#undervest

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Has there been a visual representation posted of the “undervest” everyone keeps referring to 👉👈

Why, I’m so glad you asked sweet anon 🤍

Bonus:

P.S. What if… Pin finds a fur coat in the back of the shop 🤔

[real-odark]

gatsby designs. does this make any sense.

[deeeens]

tout suffocant et blême, quand sonne l'heure, je me souviens des jours anciens, et je pleure. (chanson d'automne)

[0oolookitsme]

So Despicable

Type - A One-Shot (yet again!)

Verse - Singer!Harry x Ceo!Y/n

Word Count - 2.1k

Warnings - Uses of degrading slurs such as slut and whore. Do not read if that's not your cup of tea!

A/n - Legit posting this an hour late and I'm sorry! I just finished proofreading and am right away posting this. Not exactly my best, but it's good! Hoping you'll think the same hahah <3

Kinks - Sir Kink, Degradation Kink, Choking and Begging (if you squint)

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Please rb to share!

As she turned the lock of her house, Y/n felt like her knees would simply give out if it took one more second to get the door to open. On the final twist of the key, she pushed the door open and immediately swung her purse on top of the shoe rack.

Bending to undo her heels, she left them thrown there and walked further inside the house. She was confused when she didn't find Harry downstairs but nevertheless poured herself a glass of water.

If he weren't down here, then he must be up in their bedroom or his office. Dreadfully, she climbed up the stairs, her shoulders droopy and her back aching after the long day. "Harry?" She called out, hoping that he would hear her and come out. Alas, he didn't.

She looked around in all the rooms before going inside the bedroom, dropping her body onto the mattress right away. After lying in silence for no more than a few seconds, she got up and fished her phone out of her purse – pressing on Harry's contact before putting the phone on speaker and stripping her clothes.

"'ello?" He answered, his voice serious in a way that made her doubt if he didn't know it was her on the other end of the call.

"Where are you, H?" She questioned him right away, picking the phone back up when the only clothings on her body were her under garments. "Searched the whole house, didn't find you."

It was silent for a moment, and Y/n felt that something was off. "I'm in the gym, didn't hear you come in," he said in that same tone and it was starting to make her skin crawl.

"Oh, I didn't check the gym. When are you going to be done?" She asked, fidgeting with her fingers as her mind raced a million miles per second to come up with all the things that she could've done or said wrong.

Yet, she came up empty. Harry wasn't the one to go to gym after noon, it happened rarely – mostly if he had been out and about during the morning time. So, it was clear that he was avoiding her.

"Dunno, should be done in half an hour," he said and she could tell he was doing push ups or something else by the sound of his strained voice and heavy breathing.

"Okay, I'm going in the shower," Y/n told him before he agreed and cut the call.

Taken aback, she shut out the situation before jumping into the shower and letting the warm water wash away all the stress off her muscles. After rinsing her hair rid of the shampoo, she came out of the shower, water still dripping from the ends of her hair.

When she turned around, her hand immediately went to her chest on a sharp intake of breath. "Fucking hell, Harry," she exhaled deeply, heat creeping up the back of her neck once she realised how ridiculous it was of her to get scared by the sight of him seated on their bed.

She just hadn't expected him to be there, that's all. "I'm sure there's still water left, I didn't shower for too long," she told him while walking towards their closet.

"Drop the towel and come here," Harry said, his voice deep and low. She couldn't help but ask him to repeat himself, caught off guard. "I won't repeat again, Y/n. Drop the towel, and come here," he said again, this time weighing down on each word as he spoke.

His arms were crossed across his chest, the veins more prominent because of his recent workout session. One of his legs dangled off the bed while the other one was folded. Nothing but a white undervest covered his upper half, a short pair of shorts clinging to his thighs.

Hesitant but because of her trust in him, Y/n dropped her towel and walked to him. Uncertainty and anticipation caused her hands to start fidgeting again. Slowly but surely, she reached right where he was sitting on the bed, her hands seemingly frozen on her sides as she stood upright, unable to move any further.

"Lay across my lap," Harry said, unfolding his leg and laying it straight on the bed to make the spot comfortable for her.

Y/n did so, all of the silence and holding-back of Harry was causing her brain to spiral. But one thing she knew was that whatever was coming, it wasn't going to be very holy.

She felt Harry's cold hand grab her ass before he started massaging it. That's when she knew she had surely done something wrong, because he was punishing her.

His palm met her ass cheek with a sharp blow, causing her to jerk forward. "Count for me," he told her, kneading her other cheek before hitting it with the same blow.

"2," Y/n counted, her voice shaking with thrill.

Harry watched her bum jiggle at the impact, the skin already begining to grow red. He stopped kneading the skin by the fifth blow when he couldn't hear pain in her voice. Now, he was just spanking – one side before the other. He was going at a fast pace, his hits unrelentlessly hard as he finally began hearing despair in her voice.

He kept going, not giving the skin much time before slapping it again.

"P-please, Harry–" Y/n stuttered, stopping when he gave a especially hard hit on her ass.

"What do you say? Have you forgotten your manners?" Harry said, his voice sterner than ever and Y/n was beginning to feel like he was being unnecessarily mean to her.

"Sir – It's Sir." She blabbered, answering him as if he would give her a reward. Yet, she was met with another hard spank. "W-what-ever have I done wrong, Sir?" She asked desperately, still lost on the cause for this side of him boiling up to the surface.

"A pathetic mess already? Can see your cunt glistening," he mocked her, swiping one of his fingers through her folds. "What have you not done wrong today? Cut my calls, answered back in short answers as if I were wasting your time, didn't even tell me if you were going to be back for the night or not," he answered her, massaging her bum.

"Didn't even apologize to me," he said, his eyes fallen into angry slits as he slapped her ass harshly.

He pushed her off of his lap and watched her roll over, unable to balance herself and get up. "Can't do anything right, can you?" Harry said as he pulled her up by her shoulders and sat her on her bottom.

She moved around, her bum hurting too much for her to sit on it. "Hurts," she whimpered, the corners of her eyes moist and wet hair sticking to the skin on her back, neck and forehead.

"Of course it does. Wouldn't have done it if it pleased you."

Both of them knew it pleased her. And if they didn't, then her juicy cunt would have surely given her away. She sat on her calves in front of him, her hands in her lap as she looked anywhere but in his eyes.

"Still, you aren't apologizing." Harry pointed out, causing her to flush. But before she could say anything, Harry pushed at her chest so she would fall on her back on the soft mattress.

Her legs immediately fell open in order for her to get comfortable, and just as she took notice, Harry's hand had already met her pussy in a harsh slap.

"Instead, you're pathetically dripping out of your hole," Harry sneered, slapping her puffy pussy again. A wet noise came from the impact and when he brought his hand back up, the string of her arousal connected them.

"So despicable you are."

Y/n jerked each time Harry hit her cunt, her thighs aching to close and protect her core yet she knew better than to do that. She counted each hit and once she counted the tenth slap, Harry dragged a finger across her dripping hole and covered her clit with her own arousal.

"I've been punishing you over here, and you've done nothing but drip out of that needy hole and blabber out the shit I've asked you to." Harry said as if he were disgusted. "Can't think of anything else with that dumb little brain of yours, can you?" He tsk'd at her, shaking his head.

He pinched her clit, laughing hoarsely when she instinctively closed her thighs shut. "Hook your hands under your knees," Harry instructed her and once she had done that, he was glad to have full access to her pussy.

He pinched her clit again, this time not releasing the hissing hold. With his other hand, he filled her hole with two of his fingers right away – sliding them in and out with great ease due to her wetness.

"Such a poor little thing you are, getting off on being a pretty whore – on me being mean to you," Harry crooned.

When she started to moan, he took her panties that she had taken off of herself before going into the shower, and stuffed them into her mouth. Pathetically enough, she hadn't stopped moaning even with the cloth in her mouth. The noise came out muffled, which Harry seemed to enjoy.

He then created an unrelenting pace, his back crouching in order to give all his strength in fucking her. He was still pinching her swollen clit, a grin plastered on his mouth as he heard the wet noises her pussy was making.

Her clit had grown red in colour due to his harsh pinch that didn't seem to know how to release its hold. "Fuck – fuck , sir. Sir I'm coming, I'm coming I'm so close –" Y/n stuttered as her body shook violently, her face scrunched up in pain and pure ecstasy.

Her body burned and her pussy pulsed as Harry continued fucking her with his fingers mercilessly. "What do you say?" Harry cooed at her, impossibly increasing his pace. "What do you say, my darling slut?"

Her eyes glazed over at the slur, tears springing in her eyes as she felt the knot begin to lower in her tummy.

"Can I please– please cum, Sir?" She said with great strain in a voice, like she was holding back.

"Why are you holding back? Not going to comply with your sir, hm?" Harry asked her his voice shaking due to his violent movement. "Guess I'll just deny you the permission, then."

Harry got off on dominating her. After all, she dominated all of the people around her, especially the ones in her office. She always had a hunger to control people, so the fact that he got to control what she would do or not do, dominate and manhandle her, and be mean to her like she was to most of her employees who deserved to be fired, he felt absolutely euphoric.

"Can I please cum," she cried out, her body shaking vigorously. "May I – may I please cum, Sir?" She cried again, repeating her request until it turned into beg for him to let her cum.

"Please, Sir!" She yelled, knowing that she wouldn't be able to hold back. "Please – please, let me come Sir," she kept on begging.

"Ah okay okay, don't need to be so annoying about it," Harry rolled his eyes, watching in amazement as she became a shouting mess.

He felt as her walls clenched around his fingers, and pinched her clit a bit harder. He heard her let out a final cry before she finally gushed all over his hand.

He maintained his pace as her cum spurted around due to his force. She arched off of the bed and pushed into his hand while heaving gibberish. "Fuck – fuck," she stammered, when he stopped and put his mouth on her – lapping at her as if he hadn't quenched his thirst all day.

"P-please, sir – sensitive," she whimpered, now trying to pull away from his mouth but unable to do so because of the position he had put her in. Her legs ached, but his palms laid flat on the back of her thighs as he sucked at her clit.

Harry finally detached his mouth from her and rose up, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. He put the hand that was covered in her juices in front of her mouth, and ordered her to suck.

When she licked his hand clean, he wrapped it around her neck in a choking manner and weighed on it when he leaned down to get closer to her.

"See? You can be good, too." He grinned, pecking her cheek as she turned her face away from him to hide her rosy cheeks.

"God, I love you no matter what you be – my pathetic slut or my pleasing little darling," he chuckled, nipping at her jaw.

[drowsie341]

@gontagokuhara-week Day 7 - crossover / (fusion?) au / free day

I'm a Persona 5 fan, and I also love putting my favourite characters into other settings... especially if they're a bit less despair-inducing than Danganronpa lmao.

So, Gonta as a Phantom Thief (because why the hell not)!! I've had this in mind for a while, and it's definitely not a final design or anything, but I like how it's turning out so far.

Warning, lots of AU infodumping below the cut :')

His Phantom Thief codename is Beetle :)

I wanted him to look classy, but also a bit intimidating and warrior-like

As for why his Phantom Thief outfit has some intimidating vibes when Gonta hates looking scary... I think he would eventually realise (maybe through an awakening scene?) that he can still do good by using that "intimidating” side of himself, and that he should embrace his whole self to help more and more people

Thinking about it, in a final design I want to make his undervest? Underjacket? thing more armoured, and give him more insect motifs and armour overall

Designing a Persona for him... that's gonna be a challenge if or when I get to it lol

Gonta’s very protection-oriented, not only with the armor on his outfit, but with his Persona abilities. Group defense buffs and group heal skills are a must for him. Is there a move in P5 where a character is 100% guaranteed to tank attacks aimed at others? If there is, he has that for sure. Also his element would be wind and his weakness would be fire

The shield-spear combo was inspired by this quote which pops into my head occasionally:

The Phantom Thieves in P5 all have one gun and one weapon each, so an idea I had for Gonta was that his “shield” would actually be a large beetle-shaped armoured gun, that’s strapped onto his arm like a shield because using it as a gun feels dishonorable. ...But I completely forgot about that when drawing this orz I’ll get it right next time

I also have some ideas for a Kokichi P5 design... we going court jester with this one

[muckleberryjam]

Oh Eliza how I love to torture you so.

This one’s got lots of little details because Eliza is, by all rights, endearingly basic. Bob shelled out a lot for that ring...shame she only ever wears silver...

Do any of you dress your sims in creators like they’re brands? Eliza’s in a lot of @sentate hero pieces because, well why wouldn’t you dress your sims in sentate, but mostly because she’s all about that ~*aspiration*~

eliza wears • hair down (@greenllamas) • wet hair ( @funako ) • ponytail (@okruee) • half up hairdo (@simcelebrity00) • glasses (@liliili-sims4) • wedding ring ( @ellesmea )

girl next door • cardigan (eansims) • undervest (@trillyke) • jeans (@rustys-cc) • necklace (@simandy) • shoes (@jius-sims)

nancy’s garden party • cardigan (@rustys-cc) • earrings (’diamond4ya’, @pralinesims) • necklace (faaeish)

alexa play bad day by daniel powter • coat (@sentate) • turtleneck (@its-adrienpastel) • necklace (@serenity-cc) • bag (murphysims) • tights (ea basegame) • shoes (@mmsims)

the friends episode with all the wedding dresses • dress (@sentate) • veil (@candycottonchu) • sports bra (@caio-cc) • socks (ea base game)

dragon’s den pitch look • suit (@sentate) • earrings (@yakfarm)

off-piste • jacket (@nucrests) •trousers (@sentate) • ski goggles & tan (@aroundthesims) • earrings (’skydive’, @pralinesims) • gloves (@wyattssims) • boots (@jius-sims)

[ladamedusoif]

An Inspecteur Calls

A Visiting Pedrotober One-Shot - Day 20, Merge Mansion

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Lyd is stressed and frustrated, and hit with a bad dose of Parisian nostalgia. Thankfully, Ben knows of a detective - sorry, inspecteur - Roquefort, who is free to investigate the cause of her woes, shoulder holsters included.

Word Count: 2.3k

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)

Content (series/one-shot specific): Visiting fic one-shot; Professor Ben College AU; Ben and Lydia are contemporaries; canon is not a thing here; smut; fingering; oral sex (f receiving); safe PiV sex; enthusiastic consent; strong language; praise kink; references to stress; bad French; terrible French accents; role playing; these two are fucking dorks; extreme silliness

A/N: This is @jack-whiskey-daniels' fault. I wrote up this smutty little vignette, heavily inspired by the photo of Tim Rockford above, last night. Today, Luce informs me that it's Merge Mansion day for Pedrotober and I should post this. Well, who am I to say no?

With apologies for Ben's deliberately terrible attempts at role-playing a cliched French detective (inspecteur is the more common title). No apologies for me using Lydia to work through my love of Tim "Shoulder Holsters Tight Shirt Undervest" Rockford.

(And, seeing as it's his birthday and these two are film nerds, I had to throw in a reference to a film by the French director Jean-Pierre Melville, creator of several exceptional French crime dramas in the 1960s and 1970s. Le Cercle rouge is one of his finest, but they're all brilliant and highly recommended.)

Read the main story on the series Masterlist.

Usual Visiting taglist: @jack-whiskey-daniels , @julesonrecord , @tessa-quayle , @vermillionwinter , @iamskyereads , @tieronecrush , @perennialdoll247 , @love-the-abyss , @imaswellkid , @intheorangebedroom , @javierisms , @fuckyeahdindjarin , @littlemisspascal , @khindahra , @pedrostories , @readingiskeepingmegoing , @rhoorl , @red-red-rogue , @princessanglophile, @katareyoudrilling @survivingandenduring, @trulybetty @fictionismyreality @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @joeldjarin , @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse, @lizzie-cakes

His warm, broad hand rests lightly on your shoulder as he passes you at the dining table. You turn to look up at him, handsome face full of concern.

“You’re not yourself. What’s up?”

You sigh and stare into your coffee. “It’s dumb.”

He pulls out a chair and sits down, quirking an eyebrow. “If it’s bothering you, I doubt it’s dumb. What’s wrong, love?”

“It’s this stupid essay I’m trying to get finished. I’m missing some of the stuff that would be really useful for it, and I should have gone to see it last time I was in Paris, and I’m frustrated with myself.”

“That’s not dumb, darling. Even if you are being too hard on yourself, as usual.”

You slump forward on the table, mumbling against the wooden surface. “And then I thought about how easy it used to be to just…pop over to Paris, whenever I could, and then I started thinking about it and how much I love it.”

He pats your arm affectionately. “Still not dumb.”

“And then we watched Le Cercle rouge last night and even all those dodgy cops and inspecteurs in their trenchcoats and hats and crime were making me miss Paris. See? Dumb.”

Ben shakes his head and smiles softly. “Not dumb at all. It’s a part of you, of who you are.” He traces a circle on the back of your hand. “And anyway, didn’t you once tell me you had a thing for dodgy cops with moustaches?” He looks at you mischievously and you grin.

“You, Benjamin, are a very tolerant man.” You reach out and trace your fingers over the coarse hair on one side of his face, and he closes his eyes and hums happily.

“I love you, Lyddie. It’ll be okay.” He pushes himself away from the table and heads towards the hallway. “I gotta go for my early seminar, but keep Hemingway in mind.”

You laugh and roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course, the answer is in literature.” He pauses at the door, waiting for you to acknowledge the quotation. “‘Wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’”

He does that half-smile that never fails to make you melt, blows you a kiss, and heads off to work.

You meet him later for lunch, having worked at home for most of the morning. In between bites of his sandwich, he excitedly talks about the graduate seminar he’d taught, and you discuss your plans for your workshop on gender and visual culture that afternoon while Ben listens attentively.

“You feeling any better?” he asks, as you brush a stray couple of crumbs from his moustache. 

“A bit. I’m sorry, I just spiralled. Probably mostly stress and frustration at my own shitty work ethic and crap ideas.”

He kisses the tips of your fingers swiftly and discreetly, and you giggle. “You have to be kinder to yourself. You’re working too hard, thinking about it too much.”

You clear your table and bring your trays to the designated area, hands brushing lightly against each other as you stroll out of the cafeteria and back towards your building and your offices. You smile to yourself at how, even now, the slightest touch from him sends a current of electricity sparking through your body.

Ben opens his office door and pulls you in for a quick kiss before you have to go and teach. He pulls away reluctantly as you whine softly. 

“Please be kinder to yourself, Lyd.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively as you move into the hallway. “I’m happy to help distract you, you know.”

“I’m home, love!” 

You drop your bag beside the hall table and hang your coat up on the rack before kicking off your shoes and stretching upwards as you walk towards the kitchen, where you expect to find him. On days when you have a later teaching schedule, Ben likes to get home earlier, finish his work in his attic study, and then get dinner started for both of you.

Something delicious is cooking away in the CrockPot, but there’s no sign of your boyfriend. You pass into the dining room, noticing the light from the living room coming through the glass-panelled doors. 

Ben is sitting on the sofa, wearing his glasses - nothing out of the ordinary there. But he’s also clad in the trenchcoat he wore for his Dave Toschi costume on Halloween, which is decidedly weird. 

“Uh, baby? You okay?”

He turns to face you, arching an eyebrow and running his eyes up and down your body as if he’s appraising you. 

“Ben?”

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

You scrunch your face up in absolute confusion, and wonder if you should call Jen. Maybe some kind of accident happened at work? Did he take a knock to the head?

“Ben, I’m…what the fuck is happening?”

He holds a hand up to one side of his face and does a sort of stage whisper. “Go with it, Lyd! Just an attempt at cheering you up. You want to stop, just say the word.”

You burst out laughing and shake your head. “No, I’m… I’ll see where this leads, monsieur.”

He grins in satisfaction and stands up. “Je suis Inspecteur Timothée Roquefort, and…uh, I mean, et je suis un…Parisian police homme.”

“Baby, I know your French is better than this.”

Ben holds up a hand and continues speaking in what can only be described as one of the worst comedy French accents you have ever heard. “Mademoiselle! Do not interrupt moi.”

You bite your lip, body shaking with laughter. “D’accord, monsieur.”

“I received une message at the commissariat de police that une jolie femme was…” He looks away as he thinks. “Triste parce que she is not in Pareeeeee.”

“D’accord, mais je ne sais pas pourquoi les flics doivent intervenir dans une question personnelle, en fait, et alors -” [Okay, but I don’t know why cops have to intervene in a personal matter, really, and anyway -]

Ben looks panicked, and starts to rub at one side of his moustache with his pointer finger.

“Uh… HON HON HON. OMELETTE DU FROMAGE.”

That does it. You collapse against him in a fit of laughter, eyes creased and tears rolling down your cheeks. He holds you close against him as you look up at his open, handsome face. 

“You are a very goofy man, Benjamin Morales, and I love you for it. Though I don’t really understand how I want to fuck you this badly even with that accent.”

He grins. “You want to fuck moi because je suis a sexy Parisian police homme, non?” 

He plants a kiss to your forehead as he hugs you tightly. “L’Inspecteur did have une question de plus, Lyddie.”

“Eh bien?”

You can see him struggling not to laugh as he makes a cheesy, cliched “sexy” face at you. 

“La question, s’il vous plait.”

“Well, mademoiselle…” Ben shrugs off the trenchcoat to reveal the shoulder holsters he’d worn at Halloween. The ones that had helped show you just how beautifully broad he was. The ones you’d held onto as the two of you sat as close as it was possible for two friends to sit, both taking any opportunity to make contact with the other’s body. 

The ones you’d asked him, a while back, if he’d kept. “Just because,” you’d explained. “They were kinda hot.”

You reach out and trace your fingers over the leather of the straps, biting your lip and feeling the flame of your desire building steadily into an inferno.

“La question, monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

He arches his brow and gives you his most seductive smile. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”

You make it to the bedroom in record time, laughing as you race up the stairs and sit down on the bed as he stands in front of you. 

“Where do you want me for the, uh, investigation, monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

Ben grins delightedly and leans forward, encouraging you to lie back on the mattress as he shifts his broad form over you, arms caging your body as you run your hands over his warm, solid chest and that tummy that makes you absolutely feral. His white shirt is perfectly snug, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, and your hips are already shifting upwards to meet his crotch, desperate for him.

You grip the shoulder holsters as Ben chuckles, bringing his head lower and whispering in your ear. “Je think that les clues are hidden dans your body.”

You both burst out laughing, but your eyes stay trained on each other, never breaking the intense intimacy and erotic power of the shared gaze. 

“You should probably do some searching, then, Inspecteur.”

Ben kisses you deeply as he moves you towards the middle of the bed and loosens his tie before unbuttoning your blouse, bringing his mouth to every new area of skin exposed. “Might be here?” he murmurs, lips brushing off the velvety flesh of your breasts before sucking on your nipples through the pink lace of your bra. 

Your back arches as you gasp. “No, don’t think so…sir.”

You feel his cock twitch in his pants at that and you smile wickedly. “Liked that, did we? Sir?”

Ben hides his face against your tummy and laughs. “Maybe.” His broad hands roam up to your shoulders as he helps you out of your blouse, before tracing the outline of your waist and the curves of your hips and ass as he unbuttons your dark green pants and slips his fingers into your panties. 

“Fuck, Ben, fuck, that’s -”

“Maybe the clues are here? What do you think, mademoiselle?”

He shifts his body down the bed and looks up at you lasciviously, eyes burning black with lust as he pulls your pants down and discards them. He eases your legs apart and you react with a gasp and a giggle as he works his way up your thighs. 

“Looking for treasure, sir?”

He laughs, low and warm, and brings his face to your core. “Found it, mademoiselle.” The heat of his mouth hits your pussy through the fabric of your panties, and you moan loudly. He hums happily as he kisses your soaking cunt, pulling the fabric aside to grant him more access before he drags them off you completely and buries his mouth between your legs. His tongue moves between your folds, flicking your clit every now and again before diving into the warm wetness of your entrance while the strong line of his nose keeps the pressure on the sensitive nub. 

The first orgasm hits you hard, and your hips bear down on Ben’s face as he groans with pleasure. He slips two fingers inside you to sustain the climax a little longer, and with the other hand unbuckles his belt and undoes his zipper, slipping off his pants and boxer briefs while he continues to massage the spot inside you that he knows, having had you so many times, will deepen the orgasm and build to an even stronger one next time.

“Need you, baby,” you whine, eyes drifting to his hard cock, tip glistening with pre-come. “Need you so badly.”

You reach up as he shifts his weight over you, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his white undervest, clinging perfectly to his gorgeous, solid form. He makes as if to take off the holsters. 

“Don’t you fucking dare take those off. They’re staying on, sir.”

He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Oh, mademoiselle likes them, does she?”

You giggle, feeling his warm breath against your lips, and slip your fingers under the straps around his shoulders. “She really likes them, monsieur. Liked them from the first time she saw them on you.”

He kisses you hard, one hand groping your tits while the other gives his cock a few strokes as he shifts into position. “Sometimes I wish you’d told me back then, that night,” he murmurs, sucking lightly on your neck and making you cry out.

“Think we made up for lost time, though,” you gasp, tilting your head to look at his hard length notching at the wet folds of your cunt. “Please fuck me, baby.”

He slides into you in a fluid motion, moaning long and slow as he bottoms out and the tightness of your pussy takes hold around his cock. He drags back out of you slowly, luxuriantly, savouring every bump and ridge inside you and trying to restrain himself from driving back into you too quickly.

“Jesus, baby, your pussy is fucking incredible. So warm and tight for me.”

He starts to fuck you, picking up pace quickly as you keep hold of the shoulder holsters.

“Tell me, darling.”

He closes his eyes, face a perfect expression of ecstasy. “It’s just fucking perfect. Like you’re made for me, made for my cock. Made for each other.”

You tilt your pelvis slightly so that he’s grinding a little more on your clit as he moves in and out of you, and before long the friction has you coming again. Ben groans at the sensation as your pussy clenches around him and you ride out your orgasm on his cock. 

“Fuck, Lyd, I - oh, fuck.” He seems surprised at how quickly his own release comes, spilling into you while he buries his face against your neck, muttering a litany of curses and praise. 

“Oh fuck fuck fuck baby, that’s fucking it, that’s - my good fucking girl, fuck.”

When he lifts his head again, his face and upper body are drenched in sweat, dripping onto your neck and chest. He kisses you slowly, deeply, before he pulls out. You whine with pleasure at the taste of yourself, of your cunt, on his lips.

He flops back onto the bed, turning to kiss you again and stroke your cheek as he whispers his love for you, over and over.

You return the gesture, nuzzling against him, sated and feeling completely loved, completely adored, completely safe. 

The sight of the shoulder holster makes you giggle affectionately. This beautiful, goofy, sexy man, who would come up with something so silly and so sweet and so insanely hot, just to make you feel better.

“Can the inspecteur come by another time, baby? I think there might be more cases to solve.”

(tape warning by @cafekitsune; star dividers by @saradika)

[breakfastteatime]

Today's fic request goes out to @on-and-on-we-go-forever who requested 'freckles'.

Cal wipes the sweat from his forehead and stares at his handy work. The new drive manifold looks a lot better than the busted old one, and the onboard computer has connected to it, running diagnostics to make sure it’s fully compatible. It grounded them for a few days on Bogano, and after some convincing from Cere, Greez agreed to let Cal help with repairs… or just do the repairs, seeing as Greez had his hands full patching the outer hull. The rescue mission on Bracca had certainly left its scars, and the AT-ST attack on Zeffo added a few more, leaving distinct damage they had no choice but to repair.

BD beeps at him, telling him to have something to drink. Bogano is a lot warmer than Bracca, and Cal had stripped down to his undervest to cool himself down. Thanking BD for the reminder, Cal grabs his water bottle and finishes half of it off in three rapid gulps. Burping loud enough to wake the dead, grinning at BD’s tittering, Cal slides out from under the ship and takes a seat on the grass. He leans back, basking in the sunlight. It’s warm enough to be comfortable, and the gentle breeze, singing with the Force, calms his whirring mind. He can sense all kinds of life here, so different to Bracca. It’s quieter here but no less busy. Far below, boglings race through tunnels to avoid the bog rats. Birds wheel through the sky. Not too far away, the binog surveys the land with an ancient eye. Closer, he can feel the intensity of Greez’s concentration and the nullspace where Cere exists. She’s so shielded, his mind slides right off her. He can’t imagine choosing to cut himself off from the Force. He’d clung to what little he’d had left over the past five years, painstakingly faced parts of himself he’d buried deep, and he’s not done yet. To deny himself the intensity, the vivid sound and music of the Force, so completely would be to erase part of himself forever.

Running through a few stretches, Cal feels his stomach grumble. Greez left out a whole range of snacks, and Cal figures he should treat himself to some. He heads aboard, sees Cere hard at work on the comms, and goes to wash up while BD hops down and goes to scan the food. Greez is weird about dirt. When Cal comes back, Cere’s moved to the galley where she’s making tea and eating one of the spice cakes Greez baked. She looks up at him, mouth opening but no words coming out.

“Are you alright?” Cal asks.

Cere blinks. “Yes. Yes, sorry. I was distracted for a moment.”

Cal grabs a spice cake and takes a bite. It’s delicious. Cere hands him a cup of tea, and he takes it gratefully. He’s working his way through a third spice cake by the time Greez joins them.

“Alright, once the diagnostic routines are complete, we’ll be good to go.” He wipes his hands on a rag which he tucks into his toolkit. “I need a cold drink after that, how about you Caaah huh?”

Cal stares back at Greez who’s gone slack-jawed. “Are you okay? Are you having a stroke?” he asks.

BD makes a few other suggestions.

After several attempts, Greez manages to speak again. “There’s something different about you. You’re… you’ve… you’ve changed.”

“I took a few layers off, it’s not like I’m naked over here.”

“You see it too?” Cere asks.

“I see something, but I dunno what it is.” Greez comes closer. “You feeling okay, kid? Not coming down with something?”

“What? No!” Cal turns to BD, who offers a shrug and suggests maybe both Cere and Greez are losing their minds.

“Sorry,” Cere says. “It’s just there’s something different, Cal. Something…” She breaks off, snapping her fingers. “I’ve got it.”

“You’ve got something alright,” Cal mutters.

“Freckles,” she says. “You’ve got more of them.”

“Oh, yeah!” Greez says. “Huh, look at that!”

Once again, Cal turns to BD for support. His friend suggests that spending a few days in the sun on Bogano has brought dormant freckles back out. Rolling his eyes, Cal heads for the engine room. “You guys are weird,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s… who’s… blossoming!” Greez calls back.

Cal stops.

Cere snorts.

BD-1 beeps curiously.

“Okay, that sounded wrong,” Greez says.

[catihere]

For your character ask game : Luke Castellan

1. Why do you like or dislike this character? 4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in? 8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? 14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character. 26. FREEBIE QUESTION!!

Oh Luke you say… *cracks knuckles* (thank you for the ask :D)

1- I’ve always appreciated Luke’s ambition and initiative to better the life of demigods. He saw the problem with the system he grew up in and ought to fix it, even though his means were limited. What I don’t like about him was the disposition he had to hurt, betray and manipulate his loved ones in order to achieve the goal he believed to be right. The extents he’s gone to serve Kronos, especially the ones affecting his relationship to Annabeth, are quite disturbing to me and stray him away from my “favorite characters” list. Either way, I find him extremely complex and well-written.

4- This is an interesting question, and I’m not exactly sure how to answer it… I guess he’d be really cool in some sort of post-apocalyptic, high-stakes setting. That would test his morals and abilities in a pretty appealing way. I’m sorry that I can’t think of a specific piece of media, I hope you get what I mean!

8- OH GOD.

I hate hate hate when people base his whole character on the perspective that he would have had a crush on Annabeth, which is a concept purely based on the misinterpretation of two throwaway lines in the books. It’s a huge disservice to his character to be framed as nothing more than a predator, which more often than not leads to his trauma and motivations being overlooked. It’s a dumb and creepy assumption and I die a little more every time I encounter it. And before anyone attacks me: I’m not saying that Luke is “perfect”or even a good person, (in fact I hate when people portray him as that) I just want to highlight that he deserves to be analyzed more before making assumptions on his moral stance.

14- Bro I don’t know, if I’m to be honest, I either draw him wearing a black buttoned shirt or a ripped undervest, but maybe some minimalist and grunge afashion stuff? Or even alt, considering the time he’d spent with Thalia. Anyway, I don’t think he invests too much in his appearance, and even if he does, he probably tries to look pretty formal leading a fucking army.

26- Uuh I think the freebie question means that you’re allowed to ask me whatever you want about him! Go on if you want :)

[uesp]

An Ordinator's every action must reflect the divinity of the Tribunal. Every thought, word, and gesture, no matter how trivial, must glorify the Three. Our appearance, too, must bring honor to ALMSIVI. Herein you shall find a guide to liturgical vestment.

At the beginning of the vesting, an Ordinator must wash herself thoroughly, using mineral water from one of Red Mountain's sacred hot springs and a volcanic pumice. This act has profound spiritual significance. In washing the body, the Ordinator also washes the soul—removing residual sin and any nagging doubts that might interfere with the merciless application of Tribunal law.

Once the washing is complete, the proper vesting can begin.

The Ordinator begins with the rathith—triangular linen small clothes, dyed a deep blue and fastened with brass pins. The rathith is further secured by the arnith, the golden "underbelt" which is also secured using brass pins. Daughters of ALMSIVI are also permitted to wear the alrathith, a second garment tailored to support the breasts.With the rathith and alrathith secured, the Ordinator is free to move on to the llananor, or "second garment." This long shirt must be washed in sacred mineral water before the sun rises, and pressed thrice over a hot stone. When donning the llananor, the Ordinator must also recite the Litany of Three Virtues. If the Ordinator completes the litany before the shirt is fully donned, they are obliged to repeat the litany twice more before moving on to the next step of the vesting.

The Ordinator's pants, or felassani, must also be washed and thrice pressed before wearing. Ordinators should put on these trousers starting with the left foot and must fasten them using a blue, rope-like belt called a nosa. The slippers must likewise be worn starting with the left foot, and laced with gold ribbon.

Finally, the Ordinator must drape a crimson wool stole, or duleso, about the neck and shoulders thrice, and fasten it with a triangular golden reliquary clasp—a neleviso. This ends the first vesting, or llanathro'lani, and prepares the Ordinator for armor-suiting.Before the holy armor can be donned, the Ordinator must recite the Forty-Six Canticles of Supplication, and appeal to St. Nerevar the Captain, patron of warriors and defender of Dunmeri society, for protection. After receiving Nerevar's blessing, the Ordinator begins armor inspection.

The Armor of Triune Faith must be free of any nicks, dents, stains, corrosion, or other aesthetic imperfections. Even minor blemishes are affronts to ALMSIVI's divine persons. Ordinators found wearing imperfect armor shall be subject to severe sanction.

The polish should be thorough and uniform, but not garish. The chitinous undervest must be rubbed with an oiled cloth and flexed to prevent aging and distress. Furthermore, the Ordinator should oil all joints, and treat all leather with a firm brushing and a liberal application of kwama-wax armor dressing. At this point, the Ordinator should signal an initiate to prepare for armor fitting.

The initiate begins with the sabatons and greaves (starting with the left) while reciting a prayer to St. Rilms, patron of pilgrims. Once this devotional is complete, the initiate proceeds to the cuisses, reciting another prayer to St. Meris, patron of laborers. At this point, the Ordinator must anoint the breastplate with sacred mineral oil and recite another prayer of supplication to blessed St. Nerevar before handing it over to the initiate. After fastening the cuirass, the initiate moves on to the rerebraces and couters, reciting another devotional to St. Aralor the Penitent. After securing and lacing the pauldrons, the inititate should glove the Ordinator, starting with the left gauntlet, all the while reciting a prayer to St. Delyn the Wise. Finally, the initiate must drape the blue prayer stole, or retheles, over the warrior's shoulders, reciting a final prayer to St. Felms the Bold. This accomplished, the assistant is permitted to retreat to the chapel for post-vesting prayer.

Final armor preparations are left to the Ordinator herself. Using the left hand, the Ordinator must tuck a sprig of bittergreen beneath her right pauldron. Using the right hand, the Ordinator must trace the sign of the Tribunal on her chest—gnashing her teeth and hissing thrice, at each point of the triune to summon up the wrath of the Tribunal. The tinder of faith thus kindled, the Ordinator anoints the Golden Mask of Devotion with mineral oil, presses her forehead to the helm to likewise anoint herself, then dons the helm. Ordinators may now arm themselves with any weapon, so long as it is thoroughly cleaned, and thrice blessed before use.

At this point, any action of the Ordinator is protected by divine mandate. So long as she wears the mask, the Ordinator is considered a faultless hand of the Three, and is authorized to commit any martial action deemed necessary to protect the True Faith. Hands of Almalexia and other specialized members of the order may have additional vestments to wear, but any servant of the Three thus vested is considered a full Ordinator.

Keep to this guide, stay earnest in your prayers, and you will bring naught but glory to ALMSIVI.Victory for the Three.

--A Guide to Liturgical Vestments

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

The white under vest coming BACK? MORE TUMMY?!

Oh, we'll be seeing more of the tummy alright 😏

[larmegliamori]

Imagine asking to ask your followers what do draw and then picking the less voted option first.

Anyway here's my design for the one and only Magnifico Giganticus ✨

(Some design choices and symbolism rant under the cut, feel free to skip)

Ahhh, Magnifico, Magnifico... What can I say? He may not be my specific cup of tea, but I can definitely see where the appeal comes from.

If anything, I can thank Asimov for making him so distinguished in Foundation and Empire because I started drawing with a clear idea in my mind: make him as jester-y as possible.

I tried various outfits on him but all the trousers option didn't seem right on him, so I stuck with a pre-modern-like vest with added collar, belt, undervest and stockings. And, just in case you're wondering: yes, he's meant to have pointy shoes too.

This obviously meant a split design, which fits him like a glove: sure, he's the man who upset the Universe and broke the Seldon plan, he's a mutant wuth powers unheard of, he has ruled to Galaxy for as much as he could... but he's also a reject, someone with a frail body and that, after all, wanted nothing more than to be loved genuinely (and I guess that it doesn't necessarily romantic love... more like charity, iykyk).

This is also reflected in the sun/moon dichotomy I've tried to incorporate in his clothes: namely, the sun on his hat and the hem of his vest, but also the moon-shaped collar and the star pattern on the blue fabric (because after all we're in a Galaxy).

Also thanks to @the-l-spacer for pointing out he has a symbol -a planet being split in two by lightning- that I added at the end of his hat. It fits him but not the goal of his plan: guess graphic design isn't his passion (cit.).

Physically speaking, I guess I leaned more on his *sad* aspects: I really wanted him to look frail, hence I've tried to make his as thin as possible and gave him a long face to match his long nose, plus I gave him downturned eyes to make him look even more sad.

As for the short hair, I admit I just vibe with it more.

Last but not least, the yellow rose he's holding represents Bayta and the platonic feelings she had for him.

If you made it this far, congrats! I hope you liked the drawing, and if so remember to like and reblog and subscri-[BLASTER SHOT]

[watchyourbuck]

To the tall and humble

buddie | nsfw | explicit

He showed up to work late. Ten minutes, but still, late. It's not like he had wanted to, but more like he had no choice. Christopher had had a bad night.

Now, he wasn't expecting to find his team already geared up, ready to roll. Most importantly, he wasn't prepared to find one member missing. Buck.

"Hey, guys, where's-"

"He has a thing. Day off" said Chimney, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Eddie nodded, unexplicably upset. Many times they worked 'minus one', but this time it felt odd. Buck was his partner -in crime-, and they did everything together. Who was Bobby going to pair him off with?

He was about to tell them that he'd change, when everyone simply stared ahead, following something moving behind him. He frowned, then turned around, having to squint momentarily.

"Hey, guys! Wanted to show off my attire before the wedding. What do you think?"

Dressed in a complete tux, undervest and all, Buck stood at the entrance with his arms open, looking down at his team, all of whom cheered, laughed and commented. Except Eddie.

No, Eddie was blinking repeatedly, jaw slightly loosened. "Hey, Eddie, you okay?"

Buck's words took him out of the trance, inhaling more air than his lungs could store. "Hey- ye-yeah" he muttered between coughs, which he covered with his fist. "All good, yeah. You look... great."

His praise sounded backhanded, and probably the hand gesture he used to signal Buck's outfit didn't help, but the younger man still smiled. "Thank you, Eddie. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom. Didn't have time to pee before leaving the apartment."

As he powerwalked away, Eddie's eyes followed him, analyzing his every step.

"You good, Díaz?" asked Hen, her sassy tone sipping through her teeth.

Silence filled the room, because until Buck was out of sight, his mind would not compute, and by the moment he was gone, and he looked back at his team, Bobby, Chimney and Hen all had their eyebrows raised, smug expression.

Eddie glanced between them and the door Buck disappeared from, breathing in and out and shaking his head. "Yeah, no."

Like a madman, he ran away from his friends and into the bathroom, basically kicking the door down on his way in. "Buck" he said with determination.

The younger male turned around in confusion, his hands on his unbuckled belt. "Hey, what's -?" he tried to question, but had no time to finish, as Eddie was invading his personal space in a matter of seconds.

"One word and I'll stop."

He didn't require further explanation when Eddie was kneeling down in front of him and pushing his hands out of the way, taking control of his belt.

Buck's breath hitched, his hands in the air, big, blue, wide eyes and mouth ajar as Eddie moved his fingers in one single motion to unzip his pants and pull them slightly down, slipping his thumb over the hem of his boxers, pressing at the hip bone. He looked up, hesitantly.

Their eyes met halfway. The lust on Eddie's and the shock on Buck's. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say.

The older man swallowed, licking his lips before returning to his task. He pulled the boxers down as much as he could without making them drop on the dirty bathroom floor, and gripped Buck's cock, staring at the head as it hardened in his hand. "Fuck, Buck."

"Just... just...."

The trail of precum was tempting, so in a leap of faith, Eddie closed the distance, licking the stripe all the way to the top. Once he did, he closed his mouth and savored it. "Holy fuck, Buck...."

Their gazes crossed again, this time Buck's eyebrows were contorted upwards, pleasure on his eyes. "Pl-please" he whispered, cupping Eddie's cheek with his palm.

"Okay" he replied, bracing himself before taking him whole, making it bump with the back of his throat. Buck moaned at the lack of gag reflex. Holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT.

His hand moved from Eddie's cheek to his hair, his fingers curling at the shape of his skull. He had little hair this time of the year, so he couldn't pull, but the intention was the same. Faster.

Eddie's muscles tightened as Buck's hips bucked. "S-sorry."

But Eddie wasn't having it. He grabbed Buck's ass and pushed him forward, his lips forming a perfect 'o'.

The message was clear, so he rushed, working his mouth diligently as Buck made unholy noises a few feet above him. His own hands now traveled down his legs, squeezing wherever he could get a little meat. This man was going to be the end of him.

In minutes, minutes, Buck was tapping him on the shoulder as a notice, releasing himself down Eddie's throat, a streak of white making its way out of the corners of his mouth as he tried to swallow it all. It was just so much.

He eventually pulled away, leaving Buck to feel the cold air after the hot machine his tongue had been. Eddie fell back, sitting on his own feet, wiping the cum with his wrist. His breathing was heavy, nothing abnormal for what they had just done.

Buck looked around before slowly pulling his boxers and pants back up, putting away his -still- painfully hard cock. He tried to buckle his belt but his hands were shaking. That's when Eddie stood up, getting closer to him, taking the belt -once again- from his hands and doing all the work. At the same time, he looked up, eyebrows raised, small smirk. "You feeling good?"

"Y-yes."

"Good" said Eddie, his voice softer now.

They stood there for a second, looking at each other for what seemed like years before Eddie was grabbing Buck's face and pulling him for a kiss. Not as hungry, but just as meaningul. Buck kissed back, a faint moan escaping his lips as he melted.

Finally, Eddie took a step back. "We'll talk about this later, yeah?"

All Buck could do was nod as his partner left.

(i hope you like this one! i was inspired by my own incorrect quote lmaoo fghjk)

[scotianostra]

Victoria Helen McCrae Duncan was born on November 25th 1897 in Callander.

Known as Helen Duncan, in 1944, she became last person in the UK to be tried, convicted and imprisoned under the 1735 Witchcraft Act.

Hellish Nell, as she became known, was actually a medium, and by all accounts not a very good one, the way she earned her living was to hold seances and charge plenty for her services, but she was rumbled several times as a fraud.

Nor was she the last person convicted under the 1753 Act – now repealed and replaced with the Fraudulent Mediums Act of 1951 – because in fact three other people were on trial alongside her and one of them was sent to prison, too. Yet somehow the “last witch” nickname has stuck, though records clearly show that some months after her trial and imprisonment in September 1944, one Jane York, 72, from Forest Gate, East London, was charged under the same act with seven counts of pretending to conjure up spirits of the dead. Incredibly, York was simply bound over for the sum of £5 to be of good behaviour for three years.

Ah, but that happened after D-Day, and there is no question when you examine the evidence that the authorities wanted to make an example of Helen Duncan and put her away for the summer of 1944.

From an early age her own family saw her as fey, and her mother was mortified when the child’s behaviour became impossible – she would predict doom and destruction for all sorts of people and was given to outbursts of hysteria.

Her early life was otherwise normal. She moved to Dundee and worked at the Royal Infirmary where she met Henry Edward Duncan, a wounded war veteran and a cabinet maker. They were married in 1916, and Duncan would eventually have six children by Henry who saw a great way of making money from his wife’s talents in clairvoyance – she read tea leaves and made predictions and earned a few shillings for doing so.

By 1926 she had become a fully-fledged medium giving seances during a time when spiritualism was all the rage. Moving to Edinburgh, her seances were soon the talk of the town – even the ghost of that local man turned Sherlock Holmes creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a great believer in spiritualism, was said to have materialised at sittings.

A prominent feature of her seances was her apparent ability to produce “ectoplasm” from her mouth during her trances when she was transformed into her spirit partners Albert or Peggy, a young girl whose voices “spoke” through Duncan. She had grown quite obese and the contrast between this 20-stone woman and the childish voices was part of the reason why people believed in her.

It was at a seance in January 1933 that Peggy emerged in the seance room and a sitter named Esson Maule grabbed her. The lights were turned on and the spirit was revealed to be made of a cloth undervest which used as evidence that led to Duncan’s conviction on the Scottish offence of fraud at Edinburgh Sheriff Court in May 1933.

The conviction does not seem to have harmed her career. Duncan was by then making a good living by conducting seances throughout Britain at which “the spirits of the dead were alleged to have appeared, sometimes talking to and even touching their relatives”.

Duncan began to get more famous but also began to be more scrutinized. Director Harry Price of the National Laboratory of Psychical Research examined her. He deemed her ‘ectoplasms’ to be made of cheese and eggs which she would regurgitate up. Price was less than impressed by what he felt was a show woman, exploiting people for money.

“Could anything be more infantile than a group of grown-up men wasting time, money, and energy on the antics of a fat female crook.”

During World War Two, Duncan lived in Portsmouth, the home of the Royal Navy. In 1941, the spirit of a sailor reportedly appeared at one of her seancés announcing that he had just gone down on a vessel called the Barham. HMS 'Barham' was not officially declared lost until several months later, its sinking having been kept secret to mislead the enemy and protect morale.

Unsurprisingly, Duncan's activities attracted the attention of the authorities and on 19 January 1944, one of her séances was interrupted by a police raid during which she and three members of her audience were arrested.

Duncan was remanded in custody by Portsmouth magistrates. She was originally charged under section 4 of the Vagrancy Act (1824), under which most charges relating to fortune-telling, astrology and spiritualism were prosecuted by magistrates in the 20th century. This was considered a relatively petty charge and usually resulted in a fine if proved. She was eventually tried by jury at the Old Bailey for contravening section 4 of the Witchcraft Act of 1735, which carried the heavier potential penalty of a prison sentence.

In particular, the medium and her three sitters were accused of pretending 'to exercise or use human conjuration that through the agency of Helen Duncan spirits of deceased persons should appear to be present'. Duncan was also charged with offences under the Larceny Act for taking money 'by falsely pretending that she was in a position to bring about the appearances of the spirits of deceased persons'.

The trial caused a media sensation and was extensively covered in the newspapers, many of which revelled in printing cartoons of witches on broomsticks. At one stage, the defence announced that Duncan was prepared to demonstrate her abilities in the witness box. This amounted to conducting a séance in the court while in a state of trance and the offer was refused.

Duncan was found guilty as charged under the Witchcraft Act and sentenced to nine months in Holloway Prison, London, but she was cleared of the other offences. She was the last person in Britain to be jailed under the act, which was repealed in 1951 and replaced with the Fraudulent Mediums Act following a campaign by spiritualist and member of parliament Thomas Brooks.

There are two common misconceptions about Duncan's conviction. The first is that she was the last person in Britain to be convicted of being a witch. In fact, the Witchcraft Act was originally formulated to eradicate the belief in witches and its introduction meant that from 1735 onwards an individual could no longer be tried as a witch in England or Scotland. However, they could be fined or imprisoned for purporting to have the powers of a witch.

The second misconception is that she was the last person to be convicted under the Witchcraft Act. Again this is incorrect. Records show that the last person to be convicted under the Witchcraft Act was Jane Rebecca Yorke in late 1944. Due to her age (she was in her seventies) she received a comparatively lenient sentence and was fined.

Additionally, it has often been suggested that the reason for Duncan's imprisonment was the authorities' fear that details of the imminent D-Day landings might be revealed, and given the revelation about the Barham it is clear to see why the medium might be considered a potential risk. Nonetheless, then prime minister Winston Churchill wrote to the home secretary branding the charge 'obsolete tomfoolery'.

Helen Duncan was released from prison on the 22 September 1944 and seems to have avoided further trouble until November 1956, when the police raided a private séance in Nottingham on suspicion of fraudulent activity. No charges were brought and shortly afterwards, on 6 December in the same year, the woman who is sometimes remembered as the 'last witch' died.

A campaign by her descendents to clear her name continues to this day.

The first pic is a bust f Helrn, which was presnted to the town of Callander, but such is the atitudes towards her it was rejected, it i nowon display at the Stirling Smith Art Gallery and Museum.

[no-where-new-hero]

More Lantern Hill posting! Will attempt to keep this brief as I also have to draft tomorrow's F&H readalong post lol.

CH. 17:

Dad had bought a dish-pan that day, but neither of them had thought about a dish-cloth or dish-towels. Jane got two new undervests out of her trunk and slit them open.

Obsessed by how Jane immediately repurposes one of the unnecessary clothes from Gay Street and uses it as a functional tool of her new life. Talk about reclamation of power.

Also a strange, soft far-away sound—the moaning call of the sea. The night seemed to be filled with it. Jane heard it and something deep down in her responded to it with a thrill that was between anguish and rapture. Why was the sea calling? What was its secret sorrow?

The sea runs through all of LMM's PEI books, yet this seems to be her most oceanic novel as far as I can tell. Only Anne's House of Dreams, and Leslie Moore's character from it in particular, uses the sea as a theme to this extent.

CH. 18:

Jane broiled [the codfish] and her face as well, and it was delicious.

Such an accurate description of cooking. If you're not physically altered by the act, did you really make a good meal?

Her foot was on her native heath and her name was Jane.

Names also define this book to a huge extent. Yes, we saw that with Valancy vs. Doss, but in TBC, Valancy never seemed to doubt she was Valancy. It was a mark of her otherness and used against her, but perhaps because she was older, it doesn't seem such a fundamental building block her identity the way Jane vs. Victoria is here. It's interesting how both Jane and Victoria are hereditary names, which may contribute to how fraught they are.

Dad brought home the ship clock with the dog. Jane found it useful to time meals by, but as far as anything else was concerned there was really no such thing as time at Lantern Hill.

LMM is really a master at creating enchantment. I would never have thought domesticity could be like fairyland, but Lantern Hill really is for Jane, and therefore for us.

CH. 19:

She had a sudden realization of the fact that this was not the first time dad had helped fix up a home…not the first time he had been nicely excited over choosing wallpaper and curtains and rugs. He must have had it all before with mother. Perhaps they had had just as much fun over it as dad and she were having now…more ... how could mother ever have left him?

This paragraph hurt me a little somewhere, and I think it lies in the fact that the moment when a child realizes that their parents were not always parents but once in fact had a life before your existence, something kind of shifts in your worldview. I can't quite remember if Jane has already pondered the circumstances of her parents' separation, but her actively thinking now of when they married seems to be a necessary--if perhaps painful--step forward in her maturity. And of course in the next chapter we begin to hear of Robin again.

CH. 20:

Aunt Irene was smiling, but there was an edge to her voice. Jane thought she would almost prefer grandmother's venom. You didn't have to look as if you liked that.

I would ALSO prefer Grandmother, Jane, which is saying something. God, this whole chapter makes me so mad. I hope Aunt Irene dances in red hot shoes by the end of this novel.

CH. 21:

Jane's letter to her mother is giving such Emily-writing-on-letter-bills-to-her-father: even down to having opinions on cows and including misspellings.

[akallabeth-joie]

The Blue Castle, Chapter 31

The pacing this chapter opens with is brilliant. We fly through the autumn and into winter in half a chapter, with whole months summarized in a paragraph of natural beauty and wonder. Compare with the opening, when Valancy's life dragged ("time flies"/"I think it crawls"), and it took four chapters for her to wake up, eat breakfast, and get out of the house.

Skating and snow-shoeing sound much more fun than being sick all winter. The contrast between the Stirlings forcing Redfern's nostrums on Valancy, and Barney literally throwing it out of the house could not be clearer. I also dare say, given her specific hatred for the liniment, that her willingness to buy it for Barney's cold is a sign of true affection.

For how much he professes to dislike John Foster's books, it's nice that Barney picked one up for Valancy, and her willingness to keep quoting at him makes it all seem more like a game between the two of them where Barney's exaggerating being a grump. Grumpy gnome man!

And we have some Stirling flashback negative points. Cousin Stickles gets more unique sentences, though I'll give her a pass on the gargling since that sounds like something she can't help [or does Mrs. Stirling insist that putting a finger on one's upper lip also prevents that?], and just get -2 for making Valancy rub in her liniment, and for whining about coal prices. Mrs. Stirling has three vague complaints (she spends the whole winter "probling, questioning, ignoring"), which, though less specific than Cousin Stickles's, are getting a full -3 for the shear multitude of incidents they seem to represent. Uncle Benjamin gets -1 for lying to a child (he didn't have to get Valancy skates for Christmas, but he shouldn't have told her he would and then reneged). Cousin Georgiana gets another +1 for the dandelion wine.

Also, can I just say that the expectation that Valancy remember who got what Christmas presents last year (in order to avoid repeating) really bothers me, because she apparently just keeps receiving the same narrow range of practical items (rubbers, undervests). No one has to give her fun presents (though it would be a kindness), but they also don't have to keep holding her to a higher standard than the treatment she receives.

Yay for the frivolous present! I bet those pearls look lovely with her moonlight dress.

Scoreboard: No changes to order. Uncle James continues to trail Cousin Stickles in the second-runner-up position for "worst Stirling."

Mrs. Stirling: -48

Cousin Stickles: -17

Uncle Benjamin: -13

Aunt Wellington: -11

Uncle James: -11

Olive: -7

Uncle Wellington: -4

Byron Stirling: -2

Aunt Isabel: -2

Cousin Gladys: -2

Cousin Betty: -1

Aunt Mildred: -1

Second Cousin Sarah Taylor: -1

Aunt Alberta: 0

Uncle Herbert: 0

Second Cousin Jane: 0

Cousin Georgiana: 7