#{john and barrel;; thread}

[bullet-prooflove]

Dick Pics: John Shen x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

You’re already waiting for John when he steps out into the ambulance bay, a Starbucks Double Shot Espresso can in one hand and a mocha Frappuccino in the other. It’s one in the morning and you’re grabbing a breather between ambulance call outs while your partner gets some shuteye in the back of the rig.

“Heard you’re seeing someone new.” John says as he hands you the Frap bottle before taking up residence alongside you. “I also heard he’s an asshole.”

“I was seeing someone.” You admit as you pop the lid and take a swig. The rich chocolate taste blossoms on your tongue, invigorating your senses as the caffeine winds it’s way through your veins. “It turned out he was also seeing Ivy, one of the nurses on the day shift.”

“Ouch.” He winces as he pulls the tab on his own drink. “Gotta hurt.”

“It’s gonna hurt him.” You respond, your ass coming to rest upon the wall that lines the ‘decorative’ part of the hospital. “We collaborated and put the dick pics he sent on the pinboard for the med students so they can see what syphilis looks like.”

“That’s who’s they were?” He huffs out a laugh, his palm rubbing over the nape of his neck. “He’s fucking terrible with those angles, who takes one straight down the barrel? It’s not a good look for any man.”

“Philanders.” You tell him, the radio on your hip crackling with call outs to other rigs. “And you sound very well versed in the photogenics of dick pics.”

“It’s an art form.” He informs you, draining his can of coffee. “But I never send unsolicited, I don’t wanna foist my junk on some unsuspecting person eating their hoagie.”

You choke out a laugh.

“You’re a king amongst men, you know that?” You say raising your drink up in homage. “A real diamond in the rough.”

“I try.” He says before his phone chimes indicating the end of his break. He tosses his coffee can into the trash before turning to face you. “Be safe out there tonight alright? Mischief Night, it’s no joke.”

“I know.” You say, using your palm to brush your hair back so he can see the neat scar tucked in against your hairline. “Abbot stitched me up real nice last year after someone through a brick through the windshield of the ambulance.”

“Christ.” He says his fingertips brushing over the indented flesh. “Nice work through.”

“Yea, that man knows exactly what he’s doing with a needle and thread.” You say softly as his fingertips trail lower to the one at the edge of your eye socket that’s barely visible.

“And this one?” He asks, his gaze meeting yours and that’s when it happens that lightning bolt you hear about in all those romance books you read. That moment of recognition, of connection. You don’t understand because you’ve hung out with John Shen hundreds of times since he’s become an attending and although there’s always been chemistry, there’s never been intimacy, not like this.

Your radio crackles again, your call sign being hailed over the line as he pulls away and you feel the loss acutely as you take the radio off your hip.

“You can tell me later.” He tells you as he heads towards the entrance at the hospital. “Over breakfast after shift.”

“EMS don’t get the cushy shifts you doctors do.” You remind him, bring the radio to your mouth, finger resting on the button. “I’m on til 11am.”

“Alright, we’ll do brunch then.” He responds, walking backwards towards The Pitt. “You’ve got my number, text me when you’re off and I’ll come out and meet you.”

“You’ll be too tired John.” You call out across the ambulance bay.

“Baby, I’ve got stamina for days.” He informs you as he ducks back in through the entrance. “Trust me I’ll be there.”

Fuck me, you think. No unsolicited dick pics and stamina for days. You might just fall in love with this man.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[nerdygirlramblings]

I have a vision

Like reader and John are married for god knows how long (probaly since he was just a Sergeant) so it's obvious that reader knows Ghost, or rather Simon since John is like a father to him.

So when John comes home after a rough mission, Simon is with him. Usually Simon would sleep on the couch or the guest room but this time it's different. He's on the edge of a breakdown and reader offers him to join them in bed for cuddles, John doesn't mind that.

It ends up with Simon bare and vulnerable and reader and John taking care of him

If you wanna include some smut it's your choice, you're the author

Also the gender of reader because Idc about that

Thank you for this ask! This one took a few different journeys in my head before we got here, but this is the version that felt right. I hope you enjoy the result!

an: I delved into asexuality here, but if I misportrayed the acespec experience, please lmk! This is a new space for me, and I want to get it right.

Simon's known you since before he made lieutenant. You've been Price's since forever. Simon likes you because his Captain loves you. Simon loves you because you support his and Price's relationship.

The first time it had happened, they'd been on base less than an hour, wrung out from the mission and staring down the barrel of after action reports. Price was sitting at his desk, paperwork splayed out and only half finished when Ghost had come in and nearly dropped from sheer exhaustion. He couldn't tell if the weariness was mental or physical or some combination of both, but Price served as a grounding force.

Price wasn't a mind reader but he was an expert in body language, and he'd taken one look at Ghost and known exactly what was wrong. He beckoned the younger man over. It took coaxing and a promise that things would be better to get Ghost to kneel at Price's feet and put his head in Price's lap. Price slid one hand off the paperwork he'd only been half-heartedly completing and ran it up under Ghost's mask, pulling the balaclava off. Thick fingers scrubbed through the sweaty hair and eventually began a light pet.

"You're safe here Simon. I've got you," he rumbled, voice gruff from the cigar on his desk. Simon's not sure how long they were there, Price's hand keeping him grounded while giving him the space to let go. It could have been seconds or days. All he knows is he had never felt as free as he did by the time Price roused him off his knees and shooed him back to his own paperwork.

After that, mission debriefs began including quiet time for Simon and his Captain where the older man would help the younger come back to himself. For someone as touched-starved as Simon had always been, Price's comfort was a blessing.

He doesn't remember what mission they'd come off of the night you found them, but he does recall the startled gasp you made when you walked in with dinner for your husband only to find him with another man in his lap. You'd only met the lieutenant once before. He couldn't, wouldn't, get between Price and you, but he didn't know how to find the strength to leave.

Thankfully, you kept an open mind. Let your husband explain that there was nothing sexual or even romantic to their relationship. Smiled at Simon as he stumbled through how it felt to not have to worry just for a little while. And, when all was said and done, opened your arms and beckoned Simon into them.

For years now your house has been Simon's safe place. He has his own bed in what you tell others is the guest room, but several years back you decorated it in Simon's favorite colors with little touches to help him feel grounded. The kitchen cupboard has his favorite tea, and the crisps he likes are always in the pantry. He has a key to the front door and knows he's always welcome no matter the time, so he thinks nothing of slipping in after midnight, finally back from a solo mission, his humanity hanging on by a thread.

Of course John hears the door the moment the lock rolls back on its tumblers, Simon's heavy tread carrying quietly in the still air. He tries to get out of bed without waking you, but you never sleep well when he's not there, so you notice immediately. Bleary eyes find his as he stands half in the doorway, says, "Simon's just got in. Going to go check on him."

You nod as John slips out of your room. He had given you what few details he could about Simon's mission while the other man was gone. You worried about him, how big a toll this would take on him. So moment after John leaves, you slowly climb out of bed, slip into your robe, quietly pad down the hall. You can hear your husband's low rumble and a sound that rocks you. Crying. You don't think it's John, the timbre's off, but despite hearing it, you struggle to believe Simon is crying.

You didn't believe there was anything that could ever make his lieutenant - the Ghost - cry.

You ease the door open, catching Simon so very human. Broken. Hunched over, head between his knees, hands clasped tight behind his neck. He's still in most of his gear. He must have come straight from transport. John rubs his hand up and down Simon's back, but the man barely reacts. He doesn't seem to realize John's there.

Both go suddenly still at the change in the air when you come into the room.

"Simon," you whisper. Like your husband, you want to comfort him. Unlike your husband, this isn't something you've offered before, not a comfort Simon's been allowed.

You kneel in front of him, gently reaching out for a boot. In the thin light from the window, deft fingers pick apart knots so the boots are easier to slip off. First one then the other thuds to the floor behind you. You run gentle hands up his chest, unclipping the tac vest. John pulls it off Simon's shoulders. Shirt and trousers follow, the two of you working seamlessly, silently to help Simon shed Ghost. When he's down to just his pants, you slip your fingers under the edge of his mask.

"Is this okay?" Your whisper feels like a shout in the darkness.

Simon grunts and dips his chin further into your palm. You take it as permission, pulling the knit up and off. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you run your thumb through the eye black. You can't say what possesses you to do it, but you lean forward and drop little kisses on Simon's eyelids.

When they flutter open, it's like seeing directly into Simon's soul. The brown cracked with pain and desperation. A fear too big to name.

You stand, reaching one hand down to John and the other to Simon. John comes willingly, no questions. Simon needs reassurance. "It's okay, Simon. You're safe here. We've got you," you tell him. You have no idea how much you sound like John did all those years ago. It's that echo alone that allows Simon to follow you back to the room you share with his Captain.

John understands your intent immediately, ushering first you then Simon into the bed. You slide into your usual space against the wall, holding the covers up as Simon stiffly joins you. He lays on his back, ramrod straight, as John sinks into the mattress on his other side. The hand next to Simon fumbles a moment, finding his, and interlacing your fingers together. Your other hand comes to rest on Simon's chest. You curl towards John and he towards you, one hand covering yours over Simon's heart. You breathe slowly, pressing the rhythm ever so slightly into Simon's lungs.

Tension is thick for a moment. Two. Three. By ten, Simon is breathing in time with you, shuddering as silent tears slip out. Lips brush his cheek as you whisper again, "We've got you."

You do. And he knows in his bones you always will.

main masterlist

[wonderlanddreamer]

i please want a hurt/comfort where mr t. shelby gets buried alive and y/n comes to the rescue plz

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Buried beneath the earth, Tommy's only hope lies in your relentless determination as you push beyond all limits to bring him back.

Warnings: Threats, Violence, Emotional Distress.

Tommy Shelby awoke to a suffocating darkness. His first instinct was to move, but the moment he tried, he felt the crushing weight of the earth pressing down on him from all sides. Panic surged through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He forced himself to take shallow breaths, trying to conserve the limited air and stave off the rising tide of claustrophobia.

Buried alive.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. His hands trembled as he felt the smooth, wooden walls of his coffin, the grain of the timber cold and unyielding under his fingertips.

Tommy's mind raced, a torrent of thoughts and emotions swirling in the darkness. Fear, anger, and despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he clung to a single, stubborn thread of hope. He was Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders. He had survived worse than this—war, betrayal, the constant dance with death. This was just another battle.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think logically. He needed to find a way out. His fingers traced the edges of the coffin, searching for any weakness, any sign of escape. The wood was solid and unyielding, the nails driven in with cruel precision, but Tommy refused to give up.

As he struggled, he began to pound on the lid of the coffin, the sound of his fists striking the wood echoing back at him in the confined space. He hoped against hope that someone would hear him. His knuckles split and ached, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

The rhythmic pounding became a metronome of desperation. Each impact sent jolts of pain through his arms, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was still alive, still fighting. And Tommy Shelby was nothing if not a fighter.

Your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination as you stepped into the dimly lit alleyway, clutching Tommy's revolver with a steady hand. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced eerily around you. The air was thick with the scent of damp brick and refuse, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Tommy had told you everything you needed to know—who he was meeting, when he'd be home, and what to do if he didn't return. You'd gone straight to Arthur and John, but waiting around helplessly was never an option.

You were going to find him.

Your normally soft and calm demeanour had been replaced by a fierce resolve. The adrenaline coursing through your veins sharpened your senses, and your eyes scanned every corner of the alley with heightened awareness. You'd tracked down the weakest link among the men who had taken Tommy, a low-level thug named Billy, known for his cowardice. He was the kind who folded under pressure, and tonight, he would break.

Billy was leaning against a brick wall, nervously lighting a cigarette. The flickering flame briefly illuminated his anxious face. He barely had time to react before you grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall, the cold barrel of the revolver pressing into his temple with unyielding force.

"Where is he?" you demanded, your voice low but deadly serious, each word laced with an icy resolve that sent shivers down Billy’s spine.

Billy's eyes widened in terror, and the cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in a puddle with a faint hiss. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his voice quivering, betraying his fear.

You pressed the gun harder against his head, your anger flaring like a wildfire. "Don't lie to me. Tommy Shelby. Where is he?"

Billy's resolve crumbled visibly, but he still hesitated, his eyes darting around as if searching for a way out. That hesitation earned him a swift, hard punch to the gut. He doubled over, gasping for air, his wheeze echoing in the confined space of the alley.

"Talk!" you barked, your voice reverberating off the alley walls, amplifying your fury. "Or the next one won't be so kind."

Billy wheezed, his face contorted in pain, each breath a struggle. "I-I swear, I don't know!"

You didn't have time for this. You grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to his knees. The rough pavement scraped against his skin as he fell. "Wrong answer," you growled, pressing the revolver against the back of his head, the metal cold and unforgiving. "You have one last chance before I paint this fucking alley with your blood."

Billy's resolve shattered completely, his voice a desperate plea. "Alright, alright! They buried him! Out in the old graveyard, near the edge of town. Please, don't shoot! That's all I know, I swear!"

You released him with a shove, and he crumpled to the ground, whimpering. Stepping back, you kept the gun trained on him, your eyes blazing with a mix of fury and determination, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your shoulders.

"If you're lying, I'll find you again," you said coldly, your voice a promise of retribution. "And you won't get a second chance."

Billy nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the dirt and grime. "I'm not lying, I swear!"

You turned on your heel, your mind focused on only one thing: saving Tommy. With every step you took towards the graveyard, the weight of the revolver in your hand reminded you of who you were fighting for.

Your breath came in rapid bursts as you sprinted towards the old graveyard, each exhale forming a cloud of vapour in the cold night air. The revolver was clutched tightly in your trembling hand, the metal cold and unforgiving. You had sent a frantic message to John and Arthur, but waiting for them was not an option. Every second counted, and Tommy's life hung precariously in the balance.

The graveyard loomed ahead, shrouded in an eerie silence that was broken only by the rustling of leaves in the wind. The moonlight cast long, ghostly shadows over the tombstones, giving the place an otherworldly feel. As you approached, the silhouette of a man standing over a freshly dug grave came into view. Your heart lurched with a mix of fear and steely determination. Tommy was down there, buried.

You moved closer, trying to stay hidden in the shadows cast by the ancient, crooked trees. The man, however, was vigilant. His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, and without warning, he fired his gun. You ducked instinctively, the bullet whizzing past your ear and embedding itself in a nearby tree trunk. Adrenaline surged through you, and you charged forward, driven by the desperate need to save Tommy.

The man met you head-on, and the two of you clashed violently. You swung the revolver at him, but he dodged with practised ease and landed a punch to your gut, knocking the wind out of you. You stumbled back, gasping for air, but your resolve remained unbroken. You lunged at him again, grappling and struggling with every ounce of strength you had. The sound of your scuffle echoed through the graveyard, a cacophony of grunts, curses, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh.

Below you, in the suffocating darkness of the coffin, Tommy could hear the muffled sounds of the struggle above. His consciousness was slipping, each shallow breath a battle against the crushing weight of the earth. The faint sounds gave him a glimmer of hope, yet a surge of helplessness washed over him. He wanted to fight, to protect you, but he was trapped, barely able to move, let alone breathe.

"Get the fuck away from her," he thought desperately, his fists weakly pounding against the coffin lid. The fear of losing you gnawed at him, making his already limited air supply feel even thinner, his vision blurring as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.

The fight above was brutal. The man managed to get the upper hand, pinning you to the ground with his weight pressing down on your chest. His breath was hot and rancid against your face as he reached for his gun. Panic flared in your chest, but you fought back with all your might, clawing and kicking, refusing to give in.

Just as the man raised his gun to finish you off, a gunshot rang out, and he staggered back, clutching his shoulder. You looked up to see John and Arthur rushing towards you, their faces grim with determination and their guns drawn. They fired again, and the man crumpled to the ground, his threat neutralised.

John and Arthur rushed to your side, pulling you to your feet with a mix of concern and urgency. "Are you alright?" John asked, his voice tight with worry.

You nodded, your breaths coming in gasps, each one a struggle against the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Tommy...he's down there," you managed to say, pointing to the freshly dug grave.

Without wasting another second, you dropped to your knees beside the grave and began to dig frantically with your bare hands. The dirt was heavy and unyielding, caking under your fingernails and turning your hands raw and bloody, but you didn't care. You had to reach him.

"Hold on, Tommy!" you called out, your voice shaking with emotion. "We're coming! Just hold on!"

With John and Arthur's help, the hole grew deeper. The three of you worked in a desperate frenzy, scooping away the earth that entombed Tommy. Finally, your fingers brushed against the rough wood of the coffin lid. Your hands were raw and bleeding, but you didn't stop. With a surge of strength fueled by sheer willpower, you pried open the lid, revealing Tommy's pale, dirt-streaked face.

"Tommy!" you cried, reaching in to pull him out. His eyes fluttered open, and he took a gasping breath of fresh air, each inhalation a victory over the suffocating darkness that had threatened to consume him.

"We've got you," Arthur said, his voice choked with relief as he helped lift Tommy out of the coffin. "You're safe now."

Tommy's eyes, though glassy and unfocused at first, gradually locked onto yours. Despite his weakened state, the fierce protectiveness in his gaze was unmistakable. "You shouldn't have come alone," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, worry mingling with gratitude in his tone.

"I had to," you whispered back, tears streaming down your face as you helped him out of the grave. "I couldn't lose you."

John and Arthur worked quickly, their hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. They supported Tommy on either side, helping him to stand. His legs were unsteady, and he leaned heavily on them. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his warmth and the steady beat of his heart against your chest. Relief flooded through you, mingling with the lingering fear and adrenaline.

"We need to get him out of here," John said urgently, his eyes scanning the graveyard for any signs of additional threats. "There could be more of them."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "Let's move. Our car's not far."

You helped them guide Tommy towards the exit of the graveyard, moving as quickly as his condition allowed. Each step felt like progress, a step away from the brink of disaster and towards safety. The cold night air was a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the grave, a reminder that you were alive, that Tommy was alive.

As you reached the car, John opened the back door, and you carefully helped Tommy inside. He winced in pain, his body protesting the movement, but he managed a weak smile in your direction. "You really are something else, darlin’," he said, his voice raspy but filled with admiration.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his face, your fingers lingering on his cheek."I told you, Tommy. I'm not losing you."

Tommy managed a faint smile, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "I know, love. I know."

You could feel the weight of the night's events pressing down on you, but there was a sense of peace now that Tommy was safe. You gently cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the dirt and grime. His eyes closed briefly, leaning into your touch as if drawing strength from it.

"You're my everything," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Tommy's hand reached up to cover yours, his grip weak but full of warmth. "You saved me," he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude. "You always do."

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, bound by a love that had proven unbreakable, even in the face of death.

"I love you, Thomas Shelby," you said softly, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss.

He kissed you back, his lips warm and reassuring. "And I love you, more than anything," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

You held him close, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own.

As the car sped through the quiet streets, you held Tommy close, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own. The city lights flickered past the windows, casting fleeting shadows across his face. In the cocoon of the car, with the world outside rushing by, you found solace in each other's arms, knowing that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

[princessbrunette]

apocalypse!au jj would def let u grind on his thigh after a scare or stressful day :(

⊹ ׅ ۫ ꒰১ ˖ ˚ ♡ ˚ ˖ ໒꒱ ۫ ׅ ⊹

your hands couldn’t stop shaking as you patch him up, which only increases your frustrations. you were the towns nurse, for gods sake — your hands are meant to be still, reliable, and now you’re cursing to yourself— putting down the medical thread and needle after finally finishing stitching up a wound on jj’s arm, swiping at the angry tears that fall down your cheeks.

it had been a close call. you’d convinced john b into letting you tag along on what you all thought would be a quieter outing, simply scouting out a new location for potential supplies. however, things had taken a turn when one of the infected had come barrelling towards you— meaning jj would throw himself infront of you for your safety. john b shot it down, but jj had fallen into some barbed wire and cut his shoulder pretty bad. it shook you up, especially after not having been outside the gates for so long. he’d nearly died to protect you, and if he had you wouldn’t be sure how you’d live with yourself.

he cups your cheeks, tired eyes staring into your leaking ones as he swipes the tears away. “hi…what’s with the tears, pumpkin?” he coo’s and you sigh, eyeing him obviously. he was covered in grime and blood that was a mixture of his own and the infected. you wondered how he could ask something like that at a time like this. “oh my arm? s’totally fine. i mean you should see the other guy.” he rasps out, still the same joker he always was. he rotates his shoulder, showing you the mobility. “see? good as new, duchess.”

he leans down and kisses your forehead, slowly easing you to straddle his thigh. “i’m not going anywhere. okay? really, you’re gonna have to try alot harder to get rid of me.” he smiles, and you return it with a watery gaze, the blonde then pulling your head down into the crook of his neck so he could hold you on his lap. he can still feel the tension in your body, and instantly knows what you need.

“‘know what i think? i think you were a real good girl for me today. did everything i asked you to. you know i just wanna keep my pretty girl safe.”

he feels you preen under the praise, body already melting more against him. “looked so pretty too. know i should be focusing, but god damn that ass in those little shorts. just wanted to like… grab it, the way i am right now.” as he speaks, his hands slide over the globes of your ass cheeks, pulling you closer in a faux innocent gesture that forced you to grind slightly on his leg.

you let out a quiet hum and he returns it sweetly, if not a little mockingly. “yeah. i think… you just wanna forget. don’t you, babydoll?” he takes on a lower timbre to his voice, nosing at your cheek until you lift your warm face to him, letting him run his lips lightly against yours.

“uh-huh.” you manage, parted lips ghosting over his as he pulls you to roll your hips on his leg repeatedly, the zipper of your tiny denim shorts grinding against your clit through thin panties. his tongue darts out and swipes your bottom lip, hot breath transferring into your own mouth.

“mmmhm.” he presses his lips together and looks down at your connecting bodies with a smile before back up at you. “luckily for you i know jus’ the thing to make you feel better.” he informs, before closing in to connect his lips to yours. turns out, the doctors orders was an orgasm.

⊹ ׅ ۫ ꒰১ ˖ ˚ ♡ ˚ ˖ ໒꒱ ۫ ׅ ⊹

[daresplaining]

Hiya~! You're always in the back of my mind as a kind and knowledgeable source for Daredevil. ♥

Do you know if it has ever been revealed exactly what chemical blinded Matt? Or even where it was coming from/going in the middle of the city? My knowledge of comic books exploiting all potential plots makes me feel like this is a thread that would have been pulled at some point over the last 60 years, but I don't see anything.

Aah, thank you! That's a great question, and the answer is that a lot of these details have actually been kept vague. There have been a lot of retellings of Matt's origin, but they haven't explored the actual context/nuances of the accident that much and the details they have included have tended to be inconsistent. The thing that blinded Matt was a radioactive substance of some kind, but visual depictions have varied wildly, from a glowing "radioactive cylinder" to leaky barrels of toxic sludge.

Matt's accident depicted by Frank Miller, Klaus Janson, and Glynis Wein (left); and by Chris Samnee and Javier Rodriguez (right).

As I mentioned, the details of the accident itself also vary. In Daredevil #1, we learn that the substance that blinded Matt was being transported by Ajax Atomic Labs, and that the accident was caused by the truck's brakes malfunctioning:

Daredevil vol. 1 #1 by Stan Lee, Bill Everett, and Sam Rosen

In Daredevil #164's origin rehashing, Roger McKenzie tells us that it was the army transporting bomb materials through the city, and that the accident was caused by the driver suffering a sudden heart attack:

Daredevil vol. 1 #164 by Roger McKenzie, Frank Miller, Klaus Janson, Glynis Wein, and John Costanza

Perhaps most compellingly (at least to me), Tony Stark's notes on Daredevil in the Civil War Files identify a Stark Industries project (under the leadership of Tony's father) as the source of the substance, which is referred to as radioactive waste:

Civil War Files #1 by Anthony Flamini, Stuart Vandal, Ronald Byrd, Madison Carter, et al.

Mark Waid added one more detail, which gave voice to something that had previously just been implied: that this dangerous substance—whatever it was—was not supposed to be going through a populated area at all:

Caption: "That's when the driver opted to finally look up. His tires screaming, his cargo tumbled loose. It had been secured with the same kind of care one would expect—from a fly-by-night company that thought it'd be okay to illegally transport toxic waste through New York traffic." Daredevil vol. 3 #23 by Mark Waid, Chris Samnee, Javier Rodriguez, and Joe Caramagna

To this, I might add the inference that it was likely being driven through Hell's Kitchen in particular because it was (at that time) a low income neighborhood where the authorities would be less likely to notice or care.

Waid's description of the accident, and the visual of barrels of toxic waste rather than a radioactive cylinder, are reminiscent of the alternate universe version of Matt's origin that Frank Miller and John Romita, Jr. presented in Man Without Fear—which also included the juicy detail of lawyers for the corporation showing up at Matt and his father's apartment afterward and strong-arming Jack into not pressing charges.

But yes, though I understand keeping the science involved in superhero origin stories non-specific, this is definitely an area of the Daredevil lore that could use further clarification. For real-world inspiration, here's an interesting New York Times article from 1985 about the transportation of nuclear waste through New York City. This part in particular seems relevant, and fits the timing of the publication of Daredevil #1 in 1964:

"Brookhaven has had a nuclear reactor operating since 1954. From 1954 to 1976, the spent fuel - radioactive uranium - was carried by truck into New York City, across the 59th Street Bridge, north on Third Avenue and across town to the George Washington Bridge. It then went south to a site in South Carolina for reprocessing. But in 1976 the city passed a local law banning the shipments, and triggering a battle over who has authority to control the shipments."

Maybe Matt was blinded by radioactive uranium? That transport route doesn't hit Hell's Kitchen at all, but I will also point out that Matt's childhood neighborhood wasn't specified as being Hell's Kitchen until Daredevil #164. At the very least, we know that toxic stuff was going through Manhattan in 1964, so if you were interested in a potential real-world source for more details to add to Matt's accident, that seems like a good place to look.

[rawbonedhound]

Read from the beginning on AO3!

The house was quiet in the early morning, the kind of silence that felt almost sentient, shifting and breathing with the old walls. Raven moved carefully, her bare feet making no sound against the creaking wood floors as she drifted from room to room, fingers trailing over the spines of ancient tomes stacked high on every available surface.

She hadn’t meant to wake up so soon. Last night, she had found solace in John’s arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding her, his warmth a buffer against the lingering shadows of her past. He had fallen asleep first, the strain of repainting the runes weighing him down, and she had followed soon after, curled against him in the oversized chair. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the quiet comfort of another person until now.

But the dream still clung to her like cobwebs, and sleep wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Her hand brushed against a book, and she paused.

Unlike the others, this one felt… different. Not ancient, not buzzing with old magic, but something more immediate—warm, familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. She pulled it from the shelf, revealing a battered paperback with warped pages and a cover that had seen better days.

“Tantric Massage Technique and Theory.”

Raven stared.

For a long moment, she simply held the book, flipping through pages worn from use, several sections dog-eared with casual disregard. The blush creeping up her face was instant, burning hot against the cold morning air.

She snapped the book shut.

No. Nope. She shoved it back onto the shelf as if it had personally offended her, exhaling sharply and willing her pulse to settle. Of all the things she expected to find in the House of Mystery, that had not been on the list.

Shaking her head, she continued on, willing herself to focus on anything else.

Her powers were still muted under the fresh layers of John’s runes, but she could still feel—faintly, like following an old scent on the wind. A trail of something… familiar. It bled through the air, a thread of energy woven through the house, and she let it guide her.

Through the winding halls, past rooms that defied logic—doors that led to nowhere, staircases that twisted in on themselves—until she reached the basement.

The air shifted the moment she stepped onto the first stair. It was heavier here, pressing against her skin like a warning. 

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she descended.

The dim bulb flickered once before holding, casting a pale, wavering glow over the stone-walled basement. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed by Raven’s hesitant steps as she took in the sight before her.

Shelves lined the walls, crammed with objects that sent a cold shudder through her bones. A dagger, silver and wickedly sharp, lay beside an iron chain, its links cruelly fashioned with thorn-like barbs. A gun sat nearby, its design strange, its barrel inlaid with symbols she recognized from the library texts—symbols meant to bind, to wound, to kill.

Everything in this room had one purpose.

To hunt demons.

To hunt things like her.

Her breath came too fast. The basement felt smaller now, closing in, the walls pressing inward as if the house itself was watching.

She backed away from the shelves, pulse hammering against her ribs.

John had been helping her. Protecting her. She had trusted him. And yet…

Why does he have these?

A sickening thought slithered into her mind—was this why he’d helped her? Was this why he had been so quick to paint the runes, to suppress her powers? Had he been preparing for this all along? Had he—

The creak of a floorboard above her head snapped her from the spiral.

She turned sharply, just as the sound of footsteps echoed down the narrow stairwell.

John.

She saw his shadow first, stretched long against the wall by the flickering light, then him, his form materializing at the top of the stairs. His hair was in disarray, sleeves rolled up, hands braced against the frame as he looked down at her. His expression unreadable.

“Raven?” His voice was rough with sleep. Then, as he took in where she stood, the way she was frozen, her eyes wide with barely contained panic, his face changed. “Ah, shit.”

She took a step back. “What is this?”

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he started down the stairs, slow and careful, like she was some cornered animal that might bolt. “It’s not what you think.”

Raven shook her head, the pressure in her chest building. “They’re demon-hunting tools, John. Your demon-hunting tools.” Her voice wavered despite herself. “Did you bring me here just to—”

“Bloody hell,” he cut her off, sounding almost offended. “Do you really think I’d go through all this just to stab you in a basement?”

Raven’s throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

Something in her voice made him stop.

His expression softened, the sharp edges of his usual arrogance dulling. “I do hunt demons, yeah,” he admitted. “And I’ve used every single one of these at some point. But not against you. Not ever.”

She searched his face, looking for any sign of deception. “Then why do you have them?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Because I’ve been doing this a long time, love. And some demons don’t want saving.”

The words sat heavy between them.

Raven swallowed, her mind still tangled in doubt, in memories of too many people turning on her, too many betrayals, too many scars.

John took another step closer. “I chose to help you. No one forced me. And if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t need any of this.” His voice lowered. “I’d have done it the night we met.”

The truth of it settled deep in her chest.

He had every opportunity. And yet, she was still here.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

Raven exhaled, closing her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, John was watching her, waiting.

She didn’t trust easily.

But she trusted him.

“…Alright,” she murmured.

[mythserene]

John in the Star Club Tapes: No Mr. Lewisohn, he is not charming

It is so stressful to listen to the December 28th Star Club tapes. And for anyone who has endured a relationship with an out-of-control person, who has tried to minimize the damage in public, terrified in every moment, it is borderline traumatic. You’re not terrified of anything in particular, but you still feel terrified. As moments stretch out, beat by beat, every hair on your body feels electrified. Your senses are on fire. Your blood seems hot and thick. You can hear and feel your pulse BOING-BOING-BOINGing in your head, and you are just trying to get through another second. You are blind to everything else and any future. All there is is now and you must, somehow, get through this because there is no escape. 

I can remember the understanding that dawned on me when I first heard Paul trying so hard to keep it together. Heard Ringo trying to distract with little drum fills, and for the first time truly understood how much George’s guitar is his voice.

But that is not at all what Mark Lewisohn got from these tapes. (By the way, I’ve done a few threads on this night as it breaks down, and I don’t have it in me to parse through and post all that audio again now.)

--

LEWISOHN: I mean, John— we need to talk about John Lennon on this recording. These recordings. Because he’s uh— he’s- he’s- he’s belligerent. Um, he’s under the influence of— I’m sure he’s under the influence of Prellies. Probably drink, as well. Um, he’s beguiling, he’s rude—

CS: —Yeah.

LEWISOHN: —He’s still charming. He’s— I mean he’s not horrible. He’s just —yeah— he’s just edgy!

--

On December 31st John’s “Battina” might indeed be beguiling, but on the 28th nothing is fucking “edgy” and it’s certainly not “charming.” It’s a dysfunctional family at Cracker Barrel desperately trying to get dad to stop screaming at the waitress.

But what is clear from the first moment to the last is that Paul is the conductor. At first John is just shambolic and a little wild, and Paul seems fairly relaxed, but it changes. All the sounds of everyone change as John unravels. There are times when I can just see Ringo, George and Paul looking at each other, and although Paul is the one who is landing the plane, it feels so much like a team effort.

(John, playing out the cycle that would become so familiar, has shaped up and is on his best behavior on the 31st and the band sounds great.)

I think we need to realize that this was just the dynamic. This is by far not John at his worst. By all accounts this was one of John’s best behaved Hamburg trips. It was a short trip, they had real bedrooms and a real manager, and they had a future they didn’t want to screw up. All those “funny” stories about John wearing a toilet on his head and laying on the stage drunk just smudge out the three other people in the picture. How much fun was it for them? 

Derek Taylor says that one of the things that helped bring George back after he walked out of the “Get Back” sessions was Taylor going to him and saying, “Come back, don’t make Paul shoulder the burden of John all alone.” The tape from December 28th makes that so explicit. 

There is the whole separate issue of Lewisohn seeming to be a terrible listener. He listened to the NAGRAS like a tribute and has gotten so many things wrong about them in interviews that I hope someone else (wink, wink AKOM) will handle the mess, because I do not have a podcast and this ain’t the best format for lots of audio. But hearing Lewisohn gush about John being “edgy” in these recordings in that weird, fawning voice—and completely fail to see and hear what the band was going through—troubles me in a much deeper way than almost anything else regarding the man. How can anyone be that blind?

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

During an interview with his ghostwriter Charlotte Reather for THE FIELD magazine, SH mentioned buying a pair of Scottish 22-bore flintlock all-metal belt pistols made by John Murdoch of Doune, countryside of Stirlingshire from the mid-18th century. He acquired them at Bonhams, an auction house located in London's Knightsbridge.

£12.160 = $15.470

The Highland warriors of Scotland carried distinctive arms. Their pistols, unlike those made elsewhere in Great Britain, were constructed entirely from metal, usually steel, and were engraved and often silver-inlaid with geometric and foliate ornament of Celtic inspiration. This pair, signed by the renowned gunsmith John Murdoch of Doune, is a classic example of the type.

Scottish pistols were sold in pairs, sometimes with their mechanisms on opposite sides for use in each hand. A long belt hook enabled them to be worn against the body or tucked inside a plaid, protected against the weather.

From the 17th century, gunsmiths in Scotland produced pistols that were unique to the country. Made entirely of steel, elaborately engraved and with distinctively-shaped butts, they acquired the name 'Highland pistols' because many of the towns where they were made - Tain, Inverness, Brechin, Perth, Doune - skirted the southern and eastern edges of the Highlands. Their market was international and their reputation legendary.

Scotland’s Highland warriors carried an array of distinctive fighting tools – the dirk, claymore broadsword, the hidden “black knife” or skean dubh, and, for the fortunate officer, a pistol from the renowned gunsmith guild of Doune, Perthshire. This classic example of a Doune pistol is constructed entirely out of steel as Scottish wood was generally unsuitable for firearms. It is engraved with Celtic geometric and foliate ornamentation. This pistol has a trigger guard although many did not. The village of Doune was known for the manufacture of high-quality firearms in the 17th and 18th centuries but after the Battle of Culloden in 1746 and the subsequent Disarming Act – which banned Scots from carrying weapons – the town’s gunsmithing industry ceased to exist.

For the friends of Scottish arms here fotos of what I think is a very fine pistol made by John Murdoch of Doune. The barrel of the pistol has 8 flat grooves, a back- and a front sight.

A FINE PAIR OF SCOTTISH ALL-METAL FLINTLOCK BELT PISTOLS BY JOHN MURDOCH

With four-stage barrels engraved at the flared octagonal muzzles and with symmetrical scrolling foliage at the mid-sections, fluted breeches each with notched back-sight at the rear, border engraved flat bevelled locks each signed in capitals and decorated with foliage on the tail, cocks en suite (one expertly replaced), faceted line engraved steels, three-quarter stocks engraved with foliate line ornament and characteristic foliage, the undersides each with three foliate engraved silver lines, foliate engraved ram's horn butts with interlace inlaid with silver along the back and each with vacant oval silver escutcheon on both sides, silver button triggers and threaded prickers (one replaced) each engraved as a flower-head, slender partly fluted belt hooks each with pierced and engraved terminal, and original slender steel ramrods each with baluster tip engraved with a flower-head.

A Scottish pistol reputedly fired the first shot in the American War of Independence. Highland Officer, (Black Watch) 42nd Foot Royal Highland Regiment Grenadier. 1762 showing the butt of the pistol and the small leather belt it is hooked on.

It's worth noting that SH is not an antique weapon collector. While he may have bought some as memorabilia, it's important to hope that he appreciates their historical significance and doesn't simply use them to impress others with his wealth. Given his tendency to show off, it's also important to remember that these guns should not be treated as toys or used to entertain others.😐

#JohnMurdochofDoune #Highlandpistols #42ndFootRoyalHighlandRegimentGrenadier #AmericanWarofIndependence #HighlandOfficer #Scotland’sHighlandwarriors #Bonhams #London #auctionhouse

Posted 22nd March 2024

[consanguinitatum]

David Tennant's Obscure Performances: His Involvement with Read Not Dead (pt 4) - The Insatiate Countess

And here, my friends, is the fulfillment of my promise - the last of the four threads about David Tennant and his involvement with the Read Not Dead (heretofore called RND) project at Shakespeare's Globe. This will concern the second of the two unattributed plays David did for RND and is the last of the two never-before-talked-about-in-the-fandom plays he did with them. If you feel like you need to catch up on the first three parts and understand a little bit of the history behind the Read Not Dead project before continuing with this one, go here for the first part about Edward III, here for the second part about The Fleer, and here for the third part about What You Will. Then come on back!

With all those links out of the way, we can continue with the last of the four plays - and the second one which I believe new to the David Tennant fandom.

When we last left our intrepid Scots thespian David T., he'd just wrapped up a staged reading of John Marston's What You Will for the RND. He had managed to fit the reading in between the April-May 2002 and the July-August 2002 runs of his then-current hit play, Lobby Hero.

Between then and November of 2002 (the next time he stepped on the Bear Gardens stage to do another RND staged reading) David had been seen on a number of other projects. In 2002 alone he'd been featured on an episode of Foyle's War and in the short film Nine And 1/2 Minutes by Josh Appignanesi. Lobby Hero had got him noticed; his star was on the rise. He was getting busier (and he'd get busier still when his next two plays, 2003's The Pillowman and 2005's Look Back In Anger, as well as his seminal role as Peter Carlisle in 2004's Blackpool, would catapult him into the public consciousness.) And - of course! - Doctor Who was also barreling down the pipe. But all that was still in his future.

David Tennant in (clockwise from top left): Foyle's War, Nine And 1/2 Minutes, The Pillowman, and Look Back in Anger

No, for right now it is Sunday, 10 November 2002, and we're along for the ride as David arrives at the Globe for the morning's balls to the wall rehearsal of the Tony Bell-directed John Marston play, The Insatiate Countess, before getting on stage at the Bear Gardens Theatre. We don't know whether David signed up for this one (or any of them, for that matter)! If so, he received his script a few days before, but if he was drafted at the last minute he would've received his script only hours before taking the stage that afternoon! Either way, he was surely up for it.

In the previous thread on What You Will I spoke about playwright John Marston. But this play - The Insatiate Countess - is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Marston started writing the tragicomedy in 1608 and had the first act and part of the second written before - oops! - he was thrown in jail. Following Marston's imprisonment, the play languished for a while, and when Marston was released and took holy orders he wanted NO part of finishing it. Two other writers took it upon themselves to finish the draft: actor William Barksted, and Lewis Machin. This multi-authored approach caused significant issues - the other authors juggled the names of the characters, for one - and suffice to say, it really isn't a "finished" play in the way we'd envision the meaning of the term. It finally got published in 1613.

Scholars have had a lot to say about the play's provenance, and there are many different editions of it. It's also widely studied because it's been acknowledged as highly unusual for its time - since it shows female characters driven explicitly by sexual desire.

According to UK Theatre Web, The Insatiate Countess is "a play dripping with innuendo from its very first lines [as] sexual obsession leads to murder as Isabella, widowed Countess of Swevia, wastes little time in remarrying before running off with another man. And then another. And yet another." And, as is usual for plays of this period, there is also a second comic plot going on. "Meanwhile, two new brides coolly frustrate their husbands' wife-swapping attempts at revenge."

So...if the uniqueness of The Insatiate Countess has intrigued you and you'd like to read (one version of) a full text of the play, you can find it here:

That link will take you to the version of the play used during the RND performance reading.

But back to that staged reading. When RND staged it in November 2002, they stated "it was the first performance of the complete play - tragic and comic plots together - since the 17th Century." David played the role of Rogero, Count of Arsena and Massino, later Isabella’s lover. The actors all donated their time to the project for free.

And here (again thanks to the Globe Archives) is the cast list from the digitized programme for the 10 November 2002 performance:

In February 2020, the Shakespeare Institute Players (their student theatre company out of Stratford) performed The Insatiate Countess, by William Barkstead and Lewis Machin, from a draft by John Marston." There appears to be no full version available online, but here is a short snippet of it if you'd like to take a listen:

And with that, my patient listeners, we wrap up the history of David's four interactions with the Shakespeare's Globe Read Not Dead project, which brings dead plays to life. While David did only four plays, the Read Not Dead project continues to this day.

One last postscript: the performance of The Insatiate Countess was recorded - as were all four of David's staged readings with RND - though I haven't listened to it (and sadly, the archive notes the start of the audio is cut off.) You can listen to the recording of the performance and others from the series, as the recordings are archived in the Globe Archive and Library in London. Access to the archive is available by appointment only for professionals and academics affiliated with institutions of higher education.

I've listened to Edward III and The Fleer, but have yet to hear What You Will or The Insatiate Countess. On my next trip to London, I'll be sure to make time to listen to both - even though some of the audio is missing on both of those, that's all right. I'll listen to them anyway!

I hope you all have enjoyed traipsing with me down the memory lane of David Tennant's works at the RND. 'Til next time!

[meekmadmel]

Chapter 18/Desperate To Jump

Far Cry 5 Montana's Feral Alchemist

Grace worries about Rook, Faith reflects upon her initiation into the Seed family... ...“Tell me, Faith, do you appreciate my fine work? I mean now that you’ve had the chance to sleep on it…” His eyes chiselled into hers as his hand traced over his own chest and then trailed to his low abdomen mapping the location of her wounds. “The bite, now, well–that’s all Jacob’s.” He then picked up his newspaper and opened it with a dramatic flourish...

The Deputy and Grace had set out early from the Hope County Jail. Rook was intent on freeing hostages, attacking Peggies and destroying cult property as they followed the roads. Grace would have preferred a more explicit target but she had come to accept that the Deputy’s methods were often more spontaneous. At times Grace felt Rook was too impulsive. Then again, she had to concede that sometimes her brashness was the key to success.

“Peggies!” Grace warned, spotting a white truck up ahead. Behind it was a civilian's vehicle. Two people on their knees. “I’m going to get a better angle.” She headed towards the embankment opposite, threading into the trees for cover. There were three enemies total. Two with guns and an Angel meandering around the vehicles and occasionally into the road.

This will be easy, Grace thought. A little stealth, some good planning–

Rook had barrelled directly towards the lot of them, her sawed off shotgun at the ready. She shot the cultist nearest to the captured and he went up in flames screaming. As she sidestepped the disoriented running inferno she then closed the distance between herself and the second gunman, shooting him dead centre with her .44 Magnum Canon. Finally she spun swiftly and the sprinting Angel fell just before her, a bullet lodged in its skull. She paused for a moment to survey the scene and then set to freeing the hostages.

Grace approached and then she, the deputy and the rescued shared what intel they had. The civilians had been on their way to join the resistance when they had been detained and Grace and Rook expressed their thanks. As they parted ways Grace observed Rook as she went through the enemies’ pockets. Grace was a woman of few words. Funny, in Rook’s company she was a fucking magpie. Grace sensed that the Deputy sometimes threw herself into action just to avoid the entanglements of familiarity. Since she escaped John, Rook had grown more distant. Her unpredictability was mounting. But what worried Grace most was that she felt the Deputy was developing an appetite for slaughter.

The Deputy met Grace’s eyes and saw her concern. Rook bowed her head and rubbed the back of her neck. Her tell, Grace thought.

Rook then met Grace’s eyes. “I’m fine,” she insisted, planting a hand on her hip and looking away.

“Yeah? What happened out there, Dep?” Grace’s head inclined regarding Rook as if she were a dog that might bite.

“Fuck, Grace. I was high on Bliss, I–” Rook stopped. Her arm outstretched mid gesture dropped hopelessly to her side. She drew her hand across her mouth examining the pavement.

“John Seed nearly drowned me.” She said finally, her voice flat, still unable to meet Grace’s eyes. “And,” she swallowed, silent for a moment again. “And I felt I deserved it.”

Grace approached the Deputy, and placed her hand on her shoulder. “I’m worried about you Dep.” Her voice was gentle, yet firm.

“I’ll be okay.” Rook insisted. “There was chatter earlier about a road block further ahead, let’s check it out,” she said as she began to follow the road once more. Grace paused and then followed after her.

“I’ve got your back, Dep.” ____________________________________

Faith was naked reclined diagonally across her bed. She petted the Marshal’s head as he nuzzled the scar on her inner thigh. Intermittently he dared to kiss her sex and she would gently tap him then, a reminder that she had not given him express permission to do so. It was a game which delighted her. At last she extricated herself from Burke’s devotion and donned her white lace dress. She viewed herself in the full length mirror, tying and smoothing the ribbon bow at her waist behind her.

She recalled when Joseph had first presented her with the dress. She had been attending Eden’s Gate services for some time. She was still Rachel Jessop then. Like most she was drawn to Joseph. In his presence not only did she feel love, but she felt worthy of it. As the weeks and then the months went by she found herself advancing from the pews farther back until at last she admired his sermons from the very front, her hands clasped together in devotion. She was seventeen when he invited her to his home at the Seed Ranch and she marvelled at her fortune to share a family dinner with Joseph, Jacob and John. They made her feel so welcome. John had held her chair out for her, while Jacob had captivated her with a story about charming a wolf.

As the meal and the conversation drew to an end, Joseph stated that she would be family as well. John and Jacob sat silent and observing as Joseph rose from his seat and then held his hand out to her. “Come with me, child.”

Rachel took his hand obediently and he led her upstairs to a bedroom. She was apprehensive and confused. His eyes were piercing as he stared at her. He reached for her and held her face with both of his hands as he kissed her, his tongue coarse and cruel. She pulled away from him, anxious to leave. Shaken, she crossed the room towards the door and opened it narrowly before Joseph followed her and slammed the door shut with both hands outstretched over her head. Turning, Rachel was trapped between the door and Joseph. His cold silence and sudden flat expression frightened her. Joseph left her trembling by the door and proceeded to withdraw a syringe from the bedside table. Rachel had been clean for over a year, her days as an addict still haunted her. The sight of the syringe horrified her and she began to cry.

“Ssshhh. This is not the poison you sullied yourself with. This is Bliss, this will allow you to realise your purpose.”

“Please let me leave,” she cried.

“Tracey’s making a new life for herself, I hear…” Joseph’s gaze wandered away from Rachel to the window, the syringe still firmly held in his hand. “What a shame it would be if she fell to harm after all she’s endured…”

Though she and Tracey had parted ways, she still loved her, and the thought of her being hurt was unbearable. “Please Father, forgive me…”

He met her eyes coldly and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sit beside me, Rachel,” he demanded. She trembled as she crossed to him and at last settled next to him.“I’m going to fill you with my faith.” He said as he extended her arm and injected her. “You will become angelic. You will assist my brothers and I in the propagation of The Project. That is your destiny.”

After the injection, she lost hours. The evening had come and gone and when she regained consciousness the sun was harsh and brutal, judging as it streamed through the window and causing her eyes to ache. Joseph stood looking out the window dressing himself. The scars and tattoos on Joseph's torso had never appeared more raw to her. As he buttoned his shirt he watched her from the corner of his eye. She began to stir and sit up in bed. Joseph approached and pulled the blood stained sheet back that covered her. He was content to watch as she violently ascended from her sedated state and looked down at herself. “FAITH” was carved deep into her chest and across her abdomen “GLUTTONY, LUST” and “SLOTH.” Only then did she begin to feel the pain gnawing and burning.

Joseph looked out the window as he spoke to her, his voice cold and adamant. “You are no longer Rachel Jessop, you understand? You are Faith Seed. I’ve left you a dress there. Clean yourself. Bandage your wounds well and then meet me at the church.” He left her then to discover the extent of her torments. There were bruises tracing over her entire body, rope burns about her ankles and wrists. Showering was painful, a solitary bite mark on her inner thigh. She cried as she dressed herself. The pristine white of the dress seemed to mock her defilement.

At last she descended the stairs, pain hindering every step. John was sitting on the couch and met her eyes as she rested on the final step. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were shadowed, cruel. “Tell me, Faith, do you appreciate my fine work? I mean now that you’ve had the chance to sleep on it…” His eyes chiselled into hers as his hand traced over his own chest and then trailed to his low abdomen mapping the location of her wounds. “The bite, now, well–that’s all Jacob’s.” He then picked up his newspaper and opened it with a dramatic flourish. “Hurry along, dear sister. Joseph’s waiting for you.” She felt a wave of nausea rise. So bitter, and crippling that she felt her legs weaken. She steadied herself then, placing her hand over the banister. She struggled to breathe, her chest aching and tight. John smiled at her once more, noting her hesitation, delighting in her pain. “That’s it, dear. Just breathe. And by the way, that dress suits you perfectly! I chose it myself, you know. Aren’t you just the picture of innocence and light…”

Now the dress was her totem, she was no longer a servant. Faith pirouetted before her mirror and settled in a plie her hands held behind her back. She closed her eyes and pictured Rook. Faith was eager for that first touch, she wanted so desperately to soothe the Deputy’s soul.

Oh so gently she would nudge Rook. She would guide her to the precipice. And in the end, she would not need to push.

No.

Faith was certain that Rook would be desperate to jump.

[annelies-fanfic-outlet]

a bonny fine maid of a noble degree

Fandom: Robin Hood

Character(s): Maid Marian x Robin Hood

Rating: T (cw: attempted sexual assault)

Summary: Marian had her hair tied back and was dressed the same as everyone else, so usually she blended in in the chaos of the fight. Usually.

Wordcount: 1.2k

It wasn’t the first time Marian had accompanied the Merry Men on a “donation collection” – as Robin called them. Marian could handle herself, and besides, their reputation had spread so that their mere appearance in forest green would encourage immediate capitulation.

This time, however, felt different. The restlessness of the baron and his household betrayed anticipation more than it did fear. Marian looked over to Robin to say something but found him surveying the room with suspicion already. He nudged Little John, who casually made his way to the back of the group as Robin continued chatting amiably with the baron.

There was a cry from the doorway behind him.

“At arms!” Little John bellowed.

Everyone had their swords out in a moment. Metal on metal sounded. The baron’s household scrambled down hallways, except for the nobleman himself and a number of his men. Robin appeared suddenly beside Marian, the tension around his mouth betraying his still-relaxed demeanour.

He didn’t say anything to her, just gave her a nod, before checking on Adam, the youngest and newest recruit.

The baron and his men approached, and soldiers pressed in from the back and the fight began.

Fights were always a blur for Marian, especially in such close quarters. She lost track of Robin, lost track of everyone, really, apart from the general awareness of green-clad bodies around her.

But then, she got the look, the look she always dreaded. She had her hair tied back and was dressed the same as everyone else, so usually she blended in in the chaos of the fight. Usually.

A man in Nottingham colours looked at her and she knew he knew. Nothing scared her like that look did.

Before they had entered the keep, Robin had reminded anyone that if things went south not to run further into the keep. “They all know the passages better than you do,” he said. “Running into that maze is always the last resort.”

But Marian was not like all the other Merry Men; she had been here before many times, as her father and the previous baron had been friends.

So she let fear-fueled adrenaline take hold and sprinted to the nearest doorway, which she knew led down into the cellar: a labyrinthine series of rooms and tunnels she had explored extensively as a child.

The noise of the fight faded as she ran down the stairs, which only served to emphasize the heavy steps that followed her. She lugged open the heavy door, not waiting to close it behind her and ran into the dark.

Marian’s deerskin boots were perfect for staying silent in the forest and were nearly as effective on stone. She ducked around barrels and slipped down passages. But still, her pursuer was close behind.

She was just thinking about finding a way to double back and rejoin the fight upstairs when she stumbled. She managed to regain her balance just as a hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Her head was wrenched back, and she cried out. Her hands flew up to try to pry his fingers away.

“I didn’t realize his little mistress was in on his thievery,” a foul-smelling voice said near her ear.

“I’m his betrothed,” Marian snapped, eyes tearing up at the pain. “Lady Marian, daughter of Baron Robert Fitzwalter.”

“I only see an outlaw wench,” the man sneered, his other hand coming down to grip her waist.

Marian squirmed, reaching for her sword. The man threaded his arm between her back and arms, pulling the latter back roughly.

He let go of her hair, allowing her some relief, until he reached around and, with a swipe of a knife, severed her belt and sent her sword and dagger clattering to the ground.

He had to have another weapon on him, Marian thought. Her fingers fumbled behind her, feeling for his belt.

“Inspecting the goods?” he asked. “Don’t mind if I do the same, do you, my lady?” his free hand slid up her torso to her chest.

Marian closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until she felt a dagger-hilt, cool against her fingertips. Something else pressed up against her back and she knew that the time was now.

She hung her head, as though in defeat, as he roughly groped at her collar, ripping the fabric. Then she slammed her head back into his chin, her hand closing around the dagger hilt as he reared back and let her go.

Quick and calculated, she spun around and drove the dagger into the place where the sleeve and body of his chainmail met, where it was the weakest. The blade split through and into his shoulder. He cried out in surprise and pain, falling back and slamming into the ground.

Marian fell with him, pulling the dagger out and stabbing it where the chainmail tunic ended, right above the collarbone. She pressed down and twisted until blood spurted out, splattering her face. He coughed, hands scrabbling weakly at her arms. Blood dribbled out between his lips. Marian watched as his eyes went blank.

She didn’t know how long she sat there in the dark before Robin’s voice shook him out of her stupor.

“Marian!”

She blinked and released the dagger. “Robin?” she tried to shout back, but it came out as a hoarse croak.

Robin appeared at the entrance of the chamber and ran to her side. She looked up at him, stomach roiling. He took stock of the dead man’s stare, the dagger, and the torn cloth of her tunic.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, holding out a hand.

Marian took it, hand shaking. He helped her to her feet, a gentle hand coming up to her face, turning it to inspect for injuries. Once he saw that the blood wasn’t her own, he smiled grimly.

“You wouldn’t happen to know a back entrance, would you, my love?” he asked softly.

She gestured ahead of them. “That’s where the illegal goods are brought in at night,” she mumbled.

Robin kissed her forehead – the only part of her face that was free of blood – and led her in that direction, stooping to grab her belt and sheaths on the way.

The small door led to a small outcropping of land, beyond which the moat was a ten-foot barrier to the forest.

“I suppose we shall have to swim for it,” Robin said, glancing over at Marian.

She nodded. “I suppose,” she said, voice flat.

Robin squeezed her hand once before letting go and slipping into the water without a sound. Marian was right behind him, and they quickly made it to the other side.

Once in the safety of the trees, Marian fell to her knees and emptied the contents of her stomach on the forest floor. Robin knelt beside her, hand firm but gentle on her back.

“Few men will admit it,” he said. “But everyone’s first kill up close is difficult. Shooting a man from a distance is so much different.”

Marian nodded, spitting the foul taste from her mouth. She was certain she had killed before – accidentally or on purpose. She had shot enough arrows at distant targets.

“But you did nothing wrong,” he said. “Marian, he was going to… hurt you. You just reacted instinctively, and you got out.”

She nodded again and avoided his eyes. She was not sure instinct had been the only factor.

But she let him pull her to her feet and followed him further into the forest that had become their home.

[bloggingexpert]

A Day in Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island

An easterly drive on Long Island’s Route 25A reveals an opening in the foliage just over the Nassau-Suffolk County line on the left side and a splotch of water known as “Cold Spring Harbor.” That water, of both the fresh and salt types, defined it, sustained it, and became its raison d’etre. “Water is the defining characteristic of the place now called Cold Spring Harbor,” according to Robert G. Hughes in his Images of America: Cold Spring Harbor book (Acadia Publishing, 2014, p. 7). “To the indigenous inhabitants, it was known as Wawapex, or ‘at the good little water place.’ The European settlers of the 17th century named the area after its abundance of freshwater springs.” Like a mirror, that water reflects its changing color and character as it does—slate gray on cloudy days, cobalt blue on clear ones, and orange and reds near its shores on autumn ones. It also reflects its history. It served as a draw and became the means to sustain the lives of those who settled there. Only a few hundred yards beyond this view, the road arcs to the left and threads its way through the hamlet, which is very small. But so, too, are gens. This one sparkles through its harbor and exudes its history through its nature, museums, and restored buildings. It is a living example of how its purpose has evolved as a result of time, transportation, and technology. And a day spent here will demonstrate that. Cold Spring Harbor History: Located on Long Island’s North Shore-specifically on the western edge of what was once Huntington’s 1653 First Purchase-Cold Spring Harbor arose because of its water artery, providing the many means by which it developed over the next three centuries. Power, the initial one, turned the mills that cut the locally grown trees, supplied the wood to construct farms, and ground the grain they grew, all made possible by the dam across from the Cold Spring River that John Adams erected in 1682. Aside from these saw and grist mills, there were also those that wove and created paper. “Dams at the edge of large ponds and lakes generated power to run grist, saw, paper, and woolen mills where local grain, trees, and wool were transformed into food, logs, paper, barrels, and woven materials, such as broadcloths, blankets, and coverlets,” according to the CSHFHM News: The Newsletter of the Cold Spring Harbor Fire House Museum (Winter 2015). Water also positioned Cold Spring Harbor as a delivery port, its next significant role, when an Act of Congress appointed a surveyor of customs on March 2, 1799. He was entrusted with the “power to enroll and license vessels to be employed in the coasting trade and fisheries and to enter and clear, and grant registers and other usual papers, to vessels employed in the whale fisheries.” Devoid of any appreciable land-based infrastructure, the country relied on rivers and seas for passenger and cargo transport during this time. In the case of Cold Spring Harbor, water served as its channel for schooners to deliver rice, coffee, sugar, wood, coal, sand, and gravel to New York City and destinations beyond, specifically those along the East Coast and as far as the West Indies in the Caribbean. The integral role Cold Spring Harbor played in coastal trading is reflected by the 99 ships registered there in 1883. And its waters became the threshold to the whaling ships that sailed even further afield.

[humanveil]

from a parallel universe wip draft thing:

4. When Joy Comes, Will I Be Ready, I Wonder.

Her life is never quiet, now, except on the rare occasion. Except for when she’s allowed moments like this: early morning, Sunday, the apartment warm and cosy and smelling of pine, cinnamon, eggnog, evergreen. Elliot carried the tree—a real one, barely big enough to make it past her thigh, its spotty foliage equal parts pathetic and endearing—up all nine flights of stairs two days ago, then stood, doubled over, out of breath and unamused while she sat there and tried her hardest not to laugh at him.

It’s covered in glitter now; tinsel, too. Loose sparkles and fallen needles litter the floor beneath it, homemade ornaments hanging on by a thread. Olivia sits cross legged beside it, idly poking at a bauble and smiling when it swings, the gentle back and forth strangely soothing.

It’s been a long few weeks. Moving is never easy, but moving in December with a two-year-old in tow and a killer on the loose had proved downright disastrous. They still have so much to do—still have boxes left open, untouched, half-hidden in the corners. She’s started picking at them when she can’t sleep, but it never achieves much of anything. Mostly, she fixates on the three boxes labelled BOOKS, drawn to the ritual of sorting, re-sorting, the quiet routine a remedy for her late-night nerves. Those nagging thoughts: How is this my life now?

How do I make it last?

They’re mostly hers, the books. Annotated, inherited. Elliot isn’t much of a reader, except for when their daughter asks, her book of choice shoved toward his chest as she demands, Do the voices, Daddy! He always does; a new set for each one. Olivia listens whenever she can, the insides of her cheeks bitten raw and bloody with her attempts to hide her grin. More than once, she’s caught him at the kitchen sink reciting Maurice Sendak, his voice low, deep, a rhythmic whisper.

Oh, please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!

She’d finally started organising the shelves last night. Had settled on aiming for a semblance of order: fiction and poetry first, then nonfiction, work related, self-help. Alcott sits next to Atwood, Austen, Blake. A shelf down: Dickens, Dickinson, Dostoevsky. She got all the way to Shakespeare before it got the best of her, her throat tight with a tell-tale burn as she thumbed through the Complete Works, its spine cracked and edges frayed, the cover page coffee stained. A dead woman’s penmanship: With sighs of fire, Olivia. She’d had to stop, after that. Moved on to something easier.

Now, she sits amidst the flow on from Bea’s room, books her daughter had outgrown or didn’t like or lost interest in stacked haphazardly at her side. She’d made steady progress til a picture book of JFK had caught her eye (John’s idea of a recovery room gift. You can never start too early, he’d said, which was Munch for, Congratulations. It’s a girl!). The apartment had started to stir around the same time a car arrived at Dealey Plaza, so Olivia had cleared her mess and sat back, poking baubles while she waited for the chaos to trickle in.

It hadn’t taken long.

It never does.

She hears the commotion come to life. Tip toes, first. Running water. Then: Voices. Mattress springs. A soft thud, a peel of laughter. Little feet running across the laminate as larger, heavier footfalls follow.

A flash of colour. Two people barrelling into the room, one right after the other.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Beatrice cries. “Save me!”

She’s a blur of white, pink, pastel blue, purple. Unicorns are the latest craze; her onesie has a glittery, golden horn hanging from its hood, and it bounces as she dashes past Olivia to weave through the furniture, her father a half-step behind.

“Don’t run in the house,” Olivia tries, but it’s half-hearted at best. She knows full well that it falls on deaf ears.

Bea pulls the rookie move and stops to glance behind her, a mess of dark brown bed hair covering her eyes. Elliot seizes the opening and swoops down, scoops her up, his triumphant little hurrah almost drowned out as Bea’s laugh morphs into a squeal, her little legs kicking as she tries to wiggle free from her father’s hands.

“Mommy!” she cries again, the word broken up by giggles. “Make him sto–OP.”

Elliot’s got her bridal style, his head bent to blow raspberries against her chubby, round cheeks. “Nuh-uh,” he says, sing-song. “Mommy can’t save you now!”

There’s more giggling; another squeal for help as Olivia gets to her feet. “Alright,” she says, no-nonsense. It’s easy to slip into an imitation of Detective Benson, assertive and formidable if not for the fact that she’s standing in a pair of old sweats, her arms outstretched, hands clasped to form a finger gun. She aims it at Elliot’s chest. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

Sunlight falls across the living room, striped and golden and flickering gently, the bright light forcing Elliot to squint. “You’ll never take me alive,” he says, an emulation of the movies. His cheeks are red, blotchy, the creases of their sheets embedded in his skin. He looks sleep-warm, inviting; Olivia sees Bea curl toward him even as she thumps a little fist against his chest.

“Daddy,” she scolds, the way only a two-year-old can. “You have to do what she says!”

Olivia laughs, then sticks her tongue out when Elliot rolls his eyes. She can tell that he’s biting back a grin, too, a laugh of his own stuck at the back of his throat.

“Don’t I know it,” he says, a kiss placed to the top of Bea’s head. He deposits her on the couch, careful, and holds his hands up for them to see. “Alright, alright,” he tells Liv. “Don’t shoot.”

Olivia steps forward, hand catching Elliot’s wrist so she can make her mock arrest. She moves closer than she needs to, her chin propped atop his shoulder, her body stealing what’s left of his warmth. “Anything you say can and will be held against you,” she says, her voice low, the innuendo clear.

Elliot tilts his head to get a glance of her. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” Her free arm winds around his middle, her hand flat against his chest. “Naptime ‘round here gets very eventful.”

His laugh is tangible. She feels it ripple along his sternum, up his spine, and hides her smile against his shoulder blade, her grip on his wrist shifting so they’re just holding hands.

“Looking forward to it, Detective.”

not 100% happy w this yet but from the draft fic notes to explain my choice of name for an eo kid: bea, as in beatrice, as in inspired by both the shakespeare character from much ado about nothing and the beatrice of dante alighieri’s the divine comedy, because a sharp-witted little terror that is also a heavenly guide representative of grace and faith sounds a lot like an eo kid, dunnit? i also just like the idea that olivia’s name is inspired by the olivia of twelfth night, and so (TO ME!) it is a small way to carry on serena’s tradition. also also: on the list of names i looked at, it sounded the best with benson-stabler. lmao.

thinking about her (girlmom liv)

[mercurygray]

#11 superstition for Eileen Hammond and John Basilone on tour

This is less of a superstition and more of a...beginning of a habit.

Backstage always smelled funny.

Didn't seem to matter where he went or what theater he was in - the backstage always smelled like old canvas and sawdust and stale smoke, mixed occasionally with oil paint and the strange hot smell of stage lamps and expectation. The MC was always out in the front of the stage, with the orchestra in the pit sawing away at The Marine Hymn or Anchors Aweigh, and he could feel the Medal getting heavy around his neck, the words of his speech getting jumbled around in his head.

Pull yourself together, man. You're a goddamn Medal of Honor winner. You're not scared of a crowd of people.

But he was scared - or something like scared. Run over open ground, change a hot barrel, charge a position - you could practice those things until you knew them solid. But a crowd was always different. A crowd saw your mistakes. And it didn't help, now, that he had a partner who seemed to be utterly fearless.

Eileen Hammond wasn't afraid of anything when it came to getting up in front of a crowd. She strode up to the microphone like it was nothing, beamed one of her million watt smiles, and the crowd went wild. And why shouldn't they? Put her in front of the Rotary club or the goddamn Rose Bowl, it wouldn't matter - she would knock it out of the park every time. She was a star, and he was - well. He was just a dumb kid from Jersey who'd gotten lucky.

Tonight wasn't the Rose Bowl, but it felt pretty close - the Hollywood Palladium, four thousand seats, and every single one of them filled with someone who wanted to see a real-live hero up close. They were both standing backstage, waiting for the cue, Eileen resplendent in a long-sleeved evening gown with orchids in her hair, and he in his Marine blues, half-hidden in the dim light backstage. John would have killed for a cigarette, for a chance to pace. But Eileen was merely standing in the wings, watching through the curtains as the MC strode onstage and took the mike to begin his opening remarks.

"Sound off for equipment check."

John turned. "What's that?"

Eileen snorted. "It's - never mind."

"No, really."

The actress smiled and uncrossed her arms. "Before a jump, a parachute jump, you go down the stick - the line of soldiers in the plane - and you sound off for an equipment check. Then you check the gear of the woman in front of you - her harness, her straps, her buckles. Soldier behind you does the same, all the way up to the girl in front. Then you wait for the green light, and the jump master gives the command for the first soldier to go. And then you jump." She offered a little shrug. "Not a lot of space for stage fright."

"Well, Miss Hammond, how do I look?"

Eileen looked him over, doing a slow turn around him to tug at his belt, adjust his collar and jimmy his ribbon bar carefully back into place. "Pretty good," she said, stepping back to look at her work. "How about me?"

The invitation caught him off-guard, and he realized, belatedly, that she was serious, and the slow revolution she was making was not to show off her figure. I'm not just a pretty partner here, Basilone. I'm the solider standing next to you - the one who's going to make sure your chute opens and you don't die.

And you're going to need me, where you're going.

He cleared his throat and tried to look with new eyes, carefully picking a stray thread off of her sleeve and pushing a hairpin back into place. "Pretty damn good."

She nodded, pleased. "Now, when you're done with your check, you tap the shoulder of the soldier in front of you - twice, like this." She clapped him twice on the shoulder. "Two okay."

She lifted up his hand and laid it on her own shoulder, looking deep into his eyes, and he realized what she was doing. "One okay."

She nodded, and wrapped her arm around his, steadying the two of them in the space between the curtains where they'd need to walk out. "Stand at the door," she said, to everyone and no one, and he felt his pulse start to race, the light and the noise from the stage growing louder and brighter.

"…and gentleman, the man you've all been waiting to see - Sergeant John Basilone!"

"Smile," said Eileen, and John did as he was told, hoping that just one ounce of of her fearlessness could carry through his sleeve, and wondering all the while if jumping out of an airplane was better than walking onto a stage. Maybe we'll do this every time, he thought to himself, eyes temporarily blinded by the stage lights. Maybe then it won't be so bad.

Eileen was still there, on his arm, and for a brief moment he was flying, but he knew somehow that she would not let him fall.

[littlefreya]

Easy Prey

Summary: Direct sequel to Jerk. Ring or not, August promised himself that he will make you his, in whatever mean possible and he kept that promise. 

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (2nd person pov)

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: 18+, dark, kidnapping, bondage, dubious consent, teasing, dirty talk, gunplay (yeah add this to the list of kinks I gave you), sweet degradation and praise.

A/N: You thought August is going to sweet talk this one, didn’t you? Surprise! This was a short drabble brought by a prompt, turned into a one-shot and then my beta @agniavateira suggested this as a sequel to Jerk before I posted. Since most of you may be in a thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, enjoy my own early b-day gift to you! Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming and @sapphirescrolls who convinced me to post this. 

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. Your feedback is my fuel. 🖤

Easy Prey

August Walker lived his life swinging between the two sharp edges of a sword; but then, how could he not? He had to maintain a handsome prime-alpha male reputation while hiding his true cruel nature masked beneath mist and shadows.

It took everyone by surprise once it was revealed that the slick, charming agent was a vicious, Armani-wearing monster. A hard-to-swallow pill for most, but these two diverse entities were always one and the same: 

August Walker was John Lark the way darkness followed light. 

And how unfortunate it was of you to be lured into the spider’s web, stunned by the beauty of the pearly silk; you’ve gotten too close and had your limbs caught in the sticky threads. Now captured, you’ve earned yourself a taste of August’s sweet toxin yourself. 

Fear wasn’t even close to the sensation that was gnawing in your gut.

The suite was cosy; a sleepy fire crackled in the mantle, shy beams of maple light kissed your bare breasts while you laid upon the softest pillows. It felt like a sinister joke compared to the ropes charring the supple flesh of your wrists. August had you stripped of any remnants of protection of course, save for the little jewellery circling your finger which he eyed with a blank stare that screamed in its contained silence.

Fully clothed, he stood at the fore of the bed, wearing a blue three-piece suit as if he was attending a royal wedding. A magnum was clutched in his right hand and a dagger in the other. The calmness and elegance of his appearance only made you arch and grunt in your fruitless attempts to set yourself free.

“Ropes too tight, angel?” He hummed, his voice so pleasant it felt like your lungs were floating in a void. His crystal-pale gaze dawdled upon you, invading beneath the skin, penetrating the warm crease between your legs which you fought to keep shut. 

He felt it, or maybe even smelled the arousal that wafted at his direction and chanted his name.

“I’d save my strength if I were you. We’ve already proven that no one can hear your screams and we have a long night ahead of us.”

His words covered the bones of your spine with a thick layer of frost and in your searing throat, a bitter substance reemerged. Screwing your eyes shut, you wished more than anything for this to be a nightmare; but every time the binds twisted about your hands, you remembered the dreadful meaning behind the pain. 

It was there to remind you of the harsh slap that was reality.  

August tilted his head, a smile beginning to spread from each corner of his mouth: all pleasant and  charming as if this was nothing but a couple’s naughty getaway. 

“You can’t wake up from this, this is not a dream… or a nightmare, depends on your disobedience,” he assured, boding a sudden hollow in your chest. “Now, which one do you prefer? The knife or the gun?”

“Fuck you!” 

Defiant, you gathered yourself to scream a trembling cry, sending your legs to kick the mattress in a hopeless fight. Only it made things worse as August was able to spot the little dew-kissed orchid between your legs, glistening-wet with invitation. 

Flicking a tongue over his upper lip, he crept close. His broad shoulders strained, his posture that of an elegant predator; as you saw the large outlines of his heavy cock stretching his navy-blue trousers, even hatred and horror couldn’t mask the pang of need that shot through your core.

Despite the panic, the traitorous instinct of life whispered of undisclosed, primal lust. You wished so badly you could fight or hide it, but alas there was no hiding from August. He could sense it, see it, and even taste it on his wicked tongue. 

“Gun then,” he answered and slid the knife back into the holster in his belt.

Your breath hitched as the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and you watched paralysed as he aimed the gun between your legs. Strong tremors coursed along your skin and your knees buckled and wobbled as the cold metal touched you; and yet, in that very moment, you did the impossible and moaned.

“Has it been that long since you had a dick inside you?” August observed with a vicious grin crisping his lips. It made his moustache twitch almost comically. 

“Don’t worry sweet angel, we’ll fix that soon.”

Pushing the gun between your kneecaps, he forced them open and ran the barrel feverishly down your inner thighs. The metal was freezing against your flesh, eliciting little tingles to spiral beneath the tender brush. Gasping, you looked away from him ashamed. You were terrified, not just of him, but from how much the wanton centre of your sex clenched from his ministrations.

You were bound and kidnapped by a dangerous man, and yet in your mind played the sick fantasies of him unbuckling his belt and giving you his full girth hard and wild. 

“You will soon have me in every hole,” August continued with a promise on his honeyed lips while lowering the brim of the weapon perilously close to your radiating heat and toying with the sensitive area teasingly. “I will make it hurt real bad, you’ll feel me there for days if not more,” he hummed and swerved the barrel between your engorged lips. 

“Please!” You gasped and writhed away slightly, tugging on the binds that began chafing your delicate skin. August raised his glare to meet your pleading eyes and leaned forward, his shadow looming over you entirely. Reaching one hand to your nape, he clutched you forcefully while his icy glare pierced right through your skull.

Slow and sensual he began to run the gun between your soft petals, gingerly grazing the hard shaft at the plump peak of flesh that made you cry out with both pleasure and despair. 

“Aww...” He keened and groaned. Never stopping his coaxing of your cunt with the still object, his breath huffed hot upon your cheek as he rounded his beautiful lips in faux pity. “Poor helpless little butterfly.”

Crying and dazed, you stared directly into his eyes. Words of plea kept running caged inside your head, unable to make their way out while you watched August’s large shoulder move back and forth. The movement resulting in the unwanted pleasure. Back and forth, he stroked you, gradually increasing the pace, and not without style even. Ruthless, August was keen on making you come.

You weren’t even sure what it was that you begged for at that point.

Grunts and sobs escaped your throat unwillingly. You squirmed and pushed against it, your body craving for more: not just for the rough friction that tingled at your cunt but also at the large bulge visible at his groin. The more rapture began to creep through your flowing tendons, the further you sank into delirium, wondering how he would feel like buried deep between your tight walls, fucking you the way only someone who has no boundaries would.

“Fuck!” You screamed, grinding against the metal while August leaned even closer and kissed the corner of your mouth before groaning and moaning at your lips. His hand worked hard between your thighs, the cold barrel now warm, the hollow edge coated with your elixir. 

The wall of your protests crumbled as the simmering surge of climax began pushing itself down your belly, leaving you teetering between self-loathing and ecstasy. 

“That’s right my beautiful butterfly, I’ll pluck your wings,” August promised in a husky whisper, watching you as you coiled and cried louder, your walls convulsing tightly around a sad, empty space as you came. If only you didn’t wish it was August choked between them instead.

As you slumped down, sweaty and breathless, he drawled a growl of content and slowly withdrew the gun to hold it next to your shivering face.

“I swear, Sloan’s assistants keep getting sluttier every year; the last one I fucked had a thing for me choking her,” he mocked while grazing the wet barrel against your cheek, “do you think you’d be into that too, sweetling? My hand around your throat?”  

Rounding your eyes in utter fear, you swallowed the dryness in your throat. August sighed with a malicious little grin while twisted awe danced between the blue, sparkling sapphires that examined you ecstatically, so fascinated by how easily he managed to break and bend you to his will.

Still holding the neck of the gun pressed next to your cheek, he reached the other hand above your head. A part of you was relieved for a moment, thinking he was about to untie the bind. 

But your hope quickly died as you felt his fingers rolling the ring that decorated your finger.

The diamond reflected onto the deep blue of his eyes as he examined it closely before throwing it directly into the fireplace.

“No!” You cried out brokenly, as the last memory of your old life disappeared in flames.

“Save your tears beautiful,” August retorted, his voice once again so soft it chilled your very core. He shifted his entire weight between your straddled thighs, and leaned in to kiss the wetness below your eye, “you won’t be needing it anymore.”

His tongue slipped out to collect the briny liquid that gathered on your cheek, and another hum of delight rumbled in his chest as his covered cock unmistakably ground against your mound, “I am your man from now on, might as well accept it and let me do whatever I want.”

Shivering under him, you took a deep breath, your body already swaying in demand as you felt him throbbing beneath the soft fabric of his pants. To your own horror, your head fell into a slow nod of shameful consent. 

It wasn’t just August you were afraid of, but also for yourself.    

[ragingstillness]

“Character sleeps in unusual places” trope my beloved.

It becomes common to find Izzy napping around the ship, always away from wherever Ed is at the time, always near a crew member Izzy trusts. But the sleeping positions…they get bizarre.

An incomplete list of the places Izzy has been found napping:

Atop the capstan

Inside one of Roach’s cupboards

On the barnacle scraping chair

In one of the gunports

Underneath a pile of rope

With the non-humans

Rolled up in a spare sail

Half in a barrel like the Swede

Sitting with all limbs threaded through the railing

On the floor of Oluwande, Archie, and Jim’s room

In Frenchie and Wee John’s sitting nook

Hugging one of Lucius’ sketchbooks

Consider: Unable to feel secure enough to sleep soundly in his own room but still not sociable enough to join the cuddle piles, Izzy takes to catnapping around the ship, usually around (and occasionally on) working crew. A few grumble about it ("How come he gets to nap while we're doing all the work?") but get shot down hard by BB's crew.