#british fibre

[viper-motorsports]

The 2023 British GT Snetterton 300Km heralds the start of summer at Snetterton Circult with the reverberation from the V-10 in Bardwell Motorsport’s N°72 Lamborghini Huracán GT3 EVO22 in the opening sprint.

#lamborghini huracán gt3 evo 22 #british gt championship #barwell motorsport #snetterton circuit #2023 britishgt #lamborghini huracan #carbon fibre

[demoralised]

Senna

#mclaren senna #hypercars #supercars #car #automotive #british cars #mclaren #senna #cars #hypercar #supercar #cf #carbon fiber #carbon fibre

[allez-argeiphontes]

Very happy with my latest rainbow socks, a little sad that they’ll have to wait until September to be worn because climate crisis.

#wore them for a total of three minutes to check fit and take a photo and my feet were dying #cue British people acting surprised that we’ve fucked up our planet and it’s 30C in early June #allez makes things #fibre arts

[ww2yaoi]

Exactly 80 years ago, around this hour (0100 British Double Summer Time), the 101st Airborne Division was about to jump behind enemy lines in German-occupied Normandy, France, and Private David Kenyon Webster was really going through it:

I shook my head and clamped my teeth shut. I was beyond all hope. If you have to die, you have to die—and what a way this is! If you have to jump, you have to jump. A man's life and death are decided by forces that he cannot fight. He can only question them and rebel against them, but in the end, he has to go with them. For Chrissake, let's get out of this firetrap! The plane slammed up and down, zigzagged, rattled and roared, threw us from side to side with such violence that several of us fell down again, cursing the pilot. The muscle and fibre melted from my legs. It was all I could do to remain upright and not dissolve into a gibbering, gutless blob of fear. Too weak to stand, I clung to my static line with both hands. I felt like crying, screaming, killing myself. A flash of light came in the window, and I glanced outside and saw wisps of cloud streaking by. Now and then a pale, full moon, mocking in its serenity, appeared briefly along the long, thin, scudding black clouds. This is a night for murder, I thought. God must have planned it this way. - Parachute Infantry by David Kenyon Webster, pg. 44.

#genuinely cannot imagine what he was feeling but he does a damn good job of describing it #imagine being 22 years old and going through this and having to face your potential death head-on #actually insane! they basically sent boys into a death trap #war will forever be inexplicable to me #david webster #band of brothers

[cobragardens]

Aziraphale's Ascot: An Analysis

What's most interesting to me about the ascot Aziraphale is wearing when he turns up in Crowley's car in 1967 is that it's very fashionable.

An ascot (American), or day cravat (British), is a band of material meant to be worn inside the shirt collar, terminated on each end with a long wide tongue of that same fabric.

The band goes around the back of the neck, and the tongues are tied in the front and tucked into the open neck of a collared shirt. An ascot displays a wide sweep of color just below the wearer's face to flatter their complexion and show their personality.

And the late 1960s was the ascot's peak of popularity. The Duke of Windsor wore them; the mods wore them; British Invasion bands wore them. Fred wears an ascot in the Scooby-Doo cartoons. Lance Corporal Shadwell wears one. They were a huge trend.

On the surface this doesn't seem like Aziraphale at all. His previous appearances indicate his stylishness in ancient Rome is merely serendipitous overlap of Roman fashion with his personal preferences for white robes, blond hair in a Brutus cut, and gold wing-themed jewellery. In 1601, 1793, 1941, and all contemporary scenes, his style is decades to more than a century off the fashion of its time. We know he's into bow ties by 1941, and he's hardly one to adopt a style merely because it's popular; so why the ascot in 1967?

One possible explanation is that Aziraphale misses the clothing of the Victorian period and leaps at the chance to wear something that harks back to a time when he felt at home, sartorially speaking.

I don't think that's it, though, at least not in Show Omens. For one thing, traditional ascot ties (what a British person would call an ascot or an ascot tie, rather than a day cravat) are not at all the same accessory as the ascots of the 1960s: they're formal rather than semi-casual daywear; they're made of thicker silk, often with a woven rather than printed pattern; and they're worn outside the shirt and collar. More importantly, we've got two scenes of Aziraphale in the Victorian period, and he's not wearing an ascot tie in either of them: he's wearing a long cravat tied in a wide bow, a precursor to his bow ties.

I therefore propose a different explanation for the ascot of 1967.

As Aziraphale has clearly never been anywhere near a polyester fibre in the whole of his celestial existence, and as he always affects an appearance of idle hereditary wealth, we must presume that this--

--is silk. (In fact in the 1960s, a silk ascot in light colors was a signal of upper-class status.)

And we know Aziraphale likes silk, because by 2023 he's been wearing a silk velvet waistcoat for 200 years.

I again advance the argument that, despite himself, Aziraphale is a voluptuary by nature: a person who directs their energies toward the pursuit and enjoyment of pleasure, especially (but not solely) sensual pleasure.

He can control his appearance at will, and yet he has a barber; that means he enjoys the pleasure of a haircut and maybe a hot shave. (I have similar suspicions about his manicured hands.) The barber has recommended new cologne, which means Aziraphale has an old cologne, which means he likes to smell beautiful scents. He eats for sensual pleasure. He drinks for sensual pleasure (much more so than Crowley, who drinks for the pleasure and escape of inebriation). He listens to music for sensual pleasure. He attends the theater for pleasure. Reading is as much a sensual pleasure inside your own head as it is intellectual self-stimulation (which is its own kind of pleasure in turn); and believe me, collecting books is as much a sensual pleasure as a logistical and a philosophical one.

Aziraphale even agrees to an Arrangement with a demon to give himself more spare time for his pursuit of human pleasures. And then he and the demon become friends, because what could be a greater pleasure than indulging yourself in the good company of someone clever and kind and beautiful, who flirts with you and tells wicked jokes you mustn't laugh at--except perhaps for the pleasure of making that person smile in return?

Fun fact: The silk of which casual ascots are made is finer than the silk of either traditional ascot ties or neckties, because ascots/day cravats are made to be worn inside rather than outside the collar.

In 1967, instead of his usual crisp bow tie around his usual tightly buttoned collar, Aziraphale wears an open collar and a day cravat because the fashion of the 1960s lets him keep silk against his skin.

And there's one other thing, too. Compare Aziraphale's ascot to Lance-Corporal Shadwell's, or to the standard ascot knot:

The edge of Azirapale's ascot sits below the edge of his shirt collar where it should sit above, and the cascade spills almost an inch in front of his Adam's apple instead of flush against his neck. Aziraphale has tied his ascot low and loose.

It allows him to bare more of his throat to Crowley than has been sanctioned by custom for 2,000 years.

How long after Aziraphale reverted to bow ties did Crowley think about that?

#good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #aziraphale's ascot #good omens 1967 #good omens s2 #aziraphale's day cravat

[tlatollotl]

textile

Cultures/periods: Nasca

Production date: 100-400

Made in: Peru

Provenience unknown, possibly looted

Funerary mantle fragments; cross knit loop stitch; camelid fibre; row of knitted birds alternating with flower motifs along the centre with flower motifs along each edge; mutli-coloured: reds, greens, blues, browns.

British Museum

#archaeology #arqueologia #art #arte #history #historia #native american #first peoples

[mayday396]

One thing it hit me when I was scrolling through Harry Potter stuff and I was like, "Oh lord....how did they survive 7 years in Hogwarts" and it was "HOW THE FUCK did the Patil Twins and Cho Chang like not freak out at the fact that Hogwart's Food had no Rice or Noodles"

Like Hogwarts is British, the amount of Rice they are going to get would be from Welsh Rice Puddings, Irish Dunmurry Rice and low chance of Cornish Game Hens with Wild Rice Stuffing, but OH HELL NAW there are no Noodles.

Cho Chang and the Patil Twins must be screaming internally being like,

"Where the Fuck is my Briyani?"

"Where is my Mala Xiang guo when I NEED IT?"

"What do you mean there isn't Chongqing Mian?"

"They don't even have Tikka Masala? WTF?"

And so in Every Fibre of my being, my headcanon is that the Patil Twins and Cho Chang hang out at each other's Houses so they can finally get their Asian Food.

They also make Electricity or Steaming spells to run a Rice Cooker or just Steam a bowl of Rice they got from a bag of Rice and packets of Noodles they brought from home.

Imagine waking up in the Middle of the Night and it's just Cho Chang studying near the Fireplace while having a whole set of Guò Qiáo Mǐxiàn, like she got a platter of Quail Eggs, Ham Slices, Chicken Slices, Vegetables, Rice Vermicelli and a pot of Hot Boiling Soup from her Cauldron Levitating over the fire in the fireplace and just looks at you and be like, "Sup"

#jk rowling why #like your asian characters are just disappointing #it only recently got better because NetEase stepped in and made harry potter magic awakened and made Robyn and Long Shouren #harry potter #harry potter headcanon #headcanon #cho chang #patil twins #parvati patil #padma patil #if I rewrote harry potter's asian characters they would be Dope AF

[tsarisfanfiction]

The Best Teacher

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Kayla, Yan, Jerry, Will All new Apollo kids have to have their archery skills vetted. TOApril 2024 has begun and this time I plan on actually taking part, so here is day 1 - Missed Target

“Have either of you shot before?” Kayla asked, turning to face her two newest siblings.  Perhaps she should have asked that earlier, before leading them to the archery range and putting bows in their hands, but who said she was the best person to be doing this?

Well, she was the best archer in camp, so of course she was.

Kayla steadfastly ignored her spectating brother from where he was pretending not to watch behind the waiting line.  Will might be head counsellor, but he was not the best archer in camp.

Yan shrugged.  He – they, she corrected herself – held the bow she’d given them up, inspecting it.  She hadn’t given them anything complicated; camp default was the longbow, which was very much a point and shoot type of bow.  Powerful, but easy enough for most demigods to get the hang of.  “Once or twice,” they said in a dismissive voice that meant either they were lying, or didn’t think it was important.

Next to him, Jerry was plucking at the string of his bow – composite recurve, because he was a bit younger and smaller and longbows were tall – absently.  “Nope!” he said cheerfully.

Well, Kayla had had worse students – ones that had shot before and thought they were good at it, until she caught sight of their form and realised it was a miracle they hadn’t hurt themselves trying to draw their bows.  Not used to shooting meant blank slates.

“Okay,” she said.  “In that case, part one – safety rules at the range, before our big brother yells at me because I forgot to say something and someone gets hurt.”  She intentionally didn’t look towards where Will was sitting with Nico.  “This is the waiting line.  Don’t step past that unless you’re about to shoot.”  She pointed at the line closer to the targets.  “That is the shooting line.  While doing range shooting, you stand on that line and do not cross it under any circumstances while anyone has a bow in their hand.”

“What about non range shooting?” Yan asked, and Kayla shrugged back at them.

“That comes once you can range shoot well enough to not kill anyone,” she said.  “So, who’s first?”

“Me!” Jerry shrieked, throwing his hand in the air at the same time Yan said “age order,” and stepped up to the waiting line.

Kayla should have expected that, really.

“Experience first,” she decided.  “Jerry, stay there and watch.”  The British boy pouted but Kayla ignored him as she led Yan up to the shooting line.

For demonstration reasons, she’d passed over her own bow in favour of a longbow.  The smooth European yew felt different in her hand to her usual carbon fibre, but it was still instinct to raise it and draw back under the close watch of her new siblings.

“Let it settle,” she cautioned.  “Then one… two… release.”  Her arrow thudded into the centre of the target, burying itself halfway to the fletching.  “And finish like this.”  She held her position for a moment, letting Yan take it in before relaxing.

“I got it,” they said calmly, and before Kayla could even say anything, they had their loaned longbow at full draw, steady and with beautiful form.

Before she came to camp, Kayla would have thought Yan had lied about how little they’d shot before, but she knew better now.  Things didn’t always follow logical sense for demigods, and being able to perfectly draw back a longbow when they were a child of Apollo was hardly surprising.  Yan didn’t count out loud, but they didn’t need to.  Kayla saw the bow settle as the draw weight sat into their back muscles, and the moment it stabilised, they released.

It wasn’t a perfect shot – their technique was, but they clearly needed to work on their aim a little – but their arrow buried itself in the inner red ring of the target.

Another archer sibling.  Kayla grinned and handed them another arrow.  “Again,” she encouraged, and they obliged with a grin of their own, smaller than hers but she suspected no less maniac.  It was a thrill, feeling the bowstring sing and knowing that the arrow was going to land exactly where it had aimed.

Yan’s second shot was closer, breaking the line between inner red and outer gold, and Kayla knew it wouldn’t take much more practice before they were hitting gold every time – and once they could do that at greater distances, it would be time to move on to combat archery rather than target archery.

Kayla was delighted, but before she could give Yan another arrow, Jerry made his presence known behind her.

“When’s it my turn?” he demanded, and Kayla realised she couldn’t expect him to keep waiting.  Maybe he would be another archer sibling; she’d like that.  Most of their cabin were healers and musicians before they were archers (she carefully didn’t think about why) – and if she was honest, she’d like more siblings that could help her support their dad, if he ever came back and brought more enemies with him.

“Now,” she said, handing a few more arrows to Yan.  “Keep shooting,” she told them, confident that they wouldn’t hurt themselves if she looked away (anyway, Will was there if something did go wrong).

Jerry bounded over the shooting line, looking eager – more eager now than he had before Yan had shot, and Kayla couldn’t quite forget that the two of them had arrived together, had reportedly known each other for some time before discovering they shared a father.  He made impatient grabby hands for an arrow, and Kayla gave him one.

Instantly, she could tell that Jerry was not an archer first and foremost.  He fumbled the nock against the string a couple of times before it finally caught, and when she had him mirror her at full draw…  There were things to work on.

Before she could step closer to him to correct his stance, he let the arrow fly, jerking back awkwardly at the bow’s recoil, because he hadn’t been stable at all, and the arrow predictably responded in kind.

Kayla didn’t see where it landed, because she was too busy looking at Jerry, but she noticed the distinct absence of the thunk of an arrow hitting a boss.  Instinctively, she winced.  Missing the target entirely was embarrassing, especially as she had them set so close to the shooting line for initial lessons.

Jerry looked like he was about to cry, and Kayla was not equipped to deal with crying younger brothers, so she hurriedly stepped up to him and started nudging his feet with hers.

“Let’s fix your stance before you try again,” she said, gripping his shoulders and twisting his torso until it was straight, side on to the targets.  “Feet wider… wider… wider… okay, that’s good.  Head…” she put her palms either side of his face and carefully directed it to look straight at the target without twisting the rest of his body.  She nocked the next arrow herself.  “Draw back… Elbow up.  And back more.  More… more.  Use your back muscles, not your arms, it’ll be easier.”

After some poking and prodding, she had Jerry standing at full draw in something that looked reasonably like it was supposed to – not perfect, but that was going to take some work, she accepted with some internal dejection.  Just because Da was a coach didn’t mean she was a good coach.  Teaching people to shoot was far harder than shooting.  “And release.”

There was at least a thud of contact this time, but when Kayla turned to look at where it had gone, it had still landed outside of the target sheet, barely hanging on to the edge of the boss.

Jerry burst into tears.

“It was better!” Kayla tried to reassure him.  “It’ll just take some practice!”  Behind Jerry, she could see Yan approaching, looking distressed at Jerry being upset, and this was way out of Kayla’s wheelhouse.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her back slightly and she glanced up to see Will smiling at her gently.  “I’ve got this,” he promised.  “You take Yan.”

“But-”  She was the one that was supposed to be teaching them.  Will wasn’t actually supposed to be there at all, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be taking over teaching when he was the worst archer in cabin seven!

Well.  Second worst archer, now.

“I was that bad when I started,” Will told her, his voice raised enough that Jerry and Yan could hear him, too.  “I’ve got a few tips and tricks that I was given back then that helped me, so they might help Jerry, too.”

Kayla hated that she could probably guess who had given Will those tips and tricks, because she’d noticed that he had a habit of not naming their dead siblings ever if he could help it.  He’d mention names she didn’t recognise, ones that had left before she’d arrived, but the ones that had died?

Introducing others to the archery range always made her think of Michael and the first time he’d introduced her.

“Go on,” Will nudged her.  “Go have fun with Yan.  I’ve got Jerry.”

It seemed wrong, leaving the two worst archers together, but maybe Will had a point, and Kayla really wasn’t equipped to deal with Jerry’s tears – or the frustration she was going to feel when Jerry kept struggling, because she could admit she wasn’t the most patient demigod in the world.  Not even close.

“Okay,” she caved, passing the spare quiver to Will and persuading herself that she wasn’t giving up, she was just being smart, and Yan still needed some tips on aiming, if nothing else.  “Come on, Yan, let’s get your aim perfect.”

“But-” they protested.  Kayla ignored it and grabbed their arm, pulling them back to their place on the shooting line.

“Will’s got Jerry,” she assured them, and Yan hadn’t been in camp long enough to know exactly what that meant, but they knew that Will was head counsellor – and sure enough, already, Kayla couldn’t hear any more crying, just a low murmur of reassurance from their big brother.

She tried not to let it get to her when, despite still not managing anything better than the outer black all session, Jerry still looked far happier with Will’s tuition than her own.

Will was just like that.

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfiction #toapril #toapril 2024 #kayla knowles #toa yan #toa jerry #will solace #cabin seven

[duskodair]

it's funny, the way things fit together. take those scarlet british military uniforms that epitomise colonialism. they walk hand in hand with the lawnmower.

see, in the town where the lawnmower was invented, there were once 179 mills at work. they were largely woolen mills, making cloth, having taken over from the weavers in their cottages, where the loom was the majority of the floorplan.

now woolen cloth, the soft, felty kind, needs a lot of work. when it is woven, the fabric is soft, but there are gaps between the threads. so then it is fulled - soaked with water and beaten by massive mechanical hammers that beat cloth 24 hours a day, from over a hundred mills, echoing endlessly throughout the valleys.

fulling shrinks the cloth, connects the fibres together, makes it thick and soft. the cloth is dried on tenterhooks (no suspense, it's just what they're called).

But the fabric is not perfect yet. the surface is fluffy, has imperfections. and so for a time, the nicest job in a woolen mill was the job of the shearers, in their frilled shirts with their massive fuck off scissors. their job was to cut the nap from the cloth without damaging it. they were highly skilled and higher paid. they were made redundant by shearing machines.

now here is where things coalesce. a shearing machine is a rotating set of blades that moves over the cloth at the steady height, removing the nap from the surface as it goes. imagine a lawnmower for cloth, running over bright red wool.

and it is an engineer working with these machines who invents the lawnmower, signing a (surprisingly decent) contract with his boss at the local foundry to make his invention, before it is shipped out to the estates of landowners grown wealthy on the work of that red cloth.

of the 179 mills that once ran in those valleys, only one now remains. it makes woolen cloth still; the green felt for snooker tables, and the neon yellow tennis balls for wimbledon.

my friend says the dust in the air from the mill gets into her house, tiny neon yellow fibres, worse than any hayfever

#chill to reblog

[lavender-romancer]

Crosses on my body 

Part One Tommy Shelby x Reader 

You were a nun in Dublin but when you decided to take action against those in powerful positions in the church you had to escape. When you turn up in Birmingham and begin a relationship with Tommy Shelby will he be able to protect you from your past? 

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

All you could do was run, as fast as your legs would allow you. Fear drove you forward, it was the only thing that could motivate you to escape. As you got closer to the docks you felt every fibre of your body being lifted up to the heavens into freedom. You could feel your heart beating out of your body as you stepped onto the boat bound for Liverpool. Clutching your crucifix tight in your right hand, you stared out at the sea and let tears of shame roll down your face. 

"Where are you coming from?" The British officer asked you as you handed over your identification in the Liverpool dock. 

"Dublin," you mustered a fake smile. 

"A lot of your lot coming here these days," he sighed and you had to resist rolling your eyes. 

"All the more of us to help with the workforce then, as a woman of faith I have to hope we're all treated as God's children." You tightened your scarf around your neck and he looked at you through his eyelashes. 

"Have you got any work set up for when you're here?" He asked. 

"Yes, employment in Birmingham, this was just the easiest route to take." You handed over the advertisement and the correspondence you had with the Garrison Pub. 

"Birmingham hmm, a lot of trouble in that city miss. Stay safe, you're free to enter." He handed you back your documents and you smiled before walking past him. 

The journey to Birmingham wasn't too bad, the bruising on your neck made it worse- the swelling was bearable but the fact you had to wear a scratchy scarf everywhere was unimaginably uncomfortable. You took a cab to Garrison Lane and were surprised to hear yet another person warn you about 'the dangers of this city' as the driver put it. Was the evil you escaped present here too? 

Tommy wasn't intending to go to the Garrison but when he saw you standing outside, clutching your crucifix he couldn't help himself. After Grace his inquisitive nature didn't usually get the best of him, but what could someone like you doing walking in there? Finding out you were Irish as well felt like too much of a coincidence but still Tommy observed you as you spoke to Harry and poured a pint. 

"You don't look like someone who would know how to pour a pint," Arthur commented as you pushed his whisky towards him. 

"I worked in a bar before being the the convent in Dublin," you smiled at him and he laughed. 

"What were you? A fucking nun?" He asked. 

"Yes, a fucking nun." You leaned on the bar and looked into his eyes. 

"I like this one. Got a lot going on," Arthur yelled and Tommy approached the bar, sitting next to his brother "Tommy! Meet, Y/n. Our newest employee " 

"I take it you're my employer?" You asked as you stuck out your hand towards him. 

"Thomas Shelby, pleasure." He shook your hand and noted your soft hands but strong grip. 

"He's all formality, Y/n. Tommy does not allow himself to have fun so forgive his lack of a friendly smile." Arthur's voice booked through the mostly empty pub and you laughed looking at Tommy's annoyed face. 

"I'm used to the stoic type, so working somewhere like this allows me to actually see some kind of joy in people's eyes." You placed a glass of whisky in front of Thomas and he nodded in thanks. 

"Where did you work before?" Tommy asked. 

"A  school. I taught orphaned children. But it was just too…" you paused. "There weren't any challenges. So I thought, maybe a new city." You could feel Tommys eyes on you, he knew you were lying.

"Working with children in those situations must give you challenges?" Tommy commented and you nodded. 

"I suppose I wanted a new type of challenge for myself," you said quietly as you dried glasses and placed them under the bar. 

"You can come with me to the church after your shift." Tommy said as he stood up and straightened his blazer. 

"Do you need to be taught how to pray by someone who has a connection with our Lord?" You asked playfully. 

"Perhaps." Tommy looked at the scarf around your neck before turning toward the door and leaving. 

He knew you were hiding something, he'd never met someone of faith who didn't have some skeletons in their wardrobe. But what could someone like you hide? The scarf around your neck indicated to him that maybe you'd be strangled or hurt but that didn't exactly seem like a secret worth keeping. After the events with Grace he'd promised himself to not fall back into an arrangement full of lies but he couldn't help but think about your eyes. The darkness that he could see inside them mixed with sadness instantly drew him towards you. 

It was approaching the end of your shift as the pub began to quieten down hour by hour when Thomas walked in and sat at the bar. 

"Hope they haven't been too rowdy," he nodded to the private room where his brother and some other Shelby associates were. 

"Not at all," you lied. "I'm used to it either way," 

"How is that? Going from barmaid to nun? Sounds too strange to lie about." Tommy picked up the glass of whisky you placed in front of him.

"Well, as they all say, I felt the calling of a higher power," you pointed up to the ceiling with a raised eyebrow. "I'm not exactly a complete success story but I still have a strong belief in God." 

"Then why did you leave? This must be a backwater in comparison to what you came from." He commented looking over his glass at you. 

"I love God. I don't necessarily love the way that love is expressed by others." You placed two pint glasses back under the bar. 

"I don't believe in a higher power but I do agree with that. Some people use their religion to fund their own corruption," Tommy placed his left hand down on the bar, it was characteristically sticky. "You should get a barmaid to clean all this," he said with a smirk as he wiped his hand on his trouser leg. 

"Ugh, tell me about it. Just can't get the staff." You walked towards the back with a handful of glasses before turning. "Still desiring a spiritual journey with me?" You asked him. 

"Oh yes. Take those through and then you can leave for the night," He downed the rest of his whisky and you raised an eyebrow before placing down the glasses in the sink behind the bar. 

As you left with Tommy walking towards the church the moon was at half wane, it reminded you of the night it had all happened- the night of the unforgivable act you'd committed. 

"You're in your own head a lot huh?" Tommy remarked as he put his hands into the pocket of his overcoat. 

"And you're not?" You retorted sharply. 

"Fair point. I'll stand down." He smirked to himself. 

"Have you ever prayed?" You asked. 

"When I was younger, sometimes during the war. But that sort of thing beats down any hope of religion." His face was stoic once more. 

"I can't imagine. But I know for some poor souls it was their only belief that they would get out alive. Were you infantry?" You turned your head towards him as you fidgeted with your sleeve. 

"I was a tunneler. Along with Arthur, my other brother and some other men from here." Tommy looked up at the stars, the moon shining on the puddles pooled on the cobblestones. 

"I'm sorry you had to suffer with that responsibility." You said with a genuine look of concern on your face.

"Well, all over now." Tommy said and a pregnant silence fell between the two that felt uncomfortable for you. You felt a need to fill it. 

"I wish I could hear a church choir again or church bells" You reminisced as you saw the church up ahead. 

"I think the only time I heard proper church bells and a choir was at my wedding, even then I didn't see the point of it." Tommy lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. You held out your hand for one and he handed you one with a scoff. 

"You're married?" You asked as you lit your cigarette and looked forward. 

"Widowed now, anyways." 

“I’m sorry for your loss, how did she die if you don’t mind me asking?” you tapped the ash off the end of your cigarette.

“She was killed a few months ago, I have no idea why I’m being so open with you. Might be the be the whole nun thing.” Tommy chuckled and you smiled.

“I get that a lot if you can believe. I’ve taken in a lot of secrets in my time regardless of how low level they were all important to me.” you looked toward Tommy.

“Are you going to save me from myself?” Tommy asked with a devilish look in his eyes.

“Only if you haven’t accepted Satan into your soul, Thomas.” You looked down at the pavement and didn’t notice Tommy looking at you. “If you are the Devil,” you paused.

“And I believe I might be.” Tommy interjected.

“Unless you find God, you’ll burn for eternity in Hell.” You smirked and Tommy sighed.

“Your God hasn’t given me much of a sign recently where i would express penance.” Tommy added and you shrugged.

“Sometimes we are not listening to his message,” You dropped your cigarette and stubbed it out. 

“Here we are,” Tommy stopped and looked at the church before him. You stood by his side and took a deep breath, closing your eyes and allowing the wind to travel through your body. 

As the two of you walked down the centre of the pews you took in the beauty of the Mother Mary statue at the centre feeling the warm ripple across your body as you approached the statue. Before sitting on the second pew from the front you made the sign of the cross on your chest, Tommy sat next to you. Bringing out your rosary Tommy raised an eyebrow.

“Have you ever prayed the rosary?” you asked holding the crucifix. 

“Possibly with Polly when I was younger, but not with any knowledge of what I was doing,” Tommy looked down at your hands clutching the crucifix. “It’s sacred to you isn’t it?”

“Regardless of what has happened in the last 15 years of my life as a sister I always had the Lord and our Mother Mary. Prayer calms me and makes me feel like I’m uplifting myself. I suppose this crisis of faith I’m experiencing isn’t exactly the best time to show you how to pray.” You smiled and Tommy shook his head. 

“You’re interesting to me. You were a nun for fuck sake, maybe I want to be saved?” Tommy theorised. 

“And you believe I can save you, Thomas Shelby?” you asked looking into his eyes as he gazed down at your lips. 

“I think you were sent here to save my soul,” He whispered 

"I think you might be the devil," You said softly as you leant closer to his face

"Are you scared of that?" Tommy asked.

"I've been looking for a sign of God that he's listening. Some kind of notion that he still hears me. Perhaps if I kiss someone like you I will get that sign I need," you paused. "God will punish me."

“Then why do you want to kiss me?” He asked.

“So I know he exists,” you leant forward and kissed him softly, Tommy’s hand placed over your rosary in a confused notion of faith, “Ah, well. I wasn’t struck down by lightning. Maybe you aren’t the Devil.” 

“I think I can challenge that point of view,” Tommy put a hand on your cheek. 

“Our Father,” You began to whisper. “Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” You paused once more and tried to connect with your deeper self. “Amen.”

next part Peaky Blinders Taglist: @queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @cl5369 @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315

#tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders fiction #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby drabble #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby angst #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby x imagine #thomas shelby #tommy x reader #tommy shelby

[heaveninawildflower]

Cotton-headed Thistle (Carduus Eriophorus) 1781 by Mary Delany (1700-1788).

Collage of coloured papers, with bodycolour and watercolour and plant fibre samples on black ink background.

© The Trustees of the British Museum.

Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) license.

#Mary Delany #Cotton-headed Thistle #botanical illustration #botany #18th century

[tixeplush]

Sasha Elizabeth Waybright is a major character and former antagonist of the 2019 Disney Channel series Amphibia.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1584247996/sasha-waybright-60cm-plush-doll-amphibia

Thank you for Commission

https://ko-fi.com/tixeplush/shop

✄ ----- Sasha Waybright - 60cm Plush Doll - Amphibia ✄ -----

size 60 cm 🔘� Sasha is fully made out of soft minky fabric. 🔘� Her eyes are machine embroidered. 🔘 Outfit made using Minky Fabric 🔘 Fully stuffed with polyester fibre wich its high loft and softness 🔘 Complies with British Standards BS5852 and BS1425. 🔘 Made in a pet & smoke free environment.

Follow latest updates on Commissions, New offers, projects and plush toy ideas

Thank you for Commission Tixe ❤️💖🧡💛💚💙

#crafts #plush #plush toy #plushies #etsy #artwork #-- #sasha waybright #Sasha Waybright doll #amphibia #amphibia disney

[f1crecs]

Fic Rec List - Football AUs

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and I will remove it immediately, no questions asked. I have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop me a message🤍

have a pairing you want me to do next? please read the faqs and then head to my inbox.

don’t forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

hi, anon. of course! I hope you enjoy some of these. I am British, so I took this to mean ⚽🥅🏆 ... please let me know if you meant the 🏈📣🤸‍♀️ kind.

the majority of these are Charles/Pierre. I like to try and keep my rec lists fairly evenly balanced, but the truth is that most of the football AU's in fandom feature these two. which, I won't lie, does make me giggle a little bit given Charles' um... you know... his...

enjoy, anon!

Carlos/Lando

I remember when I met you just before September by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 16.3k Carlos meets someone who changes everything for him. This is such a gorgeous, gorgeous story, with some of my favourite Carlos characterisation ever! One thing that this author always gets right is their dialogue - it flows so beautifully, and is so fun to read. A beautiful story.

And the prettiest boy he’s ever seen in his life is wearing a pink shirt - tight across his chest, dancing against George - who is cackling, head thrown back and looser than Carlos has ever seen him look before.

Charles/Pierre

use every fibre of my being just to keep me at bay by @pinkierre | T | 2.2k Pierre and Charles are on the same course at University. This is such a sweet story! It made me giggle out loud. This author has such perfect comedic timing - it's so fun to read! I also loved the Max and Pierre friendship here, and the Max and Charles rivalry.

Pierre was not staring. However, maybe he was looking into Charles’ general direction a bit... much… Charles was on the other side of the library, in a white hoodie that seemed to be two sizes too big, a dark pair of glasses, a black bandana and a massive pair of headphones. He looked properly adorable, and Pierre might just like seeing him being so into his work.

goal of the century by @yukierres | G | 2.3k Charles joins the team, and has a big impact. This is such a sweet story! The characterisation is fantastic. Charles has this magnetism to him that Pierre just can't resist - and I think that's an experience most of us have been through before. 😁 This author's writing makes me really happy. This was fantastic.

'You can see it in his eyes though, the burning desire to get on the pitch. The intensity in which he follows the ball during play, hands gripped on his thighs, his porcelain skin getting whiter and whiter as the clock ticks. Pierre can't stop watching him in the corner of his eye as he plays. He is completely magnetic, almost hypnotic. He can't draw himself away from Charles however much he tries.'

The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes by @saintdevote | T | 2.6k Pierre's journey through the world of professional football. This is such a gorgeous AU, that still feels very them. The angst here was hard-hitting, but beautifully done. The last few sentences gave me chills - which isn't something I often say! I really loved this!

'Pierre wishes he could find it in himself to be bitter, to lash out and tell Charles to go away. Even if he did, he’s not entirely one of his oldest friends would do such a thing. Instead, he smiles.'

all the kingdom lights shined (just for me and you) by @chaesonghwas | T | 15.8k (wip) Pierre and Charles and their journey to the World Cup. I am loving this so far! It is such a gorgeous story - so beautifully paced. You can feel the friendship and love and respect blooming between them. I am so excited to see where this goes!

'Charles finally meets Pierre on a sunny day on the pitch, the sun shining down on his golden hair and the ball at his feet. Beautiful, he thinks, and with that he seals his destiny.'

nsfw: you're in my head, you're in my blood by @singsweetmelodies & @boxboxbrioche | E | 15.8k Charles and Pierre work on a project together. Disclaimer - as a standard rule, I do not recommend my own fics! However, this was written with a close friend, who I am a very big fan of, and it seems like a disservice to her and to FootballPlayer!Pierre fans everywhere not to include this. All the best parts were written by her, anyways. ;)

Charles knows Pierre Gasly, is the thing. Well. He knows of Pierre Gasly. He knows that he plays for the university’s football team, and aside from football, obviously, what Pierre loves most in the world is sex.

Charles/Sebastian

nsfw: Pale Fire by @lyonsbutton | E | 37.2k Charles meets Sebastian in his final year of University. This story is incredible - so very bittersweet, and achingly nostalgic. If you have been to a British University, you will probably see parts of your experience reflected here. The humour is delicious. I wish I could read this one again for the first time.

'Charles is made acutely aware of the fact that he'd skipped two practices in a row. If his position in the first team weren't so heavily cemented he would've been a little more worried. That, and the fact that he's technically this year's treasurer, which means whatever. Charles can't remember the last time he opened Excel. This is why student democracy fails, he thinks, as he fails to make a beautiful pass from Lando connect into the goal.'

#carlando #piarles #sebchal #pairing:carlos/lando #pairing:charles/pierre #pairing:charles/sebastian #driver:carlos #driver:charles #driver:lando #driver:pierre #driver:sebastian #au:football #f1 rpf

[mikhailwrites]

Soaring Ever Higher 3 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Previous chapter | This Chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

Ghost still owes Trigger that drink. However, it's not so easy for RAF and SAS soldiers to meet by chance. Or is it?

Two months after returning from Colombia, Ghost finds himself in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Scotland, to supervise part of the SAS selection in the Highlands. He actually volunteered because it’s been either that or R&R, and he hates the leave much more than dealing with recruits.  

The weather is British or, well, Scottish, he supposes. Heavy clouds hang low, crying rivers over several dozens of trekking soldiers. Ghost doesn’t particularly mind; he would take rain and cold over humid heat any day. He’s on the tail of the group. He is casually noting who’s lagging behind, who’s breathless or sweating more than they should. For once, his mind takes a break, and he can take in the scenery. Harsh rocky terrain, hillsides covered in lush green grass and hardy shrubs. Ghost stops for a minute to take a few deep breaths, to taste the rain and the air. Momentarily, he looks back, just in time to spot… something flying in the distance. A bird, eagle, perhaps. But then it gets bigger and bigger, closing in fast. Soon, it’s clear that that’s no bird, or at least not one made of feathers and flesh. It’s a… jet? Every fibre in Ghost’s body tenses and senses focus on discerning if it’s friend or foe. It doesn’t make sense for it to be an enemy this far inland. How would they get here? And why? The jet closes in, rolling between the hills at high speed, manoeuvring with practised and deadly efficiency. Ghost realises the jet is flying even lower than he first thought. He can hear the aircraft now, too. The sharp, powerful whine will morph into a thundering roar once the jet passes.

As it closes in, Ghost frowns. That’s not the Typhoon. Nor the Lightning II. It’s bigger, sleeker, and weirder. And it’s dark, almost black. With three white strikes and claws painted on the tail fin. No way. Ghost’s breath hitches as the jet passes him. One person is sitting in the cockpit, and Ghost is pretty sure he knows them.

What are the bloody odds?

Later that day, when they return, and most of the people in selection end up immediately in their bed, he goes to the canteen, hoping to catch some locals there. He’s in luck; there’s an SAS sergeant currently engaged in a lively chat so that Ghost can pick up her Scottish accent. He gets a tea and waits patiently until she disengages.

He asks about the RAF bases around and is given a name: Lossiemouth Airbase. Apparently, the gal has some friends and even family there. Military runs in their blood or something. Ghost tries his best to be tactical and friendly at the same time, and he suspects he fails horribly in the friendliness department. It’s not that he’s a bastard or cold; no matter what people say, he’s just… not as good with words as he is with actions. It’s simple, really.

“You interested in a tour?” the Sergeant asks him with an easy smile, “I’m sure I could arrange something.”

“I’d like to meet someone stationed there,” Ghost admits.

“Right! Well, you should be able to get inside with your military ID. If yer lucky, you could even catch someone driving there who could take ye,” she shrugs and smiles, unperturbed by Ghost’s presence. It’s refreshing, but it makes sense; all sort of people try their luck in the selection; she must’ve seen weirder stuff than tall, broad and brooding Ghost.

He gets a couple of days off at the end of the selection. The last part are interrogations and he doesn’t need, nor does he want to be present for that. Instead, he hitches a ride to Lossiemouth.

His military ID gets him through the security checkpoint without any issues, just like the Sergeant said it would. After that, he’s a little lost. The base is big. It's not the biggest he’s been to, but it's big enough to warrant asking for directions. He also feels different. RAF is its own thing, with its own language and culture. Even though he only wears a plain black balaclava, he gets a lot of lingering stares. In the end, he chooses his victim: a wide-eyed young man.

He asks for the Strider squadron and then, specifically, for Trigger. The man, a Lance Corporal by the insignia on his shoulder, looks up at Ghost with poorly disguised surprise. “You a friend of Trigger’s?” he asks, searching Ghost’s plain attire for any indication of rank. He has a feeling he should be addressing the man as “sir”, but there’s no proof.

“Something like that,” Ghost answers without really answering, and he doesn’t clarify on his own rank, either. These are not his men, his people; why should he care?

RAF bloke nods and points to one of the large hangs further away. Ghost thanks for the help and goes on about his business.

The day is pleasant, with clear skies and sun that’s not too hot. It's a true rarity around here. As he nears the hangar, he notices the gate is open and, sure enough, there’s Trigger’s aircraft. Ghost strides across the tarmac, eyes set on his target. A shadow passes over him, and he pays it no mind. But then he’s startled by a deafening roar. He looks up, but the plane is long gone. Bloody madmen, these fighter pilots.

The path before him is clear, so he continues, noticing four Typhoons taxying on the runway. Nearing the hangar, he notices two people there. One is Trigger; his mohawk is easily recognisable. The other is a young woman with short, dark hair, clad in a grey overall and tinkering with something on the workbench.

Ghost comes nearer, stopping right at the entrance.

“Take a look at the starboard tail; it’s been acting up again,” John tells the engineer, motioning with his hands to illustrate the issue better. “I got a feeling it’s gonna jam one of these days. Maybe the frost issue, again?”

The engineer nods, scratching at her neck. “Listen, John, I know you love her. Believe me, I do, but it may be time to let her go. The tail, the flaps, the outer cockpit glass crack... I could go on. These issues? They’ve been stacking up lately. She will let you down one day, and I won’t be up there with you to fix ‘er up.”

“I ken,” Trigger sighs, brushing his fingertips over the edge of the wing; his voice is wistful. “I ken, Avril. But what am I gonna do?”

She cleans her oil and lubricant-stained hands and tosses the rag on the workbench nearby. “Fly something else, of course. The craft doesn’t define you. Do you think the brass doesn’t like you enough to get you the Lightning? Plenty of those down at Marham base. Or, hell, maybe some hush-hush deal to get a Raptor loaned?”

“I dinnae ken,” John shrugs, “that thing in Colombia is gonna stink for a while longer. Just… look at the tail for now. Please.”

“I’ll do the thorough maintenance, like I always do, love. Don’t worry. I’ll get the old Gray Ghost here all patched up and air-worthy,” the Scrap Queen smiles. “Just don’t go feeling sorry for saving someone’s life. You’re a good lad, John; don’t let the brass scream it out of you.”

“Thanks, Av, wouldnae still be here if not for ye.”

“That’s for damn sure,” she laughs as she picks up the toolbox and stepladder and goes around the plane. That’s when she notices Ghost, still standing by the entrance.

“Uh, John… you’ve got a visitor,” she calls out.

Trigger walks up from behind the jet with a mildly confused look. The frown deepens momentarily as he takes in the visitor in question. “Ghost? How did you... what are you doing here?”

Avril eyes him with sudden recognition; there’s a subtle smile on her lips as she pretends to focus on the machine.

 “I was nearby, and I still owe you that drink,” Ghost goes straight to the point. No greeting, no explanation. Simply stating the facts.

John visibly relaxes and chuckles. “That you do, but considering I stood you up, I guess we are even.”

“Duty called. Nothing you could do,” Simon shrugs. “So, I still owe you a drink.”

“Well, who am I to say no if you insist?” John inclines his head, blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

“I insist,” Ghost nods before he changes the topic. “I overheard her, something about old Ghost?” Ghost lowers his voice. He’s still unsure if he should feel offended or not. He’s not that old, after all.

Trigger takes a few seconds to connect the dots and then starts laughing. A bright, hearty laugh that causes Ghost to smile in return. Not that anyone could see it under the balaclava. “Come ‘ere,” Trigger leads him around the plane until he stops and points at something under the fuselage. Ghost looks, unsure what he should see there. Then he understands. Behind the front landing gear, on the cover that is now open, is writing in thick black lettering: Gray Ghost. “It’s her name. And thank you for spoiling that, by the way. I was saving that piece of trivia for when we’re at least the second, possibly even third, drink in.”

Ghost’s mind is reeling both because of the explanation and implication. “So... that Ghost saved this Ghost’s arse, eh? What are the odds?” Ghost shakes his head in amusement.

“Not massive, I reckon, but it is funny,” John agrees, then, suddenly, his smile freezes, “or... it’s fate,” he says in a low voice, almost whispering. The sparks in his eyes are proof enough that he’s only joking.

“Yeah, I guess as far as destiny is concerned, I could’ve ended up worse than a destined love made of steel and having some wicked angles and curves,” Ghost snorts, placing a palm on the nose. The metal is warm as the sun shines through the open gate. “I wonder where the ring goes.”

Trigger laughs, then feigns offence. “Oi! This lass is already taken! And you don’t have what it takes to be with her, anyway.”

“Oh, and what is that? Lack of common sense and self-preservation?” Ghost mocks him lightheartedly.

“Exactly! Anyway, I still have some stuff to finish here, so how about you walk around, see our lovely home, and I’ll meet you here at…” he looks at the wristwatch, “five?”

Ghost agrees and goes on to explore the base as suggested. He truly hopes they will get to enjoy that drink this time—that, and maybe something more.

Some useless trivia for you:

Soap, or, rather, Trigger, in this case, is flying Northrop YF-23. Two prototypes were made in the late 80's/early 90's to go toe to toe with (Y)F-22, one of them was painted charcoal grey and named Gray Ghost. And yes, that is one (but not the sole) reason why I decided he will be flying this cool af, weird-ass thing.

#Johnny is sentimental about his jet #of course he is #And Johnny and Avril are terrific friends #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

[diabolus1exmachina]

Gilbern T11 (prototype).

Gilbern is not a name that immediately springs to mind when you think of classic British sports cars. In fact not many people know about the former car maker that hailed from Wales. And even fewer are aware of its exciting two seat, rear engined sports coupe project from the 1970s. Founded in 1959 by Giles Smith and Bernard Friese, Gilbern was Wales’ only car maker. Both the former butcher and the former German Army soldier succeeded in building a car company from nothing and for a time challenged the likes of Jaguar and Rover with the Gilbern Genie V6. By the time the company folded in 1974, over 1000 Gilbern’s had been built.

The story of the Gilbern T11 starts back in 1970 when the Welsh car manufacturer was looking for ways to expand their model range. While their fibre glass bodied cars proved popular, they were expensive and never sold in large numbers. As a result the small firm struggled financially and needed something different to turn their fortunes around. They decided to build a light and compact, rear engine, two seat sports coupe, handing over the design to Trevor Fiore. The project went from the clay model design stage to the production of a partially built prototype. The aim was to display the car at the 1971 Geneva Motor Show but that never happened. As the firm’s finances worsened, the project was cancelled and the T11 prototype along with the other three prototype chassis’ were abandoned.

When the firm finally went bankrupt in 1974, the partly assembled Gilbern T11 was taken home by its managing director where it stayed for a number of years. It was then passed on to the Gilbern Owners Club before changing hands again.  The task that the new owner lay ahead was huge. First of all he had acquired a car that had sat for decades. Then there was the fact it was an unfinished prototype. Restoring an old classic is one thing but finishing a car that never got beyond the prototype stage is another. Thankfully owner background as a mechanic meant he had the skills needed to get it done. And he had a vision that allowed him to put his own stamp on Gilbern’s wedge. If it had been anyone else I suspect the car would still be in pieces today.

The Trevor Fiore’s design really was a work of art, taking cues from many other exotic sports cars of the day. Its design echoes that of the De Tomaso Mangusta, the Ferrari Daytona and the Bitter CD. And of course there is the Montiverdi Hai 450SS. The similarities between the two are uncanny. While the Gilbern T11 did not have a V12 or a V8 powerplant, it made up for this with its striking overall design. You could park this car beside a Lamborghini Miura or a De Tomaso Mangusta and it would not look out of place. It looks that good! It does make me wonder then what Gilbern could have achieved if they had succeeded in taking the T11 to full production.

#Gilbern T11 #Jaguar #Rover #De Tomaso Mangusta #Ferrari Daytona #Bitter CD #Montiverdi Hai 450SS #Lamborghini Miura

[tlatollotl]

textile

Cultures/periods: Nasca (?)

Production date: 100BC-600

Made in: Peru

Provenience unknown, possibly looted

Textile fragment; border; camelid fibre; cross knit loop stitch; each three-dimensional figure is needleworked over a core; human figures, each holding staff and plant-like object in either hand (but some disintegration); red, pink, indigo, green, yellow and white.

British Museum