#Are we just lumping them in with Britain???

[dduane]

By the way...

it was sort of last week, or maybe during the week before—I forget— when @petermorwood came downstairs to get tea while he was working on some long post or another full of guns and swords and assorted deadly weaponry—or cats, or food, or historical clothing, you know what he's like... and all of a sudden he said:

"So what about Cyber Monday?"

And I wasn't sure where that was coming from, as Peter normally doesn't spend a lot of his time being concerned about cyber stuff in general.

"Uh, why?" said I.

"Well, it's the Young Wizards anniversary month. Shouldn't you be doing some kind of sale offer over on Twitter, the way you did on Tumblr?"

My mouth kind of opened and shut again. Mostly at the moment when I think of Twitter, it's in terms of imagery involving things circling the drain at ever-increasing speed. And as far as Cyber Monday went, I hadn't really thought about it. This year I noticed that I've started kind of lumping it in with Black Friday, which mostly increasingly makes me mutter and shake my head as I see what my email box gets to look like this time of year. And since I'd been mostly preoccupied with writing issues and website crap lately, you could kind of multiply that not-caring by two. Or five. Or some power of ten.

...Yet he had a point. And what the hell, at least putting a video up there would remind people that the series existed! (Because people do seem to keep forgetting, and then suddenly bursting out with OH WAIT ARE THESE THOSE BOOKS I LOVED WHEN I WAS A KID, WAIT, YOU MEAN SHE WROTE THOSE, I THOUGHT ALL SHE DID WAS STAR TREK?!) (Eyeroll.)

"But I told them on Tumblr," I said, "that I wasn't going to do any more of these sales for the foreseeable future."

"Looks like you forgot to foresee this," said Himself, dumping half a cow's worth of milk in his tea as usual. "Look, if you do it just one more time, I bet they'll forgive you as long as you tell them about it so they can take advantage of it if they want to." Then he snickered. "And anyway, you told them you weren't going to do any Sherlock/Young Wizards fusions either, and look how that turned out." More snickering. "They forgave you for that. Eventually."

"Oh god."

"Just tell them. They'll let you off the hook." Up the stairs he went, still snickering. "Sometime in mid-2024 probably."

(eyeroll)

Dammitall, I hate it when he has a point.

So look. Here's the discount page. There's the video, two paragraphs down. You all know the drill. The "All the Wizardry" package is $29.99 today. The "I Want Everything You've Got" package is $40 just for today. Anybody who hasn't taken advantage of one of these offers previously, or didn't have the cash earlier, or wants to point somebody else at it...go knock yourself or -selves out with my abslute blessing. (Because who knows whether anybody on Twitter will notice at all, the way the algorithm's been behaving.)

And: everybody please forgive me. (abases herself before the assembled multitudes in the approved manner)

(...Anyway, WTH, it's worth a try. I want to get this friend of mine a new fountain pen for Christmas, and every little bit helps...) :)

(And a final reminder: we can't sell to people in Britain / the UK, it's a Brexit problem ... so sorry about that.)

[ellieluvr420]

You’re Mine (Ellie x reader angst one shot)

DEALER ELLIE SUPREMACY!!!!!! 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

It was silent, neither of you moved or spoke, your eyes were fixed on each other, neither of you daring to look away. Your eyes were glassy and bloodshot and hers were cold and dark, your nose was sore and running as you sniffled holding the tears in your eyes that were begging to be let free. You didn't understand how a girl that shows you as much love as she does could hurt you so bad.

disclaimer: I am in fact british and I've tried to use american vocab in we meet again, darling because I imagined the story set in a US city (NYC in my mind but i left it blank so people could imagine whatever city they wanted but i digress) and i did not enjoy doing that bc ik i still make mistakes and i think it looks goofy so one shots and headcanons and stuff will probs be set in britain, sorry if that is a bit annoying <3

You and Ellie had went to a party at a friend's flat, you had dressed up nice and Ellie had admired you while licking her lips as you got ready.

"You look unreal babe."

"Thank you. Want me to do your makeup after?"

"Yeah but don't blind me this time."

"I didn't fucking blind you, you blinked it into your eyeball, who blinks without warning when you're doing mascara?"

"Someone that blinks normally." You scoff at her and go back to getting ready ignoring her victorious smirk in the mirror.

As you arrived at the party you were both in a great mood, you're immediately greeted by some friends as you walk in and Ellie kisses you on the cheek and takes her leave to go set up on the sofa. Immediately she's swarmed by people looking to get their fix, some wanted weed, some wanted blow, she always had a variety when she went to a party and you can't help the hot feeling in your core as you take in her sitting there, legs comfortably spread with a cigarette hanging from her lips. She had dark grey baggy jeans on, with a black t-shirt that poked out from her hoodie that matched the colour of her jeans, her black converse poke out from the jeans and you never aren't amazed at the state of them, you bought matching converse together and you're both wearing them tonight but they look like entirely different shoes. Her silver chain with a charm that's the first letter of your name is laid on top of her hoodie and the view makes you swoon. Her auburn shaggy hair cut is concealed mostly by her small black beanie, you had played with the hair on show at the back of her neck on the way here, you always loved when she wore a beanie, something about it was just so hot to you.

You had been dancing for hours and chatting when Ellie grabs you and drags you away from your conversation.

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Is everything okay?” She doesn’t answer she just continues dragging you out of the flat, she doesn’t release her tight grip on your arm until you’re walking through the door of your shared home. There was a red mark where her hand was and you watched as she froze when she saw the mark.

“Babe what’s going on? Did something happen with a deal?” She chuckles, it’s dark and full of mockery.

“You just don’t fucking get it do you? Are you really this stupid or are you just an attention whore?”

“Excuse me?” Your ears rang as her words hit you, you felt a stabbing pain in your chest as tears pricked behind your eyes begging to release, you couldn’t give her the satisfaction so you chewed on your bottom lip and blinked away the tears while you attempted to swallow the lump in your throat. “What the fuck are you talking about Ellie?”

“You! Fucking parading yourself everywhere and if that wasn’t enough you had to fucking hump Lucy right in front of my fucking face.” She yelled as she walked closer to you, you walked backwards trying to keep some space but as your back hit the wall she closed in on you. “Do you need me to remind you who you belong to hm?”

“Fuck off Ellie.” You push her off of you with every ounce of strength as the dam breaks and the tears begin to flow down your cheeks, you storm away to your shared bedroom with a delusional hope that she wouldn’t follow. You slam the door behind you only for it to immediately be slammed open again, the door smashes into the wall and you stay frozen with your back turned away from her.

“Fuck off Ellie? seriously that’s all you have to say? How about I’m fucking sorry.”

You spin to face her at her statement. “I’M SORRY? I have nothing to be sorry for Ellie. I did nothing wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine Ellie, tell me exactly what I did wrong then.” Your voice comes out nasally and choked as the tears don’t falter in their pace as they race down your cheeks. You meet her eyes and the look of contempt only makes you sob more.

“You put on that skimpy outfit you know will get you attention then we go to the party and instead of coming to see me and sit with me and make it known that you’re mine, you literally speak to every single other person at the party. You were all over everyone, I’m sure they were embarrassed for you because I fucking was. No wonder you feel like they don’t like you as much anymore, they probably don’t. Oh and just to top it off you then danced with Lucy right in front of me giving me a front row seat to her wandering hands and you being all over it. You’re fucking out of order.”

You scoff at her, you’re genuinely stunned at how she could be so horrible. Ellie had never been like this with you, you were speechless.

“Yeah exactly now you’ve got nothing to say. If you’re gonna be a slut at least own it.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” The tears had stopped, you weren’t upset anymore you were furious, a red film was over your vision as you stomped over to her until your faces were inches away from each other. “Go on. Say it again.”

“I said you’re an attention-seeking slut.” She spat the words out with a venom and a switch flipped in your head. You didn’t speak you just started walking around the room throwing all your essentials into the first bag you could find. She watches while still for a second but as she realises you’re packing she rushes to start taking all the things out of your bag.

“Don’t Ellie. I don’t want to speak to you right now. Leave me alone.”

“No, you’re not leaving.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” She keeps removing the things that you’re packing from your bag until you huff and give up going to look for your car keys. “You can’t drive anywhere, you’re drunk.” You hated to admit she was right in the moment but you knew it wasn’t worth the risk.

“Then I’ll get an uber.” You start searching for your phone until you turn to see Ellie holding it in her hand. You storm over to her but she holds it above your head so you can’t reach. “Ellie give it back I’m serious.”

“I said you aren’t leaving.” The tears begin again as you feel helpless.

“Why do you fucking care? I’m just a slut right, not your girlfriend of three fucking years.”

It’s quiet as you both stand processing everything that’s been said, tears are streaming down your face but you don’t feel like you’re crying anymore. Ellie stands shifting her weight from one side of her body to the other as she fidgets with her fingers. She looks up at you and her heart breaks knowing she’s the reason you’re so upset after having such a good night.

“Why didn’t you come and see me all night? You always come and sit with me while I do my deals at least for a little bit and you didn’t. I rolled us a pink spliff to smoke together and you barely even came near me until you started grinding up against Lucy.” Her voice is soft and quiet, she sounds ashamed of herself because she is, she’s ashamed that she’s let her insecurities cause her to be horrible to the best person in her life, she felt sick with herself, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging on the wall of the living room and all she saw looking back at her was a monster.

“Ellie if you wanted to spend time with me you could’ve come and got me. You know I always want to spend time with you, I hadn’t seen loads of those people for ages so I was just catching up. But if you wanted me to come sit all you had to do was come get me and you know I would’ve sat with you until we left. I was dancing with Lucy my straight best friend of 12 years for fucks sake. If something was going on there it would’ve happened already.”

“You sure it hasn’t?” Ellie knows it hasn’t, she knows you would never do that. But her brain isn’t connected to her mouth anymore, her jealousy is the only thing controlling her actions right now, she feels like she’s watching a horrible film where the main character does the opposite of the right thing at every turn.

“You are unbelievable. I have been nothing but a loyal and loving girlfriend to you, I do not deserve this and I don’t have to prove anything to you but seeing as I have nothing to hide, my phone is in your hand. Go on Ellie, if you don’t trust me, go through my phone and prove yourself wrong.” She looks down at the phone but doesn’t make a move to unlock it. Her stillness only ignites the fire of your rage more. “Go on! You know the password, it’s your birthday! So go on Ellie, admit you don’t trust me and go through my phone.”

She stays in her place looking at your phone until she sighs and holds it out to you. “Of course I trust you. You just- you don’t notice how many people’s eyes are on you wherever we go, and it’s never bothered me, I love it, I love that you’re as beautiful as you are, I’m proud to be next to you but when we were at that party all I could see were people trying to take you from me and when I looked at you all I could see was you leaving me.” She sniffles and you see a single tear run down her face that she wipes away as soon as she can. You take your phone from her hand and throw it down onto the sofa next to you before walking to stand right in front of her. She avoids your eyes but you gently nudge her chin so she looks at you.

“Ellie, no one else could ever make me leave you. I love you, you are my world, my heart beats for you Ellie, it has since the day I met you. What will drive me away is if you take out your insecurities and jealousy on me instead of talking to me about it. I won’t stay around to be treated like this. I am better than this and I deserve better than this, I will help you work through this but not if you’re going to do this again.” It was like what you said was the end of the world as she immediately broke down into sobs, the sight stopped you in your tracks as Ellie never cried. You moved slowly like you were handling a bomb as you cupped her cheeks, your hands had barely touched her face before she was pulling you into a bone-crushing hug as she continued crying into your shoulder. You stroked her hair gently and let her cry until she calmed down enough to sniffle and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, please don’t leave me. I’ll fix it, I won’t get jealous anymore I swear I’m sorry.” She mutters into your shoulder as she cries more, her grip on you tightened almost like she was physically trying to stop you from going anywhere. You wrapped your arms around her neck and cuddle into her more as you walk backwards toward the sofa pulling her down on top of you.

“I’m not going to leave you and we can work on this together, you’re allowed to get jealous but you need to be able to discuss it with me instead of attacking me. I’m sorry for making you feel forgotten, I had no intention of doing that but I’m sorry that I made you feel that way anyway. I love you Ellie and you are the most beautiful person I have ever met, I am so lucky to have you I would never want anyone over you.”

She looks up at you and presses a light kiss to your lips, so sweet it almost rids your lips from the salty remnants of your tears. “I love you more. Thank you for being so good to me.” She doesn’t seem entirely convinced by your description of her but she appreciates the reassurance more than she can explain.

You wrap your legs around her waist and squeeze her so tight you hear a choked groan leave her lips involuntarily. You make eye contact that neither of you break as you brush your knuckles over her cheek.

“I really am sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything I said, I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

“I do El. But it won’t happen again.”

“Never.” You share a timid kiss and she lays her head down on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, it had always soothed her, she feels herself calming and sinking into you until she looks up to see you already looking down at her with a devious smirk. “What’s up babe?”

“You still got that pink spliff from earlier?”

“I love you so much.”

[shojizbae]

Hobie's Innocent Girlfriend

Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

♛♜

Can you just imagine Hobie with a super innocent type of girlfriend? not that creepy type of couple where a guy dates someone younger than him and she's all infantilized. His girlfriend is actually older than him but she was raised in a conservative protestant house (the national religion of Britain) and hasn't shaken her upbringing despite being in university. They met in a guitar class, (her being classically trained and wanting to expand her skills) Hobie was there because he could sneak in and figure out a riff that he hadn't yet nailed.

She was instantly fascinated by him because he looked so different than what she was used to seeing. Heavy chains that rattled with every step and scratched pin on a sleeveless jacket caught her eye. He spotted her because she looked like something off of a private school pamphlet. neat long coiffed hair, thin gold wristwatch and pleated skirt. everything about her screamed elitist old money.

He was shocked though when she walked over at the end of the class. She told him his name and pointed to a pin on his denim vest.

"What is a sex pistol?" she folds her hand behind her back.

"It's a band. They yell at rich pricks for acting like they are better than the rest of everyone."

"Cool!" he tries to carry on the conversation but she continues to get pissed off by her. Everything she is is everything he stands against. ad going against his grain is pretty rocking. She is one bonnie. He claims that he slowly seduced her. In actuality, she was the one who accidentally got him hook, line, and sinker. They start dating after a month or two of knowing each other.

Hobie is so irredeemably in love with her. And they look so out of place with each other. Half of her belongings are pink all of her socks have ruffles. Hobart is so grungy and dirty compared to her. But (Y/n) is absolutely enamored by him. She is fascinated by how different and real he is. Every time she comes over to his house she looks out of place but it makes his heart ga-lump every time he sees her picking through his collection of vintage pins. One day while looking through his desk full of knick-knacks she finds a neglected spiked bracelet.

"Hobie?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I have this bracelet?" he hears the clink of a snap and sees the ratty piece of leather with tarnished pewter spikes. He notices how it looks so out of place on your ‘pretty in pink’ look and his heart thrums at the disruption.

“Yeah love, looks great on you.” He tries to bite back the smile forming on his face.

Another time you two are making out and and you get caught on his lip ring. Not physically just mentally. Your in his lap, straddling him, finger threes in the back of his hair. He’s got his hands on your ass and he uses them to keep you as close as possible. He tries to pull back for air but he notices that you’re adhered to his lips like a damn leech.

“Dear, what’s gotten into you?” He smirks in contentment

“I love that little hoop Hobie.” She smirks and half licks her lips

“Yeah?” He questions punctuating with a kiss.

“Yeah.” She chases his kiss as he pulls away.

“Well maybe we should get you some.”

“Ok,” she climbs back in him taking a more dominant stance than before. Hobie loved when she got riled up. She was so hot. That following night Hobie found a piercing shop and even booked an appointment.

Hobie had to hold her hand the whole time she was getting pierced. She didn’t go so extreme as he did with his dermals. Instead she walked out with a bar through her tongue, a nostril hoop, and seven different cartilage piercings. It was going to be torture not to kiss her for “4-6 weeks” he rolled his eyes at that. Somehow though her body healed much quicker than the piercer thought and she was able to return just 16 days later to get a smaller bar in her mouth. She did add one nipple ring and something glittery in her bellybutton.

Hobie was over the moon about being able to kiss her but now he could only play with one titty and he loved both of your titties. He was extra tic to see you become a more punk person while still holding all of your values. And your hole punched ears could be easily hidden if you wore your hair down. You did however have to skip Christmas claiming sickness instead of returning to your family.

Hobie was beside himself. On the one hand Christmas is a Marxist celebration that’s been stripped of its initial pagan roots and been commercialized into a plot for capitalism. On the other hand you were very upset that you couldn’t go home to have mass with your family because you knew they would disapprove of your piercings and of Hobie. Both things you loved endlessly.

I order to cheer you up Hobie had to sacrifice all of his pride. He bought you a few presents, mostly thing you’ve said you need for your flat which he has sporadically moved into. He pinned mistletoe on oversold way with tape because your landlord is a complete asshole. He made you breakfast in bed and told you to get dressed. There was a church nearby and as much as he hated organized religion he hates to see you upset far much more.

The whole time you were smiling. You sang every word to every song. Even before the priest was done quoting the scripture you would cite it. When you got home he made brunch as you set out presents around the tiny plastic tree. Every time you passed through a door way he would trot over to you and say something sly like

“Oh look what we have here? Looks like you need to kiss me.” And you two ended up turning off the stove and shagging like animals in heat.

slowly though, you start to rub off on him

he starts using your fancy expensive ass skincare. You find him napping under your giant fluffy chunky knit blanket; especially after late-night spider escapades. He especially takes on your drama shows and soap operas. He loves when you throw one of your fluffy robes at him when he forgets to grab a towel after the shower.

Eventually, he wears you down enough to introduce him to your parents. they're terrified of what he could be because for over 2 years you've hidden him from them. they're shocked because you squeezed him into a cashmere sweater and slacks. His hair was combed and his piercings had been removed. You manage to scrape through the dinner with no bonfire temper tantrums from your mom. When you finally get back in your car he sighs and tears the sweater off. He drives you home completely shirtless and is grunting and moaning the whole time.

"Love, if you ever make me wear a button-down shirt again, I'll cut the nipples and arms off of it."

"What?" she shreiks

"Yeah, and I'll shag you in front of your old man."

"Hobie!" you slap his bare chest

"I can't help it love, you get me going." He put a hand on your thigh and gives them a gentle rub.

"Hobie wait until we make it home!"

"What, c'mon! You won't even jerk me off a little babe? Please?"

"Well, you sit with the thought for a moment. "You did so well playing house for me. And, you look pretty hot right now." you pull your seatbelt from behind your back and shift your hips around "Maybe just a little." you pull your hair into a ponytail and pull down his zipper. Let's just say Hobie's foot was on the gas pedal all the way to the apartment.

[milkywayan]

As I rewatch all the historical farm docus again (i looove them so this is not a critique of hate but of love), there is something I think I have to point out, especially for people who are not as obsessed with this stuff as I am

They are talking about the british perspective.

Many things they say are correct for their geographical area, but not true for the rest of europe. and i have to say, sometimes they do get stuff about the rest of europe wrong (e.g. Ruth talks about the possibility of a woman having her own business in medieval england, saying that was not the case in the rest of europe, which is factually wrong as we, for example, have sources of women inheriting and running their own business in medieval vienna, and having important positions in guilds)

Also, they also once state that wine was expensive and a luxory, not adding 'in britain' and stating it as a fact, while this is of course not the case for a lot of regions with a lot of vinyards. going with the vienna example again, which is in a basin surrounded by low hills which are covered in vineyards since probably roman times (they still are today). there was even a ban of brewing beer comercially within the city to have people drink wine. it was generally not expensive

they also state people in the medieval times did not wash... which is also wrong. idk about england, i am not an expert, but we have a lot of german sources of paintings showing people in baths (not only nobles), there were loads of communal bath houses in medieval cities that show up in documents and in archaeological finds, there are references in literature (e.g. Parzival from the late 12th century, he is taught that he should wash every time after taking off his armour and he is full body washing himself regularly). They were not as cleanly as we are today, sure, but they knew with dirt came disease, they thought that bad smells carried disease, so why on earth would they not clean themselves?

so yea, i am of course speaking from a different geographical area, i focus on central europe/german sources and idk a lot about britain. but it is important to not just lump 'medieval europe' into one big pot

[picaroroboto]

Y'know after all those mysteries and reveals in LB6...we never did learn what this lump south of Salisbury was. Or is it just a normal part of British geography and I'm just a crazy person? Cuz I think it looks like a big omelet I spent all of LB6 thinking they were going to do a gag about faerie imitation of human culture leading to them attempting Guinness World Records, but they got bored and gave up before finishing making Faerie Britain's largest omelet. Cuz that would be something LB6's faeries would do

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Scenes From The Shadow Gallery

Ship: V x Companion

Word Count: 962

Summary: Wanted to get something out before the end of Guy Fawkes Day, so here's the scenes in which Evey is initially brought to the Shadow Gallery and how they would play out with my s/i being there. CWs for imprisonment (though technically for both Evey and V's safety), food mentions, fire mention.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife @dudefrommywesterns @rexscanonwife

Companion had been at V’s side through every step of their plans thus far, but they had been separated when fleeing the hijacking of Britain’s largest newscasting outlet. Upon reaching the Shadow Gallery alone, Companion prepared for V’s return. He knew he had escaped, so there was only time to pass.

It was hardly even an hour before V finally turned up.

“My love,” Companion greeted as he rose from an elegant chaise. The two approached each other and he held the sides of his mask in his hands.

“My stars,” V gently took away their hands, holding onto them. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

Companion cocked his head to the side. “What is it? I thought everything’s been going according to…?”

“There’s been… a slight curveball. You remember the young woman I crossed paths with?”

Companion nodded.

“She worked at the Tower. She lent a hand in my escape, but in the process she was knocked unconscious by my assailant. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“So she’s here?”

V nodded. “Our bedroom.”

Companion’s hands slipped out of his as they anxiously wiped their palms on their trousers. “I suppose we have to keep her here, then.”

“Yes.”

“What’s she like?”

Companion could hear the smile in V’s voice as he answered, “I’m not sure yet. But I think she’s more like us than she is like them. Now then,” he approached a jukebox containing more songs blacklisted by the Norsefire party than not and began to browse. “How about some music?”

~~~

A few songs passed before Evey came out of the bedroom, intrigued by the sound of the jukebox. She jumped when Companion appeared behind it.

“You must be our guest.”

“Who are you?”

They smiled and walked around the jukebox. “V’s partner.” He extended his hand, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She hesitantly shook it. “What am I doing here?”

“Because your forehead’s swole up to a goose egg, that’s what. Ah, speaking of V…” As Companion spoke, V entered the room and Evey turned to face him. “Why don’t I let him explain what’s happening while I get you something to put on that lump?”

V nodded at him and Companion took his leave. When he returned with a bag of frozen peas, Evey had gone and V was standing to the side, appearing disgruntled. Companion sighed.

“Well, so much for these. Let me guess, she doesn’t want to stay.”

“Unfortunately for all of us. But you know what will happen if we let her go.”

Companion set aside the peas and embraced him, resting their head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, pressing the lips of his mask against the top of their head.

“Don’t worry, my love,” Companion hummed. V said nothing. “Just be patient with her. Any plans for breakfast?” They stepped back, looking up at him.

“Hmm… egg in a basket, perhaps? Thick-cut bacon for you, of course…” He affectionately ran his hand over their short hair.

“That sounds lovely, I'm sure Evey will be more than happy to discuss things after a meal like that."

“Yes, you’re probably right, who knows when she had lunch. We should get some rest.”

~~~

The next morning, V got up and made breakfast while Companion turned on the radio and read the morning newspaper, smiling cynically over the way their government tried to cover up V’s heroic deeds.

“Do you think we’ll make a difference?” He asked. V looked up from the stove.

“That’s up to what the masses take away from my call to action, isn’t it, my dear?”

“But do you think they listened?”

V looked over his shoulder. “I know it’s easy to be pessimistic, Companion, but look what we’ve done so far. Somebody, even if it’s just one person, listened yesterday. Eventually, it will snowball. But until then, we can only rely on optimism, yes?”

Companion swallowed, nodding in agreement as he closed the paper.

“V--” Evey had appeared, looking sheepish. V turned completely toward her.

“Ah, bonjour mademoiselle.”

“I wanted to apologize for how I reacted last night.”

“Hm.”

“I understand what you’ve done for me and I want you to know that I’m grateful…” She trailed off as her eyes shifted away from his mask. “Your hands…”

“Yes…” V quickly turned away to put on his gloves while Companion stood and began to pour fresh tea. “There, that’s better. I hope I didn’t put you off your appetite.”

“Oh, no, please, I just… are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” V mumbled, losing himself in the cooking again.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“There was a fire,” V and Companion spoke at once, both freezing and refusing to look at Evey.

“We were both in it, but V… suffered the most,” Companion continued, stretching his own gloved hands before chuckling softly. “You should see my back.”

“It’s ancient history, for some,” V added.

“But it doesn’t make for very good table conversation, so,” Companion held up the tea tray, “Would you like some tea with your eggs?”

“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, I’m starving actually…”

“Then please, take a seat,” V instructed, plating the toast he had made and placing it on the table. Evey sat and Companion handed her one of the cups.

“I never caught your name,” she mentioned to him. “You only introduced yourself as V’s partner…”

“Yes, Evey, this is my dearest Companion. We’ve been through many a disquiet together.” V squeezed one of their hands affectionately.

“But his name…?”

“That’s it. Companion,” they explained before smiling. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” They took up their own seat as V served a second plate.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Thank you for the concern, Evey, but I already have.”

[intheshadowofwar]

The Long, Long Trail - 27 May 2023

The Last Man

Australian War Memorial 27 May 2023

They say the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. If one is former Director of the Australian War Memorial Dr. Brendan Nelson, it might be said to start with a single grant of five hundred million dollars. Today, the sightlines of Anzac Parade are ruptured by cranes and construction sites, part of the massive effort to revitalise the Australian War Memorial, to build a larger Anzac Hall, and to create space for the modern conflicts (and modern equipment) of the Australian Defence Forces.

It’s meant to be therapeutic to modern veterans, and I certainly can’t presume to speak for them. For all I know, it might be true - a few days ago I happened upon a YouTube video in which an Iraq War veteran gushed about a pre-release build of the controversial video game Six Days in Fallujah. There’s plenty of ex-military people who are into modelling tanks and planes. Perhaps, just as veterans of the First and Second World Wars revisited their battlefields in their old age, there’s a comfort in ‘going back.’ And yet, I can’t help but think there are more sinister justifications for the rebuild lurking in the background. Things like money from BAE Systems and quiet nudges from military recruiters. Things that risk subtly pushing the Australian War Memorial from being a place of commemoration to a place of glorification.

This is all immaterial, of course, because at 9.30am on a near-winter’s morning in Canberra, you can’t even see the sightlines for all the fog. Whoever painted those 1950s posters advertising sunny Australia certainly wasn’t thinking of Campbell.

(As a quick aside, I’m going to be using pseudonyms like ‘the Professor’ and ‘the Field Assistant’ here, because I don’t actually know if I have permission to use their names. If this suddenly changes, it’s because I found out if I could or could not name them.)

I came to the War Memorial on this balmy autumn day of about two degrees celsius to begin a journey - but I’m sure you’re all aware of that, because one doesn’t write a travel log unless they intend to travel. This was the first step on the road for the Australian National University’s Anzac Battlefields and Beyond Study Tour, or ANUABBST.

Upon reflection, we’ll just call it the ‘Study Tour.’

In any case, Poppy’s Cafe was the starting point of our adventure - sort of. We had, in fact, had an orientation last night. That’s when most of us found out that there was a minor snag in our plans. Our dear friend Covid may no longer be an international emergency, but it remains a background annoyance, like that lump I had on my nose for most of my teenage years. Our professor had been stricken by the plague, and thus would not be available today. To make matters worse, one of the Field Assistants was still in the United States, and the professor’s assistant from previous years was in Kiama. This left us with only one Field Assistant to manage everything. She’d effectively been thrown in the deep end, with all other authority figures down - it’s the stuff VCs are made of.

What I’m basically saying is, she basically had to do all the teaching, admin and assistant work by herself, and she made it look easy.

I’m sorry, I have digressed. It will happen again. Repeatedly.

In any case, we met at Poppy’s. It was here, at 10am, that we met with Michael McKernon, who I have to name because he was the key figure in the repatriation of Australia’s Unknown Soldier. See, up until 1991, Australia didn’t have an ‘unknown soldier’ - for the uninitiated, the idea of the ‘unknown soldier’ (or in some countries, the ‘unknown warrior’) is for a single, unidentified body to serve as a surrogate grave for all those killed whose bodies were never identified - it can also serve as a symbol of the collective sacrifice of an entire country. For most of the twentieth century, Australia’s unknown soldier was considered to be Britain’s Unknown Warrior, who is interred in Westminster Abbey in London. It wasn’t until Paul Keating’s time that that changed. After some haggling with the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, who were a bit cagey about people waltzing up and digging up their cemeteries and didn’t want to start a precedent, it was decided to exhume remains from Adelaide Cemetery in France, partially because they could be certain it was an Australian there, and partially because it was remote and it was feared the British tabloids might try to get a photograph of the body.

Apparently they’d made plans to check several graves, with a little marquee to cover them as they dug and reburied the soil to find suitably complete remains. Yet in the end they didn’t need to - they found exactly what they wanted in the first grave they checked. Sometimes in life, things really do just come together.

It’s perhaps incredible to hear now, on the other side of the Anzacpalooza of the 2010s, but apparently the then Governor-General Bill Hayden was worried before the internment ceremony was held on 11 November 1991 that people would laugh. He thought the idea of a gun carriage carrying an anonymous body, followed by the Governor-General, the Prime Minister and all manner of dignitaries, would be too absurd to be taken seriously. (Perhaps he’d had a premonition of some of the internet reactions to the King’s coronation.) In the event, that didn’t happen - Hayden told McKernan that he’d seen something in the eyes of the crowd that he’d never seen before in the Australian people. ‘Intense pride and intense grief.’ (I’m paraphrasing, of course.)

Now, you might be tempted to think that’s political spin, but seeing as Hayden said that to McKernan in a one on one conversation, I reckon he was being sincere. I think that’s something we forget these days; people feel deep connections to abstract things, and they personalise them. Someone might look at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and they might think of Great-Uncle John, or Harry, or Hans. It could be my great-grandfather.

(Well, no it couldn’t, because he was British, he was in the Second World War, and he then lived to a very old age, but you get my point.)

At the end of his discussion with us, McKernon talked about the sentimentalisation of the War Memorial’s museum (for those uninitiated, the War Memorial contains both a memorial and a museum.) The specific example he gave us was the speakers installed above George Lambert’s painting of the charge at the Battle of the Nek in August 1915, which plays the sound of gunfire, artillery and wounded men. His belief is that we should not be doing this - that the addition of sound (or music for that matter) emotionally manipulates the viewer. He compared this with a muddy uniform on the other side of the First World War gallery which Charles Bean took off a soldier coming back from the line. I presume he was given privacy while he changed into a new uniform. In any case, it’s there to present what a soldier’s equipment looked while it was on the line, as opposed to an immaculate tunic and breeches pulled out of an army storeroom. It doesn’t need sound or lights to convey the nature of war, and it doesn’t tell you how you ought to feel about it. (Remember Charles Bean’s name, because we will certainly hear from him again.)

I don’t know how I feel about the use of sound in museums. I think it can be used to good effect, if used in the right way. I don’t think it should be used in a memorial. This may be a part of the memorial that acts as a museum, but it is still on memorial grounds, and I think it should apply the opportunity for reflection as much as possible.

After our lovely chat with Micheal McKernon, we proceeded into the War Memorial, a task that the War Memorial seems intent on making as difficult as possible. During the Dark Times, the memorial set up a procedure to limit the amount of people coming in at any one time, which was the right thing to do at the time. It seems they’ve gotten a taste for it, as this procedure remains in place, and if you cluster in a group of more than two and a half people, they’ll look at you like you just set General Monash’s uniform on fire. You can imagine that this is not the most conductive environment for a group tour, but we just about made it work.

Now, I’m attending this tour as alumni, so I don’t have to work for a living. Once the rest of the group had been split into sub-groups to examine specific objects, we split off for a bit and I wandered around doing my own thing. I had a brisk walk through the Second World War gallery, which has some of my personal favourite exhibits in the museum - for example, the table at which General Percival surrendered Singapore to General Yamashita in 1942. On a more sombre note, there’s the wall of photographs of the men who died in the Sandakan Death March, which I think is probably the most effective exhibit in the museum. I then spent a little time among the rows of names on the Roll of Honour, and a brief reflection at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I don’t really know exactly what I reflected on, but I think that’s just the way it is sometimes.

I doubled back through the First World War galleries to view (and test my new camera on) the dioramas. These were the brainchild of the artist Will Dyson and the correspondent-turned-historian Charles Bean, and they’ve been there since the 1920s. If you come to the Australian War Memorial for one thing, it probably should be these - as well as the dioramas of Tobruk, Tarakan and Kapyong elsewhere in the museum.

The camera’s pretty great, by the by.

We met back up at 2pm and discreetly did group presentations. After this I did an improvised presentation of my own in front of the L3/33 tankette in the WWII gallery, and was reminded why I’m not very good at improv. We broke up just after 3pm, and I headed home.

As a group, we don’t meet up again until London next month, but personally I have one or two things planned between then and now - and that starts tomorrow.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, our Unknown Soldier did set a precedent. Canada got one in 2000, and New Zealand followed them.

[projektnomad]

3 million years into deep space, the ship to surface transport vehicle Starbug 1 is drifting aimlessly toward a long abandoned expedition ship. The beeping of a proximity alert rouses Cat from a dream of raining fish and he stares out the window at the hulking lump of titanium and steel.

“This one better have some damn fish!” He mutters to himself before pressing the ‘all hands’ button on the dash to summon the rest of the crew.

Acting First Officer Rimmer struts authoritatively into the cockpit. “What is it this time? Another ‘wibbly thing’ on the radar screen that actually happens to be chocolate pudding? Or did you just dream about fish again?”

Cat points. “Look for yourself goalpost head.”

Rimmer squints at the ship. “HMS Camden Lock. It’s British. We might be able to get some baked beans and HP sauce, lovely.”

Kryten stumbles in wearing his apron and presenting a tray of appetisers. “Sirs, I’m sorry to report that Mr Lister won’t be joining us unless this is a matter of utmost urgency.”

“Why?” Demands Rimmer.

“He said if this turned out to be Mr Cat crying about the lack of fish again then he was going to insert a live space weevil into him and take bets on how long it took to crawl back out again. He refuses to get out of bed.”

“Out of bed?” Rimmer asks. “It’s 3.30 on a Wednesday, even he’s usually up by now.”

“No, sir, Mr Lister had a lot of urine recyce wine at the weekend and asked me to set the clocks back so he’d recover in time for Monday. It’s actually 9.45 on Sunday morning.”

Rimmer sighs and shakes his head. “Cat’s spotted a ship, it’s the HMS Camden Lock.”

“Ah yes, the HMS Camden Lock, an expeditionary ship launched in 2151 by Great Britain, one of the few remaining sole nation states on Earth at the time. They went out searching the galaxy for trading partners. They thought that if they found new territory where nobody knew who the British were that they might actually find someone who wanted to rent an office block in Milton Keynes or invest in Melton Mowbray pork pies. Mr Lister’s home city was in Great Britain.”

“How did they get on?” Rimmer asks.

“Well, you see those holes in the side of the ship, sir?” Kryten asks, pointing out of the viewport at the scorched, gaping holes in the hull, presumably caused by large explosions. “I think that gives us some idea how far the reputation of the British has reached.”

“I can smell something, and it ain’t no pork pies.” Cat interjects.

Rimmer runs a scan. “There’s a residual energy reading, there’s some sort of AI still running on board.” He turns to Kryten. “Raise comms, attempt to hail them.”

“Right you are, Sir.” Says Kryten as he taps at a keyboard and bangs the side of a monitor until the picture comes up.

The hailing frequency takes a few moments to get a response before the screen displays a dimly lit woman in a strange metallic helmet, covered in dirt and cobwebs. A spider crawls across her face. Her smile is wide and creepy.

“Greetings, I am Sandstrom.”

Kryten is about to speak, when Rimmer leans in and interjects. “Greetings Sandstrom, this is Acting First Officer Arnold J. Rimmer, but you can call me Arn.”

“What can I do for you Mr Rimmer?” Sandstrom asks.

“Please, call me Arn. Or Arnie, Iron Balls, whatever. We see you’ve taken a few hits. Are any of the crew still alive?”

“They’re all dead, Arn.” Sandstrom says, her smile staying as wide as ever. “Everybody’s dead, Arn.”

“Guys, let’s cut to the chase here.” Cat says, combing his hair. “Lady! You got any fish?”

Sandstrom’s smile fades and she begins to look peeved. “The HMS Camden Lock does not stock fish. Great Britain is still seeking fishing territories at this time.”

Kryten taps Rimmer on the shoulder and whispers in his ear. “I think we might have a problem, sir. My readings indicate that this AI is carrying a version of the holo virus that you contracted some years ago.”

Sandstrom raises her left hand next to her head, on it there sits a tattered looking Ed the Duck puppet. “What’s that Ed? No, we couldn’t possibly do that. Who’d clean up the mess?”

“Screw this.” His feet up on the dash, Cat uses the heel of his boot to tap a red button and sends a trash compactor shot towards the Camden Lock.

“Sir, what are you doing?!” Kryten asks, shocked. “Their stock manifest shows over 18,000 tons of curry on board.”

Sandstrom’s eyes glow red and a bolt of red plasma arcs from the comms panel into Mr Rimmer, knocking him unconscious, he lands slumped in his seat.

“What the hell is going on?!” Lister asks as he makes his way into the cockpit just in time to see the Camden Lock blown into millions of pieces.

“Um... hi buddy.” Says Cat, his teeth poking sheepishly over his bottom lip.

“What have I missed?!” Lister asks, poking the unconscious Rimmer.

“Well,” Kryten says, “we’re going to need Mr Flibble and a live space weevil, sir.”

[star--nymph]

I had no idea I had this HC until now, but - Eury actually likes pearls. Not just the perfectly round ones so highly prized by jewellers, but the misshapen ones, the multicoloured ones. They have a smooth, pleasing texture even with the lumps, and they shine like the Moon.

YOU'RE RIGHT SHE WOULD.

Especially freshwater. Given that we know Britain had pearls in certain locations, then I would be willing to bet that Ferelden has some spots and that they're mostly freshwater, so Eurydice could go find them and keep them in her pockets just for collection and holding. Takes them out of her pocket and shows people her weird white minerals. Puts them on bracelets for people she loves.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Col. Warden Recalls Hindu 'Invasion’,” Border Cities Star. February 16, 1933. Page 5.  ---- Addresses Lions; Plan To Make Jobs Is Advanced ---- THE Koma Gato Maru incident in Vancouver in 1914 was related by Colonel John W. Warden, O.B.E., D S O., at last night's meeting of the Windsor Lions Club, held in the Norton-Palmer Hotel. The other features of the program were Edward Harding's plan for the relief of unemployment and the announcement that Dr. H. Irvine Wiley was chosen as the new district governor of Lions. 

'"When war is in the offing," declared Colonel Warden, "nations who are anxious to go to war show it by their plans. Previous to the world war Germany planned against England. They sent 300 strikers out to the coal mines in British Columbia to bring on a strike a year before the war. This was done so that no coal would be available for the navy or commercial purposes. 

"I was stationed there just one year then and it presented a delicate situation. We rounded up 100 men but we could not find the ringleaders. To find them we said that we were going out of town and we left town but waited just outside of the town. As soon as we had left 1,500 men gathered in one place and we were notified immediately. We came back to town and captured the ringleaders and had them brought up for trial. This was done in spite of considerable disturbance from the women folks. 

Wishing to cause trouble within the British Empire Germany collected 350 Hindu deserters of the Indian Army, took them to Shanghai and sent them to Canada. British naval authorities were watching their movements and notified us in Vancouver. We were told to handle the situation with diplomacy and to avoid trouble. 

'Canadian officials told us not to allow them to land by any means. When the boat, the Koma Gato Maru, pulled into the harbor took 20 sea-going launches and a tug out to meet it. The man in charge of immigration was not familiar with East Indians and lost their respect by going to them first. A man who was then a member of Parliament and is now a cabinet minister made the same mistake.

"They often promised to go back peaceably but their promises were only tricks to get supplies. '"Immigration officials sent 200 policemen out at midnight to surprise the Indians but they were waiting and drove the police away by throwing missiles of every kind down at them in the smaller boat. I was struck in the back with a large lump of coal and then they cut the grappling ropes. 

'"Finally I went out to their ship and told them that if they did not leave by five o'clock we would bring a warship out and make them leave. The warship came alongside with men marching on deck and at two minutes to five they cast anchor and moved out the harbor under our escort. As we left them they took off their sandals and threw, them at us and spit at us.

"When they got back to India they started a riot and two-thirds of them were killed and the rest captured. Then the war started and I left but shortly afterwards our interpreter who had been threatened with myself was shot while in the courtroom. 

"This is just an example." concluded Colonel Warden, "of how other nations seek to make trouble for Great Britain when they are planning a war." 

A plan for the relief of unemployment was submitted by Mr. Harding and a committee was appointed to present it to the Border Chamber of Commerce. The plan has been tried and found sound in Rochester, New York, and now other cities are undertaking it. It calls for a canvass of all citizens and obtaining their pledges to spend whatever amount they can in the next three months on improving homes, factories, stores, buildings and grounds and for the purchase of new articles. In Rochester and Monroe County the residents pledged themselves to spend $6.026.351.95 during the next three months. The plan is designed to prevent hoarding of money and to create employment.

[AL: A remarkable display of the racist, classist, conspiracy theorizing of the Canadian military and political elite, especially the ‘small fry’ of this class - local administrators, politicians, police, prison, military and capitalists, the powerful on a municipal or rural level, who can only understand events in their time as the acts of agitators and foreign enemies. It’s clearly a post-facto argument, too, sort of like The Simpsons’ Moe claiming ‘even when I knew it was the bears, I knew it was them [the immigrants].’ People like Warden opposed to Sikh immigration or strikers didn’t hide behind ‘imperial Germany did it’ at the time - they just argued that White Canada had to keep out the wrong colour and punish the labour agitator. The implication here, too, is that the unrest of the Great Depression was being caused by the Soviet Union.]

[tjmystic]

Other people have said this more eloquently than I have and will continue to do so, but, on the off chance that my small smattering of followers might need to see it said from someone else (and are sick of the pity party I've been throwing because of my latest breakdown), I thought I'd share my thoughts.

First off, let's get the annoying argument out of the way: I don't hate Jewish people. I don't hate Judaism. I'm not going to throw some garbage in here about how I have Jewish family and friends or that some of my favorite celebrities are Jewish or anything that white (or white passing, in my case) people tend to use as a reason why they can't hate a certain group. I don't hate the people, their race, or their religion because they're people, full stop. I feel the same way about Muslims and Islam, Christianity (if not all Christians, but, as a Christian, I feel I'm allowed to say this), atheists, agnostics, people of all religious beliefs and non-beliefs.

Likewise, I don't deny the Holocaust. I fully acknowledge the systematic murder of more than 17 million people (military included), over 6 million of whom were Jewish and killed specifically for being Jewish. The fact that this was allowed to happen will never not be a blight on humanity, and the fact that anti-semitism is still a problem that leads to the murders of Jewish people and Jewish allies harrows me to my core.

None of this, however, has anything to do with Israel, nor does it serve as an excuse for what Israel is currently doing to Palestine and has done since 1948. To repeat the phrase I've seen most frequently about this matter, "Surviving one genocide doesn't give you the right to commit another."

Another factor: Israel would not exist without the Allied Forces of World War II. What England (because I refuse to lump in the rest of Britain with this abhorrent decision) and America did was take a deeply traumatized people who had narrowly "escaped" -- if you can even call it that -- the largest genocide the modern world has ever seen (I know Wikipedia isn't the most reputable source, but the sources used in this entry are good, and it's just easier to link there than list each of those stats individually) and shove them off onto a separate continent. Instead of owning the choices that we (America, especially) made to allow this genocide to happen and actually trying to make reparations for it, to tell the remaining Jewish population, "You can return to your actual homes, your actual home countries, and we're going to do everything possible to make those places feel like home for you once again," we said, "Actually, it's really awkward if you're still here and we have to be reminded of what we did to you, so we're sending you somewhere else. Good luck!" That the "somewhere else" happened to be the the Jewish Holy Land is irrelevant. Especially considering that Jewish people were already living there and had been for upwards of 2000 years of recorded history.

But even that isn't fully accurate, because Holocaust survivors aren't the ones doing this. More often, Holocaust survivors are also victims of Israel.

Jewish people have more than enough justification to be afraid. They have equal justification to want a safe space where they can be Jewish however they want. They have a deep connection to the part of the Middle East in which Israel sits, as do Muslims, Christians, and many other world religions, and they should feel safe and respected in traveling to or living in that part of the world.

And none of this justifies Israel's existence as a state or the continued murder of thousands and thousands of innocent Palestinians.

[anime-dub-transcripts]

Hetalia: The World Twinkle Episode #19: Surprise Halloween! Transcript

This episode has Halloween.

{Caption: Yaaaaaaaaay!}

Crowd: Yaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy!

America: Thank you, dudes and dudettes, for comin’ out to my place for this Halloween party! Eat anything you like and dance anything you like!

Japan’s thoughts: Why is the food fluorescent orange? Perhaps it’s a test to see if we’ll eat them.

America: We used to have blood, glass shards, flame, and lumps of flesh flying around, but don’t worry, guys; that’s all in the past now!

Lithuania: Oh, good; it was a whole lot of work cleaning that stuff up.

Tony: AAHUAH!

America: And, once again, I’m the winner in this year’s Halloween Horror contest!

{Caption #1: Ta-da!}

{Caption #2: WINNER IS USA}

Britain: YOU CAN’T JUST ANNOUNCE THAT IN PUBLIC!

(Crowd: Huh?)

Seychelles: Wow, badges are so shiny and pretty and wonderful!

Sealand: I’m also here to participate as a full-fledged country!

Britain: Have you lost the plot?!

(Seychelles: Ohho! Ohhoah!)

Britain: The only full-fledged thing I’ve ever acknowledged you as is a nutter!

Sealand: I am not a nutter, I’m a famous country! One who even has a page on Wikipedia!

(France: Ohonhon! Très bien!)

(Très bien!: Very good! → French)

{Caption: Giggle}

{Caption: Très bien}

(Très bien: Very good → French)

France: Bonjour, pretty pirate, I’ve come from Neverland to challenge you to a duel in bed!

(Bonjour: Hello → French)

Monaco: Allô. Sorry we are late, Seychelles.

(Allô: Hello → French)

Monaco: At least the Peter Pan gang is finally complete, non?

(Non?: No? → French)

{Caption #1: Ha Ha Ha… }

{Caption #2: Smooth}

{Caption #3: Smooth ‘n Shiver}

France: Well, enchanté, mon ami. Do you not think my soft skin is extra très bien today? Heh!

(Enchanté, mon ami: Nice to meet you, my (male) friend → French)

(Très bien: Very good → French)

(Monaco: Hahahahahaha!)

(Britain: Auuuuhhhhhhhhh…)

{Caption: Smirk. Smirk}

France: It seems I have won our ages old, since-we-were-twelve skirmish of the best dressed, as if either one of us is surprised, though.

(Britain: Euh! Gah! Euheuheuh! Euh!)

Britain: What are you talking about? I look far cooler than you, now get off me!

{Caption #1: E}

{Caption #2: F}

France: Auh!

Britain: Besides, who puts that much heart into a silly costume?

Seychelles: Eh?

(France: Hm?)

{Caption: Flip}

{Text on flyer: Costume Contest}

Monaco: Oh, did you not receive this flyer?

Britain: Huh?!

{Text on flyer #1: Costume Contest}

{Text on flyer #2: Time: }

{Text on flyer #3: Venue: America}

{Caption: Actually written in English}

Britain: A costume contest?! No, no one told me about that at all!

Seychelles: Hey…

Britain: Auh!

Seychelles: What’s there behind your ear?

{Text on flyer #1: Costume Contest}

{Text on flyer #2: Time: }

{Text on flyer #3: Venue: America}

{Caption: Actually written in English}

{Caption: Flyer}

Britain: THAT SON OF A COCKWOBBLE!

America: Haha! My prank totally worked!

{Text on sign: Break Room}

{Caption: Actually written in English}

Britain: What’s his deal? Is handing me an invitation all that hard? Really! He’ll regret that choice once he sees what I’m posting about him! America’s a weasel tit!

{Text on sign: Restrooms}

{Caption: Actually written in English}

Germany: Okay. I finished the changing on time.

Italy: Germany, Germany!

Germany: What’s wrong, Italy?

Italy: Ve, ve, ve…

Voice: Crestfallen!

{Caption: Crestfallen}

Italy: It’s an emergency! Ve, ve, ve!

{Caption: Ve}

Germany: What, do I not look good in this?

Italy: Oh no, you do! You look very good! But when I changed…everyone in the dressing room said I didn’t look good in this at all!

{Caption: You don’t look good!}

Men: Not good at all!

Germany: Are you wearing pants right now?

Italy: Eh?

Germany: Ooh, you will run laps later!

{Caption: Swordsman}

Voice: Swordsman!

Italy: See, I think I look too cool for the school!

{Caption: Skinny}

Men: Too skinny!

{Caption: Roman senator}

Voice: Roman senator!

Italy: Um, this should look good on me, no?

{Caption: No dignity}

Men: No dignity! No power!

{Caption: Gladiator}

Voice: Gladiator!

Italy: All right! Then how about this one?

{Caption: Not quite right}

Men: Not quite right!

{Caption: We wanna see muscle}

Men: We wanna see muscle!

(Italy: Oh)

Italy: Well, maybe next year.

{Caption: Droop}

Voice: Droop…

Man #1: Perfection!

Man #2: Boom! You own this one!

Italy: Heck yeah! This is from my grandpa’s era, but it is too lowly for me, don’t you think?

Germany: Uh, no, ist fine!

(Ist: [It] Is → German)

{Caption: Horse}

Horse: Horse!

Poland: Yeah, totally on my way, my broseph. Don’t forget when my costume blows you out of water to tell everyone how huge Poland is!

Man: Excuse me, but horses aren’t allowed at this venue.

Poland: No horses?! Are you kidding me?!

(Horse: Horse?)

America: Thank you for your patience, and now for the main event! The world costume contest begins now!

Crowd: Wooah!

America: The winners will receive prizes like a car and other crap I didn’t need anymore. The biggest prize will be this non-specific, non-charted video game sequel.

{Caption #1: Car}

{Caption #2: TV <<<<<<<<<< Un&$arted 3?!}

Crowd: Woah!

Sealand: No way, the top prize is a video game? That’s for kids! I guess the winner will be a big baby.

{Caption: Cute!}

Seborga: Isn’t it sweet how Sealand is so predictable?

(Women: Awwwwwwww!)

Wy: Hey, you two! You guys aren’t countries, are you?

{Caption: Gulp!}

Sealand, Seborga: What?

Sealand: Auh…Wy!

Wy: My participation is official.

Sealand: Wow, I can’t believe you wore what I asked you to!

Wy: It’s a coincidence!

Seychelles: Wow, you guys are cute! Can I ask what you are dressed up as?

Sealand, Wy, Seborga: We’re a non-specific Toy Story!

Denmark: Move it! Out of my way! Our ghost pirate ship is passing through! Give me candy or I’ll play a trick!

Woman: Hello, I’m Candy!

{Caption: Poke, poke, poke…}

Norway: Sorry, my hand probably slipped.

Denmark: Guahgh guahgh!

{Caption: Moi}

(Moi: Hi → Finnish)

Voice: Moi!

(Moi!: Hi! → Finnish)

Finland: Um, excuse me, I have a couple of questions for you.

{Caption: Bam}

Finland: What do you think? Do I look scary?

{Caption #1: Moi}

{Caption #2: Moi}

(Moi: Hi → Finnish)

Finland: Um, well, uh, since you guys decided to be ghost pirates, I made this costume myself based on the idea of a skeleton pirate.

(Voice: Moi, moi! Moi, moi! Moi, moi! Moi, moi!)

(Moi: Hi → Finnish)

(Man #1: Face is scary!)

(Man #2: What?)

(Woman: Woah, he is scary!)

Sweden: It’s cute.

Finland: WHAT?! Cute is not what I’m going for!

Iceland: Wow, I’m the youngest out of all of them, but they're the ones acting immature.

{Caption: Ciao. Ciao. Ciao}

Italy: Ciao, ciao, ciao!

(Ciao: Hello → Italian)

Japan: Italy, that cosplay is, uh…well, I suppose I could call it kawaii.

Italy: Kawaii?

(Kawaii: Cute → Japanese)

Italy: All right! Japan said I’m adorable!

{Caption #1: Cute}

{Caption #2: The color tone is very good, it has a pretty shape, etc…etc…}

Italy: Kawaii is, like, the number one compliment in Japan, isn’t it?

(Kawaii: Cute → Japanese)

{Caption #3: Very Good}

{Caption: Grab!}

Germany: Euch!

(Italy: Auh!)

Germany: This may be a good costume in the sense that I can keep you from running off to surrender at things.

Italy: Oh no, you caughted me!

Japan: Good evening, Mr. Germany.

Germany: Duah!

Japan: You look very cool, if I may say so.

Germany: Ja, you really think so?

(Ja: Yes → German)

{Caption: He feels a little happy about wearing this costume}

Germany: Dankeschön.

(Dankeschön: Thank you very much → German)

Italy: Why not wear a costume that matches ours, Japan?

Japan: Well, I prefer what I’m wearing at the moment. If I did, though, I’d probably want to be the---

Voice: Swordsman.

{Caption: Swordsman}

Voice: Roman senator.

{Caption #1: Roman senator}

{Caption #2: Slip}

Voice: Gladiator.

{Caption #1: Gladiator}

{Caption #2: Skinny}

Voice: Droop.

{Caption #1: Droop}

{Caption #2: Caught the second one!!}

Denmark: Hahahahahaha! Huh?

{Caption: Grab!}

Denmark: Huh! What, it’s a hanger?! Who dare throw this at me?!

{Caption: Abuzz}

Deep voice: Abuzz!

Lithuania: Woah!

Man: Not a hanger!

{Caption #1: Bam!}

{Caption #2: Fuck}

Belarus: I know you think you’re everyone’s favorite, but heads up, bicycle boy, no one really thinks that’s true!

{Caption #3: Boom!}

Lithuania: Belarus, what is wrong with you?!

Denmark: Woah, very interesting. Your big brother is Mr. Russia, no?

{Caption: Smack}

Norway: My hand slipped.

{Caption: Uneasy}

Lithuania: Uwaaaahhh…

Belarus: Damn straight, and there’s no way he’ll lose to the likes of you!

(Lithuania: I am sorry, I am really sorry!)

Denmark: He won’t? You sure?

{Caption: Flap, flap}

Belarus: My big brother is the world’s greatest!

(Latvia: Wow! Flap!)

{Caption: Chuckle, chuckle}

Denmark: Ha! Hahaha! Hahahahaha!

(Belarus: Euh!)

{Caption #1: Hahaha!}

{Caption #2: Cheerful}

Denmark: How amusing! Yes, I’m sure your big bro-man is looking great today, oh so great! I honestly can’t wait to see your fake jobs when you all get together!

Belarus: Grrrrr!

Denmark: As if I’m worried about losing to the USSR! Oh wait, I mean you!

{Caption: Noisy, noisy}

Finland: Please tell him that I’m looking forward to a fair competition.

Belarus: I hope your dick falls off.

Lithuania: She doesn’t mean that.

Norway: I don’t know, I think she does.

Spain: Can we join that competition también?

(También: Too → Spanish)

Denmark: Huh?

Finland, Belarus: Huh?

Spain: I don’t think anyone can beat us thanks to the ace we’ve got up in our sleeves. You seem like you’re in a good mood, considering you’re about to get crushed, so it’s nice you can still have fun.

Belgium: Hey! By the way, a “Little Red Riding Hood” horror game created in Belgium is on sale!

Man: Does she think this will go viral?

Lithuania: So, you have an ace up your sleeve then, Mr. Spain? Can’t wait to see it!

Spain: Sí!

(Sí!: Yes! → Spanish)

Spain: But I don’t want you thinking you have to protect her, okay?

Lithuania: Um…to what?

Romano: He means me!

{Caption: Rumble, rumble, rumble…}

Romano: Don’t stare at me like that, you ass bastard!

Lithuania’s thoughts: I meant that the king boss type is here!

{Caption: Gulp}

{Caption #1: Cute}

Spain: Isn’t he cute?

{Caption #2: Really cute}

Belgium: Oh yeah, like, totally cute!

Netherlands: Hm!

Germany: Gueah! Heh!

{Caption: Grab}

Germany: DUEUH!

Prussia: Aaah!

China: Aiyah!

Hong Kong: S’up?

Hungary: Hahaha! This way, Mr. Austria!

(Austria: Eum! Eum!)

Hungary: Hahahaha!

(Austria: Eum! Eum!)

Hungary: Better hurry up or I’ll leave you here! Haha! Kidding. The truth is I won’t leave you no matter how slow you are.

Austria: Are we going to be all right in the end, Hungary?

Hungary: Hi, everyone! I got to see you finally! I somehow feel like today is too good to be real!

{Caption: Puff}

Italy: Miss Hungary! Mr. Austria!

(Hungary: Ha! Haha!)

Germany: Austria, why are you dressed like that?

(Hungary: Hahaha!)

Austria: Why are you making eye contact with me, you creep?

Germany: I can’t help you UNLESS YOU ASK FOR HELP!

Japan: I think you look wonderful.

Austria: Yes, of course, but what’s with your costumes?

{Text on sign: Men’s Dressing Room}

Russia: Privet, I am ready!

(Privet: Hello → Russian)

Mochi America: Fuck you!

{Caption: Startled}

(Latvia: Euh!)

{Caption: Woosh}

Russia: Ta-da! Hahaha!

(Ukraine: Hahaha!)

Voice: Whoosh!

Russia: All right, shall we go?

Denmark: Slick air below, kids!

{Caption: Bam}

Sweden: Hm.

Crowd: Huh?

Finland: What do you have there, Mr. Sweden?! It’s incredible!

{Caption: Thump}

Denmark, Norway, Iceland, Sweden, Finland: Hm?

{Text in speech bubble: !}

Belarus: You can throw yourselves at his feet now!

Russia: Hello. Good evening, Denmark.

Denmark: Russia! That costume is really flashy! Girlfriend didn’t exaggerate.

Belarus: Humph!

{Caption: Tremble, tremble}

Latvia: Eum…ehehehehe…

Denmark: You don’t want to let Latvia down before you say hi to everyone?

Russia: Not at all.

Mochi America: Fuck you!

(Estonia: Poor Latvia!)

Latvia: Eheheheh…

Russia: So the contest will be fought amongst us, the---

(France: Hey, garçons, over here!)

(Garçons: Boys → French)

France: Oui, the ones talking about the costume championship.

(Oui: Yes → French)

(Russia: Hm?)

(Estonia: Huh?)

{Caption #1: Wire}

{Caption #2: Floating}

France: Aren’t you missing someone?

(Crowd: Huh?)

France: Come on, how could you forget about the living embodiment of art that is known as moi?

(Moi: Me → French)

{Caption: Wire}

France: Look, France is being art right now!

Estonia: Woah, look, Mr. France is flying!

Russia: He’s using a wire.

Estonia: Oh, yes, I see that now.

Mochi America: Fuck you!

{Caption #1: Wire}

{Caption #2: Nougats are in the bag}

Monaco: Peter Pan is giving out nougats while flying! How mystical and fantastic! Hahaha!

(France: Oh! Ohonhon! Oh! Ohonhonhon!)

Seychelles: Uh, yeah, it’s, uh, nice enough.

(France: Honhonhonhon!)

(Monaco: Hahaha!)

{Caption #1: Whoosh}

{Caption #2: Yay}

{Caption #3: Yay}

{Caption #4: Yay}

France: I’ll give nougats to all the good boys and girls!

Italy: Big Brother France! You’re neato!

(France: Ohonhonhon!)

Prussia: Dammit! Why did I not think of that?

(France: Ohho!)

Germany: Because ist nice.

(France: Ohonhonhon!)

(Ist: [It] Is → German)

France: Oh, I got spirit, yes I do! I got spirit, more than you!

{Caption: My charming stubble}

France: I even shaved my sexy stubble for the day! Un, deux, trois!

(Un, deux, trois!: One, two, three! → French)

France: Here comes the big finale!

{Caption: Wire}

France: Oof! Fi!

(Fi!: Poo! → French)

France: Oh…huh…ohah!

Russia: So you’re stuck up there?

(France: Ohah!)

France: Oui.

(Oui: Yes → French)

Russia: Well, what can we do?

France: To start with, maybe you could get me down?

{Caption: Rumble, rumble, rumble…}

Tiger: Meroaw!

Cameroon: Is the Halloween contest still going on by chance?

(Tiger: Meowary!)

Lithuania: Oh, even an invisible character showed!

(Poland: Woah!)

Cameroon: Watch. If I do this, a flame will come out.

{Caption: Fwoosh!}

Lithuania: THAT LOOKS LIKE LITERAL INTOXICABLE!

France: Hey, guys, don’t you think something seems a little off?

China: I have been thinking that for long time now.

Russia: It’s as if we are missing a piece.

Lithuania: Yes, I feel it too. Normally just about now…

{Caption: Fwoop!}

Seychelles: Auh! This is strangely terrifying!

Iceland: To be honest, I have not noticed something too.

Hong Kong: Hmm…it’s like I can’t quite put my finger on it.

{Caption: Abuzz}

Crowd: You got that right!

Monaco: Things are starting to get strange.

Germany’s thoughts: They’ve sensed the truth.

Italy: Germany?

{Caption #1: A little while ago…}

{Caption #2: Empire State Building}

America: Hey, so you came. I thought you wouldn’t find it.

{Text on flyer: Halloween Costume Contest}

Britain: I did, in fact, consider ignoring this tripe. You should have given me the invitation properly, you stupid twat!

America: Yo, dude, there’s something I want you to help me with, okay? Gotta maintain that position as world host, right? Oh, what was that comment online about?

Britain: YOU BEING A WEASEL TIT! I don’t know what you’re up to, but you should’ve at least told me about the contest!

America: Yeah, couldn’t do that, dude. Didn’t want you to put your heart into it, see?

Britain: Tell me your reasons first and I might help you if I like your answer. To start with, why choose me?

America: Wanna know the truth? Well…

Crowd: Huh?

America: Yo, check out the stage, ladies and gentledudes!

America [talking to Britain]: The reason I called on you, dear Britain…simple. You, my dude bra, just happen to be my very first follower.

{Caption: Bam!}

America: Hahahaha!

Britain: YOU’RE A COMPLETE NINNY, AREN’T YOU?

America: I decided that in this year’s Halloween costume party, I was going to team up with my first follower.

Britain: That is your reason for us to wear these tight costumes?! OH, YOUR RIDICULOUSNESS KNOWS NO LIMITS!

America: Don’t make it weird. Now stand up and show off those gams!

Britain: YAAAH! BRITANNIA UNMASKING! What is your obsession with spandex in the first place?!

America: Uh, superheroes wear spandex, dude.

France: Oui, this is it.

(Oui: Yes → French)

France: Listen up, Britain! Listen to France, my friend!

{Caption: Sprung}

France’s thoughts: I am sprung.

France: I flew in the sky earlier! It was fun!

{Caption #1: Beating}

{Caption #2: Moved}

Britain: How come your stubble is already back?! Look, I’m about to Brexit, so lay off me!

France: Everything is back to normal now.

Seychelles: Yes, everything is back to normal.

Iceland: Hm…

Iceland’s thoughts: I see. Now that I think about it, we didn’t seem very coordinated today. Probably because Britain wasn’t here to point out random stuff.

{Caption: Wasabi}

Iceland: That must be why we all had a strange feeling that something wasn’t right.

(Britain: ARE YOU EATING WASABI?)

Iceland: He always complains, but people need him, and he needs people.

{Caption: Pat}

Hong Kong: You sound like you missed Britain when he wasn’t here! You feel the same way now or are you change your mind about the douche?

Narrator: And so, as usual, everyone lost their damn minds.

(Canada: First prize goes to him!)

Denmark: Hahahaha! There’s no way we could have beat them. Do you guys wanna do robots next year?

{Caption: Hahahaha!}

Belarus: All right, I guess I’ll let it go for today.

Estonia: Hehehehehe!

Narrator: And so, All Hallows Eve passed.

{Caption: Hahahaha!}

Narrator: However, there were a few whose Halloween spirits remained.

Germany: You can’t drink booze? Booze that I served you?

Prussia: I can’t drink any more. Hahahahaha!

Britain: No worries, I’ll drink for you! Oi, you guys drink too!

Italy: I don’t wanna.

Japan: No way, I told you it takes longer for me to break down alcohol.

France: Me! I am going to drink with you!

Britain: Here!

Hungary: Haha! Hurray to Halloween!

Germany, Prussia, France, Hungary: Hahahahahaha!

Man: Is that group a bunch of Romans?

[fruitcoops]

Cake Off

Happy birthday, Finn O'Hara! Here's to hoping all your wishes come true <3 SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Marlene waved to the camera as she wove a small whisk into her bun; behind her, five young men sat in front of a well-lit industrial kitchen. “Hello, Lions, and welcome back to Lion Pride! I’m your host, Marlene McKinnon, and we’re here today to celebrate someone we all love very much.”

“Some more than others,” Leo corrected.

“Today is Finn O’Hara’s 25thbirthday,” Marlene continued. “And my gift to him was letting him pick what our next video was going to be. Being the agent of chaos we know and love, he chose to force his friends to make him birthday cakes. Cap, Knutty, I know you two are feeling pretty confident about this. Tremzy, Kasey, and Loops, how are we feeling today?”

Logan’s expression was rather pained. “Can I apologize in advance?”

“I have…a history with ovens,” Kasey said carefully. “Kind of like Britain’s history with the rest of the world, except I’m the rest of the world and the oven wins nine times out of ten.”

“I don’t bake,” Remus sighed. “This is going to be an adventure. Can I leave if I already got him a present?”

“Nope!” Marlene chirped. “To your stations, everyone!”

The five of them trooped to the countertops, which had been covered with a colorful assortment of baking supplies; Logan’s smile grew even more nervous. “Is there a guidebook, or something?”

Marlene ruffled his hair as she passed. “Where’s the fun in that? You have two hours to make a unique birthday cake. On your marks—”

Kasey went pale. “Wait—”

“—get set—”

“Marlene, please,” Remus begged.

“—go!”

“Oh my god,” Logan muttered. “Uh, I don’t have a recipe.”

Marlene’s grin was wicked. “That’s the extra bonus fun.”

Leo paused from where he was measuring flour into a sifter and raised his hand. “Finn’s not actually tasting everyone’s cakes, right? ‘Cause making him sick on his birthday seems a bit mean.”

“He only has to try one bite of each,” Marlene assured him as she stopped by Sirius’ station, where he was gathering his ingredients in a line. “Cap, what are you making today?”

“Vanilla with chocolate frosting. I know the recipe by heart, but I only make it when I’m stressed.” A furrow appeared between his brows before he straightened up and raised his voice. “Hey, someone stress me out!”

“Playoffs!” Kasey shouted from across the room. All five men immediately hurried to knock on the wooden cabinets.

“Thanks!” Sirius gave him a thumbs-up and Kasey winked.

“And somebody won’t be sleeping tonight,” Remus muttered, flicking sugar at Kasey. “Thanks, Bliz.”

Logan was still bracing himself against the countertop when Marlene arrived at his table. “How’re you feeling, Tremz? I see you haven’t chosen any ingredients.”

“There’s a very fine line between making your boyfriend a birthday cake and poisoning him,” Logan said after a moment. “And I think I’m about to find out where it is.”

“What are you making?”

“I don’t know yet. Whatever happens, happens.”

“Fair enough,” Marlene laughed as she moved on. “Leo?”

“I’m gonna make a lemon cake,” he said with a proud smile as he mixed the dry ingredients. “And it’s going to be delicious.”

“Do you bake at home very often? You sound confident.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “For special occasions, yeah. I vaguely know what I’m doing, so I feel pretty good.”

“How do you think Logan’s cake will turn out?”

Leo paused and glanced up. A beat of silence passed before he bit his lower lip. “I think it’s a really good thing that Finn has two boyfriends that are making him cakes.”

“Rude,” Logan grumbled as he dumped another cupful of flour into a bowl to Sirius’ obvious horror. He stuck his tongue out. “Don’t give me that look, Cap, this cake is going to be fucking amazing.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows and turned back to his own batter. “If you say so.”

Logan stood on his toes and poured the next cup directly over Sirius’ head in a poof of white. The studio went silent. With a cough, a bit of flour puffed from Sirius’ mouth. “Cap?” Kasey ventured.

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

“Mhmm.” He slowly took a towel off the oven door and wiped his face with it, then whipped around and snapped it at Logan’s thigh—it connected with a sharp sound, followed by a yelp as Logan shoved Leo in front of him as a makeshift shield. “You can’t hide behind him forever!”

“Remember, you only have two hours!” Marlene called as she dodged a patch of flour on the floor. Sirius scowled and put the towel back down on the counter; Logan backed away to his station with a suspicious glare. “Loops, how are you?”

“I’m minding my own business,” he said innocently. “Staying in my lane. Paying no attention to the idiots behind the curtain, if you will.”

“Impressive. What are you making for our wonderful Harzy?”

“Spite cake.”

“What?”

“Spite cake,” he repeated with a shadow of a smile. “It’s carrot cake, but with no special ingredient of love or appreciation, because he knows how much I hate baking and he’s been making fun of me over text all morning.”

Leo frowned. “Weren’t you two bonding over how much you hate carrot cake when we went to lunch yesterday?”

“Hence the name,” Remus said as he pulled a cheese grater out of the lineup.

“And last, but certainly not least, Kasey.” Marlene leaned against the edge of his table. “How’s it going over here?”

“So far, so good.” He eyed his batter and poked one of the lumps with a fork. “Does this look ready to you?”

“Seems a bit wet, to be honest.”

“Yeah, I thought so. Do people put milk in cake batter?” On the other end of the kitchen, Sirius and Leo shared a look.

Marlene patted his arm. “Good luck, Bliz.”

The camera cut for a moment—when it returned, the three bakers on the far end seemed to be even more flustered than before. “You have one hour left!” someone off-screen announced.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Logan held his spatula up. The batter remained stuck to it in a doughy lump. “Is this supposed to happen?”

Leo’s eyes flickered between Sirius, who was clearly shocked into silence, and Logan, who was growing more distressed by the second. “Sure, honey.”

“Baby, it looks like jello,” Remus called as he shook his mixing bowl with a nervous glance to Sirius. “Why does it look like jello?”

“Mon dieu,” Sirius muttered as he crossed the room; the second he looked over Remus’ shoulder, his eyes widened. “How did you…?”

“I don’t know.”

“You put flour in, right?”

“Hey, no helping!” Kasey protested, swatting Sirius on the shoulder with an oven mitt. “We all fail on our own merit here. Tremy’s making concrete, Loops has jello, and I’ve got soup, so you and Knutty can fuck off back to your perfect batter and let us suffer in peace!”

“Jesus, Bliz, did you put water in that?”

“No! I put butter and milk in!”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“One hour left!” Marlene shouted.

“Fuck it, it’s good enough.” Remus grabbed the nearest cake pan and dumped his batter in, then put it in the oven. He turned the heat on and faced the camera guiltily. “Harzy, I know this was meant to spite you, it really was just meant to be a carrot cake. Not…that.”

Logan sprinkled a handful of chocolate sprinkled into his mixing bowl. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he singsonged. “But I know I’m doing it poorly!”

“Oh my god,” Remus said suddenly as he licked some of his batter off his finger. “Oh my—oh my god.”

Kasey looked up from pouring his batter into a pan in mild alarm. “What?”

“Oh my god, that’s terrible. Here, try it.”

Kasey put his cake in the oven before swiping a bit off and tasting it. His whole face scrunched. “What?”

“I know,” Remus laughed, passing the spatula to Logan. “It’s like getting punched with a cinnamon stick.”

“I can feel it in my nose,” Logan coughed. “Here, try mine.”

Leo regarded them with a healthy amount of disbelief. “Why are you all tasting it if you know it’s bad?”

“Because Marlene needs workable content.”

“Do it for the vine.”

“Because I’m a dumbass, rookie.” Kasey lifted the spatula up. “Cap, your fiancé made toxic sludge in cake form. Want some?”

Sirius hesitated, then sighed and headed over. Leo threw his hands in that air. “You, too?”

“What else am I supposed to—” Sirius faltered with a harsh exhale and braced his hands against the counter, licking his lips. “How many eggs did you put in that?”

“Four? Five?”

“How much cinnamon?”

“A teaspoon?”

Sirius took a fortifying breath through his nose. “Teaspoon or tablespoon?”

“Tablespoon,” Kasey answered for him. “Definitely a tablespoon. Try mine.”

“You two are never allowed in a kitchen again,” Sirius said, though he swiped his finger along the inside of Kasey’s bowl and tasted his batter with a grimace. “Ugh. It’s just melted butter.”

“How did you make it taste like salty butter and nothing else?” Logan asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Well, Tremzy, I put salt and butter in it.”

Leo’s phone timer went off and he opened the oven door; four faces turned toward him in shock as he pulled a golden cake out and checked the center with a toothpick. Logan closed his eyes and bent closer, taking a deep inhale. “I wish the viewers could smell this, because it’s heaven.”

“Can it be my birthday instead?” Kasey asked. “Please?”

“Get back, you hyenas!” Leo whacked him lightly on the hand with a spoon when he reached out to poke the cake. “That oven was 350 degrees!”

Sirius glanced up at the camera. “That’s 177 degrees, for all you smart people out there.”

“Boo, Celsius.” Remus kissed his cheek. “You smell like sugar.”

“How much time do you all have left on your cakes?” Marlene asked from her perch next to the sink.

Logan, Remus, and Kasey shared a look before Logan turned back to her. “I don’t know?”

“You can’t answer that with another question,” she laughed.

“Ten minutes,” he guessed.

“Whenever it starts to smell good,” Remus said. “Though I doubt that’s going to happen.”

Kasey cocked his head and scanned Leo’s cake for a second. “When it starts looking like that.”

“It won’t,” Leo informed him.

“Damn, Knutty, okay.”

Marlene shook her head. “We’re going to cut filming until everyone’s cakes are out of the oven, but in the meantime we’ve got some special messages for our favorite redhead.”

A banner reading Happy Birthday, Finn! appeared on the screen with a burst of confetti before the usual studio replaced it, with its white walls and folding chairs. Dumo crossed one leg over the other with a soft smile. “One thing I admire about Finn is his tenacity. When he wants something, he’ll go for it with his whole heart.”

“I love his humor,” Leo said in the next short video. He was smiling as well, and had a faint blush on his freckled cheeks. “And the way he makes breakfast in the mornings. All the little things he does to make the people he loves happy. And he really does love with his whole heart. There’s no holding back with him.”

“Finn?” Sirius thought for a moment. “He’s a good person. I know that might sound lame, but he’s one of those people that you meet that always makes you feel happy, and confident, and supported. Anyone who meets him should count themselves lucky.”

Logan’s face was filled with nothing but affection. “I love his patience and his kindness. Whether that was helping me work on my English in college, or making the rookies feel welcome, or even the way he talks to complete strangers when they ask for directions on the street. Everything about him is kind.”

“Ah, jeez.” Remus bit his lower lip. “I think—I think what I admire most about Finn is that he never lets anyone else define who he is. He’s comfortable in himself and makes everyone around him feel safe. It’s sappy, but it’s true. He’s one of my best friends and I’m grateful for him every day.”

“He’s one of the most reliable people I’ve ever met,” James said. “Both on and off the ice. He will be there to support his friends in any capacity and I think we all need to be a little more like Finn that way.”

“Great player.” Arthur nodded. “Great player, and an even better teammate. I can put O’Hara anywhere on the ice and he’ll throw everything he’s got into doing his best. I can’t think of a single Lion who doesn’t love being on the same shift as him.”

Talker grinned, leaning back in his chair with a shake of his head. “Finn just loves hockey. He takes it seriously, of course, but he loves being out there with us and I’m always happy when we’re on a line together. He goes out there every night and has a blast. I admire a lot about him, but especially that.”

“It’s hard to pick one specific thing that I admire about him,” Kasey said, shifting in his chair. “He’s Finn. He’s annoying as all hell, and I love him for it. I’m not sure. Can I make a list?”

“Harzy is very cool,” Olli laughed. “Very cool and very fun to be around. He has a quick wit and truly cares about all of us.”

Kuny raised his eyebrows. “What I like about Harzy? Oh, everything. Everything. He is good friend, good teammate, always there when we need him. Good for Tremzy and Knutty, too. He would turn red like fire engine if he heard me. Don’t tell him I say that.”

The video changed to a wide view of the whole team as they waved to the camera. “Happy birthday, Harzy!” they chorused. “Bitch ass moves!”

The kitchen was much cleaner when the video resumed; all the cooking supplies had been taken away, leaving five hockey players with their cakes in front of them. Leo’s cake was a bit lopsided, though the yellow frosting was cheerful and even—next to him, Logan’s cake looked more like a squished loaf of bread. Sirius’ was plain and elegant, while Kasey’s frosting was still dripping as the camera zoomed in on it.

“Wow,” Finn said after a moment of silence from his seat at the main table, where five slices of cake had been placed on small plates with a label for each name. “Just…wow.”

“You can start with whichever one you want,” Marlene told him.

“I think I’ll save Cap and Leo’s for last. Uh, Kase, what happened here?”

Kasey sighed. “I wish I knew.”

Finn gave it a wary look, then took a bite; his chewing slowed to a stop almost immediately and Logan’s shoulders started to shake from his suppressed laughter. “You know it’s burnt on the outside and not cooked on the inside, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Just checking.” With great effort, he swallowed. “Why is it wet?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, man.”

Finn took the next plate, then paused. “Re, I love you, but…”

Remus shook his head. “I know.”

“I’m genuinely afraid to try this.”

“You should be.”

The second it touched his tongue, Finn started laughing. “Jesus, it’s a straight shot of cinnamon. Why is it crunchy?”

“It’s carrot cake!”

“You know I hate carrot cake!”

“Look, I gave it my best shot. It really wasn’t supposed to do…” He gestured at the plate. “That.”

“Lo, baby, please tell me yours is better than the last two.”

Logan thought for a moment. “It was made with love and that’s all that matters.”

Finn took a deep breath before taking a bite. A range of emotions washed over his face—pleasant surprise, then confusion, then horror, and finally disbelief. “I…what?”

“I don’t even know.”

He swallowed, then ate another bite. “Oh, bad idea. This—are there chocolate chips in here? And almonds?”

“Yeah. You like those, right?”

“Usually, yes. It’s kind of got the texture of fruitcake, but—” Finn broke off and picked the slice up, giving it a shake. Not even a crumb fell out of place, and the rest of the boys burst out laughing. “Lo. Logan. Light of my life, what the fuck?”

“Happy birthday?”

“This is the best birthday present ever. Alright, Cap, your turn.” He took a piece of Sirius’ cake and nodded. “Yep, that’s cake.”

Sirius blinked at him. “And?”

Finn shrugged. “It’s cake. Classic flavors, good texture. I like it. Definitely tastes like a cake you would make.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s calling you basic,” Kasey said, patting Sirius’ shoulder sympathetically. “But hey, at least yours was cooked all the way.”

“And now for boyfriend number two,” Finn continued.

Leo rolled his eyes. “Boyfriend number two.”

“Oh, that’s so good,” Finn groaned around a mouthful of cake. His eyebrows pitched. “I love it.”

“What about it?” Marlene prompted.

“For starters, it’s cooked all the way through. The lemon is freakin’ amazing, and the frosting isn’t melting off the sides or anything. I can’t even taste everyone else’s anymore. It’s a helluva cake. Happy birthday to me. Will you make this every day?”

“No,” Leo said, though there was a pleased flush on his face. “But maybe on the weekend.”

Finn scraped the last of the crumbs off his plate. “Alright, everyone, come get a piece of this magic. Thank you for doing this, by the way. I know three of you hate baking.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Logan admitted as he settled himself on one of Finn’s thighs with a slice of his own and kissed his temple. “Sorry for almost poisoning you. Oh, that is tasty.”

“I love you anyway. I think Loops and Bliz were actually the closest to doing that, so you’re all good.” Finn raised his eyebrows and craned his neck over Logan’s shoulder. “Speaking of…”

“Lasagna or chicken piccata?” Remus asked. Sirius took advantage of his moment of distraction by stealing a bite off his plate and received a playful glare in response, though it was soothed by a kiss on his cheek.

“Lasagna, please.”

“Does Friday work?”

Finn gave him a thumbs-up. “Sorry, Harzy,” Kasey said as he carefully got the last bits of frosting off his fork. “I have no marketable skills to apologize with. You don’t want me anywhere near a stove or an oven.”

A gleam lit in Finn’s eye. “Will you get in all your pads and play chicken with Knutty and I?”

“For the twentieth time—”

“It’s my birthday,” he wheedled, pouting his lower lip out with the Bambi eyes turned to full blast.

Kasey sighed. “Fine.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Thanks for joining us for our birthday celebration,” Marlene said with a smile. “The best estimations of these recipes are linked on our website, with a few tweaks to make sure none of your loved ones get food poisoning this August. Have a great day, Lions!”

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[chudleycanonficfest]

The Greenhouse

Day 2, Story #2 is by @zurisenchantedquill

Title: The Greenhouse

Author/Artist: zurimadison

Pairing: Neville/ Hannah

Prompt: Wedding & Proposal

Rating: Teen

Trigger Warning(s) (if any): n/a

______

The sun was setting in brilliant shades of pink and orange, reflecting off the grey cotton ball clouds that were scattered across the sky. From where she stood in the kitchen, gazing out of the window as she washed up after dinner, Hannah watched the burning sphere sink behind the hills in the distance, leaving in its wake concentrated rays of soft yellow light.

The gentle clinking of ceramic and the movement of water in the sink were the only sounds in the house aside from Hannah’s quiet humming as she finished her task, basking in the view. The cobblestone path leading to the front door was flanked by tall grasses and flowers that grew wild on the country hillside, meeting the edge of a small duck pond beside which the faded white cottage was perched. The trees, green and heavy in the height of summer, swayed in the delicate breeze that also caused the surface of the pond to be perpetually disturbed, the ripples distorting the water’s reflection of the multicolor evening sky.

She left the dishes drying on a terry cloth towel, preparing two mugs of steaming tea that she carried out the back French doors of the cottage. She followed a well-packed dirt path that curved around a large oak tree and traveled parallel to the ruins of an old stone wall, overrun by weeds, until it reached the foot of a modest greenhouse. The structure was the newest addition to the property, it’s base made of solid red bricks and the top still boasting a pristinely painted white frame with polished, intact glass panes. She could just make out the silhouette of a person moving inside, and unconsciously sped her pace. 

The door opened in her presence, closing silently behind her as she sidled through the gap. She placed the mugs of tea on the center table, pulling up a stool as she watched Neville putter around the space. She could hear the muffled music from his headphones, the iPod that her cousin had helped her set up clipped to the waist of his jeans. He was repotting a plant with large, flat leaves, though the patterns of the holes that’d naturally developed across its foliage reminded her strongly of swiss cheese.

He worked diligently, sweat dripping down the side of the temple and hanging on the edge of his jaw. His features were contorted with concentration, but even then, Hannah thought he looked more relaxed when he was in his greenhouse than in most other circumstances. She’d had the idea to get him an iPod after he’d mentioned that he sometimes struggled to relax in the quiet, like he was waiting for something to disturb the silence. 

She loved spending time with Neville in their new greenhouse, though occasionally she could hardly believe the string of events that’d brought them to this point. Despite knowing of each other since their early days at Hogwarts, Hannah never noticed Neville like that until the year of the Carrows. 

She willed herself to breathe deeply, moving her thoughts away from the terrors of that time and focusing instead on what’d attracted her to the man she shared a home with now. He’d been the most noble student at the school that year. He had an unerring moral compass, but was still patient and understanding with people who weren’t ready to be as brave as he. He was kind, he was adorably shy, and (she gulped as she watched another bead of sweat trickle along a vein in his neck and disappear into the V of his shirt) he was good-looking as hell. 

Still, she hadn’t been able to work up the nerve in time to do anything about her schoolgirl crush, and they’d gone their separate ways after the war. She was lucky that fate had other ideas, and within a couple of years she found herself the new proprietor of one of the most visited pubs in wizarding Britain. When he’d first walked through her doors, bringing with him all the old feelings she didn’t know she still had, she couldn’t let him leave without trying. 

She’d blurted it at him loudly when he was halfway out the door.

“Willyougooutwithme?”

The entire pub had gone silent, and she knew her cheeks were flushed pink. She’d waited on bated breath while he’d turned around, staring at her as though amazed. Her stomach fluttered at the memory of the brilliant smile that’d overtaken his face before he’d said the one word that’d forever changed the trajectories of their lives. 

“Yes.”

What followed was three years of dating, of dealing with post war trauma, of learning how to communicate, of reassuring Neville of her feelings, of being very surprised at how much he was willing to take charge when he felt reassured, of deciding to move in together, of choosing to live in simplicity in the country, of learning of Neville’s passions, of knowing when to stay silent to let him speak, of understanding when he needed her to push him, and of the realization of a singular, resolute truth she felt in her bones. 

“Hey, you.” While she’d been lost in thought, Neville had noticed her presence. He pulled his headphones down on his neck and smiled, wiping the soil from his hands with a towel. He crossed the space between them, touching her cheek gently. “What’re you thinking about?” 

She met his eyes, today a warm brown in the center that faded to a grey green on the outside, and she couldn’t stop the words. “Marry me?”

His eyebrows moved towards each other, creasing his forehead as he blinked several times. “What?”

She placed her hand on top of his, still cupping her face, and beamed at him. “Marry me, Neville.” She gestured around the greenhouse. “Let’s you and I make each other happy like this for the rest of our lives.”

His grin rivaled that of the day she’d first asked him out. He bounded across the greenhouse, leaving her alone, confused at the large table as he rifled around in the aprons hanging on the back wall, muttering to himself. 

“There it is,” he exclaimed, running back to her with his fist clenched tight. He sat on the stool in front of her, the look on his face reminding her of a child on Christmas. “Ready?”

He still hadn’t answered her question, but his excitement and her curiosity got the better of her, so she nodded anyway. “Sure.”

He held his hand out, uncurling his fingers so she could see what sat so proudly in his palm. The band of the ring was pale green, shaped like tiny, delicately linked ivy leaves that’d grown in a perfect circle. From the top of the ring a small flower seemed to bloom, yellow and icy, so realistic she could have sworn the petals might fall if she touched them. 

It was her turn to be surprised, and she paused for several moments as she stared at the ring. He waited, watching her with eager eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, and when she met his gaze this time, she felt a lump growing in her throat. “How long have you had it?”

“Since we moved in together,” he admitted, smiling at her bashfully. 

“Why wait so long?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to get married.” He was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, though the other hand still held the ring out to her. “We’re so happy, and I don’t want you to feel pressured. I just want to be with you.” He shrugged, picking up the ring and holding it between two fingers. “With or without this. All I want is you.”

“Neville.” A few tears fell down her cheeks as her heart melted, and, unable to say anything else, she pressed her lips against his and pulled him in for a hug, burying her face into his shirt. Her voice was muffled when she finally managed words. “Let’s do it with, then.”

There was a pleasant vibration in his chest as he pulled her to arm’s distance and searched her face. “Yeah?”

She nodded, half laughing, half crying. “Yeah.”

“So we’re getting married?”

She held out her hand and he pushed the ring with slow, deliberate purpose onto her finger. Her heart was hammering, and she admired how it looked against her skin and how small her fingers were in his palm. Everything was perfect. 

She looked up, returning his grin with enthusiasm. “Does this mean you say yes?”

He laughed and swept her off the stool, cradling her close to his body as he murmured against her lips. 

“Yes.”

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #8

"It happened. Feel it, and let it go."

Her therapist's words are easier said than done. Lena does her best, she really does, but every time she almost feels over Kara Danvers, she sees a film trailer or a tabloid headline and her world spirals again.

It's silly. Lena knows she shouldn't be so affected. She only knew Kara Danvers for a few days across a few weeks, but then again... as her therapist likes to say: Lena never learned how to love half way.

When news of a nude photo scandal breaks, Lena finds out about it with the rest of the world, but instead of watching in sick fascination, Lena feels only horror for the woman behind it all. Her heart, broken though it is, goes out to Kara, and the devastation she must be going through. Because Lena more than anyone else knows how carefully crafted Kara's image is, how carefully precise every word and movement is lest she lose the love of the audience and the industry itself.

But as much as Lena might want to, she doesn't call. She doesn't write. She doesn't even know if Kara is in Britain at all, until one morning there's a knock on her front door.

There, with an overnight bag, is Kara.

Her eyes are hidden behind large sunglasses, and her arms are crossed over her chest, tight with anxiety. Before Lena can think to do anything otherwise, she wordlessly steps aside to invite Kara into her flat.

"Thank you," Kara murmurs. Her voice quivers, her jaw clenched against brimming tears. Lena briefly scans the street outside before closing the door, relieved to find it empty of press.

They slowly migrate to the kitchen, where Kara pauses, uncertain of what to do next.

"Tea?" Lena offers.

Kara nods faintly. Over tea, the situation Lena had avoided reading about about in the tabloids comes spilling out as Kara vents, finally able to explain to someone-- anyone-- who would listen.

"I was young, and I was angry, and... and you want to know the saddest part? I enjoyed that shoot! It was one of the healthiest, most open working environments I'd ever been in. The level of trust, and respect... god-- they talked to me like a person, and I just-- for the first time, it felt like I had complete agency. Except I didn't, because they also filmed it, which they didn't tell me, and now... now my entire career, the only thing I've ever done in my entire life, might be over."

Lena listens to it all. She can't offer anything more than that. She doesn't know what to say, even if she could speak under the weight of being in Kara's presence again. Kara fills the entire room, even dressed down in jeans and a trim sweater.

The hurt of their last parting feels a million miles away for the first time since it happened, and all Lena wants to do is kiss her.

"What does your boyfriend think?" Lena blurts softly.

Kara blinks, staring at her. "I don't know," she confesses silently. "I haven't heard from him since before... I don't even know if I have a boyfriend anymore. I didn't even really know I had one then, until he showed up in my hotel room."

She pauses, finally meeting Lena's. "I am so sorry for what happened. I wanted to call so many times, I just-- I just didn't know what to say. And now-- now I'm invading your home like--"

"It's okay," Lena assures her, heading her off at the pass. She rises, taking Kara's hands in hers and offering a reassuring squeeze. "I'm glad you're here, and that you're safe."

Blinking away tears, Kara nods, sniffling.

"What do you need?" Lena asks. "Food, nap, bath...?"

"A bath sounds... really nice right now. And food. And a nap. Maybe in that order?"

Lena smiles. "Okay. We can do that."

---

After Kara's bath, they chat quietly over Notting Hill's finest fish and chips. It feels like no time has passed at all, like they didn't ever part that night at the hotel. Lena revels in it, and in the fact that Kara's nap is taken resting against her shoulder as Lena reads on the couch.

Her therapist would be so disappointed in her.

There's no boundary Lena could throw between them that Kara isn't already well past, and Lena finds she simply doesn't want to. As dangerous as she knows it is, she enjoys their time together. She's addicted to it, like a moth to flame.

The first night, Lena gives Kara her bed, and sleeps on the couch. The second night, after a day filled with running lines for Kara's next project, Lena's awoken from a light doze by a creak on the stair. Despite having a flatmate, Lena instinctively knows it's not Querl, and meets Kara at the foot of the stair.

"Is everything all right?" she asks.

In the dark, Kara nods, a dark shape bobbing in the shadows. "Yes, I-- I just wanted to say thank you. For everything you've done for me. I know you have no reason to help--"

Lena leans in and kisses her. Before her brain can catch up, Kara is kissing her back, burying her hands in Lena's tangled hair before slipping down to brush the edge of Lena's breast through the fabric of her tank top.

Lena covers the exploring hand, pressing it in place against her chest before it could go any further.

"Do you want this?" is all she asks.

Kara nods again, this time their noses brushing at the tips. "Yes," she breathes. "I want you."

----

Waking up in the morning, Lena feels as though she's still dreaming. Her body aches pleasantly, and today the sunlight streaming through her windows falls softly on the figure fast asleep beside her.

Kara Danvers' features are soft in sleep, unschooled for the first time Lena's ever seen. She looks younger, and impossibly more beautiful-- until Kara shifts, and wakes with a smile that puts Lena's previous observations to shame.

"Hi," Kara whispers.

"Hi," Lena whispers back. "Sweet dreams?"

"Mmmmmm," Kara hums, rolling to face her. "Remind me."

Lena obliges with a kiss, ignoring the sour taste of morning breath. Her hand cups Kara's jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against a soft cheek.

Before long, they're interrupted by a low growl in Kara's belly, prompting Lena to laugh against Kara's lips.

"Message received. Stay here," she urges, slipping out of bed.

She pulls on a pair of boxers and her tank top from the night before, wrinkled from being tossed unceremoniously across the room, before heading downstairs to make breakfast.

Lena barely has the bread in the toaster before warm arms encircle her waist from behind. Soft lips press against the join of Lena's neck, blonde hair tickling her skin. She hums low in her throat.

"I like that," she says. She leans her head against Kara's. "Butter and jam's in the fridge."

Kara grins against her and parts with another kiss, finding her way around Lena's kitchen as though she's always been there. Lena takes in the sight of Kara in one of her old oversized sweaters, barely enough to keep her decent. It's a pleasant sight, Kara's ease. Lena wants it to stick around forever.

Their peace is interrupted a moment later when the doorbell rings.

"I've got it," Lena says. "You stay here and butter the toast."

She hops down the narrow steps to the front hall, and opens the door without a second thought as to who could be behind it.

A barrage of camera shutters clicking and the bright flash of dozens of cameras going off at once stuns her. Blinded, she can barely make out the sea of paparazzi, and the questions she barely hears through the buzz of utter noise.

In the next moment, Lena regains her senses and slams the door shut. The heavy old door does well to muffle the sound, so that when Kara comes traipsing down the steps behind her she doesn't notice the hubbub.

"What is it?"

Before Lena can stop her, a shout on her lips, Kara opens the door and faces the sea of cameras with nothing but a piece of toast in her hand and an old sweater between them.

Kara reacts faster than Lena did, instantly whirling and shutting the door behind her. In that moment, Kara's ease disappears. Her body stiffens and her skin heats with flush of shame.

"They... you..." Kara stammers. She looks at Lena, then glares at her. "You told them I was here?!"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well, if it wasn't you, it was that weirdo of a roommate!" Kara exclaims, voice climbing in pitch and volume. "Finally decided to make a quick buck by giving a tip to the tabloids!"

"That's uncalled for," Lena counters. Querl is odd, but he'd only ever been kind to Kara, in his own strange way. "Let's just... let's just breathe for a second--"

"You breathe. I'm leaving."

Without another word, Kara disappears back into the kitchen. After an urgent call to whom Lena can only guess is her publicist, Kara disappears towards the bedroom. Lena gives her space, lingering in the living room long enough for Kara to catch her breath. By the time she finally pokes her head into the bedroom, Kara is already dressed and throwing her items into her overnight bag.

"Kara..."

"Don't. Don't say my name like you know how I feel."

Lena swallows thickly. "I don't... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry they're here, but I'm not sorry you are."

"Well, I am," Kara snaps, snatching her top from the night before and slamming it into her bag. "I never should have come here. I have a boyfriend for Christ's sake!"

Lena freezes, her blood running cold. "You do?"

"As far as they're concerned I do! And now pictures of us are going to be on every paper from here to Star City!!"

Kara lugs her bag over her shoulder and storms out of the room. "And your friend, your friend owes you a nice dinner. Lobster at least, if he's smart enough to get the going rate on betrayal."

"You leave Querl out of this!" Lena snaps, her temper fraying as she chases after Kara. "Okay? I understand that you're upset, and I am too, but we don't know that he has anything to do with this!"

Kara rounds on her with fury in her eyes. "All I know is that they didn't follow me here, and we didn't go anywhere. So if wasn't me, and it wasn't him, who was it? Hm?"

Angry tears burn at the backs of Lena's eyes. She blinks them away, and struggles breathe past the lump in her throat.

"It's okay, Lena," Kara continues firing, "I get it. Okay? It's natural to want your name out there, to drum up business. Come, get a boring book about Egypt from the chick who fucked Kara Danvers!"

The accusation drives all the breath from Lena's body. She stares, and sees the moment Kara realizes she's crossed a line. She softens then, but not enough.

"You may only get fifteen minutes of this, Lena,  but I have had this my entire life. These pictures will last forever. They will follow me FOREVER, and I will regret this forever!"

The doorbell rings, cleaving through the moment of Lena's heartbreak. Surprisingly, Kara doesn't immediately leave, her shock at her own words evident in the gape of her mouth and the tears in her eyes.

Finally, Lena looks away, clearing her throat.

"You don't want to keep your team waiting," she grinds out, her voice full of gravel. It hurts to speak, to breathe, to even look at Kara. But watch she does as Kara's mouth closes to a resolute line before she turns and leaves without looking back.

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