#so fuckin NICE. It's DEAD SILENT and smooth as silk

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

So okay I don't know if this is like...a cool thing to do or not, but there's a fic I claimed from the 2022 kink meme list (I couldn't resist, in large part because Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center was listed by the prompter as one of their inspirations for the prompt) that I'm not sure when I'll actually finish writing but I have started it and I'd like to at least acknowledge that I'm doing it even if the prompter won't see this. But the prompt is something along the lines of anything highly specific and niche (like my strip mall AU lol), and I actually happen to have a growing little stockpile of very very niche knowledge about my chosen professional field, which is ceramics! I specialize in wheel-throwing (though I'm also a...passable hand at plaster mold-making/slip casting and handbuilding, I just don't enjoy them nearly as much) so I've started a little something from Lan Wangji's point of view that's a love letter to throwing ♥

--//--

As is tradition, Lan Wangji works in porcelain.

The Lan family have been respected masters of porcelain for centuries, generations stretching back, back, back nearly to the beginning of the imperial kiln production in Jingdezhen. They once produced the enormous pots that adorned emperors’ palaces – there are (very distant) cousins of his in Jingdezhen who still do so for wealthy patrons.

It’s easy to forget such a background when he enters his personal studio on the other side of the world and flicks on the lights to begin the day’s routines. It’s precisely what he wants – a quiet life like this, simple and unassuming, is much more suited to his desire than the weight of tradition that could otherwise press him and his work down into something he would never want to be.

Not that he deviates very far from tradition anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing. Lan Wangji takes quiet pleasure in simplicity, in function that is beautiful in its hard-won mastery. There are very few non-traditional ways to accomplish this that he’s interested in, but he likes having the option should he want to take it. 

Lan Wangji had learned to throw at his uncle’s knee as soon as it was possible to do so. He has continued to do so since childhood with a single-mindedness that once surprised even his uncle. All he’d ever wanted to do was to sit at the wheel for hours and hours on end, only pausing to warm the water in his bowl with a fresh influx from the kettle and to transfer full wareboards (once he was strong enough) to the drying racks in the corner of his uncle’s studio.

Lan Wangji has always struggled to find the words to convey how integral the motion of the wheel and the smooth slip of clay through his finger and against his palms is to feeling like he fits into his skin properly, but his family seems to understand just the same.

Yesterday, as the sun was westering, Lan Wangji had weighed up a few bags of fresh porcelain. The lumps are waiting for him now, tumbled together under their protective sheets of plastic, ready to be molded and shaped by hands and hypnotic motion. There’s enough of a chill in the studio this time of year that there isn’t any condensation on the plastic when he lifts it, so he folds it away neatly and settles into the easy rhythm of wedging his clay to prepare it for the wheel.

There is, in the middle of the studio, a sturdy butcher’s block workbench. He built it himself right there in the studio, the first piece of furniture that had filled the space even before he’d purchased his Shimpo wheel. It’s very likely too heavy to lift – it’s certainly too big to ever get through the door – but he has no intention of ever leaving this studio to begin another, so it suits his purposes just fine.

Wedging the clay on this sturdy, hip-height table is nearly as meditative a process as all the rest of it. A bit more of a workout than sitting at the wheel, but it’s a good way to warm up in the morning, his muscles well accustomed to the push-turn-push-turn-push-turn of spiral wedging that it’s gone beyond second nature, it simply is. His mind wanders pleasantly as he watches the misshapen lumps of pure porcelain become smooth and rounded beneath his palms. Perhaps he’ll spend the day on bowls. They’re quick and simple, suited to his mood today, and he’ll have plenty of them done by lunch when he already knows his typical solitary routine will be interrupted (and can therefore plan for it so far in advance). 

The sun is up properly by the time Lan Wangji finishes his wedging, and once he’s transferred the first batch of prepared clay to the wheel he pauses to stand in the open doorway and look out over the garden that sits between his studio and his home. The grass and the flowers are glittering fresh and dewy in the sunlight as he rolls his shoulders, stretches out his back in preparation to be seated for long hours.

When he returns, the wheel welcomes him, familiar and comforting. He fills an old bird seed bucket with warm water from the tap and arranges the small mirror at the back of the wheel’s tray to the perfect angle to watch his own hands before he settles in and takes a deep breath, sleeves rolled up and apron cinched comfortably tight around his waist as an unnecessary reminder to keep his back as straight as he can while he works.

The first ball of porcelain hits the perfect bullseye of the wheelhead and Lan Wangji leans in to begin centering, the porcelain buttery soft where it runs under his hands. Porcelain, he knows, is notorious for being difficult to work with, particularly for beginners. This far into his career, it’s simply polite and responsive to each confident press of his palms. He cones it first, hands curled around it to coax it in and up; presses it down again with the flat of his hand, every movement focused on the centerpoint of the wheel gliding silently through magnet-powered rotations. 

Up. 

Down again. 

Up.

Down.

Push.

Press.

Lan Wangji loves every part of the throwing process for what it is, but if he were to have to choose only one, this would be his favorite: the moment he can feel the clay running smoothly, perfectly centered the whole way through and ready to become whatever he will tell it to be, the possibilities – for this moment – endless.

#the untamed fanfic #WIP Wednesday #Lan Wangji #If I'm not mistaken the name of the prompt in the list is 'Bring Your Yiling Laozu To Work Day' or something to that effect #and I do plan on WWX showing up later in a way that's inspired by some of my friends in the studio #who work MUCH more chaotically than I do #(ie one of them currently goes mudlarking and digging for wild clay then brings it all in to chuck it in the kiln just to see what happens) #the other one can't remember anything that they do because they take no notes and treat highly precise chemical processes like they're #still a chef adding a dash of this and a dash of that to whatever's in their mixing bowl #and then there's me with my extensive notes and thoroughly researched glazes and all being like #'.....sometimes I don't mind if my glaze ingredients are a gram or two off' #anyway for anyone who didn't know I'm a ceramicist and it's one of my special interests lol #my profile picture and header images across both my blogs are photos of my current work #oh and the Shimpo wheel?????? IT'S A FUCKIN DREAM #the museum I sometimes teach workshops at borrowed one from a different college than mine in town and it was just #so fuckin NICE. It's DEAD SILENT and smooth as silk #and the pedal stays where you put it so if you're doing something large scale you can stand up to get your arm down in it #without having to balance on one foot or sacrifice speed or anything #it was like heaven #it's also like 4k to buy new so LOL NOPE

[brief-candle]

ᴡɪᴛɴᴇss - Yoshikage Kira.

this has been a hiatus and a half, huh?

first of all, i'd like to apologise for the wait on this. and a couple of other requests that i've yet to do, but this in particular. because this is a good couple of months old and,, omg i can't believe it. i'm so so sorry

a lot has happened. college is back, unfortunately, and i've just been taking a lot of time to myself to avoid writer's block! as well as having wrote like 3000 words for this chapter and hating it all so then purging the vast majority of it to make it like twice as dark and gritty. kinda. still kinda iffy on most of it.

hope it's at least passable, and apologies that my long hiatus resulted in,, this.

anyways! here's wonderwall everyone's favourite hand fetishist!

series: jojo's bizarre adventure.

notes: yandere, choking, minor character death, general lack of niceness here.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ 

Work wasn't exactly stressful, but by god it was boring. Day in, day out; nine until five, nothing was ever different. Not that you'd expected anything different. It just came with the process of being an adult.

You almost snorted sardonically, thoughts wandering back to school. Back then, your head was full of dreams of grandeur, of something far better than some dead end job sat in an office, achieving nothing before death finally arrived. However those ideas were little more than delusions that would never be given the chance to develop to fruitation. Such were the realities of life, that childhood dreams very rarely were given the chance to become a reality. A truth. Something more than an unachievable, faroff pipe dream that could only be experienced through hard drugs or strange dreams that one would shrug off or forget by the time that a coffee is poured. Ah, speaking of, you could really do with one of those right now.

It was like he had read your mind, as per usual you'd found with him, as a cup of coffee exactly to your tastes had found its way onto your desk.

"Ah, thanks Mr. Kira."

You'd found yourself coming almost quite close with the man, despite him usually keeping to himself and separating home life from work. Well, as close as one could get to someone who seemed to distance himself from those who worked with him, anyway. In a way, you'd found it rather admirable. Some colleagues may have thought the same, or disregarded it entirely, with how they fawned over him. It was pretty gross to watch, but you tended to keep such thoughts to yourself. Life was easier that way, as less drama came from it.

Besides, you could see where they were coming from in a way. It was clear to anyone with functioning eyes that Yoshikage Kira was attractive, with immaculate taste that only seemed to compliment naturally good looks. Especially with his smile, which seemed so broad and genuine. You envied him in a way, with beautiful features and a smile that could make many a heart skip a beat.

Though you supposed that you were no exception.

Even now, after so many coffees brought to you and so many small sessions of idle chat, you could practically feel your cheeks redden as he spoke. Voice like honey and smooth as silk, with such a charming expression to match. You could only hope that your cheeks weren't as red as they were warm to the touch. As long as no one noticed, it would be fine. You feared you'd die of embarrassment if your little schoolgirl crush on your coworker was exposed, even at this stage in adulthood. It truly was a pathetic situation. Especially when you couldn't even dream of calling him by his first name else you'd immediately regret it from the sheer embarrassment it could bring upon yourself. Besides, no one called Yoshikage Kira by anything but his surname, seeing as he tended to keep to himself and no one was close enough to acceptably use his given name.

Then that smile emerged, and the revelation that your heart was not immune to the effects of his charm made itself known like a slap in the face. Oh, how the mighty do fall. Or how the pathetic fall further.

"You're welcome."

Just those two words, spoken like they were imbued with the very essence of charm itself, and he was gone. You almost sighed, whether from relief for your heart or some sort of wistful longing was beyond you. Perhaps it was even a combination of both, seeing as that would most likely be your only conversation with the man that day. Maybe even for the next couple of days.

That said, your cheeks felt like they were on fire. This interaction had been different, shockingly so, as there was something more than words there.

It was almost funny how things so quickly changed. From there you'd ended up in what felt like some sort of alternate dimension, as strange and silly as such a thing sounded.

"Don't kill me...! Please- please! I won't tell a soul, I swear!"

It was just a drunken night out; the first in a while and a chance to catch up with some old friends for the first time in a long while. Your separate careers had prevented you doing so for a good few months at the very least. And oh, how you'd wished it had been delayed for a few months longer. How nice it was to imagine how differently it could've all gone, to find comfort in the infinite possibilities of 'if', to seek shelter in it away from the harrowing present splayed out in front of you.

Or the lack of things splayed out in front of you, that is.

You were just a normal office worker who liked their morning coffees a little too much. This sort of strange, otherworldly phenomena were way beyond you. Was this some sort of dream? A sick joke that life had decided to play on you?

It was easy to believe that. Much too easy to fall into disbelief. And yet you couldn't do it, with your throat feeling like it was being constricted torturously slowly, closing in on itself little by little. Fraction of a millimetre by fraction of a millimetre. Tear ducts had long since dried up in your panic and sheer, unbridled fear. How useful they'd be now, adding any sliver of extra punch to your last resort: begging for your life from what you had believed to be your just-as-normal coworker.

His gaze was cold. Sharp as it seemed to pierce you completely, and only further convinced you that it was over. Useless to do anything but sit there on your just as useless, quaking legs and take the death he'd grant and hope to any and all forms of God that it'd be quick. Hell, maybe he'd just erase you completely. Like what had happened to the rest of your friends, drunkenly foolish in their suggestion to follow your coworker for the sole purpose of revealing your mundane, fruitless crush. How childish it was, and how unfathomably huge the consequences were. How what you'd stumbled in on, little more than a hand with no body in sight that he grasped so tightly onto, with a strange smell and thickness to the air. How quickly his head had snapped around as you'd all turned around the corner into the apartment's living area, bumbling and brainless as you'd almost literally stumbled upon such a horrifying sight.

The screams bounced around your head, echoing off each wall of your brain and skull and everything. Vibrating and reverberating through your skeleton, before crashing to a sudden, incomplete halting.

"You weren't meant to be here."

His voice was smooth as always, icy as it never was. You would've described it as uncharacteristically so, if you weren't so firm in your realisation that the Yoshikage Kira that you'd known was little more than a façade for this...

Whatever this was in front of you.

His eyebrows furrowed, perfectly groomed in their shape like every other immaculate thing about him, and you briefly wondered why he hadn't spoken about his obvious displeasure. You would've asked if you could, but the heaving movements of your body quickly told you the reason why.

You were laughing.

"Don't you think," and, as if you weren't already convinced your grave had been dug there and then, you decided to pipe up with your foreign, cracking and hoarse voice, "that I'd love to be anywhere but here, too? You think we followed you asking to..."

Asking to what? To continue that question, rhetorical or not, it'd require you to have an ounce of knowledge as to what was going on. You didn't even have a fraction of a fraction of a clue. And so, hysterical laughter finally grinding to a slow and weak halt, just like the rest of you, you abandoned that train of thought and speech completely.

"Just get it over with."

He was still silent, as if listening to the heightening of pride and lack of fear many humans seemed to have when realising that death at the hands of another was inescapable.

"I mean-" it wasn't even a laugh, more of a dry and desperate huff than anything else, "what are you even waiting for? I bet you're enjoying this, aren't you, you disgusting fuckin--"

Then you were cut off, a force akin to a truck at full speed crashing into your neck and

tightening

its

hold.

The prior panic and fear reared its head again in full force, limbs thrashing and clawing at thin air. You could feel the imprints of ghostly fingers around your neck, silently gasping in a greedy attempt for air and out of groundless shock as they pushed and slammed your already disoriented, powerless form into a wall and pinning you there. It was confusion, panic panic panic panic as you continued to struggle.

Air came just after the darkness threatened to invade, and your aching lungs welcomed it with open arms.

Whatever invisible, untouchable hand had grasped your neck was still present, if the grooves threatening to choke you within an inch of your life again were anything to go by.

"Now, now, now," he'd said, moving closer. Each step seemed to bring the already very present threat of immediate death closer, as if even one step into his shadow could wipe someone off the face of the Earth without a trace nor second glance. And, at this point, you'd believe it.

His mouth was moving, words spoken but drowned out by endless roars and waves of deafening white noise. You had to crane your neck to look at his face, and the hand around your throat used its thumb (? did it have a thumb? you didn't know, and didn't care to know at that point) to do so after noticing your lack of effort to do so. His eyes were daggers, and lip curled in disapproval.

You were looking at him, but all you could see were your friends becoming less than dust.

How their eyes, dull and lifeless, blamed you wordlessly with oceans of contempt. It was your fault for not stopping them, for having such feelings for such a monster. Even if you didn't know; you must've known! It was impossible for you not to notice something so inhumane lurking under that mask of pleasant smiles and warm small talk.

Even sharper than his gaze was the pain in your scalp as he wrenched your head to the side. When had he kneeled down? You weren't aware; you weren't present. But you were. Were you? Through his staring, you could see their tears and the unclosed eyes, wide and frozen in time. Doomed to shock and fear for an eternity.

"It'd be wise for you to start listening." They screamed at you, for you. To join them, that you would join them. To run, to lie down and just let him off you already. To scream for help, as if anyone who'd have offered help in the first place wouldn't have come running by now.

"What's the point?"

You were still snappy, it seemed. As if begging him to send you to meet your friends. Maybe you were. It would probably be better than teetering on the line of panic and terrifying calmness, seesawing between them with too much ease and swiftness.

"This is why you should've been listening."

He released your hair, cool and unsettlingly neutral eyes wandering to one of your hands. They were lay by your side now, having given up on your struggling some time ago. You didn't struggle when he picked one up, either, cradling it and rubbing soft circles into it. There was no reaction from you. Just apathy, letting him continue as he liked. It was easier that way, and would bring a less painful fate.

"It seems your manners need some work," neither of you were sure if you were even listening anymore. You doubted he even cared either way, with the way he tended to your appendage, "but there's time. We can improve it, can't we?"

Surely not.

Absolutely not.

If he was meaning what you thought he was meaning, you suddenly found that death seemed much more favourable. Desirable, even, rather than a resignation of yours.

"Don't stare so dumbly."

Yoshikage was quick to chide you there, and even quicker to strike you not-too-gently upside your head. Not quite enough to black you out, but definitely enough to daze you for a good while. Not that it mattered too much if you weren't fully unconscious; your chance of escaping was incredibly slim to none even if you did know the way. After all, Yoshikage's routine was perfect. Always followed meticulously. All he needed to do to make sure you didn't wander was to slot you in there as well.

Your hands weren't the most beautiful. Definitely not when compared to prior girlfriends of his, but (strangely enough) they weren't his main focus for once. It was everything else, too, from the curve of your smile to the lightening up of your eyes, to the way you styled your hair and the scent of your perfume. A combination of the small, meticulously analysed details that made you... you. And this strange fascination made you one of a kind. Dangerous, really, yet he couldn't yet bring himself to be rid of you.

Maybe one day. It would be easier to continue living that way, without you to confuse him so after a lifetime of being certain about everything he'd done. Having planned his whole life, only for you to upset it all and throw off the delicate balance.

He'd make it work. Until the day he could bring himself to rid himself of you, you'd stay no matter what. Even moreso after what you'd witnessed, after you saw what he hadn't planned you to.

Though you won't be seeing much of anything anymore, really. Three rooms maximum don't really offer much in terms of variation in sights.

#yandere #yandere kira #yandere x reader #yandere yoshikage kira #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure

[takethisroad]

Idk if you're still taking prompts but I'm tipsy and all my heart desires is Jack Rackham just fuckin. Feelin himself. Like he's got a great outfit on, gender expression is optional, he's just feelin beautiful and havin a good time. Bonus for any extra Anne being snarky/supportive, and bonus for VaneRackham because I'm weak for them, but truly anything goes

Listen, I am always taking prompts! Plus, I LOVE THIS. What a wonderful prompt! (I am also combining this with @snooksscribbles request for a “fashion-forward Jack moment” because do we not all love our favourite disaster pirate being at the cutting edge of the latest trends? We do.)

Also, this ficlet comes with its own meme.

Jack is a trans man in this. I am cis; any mistakes or misrepresentations are my fault alone.

Honestly, can we please all take a collective Moment to imagine - they’ve just come into port to refit and celebrate after their latest haul. Evening is falling fast as the sun sinks heavy beneath the choppy waves in the harbour, casting long blue shadows down the dusty streets of Nassau town.

It could be peaceful, if it weren’t for the raucous din coming from the brothel: drunken men, merchants and pirates alike hollering for ale and rum and whores; the jeering, bawdy laughter of onlookers at the gambling tables mixing with the tight high giggles of women pretending to be amused. Later, Jack knows, there will be fighting added to the mix; there always is, when the Ranger crew is ashore, no matter how recent the conquest at sea. Hallett will spit in Old Man Cooper’s drink, or Wilkins will crack one too many jokes about Price’s mum being a goat, and everything will devolve into fists and swords and slaughter until Jack goes down to do his duty as quartermaster, appeasing all the fragile egos and cleaning the mess up again.

But until then, he’s here. The rooms in the brothel aren’t soundproof by any means (and privately Jack thinks Max must like it that way, allowing her to keep a bead on the mood downstairs at any given time) but with the door closed and the room illuminated by the slanting rays of the sinking sun and the candles on the table, he can almost pretend. The flickering candlelight plays over the treasure trove spread across the bed. It is, if not the haul of a lifetime, at least the best haul this month to be sure. (Other men may not think so, but other men don’t have Jack’s flair for fashion.) He runs his hands reverently over the array of fabric: here, the slippery smoothness of a silk-lined waistcoat, there, the fine, airy weave of a muslin shift.

A snort draws his attention up from the pile of clothes to where Anne is holding a satin skirt like it’s a dead animal. “There’s dresses in this,” she says, in the tone of one handling something particularly gruesome or slimy.

“There are,” Jack murmurs in agreement while sizing up a burgundy wool coat. The silver thread used for the embroidery is unraveling in several places, but overall it seems serviceable enough. When he lowers it, Anne is still looking at him.

“You don’t like dresses. Don’t he know that?” Jack nods. “Why’d he give you this, then?”

"I believe he just crammed what he could into the crate,” Jack answers honestly. Then, at her skeptical look: “Darling, please let’s neither of us delude ourselves that Charles Vane would take the time to sort through petticoats and sashes during a raid.”

Anne drops the skirt. “Fine.” She stomps back over to the chair in the corner and flings herself into it, posture insolent as any man’s. Jack’s heart squeezes with almost painful fondness at the sight.

“I wouldn’t have taken it if it truly bothered me,” he says after a moment of her mulish silence. He knows she knows, but still, better to make it explicit. He wants to enjoy tonight and her and Vane at each other’s throats is not on the agenda.

There’s no reply from the chair, but the tight line of her lips eases slightly, which he counts as a victory. He turns his attention back to the clothes. Where to start?

The sun has set completely by the time Jack decides on an outfit. The candles are dripping wax onto the bare wood of the table, but their light is at least good enough to see himself by in the tarnished mirror. He twists one way, then the other, before turning to Anne. “What do you think?”

It’s quite a sight if he does say so himself. The blue silk chemise catches the light and ripples like waves with his every movement. He sheds his baldric to better admire the patterns of small flowers printed at the hems and collar; no expense was spared in this craftsmanship.

Anne has been silent. “Something the matter, darling?”

“No.” Then, a moment later: “Why’re you bothering? Getting all fancy for him?”

Jack pauses where he’d been fiddling with his favourite orange cravat. “For him? No, no this is for me.”

Anne looks at him suspiciously.

“It feels good. Sometimes one does things for no other reason than that.”

Anne stares at him a moment longer, as if parsing the veracity of his statement. She must reach a conclusion because she sighs and stands up. “It brings out your eyes.”

Jack fiddles with his rings to hide the smile her words bring to his lips. It doesn’t bring out his eyes; it does clash horribly with the yellow brocade justacorps he shrugs on. But he recognizes that comment for what it is: Anne, offering support, which is infinitely more wonderful to him than all the silk chemises in the world.

“Thank you,” he says softly. Then, as she heads towards the door, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

She nods once and is gone, leaving Jack alone in the room. He twists to the mirror again, admiring the swish and fall of the fabric, the rakish silhouette it creates. For a moment, he hears the rustling of silk and remembers the same sound, from long ago. He takes a breath and squares his shoulders, reminds himself of the years and oceans between now and then. He is not thirteen anymore, and now he has Anne, who will kill anyone who tries to put him in a dress. Even Charles. The thought is oddly comforting, and Jack whistles to himself as he takes one last indulgent look in the mirror and heads downstairs.

The sun may have gone down but the volume of the tavern has only gone up. Patrons are spilling rum and falling all over each other, turning the courtyard into a heaving mess of unwashed bodies and unintelligible voices. Jack pauses on the landing to take stock, noting the other crews that have since come in: he can see Sully, first mate of the Fortitude, cheating at cards with Joshua from the Walrus crew (he makes a mental note to be well clear of this place before Flint ever hears about it); a dozen other regulars are crowded round the bar, hoping against hope to barter for drinks on the house - more the fool they, for Max runs a tight ship.

The real focus of his attention is sitting in a grey haze of smoke off in a corner, and Jack makes his way down the stairs and through the throng of drunk, sweaty pirates with as much grace as he can muster. If he puts a bit of extra swagger in his walk, well. He's Jack bloody Rackham. He's earned it.

Charles is drinking from a tankard of rum. When he sees Jack, it hits the table with a thump.

"Evening, Charles."

A long slow exhalation of smoke. "Jack."

Jack doesn't shiver at the way Charles says his name, but it's close. He nudges at the toe of Charles' boot where his feet are propped on a chair. "Do you mind?"

In another time, in another life, if Jack were someone else, Charles might remove his feet only to kick the chair over, might spread his legs and leer, might drag Jack into his lap, why don't you have a seat here, sweetheart? This isn't that life. Charles removes his feet, shoves the chair and the rum towards Jack who takes both with a nod. He takes a quick swig of the rum, wincing slightly at the bitter burn.

Charles is still looking at him. His cigar is dangling from his fingers, slowly burning down. "The clothes fit, then?"

"Half of it was non-salvageable," Charles' fingers twitch, "but the pieces that were... Well." Jack gestures to himself. "If the clothes make the man, then I am well-made indeed."

"Huh," Charles says. And then: "You look good."

Plain. Simple. Easy. A statement of fact. It has no business sending a thrilling warmth through Jack's veins, and yet. He allows himself the slightest bit of preening. Then, emboldened by the burn of the rum and the weight of silk and brocade against his skin, "Thanks to you."

Charles has precious few tells but the way his eyes narrow fractionally at Jack's words is one of them. A heavy silence falls between them. Jack sits up straighter, squares his shoulders; he doesn't miss the way Charles' gaze tracks to the hollow of his throat.

"Fuck," Charles hisses, dropping the forgotten cigar which has burned down to his fingers. He crushes the stub under his boot heel and looks back to Jack.

"You know, nice as it is to get some peace and quiet -" Jack is cut off as a chair sails through the air to crash against the opposite wall, quickly followed by its occupant, "I was rather hoping we could do something other than sit and brood at each other all evening."

“Yeah?” Charles is leaning forward now, and Jack’s not even sure he knows it. His voice is a deep rumble. “What’d you have in mind?”

Jack plants a hand on the table, stands up. He’s warm from the rum, half-drunk on the freedom of his new clothes and the intoxicating weight of Charles’ dark gaze that hasn’t left him for a moment. He leans forward into Charles’ space and smiles, all teeth. “Why don’t I show you?”

#calamitys-child #snippets #jack rackham #black sails #anne bonny #charles vane #bs bs #vanerackham #tbh i hc jack as trans all the time not just here #i had a wonderful time writing this thank you so much for the prompt #i hope i did it justice

[retroreaderr]

For One Night Only! | Tommy Shelby | 1

so i had a wild ass feverdream, and it spawned this monstrosity. i plan on it being a miniseries and I SWEAR TO GOD IT WILL BE FINISHED, if not by me than i uhhhh have a backup plan (eyes emoji). i plan on five or six parts in total. ~🕷️💋 Word Count: 1858

Warning(s): f/m, nsfw-ish, its hella suggestive, part of a series

A/N:  now hear me out: i see post-war tommy fics, and an occasional pre-war tommy, but i never see tommy during the war. luckily enough ww1 coincided with the rise of burlesque and modern day uh..exotic dancing - i did a bit of research on this, and it started as a sideshow thing, eventually moving to clubs and things, though it really wasnt a thing until the 20s. but i’m sure someone out there tried it before then, and considering it’s so close time-wise im gonna give myself a pass. if you’re that big on poledancing history, i suppose you could call this an au. if not…well, read on!

When he’d first arrived in France, he was young and carefree. As the war raged on, he quickly learned the danger was facing, and over time his fears drifted from what would happen in battle to what sort of dark thoughts he would involuntarily conjure up to keep him from sleeping at night.

He feared less of what might become of himself when the Germans got ahold of him, and more of what downtime alone with his mind would do to him.

It’s what everyone feared, and the reason everyone would spend night after night at whatever local tavern would take them.

“Tommy, you comin’? We got some’in special for tonight.”

He lay still on his bunk - standard issue, uncomfortable with its wooden spokes and wire mesh digging into his back, and even harder to sleep on when his mind stirred at every hour of the night - staring at the ceiling.

“Not tonight.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s something real special.”

“I said -”

“You’re gettin’ too down on yourself lately. Get your ass up and out here before I come in and fuckin’ drag you out.”

Tommy sighed, swinging himself out of bed, narrowly missing hitting his head on the top bunk. He met his friend outside, who seemed all too eager for tonight’s activities.

“There’s a show in town.”

“A show,” he was thoroughly unamused.

“A show! Not just any show, Tom,” his brother stood nearby, just as excited as the others, “One of those exotic type shows.”

Tommy debated turning and walking back towards his bunk, but he also knew if he did his brothers would never let him hear the end of it. He sighed, nodding slightly.

“Fine.”

His eldest brother smiled, slapping him on the back before turning to lead the small congregation out of their camp.

He expected to be dragged into whatever city was nearby, lights too bright and townsfolk too happy for the raging was going on just besides them, but he instead found himself trudging along an old dirt road, kicking up the dust and skipping the rocks into the fields that surrounded them.

Before long there was a faint light, the high-top tent rising above the various trailers and smaller pop-ups that surrounded it.

It was its own town of freaks and performers, entertainers and ringleaders of the show. It was an odd sight to see, and even with all the horrors the group had seen, they still looked wide eyed in amazement at the posters that lined the walkway to the ticketbooth.

There was a rather short and stout man that stood at the podium, stopping the men as they tried to pass.

“You’ll need to pay for-”

“Listen, we’re here keepin’ your country safe. If it weren’t for us you’d all be dead by now, eh? Give us a break.”

The man looked profoundly offended.

“Arthur, maybe he don’t speak English,” a voice piped up from somewhere behind him.

“I most certainly do, sir.”

“Well then what’s the fuckin’ issue?”

The man was stunned at the audacity of the men before him, but as he looked over the small horde before him he realized that it was fruitless to attempt to argue.

He sighed before ushering them towards the tent.

Most of the men pushed their way through the already seated crowd, but Tommy opted to stand his ground, leaning against one of the supports near the entrance.

His brother stopped next to him, nudging him slightly.

“Tommy, I got a real surprise for you, c’mon.” He didn’t bother to argue, and followed his brother back outside and through the grounds, stopping before a smaller tent.

It was darker inside, he could tell that much, or perhaps it was the heavy fabric that stopped the light from seeping out, or stopping anyone from looking in.

Arthur pushed his brother inside, following shortly after. It seemed much roomier, a small stage set up front and center, a few spotlights illuminating the support that held the tent high, as well as the two smaller stages near the curtain. He rolled his eyes.

His brother had dragged him to a striptease show.

Normally he wouldn’t have complained, but of course he could only imagine what kind of girl would come out from behind the curtains considering where exactly the show took place. There were already a few men seated in the audience, all of them as far away from each other as possible.

“If I wanted a prostitute I would’ve stayed at the camp.”

“Lighten up, Tom. Maybe if you’re lucky one of ‘em will give you a private showing for free, eh?”

Arthur left him standing to join the audience.

He refused to follow his brother, shoving his hands in his pockets and wondering how long it would take him to walk to town for a drink.

Too long, likely.

“I hear she’s trying to get a spot at the Moulin Rouge.”

“Pardon?” Tommy turned towards the voice that besides him. It was a boy much younger than himself, his English accent thick, though he wore the same uniform Tommy was currently dressed in.

“The main attraction. I hear she’s really good.”

“Oh.”

The lights dimmed then, leaving a sole light on, focused on the center stage - it drowned the room in a deep purple haze.

Even the soldiers fell silent for a moment before a soft flow of music drifted through the air. A moment later the curtains were pulled  back, two women walking out, taking their places on the stages. Their  makeup was bright and almost unattractively plastered onto their faces, their outfits flashy and tight. The men cheered as they leaned over, showing off their chests in an almost synchronized fashion. They smiled bright as they extended their arms towards the curtains which rustled faintly for a moment, earning another gloat of anticipation from the audience. Slowly, almost tauntingly, another woman stepped out, her outfit much tamer in comparison to her predecessors. It mattered not, for her natural beauty far exceeded either of the other two women put together.

She wore a bright red lipstick, though that was the extent of flashy makeup, a highlighting blush lining the sides of her face to emphasize her cheekbones.

Tommy involuntarily stiffened his posture, standing upright and holding his arms crossed, straining the muscles that lined his forearms.

He was intrigued.

You smiled impishly at the crowd, dropping the silk robe you were wearing to the ground as you walked down the center stage, your corset lined velvet black, complimented with a deep purple lace that matched the lighting.

You soon reached the metal pole in the center of the tent, one leg hooking around it. The crowd cheered again, your smile grew.

Your skirt, short enough already, slid off easily, and was tossed into the audience, multiple men fighting over the article.

Your voice was smooth, your laugh like silk as you reprimanded them, “Place nice, boys.”

You were barely covered, there was barely more than a single strip of lace keeping you from complete indecent exposure. You once again pulled yourself towards the support, fingers curling around it gently as you hoisted yourself up, legs locking around it. Throwing your head back, you slid down then, your hips arching forward as you did. You spun effortlessly, hair barely reaching the floor as you held yourself upside down. With your upper half alone you pulled yourself upright, legs stretching in the air for a moment before finding their place on the floor.

The men before you went wild as your hands slid across your own skin, the thigh-high socks you wore begging to be ripped off.

The girls on either side of you followed your movements, their brightly jeweled corsets flashing as they turned, bent, hands running across their bare legs.

Tommy couldn’t drag his eyes away from you. Your body was stunning of course, and his mind swam with the possibilities of what you were like away from the stage, he wanted to know you, in more ways than one. He understood now, why the men fought for something as simple as a piece of your clothing. He wondered if it held your scent - he imagined you smelt of roses and some sort of expensive perfume - he could imagine you drowning his senses, your hands across his skin and breath hot against him, your voice hoarse and hushed as you moaned his name, your eyes boring into his in the sheen moonlight, a pale purple…

You were looking right at him.

Your eyes never left his as one hand trailed dangerously up your thigh, the other running through your hair.

He found it suddenly hard to breathe, but he held his posture, arms crossed and expression arduous as he tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Your legs bent as you lowered yourself to the floor, crawling to the edge of the wooden stage, your hips dipping down tantalizingly, gaze never straying from his.

He was completely under your spell, but before he knew it you were turning, walking back behind the curtain, not a second glance, the two other girls following close behind. There was one final round of applause from the few men that were there, and the lights came on fully, a harsh feeling on their eyes.

Tommy stood in place as the tent cleared, his brother was one of the last people to get up.

“What a fuckin’ show, huh? What I wouldn’t give to have a private session -”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy hissed, leaving his brother as the last man standing alone in the room.

“The fuck’s your problem?” he called out.

It seemed to be that the main show ended around the same time, as the rest of their friends were gathering outside, laughing and joking as though they didn’t have to put their lives on the line in a few hours. The two slipped back into the group with no trouble.

Arthur took the lead again, leading the group back down the road. The advertisements that lined the walkway felt suffocating, and Tommy realized how warm he felt, his thoughts still entangled with the woman whose figure was burned into his mind, her voice still resounding in his head, eyes still burning with a fire that had engulfed him and seared itself into his thoughts, holding a burning passion that he now craved - teasing him with sensations and feelings that he needed.

His eyes fell on a particular poster, the large vinyl sheet depicting a young girl, her expression wanton and her corset a stitch too tight. She was sat on a stage, her legs barely covered by the feathered boa draped across her neck and coming to rest along lower half. One of her heels was kicked off, and her lips were painted a bright red, one of them pulled between her teeth as she looked down over the passing crowds. He was utterly infatuated, and wondered how he missed it as they walked in. The lettering flowed across the bottom of the poster, a single line dragging his thoughts to her further.

For One Night Only! The Mona Lisa of Burlesque!

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