#UK coding professionals

[charile0]

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[coochiequeens]

He added that people should be free to describe themselves however they like, but went on: 'In cases of serious sexual offending when public protection is at stake the vast majority of people will rightly expect the criminal justice system to deal in facts and nothing more." In other words law enforcement and new media should respect that gender is a feeling but sex is real.

Crime tsar says his own force is 'clearly wrong' for calling trans sex crime suspect a woman - and sends 'male' 51-year-old to a men's prison

By MARTIN BECKFORD POLICY EDITOR FOR THE DAILY MAIL

PUBLISHED: 20:55 EST, 11 February 2024 

A crime tsar has become involved in a row with his own force after issuing a rare rebuke over its gendering of a trans sex crime suspect.

Police and Crime Commissioner Matthew Barber said Thames Valley Police was 'clearly wrong' when it relied on gender self-ID to call Osareen Omoruyi, charged with two counts of sexual assault against a child, a woman in a press release.

In a highly unusual intervention in a live criminal case, the elected Police and Crime Commissioner said the 51-year-old 'is male' and has been remanded to a male prison.

He wrote in a lengthy statement on his website on Sunday: 'Thames Valley Police have, mistakenly in my view, relied on the 'self-described gender' in publishing a press release that incorrectly states that a woman has been charged with these offences.'

He said it was important that the public and potential victims understand the facts and that statistics about sexual offences are accurate.

'The police and other criminal justice agencies must deal in facts, as best evidenced to them at the time. Any failure to do so risks damaging public confidence and overshadowing excellent policing in the interests of public safety,' Mr Barber wrote.

He added that people should be free to describe themselves however they like, but went on: 'In cases of serious sexual offending when public protection is at stake the vast majority of people will rightly expect the criminal justice system to deal in facts and nothing more.

'The accused in this case, Osareen Omoruyi, is a 51 year old male.'

However he added that the operational response by the force had been 'exemplary'.

The incident in Witney town centre, Oxfordshire, on Wednesday evening was spotted by CCTV operators, directing officers immediately to 'safeguard the child and arrest the suspect'.

Mr Barber spoke out after the force he scrutinises issued a statement titled: 'Woman charged in connection with sexual offences.'

The short press release published on Friday, which was condemned by women's rights campaigners, stated: 'Following a Thames Valley Police investigation, a woman has been charged in connection with sexual offences in Witney.'

The force said that Omoruyi, of Witney, had been charged 'with two counts each of sexual assault by penetration and causing/ inciting a child to engage in sexual activity'.

Last night the force hit back, saying claimed it had been following the law and police guidelines by treating the suspect according to their self-described gender.

It said: 'Thames Valley Police is aware some public concern has been shared on social media following the publication of our charge release on Friday in relation to a sexual offences investigation in Witney.

'Thames Valley Police adheres to the law and the codes of practice, including the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 (PACE) Code C, when establishing the gender of a person in our custody.

'The individual identified as a female and the officers treated them as such in accordance with College of Policing Authorised Professional Practice which outlines that officers should treat the person according to their stated preference. Consequently, our charge press release that was published reflected this position.'

The force added: 'The Police and Crime Commissioner Matthew Barber has raised concerns about the press release and his comments are being carefully considered and reviewed by the force.'

[afrotumble]

Rugby | Edward Rombo - 6 of 6

Kenya rugby legend Edward Rombo playing rugby league in the UK in the 90s.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Hello! Ive been binging poly!141 and I keep coming back to your writing for my fix (because by now its basically an addiction😅)

I had this idea that the 141 are together with a civilian reader. And civilian reader works in retail, part time, and is mostly at home. Normally, they would be home by the time their boys came home, welcoming them with open arms, a hot plate of food, and time to rest and relax. But this time, the 141 get home early and realize where reader works: Walmart (or equivalent). Reader has been keeping this a secret cause they know its not cute like a coffee shop or cool. Its just their job. And now the most important men in their life know. Im thinking the 141 found out because they went grocery shopping and happened to come across reader or something similar to that.

I work at Walmart and it sucks🥲 thought that maybe something like this might help😅

Tysm, nonny! So happy to hear you like the writing. I hope this does your idea justice. (Walmart doesn't have stores in the UK, but they own ASDA.)

Also, thank you for my first request! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

pure fluff, bad accents (per usual)

Your boys find out you work part-time at ASDA on a random rainy Thursday in March.

You don't really need a job. All four of your lovers are officers with the British army. Prior to you, they all lived in base barracks. Prior to you, they lived fairly Spartan existences. Prior to you, most of their income sat in the bank, quietly accumulating.

They have plenty of money saved up that they love using to spoil you, when you let them. You know that if you asked, they'd give you everything, but you draw the line about asking them for an allowance like some tradwife. You want some pocket money of your own. Thus, the part-time job at the ASDA in town.

You're a people person, good at handling big personalities. You need to be to keep up with your boys. Between John's need for control, Simon's stoic dominance, Johnny's aggressive enthusiasm, and Kyle's blinding charisma, you aren't some shrinking violet. Within a week of your hire, your manager watches how you weather a nasty piece of work trying to demand concessions you aren't permitted to give and immediately puts you in customer service.

You're nearly unflappable in the face of frustrated pensioners and harried parents and entitled young professionals. Over and over, you're the one they call when a customer is going spare. Which is how your boys find out about your job.

They've been deployed for over two weeks, and you have no idea when they'll return. John had originally said they'd be gone for at least a month, so you aren't expecting them home any time soon. However, they'd come home much earlier than anyone thought, and they wanted to surprise you.

You're always so good about making the house feel like a home, with your bright smile and warm laughter, your home cooked food and soft touches in decor. You make them feel like people, not weapons, and they want to return the favor. This last deployment had been hard, and all four of your boys were missing your sweet voice and tender care. They wanted to show you that they loved and cared for you the way you always showed your love and care for them.

It was Johnny's suggestion to prep a meal for you as both a surprise and a thank you. After debrief, they pile into the car and decide to stop at ASDA for everything they need before heading home to surprise you. It's John who causes the code call.

You hear Susan's voice over the store-wide address system. "We could use a little Sunshine in the floral department." That's your cue. You finish with the pensioner at your till as Jacob, your manager, comes over to relieve you.

You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. In your experience, a Sunshine call in floral is a man angry the store doesn't have the fancy arrangements listed on the website. You wish the signage on the site would be more clear that the beautiful bouquets are online orders only. It would save you having to explain why the offers in store are so limited.

You hear him before you see him, smokey voice grumbling, "But if they show the bloody thing on the site as available, you should have it hear." You'd recognize the voice anywhere. He's not angry, not really, but Susan doesn't know that. Add in the sheer size of him, and Simon looming over his shoulder, it's no wonder she called for support.

You have never wanted to walk away from a situation as much as you want to right now, but before you can make an escape, Susan notices you over John's shoulder. Her little wave is enough for your men to notice, and they turn as one to see you coming towards them. Immediately their demeanor shifts. Simon's back sags as though his strings were cut, leaving him loose-limbed. John stands a little straighter, chin up as if to impress you. They've both broken out in smiles, though Simon's are only evidenced by the laugh lines you know to look for. It's only as you get close do they zero in on the badge on your shirt.

"I've got this, Susan," you say to your co-worker. "Jacob's on my till. Can you cover?"

Susan wrings her hands. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and-"

"They're nothing I can't handle," you tell her, cutting off her worried rambles. There's a cheeky glint in your eye as you flick your gaze at your men. You clap your hands together and say, "Right, let's get this settled, then."

Susan takes one quick look between you and the now slightly less intimidating men and heads towards the front of the store.

Once she's out of earshot, John's face breaks into a frown. "What're you doing here, love?" He glances at your name on your chest again. "You work here?" He sounds almost hurt by the revelation. You can tell Simon wants to reach for you, and the only thing stopping him is you working.

You hear heavy footfalls behind you as Johnny's Scottish lilt reaches your ears. "Och, Cap! Ye said ye'd only be a moment. Gaz and I had a hell of a time getting the trolley on its lift ta find ye. How hard is it to buy bon..." His question dies on his lips as you turn around. "Bonnie?" He, too, sounds hurt to find you working here.

You can see Kyle over Johnny's shoulder, confusion written across his features. This is not how you wanted your boys to find out about your job, if you ever wanted them to actually find out. You thought maybe you'd surprise them with tickets to Hereford FC's opening game in a few months. And if they asked how you afforded them, you could handle this conversation then, but it's out of your hands now.

And as much as you don't want to have this conversation, especially not in the middle of the floral department, you can't stop the wide grin at seeing your boys again, home and whole.

"Hi, boys," you say, opening your arms. Disappointed he might be about finding you here, Johnny's no fool. He immediately steps into your embrace, and the others quickly follow suit. You're swallowed up by the smell and feel of them. The hug lasts one minute. Then two. Then they all slowly step back.

You can see the questions and cut them off before they get started. "I have another three hours before I'm off. We can talk at home, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

John nods first. He recognizes your tone. You won't let them derail you for answers now, and they would be wasting their breath to try. "You heard the lady, lads. Let's get home."

They start to walk away when you tease, "Captain? Was there a reason you were arguing with Susan about the flowers?"

He halts his steps and turns to you, flush creeping up his neck. He brings his hand up to rub it as he says, "Er, I, we, wanted to get ya something nice, but they don't have the same ones as online."

You melt a little, watching the way your men shift nervously behind their captain. You smile softly and reach over, plucking a bouquet of rainbow poms from the rack. "These are what I usually get for myself when you're away."

John takes them gently from your hand and passes them to Gaz to put in the trolley. "We'll see you at home, love," he murmurs, leaning over briefly to kiss your cheek. Simon kisses the top of your head, fabric brushing your hair. Johnny pulls you in for another bruising hug and kisses your other cheek. Gaz puts his hands on your waist, drinking in the sight of you, before taking your hands in his and kissing your palms.

You watch them leave, wondering how you'll make it through the rest of your shift.

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, you cross the threshold of your shared home to the most delicious scents wafting from the kitchen. After slipping your shoes off next to the piles of boots at the door, you follow your nose back to the kitchen and the spread laid out on the large wood-topped island. There's a roast and mushy peas and mashed potatoes and stewed carrots and battered cod and crisps and spinach all surrounding the flowers you'd suggested, nestled in the vase you love most, the Caithness one Johnny'd bought you on your first trip with them to Scotland.

At the table, your men sit, plates made for everyone, waiting on you. They've changed since you saw them. Gone are any traces of fatigues and tactical gear. Instead they're all in casual civvies, truly home for the first time in nearly three weeks. Simon stands as you come in and pulls out your chair, smile on his scarred lips. "Come sit, doll," he tells you, not quite an order.

You look quickly around. "Let me change," you say, tugging at your uniform top. "I won't be but a minute." You back out of the room before they can stop you. You hurry to your bedroom, pulling your top off as you go. Once behind the door, you slip from your trousers into comfortable leggings and a large jumper, one of Kyle's you think.

By the time you make it back to the kitchen, your men are more than a little antsy. Simon's smile is a little strained, Johnny is fidgeting, Kyle keeps glancing between you and John, and John is staring at you. Your chair is still out. He waves a hand at it, and gently says, "Come sit, love." It's couched as request, but you know a command from your lover when you hear it.

You take your seat at the table. "Listen-" you start, but John cuts you off.

"Are we not providing for ya, love?" You see the hurt in his eyes, how much it bothers him to think he, they, aren't doing enough for you.

"Oh, John, dear, no!" you reply, putting your hand over his on the table. "It's not that at all."

"Then what?" Simon asks.

You look at them all, the expectant faces waiting to hear how they failed you. "I get restless sometimes. I love you, and I love our life. I'm happy to take care of the house and make sure you're all fed after a long day. But I wasn't built for sitting around doing nothing. I like people; being home on my own all day can get lonely. Especially when you're deployed. I also like having my own pocket money."

John opens his mouth, and you know what he's about to say, so you continue. "I know you'd give me any money I need or want, but I like having my money. Money I earned myself." You look around at them, willing them to understand. "It's only part time. Helps me keep a little busy and have a little extra to spoil you and me with."

Johnny is frowning, but you see Kyle, head cocked, looking at you as a puzzle. "I think I understand," he says softly. "You were making you way just fine before us, and you gave up everything for us."

At his words, the crease between John's brow deepens, and you're sure he's remembering the job you had, that you'd somewhat enjoyed, when you'd first met them. You'd been working at RAF Lakenheath, living in a cozy flat in Cambridge, near The Backs, when the 141 had been coming through the base after an op. An injury had put Kyle in the med center for a week, and while he could have been transported to Hereford once stable, Laswell had worked it out for the whole team to have some R&R near the base.

You'd quite literally run into John one day, rushing to your office, after which he suggested lunch as an apology. You quickly became close with all four, smitten with them from the start. In turn, they fell hard for you. They wooed you over the course of several weeks, stopping through Lakenheath on deployments to spend some time with you. Six months in and you were completely gone on all four of them, so when they'd asked you to move to Hereford, you did without ever looking back. But it meant giving up the life you'd led.

Somewhere along the way, your happiness overshadowed all you'd left behind. After a few weeks, being home alone while your men worked started to feel isolating. You liked being a little busy, and there weren't enough projects around the house to keep you busy enough. You'd always been independent, but you didn't want to be stuck in a job with long hours anymore. You wanted to be home for your men. So you'd found the job at ASDA.

Kyle reaches over to where you hand is still on John's. "I'm sorry we didn't ask how you were coping us being gone all day," he says. He looks you in the eye as he continues. "I understand wanting to do something, wanting to be a little busy, and if this makes you happy, then I'm all for it, doll." He gives you a small smile and squeezes your and John's hand.

"Gaz is right," Simon rumbles. "We were so happy to have you here we didn't think about what you did all alone all day." He puts a heavy hand on your thigh, the warmth of him seeping through your thin leggings. "'m glad you have something to keep you from getting lonely."

"Sorry, hen," Johnny murmurs, just above a whisper. "We didnae think a' ye enough." You smile widely at him.

"Johnny, you think of me all the time. This isn't about neglect at all!" You try to catch his eye, but he's looking hard at the table in front of him. "You did nothing wrong, love," you tell him gently.

He looks at you, blue eyes bright. "Ye sure?" You've never seen him this nervous before, and you break a little.

"I'm sure love."

He smiles then, a little smile, but it brightens his face and shifts the mood in the room. You look at John who's been surprisingly quiet this whole time.

He's smiling, but it's a little sad. "I know ya said we didn't do anything wrong, but we feel like we did. We didn't notice you were bored, didn't ask if you were lonely." He flips his hand over under yours and threads your fingers with his. "Yer giving us a gift by not blaming us, and we'd be stupid not to take it, even though it feels like yer giving us an out. Thank you." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

"Thank you. I was worried you'd be mad," you admit.

"Never could make us mad with something like this, hen," Johnny reassures you. "I'm sorry we had to spoil your day is all."

You turn back to look at the food on the island. "You didn't spoil my day. You made it. You're home early, and you made such a lovely spread. I think we should tuck in, yeah?"

Simon chuckles. "Point made, doll," he says, scooping a heaping helping of mash onto his fork. The rest take it as a sign to start eating too.

The room is silent save for the sounds of food savored until John pipes up, "Why'd ya come to florals, love? We might have missed ya altogether if not for that."

You giggle. "The sunshine call, John."

"Yeah?" He clearly doesn't understand.

"It's the shop call for a difficult customer. When I'm on shift, it's my job to handle those." You look at each of your lovers in turn. "Seems I've got a knack for dealing with muppets," you tell them with a smirk.

main masterlist

[phanchester]

since there are so many data nerd phannies i decided to make a compilation of all the spreadsheets i could find - lmk if i missed any or if you want me to add any additional details <3

last updated: 30/06/24

actively updating spreadsheets

dan and phil uploads from 2021-2024

dan and phil’s upload schedule from all their channels with days and dates

amount of days in between videos in each channel

pie charts of days of the week they upload

made by @ahappydnp 

everything dan and phil related

all of dan and phil’s video links from all their channels from all their accounts (including super amazing project, snapchat, vine, tiktok and more)

all of dan and phil’s radio shows, including reuploads and playlists, as well as the dan vs phil, fan war and internet news if available for each show with misc clips and written recaps

all of dan and phil’s liveshows, including some written recaps and the app where it was originally posted

all of dan and phil’s vyous including the question they were answering

all of dan and phil’s collaborations and video features (even if they were in the background), including the channel they were originally uploaded on 

all of dan and phil’s interviews

all of dan and phil’s merch, including originally shop links and links to the phandom wiki which has further information

all of dan and phil’s professional photos as well as some fan photos, including the event, photographer and platform

the dates and statuses of each of these videos (lost, archived, unlisted or public)

made by @stillarchivingdnp

dan and phil 2024 upload stats

each of their 2024 videos with channel, upload date, upload time in uk, length, sponsor and editor/s (if applicable) with an accompanying colour-coded calendar

(for amazingphil videos) whether dan featured and (for dapg videos) whether it was gaming/talking and who tweeted it

interactive part where you can see the time period between two videos

averages, maximums and minimums for times between uploads, upload times and runtimes with accompanying graphs

percentage of videos with other editors, with pie charts for all channels and each channel

made by @dnpbeats

all or nothing: dan vs phil season 2

all of the games for season 2, with the year they played them and the results with and without all or nothing coming into play

how often all or nothing came into play and who suggested it

the general impact of all or nothing

made by @organized-chaotic-disaster

dan and phil saying “i love you”

when dan and/or phil said ily

the video and timestamp from when they said ily and whether it was prompted

pie chart of dan or phil saying ily

made by @ahappydnp

games where one of them decides the winner

date and link for each video

overall winner with the winner for each round

breakdown of the amount of times each of them have won each round and the percentage phil has won

made by @dnpbeats

dan and phil 2024 upload schedule

upload date for each video, with the day of the week and approximate time it was uploaded in cst, including the most common and second most common upload day for dapg

days between each upload, including the longest gap, shortest gap, average gap and first and second most common gap for dapg

a colour-coded calendar displaying the upload schedule for dapg and amazingphil

made by @kat-aa

completed spreadsheets

all or nothing: dan vs phil season 1 with a great accompanying document with further details and analysis of the data

all of the games they played, with the year they played them and the results with and without all or nothing coming into play

how often all or nothing came into play and who suggested it

the general impact of all or nothing

made by @organized-chaotic-disaster 

youtuber tours

(not necessarily dnp but it includes them!)

120 different tours, including the creators, names, dates, countries, links (if available) and producers (if applicable)

each tours’ venue capacity range, average and total attendance

individual tour show breakdown with city, state, country and additional notes

data on each venue’s capacity, number of tours, and which youtuber went to each venue

data on each country’s amount of shows, broken down into states and cities

made by @stillarchivingdnp 

gamingmas 2023 schedule

all gamingmas video titles from 2023

the time each video was uploaded in gmt

made by @cactuslester

spreadsheet screenshots in posts

listening trends in all or nothing

scatter graph for the correlation between track number and number of listens

analysis of the data

made by @serendipnpipity

analysis of dnp’s letterboxd ratings and movies with part 1 and part 2

(pt 1) rating distributions for all the movies they’ve rated, including details about which movies one rated higher than the other, and which movies they rated the same

(pt 1) a list of their five-star movies

(pt 1) a list of movies one logged but not the other

(pt 1) cute little misc notes about the specific movies and dates

(pt 2) ratings broken down into genre, studio and franchise with accompanying bar charts

made by @philsrosesweatshirt

views on post-hiatus dapg videos after specific time frames

i believe this is a work of progress!

video titles with the dates and months, along with details of whether they were sponsored or had external editors

view count after 24 hours, 48 hours, 1 week, 2 weeks, 3 months and 6 months

made by @goldenpinof

favourite dnp tour song statistics

years phannies started watching vs the year they joined the phandom represented in a bar graph

favourite dnp tour song in a donut pie graph and a bar graph

favourite song vs year joined represented in a bar graph

made by @serendipnpipity

terrible influence: the tour trailer video analysis

all the videos that appear in terrible influence with additional notes

the list sorted by date, view count and channel specifics

timestamps provided for each clip, both in the video and where they appear in the trailer

made by @emojackolantern

[thriplerex]

Hermit Craft Rising AU: Zoe "Moine" Carter

(she/they)

“I’ll break your legs.”

Nanotechnologist, TV show host, and bodybuilder by day and professional assassin by night, Zoe was recruited by Sahara as a cornerstone to their operations. They have a dry sense of humor and wry sarcasm, punctuated by a very matter-of-fact demeanor. Their vitiligo condition has led to some comparing their appearance to that of a reanimated corpse, a description that they have taken and run with. They are often at odds with the other Terraformers, but as dysfunctional as this team is, they are their de facto leader and keep them in line. Zoe has no cyborg enhancements themselves, surprisingly enough - it's all in the gadgets. Their code name comes from the Moine Thrust Belt in northern Scotland.

On their “real” job, Zoe conducts themselves as a bit of a showperson, right down to wearing a three-piece suit in all but the most paramount of combat situations. The other Terraformers don’t quite understand this tendency, but they know better than to question Zoe’s effectiveness.

Age: Late 40s

Hometown: Ipswich, UK

Signature weapon: A small army of “Dioramic” biomorphic serpentine drones, each about a meter in length and coming in all sorts of different colors (though Zoe tends to surround themselves with green-eyed, orange ones). Each can be equipped with a variety of arcane nanotech-based tools, only limited by Zoe’s imagination, sometimes to degrees that would make Inspector Gadget proud. Two or three Dioramics can form into an extended polearm, functioning as either a bladed weapon or a long-range projectile weapon, or both, depending on the specialization of the Dioramics. Up to half a dozen individual Dioramics can also attach to a pack that Zoe wears to form extra manipulative limbs.

Dioramics have somewhat complex artificial intelligence, comparable to that of a dolphin. Provided they go long enough without a memory wipe (which is always, because Zoe never bothered to make use of that feature), Dioramics may develop unique personalities.

More often than not, one or two of Zoe’s favorite Dioramics can be spotted carrying around a stage microphone stand, complete with a microphone, as they slither after her. This microphone stand is a standard one, lacking any special properties; despite that, Zoe often uses it as part of her “routine,” which typically entails breaking it in the process.

Hermit Craft Rising AU Masterpost

Art by Winter

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ┆𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

HEREFORD, UK

Task Force 141 Base - "Fort Viper"

12:26

The common room wasn't busy - just lived-in.

Soap lounged on the worn-out couch with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and setting down a mug full of coffee with the other. Gaz stood near the small counter, poking at the old kettle like it owed him something, trying to make some tea. Ghost leaned against the counter with a file in his hand, quiet as ever, reading through the information from some old mission.

One of the slow mornings where they didn't have to stress about missions, enemies, or training. Just a chill morning.

The door opened with a creak, and Price stepped in - coat damp from the heavy rain, folder in hand.

"You're all here. Good."

Soap glanced up. "We in trouble, or are you just feeling sentimental?"

Price ignored the jab and dropped the folder onto the table with a soft thud. "We've got a possible addition."

Gaz raised a brow, leaving the kitchenette and taking a step toward the table. "Another one? Thought we weren't taking rookies."

"She's no rookie." Price opened the folder, revealing a set of personal files- half of them were erased with black ink.

In the upper left corner of the file was a photo. A Woman. About mid-twenties to thirty years old. Pale with sharp features. Snow-white hair pulled back in a tight and low bun, and dark -dead- eyes stared into the camera.

"Nikova Darya Dragunova. Callsign: Lynx"

"That's a mouthful," Soap commented quietly, setting the protein bar down. Then, his head snapped up. "Wait-"

Silence.

Gaz moved first. He walked over slowly, looking down at the photo like it might bite. "No way. I thought she was a myth."

"Worse," Ghost said, putting away the file in his hand and taking a step closer to the table

Price looked at them all, calm and even."She's real. Former Spetsnaz. Left Russia under... not so diplomatic circumstances."

Soap leaned forward, his interest piqued."I heard a story that she knifed some warlord in the throat with his own spoon or something."

"That was a fork," Gaz mumbled. "And I think it was in Libya."

"Classy." Soap said with a nod, impressed.

Price sighed before continuing. "She ran a black ops unit deep in Russia operations. Never showed up in mission logs. No official rank. No clearance trail. No public record. Just... results."

"They say her name was scrubbed from every file but one," Gaz added. "Even GRU was afraid of her."

"Laswell's meeting her now. Budapest."

Ghost finally spoke, stepping closer to the photo. "What's she been doing?"

"Merc hits. Freelance contracts. High-level sabotage. Some humanitarian shadows, too, strangely enough. She's lethal. But not mindless." The captain crossed his arms, looking down at the open file.

Soap scratched the back of his neck. "So, she's got her own code."

Price didn't deny it. "She doesn't trust anyone. Doesn't want to belong to anyone either. But Laswell thinks she might listen. And if she does..."

"If she does," Ghost repeated, "we better hope she's on our side."

Soap snorted. "Or we're all fucked."

"She's a wildcard." Ghost declared, crossing his arms, boring his eyes into the side of Price's head.

"She's a professional." Price corrected. He lit a cigar. The flame briefly lit his face in the low light. "We need her."

"Fine." Soap shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "What's another emotionally repressed loner with a kill count and a dark past."

Ghost turned to him, giving his a long, blank stare. Scott only replied with a cheeky grin.

"And for the record, if she starts gutting people, I'm sleeping in an armory."

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

'Nap és kávé'- Coffee shop

09:48

It always smelled like burnt sugar and diesel here.

Nikova sat at a café just off the Danube, the kind that blended into the rest of the city - dim, nameless, quiet. The kind where no one asked questions.

Her coat was too thin for the wind, but she liked the cold. It kept her awake.

She stirred her coffee, though she hadn't taken a sip. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, tracked the movement of strangers like a habit she couldn't kill.

Two men talking too loudly at the corner. A woman with a red scarf, the same one from earlier. Back again. Looping. Watching?

No. Just another local caught in routine. Still - she logged it.

She didn't look up until the chair across from her shifted. A woman in a blazer and wind-chapped face sat down like she owned the place.

"Laswell," Nikova said flatly, lips barely moving. "You're late."

"You're hard to find."

"Or you're just shitty at your job." The Russian mumbled, reaching into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Laswell smiled faintly. "You left quite the trail anyway." She said, ignoring the comment.

Nikova lit a cigarette slowly and practiced. "If you came to arrest me, say so."

"No. I came to offer you a job."

That got a raised eyebrow.

Laswell slid a thin folder across the table. No names on the front, just the ghost of an embossed seal. Nikova didn't open it.

"Task Force 141," Laswell said. "They want to meet you."

Nikova leaned back, smoke curling from her lips. "And if I don't want to meet them?"

"Then finish your coffee. And go back to pretending you don't miss this kind of life."

Nikova didn't answer immediately. Her fingers tapped against the folder in an absent rhythm, her gaze flicking to the street again.

"You want something dangerous done. Quietly." She said it like it was fact, moving her eyes from the file to Laswell. "And you don't trust anyone loud enough to get blood on their boots."

Laswell didn't deny it.

"You know what I've done," Nikova continued, voice lower now, darker. "People like me don't get offers. They get put down."

"You're not just 'people like you,' Nikova. You're better. And you know it."

Nikova's jaw ticked. Compliments were always traps. Especially from intelligent officers.

Laswell leaned forward slightly, speaking quietly. "This isn't Russia. And it isn't Spetsnaz. This is a chance to do something different. Something that might matter."

"I stopped caring about what 'matters' years ago," Nikova mumbled, letting the smoke escape from her parted lips.

"But you still listen," Laswell pointed out. "You still watch. That tells me you haven't stopped wanting to care."

Nikova looked at her for a second and then down to the closed file on the small table, staring at it like it was going to explode any second.

"Do they know who I am?" She mumbled finally.

"They know enough," The CIA agent replied. "They'll know more if you let them."

"I don't play well with others."

"Neither do they."

Nikova exhaled slowly. Her cigarette burned close to the filter, and she stubbed it out against the ashtray like she was stamping out a thought.

She finally pulled the folder closer and cracked it open.

Inside: A few pictures of some old, abandoned training ground. Personnel files of the possible new teammates. A photo of Captain John Price with a red-marked objective site scrawled in pen beside it. And below that, another image - one she didn't expect.

Nikolai Belinski.

Nikova's eyes narrowed.

Laswell watched her carefully. "You'll need to work with contacts in the field. Some are... familiar."

"That wasn't in the sales pitch." Nikova closed the folder and leaned back in her seat, practically glaring at the blond agent.

"It's not a sales pitch. It's reality."

Nikova closed the folder slowly. Her voice came out low, clipped. "I want three things if I say yes."

Laswell nodded. "Name them."

"A clean exit if it goes to shit. My gear and my old weapons - untouched. And I don't share a room."

"Done. But you'll have to share air."

Nikova huffed - something between a breath and a laugh. She rose from the chair, slipping the folder under her coat.

"I'll think about it." The Russian mumbled, setting down a few bills for the untouched coffee on the table.

"You've already thought about it," Laswell called as she walked away.

Nikova didn't turn around.

But her answer echoed in the smoke she left behind.

When she made sure she was out of Laswell's eye and ear reach, she pulled out an old keyboard phone. It barely worked, yes, but it didn't have GPS.

No GPS = No unwanted stalkers.

Clicking at the only saved contact she pulled the phone to her ear.

After a few seconds, the person on the other side of the call picked up.

"Ты тупой? Я же говорил тебе не звонить, если ты не горишь. Ты пытаешься меня убить?" The sharp woman voice cut thru the silence on the other end of the phone call, yet there was a hant of relief in her voice. (Are you stupid? I told you not to call unless you're on fire. You trying to get me killed?)

"Vera." Nikova mumbled to the phone. "Пришлите мне отчет о британской оперативной группе 141. Все, что у вас есть.." (Send me a report on British Task Force 141. Everything you got.)

[thegildedbee]

Calm/Hobby: May 7 & 8 Prompts from @calaisreno

As his Air Baltic flight from Oslo begins its descent into Tallinn, Sherlock stares distractedly out the window at the thinning layer of clouds, and pushes back at the whisper of bleakness that it it is the Estonian coastline coming into view, not the South East shores of England. He girds himself with stoicism as he feels a tendril of melancholy begin to unfurl at the fact that Sherlock Holmes no longer exists, now that Herr Lukas Sigerson has taken his place.

He knows that this new identity will only be the first of many.

Sigerson has brown eyes, and wears dark brown tortoiseshell glasses; his dark hair is beginning to have a salt and pepper cast to it, his lower face is covered by stubble. His loose-limbed gait is relaxed, and there's a remnant of a tendency to stutter when he speaks. Hidden from view are the still-healing cracked ribs on the right side of his torso, the damaged ligaments of his right knee, and the fact that the ossicular chain within his right ear bears traces of having been successfully reconstructed, the surgical repair restoring the hearing he had lost after the trauma to his skull. 

When Sherlock had been ready to leave the UK to begin to grapple with Moriarty’s extant remains -- the people and infrastructure and schemes dispersed across the globe -- it had been hard to determine what to do first and where and why. Of the three assassins in London on the day of his fall, the one assigned to Mrs. Hudson – a thuggish fellow more noteworthy for his brawn than any brains – had been rolled up by Mycroft’s people even before Sherlock had been delivered to the morgue. The one assigned to Lestrade had been somewhat harder to ferret out, but as Sherlock began piecing together what details he could collect during his recuperation, he had determined that he was a functionary who had infiltrated the Met – and the resolution of that criminal had also been left to Mycroftian minions. 

But John’s sniper was of a different cast altogether, an experienced professional who had made no mistakes and vanished like vapor. Sherlock believed that individual had been more than a freelance hire -– Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been brought into the mix of those in danger of losing their lives because every action of Moriarty’s was as theatrical and excessive as it was insane: ransoming John’s life had always been the true motive. John’s sniper would have been especially close to Moriarty, and likely a member of the upper echelon of his criminal syndicate. Sherlock suspected that acquiring the information that would allow him to destroy this person was going to be an exceedingly difficult proposition.

He needed information, and Sherlock had finally decided that the place to begin was with Estonia, the tiny nation that had regained its independence from Soviet occupation in 1991, and that had chosen to bypass the encumbering drag of the impoverished infrastructure bequeathed from the Soviets, by abandoning it. Estonia had instead risked its future by constructing an economy based on the latest digital technologies, leapfrogging more advanced nations as it became a cyber-powered incubator of innovation, and one of the most wired countries in the world. Sherlock had no doubt that Moriarty would have been intent on turning this transformation to his own advantage; he would have found the opportunity irresistible.

Moriarty’s claim to have a code that could take over any computer was false, but even so Sherlock suspected that this fabulation pointed at something all too real: investments by Moriarity in the dark web, and in the recruitment of cadres of hackers to be manipulated into hijacking computer networks. In April and May of 2007, Estonia had been besieged for three weeks by waves of cyberattacks that had crippled its digital public and private sectors, from government entities such as the foreign and defense ministries, to banks, corporate enterprises, and media outlets. Estonia had traced the attacks to actors within Moldova’s breakaway state of Transnistria, a long narrow geographic entity bordering Ukraine that displayed the Soviet Communist hammer-and-sickle on its flag and coat of arms. Sherlock suspected that these cyberterrorist actors were performing roles under Moriarty’s direction, and that he would find information from within Estonia that would point to the far-flung nodes of his enemy’s wretched empire. 

With their impending arrival in Tallinn, the melancholy that had emerged begins to become more deeply rooted, and Sherlock’s mind's eye paints pictures of what lies in the deep of the sea passage below, and across the sea miles beyond Britain’s and Europe’s contours – fragments of exploded ordnance littering the ocean floor, where bodies entombed in submarines and battleships are testament to the destructive capabilities of bands of people bent on glory and riches and domination.

His meandering thoughts catch hold of a memory in the viewing room of his mind palace, the one that records the evenings when John had chosen a film to share as they sat propped up together on the sofa in the darkness. It focused on the US Army Air Force unit that flew missions from East Anglia in World War II, and the appointment of a new commanding officer tasked with reversing the underperformance of the bombing teams. 

He had been riveted by the harsh speech the uncompromising commander delivers to the group of pilots, who simmer with resentment at his theory that part of their problems lie with their playing it safe. He tells them that while fear is to be expected, the only choice they have is to stop worrying about the fear, and about themselves. He can still feel the chill of premonition when he heard the figure on the screen bite out his message: “We’re in a war – a shooting war. We’ve got to fight. And some of us have got to die." But it was the follow-on command that is engraved in his mind beyond the memory palace, visible in the shadow of all else he is thinking about: "Stop making plans. Forget about going home. Consider yourselves already dead. After that, it won’t be so tough.” And so, too, was his bombing run a flight into the unknown, against unseen enemies, the actions of a self-created ghost who must reckon that he truly inhabits the underworld from this point on.

Sherlock closes his eyes and continues work on the new spaces that he has been constructing in his mind palace, an effort that never fails to bring him calm, even when other emotions are in play. These new rooms are cloisters and refectories based on the architecture of a thirteenth-century monastery, in deference to Tallinn’s remarkable preservation of the medieval city within its precincts, and he has reserved this adjacent building for whatever part Eastern Europe will play in his sojourns. It is complicated artistry, and he is the last one to rise and exit the airplane.

As Herr Sigerson makes his way toward the front of the compact airport, he adjusts the rucksack on his shoulder, and tugs the bottom of his jumper to straighten it. As a standard issue Norwegian, he is, of course, kitted out in knitted wool, although the garment he wears is only a single hue; the vividly colored patterns favored by so many of the inhabitants of his improvised homeland hurt both his eyesight and his sense of fashion. Sherlock smiles at the thought that John would be amused, were he to see his couture, and consider it revenge for Sherlock’s hobby of “inadvertently” wreaking havoc on the least attractive of John’s jumpers.

Sherlock's half-zip pullover is a dark navy blue with a beautiful sheen, and it is not completely devoid of decoration – it is just that the design is woven into the single color, slightly raised, subdued in its visibility. On the back is the Norse symbol of the vegvisir, which was said to allow its possessor to always find the right path, no matter how turbulent the environment might be. Next to the wayfinding icon is a letter from the ancient runic alphabet said to summon good luck. No doubt John would also be amused at the fact that his relentlessly rational friend is carrying these mystical totems on his body. Although, perhaps not, were he to know of the future toward which Sherlock has now committed himself. ........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

[fanellifest]

Who Was Joe Fanelli?

The Joe-verview

Joe Fanelli (c. April 12, 1954 – June 3, 1993) was an American from Franklin, Massachusetts; an ex-boyfriend of Freddie’s; later, his very dear friend; later still, his nurse/caregiver.

Joe and Freddie met in 1978, and their relationship lasted until they broke up some time in 1979. Afterwards, Joe continued to live in the UK—working as a professional chef in several London restaurants, including September and Provan’s—with his residency arrangements as a non-UK Citizen (likely via a work visa) being secured in effort by Freddie himself.

Likely stemming from the stressful nature of his relationship with Freddie—which included uprooting his entire life to a foreign country—and also the prevalence of drinking in the culture of professional chefs, Joe developed an alcohol dependency as a coping mechanism. According to Peter Freestone, by the time Joe had been hired full time to reside in Garden Lodge in 1985, he had gotten sober and sought new solace in regularly going to the gym. He also was “a dedicated vegan” as written by Brian in Queen in 3-D.

Consider this the Hot Girl Comeback that follows the Bad Bitch Fumble.

In addition to his professional culinary training and workout habits, Joe also found a hobby in computers, teaching himself how they worked, how to write programs (including coding a version of Countdown which could be played at home), and familiarizing himself with the internet during his efforts to research HIV/AIDS information.

Said research was of particular importance as Joe, along with Peter Freestone, became one of Freddie’s caregivers all the while dealing with his own HIV/AIDS diagnosis.

With regards to personality, Joe is described by Peter Freestone as “highly intelligent,” having “a positive nature,” and “prepared to argue anything, stand up for whatever.” Jim Hutton wrote in Mercury and Me that Joe had “a cautious approach to people and life,” and recalled the following event which possibly provides insight to the dynamics of Freddie and Joe’s working relationship/friendship, and definitely gets a laugh:

Joe was standing by the sink in the kitchen and Freddie was sitting at the table looking very stern. ‘And you’re fired, too!’ Freddie snapped at me. ‘Pardon?’ I said. ‘You can’t sack Jim,’ Joe told Freddie with a gloriously smug expression. ‘Why not?’ he snapped. ‘Because he doesn’t work for you!’ he said. ‘Oh, no he doesn’t, does he?’ Freddie replied.

There are several anecdotes about or involving Joe in many of the published memoirs written by those close to Freddie, and we’ll hopefully be able to share some of those here soon.

More in-depth posts about many of these topics—Joe’s relationship with Freddie, his job with Queen on tour, his role at Garden Lodge—will be coming with more specifics!

It says a lot regarding Joe’s character, about the type of person he was, to make several life changes and to also reconnect with an ex after a less-than-ideal falling out, repairing a friendship that lasted the remainder of their lives. As one of the lesser-known people in Freddie’s orbit, we hope this post helped you get to know Joe Fanelli a bit better.

What is remembered lives.

[storeecbrcod]

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my�� lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

[lian6831]

Penigni Mafia AU

(English is not my native language. There may be strange grammar through translation. forgive me😵‍💫)

———————————————————————

On a rainy night, a luxury car drove through the streets of the outskirts of London. " Oh mio Dio !" Despite Pulcinella's immediate brake, he couldn't avoid colliding with a person who suddenly rushed out. Both rushed out to check. The person on the ground was wearing a patient's gown, looking around 16 years old. Venigni, after ensuring the injured person was stable, examined the injuries. Aside from some scratches, there seemed to be no serious harm. "Please... help me..." Venigni initially thought the boy was referring to the accident, but later learned that the boy was actually seeking refuge. He took off his coat, carefully covering the boy and gently lifting him up. "Pulcinella, let's go home quickly."

———————————————————————

Pinocchio [P] -

Venigni's mysterious adopted son. After a sudden encounter with him due to an unexpected incident, Venigni brought Pinocchio to the mansion and decided to adopt him. Pinocchio, with a talent for weapons, was later trained by Venigni as a professional assassin specializing in covert missions

Pinocchio's true identity is that of an escaped clone. He has no name, only a code. Pinocchio chose this name after meeting Venigni. The scientist Geppetto, desperate to bring back his deceased son Carlo, conducted illegal clone experiments, crossing ethical boundaries. Despite numerous failures, Pinocchio, labeled from A to P, didn't match Geppetto's perfect image. Knowing his impending fate of destruction, Pinocchio escaped the lab, worried about Geppetto catching up. On a rainy night, he sought help from a passing car.

Pinocchio calls Venigni "Papà." Only two years have passed since his adoption, and his understanding of emotions is still blurry. He knows Venigni loves him, but it seems to be a fatherly affection. Mentor, protector, father... Pinocchio has too much admiration for Venigni. He wishes Venigni would love him more. One day, witnessing Venigni interact with a woman, Pinocchio yearns to be her, wanting to be held in Papà's arms, with his attention focused solely on himself.

Lorenzini Venigni -

From a prestigious Italian Mafia family, active across Europe, currently based mainly in the UK. Initially engaged in criminal activities, the family now coordinates various factions from behind the scenes. Venigni, after inheriting the family, shifted to weapons development and arms tradingDuring Venigni's childhood, tragedy struck as both of his parents tragically perished. The culprit was an assassin sent by a rival faction, and he remembered it all too well. That person wore a mask, yet made no effort to conceal their identity. Speaking directly to the young Venigni, they uttered their name without hesitation, "Remember well... Arlecchino is my name." Amidst a pool of blood, the individual laughed maniacally, "I'll be waiting for you... dare to try? Come, kill me, hahaha."

Raised by the butler Pulcinella, Venigni, at the age of 11, became the family head.maybe fueled by revenge, he invented weapons, hoping to create something to torment Arlecchino. Despite capturing the enemies who hired Arlecchino, they had no information on his whereabouts. Venigni believes he is still alive.

Recently, Venigni adopted a young man named Pinocchio after a chance encounter. Learning the boy's story, Venigni decided to adopt him. When asked his name, the boy remembered a fairy tale he read at Geppetto's house, "Perhaps because I'm not the real boy, that's why father won't love me..." So, he named himself Pinocchio, hoping to one day become a real boy.

Two years later, Pinocchio became a professional assassin, assigned secret missions by Venigni. Despite being in this world for only two years, Pinocchio, outside of missions, behaved like a child, curious about everything. Venigni dote on him, but lately, Venigni noticed Pinocchio's gaze becoming strange. When praised for completing a task, the boy's eyes held a hint of longing. Venigni understood that look very well, but he hoped the boy could grow up healthy. What he needed was a fatherly figure... However, one day, passing by Pinocchio's room, he heard a sweet voice, "...Papà... mmm." Hearing this term from the boy, Venigni couldn't ignore it anymore. Should he satisfy his boy, or should he focus on being a good father…?

-

Thank you for watching hope you can leave me some comments or feedback :)

[caliburn-the-sword]

whether or not it was the intention of one mr chris colfer, it is undeniable that alex and conner bailey are EXTREMELY mixed race coded, reason numero uno being their parents quite literally coming from two entirely different worlds yet coming to love and understand each other

it has been abundantly clear from the start of the text that alex had a profound lack of belonging and a disconnect from her peers (ofc i'd be entirely open to the idea of this being exacerbated by the possibility of her being neurodivergent. additionally, i'm an adhd connor bailey truther). i've found among other second generation immigrant children who move back to the home country of their parent(s) for a year or 2 of study abroad often do not want to move back and if they are young enough that they're forced to, find it really distressing. this is reflected in alex in the enchantress returns when she had an emotional spiral (and i would even go as far to say situational depression) about being forced to live in the real world

furthermore, there is the pressure that alex and connor experience to "pick" one side of their culture; for alex her fairy side, and for connor his human side, and the responsibility that they feel they have and the people they know and love in each world. it really resonated with me as a child who felt like i was in a tug of war between all of my cultures and ancestry

in an ideal world, i (a 18 y/o software dev with no professional screenwriting experience) am the director of a tlos movie despite the fact that chris colfer announced the news years ago and nothing has come out of it since, and also the world is not vindictive or cruel to child actors for reasons beyond their control. the twins, in my eyes, are like that one pair of twins from the uk because ofc where alex struggles with finding acceptance with her peers, connor experiences no overt trouble, and he is undeniably white passing (though ofc he's just as much a poc as alex is). it would also be like harry potter/percy jackson/stranger things where it's fresh new talent for these two

[we-are-knight]

whats the sad backstory behind the hema dodge post, if you dont mind me asking?

I have about 5 Asks about this, and the actual history to it is too long and elaborate to go into.

What I will confirm is that during the time of that clip, I was informally running the fencing group involved. I say 'informally' because I had zero interest in running it as a leader, and wanted to purely focus on teaching people to fence at higher levels, while letting everyone else determine the direction they took. During this time, I had a lot of accusations of hitting too hard, and had for many years. I was not able to fully fix this however, as I literally didn't know how to correct the mechanics to this, and no one had taken the time to actually look at the issue to rectify it. (It took my current fencing leader 20 minutes total to permanently fix this issue. In over a decade, less than half an hour was required to permanently solve this problem. No one made the effort with me until then).

In the background, there's a few people you can see watching this bout. One of them later took over the group by installing himself as the new president. Later, he would tell me I was now banned from the group, and give vague reasons as to why.

I still don't have a full understanding of why I was banned, nor was I told how to be allowed back. The closest I got was something about them retroactively applying a new code of conduct, and accusation that I had made the club a toxic environment.

This stings especially because I was never given any idea of what that meant or how to fix it, or a clear idea of what I had done. The club would then go on, with several of my former best friends, to totally remove any reference to me, and disallow reference to me. They also went on to use a club logo I had originally proposed, and when I attempted to speak positively of this, one of those people would directly message me saying that I was a horrible person and manipulating the scenario, and this was why people always moved away from me. I still don't know what that was meant to be about, and would reaffirm I had thought it was a hopeful gesture that they had adopted the logo I proposed, after which communication was ended. They also accused me of threatening the guy who installed himself, stealing club funds, and had some unpleasant things to say about my partner for good measure.

I ended up being ostracised from my sport for several months, and for most of last year, I realised that the HEMA community I looked up to, didn't care one mote about what had happened, and actively enabled the people involved. None of them have ever had any repercussions, and I will never really get closure. This has been the focus of regular therapy for me for over a year now.

For me, the video, impressive as it looks, features people in the background that have left me traumatised, and led to me abandoned by the only community I was actively engaged in for over a decade, realising I had no friends at all. I still will not attend certain events in the UK if I risk being alone, because the safeguarding in HEMA is basically non-existant, and based entirely on personality cults.

The only positive is that I was later recruited by another historical fencing group, who not only have safeguarding methods, but a professional set up and regular catch-ups to address the issues that most groups don't address. The experiences above taught me that HEMA as a culture will not help you if you are being bullied or ostracised, and so I have ensured that the culture of the current group I run is everything that the one in the video was not. I have had to ban exactly one person from my current group, and the process leading to them being banned was done with full engagement, and they remain on friendly terms with everyone since that judgement. The main positive, as such, was coming out of that experience with awareness of the failings of this sport, and committing to never perpetuating the cycle of abuse to others.

Even so, I'm still in therapy over it, and will never really get closure from it. I've totally lost faith in HEMA as a sport and culture, and continue fencing only because I can't bring myself to stop swinging a sword. And now I'm teaching a new group that has such enthusiasm and excitement, and has grown like nothing I've seen before, who say they stick with it because the culture of the current group is so warm. But it's a small consolation, as I won't consider going to events if the other group is there, if I am alone.

But keep in mind reading this that I am giving a very condensed form of things and how it affected me, and why that video brings me sadness, and a little anxiety.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

#15yrsago Student challenges prof, wins right to post source code he wrote for course https://memex.craphound.com/2009/06/10/student-challenges-prof-wins-right-to-post-source-code-he-wrote-for-course/

#15yrsago France’s three-strikes copyright rule is unconstitutional and hence dead https://www.laquadrature.net/en/2009/06/10/hadopi-is-dead-three-strikes-killed-by-highest-court/

#15yrsago The Brain that Changes Itself: hopeful book on the science of neuroplasticity https://memex.craphound.com/2009/06/10/the-brain-that-changes-itself-hopeful-book-on-the-science-of-neuroplasticity/

#10yrsago National anti-censorship orgs protest cancellation of Little Brother summer reading program https://ncac.org/incident/little-brother-pensacola

#10yrsago Piketty’s inherited-wealth dystopia: private capital millionaires multiply https://www.bbc.com/news/business-27774753

#10yrsago How Heinlein went from socialist to right-wing libertarian https://newrepublic.com/article/118048/william-pattersons-robert-heinlein-biography-hagiography

#10yrsago Whistleblower org says it will go to jail rather than turning over its keys https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2014/06/to-defeat-encryption-feds-deploy-the-subpoena/

#10yrsago Texas school bans sunscreen because a child might drink it https://web.archive.org/web/20140608074518/http://www.keyetv.com/news/features/top-stories/stories/san-antonioarea-school-district-do-not-bring-sunscreen-school-18590.shtml

#10yrsago Small town sheriff buys tank: “the United States of America has become a war zone” https://www.indystar.com/story/news/2014/06/07/police-officer-safety-surplus-zeal-military-equipment-spurs-debate-mrap-military-vehicle/10170225/

#5yrsago A grandmother is suing the TSA for strip searching her to get a look at her panty liner, on Mother’s Day https://professional-troublemaker.com/2019/06/06/tsa-strip-searches-grandmother-on-mothers-day-for-over-feminine-hygiene-product-gets-sued/

#5yrsago A trove of leaks show that Brazil’s “anti-corruption” task force was secretly trying to oust Lula and install a far-right strongman https://theintercept.com/2019/06/09/brazil-archive-operation-car-wash/

#5yrsago Americans are too poor to survive whether or not they’re working https://eand.co/half-of-americans-are-effectively-poor-now-what-the-c944c518db6a

#5yrsago Competition can fix Big Tech, but only if we don’t make “bigness” a legal requirement https://www.economist.com/open-future/2019/06/06/regulating-big-tech-makes-them-stronger-so-they-need-competition-instead?fsrc=gp_en?fsrc=scn/tw/te/bl/ed/regulatingbigtechmakesthemstrongersotheyneedcompetitioninsteadopenvoices

#5yrsago Weekend SIM-swapping blitz targets US cryptocurrency holders https://www.zdnet.com/article/wave-of-sim-swapping-attacks-hit-us-cryptocurrency-users/

#5yrsago The NRA begs gun nuts for donations, spends lavishly on its board of directors and execs https://www.washingtonpost.com/investigations/nra-money-flowed-to-board-members-amid-allegedly-lavish-spending-by-top-officials-and-vendors/2019/06/09/3eafe160-8186-11e9-9a67-a687ca99fb3d_story.html

#5yrsago On Grenfell’s second anniversary, 60,000 Britons are still living in firetraps clad in the same deadly, decorative materials https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/grenfell-tower-fire-material-high-rise-buildings-flat-block-a8946276.html

#1yrago Links, dumped https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/10/in-the-dumps-2/#do-the-humpty-dump

[phobiawrites]

Introduction: Phobia

Hello! My name is Phobia, I'm a 23 year old writer who mostly writes a mix of fluff and smut fanfic. I use they/it pronouns, and I'm based in the UK.

I'm in a lot of fandoms. Currently, I mostly write in Cuphead, Hazbin Hotel and Starlight Express. I'm interested in writing for a few other fandoms: mostly Sonic, FNAF, Helluva Boss, Cats the Musical, Fallen Hero and TADC.

My commissions are OPEN and you can see details HERE!

I'm open to all requests in my inbox! I wrote both sfw and nsfw content, and my favourite ships at the moment are Devildice and Staticeel.

My "specialties" in terms of kink writing are hypnosis, pet play and tickling.

I also write original stuff. I'm trying to get to grips with interactive fiction coding, it's such a big dream of mine to have a successful hosted game/choice of game. I also write plays, poetry and prose. This blog will probably also be a place for me to rant about my dreams of becoming a professional playwright/author. I really want to submit to this big playwrighting prize in 2025 aha.

So yes, welcome to my little corner of Tumblr for my writing etc.

[poeisatransfemmelesbian]

I’m writing a fic where I have a chapter in Kunikidarling’s pov, and I was wondering if you have any tips on that

Hmmm I guess it depends on what he's doing. I haven't written him much, but when I have it's been him dealing with the consequences of being around Dazai and absolutely despairing.

I apologise in advance because this turned into a mini Kunikida character analysis (?)

I need to read the Dazai's Entrance exam light novel at some point, but from what I've read from Untold Origins he sees flashing lights/passes out from stress (mainly dazai induced, but lets be honest he's probably under constant stress)

From that, I think it's safe to say that Kunikida shows how he feels outwardly/experiences physical 'symptoms' of things (eg the passing out) a lot. Like, when he got that phone call from Dazai in the OVA to say the person who made his notebook was visiting, he started excitedly pacing around (and absolutely stimming), so he absolutely reacts physically to positive things too

I've just started thinking about if Kunikida had cataplexy, and how interesting it would be to make that a part of his life. I know this isn't what you're asking about exactly but shhh:

"Cataplexy is the term given to sudden muscular weakness triggered by strong emotions such as laughter, anger and surprise. The loss of muscle tone that occurs may range from a just-perceptible weakening of the facial muscles through weakness at the knees, to total collapse on the floor. Speech may be slurred, and eyesight impaired (double vision, inability to focus) but hearing and awareness remain undisturbed." (From the Narcolepsy UK website)

Oh! The whole Dazai torture rant! He'd absolutely have an unhinged inner monologue. If I were to write something from his POV I'd make him think of creative ways to get rid of people (like how Fukuzawa wanted to throw child Ranpo into the ocean). In his rant he mimed choking Dazai, so it'd be entirely possible for him to accidentally catch himself throttling the air when he's stressed

Tbh it seems like while he wants to make sure his environment is controlled, he isn't that good at keeping his emotions dialed down (and he shouldn't need to. Let Kunikida be expressive). Spiltash called him autism coded I think, and I 100% agree.

And ooooo how he speaks! People acted surprised when he told Atsushi to grow some wereballs, but that wasn't the first or only time he's said something harsh like that (let Kunikida say fuck 😔). Whether or not it's intentional, he's quite blunt with his words and is NOT afraid to say something potentially 'rude'. This reminds me of him a lot:

Like yeah he's absolutely professional and I think he speaks quite formally, but he would absolutely tell someone to shove a pencil up their ass

Ahhhhh I don't know what else to add. A strong sense of morals with set expectations, blunt communication, really good with kids, physically expressive so easier to describe actions-wise.

In conclusion, good luck and just put your entire kunikidussy into it!