaned down, placing your hands onto his thighs, your face only inches away from his, "I wanted to go skiing this morning, you knew this. And maybe when we get back, we can warm ourselves up in the hot tub?"

His eyes sparkled, "Alright nah!"

______________________________________________________________

I have to apologise, but I got a bit distracted with some stuff and I couldn't get my head around writing anything. I tried...I promise! But my brain couldn't think of anything decent! So, I hope this is okay! If you want to keep up to date with this series and anything else that I'm writing, just let me know and I'll add you to my Taglist!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125 @countrygirl120983 @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot��@amylouwho9 @queenisa17��@talicat713 @luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles @macey234 @s294749w @kelcemesoftly @calirindo @livinginmyfantasies @bernelflo @secretmywritingfictionlawyer @killatravtramp @there-goes-thefighter @unicornblueberry @calirindo @tjkelce87 @kristinamae093 @kmc1989 @ajbird18 @triski73 @ctn26 @kgcaputo07

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Sexual Misconduct Training

by KnivesInParadise Bruce Wayne is Dead Dick Grayson is Batman The Justice League does not know Dick became Batman or that Bruce is dead Dick is traumatized for life or In the worst way possible Dick finds out that the Justice League has been hitting on his dad and decides to traumatize them back Words: 1781, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Major Character Death Categories: M/M Characters: Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Wally West, Clark Kent, Diana (Wonder Woman), Hal Jordan (Green Lantern) Relationships: Justice League & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Barbara Gordon & Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown & Barbara Gordon, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Dick Grayson & Justice League Additional Tags: Dick Grayson is Batman, Dead Bruce Wayne, the Justice League doesn't know about the Batfam, the justice league does not know Bruce is dead, no beta we die like jason todd, Barbara Gordon is a good friend, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Batfamily Meets the Justice League (DCU), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Isolated Batfamily (DCU) via https://ift.tt/uBJ1NZm

[publicdomainreview]

The Nightmare (1781) — thought to be a symbolic depiction of sleep paralysis — one of the best known works by Swiss artist Henry Fuseli, born #onthisday in 1741.

More dreams in art here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/the-art-of-dreams #otd

[ltwilliammowett]

Furniture on board a ship

Ships of the 18th and early 19th century were designed as floating gun platforms with an efficient discharge of guns. The fact that people also had to live there, and softly for years at a time, often fell a little behind. But at sea, people were clever and had furniture that was as practical as possible and could be folded up or stowed away as quickly as possible. At least above the waterline. The men didn't have that much space and the first lieutenant didn't always have a lot of room either. As First Lieutenant James Trevenen, HMS Crocodile, 24, guns off Cape Finistere, reported in a letter to his brother on 17 August 1781.

Une Chambre d' Officier à Board, by unknown mid 19th century   (x)

My habitation, then is six feet square, which six feet is now completely filled up as an egg. My cot in which i sleep is two feet broad (c.61cm) and fivve and a half long (c.1,65cm), allowing half a foot (c.15cm) on each side for swinging (and this is too little when it blows hard). I wish i had not mentioned the cot, for it blows hard now and bring to memory that i shall have a bad night's sleep. Allowing half a foot then for swinging, my cot will take up just half my cabin and htere will be left six feet by three feet. A very small bureau will take up three feet square, and my chair and myself will pretty well complete the rest of the space. [...]

Officer’s cabin with cot, HMS Trincomalee (1817), photo by  Simon Cotterill  

It wasn't much space, let alone much furniture. But most of those who held the post of first lieutenant had an bureau in their cabin. Everyone else usually had a lapdesk (writing box) to do their writing properly. In addition, there was usually a small table and a chair, and possibly one or two shelves with a border so that the contents did not fly through the cabin. In addition, there was the swinging bunk, the sea chest and, depending on their means, all kinds of furnishings such as carpets, curtains, musical instruments, pictures, books and so on. So one person's cabin looked different from another's.

Mahogany naval chairs, 1795 (x)

In the great cabin, in addition to the office, the swinging cot and possibly one or two chests of drawers, there was also a large table and matching chairs. Depending on the type, these chairs could have been foldable or simply solidly made. The table might also have had folding or unscrewable legs. But many were also simply solid.

Admiral’s great cabin aboard HMS Victory - the walls are lifted up

All the furniture was made of mahogany, moveable and able to be lashed and, with a few exceptions, was provided by the Navy Board as fixed furnishings.

Captain’s day cabin abord HMS Victory (x)

Private items also had to be purchased privately and brought on board. These included the lieutenants' chests of drawers, washstands, sofas and harbour beds (these were folding beds used mostly in the harbour - Nelson had one of these).

Nelson’s portable bed (x)

If everything had to be cleared during a battle, the partition walls were hauled out or lifted up under the ceiling. All furniture and personal belongings had to be moved to the hold so that they would not be damaged. And hopefully they did, although it often happened that the good furniture was damaged. When the battle was over, everything was put back in its place and everyday life resumed.

[yourforgottenbookshelf]

Caught In The Middle - Valerio Montesinos x Muñoz!Reader

Gif not mine. Credits to the rightful owner.

Fandom: Elite

Pairing and other characters mentioned: Valerio Montesinos x Reader, Ander Munoz x Reader, Guzman Nunier, Lu Montesinos, Samuel Garcia, Carla Roson, Cayetana Grajera, Omar Shanaa

Summary: You are Ander's twin sister and have recently started dating Valerio. However, Ander doesn't approve of your relationship, and when an incident takes place during a party, he warns Valerio to stay away from you. {Requested}

Word count: 1781

Trigger warning: alcohol and substance abuse, attempted sa, violence, cursing

A/N: I'm noticing a lack of Elite fanfiction here on Tumblr, which I'm not very happy about. Please, feel free to send in requests, my loves.

“Out of all the boys in Las Encinas, you really had to sleep with this degenerate,” your brother’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Excuse me?” you questioned in disbelief. Normally, Ander would keep his opinions to himself- it wasn’t like him to intervene with your personal life- but it wasn’t like you to keep things from him either.

Ander took a deep breath. “When were you going to tell me?” he asked. You frowned, unsure of how you should respond. “Tell you what?” you replied, trying to buy yourself more time to think of an excuse.

Your twin rolled his eyes. “About you and Valerio. I had to find out from Omar, for God’s sake!”

You felt the blood on your face painting your cheeks red. It was obvious you couldn’t hide the truth from your brother any longer. “Look, cariño, I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Ander’s expression softened. “Y/N, you’re my twin sister. You know you can always confide in me, right?”

“I know how much you dislike him,” you murmured. Ander picked up on the fact you avoided eye contact, and took a seat next to you on your bed. His wrapped his arm around your shoulder carefully, and pulled you closer to him.

“I don’t dislike Valerio,” he sighed, “I just don’t think he’s good for you.”

Ander had a valid point. Valerio had a reputation for being a troublemaker, and his involvement with drugs and partying was well-known around the school. Despite all that, you couldn’t help the way you felt about him.

“I understand what you’re saying, cariño,” you said, “but I just hope you can accept my choise.”

Ander took a deep breath before responding. “I will always support you, Y/N, no matter what. Just, promise me one thing.”

There was a moment of silence before he continued, during which you felt your heart pounding on your chest. “Promise me you’ll be careful, and that you’ll come to me if you ever need anything.”

You felt a wave of graditute wash over you as you hugged your brother tightly. “Thank you, Ander,” you breathed. “I promise.”

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

As you swallowed the sixth vodka shot, you felt like your soul was elevating heavenwards. The sweet taste of gummy bears mixed with alcohol burned your throat and made you feel euphoric- like the world was still there, but for the moment, it didn't have you by the throat.

“You’re breathtaking tonight, Y/N,” Valerio whispered, his lips brushing over your exposed collarbone. You giggled and tittled your head slightly to the side, placing a soft kiss on his neck. “I could say the same thing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the alcohol continued to flow through your veins, you started to feel lightheaded. The room around you spun in dizzying circles, and you struggled to keep your balance. Valerio noticed your unsteady movements and reached out to steady you, his hand gripping your arm tightly.

“Y/N, you okay?” he questioned. Even though you couldn’t hear his voice clearly enough, you could see the concern etching on his face. You tried to nod, but the room spun even faster, and you felt like you might be sick.

“I don’t feel so good,” you mumbled, your words slurring together. Valerio’s grip on your arm tightened, and he led you to a nearby couch, sitting you down carefully.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he reassured you, kissing you softly on the forehead. “I’ll go get you some water.” And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments went by, and your dizziness only got worse.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your thigh, and you looked up to see a stranger leering at you. You tried to push him away, but your limbs felt heavy and uncooperative.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” he slurred, his breath hot and stale against your face. You tried to scream, but no sound came out, and the darkness swallowed you whole.

It didn’t take long for Valerio to return to the crowded living room, clutching a bottle of water in his hand. He searched for you in the sea of faces, and when he realized you were nowhere to be seen, he felt his heart skip a beat. As panic set in, he scanned the room once again. He spotted Samuel and Guzman chatting in a corner, and quickly approached them.

“Guys, have you seen Y/N?” he asked with a slightly shaken voice.

Guzman and Samuel exhanged a puzzled glance. “No, we haven’t seen her. Why?” Samuel replied. Valerio felt his heart sinking to his stomach, and his eyes darted the room for familiar faces one more time. He didn’t bother replying to Samuel before rushing to Lu and Carla.

“Lu, have you seen Y/N? I can’t find her anywhere.”

Lu shook her head. “No, sorry. We've been dancing together for the past hour.”

Valerio’s concern slowly evolved into fear. His mind conjured up horrifying scenarios, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed to protect you.

“Val, what’s going on?” Lu questioned, visibly concerned.

Valerio took a deep breath, trying to compose himself before explaining the situation. “It’s all my fault,” he murmured, the words weighing heavy on his chest.

“What’s going on?” asked Guzman, arriving at the scene along with Samuel, drawn in by the commotion.

“We can’t find Y/N,” Carla spoke up. The sense of urgency in her voice was palpable.

Guzman’s expression remained stoic as he tried to assess the situation. “Have you tried calling her?” he asked Valerio.

“I did just now. It’s going straight to voicemail,” Lu interjected.

Guzman's mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. "Vale. Where's Ander and Omar?" he questioned, his tone serious and firm. “They went to get some drinks, they should be back any minute now.”

“We have to split up and search for her. She must be somewhere in the house,” Carla said, taking charge of the situation. “I’m texting Ander to check the pool and the back yard. Me and Lu will go see if her car is still in the driveway, and you guys head upstairs.”

The group nodded in agreement, and quickly dispersed to search for any signs of you.

Guilt washed over Valerio in waves, threatening to drown him as he imagined the worst. He mentally cursed himself for ever letting you out of his sight, for not being more careful, for not protecting you like he should have.

“Cayetana, have you seen Y/N?” Samuel asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “Si, I saw her and Gabriel going to the attic. She seemed a bit disoriented,” the blonde replied, taking a sip of her drink.

“What? Why didn't you say something earlier?" Guzman snapped, his anger rising at the thought of you being in danger.

"I didn't think anything of it," Cayetana replied defensively, sensing the tension in the air.

“Puta madre!”

Without another word, the three of them raced up to the attic, their hearts pounding in their chests. As they opened the door, they saw you huddled in the corner, shaking with fear. And there, hovering above you, was Gabriel, a sinister smile on his face.

"Ugh, merda. I was just starting to have some fun with your girlfriend."

Guzman and Samuel stepped forward, flanking Valerio on either side as they faced off against Gabriel. Valerio's eyes flashed with anger as he noticed your bruised arms and bloodied shirt. "What the fuck did you do to her, cabron?" he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“I didn’t-” Gabriel didn’t get a chance to reply, as Guzman’s chuckles met with his mouth. “You are gonna pay for this, joder!” he screamed. Gabriel’s feet stumbled, as he held his arms up in defense. “I swear, I didn’t do anything. I was just messing around.”

“Just messing around?” Valerio growled, feeling his blood boiling. “Valerio, por favor,” Samuel whispered, grabbing him before he had the chance to hit him as well. “She needs you.”

Meanwhile, you were still curled up in the corner, shaking violently. You tried resisting the urge to throw up, but the mix of alcohol and the metal taste of blood in your mouth weren’t much help. You cried out, in a desperate attemp to capture someone’s attention, but nobody seemed to had heard you.

You were well aware that Valerio and Guzman would never let Gabriel get away with this. The sounds of fists hitting flesh, the screams of your friends, and the shattering of glass all seemed to blend together into one sickening cacophony. Your heart was racing, and you felt like you were going to pass out any moment.

“Guzman, Valerio, eso es suficiente!” Lu screamed, hurriedly entering the attic. Carla, Ander, Omar and Cayetana followed close behind.

Ander and Carla wasted no time rushing next to you. “Y/N, what happened?” Carla asked. Her voice was slow and steady, but you could tell she was struggling to keep her composure.

You took a deep breath. The air, however, didn’t reach the bottom of your lungs. You felt like you were suffocating.

“Call an ambulance, now!” Ander demanded. And, for the second time tonight, darkness swallowed you.

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

“I don’t want you near my sister ever again. You've been nothing but trouble lately, and I don't want her getting caught in the middle of it."

Valerio took a final drag out of his cigarette. "What are you talking about? Tonight wasn’t my fault- I didn’t do anything wrong."

"Maybe not intentionally," Ander replied firmly, "but you've been a bad influence on her."

Valerio sighed. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I? At the end of the day, you never liked me.”

Ander watched as Valerio walked down the hospital corridor, feeling hurt and confused. He had never meant to cause any harm to you, and he couldn’t deny that he felt a deep sense of loss now that he couldn't be near you anymore. He knew that Ander was only looking out for his sister, and he respected that. Maybe someday, you could all be friends again, but for now, he would have to stay away.

[leiawritesstories]

1778 (My Soldier Boy)

Rowaelin Month, Day 28: Wartime Sweethearts AU

A/N: this might just be the most American thing i've ever written lmaooooo 😂😂 so here's the context: the fic is set during the American Revolutionary War, which took place from 1776-1781. Rowan is a soldier in the Continental Army (the American side) and Aelin is the only daughter of a Loyalist (sympathetic to the British) family. and they're star-crossed lovers, yay!! posting this partially as a lil birthday treat to myself but mostly for you, hope you enjoy :))

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: archaic language (i'm a nerd lol), mentions of war, old outdated traditions, mentions of battle, brief mild angst, flirting

enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

16th July 1778

Heart of my heart,

I write this in secret, barely able to make out my letters by the faint light of this single candle. I apologize for the sloppiness of my script; my governess would have a fit if she were to see this chicken scratch. Of course, I would then retort that she ought to have taught me to read and write in near darkness, as that is the more useful skill these days. 

A few words, my love–we are leaving in three days.Yes, leaving! Mother has only said that it was what she and Father thought best, given the current…unrest. I am perfectly capable of reading the unspoken words. We are leaving because they fear what our neighbors might do while we sleep. We are leaving because the English are so hated here. We are leaving because nobody has seen or heard from my brother in months. Nobody save me, that is. I know where Aedion went, and I know what he is doing. 

If you love me, Rowan, please send word that my brother is safe, that he is well clothed and has some form of roof over his head. Please. It will calm my nightly worries at least a small bit. 

I do not know where we will go, only that we cannot make a scene of our leaving. We must pretend that we are only going into town like we typically do, except that our cart will be full of our belongings, rather than grain and butter to trade. I suspect we shall attempt to head east, towards the port at Baltimore, and from there we shall attempt to book passage on a ship. Father seems convinced that returning to England is the best course of action. 

I do not want to leave. 

They do not know that, nor do they care. It breaks my heart to admit it, but they do not. They expect me to keep quiet and obey. I have heard them discussing the possibilities of our lives once we return to Mother’s family estate in England–marriage. My marriage. To some titled landowner’s spoilt son, who gives not a whit what I want or who I am as long as I can give birth. I refuse to subject myself to such a fate. 

Rowan, my love, I write this both as news and as a warning. I will not silently accompany my parents in their hasty retreat. I cannot abandon my brother in the middle of a war, nor can I leave you, the other half of my soul. 

I will be waiting for you, my love. I swear it. 

To whatever end,

AAG

~

Heart in his throat, Captain Rowan Whitethorn marched in step with his regiment up the muddy road leading into Baltimore. The bustling port city was largely unmarred by the war that continued to rage on, continuing to serve as major sea access for traders and soldiers alike. As he and the men that called him their leader entered the city proper, Rowan breathed a short, soft sigh of relief. They had two weeks of leave, unless they were called back into battle, and he fully intended to use those two weeks to the fullest. 

“Enjoy your leave, men.” He saluted. “We shall regroup here in two weeks.” The blue-jacketed men broke ranks and ambled into town, most of them probably dispersing to the nearest pleasure house for a good strong drink and as many hours with a woman as their few remaining coins could buy. Rowan didn’t begrudge them their pleasure. 

After years of war, they all needed whatever solace they could find. As did he. 

Fingers instinctively wrapping around the small, precious bundle of letters in his jacket pocket, Rowan strolled towards the calmer part of town, the residential section not so crowded with soldiers on leave, traders, merchants, shouting vendors, and all the rest of the noise, chaos, and diverse cast of characters that populated a thriving shipping town like Baltimore. He glanced at the street markers as he walked, searching for the one with a blue stripe painted around it. 

There. 

Pulse hammering louder than gunfire, he turned down that street and walked past tidy clapboard houses interspersed with the occasional grocer, butcher, baker, and seamstress. He was certain every single one of the handful of people he passed could hear his thundering heartbeat, but none of them had said anything to the young man whose ragged blue jacket marked him an officer in the Continental Army who was walking up their quiet street like it was perfectly normal for him to do. One motherly lady had simply offered him a smile and a “thank you, son,” which had struck him right to the heart. 

He emerged into a busier street, full of shops and taverns and public houses, the businesses bustling but not crowded with soldiers and sailors like the cheaper taverns down by the wharf were. Eyes scanning the signs, Rowan walked up the side of the street. The building he was looking for appeared suddenly in front of him. A brightly painted kingsflame flower adorned the pub’s wooden sign, its carefully wrought petals the work of a singular artist. An artist Rowan knew as well as his own heartbeat. 

With his heart in his throat, Rowan walked into the pub. Immediately, a peal of soft, faintly raspy laughter caught his ear, and his attention snapped to the bar at the back of the softly-lit, cozy space. Behind the well-worn oak bartop, her golden hair tied back with a blue rag that he recognized as his own old shirt, stood the woman who owned every last shred of his heart. 

Aelin Galathynius glanced over towards the door, and the whole sky lived in her vivid eyes. 

Tin clattered against the bar. 

Surprised grunts arose from a table full of stocky, gray-haired farmers. 

And with a rush of air and a strangled gasp of his name, Aelin was in his arms, tears glittering in her eyes, warm and solid and real and clinging to him as if her life depended on it. 

~

He was here. 

Rowan was here, whole and healthy and standing on his own two legs in a much-patched blue jacket and dirt-stained trousers and battered boots, and his eyes were on her alone. 

Aelin flew across the pub floor and all but leapt into her soldier boy’s arms, clinging desperately to him as if he would vanish unless she held him tight. She buried her face in his shoulder and drew in a deep lungful of his scent, the faint trace of mountain pines clinging to him even beneath the layers of sweat and grime. Hot, salty tears of joy leaked into his shirt through a tear in his jacket’s shoulder. 

She felt his deep, familiar chuckle rumble beneath her ear. “Why are you crying, my love?” 

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, raising her head to meet his adoring gaze, “because you smell so bloody awful that my eyes are watering.” 

He tipped his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained. “God above, I missed you.” 

“I missed you more,” she returned, tracing her thumbs along the sharp juts of his cheekbones. “Every day felt like the longest one yet.” 

“I’m here now,” he murmured in the soft voice he only used for her. 

With tears pooled in her eyes, Aelin leant an inch forward and kissed him, her soldier boy, with all the pent-up fervor of the last several months. She’d been so terrified when her parents announced that they were leaving the Colonies, afraid that she would be uprooted from the life she’d come to love and forced to marry some stuffy lord and shut away in a manor house forever. The very idea that she would be forced to leave Rowan, her love, and Aedion, her brother, without knowing whether either of them would make it back to Baltimore unharmed was enough to disrupt her sleep. She had hardly dared to hope that her desperate escape plan would work until she stood on the pier and watched her parents’ ship depart without her on it. 

Every long day of pouring pints of beer for rowdy sailors, handsy soldiers, and disruptive drunken no-goods was worth it to have her soldier boy back in her arms. 

“Where–ah, Rowan!” Breathless, Aelin poked him in the ribs, pretending to disapprove of the promising way he kissed her throat. “We’re in public.” 

“Let’s fix that, shall we?” He set her down onto her feet, caught her hand, and grinned. “I believe I need a bath, my love. Could you help me with that?” 

“You are incorrigible,” she laughed. She pecked a quick kiss on his lips and led him out of the pub and down the streets, turning into a quiet neighborhood and leading him up the front steps of a tidy little brick cottage with a blue front door. “Please be kind about the mess.” 

“I’ll show you a mess,” he whispered into her ear, far too tempting for his own good. 

She flushed, her cheeks staining bright pink. “Rowan!”

“Aelin,” he mimicked. They were safely inside the house, so he looped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “I’ve been dreaming of you for months, love.” 

“And you’re going to bathe before you act out any of those dreams, my love.” Giggling, she ducked out of his embrace and led him down the short hall to a washroom. “The tub is full, but it might be cold.” 

“I don’t care if the water is cold.” He shrugged off his jacket and stepped out of his boots. “It’s a hell of a better bath than we get in the army.” 

She sighed fondly. “I’m still going to boil some water.” He made to protest, and she placed her fingers over his mouth. “Ah-ah, soldier boy. Let me spoil you. Besides, the hot water is half for your filthy clothes.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesced. He shed the rest of his dirty, worn clothing and climbed into the tepid bathwater, groaning quietly as he sank into a proper bath for the first time in too long. “Join me, love.” 

“Soon.” She kissed his forehead and dropped a washrag and a bar of soap into the tub. “When you stink a little less.” 

His playful growl followed her all the way out to the front room. 

~

Following the bath–where she had indeed joined her soldier boy and taken his mind off the weight of war for a few moments–and a hearty dinner, Aelin exchanged her regular blouse and skirt for a soft cotton nightdress, braided her hair, and settled into bed with a lantern lit on the side table and a novel in her hands. Rowan was in the washroom; the faint splashing of water indicated that he was scrubbing out his uniform like he insisted he wanted to. So she opened her novel to the page where she had last left off and lost herself in the tender romance unfolding amidst the pages. She was so absorbed in the novel that she didn’t notice the mattress shifting as Rowan climbed into the bed and settled down beside her. 

His soft, low chuckle drew her out of the novel-world. “Good story, Ae?” 

“Wonderful,” she murmured. Reaching the end of the chapter, she placed the bookmark, closed the book, laid it aside, blew out the lantern, and tucked herself into his side, her head against his chest. 

“I missed you,” he whispered after a peacefully quiet interval, stroking one hand idly up and down her back. 

“And I you.” In the faint moonlight, her eyes met his, months of pent-up yearning and uncertainty glossing their turquoise depths. “I am sorry I didn’t write more.” 

He soothed her worry with a gentle kiss. “I would likely have found you before your letters found me. ’Tis the life of a soldier.” 

She hummed in agreement. “On that note…when did you last see Aedion?” Her older brother, whom she loved dearly but whose rashness she did not ignore, had vanished from the Galathynius home early last spring, leaving no indication of where he was going or why. Aelin alone had an idea of what he had gone to do, because he had confided his wishes to her. He had gone off to be a soldier in the Continental Army, but his unit were scouts, which meant that he could be anywhere between Philadelphia and Yorktown. 

Rowan exhaled a long, controlled breath. “The last time our paths crossed was in September, at the camp outside Newport. He mentioned going south, but no details.” 

“South.” Aelin rolled the idea over in her mind, forcing herself not to consider the harsher implications. “Was he…how was he?” 

“Healthy, as far as I could tell, and tired, but so are all of us soldiers.” Rowan ran his hands along Aelin’s tense shoulders, encouraging her to relax. “He said to give you his love and that he’ll do unspeakably horrible things to me if I hurt you.” 

Aelin laughed. “Now that sounds like Aedy. Too protective for his own good, he is.” Idly, her touch trailed along the slope of Rowan’s shoulders, tracing the new scar that slashed from his right shoulder down towards his pectoral muscle. “Tell him that I will return the unspeakably horrible favor if either one of you does anything stupid.” 

“Indeed I shall.” Laughing softly, Rowan pulled Aelin flush against his chest, her heartbeat atop his, and kissed her. She sighed into the kiss, threading her fingers into his overgrown hair. 

“I don’t want you to go back,” she murmured after they had separated. 

He swallowed thickly. “We both know I must.” 

“I know.” Her voice was a fragile thread. “I’m keeping you all to myself for the next two weeks, though. It’s only fair.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, my wildfire.” 

She smiled tenderly at him. “I love you too, my soldier boy.” 

~

Mid-November, 1778

Aelin, 

I apologize both for the shortness of this note and the fact that it took me so bloody long to write it. There is something I must tell you, and I can only hope that you hear it from Rowan rather than me and my paltry excuse for a letter. 

We are marching to Savannah. Intelligence has it that the Redcoats intend to advance upon the city, and we cannot let the stronghold go without a fight. 

I cannot promise that I will be able to write for any amount of time, and as much as I hate to do this, I leave you all my affection. I will stay as safe as possible, that I can promise. The moment I am able, I swear on my blood that I will come to you, and if possible, that I will bring Rowan. 

Stay strong for us, dear sister. 

Yours, 

Aedion

The short note had reached her in late January of 1779, after three and a half months of ever-increasing tension and worry spurred by the grim reports coming up from the South. Before he left in mid-November, the same time Aedion’s letter was dated, Rowan had revealed that his unit was headed to Savannah to reinforce the troops already there. He had been confident that, with the extra reinforcements, the Army would be able to stave off the British–if not all on their own, then at least long enough for the shipment of French troops to arrive. 

Just before the New Year, the newspapers reported Savannah’s defeat. 

Since then, all Aelin had received was silence. No letters, no notes, nothing listed in the papers, no weary soldiers showing up on her doorstep. The fact that Rowan’s and Aedion’s names remained out of the papers was but a small measure of comfort; all too often, fallen soldiers’ names never made it onto the listings. 

The cloth tying back her hair was black now, the only outward sign of suffering she would allow herself. The people who came into the pub noticed her quiet demeanor, the way her usual vivacious cheer was dampened, and passed quiet condolences to her across the worn oak bartop–a squeeze of the hand, a mourning mother’s shared tears, a word of comfort, a “thank-you” from someone who rarely spoke those words. It lifted her spirits a bit, but not much. 

Every night, she trudged home to her quiet little house, cradled a small watercolor portrait of Rowan–done a year ago, it was the only portrait she’d ever convinced him to sit for–stared down into his painted face, and refused to let her captive tears fall. Though her heart and soul ached for her soldier boy, though her sleep was disturbed by nightmarish imaginings of what could have happened or could be happening to him, she refused to let her tears fall until she knew his fate for certain. 

If nothing else, she owed him--and the child just beginning to stir inside her womb--that fragile hope.

~~~

TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added/removed or if tags don't work :)

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[slurping-up-grass]

Twinks and Sex Workers in 19th century wartime literature

(if this is of interest to you)

So I'm sure we've all heard of Dorian Gay *gray*- I hated that shit, too many descriptions of flowers, not enough evil satanic sensual not-so-heterosexual romance for my tastes.

This academic year, the school has decided that I should read Maupassant's Boule de Suif, a book set just after the french defeat in the Franco-Prussian war of 1871, where France is still being occupied by German soldiers.

The author himself fought in the war and has much to say from this experience, but as we stumble into the second chapter, we find ourselves face to face with "Mademoiselle Fifi", who, as a non native French speaker, took me a beat to comprehend is a male, German, second lieutenant so twinkish in attitude and physique that his comrades have nicknamed him "Little Miss Fifi".

French is a strictly gender-binary language, and Maupassant consistently refers to Mr Mme Fifi with feminine pronouns and conjugation, which is quite an incredible level of gender-bending for his time period, considering that the language requires you to specify far more frequently than in English the gender of the person you are talking about, and Maupassant narrates "woman".

Our introduction to this character is remeniscent of other notable twinks-

Hamilton:🎵peach fuzz and he can't even grow it🎵

Mme Fifi: "pale face where her burgeoning moustache was barely visible"

And continues:

Dorian Gray "made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy"

Mme Fifi "had taken up the habit of expressing her sovreign discontent towards people and things"

-basically, the common thread is cuntiness.

Maupassant fixates on Mme Fifi's teeny-weeny baby white waist for a little bit too long and we begin to wonder what might have really motivated him to drop out of law school to join the big manly war of 1781.

The men decide that they need some good prostitutes for their party, and Maupassant notes that "Mme Fifi" "herself" seemed "out of place". She is very uncomfortable, sitting up and down in her chair and decides she wants to break something, so stands up and shoots a painting of a woman with a moustache, you know, like the moustache he is too "coquette🎀"* to grow? *feminine

So after Frankenfurter reminds everyone that this is his god-damed rocky-horror gay-ass castle and he gets uncomfy when people put women in it, they all go to the castle museum where Fifi begins happily stimming and clapping her hands because they are going to play her favourite game "making faces".

She created this game after her meanie superior officers refused to "Ding-don-don" the churchbells for entertainment even after she tried "pussycat manners, womanly cajolery, and soft whispers of a mistress hysterical with desire" to persuade them.

IS IT POSSIBLE TO CREATE A MORE CAMP CHARACTER?

Sidepoint- a consistent theme that redevelops here is whether french "women of pleasure" should feel guilty for betraying their country by sleeping with German occupying soldiers, or whether this is just a service they sell to survive (the prostitutes reassure eachother that it is just their job and they shouldn't feel guilty.)

"It's the job that wants that"

They don't desire the soldiers, the separate entity that is their employment does.

The women get put in size order and the smallest woman (Rachel) is given to Fifi, the twinkiest man.

He then blows smoke in her mouth, which is pretty gross, but she doesn't voice her anger. We get the impression he is either freaky, or really not into women because instead of engaging in traditional pleasure, he enjoys pinching her to make her shout, then making out with her and randomly biting her to make her bleed.

He looks her in the eyes and reminds her he is paying to be able to do whatever he likes to her.

The men begin toasting the things they own and include in this The Women of France. Rachel cannot help but correct:

"Me! Me! I am not a woman, I am a whore; that is absolutely all we have given to the Prussians."

-she breaks the illusion of desire, this is a job to her

He slaps her. She stabs him. FIFI DIES. The women are locked up. There is disorder and Rachel escapes. The soldiers are punished for forgetting the aims of the war and exploiting their position with prostitutes. Rachel hides in the church, which is sacred ground the soldiers cannot enter, and is remembered as a hero after the occupation.

So yeah, patriotic prostitutes and crazy, jealous twinks🌈

I am fully convinced that nobody will ever read this @strange-aeons

[dzgrizzle]

<story snippet from a work-in-progress>

I can hear him in the night. Tap tap tapping away on my electric typewriter. I want to turn and face him but I can’t move. I know what this is. I know I’m in sleep paralysis, caught between asleep and awake, and I know that this condition is often accompanied by a presence that feels evil – the “sleep demon” or “night hag” shown in nightmare paintings dating back centuries. I know this will pass. Soon I will be able to move again, and knowing that is the only thing keeping me from going into a full-blown panic attack.

But that doesn’t explain why the demon is typing on my typewriter.

.

Artwork: The Nightmare, by Henry Fuseli, 1781

[tacky-jack-with-a-hat]

Mostly incorrect Florida History

1513

Mother nature: *makes a unique ecosystem that is mostly swamp and intensely hot so people can't live there*

Spain: it's free real estate

*********

1763

Britain: Sure you can have Havana, Cuba and Manila... In exchange for your sunshine state! *evil laughter*

Spain: this one *points at Florida*

Britain: yes-

Spain: *already gone*

Britain: ...

*********

1781

Britain: heyyy

Spain: no

Britain: please!

Spain: you wanted him

Britain: at least take the west-

Spain: fine. Just don't expect me to regularly babysit.

*********

3 years later

*knock knock*

Spain: *opens door*

Florida holding a sign he can't read:

"I'm not paying child support -England"

*********

1821

DC: God, it's hot down here-

DC: *sees Florida holding a sign*

DC: shit

*********

1821- 1914

Mother Nature: hey Florida I- WHAT THE FUCK!

Florida: *high*

DC: The box said opioids were supposed to help him sleep!

Mother Nature: WHY WOULD YOU-

*********

20th century

Florida patting himself: Am I getting bigger or is my Everglades getting smaller?? And who's that guy-

*New York casually carrying a surfboard*

********

2023

Florida: I wonder why people are mad at me?

LGBTQ+: hey can I have rights?

Florida: ...

Department of education: can you stop defunding me and give me my books back?

Florida: ...

California: Can you stop setting my ottoman on fire?

Florida: ... no.

********

2060

Florida: LOUI HELP!! SHE'S DROWNING ME!!!

Mother Nature: You were supposed to be a swamp you-son-of-a-bitch!

[footy-fictionist]

Lazy day - Karim Adeyemi

Pairing: Karim Adeyemi x female reader

Warnings: sugar sweet fluff, some badly translated German

Word count: 1781

Note: As always, English is not my first language. I wanted to write something really cute and I think it turned out just right. Again, I don't know Karim and I have no clue what he is really like, so this is purely fiction. I just can't help but write for this adorable, handsome and underrated man. Please do not copy and/or publish my work, reblogging is totally fine.

The first few days after Karim got injured were very hard. They had to make sure how severe the injury was and how long he would be out for. Then Karim had to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be able to play with the team and that he would miss the important return game against Chelsea. He was more than determined to be back as fast as he could. But she wouldn’t be his girlfriend if she didn’t tell him he would need to take it slow and not rush anything. Getting back too early could mean getting a worse injury than before. That didn’t stop Karim though, you could find him around the training ground every single day to help out or to train. 

Where she thought he would have some more time to spend with her, he only had even less time than before. She doesn’t hold it against him though, she understands his need to help out where he can. So everyday she makes sure she has everything ready for him to take to the training ground. Which means she gets up earlier to start on breakfast and for making his lunch. Karim is usually still asleep and she lets him get the rest he needs. Recovery is always better with enough sleep and rest. 

So when she hears her alarm go off a week after Karim got injured, she gets ready to quietly slip out of his hold to start on breakfast. And as she softly grabs his wrist to move his arm from around her waist, she stills when he puts his arm right back where it was before. She waits a minute or two before she tries again, but no luck. She carefully turns around in Karim’s hold and finds him with his eyes still closed. She lets her eyes rake over his face, taking in all of his features. She lifts a hand to softly trace over his eyebrows, taking in the arch of his nose and the shape of his lips. 

Her fingers trace from his eyebrows to the side of his face, over his cheek until she reaches those lips. Her thumb runs over his top lip and she feels him purse his lips to press a kiss to her thump. It tickles a little and makes her release a soft giggle. His eyes open a little to look at her sleepily. She admires the sleepy look in his big brown eyes, along with the twinkle that is always present when he looks at her. She’s always liked his eyes best, they really show her everything about his feelings. She gives him a soft smile, removes her thumb from his top lip and presses a feather light kiss to the exact same spot her thumb was on a few seconds before. She feels the way Karim’s lips curve into a smile. She goes to pull away from him again to start breakfast, but he wraps both of his arms around her this time.

“Where are you going? Don’t leave!”

The way he said it was almost desperate. She is confused, he isn’t usually like this in the mornings. 

“I’m getting up to make your breakfast and pack your lunch. I’m assuming you want to go to the training ground again today.” 

He shakes his head at her words, which confuses her even more than before. 

“I’m not going today, Schatz. I’ve been there everyday for the past week. I want to stay with you today, quality time. You also have the day off right?”

“They told you to take more rest, didn’t they? And yes, it’s my day off too.”

He looks at her a little sheepishly, she definitely caught him. He went to the training ground so much that they almost threatened him to stay home. They did eventually manage to convince him to listen to them. The reason being that they questioned if his girl was okay with him being gone everyday. It hit him that he hasn’t spent much time with her lately, yet she never complained about him being gone. So he agreed with the staff and decided to stay home a bit more, to rest and to spend time with his girlfriend.

“Okay, you caught me. But what I said is also true. I know I’ve been gone a lot lately, more than before. You never complain about it, even though you must be a little annoyed. So I promise now, that I’ll be home more and that I won’t be going to the training ground every single day.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. I don’t complain because I know how hard this injury is on you and that you just want to do as much as possible to help out. I can only admire that, my love. You’re so passionate and I love seeing you do what you love the most. So don’t worry, I will always have your back, even when you’re busy. Because I love you.”

Karim pulled her even closer. Legs tangling (carefully as to not hurt him), foreheads touching. He whispers back how much he loves her and how she’s the absolute best thing that has ever happened to him. They stay like that for a long time, this time with Karim admiring every single one of her features. It’s calm and peaceful and everything they both needed. They soon enough fall back asleep, completely tangled up in each other. And if anyone would see them together like this, they would know. Know that they are meant for each other, heartbeats and breathing in sync. 

After another hour or two of sleeping, they both wake up and they just softly talk about the past week. Anything that comes to mind. He shares his stories of the training ground, whilst she talks about work and what her friends were up to, they always have the best gossip. They don’t get to do this often, so they really make the most of this time together. They get out of bed once they hear Karim’s stomach rumble. She laughs once she hears it, whilst he looks at her sheepishly. They get out of bed but instead of walking out of the room, Karim walks up to her. He puts his hands on her hips and she thinks he’ll kiss her, but instead he throws her over his shoulder. A scream leaves her mouth before she starts laughing. She smacks his bum a few times in the hope he lets her go, but he doesn’t and just carries her all the way to the kitchen. 

He sits her down on the countertop and moves so he’s standing between her legs. A few chuckles still leave her lips and he’s just admiring the joy on her face. He makes a mental note to do more spontaneous things, just to see the joy on her face like this. He presses a kiss to the apple of her cheek. She puts her hands to the back of his neck and pulls him closer to press a kiss to his lips. They kiss for a bit longer, the rumble of her stomach making them both laugh. She gets off the countertops and grabs everything she needs to make breakfast. Once she has everything, Karim doesn’t leave her side. He’s always touching her in some way. 

She hands him his pancakes before they move to the couch, where they put on one of their favourite shows. They sit close together and finish their breakfast within minutes. She puts the plates on the coffee table, before moving back to her spot beside Karim, throwing her legs over his. She grabs his arm, moves closer to his side and cuddles his arm close to her chest. He looks down her way, only to catch the way she leans her head on his shoulder. He intertwines their fingers and asks her if there is a film she’d love to see. She tells him about the new film she heard about and he puts it on the tv. 

Somewhere halfway through the film, the doorbell rings. She looks up confused and Karim just shrugs. He pauses the film and she gets up to walk to the front door. She mentally celebrates that she’s looking a little decent once she opens the door. There is a delivery man in front of the door with a huge bouquet of flowers. The man sends her a smile and hands the flowers to her. She asks him if he’s sure they are for her and he nods at her before wishing her a nice day. She admires the multicoloured bouquet and finds a note between the flowers. She grabs it and reads it. 

Für meinen Schatz. Ich liebe dich.  Dein Karim. 

A few tears fill her eyes as she walks back to the living room.

“You silly man! You got me flowers, for what?”

“Just because. A small way to show you that I love you. I feel like I haven’t done that enough lately.” 

She lays the flowers on the table as a sob leaves her lips, before climbing onto his lap and burying her face in the crook of his neck. She can’t stop repeating the words ‘I love you’ and he smiles whilst softly rubbing her back. 

“Do you like them, mein Schatz? These are happy tears right?”

“I love them, Karim. You really didn’t have to do this. I know you love me. And I love you. Of course they are happy tears, you always make me happy!”

They stay like that for a little while longer. Eventually Karim turns the film back on whilst they’re snuggled up. She leaves between films to put the flowers in a vase. They continue the day with a few more films and some junk food (where they both agree not to tell anyone). When the time comes around for dinner, she gets up and goes to the kitchen to make Karim’s favourite. He follows her soon enough, not wanting to be away from each other for too long. They eat dinner at the dinner table and decide to play some board games to end the day. Both are incredibly competitive so they play until they’re tied in winnings. 

They get ready for bed together and do some skincare. Or she does skincare and forces Karim to do some as well. When they’re snuggled up in bed, they are content with their day. They both give some kisses to each other’s skin, their way of thanking each other for the day. They fall asleep with smiles on their faces, having had the best day together.

(Mein) Schatz: (my) babe/treasure/dearFür meinen schatz: for my treasure/dearIch liebe dich: I love youDein Karim: your Karim

[eyeofpsyche]

Nightmares in Art ('Halloween in Art' Series)

Top LTR:

L:

'The Nightmare,' (1781),

Henry Fuseli (1741–1825),

Oil on canvas, H 101.6 cm × W 127 cm,

Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan, USA (1955–).

R:

'Sleeping Venus (La Vénus endormie),' (1944),

Paul Delvaux (1897–1994),

Oil on canvas, H 172.7 cm × W 199.1 cm,

Tate, London, England, UK (1957–).

Bottom LTR:

L:

'The incubus leaving two young women,' (1793),

Henry Fuseli (1741–1825),

Oil on canvas, H 86.4 cm x W 110.5 cm,

Private collection, Paris, France (2010–).

R:

'Nightmare,' (1846),

Ditlev Blunck (1798–1853),

Oil on canvas, H 62 cm x 49 cm,

Private collection, (2014–).

[publicdomainreview]

The Nightmare (1781) — thought to be a symbolic depiction of sleep paralysis — one of the best known works by Swiss artist Henry Fuseli, born #onthisday in 1741.

More dreams in art here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/the-art-of-dreams #otd

[adarkrainbow]

Fairytale trivia of the day!

The version of "Donkeyskin" (Peau d'âne) you probably know - and the one most well-known by people, is actually not the original nor "correct" one. I'll explain.

Peau d'Âne, Donkeyskin, was indeed a French fairytale written by Charles Perrault, and is part of his famous stories alongside Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Puss in Boots and more. HOWEVER, Donkeyskin was not published alongside the others in Perrault's book "Histoires ou Contes du temps passé" (Stories or Tales of the past), alternatively known as "Les Contes de Ma Mère L'Oie" (Mother Goose Fairytales). No, Donkeyskin was published prior to this book release, in a different collection called "Contes en vers" (Tales in verse). The difference between the two books being, obviously, that one was written in verse, and the other in prose. Of the three stories making "Tales in verse", only Donkeyskin is an actual "fairytale" in the sense we understand today - the other two are Griselidis (which is more of a short story/moral tale/moral fable with nothing magical about it) and "The Ridiculous Wishes" which is an humoristic take on the fables a la Aesop and La Fontaine. As a result, Peau d'Âne is usually taken out of the Tales in Verse to join the Mother Goose Fairytales.

But again, the problem is that Peau d'Âne was written in verse, which clashes with the other fairytales, written in prose. So, someone one day decided to rewrite Donkeyskin as a prose story, so that it could be more easily added to the Mother Goose Fairytales. But who did? No actual idea. The prose-Peau d'Âne was published in 1781 by an editor named Lamy, so almost a century after Perrault's original text - and we do not know to this date who actually wrote it. This prose Donkeyskin became a massive success, and was reprinted everywhere, to the point that for a very long time, people thought it had been written by Perrault itself. Flaubert for example, when he talked about the fairytales of Perrault, treated the prose Peau d'Âne as written by him. And the famous illustrated version of Perrault's fairytales by Gustave Doré? The Donkeyskin illustrations correspond to the prose-Donkeyskin, not the verse one. It was only recently that people had to put back on the table the fact that the prose Donkeyskin was a later rewrite.

And this is something very important to keep in mind because the verse and the prose Donkeyskin have several differences. The prose Donkeyskin remove some elements, add some scenes and changes several details. I won't list each and every difference here, but for example, the main difference between the two tales comes with the approach the king has to the whole "incest" business.

In the prose Donkeyskin, the king does not want to marry his daughter - he is pressured into accepting such a perverse plan by his government, which insists on him having a male heir for the throne, and by his refusal to break the vow he made to his dead wife. In the verse-Peau d'Âne, the king has the idea all of his own, and comes up with the incest without anybody's help. Worse - while in the prose Peau d'Âne the king only marries again because he has the duty to give a male heir, and else would stay sad and a widow all of his life, in the verse Peau d'Âne it is explicitly stated that his grief at his wife's death was exaggerated/half-faked, and that as soon as the decent time for grieving was other he jumped on the occasion to marry again.

Another difference comes with the "voice of authority" that comes to help the king's plan. In the prose Peau d'Âne, the king consults an old and ambitious, greedy druid who is clearly a very bad advisor to the king and encourages him in this plan he doesn't want in the first place - in the original version by Charles Perrault, the king went to find a casuist who could prove that his incestuous desires were legitimate in the eyes of moral and religion. (It was part of a common literary habit at the time to denounce the loose moral of the Jesuits, thanks to their dubious casuistic)

[bingbingus]

DEAR DIARY,

It has been 1793 days since I ran away from home, 1781 days since Clyde disappeared, and 158 days since I moved here.

I can’t sleep. It’s almost been a year and I still think about it. I don’t think I can ever get over this. She probably feels smug at the thought, but I can’t find myself to hate her. She was my best friend, and that was the worst part. I trusted her for so many years only to see her let herself go, to push me away when all I wanted to do was care.

Did I do anything wrong? Was this the right decision? Part of me thinks that she feels some kind of remorse, but that feeling might be there just to make me feel better. She has to know it was wrong, right? Why else would she keep so much from me? If all of this made sense to her, why didn’t she tell me?

I’m starting to think we each had false perceptions of what our friendship was. I didn’t have much friends back then, she was my everything. To her, I was a way to pass the time. I’ve had this train of thought occur again and again. I seem to be cursed, trying to find clues for a mystery that’s been closed for a very long time.

Until it’s time to write again,

— 𝓑.