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kudossi · 1 year

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carry me to innisfree

She finds herself on a precipice, grass under her paws and gray sky overhead. The smell of salt and the sound of crashing waves fill her senses; her claws dig into sand-strewn soil; her fur lifts with the ocean breeze, strong and stalwart, whipping steadily away from the rising sun. Below her lies ocean, depthless and desperately, achingly blue; beyond her lies water, leaping endlessly toward the golden, rocky shore.

The sun-drown-place, she thinks, and feels at once the age of eight moons and eighty season-cycles. She reaches at once for Feathertail, dead for countless pawsteps; for Tawnypelt, buried seasons ago; for Stormfur, lost to the crags of the mountains; for Crowfeather, who had closed his eyes only moons ago and had never opened them again. She does not reach for Bramblestar; she does not question why. She simply exists, with the ghosts of her friends almost corporeal at her sides, and watches as the wind plays with the waves, salty ocean spray spattering at her paws.

A pale bird swoops overhead, white and soft, feathery gray; with a bolt of delight, Squirrelflight recognizes it as a gull. It had been so long since she had chased them over sand and into the waves, their calls echoing against rocky cliffs. Brambleclaw had snorted, unamused; Feathertail had joined her, swimming through whitecaps and pouncing clumsily on birds until, with the exaggerated air of someone too good for noisy, troublesome birds, she had pulled the largest fish Squirrelflight had ever seen from the waves.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Squirrelpaw had told her, laughing, as Feathertail struggled with a fish bigger than both cats combined.

“Better than looking like a drowned squirrel,” Feathertail had countered, and then Tawnypelt had joined the fray, chasing an odd-looking creature across the shore, all hard shell and hard, straight tail and weird, wiggly, bug-like legs.

“What is this place?” Stormfur had asked, tipping over a bug-prey of his own.

“I don’t know!” Squirrelpaw had replied, delighted, and gotten a mouthful of saltwater for her trouble. She sputtered and spat and dissolved into giggles, lungs seizing and aching and burning, happier than she’d ever been.

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moonshapedbox · 10 days

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you all need to do yourselves a favor a get into fleet foxes' discography bc ur all really missing out. they are so incredibly underrated and it's so sad

#listening to their self titled album rn and im gonna ascend #SO SO GOOD OMGGG #beautifully haunting no skip discography GET INTO IT #love them foreverrrrr #fleet foxes #rinnie's rambles </3

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juno-infernal · 5 months

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i know it’s 16 years old now but i truly believe we don’t talk enough about how crazy white winter hymnal goes. remember hearing that song for the first time? transcendent.

#m #not to be basic but fleet foxes self-titled and helplessness blues both fully changed my life when they came out #possibly it’s because i was so young but that’s when i was really developing my own taste #and some of the folksy indie from like 07-2012 will always be remembered as revelatory to me

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colgatebluemintygel · 1 year

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hiya hi hello, your last ask abt the regency-au made me giggle n kick my feet (mostly metaphorically) holy hell!! when's the launch party and how's parking gonna work? so looking forward to it! hope you're having a great day/night (:

hi babe hello!! <3 launch party date is still unconfirmed :-( but parking will be free and in large supply :-) tbh at the moment i'm giving my full attention to my current wip because i have been known to be a chronic abandoner! and multitasking is not my friend! but then afterwards......!!! see you in the regency era baby <3 i'm so excited!

aww i'm having a lovely day!! about to go out for high tea (lmao) with my best friend :-) i love a scone! i hope you're well <333

#affr #<- fic title clue! woohoo!!!! and guess what...... this time it's not a fleet foxes song title. i know! i'm surprised too!!!

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no-fxn-club · 2 years

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White Winter Hymnal

They let out a deep breath watching as it twisted and turned into an icy cold sight before their own eyes. The scarf around their throat started to fall loose from their neck although it did nothing but let the cold air seep in and send a chill to their bones once more. With a shiver, they tugged the scarf tighter and then glanced behind them to see if their brother was still scrambling through the snow after them, although as they looked there was nothing, then something snapped his attention forward. There stood their brother with his hand wrapped tightly around the now deep crimson scarf that had been clinging to his throat. Then he noticed the others they had been following who had once been white as the snow that they were all trudging through had now become the same crimson red color as their brother's was. He turned to look back at them before letting out a soft gasp before falling to the ground with the snow around his neck starting to seep with the same red from the scarf. As they ran up to him, they noticed that the snow had started to turn to look like a summer strawberry pressed up to the pure whiteness around it. They let out a wracked sob as the scarf slipped away to lay flat and a large slit wrapped around his throat to be unveiled to their eyes. At the same time, the air was filled with soft, muffled thuds as the others had similar fates. The heads of the ones before the two siblings were now laying in the snow with crimson leaking from them as their unmoving eyes looked up to the sky with soft flakes of the snow coating their skin. The bodies were within a small difference from the heads that had fallen in the snow still bundled in the same coats as they had been in although the now red scarfs around their throats had now fallen to lay across the snow as his brother's had letting the blood seep into the now under the stained fabric. They let out one last sob as they clung to him feeling their own scarf start to try and blow away into the white and cold flurries around them. Although as they looked down, the red color had started to seep into their own in the same way the pack's had. And his little brother Michael's had.

#holy terror #this is slightly based off mcr bc gerard and mikey #but its more based of the song of the same title by fleet wood foxes #bc this song my beloved #also #tw death #tw blood mention #tw blood #tw death mention

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indigo-flightly-falls · 6 months

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The four soldiers of Dogwarts perfectly fit with the four seasons: an unhinged rant of a neurodivergent minor who has had too much sugar

anyways the title explains the idea of this post ^_^

Let's start with fall bc I miss Halloween.

BigB is fall. Fall is a beautiful time of the year, with warm colors and leaves falling and Halloween and time to be with friends. And yet, fall is harsh. It starts out with the warm of summer, and ends a dreary, cold and wet time. Plants do not grow in the later weeks of fall. In the same sense, BigB does not appear threatening. He appears kind and docile, not ready to join the fight (and not one to betray anyone). And yet, just as the fall fades to bitter chill, BigB is capable of much more danger then expected. With or without remorse, betrayal is a option on the table.

Etho is winter. Winter is harsh, bitter, and a constant struggle. Plants are almost unable to grow, snow storms and blizzards can take out many people, and wolves and foxes prowl the forest. And even with it's dangers, winter is a beloved time of year. It's the season of togetherness, with Christmas (and other holidays of this time) and Valentines day both falling during the harshest time of winter. In the same way, Etho is beloved and regarded as a danger. Weither or not they're actually dangerous is up for debate. Winter can pardon those it cares for, and in the same way, Etho is much more loyal then they'll ever let on

Martyn is spring. Yes I know there's the whole 'never made it to spring' deal but bear with me. Spring starts out bitter and wet, with frosts coming to kill off plants that sprout too early. But spring also is full of warmth and sunlight and the promise of a new beginning. And, storms are a common thing to happen during the spring, which can be quiet dangerous if you're not careful. Martyn rarely shows his more loyal side, hiding it behind an uncaring front. And this uncaringness isn't always a lie, but there is small amounts of loyalty still buried like a seed waiting out the frost.

And finally, Skizz is the summer. Spring is the most loved season, promising freedom and warm days with cool nights, skies filled with stars and days spent playing with friends. And yet, summer is storm season in many places, and god forbid that your soil grows dry only to have a heavy downpour. That's a quick way for a flood. And on top of everything else, summer is fleeting. It seems to pass before you even started to enjoy it. In the same way, Skizz promises nothing but loyalty and protection and fun, but a quick switch, that when flipped, shows another side. A side of bloodlust and a hunger for battle. A side that still (despite it all) holds an instinct driven urge to protect.

@thenopequeen here because I fully relate to the need for more of them

@dingdinghq i know you also miss them so here ya go :D

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wolfpants · 5 months

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thickets playlist

Here is a collection of songs I listened to death whilst creating my piece for @writcraft for this year's @hd-erised. Suffice to say, Patrick Wolf, who has been a constant in my life since a very young age, was a huge influence. The title comes from his song of the same name, the concept from my love of his album The Bachelor.

You can find the whole playlist on spotify

List of songs:

Patrick Wolf - Thickets Johnny Flynn - The Box Nick Drake - Cello Song Orange Juice - Blue Boy Johnny Flynn - Raising the Dead Owen Pallett - Lewis Takes Off His Shirt Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymnal Smashing Pumpkins - Thirty-Three M. Ward - Poison Cup Patrick Wolf - Blackdown listen on spotify

read thickets on ao3

#writing #thickets #drarry #drarry fic

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0ssianic · 11 months

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Pics From & Info On Tamayura no Ie, a Natsume Yuujinchou light novel

Original Work - Midorikawa Yuki Novel - Murai Sadayuki Title: Novel · Natsume Yuujinchou Tamayura no Ie*

*Based on online dictionaries, my guess so far is the title translates to "House of Fleeting Moments", but I've seen it referred to as "House of Reflecting Souls" in a summary post on livejournal

Originally published by Hakusensha in 2016 and the listed price on the back is 670 yen. My copy was published in 2020 as part of the 3rd printing and I got it for ~$18 total.

Table of Contents

Tamayura no Ie レイコの肖像 (Reiko's Portrait) 小狐のたび (Little Fox's Journey) Epilogue Afterword

(if I'm interpreting it right, "Reiko's Portrait" and "Little Fox's Journey" were previously published online before being published as part of this book)

More art + drawings from the book below the cut

First side of the art inside the cover:

Back side of the art inside the cover:

1st drawing:

Illustration from the end of the 1st story:

2nd drawing:

3rd drawing:

Illustration from the end of the 3rd part:

4th drawing:

#natsume yuujinchou #natsumes book of friends #tamayura no ie #natsume yuujinchou LN #i want to collect as much natsume media as i can and i stumbled across this on ebay #pardon the quality i took the pics with my phone and did my best to touch them up #its weird how theres almost no info on the LNs in eng #and ive never seen the drawings posted before

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neververy4 · 10 days

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Tag Game: Give a song title for every letter of your Tumblr Username, and @ the same amount of people

Tagged by @everysinglepheel and @damnsparce, two people who'd like me to be challenged :P

N, E, V, R, and Y were pretty easy, but a song that starts with 4 (and not "four" because that's technically not "4")? Well that was a hard one that I only got because it literally came to me in a dream. Anyways, these song links are Bandcamp links (Except the last one which is YouTube), so you're free to click on it without being redirected to a different app

And the last one, 4 (YouTube)

As per the rules, I gotta @ some people (10 in total because I have 10 characters) Don't feel obligated to follow through, being @'ed isn't a requirement @thekoboldyipper @gotenerd @foxhawk303 @waggoboyo @totallynotgayforyou @ttartarus @sapphireraeburn @leagueofuselessness @mewbusi @gladiolusdragon

#Neververy4 #Long Post #Tag Game #Bandcamp

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wheel-of-fish · 5 months

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I was tagged by @brendadaaedestler (thank you!) to “Spell your url with song titles and then tag as many people as there are letters.”

W - "We Both Go Down Together" - the Decemberists

H - "Hey Lover!" - Wabie

E - "Eat Your Young" - Hozier

E - "Everything Is Simple" - Widowspeak

L - "La Fama" - Rosalía, The Weeknd

O - "On This Night of a Thousand Stars" - ALW (Evita)

F - "Flightless Bird, American Mouth" - Iron & Wine

F - "The Fruits" - Paris Paloma

I - "I Think I Need a New Heart" - the Magnetic Fields

S - "Should've Been Me" - Mitski

H - "He Doesn't Know Why" - Fleet Foxes

Tagging @consistantly-changing @devilswalkingstick @maddenedbythesstars @dying-suffering-french-stalkers @lestatslestits @bogglebabbles @shinyfire-0 @musicalyikes @when-it-rains-it-snows @aminta @tallestsilver

#fun!!#music #tag game

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safarigirlsp · 2 years

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The Beast

Vampire Kylo Ren x Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: None! Shocking! Some light horror and sexy themes.

AO3 Link

For Halloween, please enjoy this wicked fairytale for Transfusion Tuesday and also writer wednesday based a request from this Edgar Allen Poe prompt list. Notes of Beauty and the Beast, Dracula, and The Raven in my best Poe-ish attempt 🍂🍁🍂

This also continues my Wicked Fairytale Series where I give my own twisted twist to the classics, like Cinderella , A Midsummer Night’s Dream and A Christmas Carol.

For as long as anyone could remember, the castle had loomed from its cliffside perch above the sleepy little town far below. Like a raven, always watching, always waiting, for its prey to wander close enough to be ensnared in its shadows that stretched forth like grasping talons when twilight grew dim. Every night, when the mists swirled like waltzing specters and the chill settled like death’s hand upon the stricken, mothers would tell their children the tale of the Beast that had always lived in the castle.

With windows like nefarious eyes, peaked rooftops like arched eyebrows, spires rising like devilish horns into the sky, and the spiked iron teeth of the courtyard gates, the castle was a being itself. A monstrosity more imposing than any gargoyle watching over a churchyard. If the Beast didn’t ravage any hapless passersby, the castle itself looked eager to devour them whole.

For as long as fairytales had roots, the quiet little village had by horror been haunted. The frigid darkness that swirled through the streets like a wayward horseman’s spirit, lost and forsaken, was as warm as the kiss of a summer breeze compared to the icy black terror the Beast wrought upon those foolish enough to venture forth in the witching hour.

Far wiser than their human masters, animals would never dare encroach upon the accursed castle. Venture too far into the castle woods and horses would buck and bolt and hounds would whine and turn tail. Deer and fox and cheerfully colored songbirds knew they were unwelcome inside the black woods, among the dead trees with branches like demons’ claws, twisting up from Hell. Only the other creatures of darkness and malice, wolves and ravens, kept company with the Beast in his woods and his lair of stone. Man alone, with his mind for reason and penchant for fumbling upon the worst conclusion, hazarded to trespass upon the castle and meet his death at the gruesome hands of the Beast within.

Or so it had always been said. For no man who had made the perilous journey into the darkness of the castle’s shadow had ever returned.

From the topmost window in the highest tower, the Beast watched the foolish mortals go about their trivial fleeting lives below him, nothing more than ants crawling before a god. The Beast watched with loathing untold and seething unmeasured at the trivial humans who lived their fleeting lives with a carefree happiness he would never know. A silent snarl curled his lips at the sight and his tongue would absently trace over the tips of his fangs, thinking, as he often did, of the sweet taste of blood when they tore through frail flesh.

The tower spire was a freedom for the Beast, a reminder of the benefit of the bargain he had made centuries before. A deal sealed in those ages deemed dark -- dark and befitting of the curse that had stricken the Beast. Down leagues of staircases that seemed to spiral down to the bowels of the underworld, past long hallways winding lonely through bleak walls and past portraits of the long-dead and forgotten, deep in the cold earthen sepulcher in the castle dungeons lay an ancient coffin, undisturbed but never at rest. Inscribed upon the coffin and tarnished by the passage of centuries was its intended occupant’s name and title. Sir Kylo Ren.

Far longer ago than anyone in the inconsequential little town remembered, a knight protected the land and the woods and the cliffs. The Black Knight built a castle on the highest mountain, a fortress of stone to keep the woman he loved safe within its walls. The Black Knight was as beloved by his vassals as he was feared by his enemies, for he protected his own with a fist gloved in steel armor as black as his rage. But memories are as short as the frivolous lives of the townspeople and now no one remembered the Black Knight and his valor. But all the townspeople remember the creature he became. The Beast.

Not even the mighty power of the Black Knight, his strength beyond all other men, could save his woman when the plague settled its pox over the land. She was swept away from him on a green tide of pestilence to a place he could never follow, for surely a man as fearsome as himself could never trail an angel’s wings through Heaven’s Gates. The winter that blew in after her death never again lifted from the knight’s castle grounds nor the gloom from his heart.

Offering solace to the distraught shell of a man the Black Knight had become, a witch emerged from the shadows. Never before nor since was the treacherous creature seen, save only that one harsh winter night when Sir Kylo Ren had naught for company but his thoughts that churned blacker than cauldron pitch and more poisonous than Cleopatra’s adder. Like a raft to a drowning man, the witch offered the Black Knight that which he wanted most in the Hell his world had become. To know happiness again. To feel warmth and pleasure. For his true love to be returned to him.

A deal was struck, unholy and perfidious, back in that forgotten age of knights and witchcraft. The bargain was not to be for the Black Knight, for bargains offer a benefit. It was a trick as vile and malicious as the fumes of the underworld. Wearing the tempting veil of a bargain, it was a curse wrought upon the Black Knight. And from the curse, from the coffin of the noble knight, a creature of the night emerged. More monstrous than a vampire, Sir Kylo Ren was transformed into an unholy beast.

A curse lifted by a lover’s kiss or a moment of understanding was too simple, for love can bloom in an instant in the darkest hours of the night and flutter away with the rising sun. Sir Kylo knew well how to elicit lust and desire, how to arouse the flames of passion and ecstasy that would quickly flare into a wildfire of love. The Beast’s curse could only be undone by the rarest of women; the woman who could look upon him, see the ferocious beast he was, and show no fear. It was one thing to love a monster, as some women did with their own vile husbands, but yet another to show no fear in the face of monstrosity. The boldest knights looked upon the Beast with fear hammering in their chest so fast that Sir Kylo could dance to the beat. What woman could show bravery and valor where even the finest knights could not? None who had the misfortune of crossing paths with the Beast in the long centuries since the curse was levied upon him.

A curse that only affected the accursed was too benevolent, for there must be consequences to those who would be so tenacious as to attempt to cure the Beast. The witch was cunning and her curse had teeth as sharp as the wolves of the forest. Sir Kylo would not have been known for centuries as the Beast without good cause, without earning that loathsome moniker. Fear was his most morbid aphrodisiac, the spiced scent of terror sent the Beast into a frothing bloodlust. And what remained of the man Kylo had been was lost in the turbulence of mayhem and drowned in the blood that flowed in torrents when the beast was summoned forth to bring the wrath of Hell down upon the fearful and unworthy.

Gentle and loving women, wanton and deceptive women, those pure of heart and those of unadulterated sinfulness alike, all met with equal savagery when their fear bloomed beneath their skin, coursed through their veins like the finest wine. At the faintest hint of fear, the Beast consumed what remained of the man and tore the women apart with razored fangs and supernatural strength. The body of a healthy young woman contains scantly little blood, barely enough for an aperitif, and would only whet the Beast’s appetite. Those were the nights, those nights the Beast hoped beyond hope that he had finally found a woman with the heart of a lion, when blood covered the streets of the town the next day and loved ones tried to piece missing relatives together from the limbs that had been torn off and scattered away from their bodies.

When the Beast tasted the blood of the fearful, he raged. Until the Eastern sky glowed as red as the blood on his lips, threatening him with the dreadful sunrise, he raged. And so, the Beast cloistered himself inside his castle, imprisoned himself in a fortress of his own doing. Venturing no longer from the walls of his castle and the prison of his curse, Sir Kylo waited for a death that would never come. Or so he tried. Some nights the hunger, the longing, to be free of his curse was stronger than his will.

On those nights, he would let others bleed for him. On those nights, he would watch the life drain away from a frightened woman as she found the sweet embrace of death for which he so longed. On those nights, he knew that his soul had deserted him some forgotten time centuries ago, and the terrible parts of him that remained would never again be lifted from darkness.

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For as long as you could remember, you had heard the legend of the Beast that lurked inside the castle on the cliffs. Fairytales for children, you reasoned every time you rode through the forest while the black bramble clawed at you as if to keep you trapped inside forever. Sometimes, it felt as though something more watched you than the vacant lonesome windows. But the windows were always black as arched abysses, no candle ever flickered inside the castle, no sound ever echoed through its cavernous halls. No living soul could endure in that perpetual darkness, as bleak as the harshest winter chill, devoid of light and cheer. No Beast lurked in the castle. Ghosts perhaps, lonely specters of those long-dead, but nothing with a heart that still beats.

For as long as you could remember, you had believed that.

The woods were gloaming, desolate, and dense, as you rode home from far away. Nevermore, your horse and most trusted friend, was as black as a raven in a midnight graveyard. Boldy, you rode him through the woods into which no man would venture during the hours no good woman should be awake. Howls from wolves and hoots from owls kept you company along with the nervous snorts of your horse, but there was no faster way home. There may have been tales of terror about the Beast, but even the most skittish person knew that wolves would never attack a mounted rider. Not even in the cursed depths of the black forest.

Spires, silhouetted against the stars and blacker than the midnight sky, captivated your attention when it should have been elsewhere. The frightened whiny and startled rearing of your horse altered you to the danger you had ridden into. A pack of yellow eyes and white teeth leered at you from the trees on all sides, and excited yips and growls greeted you as the wolves moved in for their kill. Nevermore bolted, you didn’t try to slow him. You could stay with your horse through rearing and bucking and running at breakneck speed through the roughest terrain. But even you were no match for the tree branch as thick as your waist that knocked you out of the saddle as your horse ran under it.

Breath refused to refill your lungs when you hit the cold hard ground. The world spun and bells tolled in your ears as you watched Nevermore gallop away, his black coat vanishing into the black woods like ink into oil. You felt the pack lunge for you even before you heard the rush of bodies running at you on padded feet, and you grabbed for the knife in your boot. Its blade would be little defense against an entire pack of wolves, but it was only your breath that had left you, not your fighting spirit.

Even as you drew your blade, a shadow blacker than the foulest witch descended upon you. Like a widow’s veil, the black cloak of your savior floated over you as the towering man who wore it charged between you and the ravening wolves. Growling more savagely than the animals, the man clad all in black hunched his broad shoulders as the wolves attacked. Faster than your eyes could follow, almost as though his enormous physique had blurred into smoke, the man tore the wolves apart like a lion tearing through lambs. When the ground was littered with grey furry carcasses, the man rolled his shoulders before turning to you.

A black scarf covered the lower half of the man’s face and a long veil of sable hair fell in chaos around his shoulders. His eyes were just as lupine as the wolves had been, gleaming gold in the pale moonlight and fixed upon you. Sweeping his cloak aside, he offered you his massive gloved hand and pulled you gently to your feet. He snugged the scarf more securely over his prominent nose before moving close enough to you to assure that you had no grievous injuries.

“Terrors fill these woods in the dead of night,” he told you in a voice that had the power to hypnotize you if you let him. “A beautiful woman should know better than to venture out alone.”

“I’m no longer alone.” You smiled and for reasons unknown to you, the man flinched at your smile as shocked as if you had struck him across the face.

“No, and your peril is now far greater for my company.” Smoothing his hand over his hair, the man looked up at the moon and shook his head almost morosely. “You cannot travel through this forest on foot and alone at night.” He again extended his hand to you. “Join me. Be my guest for the evening, but you must leave at daybreak.”

“Where will you host me?” You looked around the desolation of the forest to make your point. “There is nothing in these woods.”

“My home, naturally.” His eyes crinkled with a smirk that was concealed by his scarf as he gestured toward the dark towers in the distance.

“Ah, so you’re the infamous Beast who lives in the castle?” you teased pleasantly, but the man did not smile. Rather, his eyes grew serious at your words.

“I am Kylo Ren.” He squeezed your hand reassuringly. “I am the Beast.” His eyes burned into yours, the color of firelight. “And you must not fear me. Never fear me.”

“You’ll find I don’t frighten easily,” you assured him after you gave him your name, and then added playfully, “And you, Kylo Ren, are ill-suited to doing so.”

For the darkness and the scarf that veiled the lower half of his face, you couldn’t be sure, but you thought you saw him smile.

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Wrapped snuggly around his face, the scarf Kylo wore was the only preventive measure he could take to avoid the scent of delicious, maddening fear. Only that length of worn black wool stood between you and a death more vicious than that wolves would have given you, should he smell a hint of fear on your breath. Kylo’s senses were heightened. He saw in the darkness with mosaic vibrance, he heard the whispers of spiders spinning their webs high in his rafters, he could scent the sweet perfume of fresh blood on the breeze from the village miles below when an animal was butchered. The scarf did little to inhibit him but still, he smelled no fear. The scent of horse and of the ocean from which you had traveled lingered on your clothes and the clean floral scent of your hair delighted his senses while the honeyed scent of your skin filled his mind with possibility. He smelled enough to see the steps of your long journey into his forest, but he did not scent fear. And his heart jumped at that epiphany.

The darkened woods put fright into the bones of brave men, but you walked beside the Beast with confident ease. Even through the gates to his courtyard, gaping like the open mouth of leviathan with sharp iron spikes for teeth, and through his once beautiful garden that was now naught but dead bramble and roseless bushes of black thorns, you were not hampered by fear. As Kylo approached the arched double doors of his castle, they opened for their master and his guest, though no servants remained inside.

Torches in sconces and candles in gilded candelabras bloomed to life just ahead of you as you followed the towering man through his labyrinthian hallways. Your footsteps echoed off the stone floors while his remained deathly silent. Whether after centuries of living with the castle alone for company the stone had absorbed his own life force and knew his whims, or the ghosts who lingered and suffered within had deigned to do his bidding, Kylo never knew nor cared to question. The eyes of the dead watched from their portraits and tapestries. Perhaps it was not an illusion when those woven and painted eyes followed the movements of the living, curious to see the new guest their master had brought into the castle and fascinated to watch the horrific death that was surely soon to meet with the beautiful woman. Still, Kylo smelled no fear nor felt the prickle of trepidation on the air.

“You must be famished,” Kylo told you as he escorted you into a grand dining hall that erupted in golden light upon your entry. The sprawling table was long enough to host a battalion and slathered with enough food and wine to overfeed every vacant seat.

“Expecting guests?” You raised an eyebrow at the opulence before you.

“Only you,” he said as he pulled out a chair for you at one end of the table.

The aromas that filled the dining hall, scents of fresh meats and sauces, cheeses and sweets, and blood red wine, emboldened Kylo to remove his scarf as he took his seat at the opposite end of the long table. With the length of the table and the cornucopia of scents between you, he felt assured he could maintain his composure. Temporarily.

It was on instinct that he inhaled deeply, as he often did before meals. He smelled the full bouquet of you then, and it was not fear but excitement and arousal that perfumed you, so tempting as to threaten to send him into a frenzy. When you smiled beautifully at him as you sipped your wine, that boldness beguiled his grim scowl into smiling.

It was as if he had gifted you something precious with his smile, one that intuition told you had not been used in untold years. With his scarf removed, you could look upon the features of the Beast who struck fear into the hearts of men. He was dangerous, to be sure, but that quality added to his dark and devilish handsomeness. From his long glossy hair to his well-groomed Van Dyke, he was as sleek and dark as a panther. Even the harrowing scar that traced a painful pink welt down his right cheek added to his dashing. Only his smile revealed the outward indicia of his curse, the viciously pointed fangs of a vampire. One of those fangs drew over his plush lower lip as he admired your exquisite beauty and his eyes gleamed with golden light that danced with the flicker of candles.

“This is excessive.” You smiled as you speared a perfectly juicy filet with your fork and teased, “So much indulgence is practically sinful.”

“Vices are much more interesting than virtues, darling.” He inclined his head as he savored a piece of meat so rare as to be nearly bleeding raw. “Virtues bore me so.”

“Molière would agree with you,” you replied with a smirk, citing the source of his witticism.

“Smart woman.” He allowed admiration to wash over his features before quoting Moliere again, this time knowing you would catch the reference, “Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.”

“So, you think you’ve caught me?” you retorted. “Lured me in with food and decadence?”

“No, lovely girl, it is you who has captured my attention and admiration.” He leaned toward you, resting his arms on the table. “I have taken your baited hook and swallowed it whole.”

“It does you a disservice that it is not part of the Beast’s legends what a seductive host he is,” you said coyly as you sipped your wine.

“Dinners and seductions often go well for myself and my guests.” Mirroring you, he took a drink of wine, leaving a berry stain on his lips. “It is what comes next that makes me a monster. It is after the seduction is over and minds are sobered when tragedy befalls my guests.”

“Do you think such a tragedy will befall me while in your care?” Your words were meant as an invitation, one he knew well.

“I will not allow it.” Kylo breathed deep, still scenting no fear in the air, only your uniquely erotic perfume. Nevertheless, he declined your offer for wont of trusting himself and a darkness passed behind his eyes. “But you must keep your distance from me. Do not let appearances deceive you or wine imbue you, I am every bit the monster of legend. I am the Beast.”

“You’ll find those bestial qualities of yours don’t frighten me.” You leaned forward, accepting his challenge. “They excite me.” You made a point of letting your eyes trail down his body, openly evaluating him. “You do not strike me as a monster, only a man who needs a woman’s touch.”

“You are tired and weary.” He pushed to his feet, dismissing you, forcing down the pained grimace that threatened to twist his lips. “I shall have a horse waiting for you in the morning. You will not see me again.”

“I cannot simply ride away on one of your horses and never see you again. That’s absurd,” you huffed, indignant from his rebuff. “I must at least return your horse and repay you.”

“Your pleasant company is compensation enough.” He raised his large hand in protest against further argument. “That a beautiful woman with wit and grace would stumble into the bleakness of my life for a night is more than I could have hoped for. You have brought an evening of sunlight to a man who has not seen such warmth in longer than I can recall.” He walked to you, tall and proud, and took your hand to lift you from your seat. “No, accept my kindness, for I am thankful for you to know only kindness from me. Remember me fondly. But never return.”

Inside his glimmering eyes, you saw restraint behind the passion, as if he were holding a part of himself prisoner. His hand was strong and warm, seeming to offer you all the safety in the world so long as you held it. Leading you from the dining room, he took you through his castle, up spirals of staircases, to show you to your room. Your bedchamber for the night was even more luxuriant than the bountiful dinner.

Longing demanded you pull him close, but you refrained. The turn to advance was now his. But he only lifted your hand and placed a kiss on it as searing as a flame and as soft as velvet. His lips were reluctant to leave your skin, so he growled against it, “It is the most valiant kindness I can give you to leave you now. Dream sweetly of me, darling. And when the sun rises, leave my castle and never return.”

Like a specter or a memory, he turned abruptly and his broad frame vanished into the shadows of his hallway. No candles or torches lit his way, the darkness his oldest companion.

*******************************************************************************************

Icy spiderwebs of frost streaked across the glass of the arched windows gave the morning sunlight a crystalline brilliance when it streamed into your bedroom to wake you. The sun’s beautiful rudeness announced your stay at the Beast’s castle had ended. A fire that should have burned out during the night still roared in the fireplace and despite the cool stone walls, the room was filled with warmth. The castle and whatever spirits haunted its halls had welcomed you to stay forever, even if its Master would banish you for your own safety.

A note rested on the nightstand beside you, yellowed parchment folded and sealed with a blood red wax emblem depicting a mounted knight slaying a dragon. The letter came with the knowledge that Kylo had entered your room sometime during the night, had been close enough to touch your sleeping body when he left the letter. You wondered if he had. You hoped he had. A new breed of warmth flooded your body as you broke the letter’s seal. Penned in elegant calligraphy, Kylo spoke to you.

You have given me more than you shall ever know. The gift of your enchanting beauty, your brilliant smile, your sparkling eyes. You gave me the memory of the man I once was, a taste of a life long forgotten. To ask more of you would only serve to put you in the gravest possible danger. I shall not introduce you to the Beast of legend, but content myself in knowing you met only the man. Take my gifts and my thanks, and flee from this cursed place as fast as my horse can carry you.

Your servant, Kylo.

After the third read over his letter, you were resolved. You most certainly would not grant his entreat. You were not leaving his castle.

Despite your best efforts as a huntress, you could not find Kylo upon your morning search. Although, a concerted search of the fortress and grounds would take a fortnight. The castle was vacant, but it was not empty. Filled with memories, its walls held the faded echoes of laughing happiness and enraged screams, its floors stained with tears of joy and of hardship, with the blood and sweat of the generations who had lived and died inside throughout the centuries. Wonders lurked behind every door, dusty and forlorn, but wondrous beneath the neglect. Tarnished was the former majesty that had once graced the castle, but gone it was not. It would require no more than attention and a loving hand to restore its resplendence. You suspected the same of its master.

It was the cathedral-esque library that captured your interest and held it until the sun bid you farewell and twilight painted the sky crimson. Each of the thousands of leatherbound volumes was a gateway to a new world, another adventure, a life you’ve yet to live. Easily and happily lost inside an adventure captured by ink on paper, you did not notice the passage of hours until the words you read grew dim in the gloaming. Even as you thought it, the castle’s candles and torches sparked to dancing life.

With the setting of the sun the master of the castle awakened. And you felt it. The walls creaked and the tresses groaned, sharing the Beast’s pain. A growl filled with rage and despondence boomed through the long, lonely halls so that it was adopted by the walls in its reverberations. Next were crashes, the splintering of wood, the breaking of glass, the clang of metal, as furniture was destroyed by its wrathful master like a lamb at the slaughter. The sounds of frenzy and destruction led you easily to the Beast. To the dining hall that had been so grand the evening before but was now ravaged and torn through, as though a tornado had spun itself to death inside.

Silver strewn, furniture broken, table overturned, portraits slashed, and drapes hanging askew were all illuminated by dying candles that lay flickering and strewn across the floor like dying soldiers on a battlefield. In the twinkling golden light, you saw the Beast. And the Beast Kylo Ren had become was full of fury and sorrow and bloodlust, with no trace of the dashing man who had shown you a perfect evening. Shoulders hunched, long hair wild, muscles rippling beneath black fabric that was ill-suited to restrain them, Kylo snarled viciously as he grabbed another unfortunate chair and threw it against the wall with enough force to shatter it to splinters.

You could feel his rage and his pain as though they were your own. Rage at the monstrosity that lived inside him. Pain at sending away the woman who gave him a taste of salvation.

“You needn’t make such an ado over my departure,” you said calmly as you stepped fully into the broken dining hall. “You’ll find it has been delayed.”

Kylo whipped his head to look at you and you saw the face of the Beast. Razored fangs, two on each side of his upper teeth, were ready to tear you apart and his eyes were unnatural gleaming gold. A demon’s eyes met yours in place of a man’s. You saw in them shock that turned at once to shame and then bled into fear. Terror at the thought of harming you, because surely you would be overcome with fright, that deliciously irresistible fear, at the sight of him.

But the only fear was his, you had none. Stepping over rolling candles and broken glass, you walked to him with confidence until you stood close enough to feel the heat of his powerful body.

“You’re not the most dangerous thing in this castle tonight,” you told him in a sultry lift as you reached behind his neck. Without giving him the option to resist, you pulled him down to meet your lips and kissed him with a passion that set the soul within him burning as he crushed you to his body, wanting nevermore to release you from his embrace. There was no fear, only searing desire as you licked over the tips of his fangs and his tongue danced with yours. His golden eyes were molten when you finally drew apart and your lips were swollen with ripened pleasure when you said to him, “It took a witch to curse you. Only a witch can cure you.”

“A witch?” He cocked an eyebrow at you as a ferociously handsome smile curled his lips. “My darling, whether you offer a cure or another curse, I am yours for the taking.” He kissed you again, deep and lingering, then asked, “A lady as rare and radiant as you can only be a white witch?”

“Oh, I’m as wicked as they come.” You grinned wickedly indeed. “I came to the darkness long before you ever asked me to join you for an evening in your castle.” You stroked his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath your hands, his love and passion rekindled. “We shall share in this darkness, and within it, find more light and happiness than mere mortals have ever dared to dream.”

“Darkness or light, I will not let you walk in either alone.” He held you tighter, his strong arms wrapped around your body. “Until mountains crumble to dust at our feet, I will hold you and love you with all the might of my heart. It now beats for you alone. For as long as there are stars to shine and a moon to light our way, I will never leave your side.”

*******************************************************************************************

Tagging some wicked witches!

#my stuff!#my writing #halloween #vampire #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #best #fic #kylo #writer wednesday #knight #Jacques

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sleepdeprivedsimp234 · 6 months

Text

And, dear York, you would fall, and turn the white snow red as strawberries~

Ships: None!

Warnings: getting shot, inaccurately described historical events (the Boston Massacre), and the way that my age sh*t works is a little wonky (lets just say that NY is maybe a teenager here?).

Genre: Hurt/Comfort I guess-

Title is inspired by: “White Winter Hymnal” by the Fleet Foxes.

—————————

March 5th, 1770

Massachusetts gently held New York’s hand as the walked along the Boston Harbor, and New happily walked next to him, lost in his own little world. Mass chuckled fondly but quietly at the child like wonder in NY’s eyes as the slightly taller colony looked out onto the ocean. After a few more minutes of walking, the two colonies decided to take a break, and each took a seat on the edge of the harbor, their legs hanging over the side. He yet again chuckled at the childish wonder in NY’s eyes along with the slight spark that he had thought was long gone.

"Like what ya see Yorkie?" Mass teased, smirking when NY jumped a tiny bit.

"H-huh? Oh- uh- yeah it’s pretty I guess." NY said before turning back to look at the vast ocean. Mass couldn’t help but frown slightly at the faint-but-still-visible bruise on NY’s cheek from England.

The two just sat there in silence for a little bit lost in their own thoughts, until Massachusetts heard a small giggle from his little brother. He turned to York with a small smirk.

"What’s so funny Yo-" Mass was cut off by a splash of water hitting him directly in the face. He spluttered a little as he tried to regain his composure. He opened his eyes and smiled evilly at New York, who chuckled nervously. “Oh you little sh*t!-"

Massachusetts splashed a bit of water at New York before tackling, pinning and tickling him. He smiled when his little brother’s laughter filled the air, and he eventually stopped, gently rubbing the feeling off York’s torso. He ruffled the taller’s hair and grinned "That’s whatcha get for messin’ wit’ me Yorkie!~”

"Yeah yeah whateva’…." NY said, curling up next to his big brother.

“Hey Matthew!! Cmere!"

Massachusetts turned around at hearing the use of his human name. "Ey Yorkie I’m bein’ called i think. Ya wanna come wit’ me or do ya wanna stay here?”

"I’ll stay here." NY said, though he was obviously too busy playing with a seagull that had come to say hello.

Mass snorted a bit. "Okay then. By the way, those things bite. Just sayin’." he said before walking off in the direction he heard his name be called from.

—————————

[half an hour later]

NY had been busy playing with a seagull and a crow that resided at the Boston Harbor, and had ever so fondly given them the names Kraai (the Dutch word for crow), and Zee (short the Dutch word: Zeemeeuw, which means seagull). Animals, especially birds and cats, had always brought him a weird amount of happiness. One that he rarely ever got nowadays. He chuckled a little when Kraai jumped on his shoulder and squawked. York did his best to mimic the sound, but it sounded more like an angry cat. Kraai gave him a gentle wack with her wing and squawked at him, sounding a lot like a mother lecturing a child.

"Okay okay I know, I know that was terrible…." NY said with a small chuckle. A sudden gunshot pierced the air, making the young colony flinch. He got up and started running to where he heard the gunshot, in case of Massachusetts being hurt. That would be bad….. Zee and Kraai followed him, flying high in the air.

He got to the city square and hid behind a building, peaking his head out. What he saw was utter chaos. There were people, mainly colonists, all running around in a frenzy as about……nine??? soldiers shot at them. NY frantically looked through the crowd, trying to find his big brother. He eventually caught sight of him and sighed exasperatedly when he saw Massachusetts with a chaotic grin on his face. He jumped a tiny bit when a body dropped behind him.

"Mass!!" He shouted, desperately trying to get the older’s attention.

Massachusetts turned his head at the sound of his name, and the grin quickly faded when he saw his little brother, who was standing in the middle of it all. Sh*t sh*t sh*t he never meant for York to be a part of this! Fun was over, Operation: Get NY out here had begun.

"York?? What’re you doin’ ere’?! Are ya crazy?!?!" He yelled, running over to New York, who looked kinda scared.

"I could be askin’ you the same damn question dumbass!!” York shouted, covering his ears a little. He had never liked loud noises.

"Get outta ere’!! Are you tryin’ to get shot?!?" Mass shouted, hugging the taller colony close.

"I came ere’ lookin’ for you!! I was worried that you had gotten shot dumbass!!" New York responded, burying his face in Mass’s hair.

Mass’s face softened slightly at that as he started to escort York and himself out of the city square. Suddenly, New York threw himself in front of Massachusetts, and in turn the soon-to-be Bay State’s face paled a ghostly white as he looked down in front of him. New York was curled up gasping slightly and coughing in pain as he clutched his stomach. Mass didn’t even have to be told anything to know that NY had been shot. Especially when he saw the snow beneath them be died as red as strawberries in the summer time. DAMMIT.

He quickly picked up NY and ran behind a building, muttering an apology when he heard a whimper and yelp from the younger. Mass waited till he was sure that there were no witnesses to teleport into a clearing in the woods. He gently laid his injured brother on the ground and wrapped his jacket around the wound to try and stop the bleeding, and then closed his eyes to try and summon one of the other colonies to help. Dammit. It wouldn’t work. He was too stressed to focus. God NY’s breathing had slowed down a lot….. Wait- why wasn’t NY moving anymore?? Mass checked his pulse, and sighed in mild relief when he felt a pulse. He took off NY’s coat and pressed it against the wound, wincing when NY gasped in pain and coughed, blood spluttering on his lips. Mass cried quietly and hugged his brother close, fully convinced that this would be his brother’s next painful death. That was, until, he heard the caw of a crow above him.

Massachusetts looked up to see Kraai flying above them, and was about to swat her away until he noticed that Kraai seemed to be releasing worried-sounding coos and nudging at NY’s arm with her wing. God he couldn’t believe what he was about to do…..

"Hey uh-" Damn. Is he really talking to a bird right now? "Can ya- umm…. I doubt that you can understand me….. but if you can, NY is hurt and he needs help, can you go get help?" Mass was really hoping that this worked, even if it was ridiculous that he was talking to a bird.

Kraai tilted her head a bit before doing her best to do what somewhat resembled a nod and flying away. It worked! It actually worked! Holy sh*t! Mass could cry tears of joy and he nearly did. He hugged his little brother close, whispering reassuring words into his ears.

"Everything’s gonna be alright…..helps on the way….."

—————————

My fellow NY simps: @stawpny @misery-has-no-company-now @alaskashigh @kyledoesstuff-09 <3

And you cuz yes: @jazzyfrog <333

We love Kraai (the crow) and Zee (the seagull) here (they are original characters maybe-)

#welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #ben brainard #wttt #wttsh #wttt new york #wttsh new york #wttt massachusetts #wttsh massachusetts

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anakin-rarepairs-week · 1 month

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Masterpost - 2024

In this post you will find links to all the creations made for the Anakin Rarepairs Week 2024. The first word is the nature of the creation (fic or visual) and the Tumblr link (if available) is linked to it. If an AO3 link is available, it will be linked into the title of the work itself. Follows the tumblr URL (or AO3 handle) of the creator, the pairing, and the mention “explicit” or “mature” for such works.

I want to thank everyone who participated and made this possible, this was such a great experience and under the read more, you will discover just how many awesome works were created for this event! I look forward to holding it again.

Day 1: Role Swap/Role Reversal | Medbay/Halls of Healing sex | Fangs

Fic (Anakin is Way Too Young to have this Problem) by phoenixyfriend. Kix/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (1 - Role Reversal) by Bittodeath. Pre/Anakin. Mature.

Fic (at your hands in the heat) by maragny. Aayla/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (Eyayah) by CourtesyTrefflin. Fives/Anakin.

Fic (Marking Territory) by SingManyFaces. Ahsoka/Anakin. Explicit.

Day 2: Set into a different time-period | Uniform/Armour Kink | Mandatory Mating

Fic (Let Me Climb Your Tower) by phoenixyfriend. Aayla/Anakin.

Fic (Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry - Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie) by Bittodeath. Jango/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (lily gilded) by maragny. Aayla/Anakin.

Fic (If You're a Dream) by CourtesyTrefflin. Crosshair/Anakin.

Day 3: Non-Human/Creature!Anakin AU | Orgasm delay/Control | Pack

Fic (Take My Hand, Leave Something behind (You can Always Come Back For It)) by phoenixyfriend. Echo/Anakin.

Fic (3 - Orgasm Control) by Bittodeath. Rex/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (Day 3: Non-Human/Creature!Anakin by Dragonfire13. Rex/Anakin.

Fic (Trapped in Fleeting Moments) by CourtesyTrefflin. Fox/Anakin.

Fic (and my lover on my mind) by maragny. Satine/Anakin. Explicit.

Day 4: Forced Marriage AU | Bondage | Instincts

Fic (Don't Want That Scarlet Letter) by phoenixyfriend. Mace/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (I had to go through hell (through hell)) by Bittodeath. Kal/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (like vines to the same treillis) by maragny. Mace/Anakin.

Fic (In Sickness and In Health) by CourtesyTrefflin. Echo/Anakin.

Day 5: Demigod | Accidental stimulation | First cycle

Fic (5 - Accidental stimulation) by Bittodeath. Quinlan/Anakin. Explicit.

Day 6: Not-a-Jedi!Anakin AU | Kneeling | Claiming

Fic (Iron Heart Needs No Armor) by phoenixyfriend. Bo-Katan/Anakin.

Fic (Rain on Tatooine) by Bittodeath. Jaster/Anakin. Explicit.

Fic (No Road Home) by CourtesyTrefflin. Hunter/Anakin.

Fic (A Business Proposal) by Dragonfire13. Jango/Anakin.

Day 7: Tatooine | Dom/sub | Scenting

Fic (Not Now,Kitten) by phoenixyfriend. Rex/Padmé/Anakin. Mature.

Visual by ladyv-aka-via. Rexwalker.

Fic (your love is killing me) by innominatta. Sabé/Padmé/Anakin.

#anakinrarepairweek2k24 #masterpost

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forasecondtherewedwon · 5 months

Text

Amputated Nights

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Hetty/Jack Rating: E Word Count: 776

Scissors, scalpel, needle, saw—Hetty is always passing Jack his instruments in surgery, and then they pass the night together. He is there in the semi-privacy of her room, up away from all of the noise and most of the smell of the hospital.

Saw: the blunted rub that bites when it catches, her hips tilting against his with a gasp from her mouth.

Needle: working flesh together, in and out, his close thrusts like tight stitches.

Scalpel: the pinch of her fingernails into his back.

Scissors: a severance, Jack out the door.

Doctor and nurse, impoverished and practical. This isn’t romantic, but it is real, away from the necessary showmanship of Jack in the theatre, Hetty urging speed or caution with her looks because she can’t with her voice. She hovers at the ready. She passes what he needs. She commiserates with a glance as Jack stands behind glass, hands on his hips in frustration while Sneed does the surgery instead, barely mediocre, or the Professor blinks slowly over a wound that’s bleeding out. Another dead body. Jack huffing hot breath into her hair hours later, a little blood still trapped in the lines of his knuckles when she hugs his hips between her thighs and his quick fingers catch the back of her knee.

Success, tragedy, or plain endurance. Any sort of day can precede the twilight tap of Jack’s boots on the stairs, the unadorned look on his face when Hetty opens her door to him. There is no grin of delight; neither is there the coldness of a lover turned indifferent, the suspicion of a jealous husband. What they have is suitable for where and who they are. So she’s surprised at herself the night she asks him to stay.

“Will you ever spend the whole night with me?”

His pale shape moving in the dark, away from her.

“Go back to sleep.”

You do not tell me what to do here, Hetty would like to remind him. But she isn’t bold enough to say it out loud, in the moment she feels it, body soft in the sheets Jack’s left warm. He didn’t answer her question. The words were wrong anyway, misleading symptoms of her feverish thoughts. She does not mean—does not want—to speculate on what he will do. She means—she wants—to tell him to lay himself back down and remain until the fuzzy charcoal-coloured almost-morning comes and, rising from cool cotton, they feel the air hang hot on their naked shoulders. It isn’t sensible; the bed is narrow, his occasional nightmares disturb her precious unconsciousness. Yet Jack sleeps small, curled in as if from the cold, and Hetty does him the service of pretending to sleep through his more violent awakenings, his soft cries in his sleep. He could stay. She would permit it; the one place in this building where she has some say.

She hopes he will remember her question as a drowsy critique of his solitary habits, or forget it altogether.

Hetty will rise alone and make up with fresh sheets the beds of the patients who died in the night, and she and Jack will not be married. He will not help her, he will not protect her, and her life will continue to take the shape she decides for it. She will be good in her role, trying to keep infection out, concealing her panic over the thing she’s let into the hospital: the governor’s daughter. Hetty will Ma’am and watch and protest when and where and how she can, leaning into the thorny embrace of society to discourage Jack from working with Lady Fox because there are rules that forbid it. The rules prick Hetty too as she unfurls arguments against women in the hospital, women employed, women with hands slick and stained with blood. The fleeting look Jack gives her before turning back to the patient, the purpose, the titled, hoop-skirted protégé is bewildered. Why should Hetty not join them in flouting the regulations? Why shouldn’t she want another pair of hands helping them preserve life? Why, why, why, when Jack still climbs the stairs? When he pulls the shirt over his head and occupies the narrow bed? When, afterwards, he massages the nape of Hetty’s neck between firm fingers and thumb, knowing her little pains and relieving them?

The hospital is cleaner, the amputations are fewer. When Jack stops climbing the stairs, the nights are longer, her rest is deeper. Hetty is alert and precise in the performance of her duties. Scissors, scalpel, needle, saw. She presses them into Jack’s waiting palm, out of the heat of hers.

#oops I un-retired #my writing #The Artful Dodger #Dr. Jack Dawkins #Hetty Baggett #Jack x Hetty #The Artful Dodger fic #The Artful Dodger spoilers

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montyshistoryblog · 4 months

Text

Agonies surrounding milkmen

What better way to distract myself from activist burnout and the horrors of the carpet-bombing of civilians by exploring the Blitz!

I recently started a module at my university called History As Mythmaking: The Myth of the Blitz. In the seminar, we were discussing how the public image of the Blitz of London was created in part through propaganda, especially certain attitudes such as the stiff upper lip (despite popular belief, Keep Calm And Carry On was scrapped before the Blitz and only rediscovered at the turn of the millenium), and the subject of the milkman photo came up. For those of you who have somehow escaped such a pervasive image, here's the photo.

[Ownership: Getty Images | Credit: Fred Morley working for Fox Photo (defunct)]

This image, the tale goes, is actually a staged image. Fred Morley, the photographer for a Fleet Street firm called Fox Photo, was sick of the fact that the censor board would prevent press photographers from publishing any photos that showed excessive bomb damage. In some instances this would be cropping images to cut out ruined buildings, while other instances were outright blocked from publication. So Morley came up with a clever work-around: play into the themes that the propaganda aimed for while showing bomb damage. Supposedly, Morley or his assistant dressed up in a milk-man uniform, grabbed a crate of bottles and patrolled London until they found fire-fighters actively fighting the damage, before capturing this photo. The theme of "stiff upper lip" and "the unflappable Englishman" were so strong in the photo that it was published regardless of the rubble.

But is it true?

It's a compelling, neat little story that perfectly encompasses the concept of positive propaganda, and that's that is exactly the problem with it. It's a very neat, clean little story which is told almost verbatim all over the internet.

The oldest reference I've been able to find to the idea that the photo is staged is from ancient ancient... September 2015, not even a decade. A publication on the Telegraph website titled "The spirit of the Blitz: picture special". On slide 7 of 25, the website reads this almost exact story from the then-Letter Editor Christopher Howse. This is already strange, since Howse is a specialist in religious news, but this is also the Telegraph and qualifications are often secondary to a good story there. Howse is incredibly difficult to contact, and I've resorted to sending a physical letter to the Telegraph's offices in hopes he will answer. Considering his old-fashioned sensibilities and his current work being the designated old man for articles by Young Conservatives, he may appreciate slightly outdated format. I will keep you updated if he ever answers, I included my email in the letter thankfully.

Now, dear reader, this could in fact be the woozle effect in play, wherein everybody is just citing each other. What makes this especially evident is that all of the websites that discuss this idea are the typical fodder, with names along the lines of "HISTORY SLAM" and the likes. Their citations, if any exist, typically refer to either a Snopes article that references the Telegraph article, or directly refer to the Telegraph article without linking it, because the link is now dead. All of these articles are suspiciously similar in grammar and sentence layout too. Every day, I come closer to agreeing with the Dead Internet Theory.

So why care?

It's such a minor thing, what does it matter if it's wrong? Now, for the vast majority of people, yeah frankly who would give a shit? But stories such as these do feed into what is ultimately an incorrect narrative surrounding the Blitz, especially the concept of Blitz Spirit. Any Brits who were conscious during the first years of COVID-19 may remember the constant references to Blitz Spirit and how we can survive anything because of our British "Keep Calm And Carry On" attitude, before looking out the window at the toilet paper hoarding and realising that Blitz Spirit is a load of bollocks.

Jenny Draper has an excellent video on how Blitz Spirit didn't really exist, and she references the idea that this very photo is fake in her video. I'm looking at contacting her when I can find an email or phone number to go through without being intrusive (seriously who the fuck is putting Youtubers' phone numbers on the internet?), since I wonder where she picked this up too.

The myth of Blitz Spirit does have an important place in British culture, and if you want a good but slightly dated discussion of the Blitz and British culture, I suggest you read The myth of the Blitz by Angus Caldwell. Some of the current affairs and politics of it are a bit stuck in the 90s, but the overall book and discussion is very useful.

Catching untruths regarding such a culturally important event in British culture, one that was playing into government policy in 2020, is an important part of actually learning from history, instead of learning from a historical mythology.

More updates to come once I've been contacted back by experts and/or journalists.

#history #modern history #history tag #culture #human history #british history #european history #blitz #blitz spirit #milkman photo #I feel like a fucking movie conspiracy theorist following these articles in circles

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