#hudson t. / threads

[jechristine]

Apparently SAG put out a statement that Drew wasn’t violating sag rules since talk shows are under another contract. Jennifer Hudson and Sherri are also resuming their talk shows too. None are using wga writers. I don’t completely understand the ins and outs of this.

Drew’s violating WGA’s rules, not SAG’s. And true she’s not using WGA writers because shes using scabs or planning to scab herself🤢

Here’s a helpful thread

https://x.com/slack2thefuture/status/1701110118870659085?s=46&t=2Oyihqf8yG_6DMqqbqOuYw

[ripetogether]

CLOSED STARTER. @staystrangcrs

It was the same routine, another indie project Hudson loved that he was paranoid he’d only gotten the part in because of his status and the vague star power he possessed, as the party boy son of television’s premiere daytime soap diva, Mouse Townsend. Plenty of his co-stars had been doubting his ability up until the moment they got on set, but he could take that. In fact, he liked proving people wrong. There was something about his romantic lead, though, she was the type that usually caught his eye. Pretty, young, fresh, but she felt... different. Their chemistry in and out of character was incredible, the kind of stuff he was pretty sure award nominations were made of. He’d only wanted to nurture it, so he’d been spending more and more time with her, not necessarily assuming something romantic would come of it, but knowing he wanted it. That was why he was offering a quick getaway for the two of them. “You don’t have to say yes, but we have a whole weekend off filming and I just think it’ll be good for us, especially after all the heavy scenes. Come on, let me whisk you away somewhere fun.” 

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

Accidental Feminist Icon

Between my own headcanon Barba becomes a very niche viral celebrity for being a mix of feminist icon giving one liners on the news and handsome/well dressed and the DJ Khaled post, this happened. 

“Counsellor, are you listening?” Olivia asked as Rafael Barba looked at his phone again. It had been months now since he started trying Manhattan SVU’s cases, and she hadn’t seen him this distracted before. 

“I just- why do I have rapid fire Twitter notifications? Over one hundred and fifty?”

“You have Twitter?” He rolled his eyes, not proud of the admission. But he liked to follow politics and music and satire. His colleagues would have discourse on legal proceedings and theory. But when he opened his notifications, the sea of professional headshots making up the icons in his notifications window were replaced by cartoon avatars and selfies. Handles like @Bradley_GreedADA were replaced with @feministkilljxy. 

What was happening?

Why were there GIFs of him now?

“Rafael?” He was snapped back to attention by Olivia’s hand passing over his phone screen, and he shook his head, holding the screen out to her. “What am I looking at?”

“Why have a couple hundred- are these all teenagers?”

“Are they following you? Or tagging you?”

“Both?” He scrolled through the mentions.

“Both.” A questioning look.

“Have I gone viral?” he asked herr, eyes wide and his tone disgusted. Twitter was where he posted law books, nice dinners out, homemade dinners in, and the nicer scotch he drank. Sometimes even pictures of himself; some of his friends enjoyed fashion as well, and their twitters all had a heavy thread of their suspenders and ties. Suddenly, he was having photos he’d posted to flaunt his ability to mix patterns retweeted in appreciation of something more than the color scheme.

“I think you have. What have you said now?”

“The girl whose tweet I keep getting tagged in mentioned Jocelyn Paley and the Adam Caine case.”

“That was seven months ago.”

“I’m very aware. I have to get to the office. I’ll get you that warrant.”

He continued to scroll as he walked, alarmed by the number of followers he was gaining and going to open a direct message from a friend to see a wall of messages from names he didn’t know. Once he was able to find Bradley’s message, he saw it was series of tweets with videos and GIFs of him on the courthouse steps. They were all from the same case, he assumed the Adam Caine case. He clicked the video of he and Rita Calhoun.

All I can say, today's Grand Jury indictment is the first step towards achieving justice for Jocelyn Paley. 

The DA's office is desperately trying to distract from their recent scandal with a high-profile case. 

Don't give me that--whether you're a john in the South Bronx or a $3-million-a-year talk show host, no means no. 

 He could remember the exchange now, and it had apparently been retweeted thousands of times. Cameras always made him determined to distract, determined to drive home a point. And now, he was seeing some group of teenagers had clung on to his words, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about becoming recognized enough by that demographic to warrant this rapidly increasing follower count. 

“Carmen, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Mr. Barba. Need coffee?”

“No,” he said plainly, shaking his head and showing her his feed. “Is this normal?”

“They found you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Haven’t you seen the posts?”

“I don’t branch out on Twitter often.”

“I see it mostly, like, on Instagram with captions and people post clips of you on vine.”

“What’s vine?”

“A six second video app. Teenagers and young women post you. Vine is normally comedy. But people are obsessed with you. Niche, but sizable number. I think it’s mostly New York girls who see you on the news. But that means the vines went viral a couple months ago.”

“So now they’re all following me on Twitter?”

“You’re viral for being attractive, dressing well, and prosecuting rapists. Embrace it.”

“I can’t post my clothes anymore.”

“Just continue like usual. Don’t respond to DMs.”

He spent a few weeks terrified of this new following, but after three days, things calmed down. The number of followers he gained was weird and confusing to him, and he decided to listen to Carmen ultimately, keeping the profile the same and pretending nothing had happened. She did stop him one day, showing him that there had been people making fake accounts, yet another thing that was insane to him. She primarily told him because these accounts were attempting to take advantage of the fact young girls were the ones following him. He awkwardly slid the handles to Olivia, and Carmen filled out an application for Twitter verification that left him mortified. Even worse, it was approved. 

He was swept away in a case soon enough. Lindsay was assaulted by a whole fraternity at Hudson. They uncovered a previous victim in a hospital, a fraternity known for being a rape factory, and a dean helping create a culture that buried these attacks. It was becoming higher profile than he expected, and it wasn’t easy to try. He’d had to shut off his notifications on his phone during these cases. When Lindsay committed suicide, he accompanied Rollins when she went to arrest the dean. What he didn’t expect was for two of the women they saw to approach him, asking if they were here about Lindsay and thanking them when he said he couldn’t mention it. Then they asked for a selfie. Rafael was mortified but obliged. 

“We recognize you from Twitter.”

Well, now he knew he needn’t accompany the squad out anymore.

When he got tweets from the kind of scum that supported the fraternity, it took a concerted effort not to respond. That could jeopardized the case. He’d already had to tell the two girls they couldn’t post about him being there. He tweeted a disclaimer for if people saw him out, feeling like an asshole. Twitter was now becoming a liability, but he could balance it and refused to give up the feed. Slowly, the GIFs and stills of him on the news were collected, and he only got embarrassed again when mami’s students had discovered him and realized he was the guy in their principal’s pictures. Now Mami had a Twitter, and she followed people who praised him joyfully, though he’d managed to convince her not to interact in private messages or respond to people insulting him. 

The Jenna Miller case caused another leap in his follower count, and he had developed a little sense of pride instead of embarrassment when his followers jumped from people who mattered in New York to people who mattered elsewhere. A congresswoman from Ohio. Artists. Activists. He’d texted Olivia when Lady Gaga followed him. Plus that woman from True Blood. God, she was beautiful. Plus the hot boybander that had probably made him realize he was bisexual. It was weird, and he was unwilling to publicly acknowledge any of it. Unless they were on twitter, he certainly didn’t tell anyone he knew other than Olivia. Soon enough, someone had made a t-shirt on Etsy of the moment he’d turned on his heel. The media had called after Jenna, the olympian, and he’d told them no questions. Then the had the gall to bring up her sex work. He’d stopped on the steps, turning on his heel and announcing “Except for that one. Paid or not paid, no means no. Consent can be revoked at any time.” And now, Etsy users were profiting on it. This group was niche, but it ran deep. Luckily, he noticed the shop only had a few dozen sales.

Everything was fine until Rafael Barba lost his ability to maintain his composure. Up until now, he’d monitored his name, mentions, and a few hashtags people used with him. It was usually just the GIFs and stills and soundbites. He participated in some banter after the first couple of years, boundaries firm enough he felt he could. But he still didn’t bicker. Carmen said he got a following for being a good guy, and he thought it was gross openly condemning rape seemed to be all it took to be a good guy. But then through his lurking, Rafael Barba saw a tweet about DJ Khaled. He’d had to google who the hell that was, unsure who all of Twitter was piling onto, but he found the tweet objectionable enough to respond.

“Mr. Barba,” Carmen said, eyes sparkling with amusement as she came in to see her boss still scrolling through his phone. “You really decided this is the time to get involved on Twitter? You only ever respond to what people say to your stuff or your friends.”

He should’ve known she’d be on top of it. He’d given her access when notifications went through the roof the second time, and Carmen helped filter through DMs he didn’t want to see. But now, that meant her phone was vibrating like his in response to his first tweet in response to a stranger or someone who wasn’t in a thread under his own post.

“What? I’m supposed to endorse consent but not enjoyment?”

“You’re going to end up in a Buzzfeed article, sir.”

“If this is my legacy, so be it.”

“Your legacy? Taking it seriously now?”

“This is serious.”

Carmen’s phone buzzed in her hand, and she knew he’d sent another tweet. Her own account got notifications so she could monitor him. She sighed heavily, unlocking the phone and looking at it. 

“Mr. Barba, does your mom know you’re bi?”

“No, why?”

“She follows you, idiot.”

“Shit. Well, I suppose it’s time.”

“If you tweet Smash Mouth, I’m quitting. These kids are already thirst tweeting you. They must have tweet notifications on for you.”

“Who’s Smash Mouth?”

“How the hell are you culturally relevant?”

“According to Liv, I’m a feminist icon.”

“Don’t get arrogant sir. I help run this twitter.”

“I’ll change the password. I do all the posting.”

“I won’t tell you if Evan Rachel Wood slides in your DMs.”

“Why would I care?”

“I know why you watched True Blood.”

“Touche.” He paused. “Do you think she will?”

“Give me the phone. I’ll bring it when Liv calls.”

“Why would she call?”

“She made a Twitter, sir. Followed you last week.”

“Shit,” he said, eyes wide. “I posted pictures of my food. She saw me acting like a Twitter guy.”

“You are a Twitter guy.”

He rolled his eyes, ending with a retweet of his new favorite addition to the conversation. 

@mia-liz @chasingeverybreakingwave @thegirlwiththemaleficient-tattoo​ @teachingpanda​

[ickletheficklepickle]

911 Fox: Season 5 Episode 2: Desperate Times Thoughts, Comments and all that jazz. As always! Spoilers abound below the cut! 

The first 5 minutes were intense! HOLY SHIT!  Eddie almost falling out of the helicopter! Hen was in there too! Oh my god!  When I saw that she was in there too I was like, “WHY?!?!”  They can’t do this to me with the both of them!  And it was so sweet how Hen was talking with the Paramedic in the copter.  Bobby doing what he did.  He knows what he did.  You know what he did.  I know what he did.  I was like “WTH!?” Excuse me sir- Buck does reckless shit, you’re doing reckless shit. IF THE SHOE FITS! In the, I like the Bobby as a Father Figure to Buck trope. So I mean like father like son, THE SHOE FITS.  And all the team-holding onto the “rope”  SNEAK IN EDDIE’S TOSSLED HAIR! (Because I was like OH EM GEE I LOVE IT) And just the noise cutting out as soon as the thread on the copter snaps.  CINEMATIC BEAUTY! 

Michael and David throwing a party. Well- I mean a “Come to house we have power” party. IT really wasn’t a party party haha.  Two days in a row we got Michael and David content.  Love it!  I need more of this, especially after the Dumpster Diving Scene with Bobby And David being brought into that chaos. So greeaat.  Harry charging an entrance fee. Look at him. He is going places.  Excuse me while I SQUEEE!  A BUCK AND CHRISTOPHER HUG! Ok back track- Buck with a clipboard.  This was was equally hilarious and just so “damn buck look at you taking charge” AND THE PROBIE! RAVI!  OH EM GEE! GUYS! It’s like- I got like intense and hilarious and feels in this episode. I’m loving and living for all of it.  Okay- I already said but I’ll say it again. Mr. I don’t Panic had another panic.  And you know who noticed- Buck.  That whole introduction was so awkward.  Like- you could feel the awkward.  You know what- I didn’t know what wanted it till it happed-but them playing “Welcome to Jungle” when they were walking down the streets passing all the animals was content I needed, and I didn’t know I needed that and wanted that till it happened.  Back track again-BUCK LISTING all the animals at the zoo. Eddie saying- “He takes Chris there all the time” STRAIGHT OUT OF A FANFIC! I see you writers. I see what you did there.  Hen knowing facts about Alpacas.  And oh my god-I was trying not to laugh as her hand was shaking when luring away the alpaca haha.  SNEAK IN EDDIE AND HIS HELMET HAIR! 

MAY BEING AWESOME DOING AWESOME SAVING PEOPLE! That was sooo smart, with what she did. And guys, FEELS! FEELS! The whole neighborhood came together to help that little boy and they were so committed. Like. HELP ME WITH THE FEELS.  Excuse me! I FREAKING CALLED IT!  Eddie did have another panic attack-and ding ding, it was Ana. (he even admitted it later) And he has to break it up with her.  And that’s what I mean when I say called it. Well with the Eddie and Ana situation. Sorta called it.  Eddie is just gonna stick it out. He wants it to work-but it’s just not working. If that makes any sense.  As I said in one of my previous posts- He likes her and the idea of her and being with her. But at the same time-the idea of it is jarring and scares him. He is not ready yet to be in a committed relationship.  And for Buck to see that and call him out. I think that’s what Eddie needs.  I think for Eddie’s sake he needs to break up.  And as Buck mentioned. it is not fair to Ana or Eddie himself.  So yes- the relationship needs to end. The dude almost had another PANIC attack. Why are you causing yourself emotional distress. Take it from someone (myself) who has been there, DON”T DO THAT!.  And okay- Chimney and Hen having a moment. Where they are talking. These two are my brOTP. And I need them to have more moments like this. I miss them having moments like this. Best friends!  Okay-so what happened with Jee, that is going to drive Maddie deeper and be more sad. She is going to feel soooo guilty. Like there is nothing more scary than that.  LOU SURVIVED! THE LAYWER IS DEAD! HUDSON WAS PLAYING JENGA WITH HARY  BOBBY CALLED ATHENA BABY! (That was so sweet) HUDSON HAS HARRY! They started with intense, they ended with a HIGH ANXIETY INTENESE. This episode was the greatest. 

Now excuse me while I go and reblogg like its my job. 

[aelaer]

Uhh can I ask for BBC Sherlock fic recs? (Preferably friendship and/or familial fics, but romance is okay too)

Ooohh boy are you in for a list. I know you asked this like, at the start of quarantine or at sometime where I decided that I was no longer interested in communicating with the wider world, but hopefully this will still be of interest to you?

Throughout 2018 I did very little writing because I was busy consuming everything offered by the Sherlock fandom produced over 7-8 years. I definitely read well into the millions of words. A lot of them were from specific collections on both ff.net and AO3. I recommend looking in “collections” on ff.net in particular (as I still can’t really figure out how collections work on AO3 and how to find them easily... it’s really easy to find them on ff.net).

To my knowledge, these are all complete.

If there is any romance tagged here, it’s because it’s really, really fucking good as romance is my least favorite genre. I cannot remember all of them, but there’s a lot of angst, definitely humour, and definitely some great canonical bits. Also whumpy ones that are either really really good or a bit ridiculous but there you go.

It’s long, so under a cut. If the cut doesn’t work, I have tagged it as well.

From ff.net (alphabetical order) - NOTE: I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because the list was already too freaking long! But be sure to check out the authors, you can sort by “category” on ff.net on their author page and then go down to “Sherlock” to find their works:

Anything by A Wandering Minstrel (sooooo many genres)

Most anything by chappysmom (tons of genres, some are excellent, some I could take or leave, overall good stuff)

Most anything by Dayja (she writes in a ton of genres, so some I *adore* while others aren’t my cup of tea, but overall good stuff)

Anything by Gwen's Blue Box if you want angst up the wazoo.

Anything by ivywatcher for fantastic character studies.

Most anything by Jennistar1 (another multi-genre writer, both friendship and slashfic)

Anything by Radon65 - a mix of stuff. Canon IIRC.

Anything by Richefic for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

Anything by StillWaters1 for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

A Brief Account Of Life With Zombies  by Silver Pard Sherlock thinks it's all a bit of a nuisance, John is having the time of his life, and Mycroft is Not Impressed. With anything, but mostly his minions' inability to provide a good cup of tea. Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,384 - Complete

A House is not a Home  by selenityshiroi  This is a prompt fill from the LJ Fic Meme.  John and Sherlock got a flat share because they needed to split the rent.  But when John comes into money, people wonder 'why hasn't he found a place of his own'   The actual prompt is inside the story Rated: T - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,190 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Annie's Song  by Berouge She has a second engagement with a man and his violin, in the park, at night. Sherlock's not going for it! ONESHOT! Rated: K - English - Romance - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,869 - Sherlock H., Molly Hooper - Complete

Basic Training  by chai4anne Summary: A death at a boys' school leads to conflict and revelations among Lestrade's team, Sherlock, and John. Set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall." No slash. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 10,851 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, Sgt. S. Donavan - Complete

Breaking Point  by Haelia  When Sherlock and Donovan are abducted and Sherlock is grievously wounded, it is up to Donovan to get them both out.  "First things first, Freak.  You do not give me orders.  You are going to do everything I tell you to," Sally said sharply, "because we are getting out of here."  Can they both escape with their lives from the most dangerous gang in London? Rated: T - English - Mystery/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 3 - Words: 14,401 - Sgt. S. Donavan, Sherlock H. - Complete

Firestorm  by Dustbunny13 Sherlock returns, but his friendship with John is damaged. Nevertheless, they embark on their final hunt to finish off Moriarty's net, but it ends in a catastrophe: Sherlock is shot and lapses into a coma. As John keeps vigil, he reads Sherlock's diary written during the hiatus. Slowly, he begins to understand and finds himself wishing for another miracle. Completed. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Adventure - Chapters: 53 - Words: 133,754 - Complete NOTE: Probably my favorite novel-length multi-chapter you find only on ff.net for this fandom.

How To Accidentally Summon a Demon  by patster223 Sherlock is possessed by a demon. A damned, wicked soul that uses the kitchen table for blood rituals and experiments. John doesn't even notice the difference. Rated: K+ - English - Supernatural/Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,411 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

Kidnapped! A Comedy by scuttlesworth Poor kidnappers. Kidnapping John Watson is like pulling on a thread tied to all sorts of crazy. It's enough to make a bloke get a job and go straight. Rated: T - English - Humor/Friendship - Chapters: 2 - Words: 10,758 - John W. - Complete

Mobile Phones, Rubble and Shock  by prettybirdy979  In the aftermath of the explosion, Lestrade must work to keep Sherlock Holmes alive and make sense of his communications... with only a mobile phone and Sherlock buried under the rubble of the pool. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,679 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete

Mouth of Babes  by Morgan Stuart  Several weeks after the explosion at the pool following "The Great Game" episode, Lestrade visits the recuperating Sherlock and John at 221B Baker Street. He brings case files and food... and a visitor in tow. Rated: K - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,495 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete NOTE: This is a whole series. If you like it, look up the rest under the author. It’s super cute.

Of Surgeons and Soldiers  by EmRose92 Being a doctor has its advantages. He knows how to put people back together, and he knows how to take them apart. 221B is forced into a hostage situation, and John seems to be the only one who has the power to get them out of it. Includes BAMF John, protective Sherlock, and several unfortunate criminals who mess with the wrong army doctor. No slash. Rated: K+ - English - Adventure/Family - Chapters: 2 - Words: 9,695 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Empty Home  by chai4anne Sherlock would always be haunted by memories of one particular case. The first body, its once-so-familiar features blurred by the passing of time and death, moved him more than he would ever have expected. But the worst was the skeleton he uncovered later, bits of hair and clothes still clinging to it—which had no effect on him whatever, until he looked up and saw John's face. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Suspense - Chapters: 28 - Words: 150,773 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The frigid trench  by Nova-chan Sherlock is badly hurt. And alone. And incapacitated. Rated: T - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 15 - Words: 13,118 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Hand You're Dealt  by Lady Sam Mallory Sherlock, John and several others are trapped in a building when an explosion disrupts the crime scene they are working. COMPLETE. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 12,092 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Secret Identity of John Watson  by scifigrl47  Taken out of context, John Watson leads a terrifying life.  You have to wonder what those poor women he dates thinks of it, especially if John decides to try keeping one away from Sherlock, and Sherlock decides that it'd be best if he could get rid of her Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 3 - Words: 29,251 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

This Is What He Does For Fun  by nyssa123   Sherlock and John go to the pub after a long day and Sherlock realizes that the man sitting next to them is a serial killer. He then proceeds to tell everyone how he knows. Written for a prompt on the LJ kinkmeme.

Rated: K+ - English - Humor/Mystery - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,147 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Totem  by IshkabibbleScribble  Rescuing Sherlock from the clutches of a violent terrorist cell forces John to rely on a long-unused, lethal skill. Rated: T - English - Friendship/Drama - Chapters: 2 - Words: 8,752 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

War Wound  by SoulfireInc  Set sometime after Sherlock's return, before John's wedding to Mary Mortsan. An old comrade of John's arrives at 221B Baker St, scared and desperate for the consulting detective's help. Perhaps, had Sherlock known the consequences he and John would suffer as a result of this surprise encounter, he never would have accepted the case ... [Written before season three aired.] Rated: K+ - English - Drama/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 21,319 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, OC - Complete

From AO3 (alphabetical order) - NOTE: Just like the ff.net list, I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because these lists are just ginormous.

NOTE: I did *not* include warnings, pairings, etc in these summaries (too many tags to try and organize in the messy copy/pastes). Read the tags if you have any sensitivities/squicks/etc for all links!

Most anything by CaffieneKitty (over 100 shorts, so some I really love, others I can pass. Well worth checking out)

Anything by dragonnan if you want a huge wallop of angst. Also illustrations. Also writes in the MCU.

Anything by Jolie_Black (You thought stories written in script could only be bad? You thought WRONG. Very very canon-compliant goodness).

Anything by sgam76 (another multi-genre writer)

A Freak Adventure   by  dioscureantwins Words:    13,719    Chapters:    1/1    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Sally Donovan John Watson Mrs. Hudson Oh Christ, the Freak will be like a dog with two tails if she turns to him for assistance. Sally can feel her hands curling into fists ready to punch the condescending smirk off his face as she glares at the lift panel, willing the lift to go faster. But this is about Susy, Sally tells herself, not about him or Sally’s abhorrence of the atrocious git. She’s still convinced he gets off on it but he can wank himself into a stupor over Susy’s disappearance for all she cares as long as he finds her.

A Smelly Affair  by  dioscureantwins  Words:    13,756    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Anthea Mycroft Holmes Sherlock had published an interesting thesis on the splintering of various woods on his website. As well as an equally fascinating treatise on different types of ropes and knots and the best techniques for securing someone. Obviously, his captors had followed those instructions to the letter; thereby disproving John’s theory nobody took notice of Sherlock’s website. A victory, perhaps, but one Sherlock felt he could have done without. Trust his readership to turn the tables on the author.   Morons.

Constantly      by thesignsofserbia Words:    4,530    Chapters:    1/1    Mature Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes Mycroft and Sherlock have a tenuous relationship at best, but with Sherlock taking down Moriarty's web, they might need each other more than they'd care to admit.

Croatia-Water-Blue      by hollyesque Words:    12,117    Chapters:    1/1 Not Rated Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes “I…” John licks his lips, twitches his fingers as though he wants to reach out, “I’m here, Sherlock,” he says; “I know I haven’t been, but…but I am now.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Haven’t been—? “What on earth do you mean, you haven’t been here?” he asks, “You’ve been living here.”

Getting to Know You      by  Dimity Blue (Arnie) Words:    4,605    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes John picked up the kettle.  "Nothing from Lestrade?"Sherlock flipped himself over on the sofa and presented John with his back; John sometimes felt he was living with a cat.Clicking the switch on the kettle, John grinned to himself and, keeping his tone casual, said, "Maybe you could send him an owl."There was silence for a few seconds, then Sherlock asked, "Why would I send him an owl?"

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus      by CaitlinFairchild Words:    4,572    Chapters:    1/1   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes John Watson Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows himself a brief swell of feeling--let’s not put a name on it, just call it a feeling--for his big brother. He knows that when Mycroft opens that steel door again, every man now inside will be a fresh corpse.The East Wind will take them all, Sherlock thinks fuzzily, before the curtain of sleep descends.

London Orbital   by merripestin Words:    13,642    Chapters:    1/1    General Audiences Greg Lestrade Sally Donovan Sherlock Holmes John Watson "I'm driving first," Sally said.  "Guv can take over after me. If we're all still mad enough to be at this after that,  John can drive third shift.  Then the freak, if we decide we can risk it.""John doesn't drive," said Sherlock."Then what's John along for?" Sally protested. Which Greg reckoned had to be just Sally trying to wind Sherlock up.  She knew better.  All night in a car with Sherlock was bad enough.  All night driving round and round the M25 looking for a killer, with Sherlock deprived of John Watson, sounded like a new circle of hell.   

Official Recruiter by Captain_Author Words:    49,469    Chapters:    21/21   General Audiences  Clint Barton Phil Coulson Sherlock Holmes John Watson Stephen Strange Crimes were so simple before aliens, gods, and supernatural abilities made themselves known. But Sherlock Holmes never enjoyed simple and these inhumans and mutants provided quite a challenge. SHIELD needed someone to find the superpowered. Funny how both their needs can be met.

Rigging screws, size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised  by  AJHall    Words:    15,250    Chapters:    6/6    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson "How's a woman supposed to prove her husband's a murderer, dammit?" On the eve of a planned voyage to Brittany, Marjorie Jameson starts her day with no problems more pressing than forcing a boatyard to do an emergency repair to the family yacht.  A chance encounter at the Cowes hi-speed ferry terminal begins to unravel a web of conspiracy and murder, with her charming, untrustworthy husband Julian right at the centre and Marjorie as the next intended victim.But no-one's going to trust the word of an aging housewife whose complaints of abuse the police have previously dismissed as delusions.

Somewhere in the Dinaric Alps      by  drpepperdiva91 Words:    1,735    Chapters:    1/1    General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Sherlock is caught off-guard by a flashback to his time in Serbia, just before John arrives home from work. Sweet, but still semi-realistic, hurt/comfort.

The Case of the Missing Bus Ticket      by  Unsentimentalf Words:    10,543    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Dirk Gently Sherlock Holmes Richard MacDuff John Watson Mycroft Holmes When Dirk and Richard's new client inexplicably fails to stay alive long enough to pay them, their ailing finances mean that a certain amount of subterfuge is required to get them back to London. The sudden death of their client has, however, attracted the attention of another rather more famous (if less holistic) detective and the stage is set for a long distance bus ride of suspense…

The Green Blade   by  verityburns Words:    72,929    Chapters:    15/15   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Lestrade (Inspector) Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Anderson (Sherlock) Mrs. Hudson As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit... WARNING: COMMENTS CONTAIN SPOILERS!

The Holiday    by Scriblit Words:    18,962    Chapters:    9/9    Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes Mrs. Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Mary Morstan ACD Canon Characters A month following an horrific, sadistic attack during a case, Sherlock is still physically incapacitated and emotionally damaged. A holiday is suggested, but even stuck out in the middle of nowhere, he and John happen upon a case that could make Sherlock begin to feel like his old self again - or could kill him.BBC Sherlock Reworking of ACD's Devil's Foot, with Illustrious Client in flashbacks. Scenes of violence and implied "off screen" sexual violence/sexual assault.

The Shallow End      by  hollyesque Words:    6,923    Chapters:    1/1   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes "I told you once that I don't have friends," he says to John's back, "Now you know why."

The Silence of the Bees  by  trappedinathoughtbubble Words:    14,169    Chapters:    7/?    Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mary Morstan Mary Watson Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes A kidnapped teenage girl. A political conspiracy. Bees. And somehow in the midst of it all, John learns a few things Sherlock forgot to mention about those two years. Note: Not completed, but the author's around and one of the sweetest people ever if you want to give encouragement to take a look again at this story!

The Triple Bluff    by SarahKnight  Words:    28,331    Chapters:    8/8   Mature Sherlock Holmes Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Philip Anderson Sherlock annoys his landlord at Montague street, grows to hate Donovan and gets into trouble a lot on a kidnapping case involving a woman who bullied him as a child.The events leading up to A Study In Pink. A case fic that answers questions from the first episode such as why Sherlock had to leave Montague Street and find a new flatmate, why he and Lestrade both quit smoking but didn't know the other had, why there's so much animosity between Sherlock and Donovan, and why Sherlock hates traveling in a police car.

Welcome Home    by   thesignsofserbia Words:    3,435    Chapters:    1/1    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs. Hudson Mycroft Holmes "All my nightmares escaped my head. Bar the door, please don’t let them in. You were never supposed to leave. Now my head's splitting at the seams."

And of course I have my own Sherlock/Doctor Strange crossover up on AO3 if that tickles your fancy, illustrations and all. :D

But if you haven’t delved deep into the fandom, this should tide you over for some time.

This list is by no means an exhaustive list of recs. I didn’t really include anything that concentrated on a romantic pairing, for instance. I left off anything explicit as well. But yeah, here’s a small amount of the overall goodness produced by the BBC Sherlock fandom over the last 10 years.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Four of Swords

Destiel, 7.1k, M, Ao3 link

Super happy I can finally share what me and my amazing partner, @maleyah-givemetomorrow, cooked up for the @supernaturaltropecelebration

Hope you all enjoy! (story below, but if you go to ao3 there’ll be pretty pictures - I definintely recommend viewing them and showing love to the artist!)

The Four of Swords, in the present position, means you don't want to interact with the rest of the world. Because of stress, you need to spend some time with yourself - unhealthy always being 'on'. That the healthiest thing to do is to escape.

Dean might crave escape, but it's not something he thinks he can have. Something he deserves, even. After his and Sam's most recent hunt, this cancerous feeling has grown heavy and weighs him down. He cannot escape on his own, as best he tries.

Luckily a guardian 'former angel' angel swoops in at his lowest. Helps pick up the pieces as best he can and lovingly put them back together. But he can only do so much. The rest is up to Dean.

Can Dean take those final steps, say those final words, and finally free himself?

        His leg bounces, foot playing with the pedal while forcing the speedometer past its limits. Fingers squeeze the wheel tight enough he knows will leave permanent indents in the leather. Dean feels, more acutely than ever, how small his car’s interior is. Her cabin walls closing in around like the Death Star’s trash compacter. Aided by Sam’s ever-present stare, weighted by all the questions Dean will not let him ask. Forbade with a shake of his head and a rough flick of the ignition.

        The sun creeps past the horizon, morning rudely greeting them. Beams of light pierce the glass, its glare interfering with his driving. Dean swings a heavy paw up towards the visor and pulls down, hard. It blocks most of the sun but gives Dean a worse distraction.

        His gaze strays from the road to the tiny mirror embedded within the visor. Bounces around the borders of his face, studying the features and additions. Green eyes burdened with purplish bags. Dirt smudged around his hairline, disappearing into his short, mussed locks. Scratches peppered his cheeks like freckles, and the dried blood around his lips looks almost comical. Like he overlined them with an ugly shade of lipstick, clownlike and surreal.

        “You’re drifting.”

        Sam tugs the wheel closer, straightening their car. Dean wills back the discomfort of having Sam’s hand covering his. Of the memory, hours ago, where their layered hands held different context. Pushing. Praying. Reaching for a spark of Dean that nearly drowned and was lost forever. He shakes his head, focusing on the road again. “Thanks,” he says once his brother’s hand drifted away.

        They reach the Bunker minutes later, Dean parking between the green Hudson and silver Chrysler. Both collecting dust. Dean checks his phone – 8:34 a.m. 3 missed calls, 8 unanswered texts. He swipes for the message thread, not reading any of the grey bubbles and typing a simple message. Back. Then Dean drops it in an empty cupholder and lays his head on the wheel.

        Exhaustion drips along his bones like slime, filling the spaces between joints. His muscles broadcast their pain in full stereo, working in tandem with his brain. Each twinge a reminder of what happened. What he did and what he almost became.

        Someone howls. It is far, but familiar. It sounds like – home? Belonging? Right? More noise, this time closer. Snarling. Snarling and growling. His jaw shudders and bends, reforming. A fire crackles under his skin, urging him forward. Follow the call. Follow the scent. Smell that, hear that, it is all so… pure. Free. You are free. Trust your instincts.

        “Fuck,” he hisses. Dean presses his dirty nails into his palms, a reminder of their usual bluntness. Definitely not sharp enough to pierce the skin. He can’t hurt anyone else with them. “Fuck…”

        Sam shifts at his side, hovering. Worrying. “Dean –“

        “Not now, Sammy,” he says. Dean sucks in a large breath, fixing his armor. Raises his head off the steering wheel, staring out the window. “I’m not ready, not yet.” He wasn’t ready when they watched the barn disappear behind them, burning, smoke drifting into the starless night. When they stopped at the motel so Sam could collect their stuff while Dean idled in the parking lot. When Sam exploded halfway between Denver and Cheyenne, drool wet on his chin, and still unprepared when he apologized minutes later.

        He didn’t deserve his damned forgiveness.

        “Just…” Dean breathes, shivering, “go.”

        The car door opens and shuts with soft clicks. Dean watches his brother stumble over half-asleep legs to the exit, Sam’s gait heavy and awkward. He pauses under the archway. His head tilts slowly right, and Dean tears his eyes from the rearview mirror. Dean counts the beats of his heart, waiting. After thirty he checks the rearview and Sam is gone.

        Flinging himself out the car, Dean falls on hands and knees while his stomach revolts. He coughs, splutters, and heaves with all the force he can muster. There’s not a lot in his stomach but it surges up, splattering against the floor. Mixes with the blood and dirty already staining his fingers. His nausea passes the crest and recedes, body nearly purged. He spits into the bile, running his tongue over the waxy film coating his teeth. Gross, but not enough. The taste lingers.

        Right there. Follow the fear, the rapid breathing – babumbabumbabumbabum. There is sweetness in victory, in the thrill of chasing. No escape, only death. Screams cut short when you tear through the throat. Chestnut fur matted with blood, goes down smooth. Delicious. Filling.

        Dean winces at the mess. “Not cleaning that up,” he says, “at least not now.” With his remaining strength, Dean drags his body up. Leans on his car for a moment, then walks away with the door still open and with bags in the trunk. He cannot remember if he left the key in the ignition, nor does he care if he did.

        There are more pressing matters that need attending.

        He wanders with intention, drifting past rows of doors until he reaches the shower room. Dean turns, slowing to a shuffle and then a full stop once halfway inside. Head bowed, he focuses on the contrast between his mud-caked boots and the pristine tiles ruined by his intrusion. Squints and sees a twig lodged in the loop of his lace. Looks closer and sees a small pawprint left immortalized on the material.

        In one bite the head tears completely off, blood spurting up from the severed neck. Sprays his face while he chews. Dean smiles, teeth catching the droplets and licking them clean off. He greedily stuffs the rest of its small body into his mouth, then licks his hands. Uncurling from the forest floor, he continues on. There is a call he needs to answer.

        Dean hears the twig snap while clawing at the laces. He throws his left boot to the side, followed by his right. Peels his socks off and does the same. The second round of dizziness descends as the cool floor coaxes a more measured response from him. Sighing, Dean closes his eyes and continues stripping.

        Even blind, Dean knows what he throws away. A yellow plaid button-down ripped across the back. Brown t-shirt crusty with dried blood all over the front. Jeans camouflaged in various stains, held up by a belt that worked in saving him from succumbing. And underwear that, while clean, were rather unwanted in the moment.

        Goosepimples rise along the blades of his shoulders, rushing up his neck and over his back. Dean shakes, crosses his arms and tucks his chin against his chest. “Come on,” he says, bouncing on his feet, “In and out… you’ll feel much better.” He steps forward and then returns to where he was. “You’ll feel better and clean and – and like yourself again.”

        “This is who you were truly meant to be…” His voice purrs, sparks firing off pleasurably in his brain. A rough tongue licks up his neck, and Dean nuzzles the hand petting his cheek. “Who we were always meant to be… give into your instincts, my pet. Give into yourself…”

        “Dean what are – oh! I’m sorry!” He whips around and finds Cas standing in the doorway. Hands squeezing the towel, eyes trained upwards and not ahead like they must have been moments ago. The blush on his cheeks clueing him in. “I thought, when you said you were home, you’d be in bed…”

        Dean rakes his gaze over the other man’s body. At the scruff in serious need of shaving, unkempt along his jaw and overrunning his neck. The oversized t-shirt, tie-dyed in various shades of oranges, reds, and yellows. A graphic from a Led Zeppelin album ironed on from a collection Dean found at a garage sale, given over because the angel reminded him of Cas. His shirt’s hem overhangs and covers half of the shorts he wears, hairy calves fully on display.

        A year into humanity and Dean marvels at how he stays so heavenly.

        “No,” he says, “don’t feel much like sleeping…” Then Dean drifts his focus away from the other man and back to the shower stalls. Empty and waiting. In a few seconds he could wash the entirety of yesterday into the drains, dirtied water swirling at his feet. Scrape any trace of the wildness with soap and scalding, hot water. Keep at it, until the knot in his chest unraveled finally.

        Dean stiffens. Someone brushed his arm. Cas squeezes, whispering, “Are you going to shower?”

        He nods. Steps forward, and again. And collapses at the mouth of the shower, scrabbling for the curtain and ripping it from the rod. Dean gasps, the harsh sound echoing in the room, and curls in on himself. The cheap plastic crinkles and sticks to his skin, blanketing his thighs. One of the metal rings completely tore and now digs into his stomach. Cas calls for him, but his voice is distant.

        “We can start anew once your transformation is complete. I can hear it inside you, Dean. There’s a killer in there waiting to be unchained. Let me free you from the prison society forced you in, allow your true self to roam, empowered in its glory and righteousness. You’ll be my right hand in my new pack. All that’s left, is for you to break the final lock…”

        “Dean, Dean I need you to say something,” Cas presses a warm hand into his back, kneading the clammy skin. “Please… I know not to hope for anything good but at least tell me you’re here, with me.”

        “I’m here,” he murmurs, “I’m… I’m here.” More of a reminder than an answer. Dean blinks, leaving the acrid stench of death for faint, lemon cleanser. Shadows and dim lighting for humming fluorescents. False promises for strong foundations. “I’m here,” Dean says again, sliding his hand from the curtains to Cas’s, the other hanging at his side. Squeezes at his wrist. “Thanks.”

        “It’s no problem,” Cas huffs, sizing Dean up. He shrinks under his gaze, conscious of how he must look. “Do you want to –“

        “No.”

        Cas nods, as if expecting it. “You want to clean yourself up?” Dean shrugs. He clucks, fingers skimming his hairline on a wide rub. “Look as if you’ve glued yourself to the underside of your car and had Sam drive across any backroads he found.” The joke inspires Dean’s dimples to appear, and Cas’s overly proud smile forces a small chuckle. “Are you able to stand?”

        “I think I can manage…” Dean winces, the plastic shower curtain peeling off him. Cas keeps his face steady, not even a flicker of interest in peeking as it falls, when Dean exposes himself. A superficial wound. Fortunately Cas’s hand on his back and the other, now holding his, stay and help him up. He wobbles on shaky legs but won’t fail. “Thanks.”

        “No problem,” Cas tells him, thumb tickling his pulse point, “do you want me to give you privacy?”

        He swallows his tongue. Or rather, something living inside his throat snatches it and prevents him from speaking. Dean glances at the shower, dread crawling forth once more. The scant space between him and the handle stretches, vision tunneling. He wants nothing more, if only the thought of it didn’t paralyze him. Cas murmurs at his side. “What?” he chokes out.

        “I might have an idea,” Cas says, “that is… if you’re okay with me seeing you like… like this?”

        Dean raises a wry brow. “Does it matter?” he asks, “You already have.”

        “Just being polite…” Cas moves away from him, Dean following for a beat until he stops himself. The other man looks to the door, than at him. He scoops his forgotten towel, dumped on the floor at some point in the past few minutes, and offers it to him. “Here.”

        “Like I said, Cas –“

        “I know,” he interrupts, “but I doubt you want to walk the halls like that, where at any point Sam could stumble on you and… assume.” A hell of an assumption. Favorable too, he thinks. Dean blushes and bites his lip. He accepts the towel, lazily wrapping it around his waist. Not bothering to tuck it, holding it with his hands so they wouldn’t hang without purpose. Cas finally dips his gaze towards his crotch and relaxes. “Okay,” he says, “follow me.”

        They leave the shower room, Dean practically hitting Cas’s heels with how closely he trails the other man. Enough that he could swing his arm and accidentally brush his hip. He won’t, though the possibility is tempting.

        It’s not a far enough walk for that.

        Cas turns the corner and leads Dean to the second door on the right. “I found this awhile back, early on in our stay here and carried it to this room one day when you were out.” He opens it for him, gesturing inside with a lackluster flourish. “Glad I did, don’t know how I would have managed without my angel strength.”

        Dean steps inside, searching. There is not much waiting for him. Smaller than most rooms, he can imagine it being a closet with ease. Spots the tiny holes where screws must have been. Hidden in the outlines of where shelves once were. “Didn’t know you were handy.”

        “I learn fast.”

        “I’ll say,” Dean says, “plumbing’s a bitch to do.” He smirks at the large, stainless steel faucet. There’s another outline underneath against the wall that marks where a sink used to be. Removed so the porcelain, clawfoot tub can rest. “You take baths?”

        “When I can,” Cas tells him, “I find it very healing. Even when I could mend broken bones and turn jagged cuts into flawless, smooth skin with my grace, I found myself drifting here every now and then, sitting for a soak.”

        Dean taps at the rim of the bathtub, pouting. “And you brought me here, thinking I want to…” He doesn’t finish, instead studying the other man. Watches how the innocent question rocks the boat of his good intentions. Cas pouts, folds his arms and scuffs his toe on the floor. Dean softens, “Thank you.”

        “…You’re welcome,” he shifts, turning his back, “Now, do you want to get in? I find that when you twist the handle on the right, the water is warmer.”

        He waits. Panic rises, thinking Cas might leave. Worse that he can’t find it in him to ask that he stay. But then Cas settles, staring at the closed door. Dean smiles and starts the faucet.

        When the bathtub is halfway full Dean climbs in. His knees poke from up out of the water, too tall to stretch his legs. He slides in further, so the water laps at his chin and more leg is on display. Already it fogs over, a filmy layer swirling on the surface. Dean cups some of the water and splashes it on his face, all too aware of much red drips. “I’m as decent as I can be,” he calls, splashing.

        Cas sighs. “How does it feel?”

        “S’nice,” he shrugs, “Not that I get to do this often but…” Dean sees Cas walk over, grabbing at a nearby bucket. “What are you doing?”

        “Helping,” Cas says, dropping the bucket. He kneels, presenting a washcloth and a soap bar he must have pulled from below.

        “Aw, no Cas,” Dean starts, sliding into a low crouch. Braced on the edges of the bathtub. “You don’t have to –“

        “Please, Dean,” Cas whispers. Two fingers rest over his knuckles, feather light and barely there. “Let me do this for you… after what you must have gone through…”

        Dean will not break his staring contest with his navel, sure that if he glanced in Cas’s direction another episode like the one in the shower room will happen. “Fine,” he mutters, plopping back into the tub and spraying Cas with a few errant drops. “If you want, go right ahead.” His arms encircle his knees, stricken expression hidden. Sitting in the center of the bathtub, Dean never felt so small.

        Cas carries on wordlessly. Runs the soap under the faucet before turning it off. It’s filled to about a few inches from the rim, any sudden movement able to cause a good spill. Which is why Cas talks him through the steps. Like a skittish animal, provoked at the tiniest snap of a twig or rustling leaves.

        Defenseless. Unaware. Fattening itself for the lucky prey that happens across it. His lips peel back for his teeth to appear, spit dripping from them. His fingers lead him forward, nails glinting when the moonlight breaks through the foliage and hits them. One clumsy step and what sounds like a gunshot echoes in his ears. It stops. Then it sprints off. So does he, a fraction of a second later. The chase begun. He huffs, he smiles, he growls. Hungry.

        Dean hisses when the cloth rubs over a badly healed wound, reopening it. “Sorry,” Cas says, dabbing the spot again and pouring some water from a cupped hand over the skin. “I didn’t see – I’m so sorry.”

        “It’s okay, Cas.” He offers a wobbly smile, shrugging. “It’s okay.”

        Cas grimaces, Dean staring on the thin, chapped line. Better than blue spotlights running across his face. Soon his lips smooth into something more neutral, and Cas resets.

        He focuses on how the washcloth feels, Cas lathering soap across him. Doesn’t fight when he grabs Dean’s arm and holds it up, running the fabric over and leaving soap bubbles in its track. There’s a jagged cut slashed across his knuckles from a misplaced lunge. Cas, prepared, gently dabs at it. His hold is firm and touch careful.

        Too careful. Too caring. The special treatment makes his skin crawl. Dean winces again as Cas drags the washcloth along his shoulder blades and onto his other arm. “Sensitive?” Cas asks, because he notices. Add too observant, too. “Days like these make me miss my powers.”

        Dean snorts, “So you could fly on out of here without any problems?” That escapes easier than he would like. He curses under breath, sneaking a peek at Cas. Like Dean expected, Cas’s expression makes his heart sink into his stomach. “Shit, sorry…”

        “I don’t need wings to ‘fly on out of here’,” he says, “if I wanted, I could get on a plane tomorrow.” Cas finishes lathering his arm and soaps his chest. Rubs the washcloth over and over his tattoo. Its ink vibrating erratically because of his words, the possibility, and Cas’s closeness “The operative term being wanted. What I want right now is… well, I want you to not feel any pain.”

        But he should. It’s all he should feel. Dean deserves the pain. For yesterday, what he almost did. For now, what he callously said to Cas. For years and years of causing so much hurt and enjoying it and taking pride in it. He should drown in all this pain. Instead he has an angel bathing him in kindness.

        He tries every day to be better than his darkest moment. When he and Cas stared across at each other, fully ruptured. Dean throwing more dynamite into the divide until the ground crumbled beneath their feet and the landscape of their relationship was unrecognizable. After Purgatory he made a promise. His pain should remain with him, not forced into the hands of others.

        Some days they wriggle, others they slip. Dean tries every day. If only every day, he succeeded.

        Cas washes his face, leaning half over the tub so there’s barely a breath of space between them. A simple turn and their noses brush together. He cannot do more than breath, sharp puffs out his mouth. Sometimes muffled when Cas wipes at the dried blood marking the skin around it.

        It’s too much.

        “I almost killed Sam.” Cas pauses, frozen at the corner of Dean’s lips. Some of the soap drips into his mouth, and he can taste it. “Yesterday, on the hunt I… I almost killed him.”

        His brain steams ahead, thinking how Cas might wish for the plane ticket now that he knows. Imagines him dropping the washcloth into his hands and leaving without a word. Again, wiping his hands of Dean’s garbage and climbing out the hole before any more shovels in to bury him.

        Instead Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, smiling. “Tell me what happened.”

        His walls crumble immediately. Dean savors the touch while he begins his story. Cas already knew the beginning – driving into a town beset by murders, where killers left heartless bodies for the police. Rolled in with the script memorized, asking all the right questions. Found the pack’s den and attacked. “We said we got all of them,” Dean sighs, ducking his head, “but that wasn’t the whole truth.”

        The leader escaped. They only realized it when counting the bodies, battle too confusing that losing track of one werewolf in a dozen was unavoidable. Risky in their line of work, but a quick perimeter search kicked up no trace of him. Dean and Sam closed the case, driving off to the motel and licking their wounds.

        “I was careless, or… or I don’t know, didn’t think much of it but…” Dean holds his arm up and looks at it. There’s no mark on the skin, but he traces the bite from memory. “Got me when I wasn’t looking. By the time I knew what was happening it was like I… like something had come over me. I heard howling and I tore off after it. Sam coming back to an empty motel room with a broken lock.”

        If he stays too long in his memories, he will lose himself in them again. Racing through the woods with newfound agility and grace. Jumping, launching himself over fallen trees and boulders. What it felt like ripping apart the first woodland creature he crossed paths with. The soapy taste in his mouth turns sour.

        “The leader was crazy… had this whole philosophy that I believed because he said it and all I could think was how much I trusted him. Thinking was too difficult while all fanged out and slobbering and – and so when he said to trust my ‘instincts’ I… I bared my neck. His instincts were my instincts. By that point Sammy snuck in, and – well protect is a pretty strong instinct.”

        Sam plead, rallying all his strength so Dean’s claws wouldn’t eviscerate him. Dean straddled his brother, raging. Spat on him while gnawing for his neck. The last werewolf cheering Dean on. “Free yourself of your human burdens and join me in total freedom!” he sang, “Eat of his heart and you will be mine forever!”

        “You don’t want this Dean,” Sam said, struggling. The syringe nearby looking damaged but not completely broken. “I know you. Fight him!”

        Dean growled, “Want… want free… want blood!”

        Sam sneered, tightening his grip on Dean’s wrists. He shifted and kicked Dean off. Dean flipped, landing on his back. They both scrambled upright, not wasting any time. With misguided fury Dean pounced for Sam, his brother twisting at the right second. Their fight continued in that fashion. Sam dodging Dean’s attacks, the latter growing more frustrated and sloppier.

        Exactly what Sam planned.

        Dean dove and smacked into a wall, knocking the breath from him. Stunned, Sam dove for his belt and slipped it over some exposed pipe. Not knowing any better, lost within the wolf, Dean struggled helplessly until brute strength won.

        By the time Dean ripped the pipe from the wall Sam killed his sire. Injected Dean with the cure when he scurried towards the corpse and mourned. When all traces of his bite left Dean’s system, he mourned again. Sam standing overhead, watching, unable to lay a hand on his shoulder lest Dean bite at it in his familiar defensiveness.

        “So Sam is fine?”

        He bristles at the placid tone. Unbothered. Like Dean mentioned some off-hand piece of gossip that he happened across while scrolling through his phone. “Yeah,” Dean says harshly, “but I… I almost did him in. Nearly ate his heart before skipping off with some werewolf Charles Manson to start another werewolf cult and...”

        Cas raises a brow. “And?”

        Processing the events aloud help him realize how wildly he overreacted. How Sam clearly held no anger towards him for being on the menu. How there’s no reason for the inky sadness clinging to his heart and soul that makes him feel bad.

        Except it’s there, and having no reason makes it even worse.

        “And…” he fumbles, “And I think I’m getting too old for this.” Dean huffs, sinking against the bathtub while Cas continues petting him. “I’ve been doing this for what? Nearly forty years? That was how it’s going to end… Because I let that werewolf creep bite me and nearly turn me into his slave? Kind of makes everything I said about free will look like I pulled it from my ass.”

        Cas chuckles, laying the washcloth on the porcelain rim. He pulls back, laying both arms along the edge and resting on it. Smirking, “No one will call you a hypocrite because you were under the influence of a werewolf bite.”

        “Yeah, but…” Dean sighs, “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

        “If I’ve learned anything from my time on Earth – from you – is that sometimes we have our off days,” Cas says, “We have to forgive ourselves for them.”

        “Maybe if I tripped and scratched Baby’s paint or-or took a risk on some leftovers I don’t remember, sure,” he scoffs, “but when it comes to hunts… an off day can easily become my last day. Hunters don’t get off days. Heroes don’t… don’t…” He digs his nails into his knee, willing away the waterfall hovering around the edges of his eyes.

        “Well, as true as that is, the fact you were able to see the sun rise means yesterday definitely wasn’t your last day.” The faint traces of humor in his tone barely lifts the corners of Dean’s mouth. Cas sighs. A few droplets splashing at Dean’s exposed leg, his hand now gently splashing the water. “I stand by what I said. Yes, you could’ve been more observant during your battle. And more conscious of your injuries. Then neither you nor Sam would still carry what should have been a simple hunt on your shoulders.” Mentioning it makes his shoulders sag further. “But then again, I could be beating myself for staying here watching Netflix while you and Sam got your hands dirty –“

        “You kidding, Cas?” Dean bursts in, brows furrowed, “The Hell should you feel bad for?”

        “A third set of eyes could’ve seen the werewolf escape – or stop him before he did… make sure you were checked over for serious injuries…” His fingers circle lazily, Cas’s mouth tugged down in a way that unsettles Dean’s stomach.

        Dean sits straighter, glaring at the other man. “You needed the rest, Cas. After that ghoul tore your back up something fierce in Missoula? Even if you knew you could do something, I’d still have kept you –“ The tirade cuts short, Cas’s prideful smirk stealing the words from him. He sinks into the water, so low that water hides his burning cheeks. Adjusts by fully removing his legs from the bathtub, bracing his feet on the wall. Faucet between them.

        Cas chuckles, rustling Dean’s hair. “See. Hindsight is only good for the future, to learn from our mistakes. Time is better spent in the present. Accepting that you did the best you could and… glad there are people who care about you, who will do anything to see you feel better.”

        Dean looks up at Cas, the overhead bulb shining. Mimicking the effect of a halo. He lifts his chin enough to free his mouth. “I don’t know how you can put up with my stubborn ass.” I don’t know why I deserve you.

        “I recall you calling my ass stubborn many times.” I don’t deserve you.

        They always end up circling the drain. Never quite going in, a piece of hair clogging the passage. Right now, with Cas petting Dean’s hair and gazing into his eyes, Dean exposed under him in more ways than one, it cannot get any more tender. It’s still not enough.

        At the top of the peak, you can only go off. They never jump.

        Dean knew his reasons. When it felt like they could, there was never enough time. Something more pressing to deal with, a battle to fight. Always promising that when the moment was right, Dean would do something. But then when those moments came Dean and Cas were never there for them. Kept apart by circumstance, by death, by each other. Compelling. Dramatic. Completely frustrating.

        But then Chuck vanished, he and Amara – light and darkness, creation and destruction – becoming one. Becoming entirely new. Blinked off into somewhere that Dean doesn’t care knowing about. As long as, on their way out, they cut the strings hanging over their heads.

        It seemed like it. Life went on, as normal. Monsters needed hunting and beer needed drinking. Except there wasn’t anything more.

        Hell stayed relatively calm with Rowena reorganizing it. Jack, seated on the throne of Heaven, brought a righteous humanity in his leadership. Even Billie took a holiday.

        When the dust settled, Dean was ready for Cas to be on his way, too. One was offered.

        “Are you sure?” Jack asked, eyes still aglow. Hand raised inches from Cas’s bloodied head. “I can give it all back to you. Give you more… you’d be the most powerful angel in my new Heaven. You can help me make it even better than it was.”

        “Thank you, but… I think it’s time you left the nest, Jack,” Cas smiled, stepping back from him. “Heaven is in capable hands because they’re yours… I… we trust that you can do this without us.”

        Jack nodded, light snuffed. He dove into Cas’s arms, then, hugging him. Then Sam, and finally Dean. “I’ll visit when I can,” he promised, trying not to cry.

        Dean coughed, swiping a finger under his eye. “Soon!” he barked, “I don’t want to see you when I’m eighty!” Their laughter was bittersweet. Fully bitter when Jack disappeared with a flap.

        Sam scuffed the ground, turning. “So,” he said, “what do we do now?” He scanned the area, Dean tracking the same space alongside him. At the scorched earth, barely recognizable from when they arrived. Green drained away and left lifeless, with a few serious scorch marks in certain areas. Like the one near a cracked mausoleum, where Chuck threw Cas. Where he held him by the neck and spit serious venom. Where he drained the little angel grace he had left and made him human again.

        Cas clears his throat, drawing their attention. “After a shower and a change of clothes,” he said, “I think some sort of celebration. At home.”

        Dean’s heart skipped over itself. “Home,” he repeated, “Yeah, I like that.”

        Cas chose and chose again, and his choice never wavered. It was Earth. It was humanity. It was him, and it was home.

        “Why are you staring at me like that?” Cas asks, frowning, “what are you thinking?”

        Dean rises somewhat. “I love you.” He would rather he weren’t naked, nor shaken from a hunt. And a forgotten supply closet with a dirty bathtub in it is hardly the number one place for a confession. But waiting for perfection screwed him over so many times.

        “Oh,” Cas relaxes against the bathtub, sinking his hand back into the water, “is that all?”

        Or maybe he should have kept waiting. Dean pouts, “I love you.”

        “I know. You’re repeating yourself.”

        “No, like…” he drags a wet hand over his face, “I love you. Like, I love you love you.”

        Cas chuckles, light and carefree. Lines around his eyes crinkling in delight. “I know, Dean. I know.”

        Dean gapes, chin slapping the surface of his bath. “You have?” Spurred into action by Cas’s growing laughter, Dean sinks his legs into the tub and sits up again. “For real?” The other man nods. “How long?”

        Cas shrugs, “Awhile.”

        “Why didn’t you say anything?”

        Joy retreats from Cas’s expression, leaving him somewhat guarded. He breaks with Dean’s stare. His hand glides through water and finds Dean’s leg. Strokes it. “I thought nothing needed to be said.”

        Dean raises a brow, clicking his tongue. “So you were happy with…”

        “I was content.”

        He frowns, courage leaping up inside his chest and banishing the lingering traces of sadness and self-pity clinging inside his chest. “Well, I wasn’t,” Dean says. Waits for Cas to look at him again. “Do you know how many times we sat together and I wanted to hold your hand, but didn’t? Roll over on my bed and wake up next to you only to remember that you were down the hall? Sit in a diner and-and when the waitress came by I could say, ‘I’ll have this and my boyfriend will have that’ but was only able to order for myself? I won’t even mention the amount of times I wanted to kiss you because at this point I’ve lost count…”

        Cas squeezes Dean’s thigh, lips stretched wide in a tight grin. “You want all of that?”

        “And more. A hell of a lot more.”

        “Then… late is better than never, I suppose.”

        Dean blinks, “What?”

        He resumes stroking his leg, smiling so openly all his teeth are on display. “I’m saying,” he continues, “that if you want to do all that, I find myself being… amenable. We can even start now.”

        “Are you sure?” Dean asks, too experienced with his luck that he knows he needs more. “Is this what you want? You said you were –“

        “Content,” he says, “But not happy. Doing all of what you described – and more – will make me very happy.”

        Dean smiles, “Really?”

        “Ecstatic.” It’s so deadpan, so blasé, and completely incongruent with the mood of the room that Dean cannot stop the snort escaping from his lips. Followed by hiccupped giggles and, finally, laughter that echoes in the tiny space. Joined by Cas, their voices swell to fill the room. Until Dean snatches Cas’s collar with his wet fist and drags him in for a kiss. Closes his eyes and savors the taste of the other man, taking note of every sensation he guessed right and scribbling over what he got wrong with the parts he never could have imagined.

        In the midst of their makeout session, when Cas presses their foreheads together and laughs about not needing a shower after all. Because Dean hauled him into the bathtub with him despite protests, water leaking onto the floor. When he can, without guilt, lose himself in Cas’s eyes, Dean remembers the werewolf from yesterday. Remembers what he thought freedom meant, and how the monster hadn’t the first clue what it actually was.

        Freedom is not power. Freedom is being yourself. Freedom is the ability to show others the deepest parts of yourself and have them stay and love you for it. Freedom is acceptance.

        Freedom is the way Cas’s fingers scratch at the nape of his neck. Freedom is Cas pressing lazy kisses against his cheek. Freedom is the way their feet knock into each other on the edge of the porcelain bathtub.

        Dean, for the first time in his life, feels free.

Epilogue:

        Midnight is a terrible hour to crave bacon. Time cannot stop Dean’s watering mouth or his growling stomach. He disentangled himself from Cas and blindly pieced together an outfit that, in the hallway’s clinical lighting, included his cowboy pajama bottoms, Cas’s dried shirt, and his robe. Dean shrugs and carries on his way towards the kitchen, hoping for a quick trip.

        Seeing Sam hunched over at the table crushes that idea. He perks up at Dean’s entrance, faltering. Rises for a second before thinking better, instead fiddling with his coffee mug. “Dean.”

        “…Sam.” Unsure, Dean’s own hands run rampant. Closes the robe and hides Cas’s shirt, tying a neat, little bow and securing it tighter. Then he unravels it and lets the robe swing open like curtains. “What’re you doing up?”

        He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep anymore. You?”

        “Hungry.” Dean winces, the image of Sam struggling underneath him flashing into view. It fades almost as instantly as it arrived, replaced with a more annoyed looking brother. Mouth pulled taut like a bowstring, aimed and ready. Dean glances at the mug for safety. “You make enough for the class?”

        “Check the pot.”

        Shuffling over he sees more than enough coffee inside for him. So, he pulls out two mugs and prepares them. Three teaspoons of sugar in one, four tablespoons in the other. A dash of milk on the left, because Cas thinks it muddies the taste of the coffee. “Thanks.”

        “Dean…”

        His tone draws a quiet sigh from Dean. Settles the hunger that dominated his stomach and replaces it with a slight nausea. “Sam,” he says, “can you not…”

        “We need to talk about it,” Sam continues, “Please, Dean, I –“

        “We will.”

        Sam pauses, stunned. Dean turns around and tamps down the laugh bubbling up. Hard given how rare Sam’s jaw drops so far. In the blink of an eye Sam shakes his surprise off. “What?”

        “We will,” Dean repeats, leaning on the counter, “I promise. I just… I’m not ready, yet.”

        It’s not the best answer. Sam doubts him, evident by the gleam in his eye. And the follow up, “Are you ever gonna be ready?”

        His eyes never strayed from Dean’s face. If he dropped his gaze a few inches Sam would see Cas’s shirt. But he didn’t. Dean can rewrap the robe and pretend it’s not on him.

        Except Dean hadn’t the urge. Instead he draws attention to it, rubbing the hem between his fingers. “Hopefully soon… Cas and I had a good talk and – and well, maybe in the morning I might be okay enough that we can sit and talk about it, or whatever…”

        Sam finally looks at his shirt. Then at Dean with a subtle awe. He braces for an onslaught of feelings, exactly what Dean tried avoiding. Why he thought using Cas as a distraction from talking about those was a moment of delirium. Dean sips at his mug, hiding ruddy cheeks behind the rim.

        Thankfully Sam says nothing. Instead mirroring his sip. “Okay.”

        “Okay?”

        “Okay.”

        Dean nods, drumming his fingers on the counter. There’s kindness in how Sam offers the escape tunnel, even though so much is brewing under the surface. A rarity that Dean never expected. He should take it.

        But there’s more. Dean figures ripping the band-aid off all at once is better than peeling it and feeling every single hair torn from his arm.

        “I think I’m gonna stop hunting,” he says. Sam spits a mouthful of coffee into his mug, choking. “For a while,” Dean quickly explains, “Like, maybe a few months?”

        Coughing, Sam wipes at his lips. “Is this because of the werewolf hunt?”

        “Yes?” Dean says, “No – I mean… Look, it’s not because I’m too scared to get back into the game because of what happened but I am kind of… skittish?” He frowns, staring at the light brown pool in his hands. “Like I’m running on empty and… and I don’t think I have enough in the tank. That’s what happened yesterday, but thank God there was a little more in yours to get me to the next rest stop! Who knows what might happen on the next one so I… I’m making the adult decision and taking myself out of the game before the big loss.” Dean gulps at his coffee, throat suddenly dry. “But not forever,” he adds, “Long enough to sort things out… do the stuff we said we were gonna do when the Chuck mess ended. Maybe go on a road trip or, ah… give Cas a proper first date –“

        “First date?” Sam croaks, a tiny snort escaping, “Think you two’ve past that by a few years. Third honeymoon, maybe.”

        Dean rolls his eyes. “Yuck it up… but I’m not the only one who can use this opportunity to focus on important things… things that you’ve been neglecting… when’s the last time you and Eileen had any quality time together?” Sam answers with a blush. “Thought so… at least I’ve had two honeymoons, or so you think.”

        “Shut up,” Sam huffs, drinking his coffee again. His gaze drifts from Dean over to the door, and the fluster drains off his face. Replaced with a more gleeful expression, lips curling. “Hey Cas,” he sings, “how’s it going?”

        Dean accepts all the awkward energy Sam shed. His grip on the coffee mug falters when he sees Cas. Dressed in a stolen pair of sweatpants and nothing else. “Sam, Dean,” he yawns, shuffling closer. Cas squints at the untouched mug on the counter, “Is this for me?”

        “Yeah,” Dean says, handing it over, “just the way you like.” Cas purrs, kissing Dean’s cheek before sipping. Sam's chuckles accompany his approval. “It wasn’t too much of a problem…”

        ��So, Cas,” Sam starts, “what got you out of bed?”

        Cas scratches his head and presses against Dean. Slides an arm around Dean’s waist. “Pee,” he says, “and then I noticed Dean wasn’t there so…” If Cas didn’t drive the point home clear enough Dean would worry after his brother’s intelligence. He feels Cas’s chin rest on his shoulder. “Why did you get up?”

        Dean gestures at the stove. “Hungry.”

        “Hmm… I can eat.” Cas taps on Dean’s stomach, pushing off. He moves and joins Sam at the table. “Whatever you were going to make yourself, make double?”

        “Triple?” Sam adds, “All this talk of food is making me hungry.”

        “Yeah, yeah…” Dean flicks the stove on, dropping the pan on the active burner. His hunger returned, aided by the easy conversation flowing between the three. Cas settles across from Sam asking a question about something he read. The conversation quickly devolves into nerd speak, Dean throwing quips in every few seconds.

        He lays a strip of bacon down, and then another one. And another one. Greases a second pan and cracks an egg on the surface, tossing one half of the shell at Sam and the next half at Cas. They retaliate by pelting him when he retreats to the refrigerator for more bacon. Dean doesn’t care that they hit, nor that he steps on one and has to spend time between the eggs frying and the bacon cooking to pick pieces of eggshell off his heel. What he cares about sits giggling at the table, watching while he cleans.

        Dean is happy.

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

Skulduggery prompt for m!hawke/athenril ✨

m!Hawke/Athenril, “Never Have I Ever” (AO3)

“Bullshit,” Varric said, shaking his head as he sat opposite Hudson in the Hanged Man.

“Alright,” Hawke retorted, taking a swig of his ale before demanding, “What’s the most unbelievable thing about that?”

Varric cleared his throat, then said, “Where do I even begin? Breaking into the Viscount’s vault—”

“You don’t think I could do that?”, Hawke asked.

“Not for that purpose!”, Varric objected, “That purpose being, apparently to engage in sexual congress atop a bed of gold coins with your employer!”

“I still don’t see any actual arguments against the notion,” Hudson said, knitting his fingers as he stretched behind his head.

“Have you seen the inside of a bank vault before, Hawke?”, Varric asked pointedly. “Not the storeroom of a lesser noble or a simple warehouse, a legitimate one with thousands of sovereigns of other people’s money in it?”

Hawke dropped his arms then crossed them in front of his broad chest, asking, “What does it matter if I have or haven’t?”

“If you had,” Varric explained, “you’d know that nobody just leaves coins lying all over the place like a dragon’s hoard. How would they move it around? How would they check whether everything’s there when they open up shop?”

“All right, you’ve made your point—”

“On top of that, do you know just how uncomfortable that would be? Or dirty? Gold coins pass through a lot of people’s hands, Hawke.”

Hawke groaned, conceding, “All right, I get it! Maker’s hairy balls, I just wanted something more exciting than ‘In the middle of the Chantry, late at night’ when you asked.”

“Well, that’s completely understandable,” Varric said, taking a drink. “Everyone and their sister’s done that.”

Hawke’s eyebrow twitched. “Everyone?”

“Right behind the statue of Andraste,” Varric said. “Cute little chantry sister had to take ill the next day because she had a limp.”

Hawke paused, before saying, “I have no idea if you’re pulling my leg right now.”

“And that’s what makes me a good storyteller and-slash-or renown writer,” Varric said. “Don’t sweat it, Hawke. I also wanted the whole sex-on-a-bed-of-gold-coins thing in one of my serials before my editor slapped it down.”

“Right,” Hawke said, already drifting, “I guess it couldn’t have happened.”

“Not one bit,” Varric concluded.

-

“Well, Messere Hawke, that does sound ridiculous,” Elegant said, dealing out cards a few nights later in the Blooming Rose, having successfully sneaked out of her husband’s manor for a brief reunion.

Tomwise, having emerged from Darktown in a fresh set of clothes, scooped his hand up, trying not to let his disappointment in his cards show, before agreeing, “It does sound like the sort of thing you’d make up on the spot.”

“Are you saying that I’m a bad liar?”, Hawke asked innocently.

“Well,” Elegant said, sorting through her own hand, “I’ve never seen someone with a more obvious tell. Right now, I reckon you’ve got…at least two knights.”

“I…you…that could just mean you stacked the deck!”, Hawke protested, staring at his cards.

Tomwise gave him a withering look. “I don’t think she actually knew before you admitted it, Hawke.”

Hawke groaned, turning his cards face-down.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell her the actual most daring place the boss has had you,” Tomwise said, winning the hand with three angels.

“Oh, he’d never believe it,” Hawke said, “And also, I really don’t need the Knight-Commander knowing about this if she’s going to start breathing down my sister’s neck.”

=

About a year earlier, late at night

Knight-Commander’s Office, The Gallows

“Hang on a moment here,” Hawke whispered, casting his gaze on some papers on the table.

Athenril stopped in his doorway. “What is it?”

“It’s the records of all the sales from the stalls in the courtyard, including the profits which our would-be apostates have been skimming off to pay us for their freedom,” he said.

“Take them,” she said. “It’ll be good to know what people come here to buy, so we can sell it to them for half the price and undercut their licensees.”

He shoved some of them into his pockets, then stared at the remainder on the table.

“What is it now?”, the elf hissed.

“There’s no point to holding on to these ones,” Hawke explained. “They’re just ledgers of total amounts going back and forth.”

“Then leave them, or destroy them, Hawke,” she said impatiently. “We don’t have time for this, Hawke.”

“I believe the Knight-Commander is going to be quite detained by her meeting with the Grand Cleric, and I think I know the best way of making them quite unusable,” Hawke said, tearing the loose sheets into quarters and laying out on the Knight-Commander’s chair.

Athenril’s eyes narrowed as she said, “I don’t think so, Hawke. The key—”

Hawke tossed it out the window into the prison courtyard, watching as the thread he’d attached to its loop unspooled and followed it down until the key struck the ground with a soft ‘clink’, the thread’s other end firmly tied around the window grilles so he could retrieve it afterwards.

“I believe our man downstairs can handle that. Now then, don’t tell me you’ve never fantasised about being the most powerful woman in the city, sitting in this very office,” at this, he empathically slapped the back of the Knight-Commander’s chair, “with the viscount’s head shoved between your…”

Interrupting him, she said, “If you think describing Messere Dumar’s alleged sexual prowess is supposed to turn me on, you can stop right now, Hawke. Still, I suppose the two of you look similar from that angle.”

Hawke defensively rubbed his hand along his buzzcut, complaining, “Now there, I cut it short, whilst his hairline lost a long, pained, struggle against the ravages of t—”

Athenril, who had already stripped her trousers off to her smalls, sharply said, “Hawke, shut the fuck up and get down in front of the damned chair. You’d better hope I don’t get any cuts on my ass—or worse—from those receipts or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hawke said, cocking his head.

=

Some years later

“That’s absolute bullshit,” Varric said.

“Oh, and what’s so unbelievable about that?”, Hawke asked, taking another drink in The Herald’s Rest. “Getting paper cuts on the bum? My inability to break into the Gallows when you know it was leakier than a broken sieve? Athenril just dropping everything there and then?”

“Well, I—”, Varric protested.

“Or the fact that I, with the steeliest, calmest, expression in the world, broke up Meredith and Orsino’s argument after the qunari business and ended it with saying that ‘it can’t be easy, sitting in that chair and knowing that while you’re the most powerful woman in Kirkwall you can’t help but feel stuck in everyone else’s affairs’?”

Varric’s eyes practically widened to the size of cheese wheels.

“I have many, many questions,” the dwarf finally asked after regaining his composure, “but first of all, when exactly did you learn to lie convincingly??”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said. “Must be your corrupting influence.”

“Me corrupting you, nothing! You’re the one that ate out the Coterie’s biggest rival right on the Knight-Commander’s seat!”

“More comfortable than a bed of gold, I’ll tell you that,” Hawke said, raising his tankard. “To quote myself that night, bottoms up.”

He finished his drink as he successfully drove Varric into a spluttering fit, finally having had the last word for once.

@dadrunkwriting

[ladyherenya]

Books read in July

With one or two exceptions, these were books were sources of FEELINGS.

Favourite cover: The Enigma Game, nut most of these covers are a good fit for the stories they represent.

Reread: “The Marriage of Mary Russell” by Laurie R. King, “Something Worth Doing” by Elizabeth and I also listened to quite a bit of Code Name Verity (by the same).

Also read: “Monster” by Naomi Kritzer.

Still reading:  A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking by T. Kingfisher.

Next up: Stars Above by Marissa Meyer.

(Longer reviews on LibraryThing and Dreamwidth.)

*

Descendant of the Crane by Joan He (narrated by Nancy Wu): Princess Hesina of Yan, believing her father to be murdered, opens an investigation into his death. She’s driven by her aching grief and by her fierce desire for truth and justice -- for all her people, as well as in this matter of her father’s death. But the truth is much harder than she expects. I thought this was incredible, but sometimes stressful! Compelling characters, complex family dynamics (I especially liked the sibling relationships), intricate prose and worldbuilding, and startling twists that turned out to slot neatly in with the other puzzle pieces.

Riviera Gold by Laurie R. King: This takes place in July 1925, immediately after Island of the Mad. Mary Russell leaves Venice for Monaco, hoping to see her former housekeeper -- and discovers that Mrs Hudson has been accused of murder. As always, I love Russell's first person narration and her observations of the world around her. The historical scenery is particularly vivid: cliffs and ocean views, the Monte Carlo casino, expats with questionable pasts and connections, smugglers, Jazz Age artists, bronze casting. Moreover, it’s all relevant to the mystery Russell is unravelling. I also liked the indications that Russell and Holmes’ unconventional marriage works for them.

Fireweed by Jill Paton Walsh: A short bittersweet novel from 1969  about two runaway evacuees living on the streets of London during the Blitz. It’s very vivid, particularly the details about wartime London -- but there’s also a thread of ambiguity, because the narrator is looking back on a time he doesn’t fully remember and didn’t always understand. In the end, that becomes a bit unsatisfying, yet I like how the story allows one to fill in some of the gaps for oneself. I wish I had discovered this at thirteen -- I’d have appreciated it even more and been fascinated by the experience of fending for oneself.

Aurora Burning by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff: After everything that happened in Aurora Rising, Squad 312 have been labelled traitors but they are not going to let that stop them from saving the world. This is fast-paced, with some excellent twists and frustrating developments. Sometimes the action was engaging; other times my eyes glazed over. Sometimes the multiple POV was a strength; other times I felt it hindered me from becoming really attached to anyone. Sometimes I was amused by the characters, and other times the qualities which make them amusing became irritating. I think the things I liked outweighed the things I didn’t care for?

The A.I. Who Loved Me by Alyssa Cole: Trinity is working from home after a traumatic accident when she meets her neighbour’s strange nephew, Li Wei. This science-fiction romance has mystery, humour and moments of very pointed commentary. I enjoyed Li Wei working out how to act like a human again, and the interactions with Penny, the Home AI assistant. There is more going on here than either Trinity or Li Wei initially realises, which is great --- but that reveal indicates that some important, interesting parts of this story have been glossed over. I might have liked this more if the flashbacks had been expanded.

“Monster” by Naomi Kritzer (from Clarkesworld Magazine, issue 160): This alternates between Cecily’s time in China, looking for an old school friend, and the history of that particular friendship. I don’t regret reading (well, listening to) this, but I don’t know if I liked it. It is tense and uneasy, and left me wishing I had someone with whom I could discuss interpretations of the ending’s implications.

Gravity is the Thing by Jaclyn Moriarty (narrated by Aimee Horne): This grew on me. In the end, I loved it. For twenty years, Abigail’s been sent chapters of a mysterious self-help book. The story alternates between the present, as Abigail learns more about The Guidebook, and her reflections about her past -- particularly her brother, her marriage, being a single mother. At times this story is uncomfortable but the way everything is drawn together -- and seeing Abigail make sense of her life -- was unexpectedly satisfying. Compelling. I also liked the Australian setting, the Aussie audiobook narrator, some of the whimsical parts and how Maybe The Real Treasure Was the Friends We Made Along the Way.

The Enigma Game by Elizabeth Wein: Like The Pearl Thief, this is a prequel/companion novel to Code Name Verity. In late 1940, nineteen year old Jamie is an RAF pilot in northern Scotland. His friend Ellen, a driver for the aerodrome, is staying at the same pub as Louisa (newly-orphaned, half-Jamaican), who is caring for an elderly German woman. Together they discover a way to keep Jamie’s squadron ahead of the Germans. I loved this. A powerful exploration of identity, secrets and the problems of prejudice. I was delighted (and also devastated) by how this story fits in with Code Name Verity. The bits about flying are lovely.

Hamster Princess: Giant Trouble by Ursula Vernon (aka T. Kingfisher): After Ratpunzel, Harriet’s next adventure involves magic beans, a giant bunny and a hamster who wants to form a band. There is something very soothing about making tea. You have to concentrate on the whole process, and then you have tea. Even someone as decisive as Harriet had to make tea sometimes and think things through.

Kind of Cursed by Stephanie Fournet: Millie has been dealing with a lot -- losing her parents, gaining guardianship of her younger siblings, a miscarriage and a relationship break-up. She’s decided to avoid men for the next decade. But it’s hard to avoid Luc, who is overseeing the renovation of Millie’s kitchen. Watching Millie find the support, comfort and happiness she so desperately needs gave me warm fuzzy feelings. This has the right I-need-a-hug-vibe, the right ratio of emotional hurt/comfort, for me. In another story, I might have had issues with how quickly the romance becomes a serious relationship, but the characters’ choices made sense in context.

Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet: This romance between a depressed literature professor and a graduate student with a terminally-ill father was an interesting experience because I was aware of its weaknesses and yet it was such a compelling dose of FEELINGS that I really enjoyed reading it. I also have something of a soft spot for stories about universities -- and perhaps was feeling tolerant, knowing it was the author’s first novel. (Weaknesses included: the prose style is serviceable but bland, an odd fit for protagonists with backgrounds in literature/poetry; their serious issues deserved more focus; and some of Malcolm’s reactions have uncomfortable overtones of entitlement.)

You First by Stephanie Fournet: More compelling feelings, which kept me reading, but in hindsight, didn’t completely sell me on the age-gap or the short time-frame. If only it hadn’t largely skipped over showing the characters navigating an interesting challenge introduced in the final act in favour of an epilogue which picks up some time later! Seriously, if you’re going to throw in that particular complication, then I at least want to watch them deal with it. I’m not grumbling too much. I cared enough about seeing the characters’ situations improve, which counts for something. And what did I expect, reading three romance novels in a row?

Like No Other by Una LaMarche: Two teenagers meet in a New York hospital elevator during a blackout. Devorah is a Hasidic Jew, Jaxon is black. Devorah is not allowed to socialise with boys outside of her family, let alone anyone outside her community, but she and Jaxon keep finding ways to see each other. This was fascinating, but also frustrating -- I was frustrated with Devorah’s culture for making her feel like she would be disowned if she put a foot wrong, and also frustrated, perhaps unfairly, with Jaxon for not fully appreciating the risks Devorah faces. However I liked the ending a lot.

[anchored-in-high-tide]

MILK

Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock/Johnlock Rating: GA Words: 2k Tags: Post Mary’s Death, Pining Idiots, First Kiss, Parentlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grocery Shopping

Summary: It's been two months since Mary's death but John doesn't blame Sherlock. They live together again but still struggle with their past, caring for baby Rosie, and their feelings for each other. A trip to the supermarket might change everything.

John sighed. “Damn, I forgot the milk.” His shoulders slumped in defeat as he spoke. He loaded the bananas on the belt a little more forcefully than necessary and pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes shut against the cold neon light. It was already dark out. They should be home by now, lounging in their chairs or on the sofa, watching something trivial on the telly. But between a particularly gruesome triple murder and flu season at the clinic, neither of them had had time to go out for groceries. With Mrs. Hudson gone to her sister’s, their emergency food supplier had forsaken them as well, leaving their fridge and pantries shamefully empty. They had had no choice. In her baby carrier, Rosie gave another sharp wailing sound that drowned out the soft 80s music droning from the speakers. The little girl had begun to fuss and cry as soon as they had entered the supermarket, raising either annoyed or pitying looks from other customers. John had hardily ignored them while he put toast, produce, and diapers into their cart and bounced his agitated daughter. Sherlock shot John a quick glance, eyes taking in the deep bags under John’s and the way his skin seemed to gradually lose its usual golden colour. He could all but taste the exhaustion oozing out of every pore, seeping through John’s shirt and coat, tainting the air with sleep-deprived resignation, so tangible it might actually be contagious. “I’ll go get it,” Sherlock said before John could ask. He weaved past the other people in the queue behind them. “I’ll be fast.” “Thank you,” John called after him as Sherlock disappeared into the next aisle, his long legs bridging the distance to the dairy section much quicker than John could’ve managed with Rosie strapped to his chest.

As he reached down and grabbed one of the cartons, a sad smile fought its way up to his lips. Buying milk. This used to be such an innocent annoyance when they had first moved in together, a cause for infinite bickering and countless jokes. But that was before everything had changed. Before Sherlock had gone and come back. Before John had gotten married and Sherlock had been shot. Before Mary had jumped in front of him, had spared Sherlock a second bullet and given her life in return. Before her loss had rippled through the already stained fabric of John’s existence and torn it to shreds. And yet, hanging on barely more than threads, John carried on, ever the brave soldier. Every day, every night, he marched onward with bleeding feet and steely stubbornness, Sherlock always by his side to catch him as soon as his legs would ultimately give in. It had been two months and not a single accusation had left John’s lips. In fact, he had barely spoken at all. Uttering not one word too much, he had organized the funeral, taken time off at the clinic to arrange everything for Rosie, packed up all their belongings and moved back to Baker Street. Somehow, he had brought this impenetrable silence with him. Maybe it was the boxes containing what was left of Mary. They still stood in John’s old bedroom, a brooding monument of their marriage, filling 221B with her presence. Sherlock knew—or at least strongly suspected—how unhappy John had been in the few months he had been married, not only because his wife had turned out to be an ex-assassin and shot his best friend. In John’s eyes, carefully covered with layers upon layers of self-preservation, swam something else, something like regret and longing and shame. Sherlock could catch a glimpse of it some nights, when John had numbed his sorrows with one too many glasses of whiskey. This look, this strange look he gave him, had grown so familiar over the years, its intensity waxing and waning. Lately, it had become so powerful that Sherlock was sure it would break through the surface at any moment. Or maybe he was just wishing for it, actively looking for the mirrored image of his own distraught face in those dark-blue eyes. They hadn’t talked about it, of course. And now that Mary was dead the conversation seemed, paradoxically, even more out of the question. Her death had sealed their fate and their lips alike, presumably forever. Some things simply had to stay unspoken, unseen, unfulfilled. Sherlock didn’t care though. John was back at his side again—a worn-out, almost pellucid version of him, but John nonetheless. This time, Sherlock decided, he would do everything right. He would be as supportive and kind and accommodating as he could muster, for John, and for his goddaughter. If this resemblance of togetherness was all that could ever be between them, he would take it. Even if it meant accompanying John on such tedious tasks as grocery shopping. The milk slowly bedewing with little drops of perspiration, Sherlock hurried back to the check-out, finding that the cashier had already begun to scan their items. He shimmied past the other waiting customers and slammed down the milk just as the clerk picked up the last item, the box of formula for Rosie. Her eyes coolly eyed the packaging before wandering over to John who still tried to calm down the baby while packing up the groceries. She pursed her lips into a tight smile. Her voice thinly masking her condescension, she said: “Someone’s a little fussy, I see, being out this late. You know that breastfeeding is actually much better for your child, don’t you? For their immune system and—” “What did you just say?” Sherlock interrupted her, stepping closer and fixating her with an adamantine stare. John startled and halted in his movements, only his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the victim of his anger. “Excuse me?” the cashier asked, her disapproval still written all over her face. Sherlock examined her closely; the way her cheaply coloured hair framed her turgid, starkly rouged cheeks; the company-issued t-shirt that clung to her sinewy body; the nicotine-stained fingernails. His voice dropped to menacing depths as he cocked his head and said: „Did you seriously just try to shame him for buying formula for his child?” The woman didn’t avert her gaze but swallowed heavily. “I just—” “Do you have any idea what this man has been through? His wife died only weeks after giving birth to their daughter and here you are, you sorry excuse for a human, and try to lighten the weight of your own meaningless existence by belittling a grieving father!?” His voice was barely more than a deadly whisper but the cashier stared at him as if he had shouted. The look on her face—shock, confusion, defiance—made Sherlock’s synapses sizzle like high-voltage lines, sending white-hot sparks to his eyes and overriding his self-control mechanisms. How did this horrible woman dare to even look at his John with anything other than utter admiration? The anger that bubbled up in him like boiling sulphur kept spilling out. “Oh, it’s so much easier, sitting in your chair and judging other people, without having to give their problems a second thought, you insensible woman. Just so you know: This man is a war hero, a doctor, and now a widower and single father. He’s the most hard-working, loyal, and intelligent man you’ll ever meet, but you wouldn’t recognize intelligence when it hit you in the face, now, would you? What have you ever accomplished in your life, apart from becoming a bitter, arrogant underachiever who can’t even work her way up the ranks by shagging the manager? What on earth gives you the right to spill your unqualified, self-absorbed opinions on decent men like him? You’re not even worth the dirt under his shoes so, for fuck’s sake, just shut up.” The woman’s mouth stood agape, giving her the look of a carp in an existential crisis. Sherlock felt a grim sense of satisfaction rush through him and took a deep breath, readying himself to fire another round of words sharp enough to sever limbs. A warm hand on his forearm stopped him. “That’s enough, Sherlock,” John said, his voice calm but stale. He lifted their shopping bags off the counter and made for the door without so much as looking at the cashier or any of the other customers. For a second, Sherlock stood there completely motionless, his eyes following John out of the store. The sight of his back, upright and sturdy as always, extinguished Sherlock’s anger as if John had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, leaving nothing but wet, charred doubt. Hastily, Sherlock grabbed the milk, threw a few pound notes on the counter, and hurried after John without waiting for his change. Outside, the chilly wind blew away the last wads of smoke still erupting from his curls. It already smelled of spring. John was waiting for him, only a few steps away. The store’s harsh lighting illuminated his figure but his face remained hidden in the shadows as he bowed his head down to Rosie’s and cooed sweet words that finally seemed to calm her down. Cautiously, Sherlock stepped closer. The milk carton in his hand weighed five stone at least. “Why did you say that?” John asked in a tone Sherlock couldn’t quite place—confused but soft and… hopeful. Taken by surprise, Sherlock took a moment to answer. “It just… made me so angry that she assumed you weren’t doing what’s best for Rosie. She shouldn’t—no one should be allowed to talk to you like this. Not on my watch.” Maybe it was just the neon light playing tricks on his eyesight, but Sherlock was certain that John had smiled for just a second, even though his expression was more serious than he had ever seen when he finally looked up. “No, I mean, the things about me.” “About you?” Sherlock knitted his brows. How he hated stating the obvious. “Because it’s true. You are the best person I know, by far.” John moved closer, this unidentifiable thing floating in his eyes again, right beneath the surface. “So, you meant it?” “Of course, I meant it. Every word,” Sherlock rasped out. Why was his heart pounding so fast? When John gave him a doubtful smile, he added: “John, you are amazing, how do you not know that? You’re an amazing doctor and a great father. You’re irreplaceable as an assistant and a friend. You’re talented and smart and funny and understanding and basically every good thing I could never manage to be. I never dreamed that someone like you would even consider putting up with someone like me. And yet, after all we’ve been through, you are still here and you are still as amazing as ever.” With these words, Sherlock saw it finally break free, rupturing the invisible barriers between them and pouring from John’s eyes, iridescent and beautiful. Before he could as much as take a breath, John had let go of the bags, grabbed Sherlock’s face instead and pressed his lips to his in a desperate kiss. The world cracked at its hinges, tumbled over and spun around with twice its usual pace. Dizzying bliss flooded Sherlock’s system at this touch he had least expected and most longed for. His mind shut off, saturated by unadulterated happiness. He barely gained enough consciousness back to reciprocate the movement of John’s warm mouth against his and fling his arms around the man he had loved for longer than he dared to admit. When they finally broke the kiss, both gasping for air, Sherlock felt something wet creeping through his shoes and into his socks. He looked down to find a white puddle slowly spreading on the pavement. “I—I dropped the milk.” John gave him a smile so bright that it seemed to wash off all the hardship of the past months. “Forget about the milk.”

@itsalwaysyou-jw @benzedrine-calmstheitch @sarahthecoat @micahmatters @lsop712 @drunk-rambles @barbsiebabe @alexangelscuddles

[wardoftheedgeloaves]

How many consonants did Proto-Algonquian really have, anyways?

Blackfoot undergoes a fairly large number of mergers compared to Proto-Algonquian: PA *t, *s, *r, *θ, *č and *š are all reflected as (mutatis mutandis, multaque mutanda mutantur) Blackfoot /t/.

It’s also been known since Ives Goddard’s 2015 AC paper that Blackfoot is to Core Algonquian what Anatolian is to IE, a branch of the family separate from the rest of it put together.

(strictly speaking a better analogy, given the distant California relatives, might be Blackfoot as Persian or a latter-day variety of Oscan and Core Algonquian as Indic or Romance, with Wiyot and Yurok represented by Swedish and Tocharian or something like that--but we’re not considering Wiyot and Yurok here).

This raises a question: how do we know that a Blackfoot merger isn’t actually a Core Algonquian split? We can be pretty certain that we already have an example of this: PA *č only appeared before *i *i: *y, where *t did not appear, except for the onomatopoeic *ti:nti:wa ‘blue jay’ and *čapo:nk- ‘to splash’--despite the loss of preconsonantal nasals in the Algonquian varieties north and east of the Hudson, the latter does not (I believe) implicate the place-name Chapaquiddick in ill-fated prophecy.

But I digress! A while back I made a spreadsheet of all the roots (well, all the initials) in Hewson’s Algonquian Dictionary, and *θ and *r, in particular, show difficult patterning. Those of you reasonably well acquainted with comparative Algonquian may recall that *r and *θ fall together in most of the family, except for Cree and Arapaho.

These two are also, well, difficult. *θ is reconstructible in only seven initials out of over 600--remember, this is a language with only twelve reconstructible consonants once you count out *č--and at least a few of these don’t look to be what they seem:

- *θeʔθaw- ‘forked’ and *θeʔθēmāw- ‘tobacco’ have Cree reflexes beginning in *čist-, as if they were *tiʔθ-. That’s an illegal reconstruction, though--PA *e and *i are in complementary distribution in initial syllables, with the latter appearing when there’s no initial consonant and the former when there is--e.g. *iθkwēwa ‘woman’ vs. *penkwi ‘dust’. Worse, while Menominee has the expected nɛʔnemāw for ‘tobacco’, the Ojibwe and Meskwaki reflexes suggest *aʔθēmāw-, and their reflexes of ‘forked’ suggest *θaʔθaw-. To cap it all off, in Passamaquoddy you get ‘tomawey, wihich I believe suggests earlier *əCtēmāw-; Massachusett (going by the 1903 dictionary of Natick) has <wuttamâuog>, which looks like /wətamɔ:wak/, so as if a plurale tantum from *otamēwaki or thereabouts. In other words, both of these reconstructions show widespread wonkiness with the first syllable; moreover, the *θe- versions look like reduplicants (an irregular but common process).

- *θām- ‘under’ has reflexes, but also has a much more common allomorph *aθām-. 

- *θēkw- ‘choke, shove in’ has no Cree cognates that I can find, and searching for the expected reflex tēk-/tēkw- produces no semantically close results on creedictionary.com (which collates several major dictionaries). It is possible that takwahiminān ‘chokecherry’ is related, if it was originally formed along the same semantic lines as the English name and irregular ablaut was involved. But the languages for which I can find a reflex of “chokecherry” (Arapaho, Ojibwe) don’t seem to be cognate--Arapaho uses a reflex of mi:ni ‘berry’, and Ojibwe has the clearly unrelated assassēwamin. I can’t find Passamaquoddy, Menominee, Meskwaki or Delaware reflexes.

Arapaho does have θeiʔiku:θe:- ‘put something inside something else’. Is it from *θēkw-? We would usually expect a long -ee- here, and Arapaho -ei- is usually from earlier *e: after proto-Arapaho-Atsina *y < PA *w or *y, but we would also expect *-kw-  to drop without a trace. I’m tentatively assigning this Arapaho term to the root, but I’d really like better confirmation...

- The remaining three--*θāp- ‘to thread through, replace’, *θāw- ‘middle’ and *θōm- ‘grease’--seem to be real, though the last of these seems to be confined to Cree and Ojibwe. So now we have a total of four initials beginning with *θ--remember, we would statistically expect somewhere around fifty if all consonants were distributed equally, or maybe twenty or so according to a more reasonable distribution--all of which have long vowels in them.

What are we to make of this? At this point we are wandering into speculative territory, but I believe the discussion at the end of Goddard’s 2015 paper on Blackfoot dimly illuminates some of the path before us. You see, where we have a word-initial consonant in a Core Algonquian verb, we often see an initial i- in Blackfoot. This seems to have often been the original state of affairs, with *i- usually lost in Core Algonquian; the exceptions are before *r (where *i- is retained in PA) and in the “relative” roots.

So let’s check Blackfoot. Of the four surviving roots in *θ-, here is what I can find:

- *θāp- ‘thread through, replace’: isttapini ‘to lace, weave, thread’ looks like a reflex. Initial i- in pre-Blackfoot conditions shortening of a following vowel, so that checks out. The geminate -tt- is harder to figure out; Blackfoot sometimes reflects PA *č as tt (Berman ‘06), presumably because *-ty- was already long.

- *θāw- ‘middle’: well, we have ihtatsiki ‘middle, center’. This looks like it could be from *θāw- given shortening, but there is no reason for the -w- to drop out--it’s usually retained. Perhaps *θāw- was some sort of composite, or perhaps ihtatsiki doesn’t reflect it at all.

- *θēkw- ‘choke, shove in, stick in, insert’: no clear reflex. 

- *θōm- ‘grease, fat’: no clear reflex.

Does this tell us anything? Maybe. Cluster-initial /h/ in Blackfoot is usually from an earlier true cluster in PA, as far as we can tell, and geminates tend to be from syncope, or something. In any case, initial *θ:

a) was incredibly rare, occurring in no more than four well-established roots.

b) only occured in verbal roots except for the one root that is only attested in Cree and Ojibwe. These two have a long history of borrowing from each other, but if *θōm- is not inherited then we need, e.g., hypercorrection where Old Ojibwe *rōm- gets borrowed into Cree and the *r is hypercorrected into /t/ on the basis of all those other Ojibwe words whose /r/ corresponds to Cree /t/. I don’t know if there are any examples of this occuring.

c) in the two cases where we maybe have a Blackfoot reflex, there’s an initial i-.

d) and also in those two cases, the initial reflex is kinda weird and points to there maybe having been an original true cluster. 

We know that when word-initial *i- dropped off between Proto-Algonquian-Blackfoot and Proto-Core-Algonquian, it occasionally reduced a following consonant cluster to its second member, which is occasionally restored, so that the relative root *taθ- ‘somewhere’ magically becomes -entaθ- when you add a prefix. This sort of makes me wonder whether *θ was a medial-only consonant with the few initial reflexes being flukes of lost reduplication or an initial cluster.

----------------

I’ll probably pick this up again at some point, but the thought I’m chewing on is that *θ may actually be entirely secondary, deriving from some sort of cluster--it’s not crazy common medially, and when you do see it it’s very often in a cluster. When you do see it in a cluster it often varies with *t--in particular there seems to have been a process where transitives with inanimate objects that had stems ending in *-ta:- had counterparts with animate objects whose stems ended in *-θ-. Also, there’s at least one example of singleton *θ whose morpheme has another version where it is in a cluster. That would be *aθemwa ‘dog’, which has a medial (incorporated) version *-aʔθemw-. 

This all raises the rather tenuous possibility that maybe singleton *θ derived from a cluster of some sort.

Similar in behavior to *θ: *h, which did not occur word-initially and only appears in one verbal initial outside of a cluster: *nah- ‘nice, proper, skillful’. As a medial or final, it only appears outside clusters in *-h- ‘causative’ and *-hw- ‘by instrument’. There are one or two noun roots that have it, but these tend to be irregular or onomatopoeic. Then there’s *š, which derived from *θ before *i *i: *y except when it didn’t--a small handful of roots have this word-initially--and which seems to have behaved like *θ in Blackfoot. I think you can assume a sound-law *θy > šy > š / #_ too; no root of the form *šy- seems to be reconstructible. It’s harder to get rid of *š altogether than it is to get rid of *č, though.

(also, *i and *e were in complimentary distribution in initial syllables, *e appearing after consonants and *i appearing bare--so e.g. for *šek- ‘to urinate’ you could maybe have had *θik- > *šik- > *šek-. however the wonderfully intuitive Blackfoot reflex issksi suggests there may be onomatopoeia involved)

[gameboyguru]

With Episode 015, MetalFRO and Addicted dig into the first TurboGrafx game for the RF Generation Shmup Club, the early release, Blazing Lazers! This game has elements from other shooters you may recognize, because it was jointly developed by Hudson Soft and Compile, and their other games and influences definitely shine through. Does the game hold up today? We dicsuss that, and more! Here's the direct link to listen to the podcast on the site, or download the MP3 for later: http://rfgeneration.com/podcasts/shmupclub/?name=2019-09-21_shoot_the_core-cast_episode_015_blazing_lazers.mp3 Check us out and subscribe (and rate!) on Apple Podcasts! https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/shoot-the-core-cast/id1432819542?mt=2 We're listed on Google Play - subscribe and review the podcast over there! https://play.google.com/music/listen#/ps/Iih3vrijcro4yno3yrkeawnx6nu We're on Stitcher Podcasts now, as well, so if you use that service, have a listen to the show from there! https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/shoot-the-corecast We also have a presence on SoundCloud now, though it's just the most current episode at this time: https://soundcloud.com/user-992886896/ We have t-shirts! Help support the podcast, and rep the shmup community by buying a Shoot the Core-cast tee! https://www.redbubble.com/people/jdieckmann/works/34582606-shoot-the-core-cast-podcast?asc=u&p=t-shirt Here's the original discussion thread from the forum: http://www.rfgeneration.com/forum/index.php?topic=19090.0

[englishlistwords]

Howl, Parts I & II

Allen Ginsberg- 1926-1997

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,   who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,   who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with permission.

[tyrantisterror]

On a Spoiler thread someone said "The real tragedy... we will no longer have whales in the Hudson...Five years was enough for nature to restore itself, and now it gets a pounding once again. I like how they suggested that Thanos was right all along and that our inability to accept the harsh truth is what is going to doom us in the long term." what should i say to prove them wrong?

Well, I would just say “FAAAAAAART” because they’re an idiot who understands nothing about extinction events and who just wants to justify genocide.  It’s like seeing a possum having a big feast of deep fried T.rex during the K-T extinction and saying, “See?  Everything turned out just fine!”

But if you want, like, more concrete reasons as to why Thanos was dumb, here’s a video for you:

[christopherrpike-archive]

where’s your spirit?

Word Count: 1234 Rating: T

just a small drabble i wanted to write because i started playing far cry 5 again tagging @jackkelsos​ bc he wanted to see it

Read on AO3 Ko-Fi

John bites back a sigh as he watches Sebastian drown himself in drink after drink after drink. Damn festival. Never let it he said that he didn't like a party, but this one in particular was too loud and far too rowdy for his tastes. The only reason he was even here was right in front of him, hellbent on giving himself alcohol poisoning.

“Hell yeah! Pass me another shot!”

John bites back a sigh as he watches Sebastian drown himself in drink after drink after drink. Damn festival. Never let it he said that he didn't like a party, but this one in particular was too loud and far too rowdy for his tastes. The only reason he was even here was right in front of him, hellbent on giving himself alcohol poisoning. He tries for a smile as he gestures to the empty glasses on the table before them.

“Now, dear, don't you think you've had enough for one night?”

“Absolutely not,” Sebastian slurs before gently pushing him aside. “Now move over, your handsome face is gonna ruin my aim.” He then brings up a slingshot, lining it up with a pair of balloons in front of him. Before he can let the stone loose, however, John's hand in on his arm.

“It's late. We should be getting home soon.”

“John. We just got here!” Sebastian exclaims, and he shrugs the other man's arm off long enough for him to take a shot. When the balloons pop, he gives a small wave at the cheering crowd. Then, he returns his attention to his husband. “Where's your Testy Festy spirit?”

“I’m afraid--” John starts, but he's interrupted briefly by Sharky's whooping, “I'm afraid I'm not hungry.” Before he can say anything else, the man in question is giving him a heavy pat on the back, much to his ire.

“Oh, c'mon Johnny boy!” Comes Sharky's interjection, which, in John's humble opinion, reeks too much of cheap beer, “Don't be a party pooper, man. Ain't nothing more that screams Hope County than a bull's testicles.”

John rolls his eyes. “Well, Charlemagne, excuse me for having such a refined palate.”

“Yeah, Sharky,” Sebastian cuts in, a lopsided grin on his face. John should've known better, really, as he's now turning to the rest of the town with the intent to run his mouth. “He wants a taste of mine instead!”

“Alright, that's enough!” John exclaims amidst his burning cheeks and the roaring laughter of the crowd. In one quick swoop, he carries Sebastian by the waist and--with some struggle--hauls him over his shoulder. “We're going home. Now.”

“Wait, wait, wait, one more shot!” Sebastian says before managing to hit one more target. When the crowd cheers again, he bursts out in laughter. “Y’all see that? I'm the best damn sharpshooter in this county!” A pause. “Next to Grace, of course,” he adds, before nodding towards her.

Grace cracks a smile. “Don't you forget it, Deputy!”

“No, no, you've had too much fun. I'm taking you home before you do something you regret.”

Sebastian only snorts, flushed cheeks only burning brighter as he gives John's back a gentle pat. “Hey, y'all, we're going home! John's takin’ me to town tonight!”

A sigh escapes John this time as he weaves through the crowd, which proved to be easier said than done when he was carrying the equivalent of dead weight over his shoulder. He opens his mouth to speak, gets cut off by Hudson whistling at him.

“Hey, go easy on him, will ya?!” Hudson hollers between fits of laughter, Pratt rolling his eyes beside her, “We still need him down at the station tomorrow!”

John shoots her a wry smile. “I'll be real gentle, Deputy.”

The drive back to John's ranch was already proving to be a handful. Apparently with just enough alcohol in him, Sebastian was chattier than he normally was. He had something to say about John's car, his plane, the way he styled his hair… and he had something to say about just about everything that passed his window. When he's presumably run out of things to say, John can't help but feel a little bit relieved. Of course, the silence didn't last long when his bubbly husband is facing him yet again.

“Did you have fun? ‘Cause I had loads of fun.”

Glancing at him for a split second, John offers a slight smile. “Tons, dear.”

“That's good. Thought you wouldn't, to be honest. So I'm glad you came with me anyways.”

The sudden sentiment catches John off guard, but he reaches over with a free hand, placing it over Sebastian's. “I'd go anywhere so long as you're with me, if I'm being honest.”

Sebastian squints at him, as if trying to find any dishonesty in his eyes. When he decides that there's none, he nods before leaning back against his seat. “Good. ‘Cause I still got a whole lotta places to drag you to. Like back home.”

John hums as he eventually pulls over into his driveway. “Plenty of time for that in the holidays.”

Sebastian nods again and before he knows it-- John's opening the car door for him. Squinting again, he steps out. “How’d you get there so fast?” He asks, and if it weren't for John holding onto his arm, his face would've hit the ground by now.

“Easy there, Deputy.”

Once he's gotten some of his bearings, Sebastian moves to wrap his arms around John, head resting on the man's shoulders. “Could you, uh-- pick me up again? Don't think I can take another step without fallin' over.”

“Almost fell over myself when I did it earlier, but-- I could never say no to you.” John reaches around him and--with plenty of struggling--he hoists Sebastian up, letting the other man wrap his legs around his waist. “This would be easier if you weren’t so tall, you know.”

“You say that like I had a say in it,” Sebastian mumbles against his shoulder, grip tight. “You know you could just… put me up against the wall, have a little fun.”

John rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips turning up into a slight smile. “Cute, Deputy.” He sets the other man down the couch, only for Sebastian to pull him in, leaving sloppy kisses over his face.

“I mean it,” he mumbles before finally landing a kiss on John’s lips, “but the couch works too. C’mon, undress me already.” Sebastian then gives John a lopsided grin, hands already going for the other man’s vest, but John stops him.

“Another time, dear. When you’re less… inebriated.”

Sebastian pouts, but he nonetheless takes his jacket off, leaning against John. “Can you just take me to bed, then?”

John’s gaze softens, but he can’t help but laugh as he leans back against the couch. “Do I have to? I mean, the bedroom’s all the way upstairs. And we’re already pretty comfy down here.” He watches his husband think about it, then move over to rest his head on John’s lap as he fiddles with his thumbs.

“You have a point… but isn’t this uncomfy? For you, I mean.”

“Not necessarily. I don’t mind.”

A hum. “Alright then.”

John opens his mouth to speak, shuts it when he hears Sebastian snoring away already. He leans back against the couch once more to make himself comfortable, and… his husband was right. This was uncomfortable. Nothing to be done about it now when the other was already sleeping so soundly, and so he decides to just make do.

“You’re a real handful, you know that?” John asks, though it goes unanswered. With a sigh that sounds more like a yawn, he threads his fingers through the Deputy’s hair. “But I love you anyways.”

[urbanitehq]

URBANITE INTRODUCES . . .

                                                                    EVENT NO. 01 !

new york is known to be T H E place that people go to for the new year . from parties , to fireworks , to concerts , to the ball dropping in times square , there is certainly no shortage of fun ways to spend the night of dec. 31st , leading into the first day of 2019 . 

this year , everyone is urged to choose a place of party . throughout new york with friends & family , toasting to the highs & the lows that 2018 brought with . start 2019 off right with any of these new york city parties :

gatsby’s house party at hudson terrace : dress to impress at this soiree that will feature a five-hour open premium bar & four live dj sets as we count down the final moments of the year 

new year’s eve at jimmy : ring in 2019 with skyline views , hors d’oeuvres & a champagne toast at midnight at this 18th-story cocktail lounge in the james hotel 

bar none’s all that glitters new year’s eve party : you don’t need to spend hundreds of dollars to party like a baller in nyc on new year’s . this celebration just costs $20 to live it up while counting down the moments to 2019

new year’s eve open bar & buffet , presented by hot 97 : party with hot 97 at this dope party featuring music from dj madout , dj wallah , magic , & kidd

new year’s eve at jouvay : arrive on time at this hookah bar to take advantage of a vodka open bar for the first hour of the night

new year’s eve black tie bash at rainbow room : attend one of the swankiest parties in the world at this iconic venue located on the 65th floor of 30 rock

nye 2019 bushwick bash : party all night long at this warehouse-turned-nightclub brooklyn bash & enjoy unlimited drinks

desi new year’s eve masquerade ball : billing itself as the biggest desi party in north america , this party is the best way to get down to the hottest bollywood & top 40 beats while also enjoying a five-hour open bar

& of course , it would want the full nyc new years eve experience , you can hit the streets of time square & watch the ball drop with the rest of the nation !

OOC INFORMATION

starting date : dec 31st @ 12 pm est

ending date : jan 5th @ 11:59 pm est

tags : urbanite:newyears ( used for wardrobes , aesthetics related to event , etc. ) , urbanite:nyestart ( event starters ) , urbanite:nyesc ( event starter calls )

thread continuation : you may continue threads started during the event after it ends , but try to complete them in a timely fashion . we don’t want to be a month out & still have event threads going on . 

pre existing threads : all threads from before the event M U S T be put on hold . 

[adamwatchesmovies]

Dr. T and the Women (2000)

While I didn't enjoy this film, that doesn't mean you won't. No matter what I say, the people involved in this project did it: they actually made a movie. That's something to be applauded. With that established...

It’s been a long time since I’ve hated a movie as much as I do Dr. T & The Women. The idea of someone liking this film, or even tolerating it brings my blood to a boil. Every second of its unholy 122-minute running time felt like a spool of barbed wire being pulled through one nostril and out the other.

Dr. Sullivan Travis - a.k.a. “Dr. T.” (Richard Gere) - is a gynecologist who treats some of the wealthiest women in Texas with the utmost care. His life begins to crumble when his wife, Kate (Farrah Fawcett) suffers a mental breakdown, his patients’ patience begins to run unnaturally short and his youngest daughter’s wedding draws near all at once.

I’ve done my best to clump together the standout plot points to make it seem as if this motion picture has some kind of thread you can follow. In addition to these, there are subplots about Dr. T’s daughters (Tara Reid and Kate Hudson), another about the romantic tension between the doctor, his staff and a sexy new golf instructor at the course where he plays, another about the Travis home being invaded by Dr. T’s sister-in-law (Laura Dern) and more. It doesn’t matter. Nothing in this plot matters. It’s a half-congealed mess that has no idea what it wants to say, or if it does, the message is dispensed so poorly it's incomprehensible. Not helping are the characters, each of which you come to hate with a burning intensity that threatens to melt whatever screen you’re watching the film on. You’re bored, waiting for some semblance of a conflict to emerge from the banality of a gynecologist who cares and loves women too much. Anything! Some laughs, issues that normal human beings can relate to, a bedhead-knocking love affair or an asteroid that comes down and destroys the entire state would've all been great.

Dr. T and the Women is a footlong sandwich in which all of the ingredients, including the bread, the sauce and the seasonings have been replaced by sandpaper. You don’t even know what to make of it. Is there a joke buried deep in here somewhere? You don’t assemble a cast that includes Richard Gere, Helen Hunt, Farrah Fawcett, Laura Dern, Shelley Long, Kate Hudson, Liv Tyler and Tara Reid unless you’ve got something to say, right? Well whatever it was that director Robert Altman wanted me to know, I don’t get it.

Then, there's the conclusion: a turn so weird I was convinced it was a dream or fantasy sequence – I would’ve bought Dr. T. being sucked up by a tornado and landing in Oz before what we actually get. Then, an epiphany. I get it. There’s nothing to "get"! It’s just a steamy, oozing, sticky, smelly misfire, a bodily discharge of unsatisfying and unresolved threads that add nothing to the overall package. It’s all set to a soundtrack that’s so on-the-nose it's like a trout slapped across your face.

Written by Anne Rapp, this is a shockingly misogynist film. It's so surreal it nearly comes back around and turns into a venomous letter about why men suck. You might be able to approach it from that angle and dissect the film into an interesting thought-piece but that would require the inhumane task of staying interested and awake for the whole thing. I can’t believe a major plot point of this story is that a man loves a woman and takes care of her so well her mind unravels to the point of madness. Every cell in my body pulsates with hatred when I think of Dr. T & The Women. (On VHS, April 4, 2018)