#am on holiday lads and non lads

[nobaraisalive]

Welcome to the first edition of this humble reading club! In this first round we are doing poetry with an open conception about what poetry is. Each member of the club will be posting a piece of literature of their own country (in english and the original language). There will be one post per week every friday. Every member will post from their own blog respecting the style and using “les tumblrinas du mal” as tag. The discussion around the piece of literature will be on the same post in the section of comments (only). The club is open to new members, everyone can interact with post without being part of the club.

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"Manifesto (I Speak For My Difference)" by Pedro Lemebel

Pedro Lemebel (1952–2015) was a Chilean artist, writer, and queer revolutionary. Lemebel first made their mark on Chilean literature through a series of performances and readings made in the 1980s. Their writings (including poetry, short stories, and non-fiction pieces) were known for their boldly queer and provocative stance, as well as for their ability to commemorate the beauty and the grit of working-class queer life in Chile.

In 1986, there was a large gathering of left-leaning opposition groups in the Mapocho Station of Santiago. It was here that Lemebel would make their defiant entry into Chile’s literary culture, dressed in high heels and with a hammer and sickle dolled onto their face. It is this context, of an intransigent public intervention against the established left in Chile, that the poem should be read.

credits to Sebastian Sanchez

I Speak For My Difference

I am not Pasolini asking for explanations

I am not Ginsberg expelled from Cuba

I am not a fag disguised as a poet

I don’t need a disguise

Here is my face

I speak for my difference

I defend what I am

And I am not so strange

I hate injustice

And I don’t trust this democratic dance

But don’t talk to me about the proletariat

Because being poor and a faggot is worse

You gotta be rough to bear it

It’s crossing the street when you see those lads on the corner

It’s a father that hates you

Because his one and only son has a limp wrist

It’s having a mother with hands cut by chlorine

Aged by cleaning

Cradling you when you’re sick

Because of bad habits

Because of bad luck

Like the dictatorship

Worse than the dictatorship

Because dictatorships end

And then comes democracy

And right behind it socialism too

And so?

What will they do with us, comrades?

Will we be tied by our braids into bundles

bound for a Cuban AIDS sanitorium?

They’ll put us on some train to nowhere

Like on General Ibáñez’s ship

Where we learned to swim

But none of us made it to shore

Because of that Valparaíso dimmed its red lights

Because of that the whorehouses

Poured out a single black tear

For those fruits feasted on by crabs

That year the Commission of Human Rights

doesn’t remember

Because of that, comrade, I’m asking you

Does the Siberian train that

reactionaries decry still exist?

That train that passes before your eyes

When my voice starts to get too sweet

And you?

What will you do with that childhood memory

Of us stroking our cocks together (among other things)

While on holiday in Cartagena?

Will the future be in black and white?

Will the difference between night time

and the working day always be clear?

Won’t there be a faggot on some corner

Throwing the future of your new man off balance?

Will they let us embroider birds

on the flags of our free homeland?

I leave the rifle to you

Who is cold-blooded

And it’s not fear

I lost my fear

Of dodging knives

In the seedy basements where I spent my time

And don’t feel attacked

If I speak to you of these things

And check out your bulge

I’m not a hypocrite.

Don’t a woman’s tits

Make you lower your gaze?

Don’t you think

That alone in the mountains

Something would happen between us?

Even if you hate me afterwards

For corrupting your revolutionary morals.

Are you scared I’ll homosexualize your life?

And I’m not just talking about putting it in

& taking it out & taking it out & putting it in

I’m talking about tenderness, comrade

You don’t know

How much it costs to find love

In these conditions

You don’t know

What it’s like to carry this leprosy

People keep their distance

People understand and say:

He’s a fag but he writes well

He’s a fag but he’s a good friend

Real-good-vibes

But I’m not good vibes

I accept the world

Without asking for those good vibes

But either way they laugh

There are scars of laughter on my back

You say I think with my ass

And that with the first shock of the electric prod

I’d let it all slip

You don’t know that I never learnt

My manhood in the barracks

The night taught me my manhood

Behind a post

That manhood you boast of

Was drilled into you in boot camp

By a murderous pig

Like the ones still in power

I didn’t get my manhood from the party

Because they rejected me with sniggers

More than once

I learnt my manhood participating

In the struggle of those years

And they laughed at my faggy voice

Chanting: And it’s gonna fall, and it’s gonna fall

And although you shout like a man

You’ve brought nothing down

My manhood was the gag

It wasn’t going to the stadium

And getting into scraps for Colo-Colo

Football is another form of repressed homosexuality

Like boxing, politics, and wine

My manhood was biting down on my tongue

Eating my rage so I didn’t kill the whole world

My manhood is accepting myself as different

Being a coward is much more difficult

The only other cheek I’ll turn,

Comrade, is on my ass

And that is my vengeance

My manhood waits patiently

For the chauvinists to get old

Because at this stage of the game

The left is trading its limp ass

In parliament

My manhood was difficult

That’s why I won’t get on this train

Without knowing where it’s going

I won’t change for Marxism

Which rejected me so many times

I don’t need to change

I’m more subversive than you

I won’t change just

Because of the rich and the poor

Give me a break

I also wont change because capitalism is unjust

In New York fags kiss on the street

But I’ll let you chew on that

You who are so interested

In the revolution not rotting away

To you I leave this message

And this is not for me

I am old

And your utopia is for those who are to come

There are so many children who will be born

With a broken wing

And I want them to soar, comrade

I want your revolution

To give them a piece of red sky

So they can fly.

...

Hablo por mi diferencia

No soy Pasolini pidiendo explicaciones

No soy Ginsberg expulsado de Cuba

No soy un marica disfrazado de poeta

No necesito disfraz

Aquí está mi cara

Hablo por mi diferencia

Defiendo lo que soy

Y no soy tan raro

Me apesta la injusticia

Y sospecho de esta cueca democrática

Pero no me hable del proletariado

Porque ser pobre y maricón es peor

Hay que ser ácido para soportarlo

Es darle un rodeo a los machitos de la esquina

Es un padre que te odia

Porque al hijo se le dobla la patita

Es tener una madre de manos tajeadas por el cloro

Envejecidas de limpieza

Acunándote de enfermo

Por malas costumbres

Por la mala suerte

Como la dictadura

Peor que la dictadura

Porque la dictadura pasa

Y viene la democracia

Y detrasito el socialismo

¿Y entonces?

¿Qué harán con nosotros, compañeros?

¿Nos amarrarán de las trenzas en fardos

con destino a un sidario cubano?

Nos meterán en algún tren de ninguna parte

Como en el barco del general Ibáñez

Donde aprendimos a nadar

Pero ninguno llegó a la costa

Por eso Valparaíso apagó sus luces rojas

Por eso las casas de caramba

Le brindaron una lágrima negra

A los colizas comidos por las jaibas

Ese año que la Comisión de Derechos Humanos

no recuerda

Por eso, compañero, le pregunto

¿Existe aún el tren siberiano

de la propaganda reaccionaria?

Ese tren que pasa por sus pupilas

Cuando mi voz se pone demasiado dulce

¿Y usted?

¿Qué hará con ese recuerdo de niños

Pajeándonos y otras cosas

En las vacaciones de Cartagena?

¿El futuro será en blanco y negro?

¿El tiempo en noche y día laboral

sin ambigüedades?

¿No habrá un maricón en alguna esquina

desequilibrando el futuro de su hombre nuevo?

¿Van a dejarnos bordar de pájaros

las banderas de la patria libre?

El fusil se lo dejo a usted

Que tiene la sangre fría

Y no es miedo

El miedo se me fue pasando

De atajar cuchillos

En los sótanos sexuales donde anduve

Y no se sienta agredido         

Si le hablo de estas cosas                  

Y le miro el bulto

No soy hipócrita

¿Acaso las tetas de una mujer

no lo hacen bajar la vista?

¿No cree usted

que solos en la sierra

algo se nos iba a ocurrir?

Aunque después me odie

Por corromper su moral revolucionaria

¿Tiene miedo que se homosexualice la vida?

Y no hablo de meterlo y sacarlo

Y sacarlo y meterlo solamente

Hablo de ternura, compañero

Usted no sabe

Cómo cuesta encontrar el amor

En estas condiciones

Usted no sabe

Qué es cargar con esta lepra

La gente guarda las distancias

La gente comprende y dice:

Es marica pero escribe bien

Es marica pero es buen amigo

Súper-buena-onda

Yo no soy buena onda

Yo acepto al mundo

Sin pedirle esa buena onda

Pero igual se ríen

Tengo cicatrices de risas en la espalda

Usted cree que pienso con el poto

Y que al primer parrillazo de la CNI

Lo iba a soltar todo

No sabe que la hombría

Nunca la aprendí en los cuarteles

Mi hombría me la enseñó la noche

Detrás de un poste

Esa hombría de la que usted se jacta

Se la metieron en el regimiento

Un milico asesino

De esos que aún están en el poder

Mi hombría no la recibí del partido

Porque me rechazaron con risitas

Muchas veces

Mi hombría la aprendí participando

En la dura de esos años

Y se rieron de mi voz amariconada

Gritando: Y va a caer, y va a caer

Y aunque usted grita como hombre

No ha conseguido que se vaya

Mi hombría fue la mordaza

No fue ir al estadio

Y agarrarme a combos por el Colo Colo

El fútbol es otra homosexualidad tapada

Como el box, la política y el vino

Mi hombría fue morderme las burlas

Comer rabia para no matar a todo el mundo

Mi hombría es aceptarme diferente

Ser cobarde es mucho más duro

Yo no pongo la otra mejilla

Pongo el culo, compañero

Y ésa es mi venganza

Mi hombría espera paciente

Que los machos se hagan viejos

Porque a esta altura del partido

La izquierda tranza su culo lacio

En el parlamento

Mi hombría fue difícil

Por eso a este tren no me subo

Sin saber dónde va

Yo no voy a cambiar por el marxismo

Que me rechazó tantas veces

No necesito cambiar

Soy más subversivo que usted

No voy a cambiar solamente

Porque los pobres y los ricos

A otro perro con ese hueso

Tampoco porque el capitalismo es injusto

En Nueva York los maricas se besan en la calle

Pero esa parte se la dejo a usted

Que tanto le interesa

Que la revolución no se pudra del todo

A usted le doy este mensaje

Y no es por mí

Yo estoy viejo

Y su utopía es para las generaciones futuras

Hay tantos niños que van a nacer

Con una alíta rota

Y yo quiero que vuelen, compañero

Que su revolución

Les dé un pedazo de cielo rojo

Para que puedan volar.

[cuddlebugsirius]

Hello I am here with a request from the bottom of my heart.

I just finished my finals and am getting cozy with trying to relax and enjoy the holidays, and I am here to ask, nay, beg you for a Christmas little blurb from the e-ta beel nay moy plan. Anything you’d like really. Smut or non smut (even though we all know some smut is more fun.) could be Sirius shocked he settled down. Could be them running into each other again for the first time in a while. Anything. I just love it soooo much.

Thank you xoxoxooxo

This ask actually sparked an idea in my mind, so I hope you enjoy 😅 thank you for reading 💙

A fic in the e-ta beel nay moy plan universe using the @wolfstarmicrofic prompt for today: advantage

Minor nsfw below the cut

“Advantage Blue,” the referee proclaimed as Sirius trailed James down the pitch, taking a step backwards when he was tackled to allow a second rower in to ruck. Breathing hard, he crouched behind his teammates and placed his hands on the ball, careful not to lift it until his backs were set; “use it, nine,”

The shouts of ‘ball out’ could be heard across the pitch as the ball sailed into the centre’s hands, the Saints attack reforming just as they’d practiced over and over again, barrelling towards the try line. Pulling James to his feet with a strong arm, they chased the play down the field just in time to see their teammate land the ball over the line.

“Fuck yeah,” James shouted, pulling Gideon into a crushing hug as they gathered to celebrate the five points; “nice one mate,”

“Good run, Prudey,” Sirius complimented him, smacking him in the shoulder as they walked, panting, back to the halfway line.

“Cheers, Pads,” the tall ginger replied, his grin familiarly alarming with his midnight coloured gum shield still in his mouth; “one more on the board,”

“Mmhmm,” Sirius hummed, suddenly distracted by the tall head of mousey brown hair he could see in the small crowd of students watching from the sideline; “s’that- Prongs!”

His brother turned to face him, walking backwards in front of him; “Paddington…”

“S’that Evans and Lupin over there?” he jerked his head to the right to indicate the direction,

An evil grin took over the taller boy’s face at his question, James glancing at the sideline and then back to Sirius; “I think you mean, ‘is that the guy that fucked me to within an inch of my life a month ago and didn’t so much as give me his number’,”

The twelve lads surrounding him, including their coach, all laughed at James’ statement, and while Sirius blushed, eyes fixed on the kicker, he heard his brother begin to plot. As they fell silent and Fabian took his shot, the shortest of them all held his breath. Up and over the ball went, and the twin began a slow jog back to them as they got set, waiving off the round of applause with a quietly proud smile; "yes, Prude-bee!" one of the freshers yelled from the sideline, wrapped up warmly in their sub suit,

Calm and collected, Sirius glanced at the spot he knew Remus was in, the man occupying his thoughts over the Christmas holidays and all the way up until this very moment. With a shy smile at that area of crowd, he clapped his hands and yelled; “one last push boys, five minutes left. What’s the score?”

A resounding shout of ‘nil-nil’ came from the rest of his team as the ball was drop-kicked towards them, immediately picked up by one of the first year props and run forward into the waiting line of defence. Heart racing as he was caught up in the ruck, he felt a shoulder shove against his arse and then disappear as the ball was recovered.

“Y’alright Pads?”

Sirius didn’t see who asked the question, a blurry face ruffling his hair as he pushed himself to a run, following the game as it played out in front of him, watching as James got his aim just a little bit off, enough to send it out. Enough to land it right at Remus’ feet.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Remus as the referee marked the spacing for the lineout, forwards matching numbers as James set his back line. In that moment, he was extraneous, and he was close enough to meet the man’s eyes.

A small smile on his face, Remus was wrapped up in a puffer jacket, a woollen scarf around his neck and a faint pink tinge to his wind-burnt cheeks. He stared right back.

Hi, he mouthed, grinning when Remus returned the sentiment and then tilted his head towards the game.

Watch your match, Remus mouthed back, Sirius startling as he realised they were waiting on him to be ready, ball held aloft by the opposing team’s hooker. Crouching, he lunged forward to patrol the maul, directing players and keeping them up as far as it took to push Newcastle back into their 5’, and then over their try line. As the maul collapsed, the referee was laid in the mud with his face pressed to the line, squinting to see the ball.

Finally, a decision was made – held up. Groaning, the boys picked themselves up off the floor and trudged back five metres for the scrum, sighing in relief when the words ‘last play’ fell from the officials lips.

-

“Ready?” James asked him, damp hair messy as he stood next to him on the chair in the clubhouse, one of six members of the two teams,

“Never,” Sirius returned, eyes locked with a particular someone in the crown

The pint in his hand was icy cold, condensation pooling around his fingertips, his ‘dick of the day’ crown obvious in the special penis shaped pint glass they had purchased especially for after-match pints. James and Fabian held normal glasses, their awards as front and back of the match meaning they weren’t singled out like Sirius had been.

“Right then everybody,” Gideon grinned at the crowd, “we all know why we’re here. Our boys’ve worked hard today, a solid match against an impressive team. It was close, but we beat them back, so to say thank you we’ve got your best and your worst a pint.”

A collective silence fell across the room as the barman turned down the music, all eyes on them. Clinking their glasses together, the six boys took a deep breath and began to drink as the room was led in song.

“Here’s to these guys they’re true blue, they are piss pots through and through, they are drunkards so they say, tried to go to heaven but they went the other way,” Sirius gasped for breath, pulling back to see he was only a third of the way through his pint. Shaking his head, he brought the glass to his lips once more and carried on; “so it’s down, down, down, down, down…”

Pausing to let out a belch, he looked to his right to see James finishing his pint, holding the glass upside down on his head in glory. He still had half the glass to go. A deep breath, and he kept going, just him and the other dick of the day drinking together; “you’re not welcome on our ship, on our ship, you’re not welcome on our ship, on our ship ‘cos our ship’s a tanker, and you’re a fucking wanker, you’re not welcome on our ship, on our ship. You're not welcome on our pitch, on our pitch, you're not welcome on our pitch, on our pitch 'cos our pitch is grass, you take it up the arse, you're not welcome on our pitch, on our pitch.. ”

Applause broke out as he placed the dick to his forehead, laughter filling the space as James lifted him down from the chair by his hips. He stumbled a little, brain freeze taking over as he passed the empty glass back to the social secretary; “was that fucking glass frozen?”

“Dick of the day, Pads… it’s a punishment, not a reward,”

“Fuck you, Prongs,” he laughed it off, “get me an actual pint, yeah? Something good this time, I’ve left my fucking phone in the changing rooms,”

Trudging out of the bar and down the dim corridor, he pushed into the changing rooms, not expecting to be crowded up against the cinderblock wall by a much larger body.

“I thought you could take a big cock, cariad?” Remus’ voice was gravelly in his ear, shivers racing through him as his cool hands covered the others; “I think you’ve lost your touch, love,”

“Re,” he sighed happily, “you- ahh,” he moaned as his pulse point was bitten harshly, “you came,”

“Though I’d come and see the Saints’ opening match since I have some skin in the game now,” he could feel the grin being pressed to his throat; “you looked good out there. A little distracted though,”

“You have- skin in the game?”

“Oh dear, did you think I’d let you go so easily? You took my cock so well, love,” Remus mused, releasing him, spinning Sirius so that he could crane his neck up to meet Remus’ amber eyes; “twice would never be enough,”

“But you- I never- you never called me,” Sirius said quietly, one of his hands on the older man’s hip while the other drifted up to tangle in Remus’ messy curls; “I didn’t think-“

Watching him quietly for a moment, the man leant down to place his hands underneath Sirius’ suit-clad thighs, lifting him so that they were eye-to-eye; “life happens sometimes,”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning that I intended to come and find you much sooner than today, cariad, I just didn’t have a chance,” Remus rubbed the tips of their noses together slowly, smiling at the happy look on Sirius’ face; “have you been a good boy, cariad? My slutty little boy scout?”

“Not so slutty,” Sirius murmured, “not unless you count the dildo I’ve fucking myself with thinking of you…”

Remus huffed a laugh against his lips, eyes searching for the truth in Sirius’ statement. Clearly he found what he was looking for, because he let their lips brush once, twice, until the smaller boy darted forward hungrily.

Whining into the kiss, he felt the temperature change as Remus walked them towards the back of the room and away from the door; “round the corner,” he panted, “the showers- they won’t- we can in the showers,”

Humming, Remus took careful steps down into the tiled box room, wet ceramic squeaking under his rubber soles; “I thought you’d want to go back to your teammates, cariad,”

“Want you,” Sirius countered; “I can see them any day of the week. I see them every day of the week. Right now… I want you.”

“Mоя звезда,” he murmured, “what do you want?”

Shivers raced through him at the reverence that filled Remus’ tone, a gentle hand cupping his cheek and smoothing over his eyebrow. He looked sincere, and so Sirius pouted his lips, kissed the heel of the man’s palm and murmured; “I want you to follow through,”

“Follow through on what, cariad?”

“You said- In the cabin you said that you wanted to come on my face… I want- would you?”

A soft laugh escaped Remus as the hand holding him aloft tightened on his arse, Sirius’ arms slung over broad shoulders as he watched various emotions flit across his face; “you’re asking me if I’ll come on your face?”

“Mmhmm,” Sirius hummed, “if you still want to-“

“Yes, моя звезда, I still want to come on your face,” Remus laughed; “if I ever say no to that, put me out of my misery, okay?”

“Okay,” Sirius agreed, “you’ll have to put me down if you want-“

“Padfoot!” James called, “didja find your phone?”

“Fuck,” Sirius hissed, and then louder, “fuck off, Jamie!”

“Oooh, alright touchy,” James laughed, “your pints getting warm, fucker. Come get it,”

Remus laughed as the door slammed shut behind him, dropping his forehead to Sirius and laughing, letting him back down to his feet; “’ll tell you what cariad, go back to your party.”

“What? No, Re, I want-“

“I know,” Remus pressed his lips to Sirius’ forehead and held them there for a few moments; “I’m coming with you. Let’s go have fun with your boys, and before your social starts we’ll slip out with the crowd and head back to my flat. I have a feeling you share with your brother?”

“I do,” Sirius confirmed,

“So we’ll go back to my one bedroom flat, where you and I will be the only people, and if you want me to, I’ll come on your face. I will do whatever you want me to do. Does that sound good?”

Lust-blown eyes tracked Remus as he stepped backwards, a fast nod breaking him from his reverie as he was towed back to the sound of the match teas.

[denimbex1986]

Two of Europe's hottest stars sit in a green leather armchair each between a movie poster adorned with a bouquet of flowers. They look like two carefree unshaven Irish lads who could be on holiday in the sun. Paul Mescal wears a white t-shirt, while Andrew Scott sports a turquoise "No problem" t-shirt emblazoned with pop culture alien ALF, the 80s sitcom character whose name stands for "Alien Life Form" .

Perhaps a subtle reference to their new film, "All of us strangers"? It is certainly not about aliens, but is in any case a cosmic love story about two extraterrestrial aliens who find each other in a lonely world. At the same time, it is a kind of supernatural "ghost story" about a queer son who gets a second chance to talk to his dead parents.

- Although the role scared the crap out of me, Andrew Haigh's script was the most original I've read in ages. Everything in this film is rooted in tenderness and love – and who doesn't dream of going back and redefining the relationship with their parents, Andrew Scott wonders rhetorically, making a gesture where he is given the opportunity to discreetly flex one of his biceps at a zoom screen from London.

For a Swedish audience, he is perhaps best known for the role of the arch-villain Professor Moriarty in "Sherlock Holmes" and "the hot priest" that Phoebe Waller Bridge becomes obsessed with in the second season of "Fleabag".

Andrew Scott believes that "All of us strangers" is the most personal thing he has done.

- I love the mix of naturalism and surrealism in this film, it's completely different from anything I've played before. I've always wished I was in Derek Cianfrance's tragic love story "Blue Valentine" and suddenly I get a chance at a film similar to "All of us strangers". I've never before brought myself into the role in the same way and for once I didn't have to work on my accent, smiles the Dublin-born actor who has long lived in London.

In "All of us strangers" he plays Adam, a gay writer with writing cramp who slowly falls for his mysterious neighbor Harry (Paul Mescal) who lives in the same soulless and deserted apartment complex in London's East End. Parallel to the budding romance, he commutes to his childhood suburb to meet his dead parents (Claire Foy and Jamie Bell) exactly as old as they were when they died in a car accident when he was 11 years old.

Andrew Haigh got the idea from Taichi Yamada's novel "Strangers" from 1987. After much effort and trouble, he managed to transform the rather traditional Japanese ghost story into something more poetic, psychological and personal.

- I ignited this whole idea of ​​meeting his dead parents again and being able to reconcile with his own past in order to help with the future. It was of course crazy risky, but it wasn't about making a traditional ghost story, but about creating something vulnerable, true and honest that would be an emotional experience, says Andrew Haigh.

In the past, he has directed wayward films such as "45 Years", "Weekend" and "Lean on Pete", as well as TV series such as macho "The North Water" and "Looking", which revolves around three gay friends in San Francisco. "All of us strangers" is his most personal film to date. To get closer, he made the main character a gay writer.

- I am gay and this is a story I have wanted to tell for a long time, a film about the experiences of "queerness", non-heteronormativity, and how it can make people feel like strangers in their own family. The concept of going back in time and dealing with the complicated issues of growing up queer within a family has its own challenges. It's also about the difficulty of parenting and saying the right things at the right time, says Andrew Haigh.

- For me, the film is also about the writing process itself. To investigate one's own past through a fictional world. Not that I look back on my upbringing with a desperate sadness, more curiosity, melancholy and a strange nostalgia. But just like the character Adam, I look back on my own life, says Haigh.

For the director, it was also a highly private experience. Among other things, he filmed several scenes in his real childhood home in Croydon, south London, which he left 40 years ago.

- It was a ghostly experience. Like walking into a haunted house, but it was my memories that were the ghosts. We designed it the same way as when I was a kid. When we finished, I closed the door behind me and experienced a catharsis, as if I was free and could move on, says Haigh.

Nevertheless, it is still not straightforward. In the same vein as he was to film a key scene where the grown-up Adam talks to his father, Andrew Haigh visited his father in the dementia home.

- Although I had the same partner for 18 years, he asked me: "Do you have a wife?". My first thought was, "Oh my God, am I going to have to come out again?", but then I pretended it was raining. Oddly enough, I felt a bit terrified about having to tell him I was gay again - even though he was fine with me coming out in my 20s, says Andrew Haigh.

- So that scene with Adam was extremely difficult to write. I wanted to make it a moment that was as simple as it was meaningful. I was incredibly moved, he says.

In many ways, "All of us strangers" is reminiscent of "45 years", which is also a kind of ghost story. A fate-filled drama about a struggling British couple (Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay) who are suddenly haunted by an old love story just in time for the couple's 45th wedding anniversary.

- Yes, I think there was definitely a similarity between the films. But I've always been interested in the past versus the present because that's how we learn throughout our lives. Our first fifteen years have such a dramatic and profound impact on who we become as an adult, he says.

In "All of us strangers" he fills it with pop music from his upbringing in the 1980s; Pet Shop Boys, The Housemartins and, not least, Frankie goes to Hollywood's "The power of love", which becomes a signature song for the entire film and not least its emblematic final scene.

- There was something in that song that spoke to me already as an 11-year-old without me really knowing about it. A bombastic pop song that is loaded with longing. Actually, it was quite subversive to be mainstream, there's a melancholy and darkness lurking beneath the surface, says Andrew Haigh.

Although Holly Johnson's "The power of love" wasn't exactly Paul Mescal's cup of tea, it helped him get in the right emotional mood during the recording.

- Andrew has interpreted the power of love in the most extraordinary way. This is his way of saying that Adam and Harry's relationship is also a grand love story that has its place up there in heaven with all the other heterosexual love stories. I think it's very beautiful, says Paul Mescal who was Oscar-nominated last year for his performance in Charlotte Wells' Aftersun, where he played a tormented father on his first joint charter trip with his eleven-year-old daughter.

He does not think that the self-confident but traumatized Harry is an essential character from father Callum in "Aftersun".

- Harry belongs to a certain kind of family of characters that I have played, but is also completely different. Subconsciously, I'm obviously drawn to this kind of material that deals with tormented masculinity and humanity, smiles Paul Mescal.

Like Andrew Scott, he is a great admirer of Andrew Haigh's films. In addition to the script, Scott was also a decisive factor in his acceptance. Before "All of us strangers", they had admired each other from afar. The recording turned into a bromance in full bloom that ended with intimate scenes where Paul Mescal "went down" on Andrew Scott co-star and licked a kind of cake mix from the co-star's body. In interviews, Mescal has explained that it was such a powerful moment that it almost scared him.

- Yes, there was a special charge between us. We were both very aware of how intense it was and how we were somehow aware of how committed we were to each other. It is very beautiful that the story often lies in the character who is listening, which is quite unusual. The challenge was to tell a story via sexual intimacy. We treated the sex scenes as if they were dialogue scenes, the only thing different was that we were half-naked, smiles Paul Mescal.

Andrew Scott believes that sex scenes between two male actors often tend to be about raw sexuality, but that "All of us strangers" felt radical because it was more interested in highlighting the tenderness between the characters.

- The first scenes when Adam and Harry meet in the elevator and at the front door trigger the film's sexual charge. When they are separated after the slightly awkward meeting, it creates an urge in the audience for them to reunite. When they finally sit next to each other on the couch and they stare at each other, it gets very, uh, sexy. I like the scene where Adam forgets to breathe because he hasn't been with anyone in a long time, says Andrew Scott.

Like the director, Andrew Scott talks about working on "All of us strangers" as a kind of cleansing bath. Before the recording, they both talked about their experiences in the loneliness of growing up queer in the gap between the 80s and 90s.

- Going back in time can be both anxious and nostalgic. For me, the challenge was trying to bring together Haigh's story with my own story, both the pain and the joy, says Andrew Scott the day after the film's Irish gala premiere in Dublin.

Although he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of ​​being in the same room as his parents when they watch the sex scenes in "All of us strangers", he seems to have managed it without a pillow of shame.

- It was a magical evening in my hometown. My family was there and all the other people I love so much. Suddenly it was as if I saw this whole journey that I've been on, realized that this is a deeply personal film that hit me right in the heart. I really love this movie.'

[markgatissbirthdayproject]

LAST FULL DAY!!!! GET YOUR BIDS IN!!!!

The JustGiving page is live!

You can donate directly here.

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Just a reminder that the auction ends on Saturday morning at approximately 9 am BST.

1 fic, 2-5000 words, Mystrade or Mycroft-focused, none of: explicit, non-con, character death, heavy angst. Donated by @johannadc. https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/pseuds/trillian_jdc Link to item 1 HIGH BID £20

 1 Mystrade fic 3-5K, no non con, underage, graphic violence, MCD donated by @lavenderandvanilla Link to item 2 HIGH BID £25

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Mystrade grab bag (an assortment of at least 12 items including note cards, magnets and stickers all featuring Mystrade, MG or RG) donated by @eys93   Link to item 6 HIGH BID £10

Mystrade grab bag (an assortment of at least 12 items including note cards, magnets and stickers all featuring Mystrade, MG or RG)donated by @eys93 Link to item 7 HIGH BID £15

signed program from A Christmas Carol (please note the signature is a bit difficult to see, but it is there!) donated by @copgirl1964 Link to item 8 HIGH BID £10

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A random assortment of playbills, postcards, stickers and a Sherlock notebook (missing the first few pages). Link to item 15 HIGH BID £12

[thecaitychronicles]

Home for the Holidays

Finally, I embark on the long adventure back to Germany for the holidays. It has been four years since my last visit, so screw the travel anxiety- I’m going home!

I get to the airport and immediately start shaking knowing I’ll be cramped in a confined space for a long period of time.

Seat 32G. Let’s see just how uncomfortable this 11hr flight will be. I go to the desk and ask if I’ll be positioned by a window, aisle, or between two unhygienic nomads who won’t give up the arm rests. The attendant responds “it’s a middle seat.” Aw HAYEL nah, not today. I politely request to look up any other options. Alas! There is one more aisle seat available.

Luck seems to be in my corner, but I should ease the remaining anxiety with a beer. And perhaps a second.

I board the flight and arrive at my seat. Well what’s this?! A muthafuqin baby! It really is just my luck that switching to a more favorable seat would lead me to spend hours next to a dairy-smelling motza ball with exceptional vocal range who enjoys sharing its snacks by throwing them in my lap. And quite a coincidence that the infant’s name was “Kaiet” considering the only thing I wanted to say was “cállate” each time it tried to compete for American Idol.

Now to be fair, this was a pretty good baby. It slept most of the flight and only serenaded a few times throughout the flight. But it kept staring at me, and I don’t care for that shit.

Finally, my spaceship from San Diego to Munich lands. As I wander though the airport towards my connecting flight’s gate, passing those who forgot what walking is and screaming mothers declaring their child has to tinkle, I get a text message:

“Your flight is cancelled. We will be in touch shortly with a solution.”

Fucking wonderful.

I see a queue forming in front of the Lufthansa service desk near baggage claim, and a silly thought popped into my head. “Perhaps they can provide service.” LOL!

I am advised to go upstairs where I can get a train ticket from Munich to Stuttgart that Lufthansa will *reimburse.

We’re at line #2 now. Once at the desk, I am informed I’m in the wrong spot. Line #3 I pay for two tickets- one to an obscure Munich train station and another to Stuttgart. I arrive at the obscure station to find my second train situated next to a line-turn-mob around a hefty, bald character. After being pushed and interrupted by about six people, I assertively ask “excuse me, do you speak English, please?” Hefty, bald character replies with a stare (again- I don’t care for that shit). I repeat myself. Another stare. At this point I just state my issue in hopes a helpful response will present itself in verbal form from the hefty, bald man. Verbal response? Yes. Helpful? Nope. I am now to get another ticket to go back to Munich’s main station and ask for assistance there.

Now if we recall from the beginning of the story- my adventure begins in San Diego, meaning while I have a jacket ready to layer up, my leggings are not made of Thomas Burberry’s wind and weather resistant gabardine. This is important to note because line #4 is 60 people long in an outdoor train station. My anemic ass is cold as fuck and my knees are chattering.

After about 30 minutes, I make it to the desk where I plead with the employee who looked to be about 16 due to the video game-induced dead eyes and lack of skincare routine. He wakes up just enough to switch my train ticket to a non-stop ICE train that will take me to Stuttgart in about three hours. Bless you greasy, dead-eyed boy!

I board the train and I follow the masses forward in a failed search of empty seating which comes to a halt while in the dining car. We find that we are delayed an hour… in a sardine can so packed only standing is an option. Cool.

After a few stops, I spy a table opening up. I am now accompanied by a polite, aged-Matt Damon, German lad who watched my shit while I rushed to grab a beer. I take one sip followed by an audible sigh and am shoved to the window by an old couple flanking mine and Matt Damon’s table. While my German is beyond out of practice, the elderly’s sentiment was basically “ooo look, 4 inches of free space on this bench, lets occupy it aggressively to the point these other passengers uncomfortably shuffle against the window.” Mr. Damon and I comply, but not without a shared “we have a mutual enemy now” look. Now if I am to deal with potent old people breath for 2 hours, I’m gonna need another beer.

My eyes are making me mad at this point so I ask Sir Matt to wake me at my stop. While trusting a stranger to not tamper with your stuff while sleeping is probably ill-advised, I would have needed toothpicks to keep my eyes open at this point. Hours later, I feel a nudge followed by a friendly “we’re here!” I thank the Bourne Identity actor, and go on my merry way.

I see Poppy and Mutina, garbed in their Target brand nanopuffs I gifted them two years prior and tackle them each with a hug. I’m home!

Home sure, but don’t you worry, dear reader, the saga does not end there. Turns out, while I went on a detour, my bag had done the same. I go online to file a lost luggage report for my floral, neon orange L.L.Bean duffle bag (hard to miss, Lufthansa!). Fingers and toes are crossed at this point that my bag is found prior to us leaving for Italy in two days. But we all remember the kinda luck I have, right?

Dad lovingly drove me to a prestigious shopping outlet (the PX) to acquire at least enough pieces to fashion 7 outfits for our trip. If anyone knows the PX, they also know the options there are, well, subpar at best. But dammit I got a fashion degree for a reason!! Pair a few classic staples with a tapered pant here, a puffy sleeve there, all in this season’s color pallet, and we got the full runway show!

On day 5 without luggage, I lose hope that anyone actually works at the airport. I figure I’ll just have to search myself once we return to Germany.

Mom gets a phone call- an eager German lady excitedly announcing the discovery of my bag as though she should be praised with the highest honor. No bitch. I wore PX clothes for two weeks!

I retrieve my bag from the airport and open it to ensure no Christmas present has broken. While relieved that the ramen bowls are intact, I find that the apparel contents are soaked and smell like an old storage unit. Seriously?! (Bless laundry and Dad for doing it!)

*I send my email to Lufthansa customer service explaining both the cost of the train ticket to Stuttgart and the expenses necessary to not wander naked for two weeks need to be reimbursed.

The response I got was not favorable. Apparently because the second flight was cancelled due to “eXtReMe WeAtHeR” that was out of Lufthansa’s control, I will not be getting a refund for the train ticket.

Stay tuned for my upcoming edit on whether or not my Karen voice is successful in getting my clothing reimbursed.

[murdereraisuha]

Chapter 6 part 2 liveblog

Official English release and chapter 6 update? Twst really feeding us for the holidays.

Anyway, obvious warning for spoilers here, and also a warning for this post being very long because I am taking full advantage of the fact that my drafts don’t lag from having tons of stuff in it anymore for some reason. I am still not fluent in Japanese, so take what I say is going on with a grain of salt.

So, leaving off where we stopped in the 1st part, Idia welcomes the lads to STYX... and then immediately questions why they don’t seem surprised that he’s here. The lads explain that they already discussed Idia’s connection to STYX, then they get angry and threaten him. I really like Leona’s little growl at the end of what he says, but it quickly gets overshadowed by Idia’s voice actor really going supervillain once Idia reasserts his control

“I’m the boss”

Seriously bro how does your voice even do that? I can feel Idia rapidly creeping up my favorites list.

The boys are surprised too and Vil agrees to follow along with Idia’s orders before we go back to the scene in Crowley’s office where the guys there are discussing Idia’s connection to the Isle of Lamentation. Malleus drops the name アイドネ (Aidone) Shroud, maybe meant to be like Aidoneus, one of the many alternative names of Hades. This person is apparently Idia’s late grandmother, the mother of his father. She used to be the head of STYX, which has existed for like a century or more.

According to Lilia & Malleus, in the past, magicians were called sorcerers and witches, and the connection between magic and blot was unknown. Overblots were known as a sudden disasters. The Jupiter family’s ancestors were the ones who brought peace to the people by sealing oveblot in the Isle of Lamentation, and the Shroud family’s ancestors became the guards who would keep overblot from being unleashed on the world ever again. Even as things changed and attitudes about magic changed though, the research into blot continued and STYX was formed. yay lore

anyway look at this Jade face. angy lad :)

So after some more not-that-interesting discussion, everyone goes back to their dorms since they don’t have a means of getting to the Isle of Lamentation to save the lads yet. Ruggie and Rook run into Jack who just found out about what happened. oop... Hold up, excuse me, Rook’s nickname for Jack is Monsieur Tough Guy???? Really? Seriously?

After briefing Jack on who got kidnapped and whatever, Ruggie sends him and the Prefect to the infirmary to check on what’s going on there. There, Jack finds Crewel managing the massive amount of students there. Epel is also there looking after Deuce and Ace, who are still unconscious. Crewel blames the damage on the rundown, cramped space of Ramshackle making it hard to fight without debris raining down on you too. We get a nice heartwarming discussion with Jack reassuring Epel that even their strong dorm leaders have faced failures before, so instead of being all gloomy about failing to protect their friends they have to keep going.

Jack, Epel, and the player leave the infirmary. Since Ramshackle is all destroyed, Epel invites the player to stay at Pomefiore for the time being. Before Epel can enter the mirror to go back though, Rook suddenly runs in and pushes him out of the way while shouting “non!”.  The fuck?

ROOK’S GOING TO THE ISLE OF LAMENTATION? Alright okay I see I guess he’s launching a rescue mission cause he’s really concerned about Vil’s wellbeing right?

NO HE’S JUST REALLY CONCERNED ABOUT VIL’S SKIN’S WELLBEING. BRO THE GUY CAN SURVIVE WITHOUT HIS SKINCARE PRODUCTS WHAT ARE YOU DOING WHO CARES IF HE GETS A PIMPLE WE’VE GOT BIGGER THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT!!! ah. he left.

ALRIGHT IT’S TIME TO CHASE THAT KOMAEDA CHARACTER FRENCH BOY DOWN

But not before we get to briefly see The Mouse, who wants to come and help us but can’t. okay ANYWAY (hwow I use that word a lot), very fun watching a furious Epel yell and chase Rook through the skies and launch fireballs at him.

Finally Rook lands and makes us a fire and some tea since we just left to chase him through the cold night in our not-very-warm school uniforms. Rook says he didn’t want to wrap anyone up in this, which, terrible job there man, but now he will let us go along with him. Oh. We’re not gonna go back and get some backup? Really gonna be 3 high schoolers storming a  top secret base of a shady organization? bruh.

Yay Vargas Camp 2 (Pomefiore version). Oooooooo now we get to solve the mystery of how Rook knew where to go, and what his unique magic is!

“My unique magic allows me to identify the location of someone that I cast magic on.”

The name of his unique magic is 「果てまで届く弓矢」, “a bow and arrow that reaches to the end”. Kinda cool, but then the English is literally just “I See You”. Congratulations on winning the award for lamest unique magic name.

Rook explains that he cast his unique magic on one of the Charon guys during the attack, so that’s how he knows where to go. Then we get to see a fancy map! yay lore. wtf are these country names though

It’s kinda cool that when he uses his magic an arrow flying sound effect plays. Alright so to get over there, apparently some person in Rook’s family in the past was really into traveling and had vacation homes in every country.

Man, Rook really stealing the spotlight here. I feel sorry for everyone who despises him, gonna have to put up with him for a long while if they wanna keep up with the story. We switch over to what’s going on at STYX now though!

LMAOOOOOOOOO looking good vil. “noooooo how could you not give me any skincare products I’m a world-class modeeellllllllll” lmaoooo cry harder buddy boy

also look at this great expression to pause on as Idia was just starting to talk

Okay back to business. The choker thing everyone’s wearing acts as both a magic suppressant and as a way to collect data on their vitals and stuff. Now we’re gonna watch an introduction movie for STYX. Oooooo nice animation. Yeah yeah “to protect the peaceful lives of magicians” great thing to say to some magicians you just kidnapped.

So after the movie ends and Idia makes a joke that doesn’t go over well, we get an explanation to the “Phantom” thing. That’s the name of the big entity thing that appears behind people when they overblot and uses the blot from their negative emotions as an energy source. If the overblot isn’t stopped, the person will eventually run out of energy to give to the Phantom and their body will vanish, leaving only the super juiced up monster behind.

As we already know, you gotta have a lot of magical power to be able to accumulate enough blot to overblot, and those with that sort of power usually have the self discipline to keep that from happening, which is why 5 people in the same place overbloting in such a short span of time caught STYX’s attention.

Now we get an interesting little scene where Leona asks Idia if he informed STYX about them and Idia remains silent before Ortho butts in to say that info’s classified, hmmmm not suspicious at all /s. Ortho also explains that STYX is researching how to use blot as a source of energy, and this research could help the lads to never overblot again, aka “LET US STUDY YOU OR ELSE. Now sign this NDA.”

Oh what STYX is gonna finish their research on them in 24 hours and also they promise not to hurt them? Okay why do I feel even more uneasy knowing that. LMAO 1 HOUR LATER STILL READING EVERY INCH OF THE NDA DOCUMENT. okay okay they signed now, time for a... battle simulator. Yep yep of course, as predicted. First up are Riddle, Azul, and Vil, and so Jamil and Leona just gotta wait.

Oh apparently STYX is drugging Grim or something to keep him asleep. Why.

LOOK AT THESE DUDES HAHAHA SPOT THE MAIN CHARACTER

Okay so the battle simulation is in VR.

them. It looks like the battle does actually restrict you to these guys instead of letting you use your own cards... That’s cool I think, idk I don’t play the game.

After that 1st test, the 2nd one abruptly places them in the school cafeteria in their school uniforms. oh god I got a bad feeling about this. Simulations of Jade, Rook, and Trey then appear and greet them. OH GOD I GOT A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS.

YEP YEP YEP HELLO THERE scorpio power couple GUYS. TIME TO FORCE THE TEST SUBJECTS TO FIGHT THEIR OWN FRIENDS AND WATCH THE HAVOC IT WRECKS ON THEIR MENTAL STATES FOR THE SAKE OF ~SCIENCE~. Idia are you into this research or not I really can’t tell whether it’s his excitement or his desire to do the gacha event that’s a lie.

Alright blah blah blah Ortho and Idia talking about the lads’ strengths and weaknesses in battle. Except apparently Vil is super good and skilled at both offense and defense despite not especially having combat training. bro wtf why, stop making Vil overpowered it’s so hard to like him if the narrative keeps praising him like it’s forcing me to like him.

Yay now we switch scenes and we get to watch Jamil and Leona make awkward conversation with each other! Oh now we get something even better, analysis time with Leona! NO ORTHO DON’T COME IN LET HIM TALK ugh alright battle simulation time again.

They also get the friend betrayal simulation, but Leona immediately realizes what’s happening and just starts attacking as Ruggie’s talking about a report for alchemy class lmao. Idia’s so confused about why they accumulated so much less blot than the other 3 by the end of the simulation.

WTF is this “healing room” Ortho is talking about, the test subjects are sleeping in there? Did you do the same thing to them as yall did to Grim? Okay I’m actually kinda digging Ortho and Idia’s analysis, I better see some RPG style fanart of the overblot gang based on the RPG classes the Shroud bros assigned them.

OH OH OH LORE!!! STYX HAS A TECHNOLOGY TO MESS WITH MEMORIES BASED ON THE LETHE RIVER IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY!!!... i am afraid.

our boy is here. Oh no he remembers attacking the player, oh no he remembers the 1st years trying to save him,

OOF

OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU CAN’T JUST CUT TO ROOK AND EPEL FLYING THROUGH THE SKY AS ROOK WAXES POETRY ABOUT THE BEAUTIFUL WEATHER AFTER THAT AAAAAAA

NO YOU CANNOT MAKE EVERYTHING OKAY WITH MORE ROOK BACKSTORY CRUMBS... but I will take them. Alright woah he has 2 older siblings and 3 younger siblings. Cool.

The Rook crew has reached the place where the STYX base should be, but it’s just open ocean. Then we cut back to STYX, where Idia notes that just 12 of the agreed upon 24 hours are left, and then immediately sirens start blaring and one of the staff notifies Idia that they’re being attacked. The base apparently has an invisibility shield, which explains the appearance of just ocean.

“BONJOUR! Everyone from the Isle of Lamentation. I am the beauty seeking, beauty serving, known as Le chasseur d'amour, Rook Hunt!!”

Yes what a great way to start out your secret research lab invasion. “I want to eliminate him, but do not eliminate him!” IDIA SDHGLSGHLSDGLHSDLGK

Oh alright the Rook crew is going to get purposefully captured so they can infiltrate from inside. Yeah great I was wondering how they would beat the Charon squad; they just won’t.

awwwwww Ortho’s imitation of Rook is really cute. Oh Idia’s gut instinct really just be like

Wow lmao the isle of lamentation is underwater, love that massive hole just opening up in the sea. And with another disney movie dream there ends this part. Fantastic, now I can finally scour for memes about the update. Thanks for somehow, for some reason, reading all of this post.

[welightthefire]

Baby, It’s Cold Outside (j.t.k.)

reader x jake kiszka

Warnings: None, just fluffy

Word Count: 1.5k

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year @way-to-go-lad! I hope your holidays were full of love and fond memories with your brothers. I wish only the best for you in the new year and I hope you enjoy your present. xx

(P.S. I am so incredibly sorry it’s so late 😭❤️)

Jake Kiszka holiday fluff.

It was the night of Christmas Eve. Jake was playing at the local coffeehouse the two of you frequented along with his twin brother, Josh. However, this time you found yourself sat alone at the table in the back as you watched your best friend play holiday acoustics for the other patrons, hard case open on the battered rug with a few dollar bills sitting in the bottom.

Behind Jake, there was a large Christmas tree decorated in varying sizes of gold and white orbs. Shimmering tinsel was wrapped around the branches, reflecting the sparkle of the lights draped in the opposite direction. Sitting upon an intricately embroidered skirt beneath the tall, fresh evergreen was a broad collection of non-perishable food items contributed by the patrons of the cafe for the local food drive.

The air smelled of fresh ground coffee beans and the sticky sweetness of varying syrups. There was a hint of spice that lingered from the seasonal chai special the bar was offering.  Strings of warm golden icicle lights hung above the bar twinkling between swooping strands of faux-snow flecked garland. Bunches of holly and thick battery-operated cream candles adorned the center of the tables scattered throughout the spot. The sound of Jake’s fingers delicately plucking the strings of his guitar filled the holes in the atmosphere just over the chatter of the other coffee drinkers around you.

You took a sip of your black coffee, holding the mug by the ceramic as opposed to the handle, a pencil pinched between the material and the inside of your palm. The warmth sent tingles through your fingertips as you studied your best friend’s features. His hair was slightly wavy near the ends from being freshly washed only hours earlier. The sharp angles of his prominent cheekbones were softened by the glow of the Christmas lights that surrounded him. His eyes were closed as his fingers worked magic to the tune of “Blue Christmas”.

It never ceased to amaze you how he was able to create such beauty using six strings without the need of percussion or vocals. The chords played the lyrics in sweet serenity in the depths of your mind. The high E string replicated what you imagined the falling snow outside would sound like if it could have a sound. The way he plucked three strings at once warmed your soul from deep within better than your coffee ever could. Listening to Jake play always took you to another world, no matter if he was performing or playing around with a riff to put into a song we was working on.

You peered down at the sketchbook in your lap, tracing a few lines around the curve of the tip of his nose. The graphite danced across the page effortlessly as you shaded in a shadow in the hollow of his neck. Jake was your favorite subject to draw. He didn’t even need to be in front of you to act as a reference. All these years later, his image was ingrained in your mind’s eye. However, as he sat there across the room from you, never once did it stop you from admiring his beauty.

Late in the summer evenings when the two of you sat down by the river; you with your sketchbook and Jake with his acoustic, you would draw him. You appreciated the way the golden rays of the setting sun would cast a glistening sheen across his soft skin or how his fingertips melded perfectly against the nickel frets, forever documenting in your own way how you saw him in that one serene moment.

There were other times where the two of you would be driving aimlessly through country back roads, the scene outside a passing blur through the window. The one constant was his side profile. The sharp ridge of his nose curving down around his deviated septum to meet the gentle peak of his Cupid’s bow atop his plush lips. You had your own special collection of his features etched into the paper from those moments in particular. Sometimes you would focus on the way his amber eyes sat behind a pair of sunglasses and other times you would prefer to capture the way he had one hand on the steering wheel in such a natural state.

Jake knew you loved to draw him just as much as he loved to play and write music.  There was something in the way the two of you had grown to connect over the years that drove you to strive off of each other’s greatness.  You were certain that even if you hadn’t come to immerse yourself in your art and Jake hadn’t found the guitar, the two of you still would have found a way to support each other in any and all endeavors throughout the journey of your lives.

“Happy holidays, everyone! Remember, it’s not about the gifts or the parties.”  Jake’s voice sounded through the small space.  His eyes locked with yours from across the room with s slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s about spending time with those dear to you and cherishing the good tidings the next year will bring forth.”  You smiled down into your mug of coffee as he seemed to speak directly into your soul.

After the gig, Jake walked alongside you with his guitar case in hand.  Snow was falling down around you as you walked, the fresh flakes crunching under your boots with each slow step.  The streetlights created a orange glow masked in serenity as the streets were quiet.  Not a single car drove past as the two of you made your way through the quaint downtown area. 

You dared to sneak a peak at your best friend.  His mahogany-hued corduroy jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a layer of dark denim over a half buttoned flannel.  It was his staple during the colder winter months.  You learned a long time ago that Jake would much rather dress in layers than feel confined by a zipper.  

His dark hair was dotted with chunky snowflakes that fell at an angle from the dark sky above.  The tangerine hue from the lights overhead highlighted the sharp angles of his features in such a way, you could have stopped right there to sketch the outline if the air wasn’t so frigid around you. Jake’s eyes caught yours and in the same second, you tore your gaze away to stare straight ahead. A blush crept up towards your cheeks from your neck, warming your skin better than the scarf you wore.

“Everything ok?” He questioned his voice barely above a whisper in the quiet of downtown.

“What? Yeah,” you paused momentarily before finishing your sentence. “Just enjoying the quiet.”

You could see Jake’s head bob beside you out of your peripheral vision. You knew he was pursing his lips, something he often did when he was thinking. He’d run his tongue along the curved line where his top and bottom lip met before he would press his lips together and roll them against each other. You didn’t have to look at him to tell.

He came to a standstill behind you, his footsteps falling silent in the snow. Only a mere three feet ahead of him, you turned over your shoulder to look back at him. He was watching you with that exact look on his face, yet there was something deeper in his amber eyes than normal. They weren’t bright with curiosity. Instead, it was the same depth displayed when he was playing his guitar.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” A quiet laugh sounded out from between your lips as a plume of your fleeting breath danced in the air in front of you.

Jake didn’t answer you right away. He took his time studying your features as if he never wanted to forget them. You weren’t sure why. The two of you had grown up together through the awkward pre-pubescent years as they shifted into lazy teenager phases before finally pausing in your mid-twenties. He was there when you started doing art shows and you were there when he started writing his own music. You had helped him sand down his cast when he broke his arm and he was right next to you when you spilled an entire bottle of alcohol ink across an important project.

Jake’s lips turned up at the corners into a loving smirk. He only displayed it when he was appreciative of something. You felt your breath hitch in your throat as he started towards you again and started to reach for one of your hands that were shoved deep into your pocket. When he coaxed it out of its layer of protection, he interlocked his fingers with yours. It was such a sweet gesture, unlike any way he’d ever touched you before.

With his gaze fixed on you, he moved to close the distance separating your torsos. There was something electric that flowed between the two of you in that moment. It wasn’t lust or exploration. It was pure warmth, bright and inviting like the summer sun shining down after a heavy storm.

He pressed his lips against your forehead so lightly that if it weren’t for the heat radiating from his skin, you weren’t sure that you’d feel it.  The soft pressure of his fingers interlaced with yours as he traced the outline of your knuckles with his thumb. All was still and silent around you. It seemed to create an impenetrable bubble of emotion around you and at the very center, things were being said with absolutely no words at all.

“C’mon,” Jake whispered against your skin. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

Thank you for reading!! If you’d like to be added to my general tag list, send me an ask or shoot me a message! 💖

[pebblysand]

[NOVEMBER '21] - THE LIFE/WRITING UPDATE NO ONE ASKED FOR (AND SOME QUICK LINKS)

oh lads. i don’t know about you but i have no idea where october went. i mean, i wrote every fucking day under the sun, then i went on holiday, then i edited 13,000 words in 27 hours almost straight, bar a 3 hour nap in between, then my mum came to stay with me, and now here we are, lol. plus the clocks have gone back gone forward i never know, and now it’s just dark, all the time, oh happy days. i think i said this in my old fic "children" once, but november is universally the shittiest month of the year, amiright?

Anyway, before diving into more life/writing updates, here are some quick links to different blog pages you might not see on mobile :

to read my fics

to read my original work

fic recs

to read my tumblr rants about stuff

[NOTE: i am currently not accepting prompts but maybe soon-ish?]

Castles (chap 10) ETA: december?

links extended a/n-s: chapter v ; chapter vi & vii ; chapter viii ; chapter ix

[more life/writing updates under the cut]

what i’m reading:

i went on holidays this month and so as planes have always been (and probably will always be the one place i read) we are back in business! i finished two books this month, and they were really good reads!

books:

i finished beautiful world, where are you? by sally rooney. as i’ve said before, i’ve been a sally rooney stan for a few years now, and i genuinely enjoyed this book, although it definitely was not my favourite. i think my issue with this book was two-fold: first, i didn’t love the letters exchanged between the two main protagonists - i felt they were a bit of a waste of space and did not really tell the reader anything new about the characters, if i’m honest and second, i felt a bit frustrated by the four-main-characters set-up, rather than two, like in normal people. i felt the same with conversations with friends so this is not news but i feel like if there’s one thing sally does, it’s character building, and i just wish she would focus on one or two people, rather than try and get confused with doing four. i also thought that strangely enough, she did a better job at having the boys be fascinating, well-rounded, flawed individuals, rather than the girls. both simon and felix felt like very interesting, complicated characters i really wanted to spend time with, and i desperately wanted this story told from their pov, rather than eileen and alice’s. i wonder if this is the only the effect of the restricted pov (obviously, the other characters whose heads you’re not in always feel more like a mystery) but i think it was something deeper than that. i felt that eileen was a bit too perfect for my taste and alice just felt like sally self-bashing. a lot of people have said that alice is a self-insert (insanely famous author of two books about “people,” known for the way she writes about sex… um, yeah, sure, why not?) but i would argue that it only is in the way that alice feels like rooney being like: here is everything i hate about myself in a single character who, by the way, has no redeeming qualities. i fucking hated alice, and i think you’re meant to hate her, and i was like, ‘honestly, sally, darling, no one is that bad.’ all of this being said, though, obviously, sally is a genius. her writing is stellar, her storytelling skills are insane and i will read her grocery list if she gives it to me. there’s that scene at the party with simon and eileen where she conveys all of the feelings in the world with almost no emotion whatsoever in text, that scene legit brought me to tears and i was like: okay, fair play, sure look, i’ll never write again, thanks very much. lastly, (and i’d be curious if this is a shared sentiment by non-irish people, @hiinnys, maybe, i’m curious what you thought) but i felt that this novel was a lot more “irish” than the previous ones. the omnipresence of the dublin rental crisis, the locations, i even noticed more irish phrases like the “do be” verb tense, which i don’t recall being used in her previous work. this might be in my head (or maybe i’m just noticing this now because i’ve been here longer) but this book really felt irish and homey to me. there was a very interesting article in gawker (ugh, i know) on this topic entitled “sally rooney is irish” and how she writes about ireland but without making it into this cliche-ed postcard set up we’re so used to. i thought it was super interesting and would highly recommend.

i also finished a book i’d downloaded on kindle ages ago but only got to now: watch her fall by erin kelly. sure look, ya girl loves a good thriller sometimes and erin kelly is such a master at telling a story from multiple povs… i’m honestly jealous. i really enjoyed this, the pacing and writing was great, and i loved the classical dancing setting. my only complaint is that the end twist, i felt, didn’t wrap around everything as well as it did in he said/she said, so i would definitely recommend reading that one first, because it’s really her masterpiece. this was definitely fab and entertaining. i was up trying to finish it until 2am the night i got back from romania, so this was 100% a banger.

fics:

i’m still reading: knowing where to look by ala_baguette and still loving it. haven’t read the latest chapter that came out last night yet, though, so please don’t spoil haha.

i’ve sort of low key been reading love in a time of a zombie apocalypse off a tiktok recommendation. i don’t know, sometimes i like to switch my brain off, okay? also, i’ve always sort of loved zombie/dystopian aus, they make me lol. it’s not the best fic i’ve ever read and i don’t know how i feel about dramione but sure look, it’s fine.

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what i’m watching:

i haven’t finished downton abbey but i have gotten recently obsessed with two other shows lately. the first is maid. i’ve spoken about it on tumblr a bit but boy, if domestic violence and poverty are topics that you feel drawn to, do give it a watch. it’s beautiful, the acting is stellar, it does such as good job of showing the cycle of toxic relationships, the legal difficulties when, as she puts it “you don’t have bruises” and is so, so well written, i absolutely loved it. obviously, it is a tough watch, though.

i’ve also been watching a lot of goliath lately. i’m on season 3, which i feel is slightly weaker than the first two, but i’m honestly loving it so far. it’s got a lot of michael connolly vibes, i feel, especially in the way that it shows los angeles, and is actually very funny. the characters are great, the acting is absolutely stellar (that woman who plays the paralegal is chef’s kiss) and i’m definitely enjoying this. would highly recommend if you’re looking for a non-traditional legal show.

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what i’m writing:

okay, this deserves capslocks. CASTLES IS OUT. I REPEAT. CASTLES IS OUT. thank the lord.

jokes aside, this took ages to get out, and i’m so, so glad it now is. i don’t know why but i was convinced this chapter was going to piss off a lot of people but actually, the response was overwhelmingly positive so thank you so much. i am so thankful and humbled by the fact that so many people are reading this story, it’s an actual dream and honestly, getting all your comments in throughout the last couple of days, it’s just been the absolute best feeling. i’ve tried to answer most of yous by now but i am running a bit of a backlog so please hand in there. but thank you, thank you, thank youuuu.

in terms of what happens next, i’ve said it on a couple of discords but i’m finally doing nanowrimo for the first time in my life (yaaaay!) it’s genuinely the first year, since finding out about the event some ten years ago, that i actually both have time and am in the “right” headspace to do this. so i’m trying it out by attempting to write the next 50,000 words of castles. i’m anticipating another 70k so it won’t be really “finishing” castles, but i’m hoping to make a pretty big dent in whatever’s left. this means that while i don’t think i’ll post an update before december, i’ll definitely be working. of course, if you want to send in asks or thoughts or do the word ask game again, anytime, be my guest. i’m actually sort of excited for this. i think it’s going to be tough, but loads of fun.

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what i’m doing:

i went to romania and it was fucking awesome to finally go on a trip after eighteen months of pandemic shite. this being said, i am absolutely exhausted and cannot wait for a bit of dublin-based, quiet time by myself. i’m just gonna paint my nails tonight, order some indian food and then sleep lol. whatevs, i’ll start nano tomorrow.

lots of love,

pebblysand.

[aquamotto]

Polish School of Magic or what Rowling gets wrong about Poland

In short: many things. 

The only mentions of polish wizards come from two instances - some Quidditch team  (Grodzisk Goblins) and Hagrid’s visit to Europe (with some goblin mention, again). 

Why goblins, anyway? There is no such creature in real polish mythology. Instead, there are much more Harry Potter-esque things such as: Beast of Krakow, Dragon of the Wawel Hill who is the most famous and ferocious creature in all Eastern Europe. The majestic power of this beast can only be matched with majestic power of its city of dwelling - Krakow, to put it simply, is the city of Polish kings.

Below: Krakow, the city of “goblins”, according to JKR:

But let me guess - goblin invokes this image of rudeness and primitivity that probably comes from british understanding of poles as construction workers and such. It is curious that nuanced portrayal of poor people that is reserved for characters like Snape is not allowed to poles. They are “goblins” but Snape is a “working class hero”.  

 What I will describe below, is my headcanon based on what I imagine Wizarding Poland to really be like, sans goblins and other imperialist fantasies but based on my own observation of Poland as both pole and outsider (because, unfortunately, I am both).

Personality,  culture

Quidditch champion image as rude and loud lads couldn’t be farther from the truth. Polish wizards, much like their friends in neighboring Czech Republic, are wise, eccentric, philosophical and brave people. They have been blessed and cursed with difficult history (Such as Partition of Poland and German and Soviet Invasion) and know very well how to operate in secrecy. In fact, they are the most secretive of all european wizards and if muggle were to accuse them of witchcraft, they would deny the fact to their last breath. In the same time, polish wizards love magic and often risk everything to pursue their next magical experiment. They are prone to be idealistic and live with their head in the clouds, sometimes literally, which can lead to both troubles and brilliant inventions.

Some believe that Nicolaus Copernicus, the genius astronomer who placed the Sun at the center of the Universe, was a polish wizard (painting by polish artist Jan Matejko):

This image of genius, sudden discoveries and epiphanies is valued in Poland to the point that students of Polish School of Magic wear stars indicating their year on their uniforms - to honor Copernicus. 

However, poles aren’t Ravenclaws in disguise - they are traditional, obedient and lawful people at the core and no polish wizard, even the smallest first year, would dare to cheek their headmaster or teacher the way Harry and co. do. 

Teacher - student relationship is sacred in Poland and it’s almost like your second parent -  someone to be treated with utmost respect. This can lead to quite harsh hierarchies in Wizarding Poland. 

Looks

Polish wizards dress modestly, colorful suits Weasley Twins style are not for them. They can sometimes even look monk-like (or medieval knight-like) in appearance. Since Poland is filled with minor aristocracy called szlachta (and I am proud to belong to it, too*) many polish wizards openly wear their coat of arms on their clothes. (*If you are wondering whether I have a coat of arms - yes, I do).

Polish School of Magic uses dark red monk-like hoods with more normal suit under as an unifroms.  Since they want to be the guardians of well respected traditions, it fits them. 

This doesn’t mean that poles are somber, though. They can be playful but in their distinct, “I challenge you” way. They can be competitive and fiery to the highest degree, especially when their honor or honor of their school is involved. They are indeed the most patriotic of all wizards, thinking of themselves as separated not only from muggles but from foreigners too.

Relationship with muggles

Polish wizards do not like muggles very much but unlike Britain, it rarely comes in a form of hostility but rather patronizing and light mockery. Rather than valuing pure blood,poles just think of themselves as superior to muggles in intelligence.They are especially suspicious of muggle disrespect of culture and the past which leads to wizards thinking that muggles are morally and spiritually, rather than genetically, impure. However, there was never an attempt to deny muggleborns education - in fact, they are welcomed with open arms and often even relief - “Finally, another one of us!”. This makes them a bit closer to Grindelwald’s idea of superiority than Voldemort’s one.

Music

Anyone knows Chopin, the great french-polish composer and indeed, poles adore music. To the point that Polish School of Magic considers participation in a school choir mandatory. But highest praise is reserved for those who dare and pick up an instrument (be it violin, cello, horn, piano or something else) to join the School Orchestra. If Triwizard Tournament accepted Poland, they would arrive in most curious way possible - operating the giant musical machine which would look like a church organ mixed with piano and other instruments. The headmaster would play it and the students (dressed in cloaks) would accompany him with some strange melody to make the grandest entrance ever. 

Polish School of Magic

Pictured below: Frombork

Thanks to Copernicus, magical astronomy and astrology are best subjects to learn in Polish School of Magic. Unlike their colleagues in Prague who are obsessed with alchemy, potions and dark arts, poles are more interested in the spiritual so they also value divination in any forms and defense against the dark arts. Since living in a country as difficult as Poland forces you to  always be on your toes, teachers consider it important to teach their students nonverbal magic as soon as possible. They also encourage wandless magic and actually had a lot of luck with it (unlike other european schools). Thanks to a certain WW2 incident, they also offer a superior course of arithmancy (If you know what I am hinting at, well done!) 

Pictured: Frombork Cathedral Bell Tower

Since poles are not very practical people, they don’t teach their students about Magical Creatures at all (aside from a side course on dangerous creatures such as dragons in DADA). This just doesn’t fit their heady aesthetics. Being honest and reliable people, they also dislike transfiguration - something about turning things into animals and other things strikes them as unnecessary cruel and even devilish. Being pious at the core, poles want magic to always come from the source of respect and light. That’s why almost all students leave the school with full patronuses - most common of which is a white eagle, of course - the symbol of Poland. Poles are often so patriotic that even their best memories are linked to their national identity!

Poles are also good at charms and make superb magical duellists. In fact, not many nations can best them in this regard, if any. It is thanks to their wandless magic, wordless spells,  quickness of reaction and harsh discipline (almost military-like) instilled in them in their school. 

Talking about discipline... Polish School of Magic’s discipline is indeed very strict. The school grounds are usually quiet, students know best not to laugh too loud, not to pull pranks or fool around needlessly. Spontanous duels are forbidden. Teachers love their work and always keep an eye on misbehaving individuals. Lazy, incompetent or misanthopic teachers don’t exist in Polish School of Magic. Instead they can be overly strict, demanding, mocking, conservative and overly eccentric. (This one is based on real life experience, everyone.)

Below: Ksiaz castle

 Teachers in Polish School of Magic lean old and getting a place there is very difficult and demands tons of connections. They also lean male but not just because of prejudice (although, unfortunately, such prejudice exists - Poland is a country of soldiers in many ways), because DADA course there is especially harsh and physically exhausting. (Some say it’s because they want to best Durmstrang and it comes with knowing your enemy).

Despite the notes of traditionalist gender roles, female teachers are usually well-respected, even more than male ones. And that’s why many female teachers are quite haughty and have queen-like demeanor.

Below: Ksiaz castle room

But when do poles rest from all their strict training? The answer: when holidays come. Holidays are sacred for poles and many missteps are forgiven during them, rules become slightly more relaxed. 

One of the curiously LESS regulated things in Polish School of Magic is love. While british and american wizards such as Snape may get into a puritanical rage seeing two students kissing passionately, polish teachers would just smile sweetly at them and leave them alone. Girls sending boys postcards is not considered cringeworthy as it is in Hogwarts (I am looking at you, Harry) but natural and enviable. In fact, teachers encourage students to dance together and on holidays such as Christmas, they even overlook duels related to love triangles (a rare case of them approving non-DADA duels). Poles can dance well and you can often find them waltzing in the school balroom in their festive robes. They also flirt well and all this combined with the fact how good they are at duelling, makes them formidable rivals in love for students from any other school, including Beauxbatons, especially considering that Beauxbatons boys lean narcissistic rather than chivalrous.

In the end, if Poland did participate in Triwizard Tournament, I think it would charm everyone with their quick wit, intelligence, modesty, good manners and passionate spirit. 

Quite far from the “Goblin” stuff, isn’t it?

Below: various beautiful views from Poland

[wolfstar-supremacy-innit]

"Tell who?"- Part 1

Remus smiled into his pillow. Why’s he so cute? He felt something rustle under his stomach. Reaching under himself, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. His resolutions list. Remus flipped onto his back and squinted at the letters. Warmth was pooling in his chest. Something is missing here. He patted the bed in search for his quill and ink, then wrote:

5. Fuck this I wanna tell him I love him

The paper slipped to the floor as Remus’ arms gave out and he drifted into an instantaneous, profound sleep.

Alternatively:

The Marauders are in their 6th year at Hogwarts, it's New Year's Eve and Remus writes a New Year's resolutions list. Sirius finds it the next day. The story is written from Remus' point of view. It's wolfstar and lighthearted. Kinda inspired by this fanfic.

This is part 1 of the story. I will be posting the other parts separately here and also the full fic on ao3 (I will link everything when it's done, check this post for that in some time). Warnings: underage drinking and smoking, mentions of anxiety disorder.

Enjoy! :)

Part 2 Part 3

Remus sat on the windowsill in the 6th year boys’ dormitory rolling a cigarette with magic. Well, trying to. He carefully placed the tobacco and filter on the small paper and tapped it with his wand, but half of the contents plopped out. The spell needed perfecting, obviously. Remus had picked up the habit of smoking socializing with some muggle kids back home during that summer. He knew it was stupid, but he had thought it looked cool. Later, he also found out he quite liked the lightheadedness that followed smoking a cigarette quickly. And some more time after that, there was a boy at school to try to impress, but that's a little embarrassing to admit. A nicotine addiction was surely well on its way to becoming a reality, but Remus didn't like to think about that. And anyway, with the war looming over everyone's head, who cares if a 16-year-old werewolf is addicted to nicotine? The problem was that cigarettes were expensive and Remus didn't have a lot of money to spare, so he resigned to rolling as it was cheaper and lasted longer. With some practice, he'll be able to assemble them with magic effortlessly anyway.

"Hiya, Moony," James said, walking into the room, "you're not getting ready?"

"Yes, I am." Remus pointed at his cigarette rolling arrangement, although James was probably referring to the fact that he wasn't dressed for a party.

It was the 31st of December. The four of them were staying at Hogwarts for the entirety of the holidays, given that the full moon had been on the 26th. Well, that was the excuse they gave their parents. The real reason why they hadn’t gone to the Potters after the 26th, where they usually spent the Christmas holidays, was that Sirius had stumbled upon a flyer for a gig and party occurring in Hogsmeade that Friday. James and Sirius were ecstatic, but Remus was pretty apathetic towards the idea of going. With his crush on his best friend and all. In fact, he had been trying to steer clear of settings in which he was sure Sirius would look particularly, well, hot. However, there was a flaw in his thinking, he had realised. Day by day, Sirius was beginning to look extraordinarily hot to Remus in every setting, and there was nothing he could do about it.

When Sirius had arrived at their train compartment at the beginning of that school year, Remus was very, very confused. Sirius had run away from home and spent the majority of the summer at the Potters, but in the two months, he had changed profoundly. Although they had been exchanging letters the whole summer, nothing could've prepared Remus for the feeling of panic bubbling up in him when Sirius had stepped through the sliding doors. After finally being released from his family's clutches, the freedom and eagerness to express himself had been immediately evident. Sirius had let his hair grow out longer than usual, past his shoulders, messier and curlier, but all the better looking (if that was even possible). He'd gotten taller and his shoulders broader, his muggle clothes sitting flawlessly on his lean figure. He’d looked cool, to say the least- chunky black lace-up boots, black trousers, a small silver loop earring in one ear and, of course, a black leather jacket. Remus had been perplexed and silent the whole train ride. What is wrong with me, he had thought. It wasn't envy or disapproval. It was excitement for his best friend's joy after years of trauma, of course, it was. But what the hell was that lump in his throat and the inability to look Sirius in the eye? Later that week, as Sirius had stepped out of the bathroom with his shirt hanging loosely around his neck exposing his prominent collarbones, Remus had realised with a sinking feeling that it all impossibly resembled a crush. A crush on Sirius?? I am so fucked, he had thought as he swallowed a lump.

In the following months, Remus had been desperately attempting to push his feelings into the deep dark depths of his mind and just forget about it. Still, as it turned out, Sirius' natural charm and charisma were impossible to look past. He would casually sling his arm over Remus' shoulders on their way to class or wink at him when James said a sentence without picking up on the innuendo of it. And it made Remus' heart jump out of his chest. On top of all that, Sirius was, in all likelihood, the most handsome bloke in the whole of Britain. So much so that talking to him made Remus' stomach twist with nervous energy most of the time. Anxious talking to my best friend of five years... He felt completely off his rocker.

In the present time, Sirius threw the dorm door open, stepping inside with Peter following and Remus jumped a little. "Lads," he said rubbing his palms together, "tonight's the night. We're getting plastered!"

"No," Remus said, still struggling with the cigarettes, now resolving to roll them manually. He wasn't very keen on his big mouth outrunning his drunk brain as it so usually happened after a few drinks. And now he had a dangerous secret to keep...

"Oh come on, Moony! This is our night off the chain!" There wasn't much Remus could say no to with those big grey eyes looking into his. Before he could say anything, Sirius asked: "Mate, could you roll me a few?" He had picked smoking up from Remus, of course. Sirius had said it looked "wicked" and “punk rock”. Remus was more proud of that than he was willing to admit.

"Sure," Remus replied.

"Cheers." Sirius winked at Remus and his stomach flipped. "Right. I'm going to get ready. We gotta clear off when I get out," Sirius said disappearing into the bathroom.

Remus successfully rolled up enough cigarettes for him and Sirius and placed them into his case. Oblivious to James' and Peter's conversation, Remus contemplated how he would survive the night. He'll have his cigs and the music, he concluded. He'll be fine.

He changed into his teal sweater and dark jeans and plopped onto his bed, gazing into the wooden board above him for a while. He sighed. In a few hours, 1976 would die and the illusion of a new slate in the form of a new year will be born. Remus was aware it was silly, but he liked creating little lists of goals for himself for the following year. They were never anything revolutionary, just a couple of small and realistic things he would like to accomplish. He thought about it for a few moments, then reached into the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out some parchment, ink and a quill. He wrote:

1977 New Years resolutions:

1. Get mum that record she's been talking about for months now

2. Master the cig rolling spell

3. Improve on non-verbal magic

4. Complete that muggle reading challenge Lilly and I compiled

Sirius then came out of the bathroom dolled up and with very discreet lines of black eyeshadow around his eyes. The parchment and quill slipped from Remus’ fingers. The deep grey now stood out even further than usual. "Should we get a move on, then?" Remus rolled on his bed, pressed his face into the pillow and groaned softly, pretending it was because of his reluctance to go. He didn't know how many more of Sirius' little surprises he could take before his head imploded. This was clearly one of those times Sirius would look just exceptionally fucking fit.

"You're wearing that, Moony?" Remus picked his head up to look at Sirius, not being able to suppress the disappointment that was creeping up.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, you wear sweaters every day, don’t you? This is a party we’re going to!” Remus sat up and peered at him silently, allowing himself to take a better look at the eyeshadow that suited him wonderfully.

“Where did you get that?” James piped in, finally noticing Sirius’ make up.

“Borrowed it from Marls. Now, Moony, let’s see...” He started rummaging through his wardrobe and emerged with a dark grey shirt with a band logo on it. “Here you go, mate.” Sirius held it up for him to look at, then tossed it on the werewolf’s bed. Remus loved that shirt, especially because it was one of Sirius’ favourites.

“It’s December,” Remus said, but excitement was swirling in his stomach at the thought of wearing Sirius’ clothes. “Well, wear your coat.” He flashed Remus a smile. As the other boys started pilling their belongings into their pockets and putting on jackets, Remus reflected on changing into the shirt. Then he did it, quickly. Heat rose swiftly up his neck and cheeks at the realisation it smelled like Sirius. It felt like he would melt into the carpet any second now. Maybe he could allow himself to simmer in his infatuation just for tonight.

“Looking good.” Sirius smiled at him in the mirror as Remus checked himself out. The blush intensified.

The four boys crept down hallways using the Marauder’s Map to avoid Filch and the teachers and made it safely to the One-Eyed Witch Statue on the third floor. Sirius and James were practically skipping down the secret passage leading to Honeydukes. Even Remus felt a little giddy, but that may or may not have been because of the shirt. They arrived at the pub without hindrances and made their way inside. The place was loud and crowded as they pushed their way to a round wooden bar table. There were decorative lights of different shapes and sizes everywhere as well as tiny glass lanterns with magical flames flickering inside. The atmosphere was bewitching.

“Right,” Sirius clapped his hands, “what’re we drinking?”

Remus wanted a Butterbeer, but it was decided on his behalf that he would be having Firewhiskey. After all, Sirius was now of age and this was his first opportunity to take advantage of it. And so, Remus was coerced into his first glass of alcohol. He downed it quickly when the first girl approached Sirius. This was nothing new, of course. He was showered in attention from girls at school all the time. What was different now was that it gravely bothered Remus. However, Sirius paid no attention to the lady and instead turned to Remus to ask for a cigarette. Sirius smoking was a work of art; Remus could testify to that.

After the first drink, it was no trouble following up with more and the boys wanted to try weird sounding beverages from the menu. Thick, white smoke covered their table when James brought over the Simison Steaming Stout. Later, Remus had a shot (or three) of something called Checker’s Quick Everclear which made him inexplicably snap his fingers a few times after swallowing it. It was incredibly amusing and enough to get him rather half cut. After that, things became somewhat fuzzy. The band was fine, so they danced and drank and Remus felt just swell. It could’ve had something to do with Sirius ignoring the girls or plainly the amount of alcohol in his blood. By the time people began counting down from ten, Remus had half lost his ability to comprehend what was going on. He caught sight of James hugging Sirius when the clock hit midnight as the two of them shouted: “Happy New Year!” A couple seconds later Remus felt hands around himself and realised James hugged him next, yelling the same words, frankly a bit too close to his ear. It seemed that James was either holding his drinks well or just hadn’t drank that much. Sirius’ eyes, however, were half-closed, Remus noticed, as he moved to embrace him. It was just a smidge underwhelming. Remus was numb all over and barely felt the touch of Sirius’s arms over the colossal spike of adrenaline that flashed in his insides. He likely held him tighter than necessary and reluctantly pulled away when Sirius did too. Their cheeks brushed briefly in the process. When Remus looked at him, Sirius was smiling. His hair was messy, lips full and smooth. The eyeshadow hadn’t moved. Remus almost leaned in, but chose to just smile back instead. I have a secret to keep. Big secret. Scary secret. He slyly avoided hugging Peter (who was really sweaty) as his stupid, drunk brain kept repeating: Big. Scary. Secret. Secret. But he had already forgotten what was so confidential. He was really fuckin’ pissed, wasn’t he? Remus sniggered to himself.

Sirius and James wanted to go to the dancefloor and Peter followed them. Remus, however, wasn’t quite sure he could stand very well without having a table to hold on to once in a while. So he stayed put, fetched a cigarette from his case, lit it with his wand and leaned on his forearms on the table. Reveling in the fact that that he was allowing himself to feel all his forbidden feelings tonight, Remus observed Sirius in a manner he hoped was subtle. Sirius was dancing with his eyes closed, smooth, controlled movements, face tilted upwards. Christ, Remus banged his forehead on the table, why does he have to look like that?! It felt strangely pleasant, so he stayed in that position for some time. His head was swaying lightly and he got an inexplicable urge to laugh.

“Alright, Moony,” a voice brought him back to reality. Remus forced his head up.

“Splendid,” he said. Sirius smiled at him.

“We got any more fags?”

“Yup.” He pulled out the case out of his back pocket and handed it to Sirius, just as he asked: “Having fun, Moony?” Remus’ mouth stretched into a stupid, crooked smile.

“Oh, I’m having a brilliant time.”

“Good.” Sirius struggled pulling his wand out of the pocket of his tight-fitting (Sigh...) jeans. Remus brought his own wand to the cigarette hanging from the other boy’s lips and produced miniature blue flames. Sirius sucked in the smoke, held it briefly, then exhaled. “Cheers.”

Remus downed whatever it was leftover in James’ glass. Then his mind blacked out. The next thing he was aware of was being dragged up the stairs by James to their dormitory. “You’re a miracle,” he mumbled, thinking how James could have possibly snuck him through the castle in this state without getting caught. James laughed softly.

“Okay, Moony.”

Remus plopped on his bed face first and let out a long, loud half-sigh, half-groan. He heard Sirius laugh from his own bed. “Nooo, we’re not getting plastered tonight! No waaay,” he said in a teasing voice. Remus smiled into his pillow. Why’s he so cute? He felt something rustle under his stomach. Reaching under himself, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. His resolutions list. Remus flipped onto his back and squinted at the letters. Warmth was pooling in his chest. Something is missing here. He patted the bed in search for his quill and ink, then wrote:

5. Fuck this I wanna tell him I love him

The paper slipped to the floor as Remus’ arms gave out and he drifted into an instantaneous, profound sleep.

Part 2 Part 3

[fweasleyswhore]

Showing Fred Adventure Time

Warning: Fluffy Headcannon ahead 

a/n: so I have been rewatching this bc finals are gross but its also really easy watch and gives me that nostalgia so anywho I just thought about how cute this would be if I was watching it with Fred, also warnin probs a few typos 

he would get really divested in the story really fast

and get super confused when the next episode didn't pick up on the plot of the last one

so you just explain to him that sometimes they intertwine but its usually pretty loosely so you can pick up anywhere

it takes him a second to get why you would want to keep watching but he keeps it up

and he does it for the same reason as you, he falls in love with the characters

he really loves finn

will non stop do impressions

his favorite characters are marceline and finn

says he is finn and you are marceline

"fred im not evil"

"i didnt say you were evil, i said you were cool"

"ok whatever"

gets scared when princess bubblegum and marceline get together

like afraid your going to leave him

"are you going to leave me for a pink person?"

"what? no no, wait did you say pink person?"

"a person who wears pink, i can wear pink if you want."

"fred you're an idiot."

"what does that mean? no dont walk away what does that mean?"

likes to call george mrs treetrunks

on bad days you guys like to cuddle up and watch your favorite episodes

mrs weasley doesnt understand why you watch kids shows as you are both grown adults

she uses it as an excuse to push you to have kids

saying you will actually have an excuse to watch kids shows then

fred usually rolls his eyes, and begins to roll around on the floor

"i am just a wee lad, please mother turn on my shows and make me a sandwich with no crusts."

"y/n how do you put up with him?"

"i like the show too molly."

"you two, unbelievable."

for christmas you buy him finns hat and he loses his shit

his family is all like 🧍 'its a hat'

but fred puts it on and REFUSES to take it off for the rest of the holiday

you have to pry it off of him and force him to shower after a day or two

since then he loves to wear it, its his go to hat for winter, walking around diagon alley like a tall marshmallow man

he makes a replica sword and hangs it on your wall

for halloween you dress up as marceline because he likes her so much, and again he loses his shit

he was going to be finn but surprises you when he come out of your bedroom, decked in pink dress and a long pink wig

"you can't be serious."

"as. the. plauge."

george will not stop making fun of him

you and fred vow to get him just as hooked as you

and you are quite successful in that

and the next halloween you go as jake, fred goes as finn, and george goes as mrs treetrunks

eventually you infect the entire family except for mr and mrs weasley

you even get percy on it

and slowly move to other cartoon, regular show, steven universe, rick and morty, they eat it up

mr and mrs weasley love to make fun of you all

and they dont understand how their kids are all grown and still act like they did ten years ago

it makes them both happy and incredibly annoyed

but eventually they accept it, taking it a bigger chance to spend time with you

[songtoyou]

Chapter 1: The Pope, The Rabbi, and The Gypsy

Tolerate It

Paring: Modern!Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Story Rating: R (No minors should read this fic).

Word Count: 1,795

Warnings: Talks of sexual content.

Description: Tommy Shelby is the owner and CEO of Shelby Company Limited. Starting out as a Bookmaker, Tommy had big ideas to expand his riches. In the past ten years, the company has grown rapidly to expand its business ventures from bars to producing alcohol, manufacturing motor vehicle parts, and exporting. One of the richest men in Great Britain, Tommy Shelby, has it all. Unfortunately, the death of his wife, Grace, left the multi-millionaire mogul alone and depressed. He needed someone to fulfill his needs and deepest darkest desires.

A/N: I was very pleased with the positive reaction to the prologue of this fic. I am glad that some of you are liking it. For this chapter, we learn a little more about the OC, and how she will meet Tommy. We also learn about the owners and some of Excelsior's clientele, the secret exclusive club in downtown London. Tommy looks for a new girl now that Lizzie is gone. 

Note: Italics represent the past or past conversations.

Feedback is wonderful. It is nice knowing if people actually like this fic. I do not permit my work to be posted on any other site without my permission.

Excelsior was an exclusive invite-only club located in downtown London. Members included high profile men from actors, musicians, politicians, and business moguls. The activities that occur at Excelsior were top secret. Members and workers at the club were bound by a non-disclosure agreement to ensure nothing was made public. Excelsior was merely a very high-end gentlemen's club to the unassuming public, but underneath, it allowed members to succumb to their deepest desires.

Owned and run by "Duchess" Izabella Petrovna and her niece, "Princess" Tatiana Petrovna, the club was steeped in excess and glamour. No suspecting individual would ever think to confuse the establishment as an underground sex club. While the Duchess ran the business side of the operations, the Princess recruited the women. There was a certain criterion that the Princess enforced when it came to employing. First, the women had to be between the ages of twenty-one to thirty-five. The women underwent an extensive background check, along with a psych evaluation. Many of the employees found it hilarious that the Duchess and Princess required a psych evaluation considering that they themselves were equally eccentric…or insane, to put it mildly. Birth control was a non-negotiable requirement the women had to abide by. The women at the club had to partake in monthly STD tests to ensure they were clean and healthy. 

While the Duchess and Princess were an oddball pairing, there was no denying that they cared for their girls and valued the work they did for the members. Their business endeavor allowed the Petrovna's to continue to live in luxuries that Russia no longer was able to provide. They paid well.

It was how Rose Turner provided a decent life for herself and her son, Louis. Rose had been working at the club for six years and in that time had garnered quite the clientele. However, it would be three men who would have a tumultuous impact on Rose's life. She referred to them as the Pope, the Rabbi, and the Gypsy. 

The Pope was Luca Changretta, an Italian man from New York. Luca was a prominent businessman whose family still resided in England. While Audrey Changretta was a former school teacher, her husband Vincent, and youngest son Angel, owned restaurants and bars from Manchester to Birmingham, to London. They also dabbled in the real estate business and owned numerous high rise apartment buildings. The Changretta family was viewed as a rival to the Shelby clan. Both have tried to partner on business ventures with no deal ever emerging. The two families did not trust one another. 

With Luca stationed over in the States, he would visit his family throughout the year during holidays, for birthdays, weddings, funerals, openings of new Changretta establishments. Time home also allowed for Luca to engage in his pleasures. His visits to Excelsior were always a big deal. Everything had to be perfect, according to Izabella. Tatiana assigned Rose to Luca. 

"You are his type, no," Tatiana would say. "He likes the way you look. That innocent and doe-eyed look. Hooker with a heart of gold, they say, right."

Rose did not question Tatiana. She read through Luca's file to find out more about her new client and what he liked. The man was noticeably big into role play, especially in a religious aspect. He loved playing the part of a holy man while Rose played the Catholic school girl or nun. It was how Luca got the nickname, "The Pope." The man thankfully always managed to be a gentleman. He respected the rules of the club and never went overboard. If Rose was uncomfortable with acting out a scene, she knew it was okay to voice her worries. Luca never tried to fight her or manipulate her into partaking in a scene. He respected Rose's boundaries. She was one of his favorites at the club. 

Alfie Solomons was nicknamed "The Rabbi" and another important client at Excelsior. He had his fill of women during his time at the club. So much so that the girls would talk openly with one another about his particular habits. For instance, Alfie never partook in actual intercourse with the women. Instead, he relied on toys such as dildos or vibrators to bring pleasure to his women. He would also make sure to wear black latex gloves while touching the women. Many assumed it was to keep himself clean and pure since he participated in activities that would be deemed excruciatingly unholy. Alfie made sure that Tatiana only gave him gentile women.

"No Jewish women, love. They are holy creatures and should be remained as such, okay," Alfie demanded.

When Rose saw Alfie for the first time, she was intimidated by his big stature. However, Alfie proved to be one of Rose's favorite clients. The man knew how to pleasure a woman. He always made scenes fun and intense. Some women would even fight over who got to be with Alfie on certain nights he was at the club. They all loved him. 

As the son of a Russian Jewish woman and working-class Londoner father, Alfie worked his way up in the world. It would be the distillery business where Alfie would make his fortunes. From rum and vodka to gin, beer, and cider, Solomons & Sons was the top distillery company in the United Kingdom. It did not take long for the Shelby family came knocking on Alfie's door to partner with on business endeavors. While Alfie would continue to remain skeptical about the Shelby family, he knew the business deal with them would be too good to pass up. He loved having a go at Tommy Shelby from time-to-time to see how far he could push the Birmingham lad. 

In fact, it was Alfie who told Tommy about Excelsior. 

"You go from whore to whore with no care in the world. It is like you got a death wish. Seriously, don't you ever worry about getting the clap? I'll tell ya what…let me talk with one of my associates about inviting you to join this club I frequent. It will have everything you ever wanted and more. Trust me," Alfie shared with Tommy at one of their business meetings two years ago. 

Tommy merely scoffed as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Trust you. Not likely, Alfie. As I recall, it was because of you that the deal with the Changrettas fell apart. Something about mentioning how my brother John got into a fight with Angel Changretta over a girl they both were seeing at the time."

With a shit-eating grin, Alfie replied, "I am a beacon of truth, eh."

"More like a pain in my ass," Tommy smirked. 

As promised, Alfie talked with Tatiana about inviting Tommy to the club. She was adamant about meeting with the self-made millionaire. The Princess wanted to make sure he was suitable to partake in her establishment. If Tatiana had the ability, she would have kept Tommy all to herself if she could. 

"None of those whores deserve you, Thomas," said Tatiana as she laid in bed next to him.

"No, they deserve better. Better than me, that is for sure. But…they are all I got. So, I need your help in finding the best one for me. One that I can take out in public if need be. One who can be presentable to society at certain functions I have to attend. That way, I can keep up the appearance of a family man who still grieves the loss of his wife while trying to move on with my life."

Lizzie Stark filled that position for two years before her sudden and unexpected departure at Excelsior. Now Tatiana had to find a new girl to assign for Tommy, which was no easy task with his certain expectations. The man was rather picky, to say the least. Perusing her girls' files, she realized that there was only one who could meet the requests of Tommy Shelby.

"Rose Turner," announced Tatiana and handed Tommy her file. "She has been with us for a couple of years. She is considered top-quality—good reviews from our top clients. As you can see, she is beautiful, no. She can be elegant if need be for your functions. Adventurous…flexible, if you know what I mean. She'd be perfect for you. What do you think?"

Tommy looked over Rose's file. Her birthdate indicated she was in her early thirties and from Blackpool, a seaside resort town on England's Irish Sea coast. It was England's very own Coney Island. Ada took Karl and Charlie there for a weekend getaway not long after Grace died to cheer up her nephew.

"How many men does she see regularly?" Tommy asked.

"Rose is considered top quality. Her clientele is small. She has no more than four regulars. One does not live here full-time. He only sees her when he visits family. The others…well, they are people from your circle of business partners."

"Is that so. Who would these men be?" Tommy inquired as he continued to look through Rose's file.

"I am not at liberty to tell you such vital information…"

"Well, Tatiana, let me take a guess. Could Alfie Solomons be one of Rose's clients? How about Darby Sabini? Is he on the list? Billy Kimber before his untimely departure on this Earth?" Tommy took a drag of his cigarette and tossed Rose's file on Tatiana's desk. "Set up a meeting for me with Rose. Not here, though. Tell her to meet me at The Savoy Hotel this Saturday night. Give her this as well," Tommy handed Tatiana an envelope she assumed had cash in it. "Tell her to buy something nice for the occasion. The two of us can talk over dinner, and if all goes well, we can end the night on a good note. Just know this Princess, if all goes well, then Rose becomes mine. Her other clients can fuck off for all I care. I am not one to share what is mine."

So here Rose was, at one of London's top boutiques picking out a dress for Saturday night. Tatiana explained the possible arrangement with Mr. Shelby, and if things went well, he would be Rose's main client. Meaning he would become Rose's only client. She had reservations about it until Tatiana shared how much Mr. Shelby was willing to pay. It was more money than Rose originally would make. Tatiana shared that Mr. Shelby would provide Rose a weekly allowance on top of her services' standard fees. The deal with too good to pass up. However, Tatiana was adamant to Rose that meeting Tommy first would be wise before agreeing to any deals. 

All Rose knew was that she had a date with The Gypsy. 

[lu-undy]

A Sniper/Medic Short

I took part in a Secret Santa and my giftee wanted a Sniper/Medic short with cuddles in front of a fire or exchanging gifts. I did both :) Here it is!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489524

"Gosh, it's freezing." 

Sniper woke up in his van on that cold morning of late December. He rubbed his eyes and pressed a switch to turn on the heating in his campervan. Engineer had been kind enough to fix him a button next to his bed that connected with the electric radiator. So the Aussie stayed in bed for an extra half an hour to wait for the van to warm up to an acceptable level. He could afford the wait as that day was off for both teams. 

In fact, the mercenaries enjoyed two weeks off at the end of the year's holidays.

Sniper looked at the time and took a deep breath. 

"Right, should probably get up now." 

And he followed his morning routine. He put some clothes on with warm socks and a season coat. It was thick and lined with synthetic yet warm fur around the hood. He put on a scarf and gloves. When the Aussie finished slipping in his boots, he opened the van's back door and the ice cold air bit his very skin. 

Everything was covered in a thick layer of white snow and as he jumped down to the ground, he landed in a muffled thud and sunk to the middle of his legs in snow. He hissed and winced. The kangaroo wasn't much of a fan of the feeling of cold wetness on his legs in the morning, or at any other time of the day either.

He locked up his van's backdoor and walked back to the base's main building. He entered and shut the door before feeling the drastic change of temperature. 

"Crikey, it's hot in here…" 

Sniper pulled back his hood, removed his coat and unrolled the scarf around his face. He placed all his clothing items on the coathanger there and proceeded to the kitchen for breakfast, where he found most of his colleagues, as usual. 

"Mornin' Sniper." Engie waved. 

"G'day." 

The rest of the team present in the kitchen nodded to the Aussie who went straight to get a warm mug of coffee. As he reached the coffee pot, he stuck his frozen hands on it and let it sizzle his skin nicely. 

"Here, your coffee." 

The white mug marked '#1 Sniper' slid on the counter to him and when he raised his head, he saw a lab coat float away, back to the table. He smiled. 

He took the mug and resumed his usual seat around the table to partake in the usual morning debates. Well, partake was a big word, maybe just listen in and nod from time to time. He liked his colleagues' banter. It had taken some time for his head to stop hurting at it, but now he was fully used to it and he even appreciated it. He listened to it like the radio and watched it like TV. He would sometimes add his grain of salt to the conversation but he much preferred to listen and watch. 

"Hey, fancypants! Not wearin' a suit today? What is it, Christmas?" 

Spy entered wearing a knitted jumper that went up his neck, to the color of the team and a dark, matching pair of trousers.

"Very observant." He answered and went to the coffee pot to help himself. 

"Funny, eh, my Ma' knitted me the same kind of sweater!"

"Funny indeed." The Frenchman answered and the rest of the team sighed gently. 

"Any plans for today, guys?" The Bostonian asked.

"Today is a great day. You will all respect and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ!" Soldier exclaimed. "And if I catch one of you numbnuts not partaking in the festivities, it will be extra physical training and scrubbing duties!" He raised an authoritative index finger. 

"Calm down, laddie, what about a snowball fight? The snow's nice and fresh." Demoman suggested. 

"Yes, Sir!" 

"Right! Can me and Pyro join you guys?" Scout asked. 

"Of course, lads! The more, the merrier!"

"Heavy, you wanna join us?" Scout turned to his impressively built colleague. 

"Nyet."

"Come on, Stalingrad! Let me give you a Second Cold War!"

"Aye, c'mon, Heavy, what are you gonna do inside, eh? It's Christmas and there's snow!"

Heavy rolled his eyes and smiled behind his crossed arms. 

"Fine." He yielded and the mercenaries rejoiced. 

"What about the support club?" Scout turned to Medic, Spy and Sniper. 

The Frenchman was reading a newspaper while Medic and Sniper looked briefly at each other. 

"Spy, d'you wanna-"

"Non."

"C'mon, Spy-"

"Non."

"But-?"

"Non." 

"Why?" 

The old French man sighed. 

"I am busy."

"What will you be doin'?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"C'mon, what could be better than a snow fight? Join us!"

Spy sighed from his side of the newspaper. 

"A phone call with your mother would be incomparably better than a snowball fight."

The mercenaries tensed around the table and their eyes all shifted to Scout. 

"Yeah, well, you're not gonna get it anyway so c'mon!" 

They facepalmed and rolled their eyes. Scout was remarkably oblivious. 

Little by little, the mercenaries left the table. Sniper's eyes rose from his final bit of toast when the flapping of the white lab coat caught his attention. Medic was leaving the table. The Aussie finished his breakfast but stayed a bit longer in the kitchen. He helped for the dishes, as he owed it to Engie.

"Wanna help me prepare lunch, Sniper?" 

"Sure." 

"If you'd rather go with the others in the snow, that's fine by me, eh." 

"Nah, it's fine. I'll give you a hand."

At the other end of the building, Medic was filling some paperwork that he had been putting off for too long.

There was a knock at the door. 

"Ja?" 

"Uh, it's me, Doc'."

There was the noise of a chair moving and footsteps before the door opened. 

"Hey there."

"Hallo, Sniper."

"Mind if I join?" 

"Please." 

Medic shut the door after his guest. 

"What brings you here?" 

"Van's freezing." 

"Ah, so you're just here for the radiator?"

Sniper chuckled. 

"Yeah, nah…"

"I was about to stop and take a break. Shall we go to my living room? I will make some coffee."

"Sure." 

Both mercenaries went through a corridor and Medic opened the door in the end. Medic, like Spy, had his own suite, which consisted of a living-room, a kitchen, bathroom and his bedroom. They were all a few doors away from his workplace.

"After you."

"Thanks, mate." 

"Make yourself at home, I will set the coffee."

"Right." 

Sniper entered and removed his old boots right at the door. The floor was carpeted and he didn't want to give his friend some extra work cleaning it. He slipped his coat off and hung it on the coat-hanger before proceeding to the sofa. He sat down and made himself comfortable as he heard his German friend busy in the kitchen. 

"Hm." 

Sniper soon got off the couch and went to the kitchen door. He gave it a few short knocks. 

"Need some help with anythin'?" 

Medic turned to him, who was peeking from the door. Sniper's eyes fell on the tray that the medical expert was preparing. 

"No, I should be fine, danke, Sniper."

"You sure?"

"Ja, go get yourself warmed up in front of the fire. I will be just an extra minute." 

"Alright, gimme a shout if you need me, ok?"

Medic smiled.

"Will do." 

The Aussie turned and went back to the sofa. In front of it was a coffee table and a fireplace against the wall. It was lit up and Sniper could feel its heat diffuse to the sofa, slowly. 

"Here, coffee and some cookies." 

Medic brought the tray and sat down next to Sniper. 

"Cookies?" 

"Ja, Pyro baked them for me the other day after I fixed his arm."

Sniper stared at the star and heart-shaped cookies with multicolored sprinkles. 

"Guessed as much."

"Did you?" Medic asked, handing Sniper his mug. 

"You don't come across as the heart shaped cookie bakin' type…" Sniper leaned his arm on the back of the sofa.

"Very perceptive you are." Medic leaned his head on the Aussie's shoulder and they chuckled. 

"Should take a break like the others, y'know, ease out on the work."

"Experiments don't carry themselves out unfortunately." 

"Guess so. But what if I ask you to take a break?"

"Why?"

Sniper put his now empty mug away and looked down at Medic. He held his chin between his index and thumb. 

"Cause I wanna spend time with you, darl'." He tilted the German's face upwards and stared into his eyes, through the thin pair of glasses. Sniper smiled. "Please." 

Medic's eyebrows rose up and he grinned back. He removed his gloves and threw them away on the sofa before wrapping an arm around Sniper. 

"Hard for me to refuse when you plead me with such beautiful eyes." 

"You got some pretty eyes too, eh." 

"Flatterer." 

"Nah, just sayin' what I'm thinking."

"Mmh." Medic buried his head under Sniper's jaw, on his chest and he felt his arms wrap around him. 

"Missed you, luv'."

"So did I." 

They stared at the dancing flames of the fireplace and their breaths synced slowly, Medic's head was rising and falling to the rhythm of Sniper's calm breathing. 

"Oh…?" Medic's surprise escaped his lips as he felt Sniper's fingers slide between his. 

"I wanna spend a bit more time with you, y'know. Sometimes, I don't go to your office not because I care about what people would say or because I don't want to. It's cause I don't wanna bother you but…"

"But?" Medic asked. 

"But I miss you, I really do…" Sniper tightened his hug and clenched his fingers between the German's. "I wish we could spend a full day together and…"

"I thought you were wary of the others learning for us?"

"I'm sure Spy knows, the rest will, one day or another. Besides, I just wanna spend the winter break with you." 

Medic raised his head to his lover. 

"Me too, Sniper…" 

Their lips met in the quiet and dark room, the warmth from the fireplace hardly rivaling with the hot touch of their hands brushing past their clothes. 

"Please…" Sniper asked, sliding a hand behind Medic's head, through his hair. "Please stay with me tonight." 

Medic bit his lip. His hands slid on Sniper's collar and up to his rough, scruffy cheeks. 

"I will."

Sniper's delight came out of him in a silent gasp and a wide smile. He pulled Medic's face again to kiss him, for longer this time and they dived on the sofa, the German on top of the Aussie, ruffling his brown, short hair as their lips brushed, nipped and pulled. 

"Give me more than one night… Wake up next to me, please…"

Sniper curled a leg behind the white lab-coat and pulled the man below it flush against him. Their kisses went more heated and their lips were wet and slightly swollen from all the attention there. 

"I will." 

Medic removed his lab-coat and threw it away. Sniper pulled the blanket that was hanging on the back of the sofa and covered them both. The German just lied on top of the man that kept him safe after a long day of work. Sniper understood him, wordlessly. He knew when to ask for attention and when Medic didn't have the strength for it. 

That day, all the German wanted was affection. Affection and strong arms to hold him. He lay on Sniper, his head on the Aussie's chest and he felt long fingers play with his black, short hair. 

"Thanks, luv'. I know I might be askin' a lot from you but… You have no idea how good it feels to wake up with you instead of just, y'know, a big empty bed…"

"I do apologise, Sniper. I should spend more time with you."

"It's alright. I understand, you like your work, it's fine."

"Yes but…" Medic raised his head to look Sniper in the eyes. He smiled. "I love you and I would much rather spend my evening with you than with paperwork. You are right, my love."

"About what?" 

"Let's make this winter break all about us."

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean that you can bring a bit more clothes here and stay with me for a couple of weeks…?"

"Seriously?" 

"Ja, I can spend my days and my nights with you."

Sniper's face radiated with a wide smile. 

"You'd do that? Really?" 

"Ja, we all deserve a break and I could do with a bit more affection from you." 

"Well I got loads of it for you, eh." Sniper's hands brushed Medic's back slowly under the blanket. 

"Perfect…"

"Uh… Would you…?"

"Would I what?" 

"Would you… have some… for me, maybe?" Sniper blushed and his eyes darted left and right in embarrassment. He wasn't so good when it came to words but had an incredible intuition when it came to moves...

"Of course." Medic pushed his lips on Sniper's and let his tongue brush past the hunter's chapped lips, which pulled a low growl from the wild man.

"Gosh… I'm so happy, I… Thanks, really." 

"You are welcome, Sniper." 

They snuggled up under the blanket and in front of the fireplace, they both warmed up nicely. 

"I got you somethin' for Christmas."

Medic's eyes snapped wide. 

"Did you?" 

"Yeah."

"Why? I mean… I didn't."

"Yeah, you did." 

"What?" Medic asked.

"You're spending a couple of weeks with me. That's… Better than Christmas…!"

"Saying things like that makes me realise even more how much I neglected you…"

Medic raised his head with his now ruffled hair and they exchanged a kiss.

"So please, show me what you got us…?" Medic asked.

"Want it now?"

"Ja, why not?"

"I guess I can… I've been carryin' them on me all the time for you not to find them by accident or anythin'."

"Oh…" 

Sniper slid a hand in his pocket and retrieved his secret gift. 

"Alright, you're ready?" He asked, putting his still clenched fist in front of Medic's face. 

"Ja." 

Sniper opened his hand and two bracelets lay in his palms. 

"Oh… They look lovely…" 

"I made them m'self." 

"The wooden pearls you carved yourself?"

"Yeah." 

"Oh, and what is this pendant?"

"Look at it. Carved it myself too. I had to go and get a book from the Teufort library to do it, cause I didn't really know what it looked like."

Medic held one of the bracelets. 

"It looks like an anatomically correct heart with an arrow piercing through it, but that's only the left half of it…" 

"Look at the other bracelet, luv'."

Medic took the other one and looked at the pendant. 

"Oh mein Gott… That's the right half…!"

"Yeah, I carved a little wooden heart, lookin' at an anatomy book, then carved the arrow, then cut it in halves. You get one and I get the other. Looks less ridiculous than a classic heart and it makes sense."

"Ja! And I guess the heart represents me and the arrow, you?"

"Yeah, you got it."

"I am… Speechless… It must have taken you hours to make them…"

"Who cares? It was fun and it made me think about you for hours. C'mon, wear it and show me!"

Medic slid one around his wrist and put one around Sniper's. 

"I feel like a little boy again…" The German doctor chuckled. 

"Yeah, bit childish maybe but uh…"

"Nein, please, I didn't mean it in a bad way, on the contrary. I guess this is the true spirit of Christmas." 

"Yeah, sort of." Sniper slid his fingers through Medic. 

"I love you, Sniper. Thank you so much for your gift."

"You're welcome. Love ya too, oh, mmh…" 

Medic slid up on Sniper to take his lips again. The flames of the fireplace danced as their bodies followed another choreography. The doctor and the hunter took their time that night. Maybe it was Christmas, maybe it was the gift, or maybe they had yearned for each other that much. 

That year, they did spend a Merry Christmas indeed.

[markgatissbirthdayproject]

The JustGiving page is live!

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1 fic, 2-5000 words, Mystrade or Mycroft-focused, none of: explicit, non-con, character death, heavy angst. Donated by @johannadc. https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/pseuds/trillian_jdc Link to item 1 HIGH BID £20

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[scapegrace74-blog]

Don’t Call It Love

A/N  With Saorsa done and dusted, it’s time to return to the Metric Universe.  When we last left Jamie and Claire in October 2017, they were sharing comforting silence and attending a Depeche Mode concert together.  Will things fall easily into place now that they have tripped over the line from being roommates to being friends?   Oh, hell no.  What would be the fun in that? 

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Zero 7 (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.

Winter, 2017 - London, England

It happened by accident.  Happenstance.  Serendipity.   Fate.  The words she used to explain the fact that she and Jamie started seeing each other outside of the flat in social circumstances that would typically be characterized as dates varied, but her opinion remained fixed.  They weren’t dates.  Jamie was her roommate, a good friend, a fellow enthusiast of the culturally obscure, and a brilliant pub trivia partner.  They had both agreed that a romantic relationship between them would be disastrous; ergo, there was nothing romantic about their increasingly frequent outings.  If she could memorize the names for the 206 bones in the human skeleton, she could certainly manage to keep her feelings for Jamie inside the tidy box she had built for them.

Non-Date #1

They crossed paths inside the massive Spittalfields Market, both of them with shoulders damp from the chilly November rain.  Jamie was on his way to the fishmonger, while Claire carried a cloth bag filled with late-season vegetables, determined to eat something other than take-out on a rare day off from lectures and the hospital.

“Are ye on yer way back tae the flat, then?” Jamie asked, physically fighting the urge to offer to carry Claire’s wee sack.

“No, I’m off to the charnel house first.”

“The what, now?”  Surely he’d misheard her.

“The charnel house.  Don’t tell me you’ve been living over top of a medieval burial ground all this time without realizing it?” Claire teased.

Intrigued as much by her beguiling smirk as the opportunity to explore a bit of London’s history, Jamie followed Claire to a commercial highrise near the edge of the market.  Descending a non-descript stairwell in Bishop’s Square, they came to a halt in front of a glass wall.  On the other side was an excavated ruin, the crypt of the long-vanished chapel of St. Mary’s Spital hospital, a quick scan of a nearby information plaque informed him.

“They only discovered it was here when construction of the office tower began,” Claire said, a wistful look on her face.  “For centuries, travelers and the victims of London’s many plagues were buried around the hospital, quite literally in the Spital fields.  When the graves overflowed, they brought the excess bones here and stacked them for safe-keeping until the Apocalypse.  Imagine, forgetting something so...fundamental.”

Jamie grunted in acknowledgement, seeing the reflection of Claire’s face superimposed on the glass.  He couldn’t decide if this human tendency towards forgetfulness pleased or disappointed her.

“Tis rather...”

“Macabre?” she suggested with a grin, turning away from the display and climbing back into the cloud-roofed square.

“I was gonna say morbid, but as ye like.”

“We build our present on the bones of our past, my Uncle Lamb used to tell me.  He was referring to archaeology, but I’ve found it to be true of life itself.”

They walked back to the flat, collars raised against the hastening rain.  Jamie had bought enough hake for two, so they shared the narrow worktop, dicing fresh vegetables and letting their shoulders bump together occasionally.

Claire ate at the two-person dining table while scrolling social media on her phone.  Jamie used the coffee table to hold his plate and the gaming magazine he was flipping through.

It wasn’t a date.

Non-Date #4

Her cellphone rang as she was leaving the bathroom, thoughts bouncing between her end-of-semester exams and her non-existent plans for the Christmas holidays.  She accepted the call with one hand while starting the tedious job of separating her soaking curls with the other.  At first there was only static.  She glanced at the screen, recognizing the familiar number.

“Jamie?” she tried.

“...mac na ghalla, Hamish...” followed by muffled noises and masculine jeering.  She switched hands and started to towel off, making certain first that the video call button wasn’t active.

“Hal-lo.  Paging Mr. Fraser.  You have a call on line one.”

“Ach, sorry Claire.  I didna mean tae... That is, the lads were just... How are ye?”

She giggled at his discomposure.  “I’m well, thank you.  And you?”  They had seen each other that morning, as he came off shift and she was leaving for her morning lectures, so she assumed there was more to this call than a polite inquiry into her state of well-being.  She had learned over their months as roommates that sometimes you just needed to wait for Jamie to get to his point.

“Braw, thank ye.  I was... weel, I’m at the park with some o’ the lads, tryin’ tae put t’gether a side, an’ we’re short a winger, an’ I was jus’ thinkin’, ye said ye wanted tae learn tae play an’...”

Another James Fraser quirk was that he rambled in broad Scots when he was nervous.

“Jamie, are you asking me to play rugby with you?”

“Aye.  Aye, I am.  If ye wish, o’ course.”

“I did just step out of the shower...” she mentioned, already peering outside at the threatening sky and mentally assessing her wardrobe for something suitable for a ruck and maul in the rain.  “Hello?” when there was no sound from the other end in some time.

“Aye, I’m here.  Nevermind, Claire.  I dinna consider, ye must be gettin’ ready to study fer yer finals, an’...”

“Where are you?” she interrupted, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of yoga pants.

“Victoria Park?” Jamie replied, sounding hesitant and hopeful.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Splendid!”  She could hear his smile down the line.

“I better not get mud in my hair, Fraser,” she retorted before hanging up, her own smile lingering on her face.

There was nothing romantic about rugby.

Non-Date #7

The flat was strangely forlorn, even with Christmas lights twinkling merrily in the living room windows and a tiny fir tree precariously balancing its five ornaments standing in the corner.  

They had exchanged their gifts on December 23rd, sipping on hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and grinning shyly at each other.  She’d bought Jamie the next Call of Duty game for his XBox.  Nothing intimate, just something he’d mentioned in passing he was looking forward to trying.  His boyish glee upon unwrapping the package warmed her more than her drink.   Hands shaking slightly, she delicately opened the tastefully wrapped rectangle he presented to her.  Inside was a cashmere scarf, luxuriously soft beneath her fingers as she stroked it.

“Is this?” she asked.

“Aye, tis the Fraser plaid.  Ye ken there’s no’ a clan named Bee-cham, right?”

She was deeply touched, and thanked him was a kiss against his scruffy cheek.

Jamie had left for Scotland the next day, having somehow managed to secure a week’s worth of leave from his uncle over the holiday season.   As was her wont, she’d put down for as many shifts as possible while medical school wasn’t in session, but by some fluke she wasn’t scheduled to work New Year’s Eve for the first time in recent memory.

Some of her classmates from nursing college had invited her along to a “raging party in Shoreditch”, but she’d made up some excuse.  The truth was, she wasn’t in the mood for loud music and over-priced drinks with a group of virtual strangers.  If Geillis had been in town, she would have allowed her friend to coerce her into whatever mayhem she had up her sleeve, but Geillis was still in Columbia and eight months’ pregnant with twins, to everyone’s collective shock.  Especially the mother-to-be.

No, what she really wanted was a quiet evening at home, snuggled under her favourite fleece blanket on their couch, the latest Ferrante novel in her lap and a glass of Pinot Noir at the ready.  Jamie had a turntable and a surprisingly well-curated selection of vinyl in his bedroom, but she didn’t like entering his domain without his permission.

Without giving it a second thought, she rang his cell.  It was only upon hearing the raucous sounds of a party in full swing that it occurred to her that just because she was spending New Year’s Eve alone, it didn’t mean Jamie was as well.

“Claire?” he yelled over something that sounded a lot like live music.  “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Oh!  I’m so sorry, Jamie.  I just wanted to ask... never mind.  It’s not important.  Enjoy your party...”

“Wait!” the background noise mutated, sounding like a riot underwater, and then there was a wooden slam.  Jamie huffed a sigh of relief.

“Mu dheireadh.   Are ye still there, Sassenach?”

“Still here,” she confirmed, suddenly feeling sorry for herself.  She might be the most pathetic thirty-year old in London.

“Did the hospital no’ call ye in for a shift, then?”

She tucked the blanket under her feet, warding off the chill that always seemed to creep in from the wall of windows.  The Christmas lights she’d strung reflected against the glazing in alternating colours: blue, red, green, blue, red, green.

“No. By some miracle of the festive season, I have the night off,” she joked halfheartedly.   “I’m sorry for interrupting your night out.  I wanted to ask if I could borrow your turntable and a few of your albums?”

“O’ course.  Ye didna need tae ask.  An’ I’m no’ out.  I’m at home, at Lallybroch.”  He pronounced the word with a guttural flourish that made Claire think of an exotic kind of pastry or a rare tribal custom.  Any time Jamie spoke of his family’s home in Scotland, he imbued it with an otherworldly quality, like a fortress in a fairy tale, a far away land of warriors and mist.  It was strange to think of him there now, while she sat alone in their flat.

“It sounds like quite the party.”

“Aye.  The Frasers take their Hogmanay celebrations verra seriously.  Ye shoulda come wi’ me.”  Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he added quickly, “We could use a doctor.  Dougal sprained his ankle doin’ a sword dance, and Angus singed his arse somethin’ fierce jumpin’ o’er the bonfire.”

She laughed, her mood suddenly much lighter, and asked for more particulars as to how his cousin’s naked ass came to be in close proximity to open flame.  Without either realizing it, the last minutes of 2017 crept by.

Fireworks erupted outside, followed by the tolling of bells and honking of horns.  On the other end of the call, she could hear cheering and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.  They were both silent, embarrassed to have been so caught up in their trivial conversation as to have missed the arrival of midnight.

“Happy Hogmanay, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came soft and sure over the line.

“Happy New Year, Jamie,” she replied.  “I should really let you get back to your party.   Your family must be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.”

He hummed noncommittally.  It occurred to her that had they been in the same place, they would likely be kissing right now.  It sent a shiver of want down her spine.

“Jamie?”  Her voice sounded thready, like she had just woken from a deep sleep.

“Hmmm?”  Shivers, again.

“What’s a Sassenach?”

He laughed softly, and she had to bite her lip.  What was the matter with her?  “Tis a Scottish word for a foreigner, particularly an English one,” he explained.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Claire remarked.

“I’ve ne’er spoken tae ye while on Scottish soil.  T’wasn’t an accurate description ‘til now.”

There was a long silence.  She could hear the sound of revelry through the door of whatever room at Lallybroch he’d hidden inside.  Outside the flat there were firecrackers.   They reminded her of mortar rounds heard from a distance in Afghanistan.

“You don’t like fireworks, do you?” she guessed.  It didn’t take an advanced degree in psychology to know that bright flashes and sudden pops of sound would trigger his PTSD.  They really were a mess, the pair of them.

“Nay.  Jenny an’ Ian’s bairns love them, an’ I told them no’ tae hold off on my account, but they insisted on a bonfire instead.  It reminds me o’ when I was a lad, a’fore ye could buy fireworks along wi’ yer ham at the local Tesco.”

Jamie launched into a long account of the significance of bonfires in Highland culture, and she let herself drift on the melody of his voice, the turntable long forgotten.

“Tell me about yer most memorable New Year’s,” he prompted after his cultural diatribe wound down.

“Oh, well, they all rather blur together, actually.  Too much drink, too much spent on the cover charge.  You know how it is.”

“Nah, I mean when ye were younger.  Ye must ‘ave celebrated in some remarkable places.”

She thought back to her time spent following Uncle Lamb around the globe.  Truth be told, traditional holidays weren’t something that stood out in her memory.  They felt like a foreign custom, a series of drawings taken from a picture book that showed a mother, father and children crowded around a loaded table while snow piled up outside.  They bore no relation to her reality.  It was no wonder Christmas and New Year’s left her feeling ambivalent.

Still, she didn’t want Jamie to feel sorry for her, so she launched into one of her favourite tales.

“One year, I must have been eleven, Lamb was leading an excavation of a Berber oasis town in northern Mali.  The site closed down for the Christian holidays, but Lamb decided to stay behind rather than travel back to England.  We ended up riding camels through these enormous sand dunes, following a local guide on an ancient caravan route.  On December 31st, just as the sun was setting and we had begun to make camp, the camel Lamb had been riding let out this infernal noise, leapt to its feet, and started to gallop away.  Lamb and the guide set off after it on foot, hollering and waving their keffiyeh in the air.  It was the funniest thing.”

“They left ye all alone in the desert?” Jamie asked, horrified.

“Oh, well, they came back eventually.  The camel had been stung by a scorpion, you see.  Once it got over the fright, they were able to catch it and bring it back to camp.”

“Were ye no’ scared, tae be out there in the dark by yerself?”

“No.  Not as I remember it.  The sunset was glorious, and little by little the sky came alive with a million stars.”

“Ye brave wee thing.”  Jamie sighed.  “I wish I was there wi’ ye.”

She didn’t know if he meant with her on that sand dune, or with her at their flat.  Either way, her answer was the same.

“I wish you were too.”

They finally hung up well past two o’clock.  It didn’t count as a date if the other person was five hundred miles away as you whispered goodnight.

Non-Date #12

The Royal London was expanding its pediatrics wing, and Claire was invited to a fundraising gala held, fittingly, in the Museum of Childhood.  The invitation included a plus one, and she’d been putting off asking Jamie if he could join her all week.  It wasn’t that she doubted his suitability as an escort.  Far from it.  But the gala was taking place on February 14th, of all nights, and the symbolism made her nervous.  Still, the alternative was spending the night being hit on by a drunken internist or hedge fund investor, and that was a headache she could do without.

“So,” she began casually a few nights before the event, “any plans for Valentine’s Day?”  If he said he was working or had, god forbid, a date, she would just have to go stag.

Jamie set down his gaming controller and turned to face her desk.  The pulsing  colours from the screen lit his curls like a neon nimbus in the dim room.

“Nah, nothin’ definite.  An’ ye, Sassenach?” he asked tentatively, as though easing himself out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the depth of the ice.  The nickname he had assigned to her during his holidays in Scotland had stuck.  She didn’t correct the inaccuracy, as she rather liked the idea of having a name that was only his.

“Well, I’ve been summoned to a fundraising gala for the hospital, and I was wondering... not that you need feel obliged... it’s black tie, which is really the height of pretension, if you ask me... anyway, there’s no way to decline gracefully short of an aneurysm, so...”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach,” he prodded.

“Mightyouconsiderbeingmydate?” she blurted, before taking a large gulp of tepid tea.

“Yer date?” he asked as though he had never heard of such a thing.

She sighed, resigned to the fact he was going to make this difficult.  “Yes.  My date.  My plus one.  My social companion.  And hopefully, my defence against spending the evening being pitied and set up with someone’s second cousin, Nigel, the chartered accountant.”

“Do ye have somethin’ against accountants, then?”  The corner of his lip was twitching with the birth of a grin.

“Oh, very funny, you bloody Scot.  Look, I need a date on Valentine’s Day and you are the only man in the Greater London Area who won’t interpret that as an opportunity for a pity shag.   The offer is on the table.  Take it or leave it.”

Something flashed behind his eyes that she couldn’t interpret.  Then it was gone.

“Ne’er fear, Sassenach.  I’ll protect ye from all the wee Nigels.”

***

She’d forgotten to ask whether Jamie had suitable attire for a black tie event.   It was too late now, regardless.  They were meeting at the museum, since she was on shift until eight.  Using the nurses on-call room to get changed, she slinked into her burgundy chiffon gown, its gauzy layers wrapping around her like millefeuille.   Her hair was a lost cause, so she slicked it back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and hoped for the best.  Silver chandelier earrings and a dab of cologne below her jaw, and she was ready to go.  She carried a small beaded clutch and her dress shoes - there was no way she was navigating the Tube in stilettos. 

The museum was a single massive space, conversation and the tympani of glassware echoing against its high-arched ceiling.  She stood in the entryway after checking her coat, spinning in circles and trying to get her bearings.  More than one lascivious glance was directed her way, but she studiously ignored them in favour of looking for Jamie.  With his height and red hair, he shouldn’t be hard to pick out of the crowd.

There was an appreciative murmur from behind her, a gust of fresh air, and then a soft tap against her bare shoulder.  She turned around.

No.  Not hard to pick out from a crowd at all.  Standing before her was James Fraser in full Highland regalia.  He wore his family tartan, a black velvet waistcoat, brilliant white dress shirt and a black bow tie.  When her gaze fell to the floor, she noticed his polished brogues and white socks pulled up to his knees.  She’d never before considered how a man’s knees might be alluring, but there it was.   Jamie had very sexy knees.

“G’d evening, Sassenach.  Ye look... weel, ye look bonnie.”  Jamie’s normally deep voice was gruffer than usual, perhaps on account of the cold night air.  Or maybe his bowtie was tied too tight.

“Good evening, Jamie,” she replied once she found her voice.  “You look, well, if you were a Jacobite, I’d say you looked regal.”

The tops of Jamie’s ears went red, and he ducked his chin, his tamed curls falling briefly forward.  It gave him the look of a bashful child receiving unexpected praise, completely at odds with the strikingly masculine figure he cut.

“No’ a Nigel, then?” he teased.

“No.  Definitely not a Nigel.  Come, let’s get something to drink before all the top-shelf liquor runs out.  You wouldn’t believe how much some of these doctors can put away!”

Jamie was a perfect date.  He stood by her elbow as she mingled and greeted various colleagues and professors, nodding at their tales of medical misfortune and smiling at their awkward jokes.  He spoke confidently about his work and current affairs, and patiently tolerated endless jibes about what a true Scotsman wore beneath his kilt.

When she politely excused them from one such conversation, he leaned over to whisper in her ear as they walked away to fortify themselves with more alcohol.

“I’ve a mind tae lift my plaid an’ moon the entire assembly the next time one o’ yer wee doctor friends asks about my underthings.  Are ye sure they arena raising funds for a new proctology department, Sassenach?”

She snorted in a truly unladylike fashion and turned to meet his unrepentant smirk.  Just then, a figure approaching from the bar caught her eye.

Oh no.  It couldn’t be.  After five years, she’d finally relaxed her vigilance, had ceased anticipating his presence at every turn, and now, here he was.

“Sassenach?” Jamie was watching her with concern.  The blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her wine-stained lips and sintering eyes the only colour on her face.

“Claire!  Fancy meeting you here!”  Had his voice always been so nasal?  His eyes so glassy and vacant, like portals into nothingness.  He’d obviously been drinking heavily.  A blond woman half his age had her arm linked through his.

“Frank,” she uttered his name.  Jamie stepped into her side, his posture erect, somehow sensing that she needed his protection from this unheralded threat.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.  I’d heard you’d gone into the army, or some such thing.  Afghanistan, was it?  Well, with your penchant for violence, I suppose that’s fitting.”

She breathed deeply through her nose.  She would not let him get the better of her.  She wasn’t that person anymore.  With a clammy hand, she grabbed onto Jamie’s fingers where they rested around her hip.  He squeezed back.  He was here.   She wasn’t alone.  It was all the strength she needed.

“Yes, that’s right.  I served overseas for a time, but I’m back in London now.  In medical school.   Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

Focusing on each step, she turned towards the exit, Jamie’s hand now warm upon the small of her back.  Her chin wobbled, but she bit down hard to stave off tears.

“A doctor?” Frank taunted from behind her.  “Wouldn’t a demolition expert be more apropos, darling?”

She froze, spine trembling with anger.  Jamie made a questioning noise, asking without words if she wanted him to intervene.   She didn’t.

Glancing over her shoulder, she dealt her parting blow.

“Give my best to Amelia and the children.”  Without waiting to witness the aftermath of her pronouncement, she made her way out into the chilly night air, Jamie’s bulk a silent sentinel at her side.

It wasn’t a date if it ended on the floor of your bathroom, crying ugly sobs as mascara stained your cheeks, while your partner held your shoulders and made soothing noises with his throat.  

That wasn’t dating, that was survival.

***

mac na ghalla = son of a bitch

Mu dheireadh = finally

[davidmann95]

All-Star Superman #4

And the solar journey begins to dip below the horizon, as Superman falls out of center stage into a shape-shiftier nighttime world of fluctuating identity he’s ill-prepared for. Fortunately, his best pal is there to make sure he doesn’t fall on his face too badly in the process.

“When not under alien influence, Jimmy Olsen could barely stand to be himself for more than five pages and maintained a much-resorted-to ‘disguise kit’ in times of emergency. Prefiguing David Bowie, Madonna, or Lady Gaga, his life became a shifting parade of costume changes and reinventions of identity. And long before those performers were challenging the boundaries of masculine and feminine, Olsen was deconstructing the macho stereotype in a sequence of softcore gender-blending adventures for children that beggar belief when read today...And yet, if it was okay for Olsen, wasn’t it okay? I grew up with the idea of the disguise kit and the performance, the idea of both body and identity as canvas. When I adopted as a youthful role model the shape-shifting, bisexual assassin Jerry Cornelius from Michael Moorcock’s novels, I was following in the footsteps of Jimmy Olsen. Olsen played in bands, and so did I. Olsen was freewheeling and nonjudgmental, even in the fifties, and so was I. If it was cool with Superman’s pal, it was A-OK with me. Clearly these stories were written by perverts with an intent to pervert the young that was entirely successful...Olsen was fully in control of his transformations and could hardly wait more than a couple of pages to get them underway.” -- Grant Morrison, Supergods

On the one hand, my big plan to start doing these on a more regular basis so I could get #7 - the Christmas issue - out in time for the holidays turned out to be purest hubris. On the other I am very glad I waited to get around to this until after Grant Morrison came out as non-binary.

The first thing we learn here is that Jimmy Olsen is the coolest dude in the entire world. He has an action figure of himself! His apartment is littered with evidence of having lived the most incredible life imaginable: a genie’s lamp (presumably from Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen #42, Jimmy the Genie), a retro laser pistol, a pirate’s hat, a crystal ball, a Viking helmet (#154, Olsen the Red, Last of the Vikings), and references to his time as Elastic Lad, Flamebird, and Turtle Boy. He’s got a giant flat-screen TV in 2006 on a reporter’s salary (with a video game system in the same dome-y aesthetic as the rest of Quitely’s Metropolis), a pool table, a great view, and most tellingly of all, a beach vacation spot in a bottle: no responsibility of caring for an entire endangered micro-civilization like his buddy, Jimmy just gets the good stuff.

(At the center of this world Lucy Lane, as ever glamorous, somehow out of his league, and needling him and talking about being ready to drop "the mayor of dullsville” like a hot potato. But there’s a flirtier teasing edge going on here than in the Silver Age stories that defined their relationship, a dynamic that feels more like her baiting him and keeping him on his toes than the casual cruelty of their ‘classic’ interactions. Jimmy’s too far from hapless in here to get a sense of him going along with this for any reason other than that he’s into it. He going out with the girlfriend who’s too cool for you too.)

And of course the disguise kit, his gateway to lives beyond his own that for all his success he can hardly wait to dip into. His outfit up above - awkward at best in retrospect until recently as a punchline, still not ideal but far more interesting now - is only the first of something like a half-dozen shifts in appearance he’ll undergo this issue. Like the coat he’ll wear he’s a rainbow encompassing many facets, a chameleon in a universe of rigid iconography. And when Superman, the sturdiest and most archetypal of all, goes through a complete and nonconsensual identity change, it’s up to his best pal to ensure he makes it through to the other side without completely losing his shit in the process.

Worth reiterating: Jimmy is the coolest in this. It’s actually one of the few tipoffs that this is supposed to take a little ways in the future past the traditional Superman status quo: Perry White instead of constantly badgering him is leaning on him to keep the paper afloat (and will accidentally note that guys wanna date him), super-scientists give him unlimited money and power for a day so he can have a cool subject for his feature, he reacts to genetically engineered super-warriors and a species of tungsten gas with glass exoskeletons with a smirk and a half-sarcastic “Awe-inspiring.” A little cocky, a little in over his head? Sure; he’s an audience stand-in. But he’s an audience stand-in who’s grown past his helplessness, elevated by his years of contact with Superman to the point where he can save him in turn. He is the living counterargument to everything Lex says in the next issue.

Superman on the other hand isn’t quite ready for this queer world where Jimmy proclaims with amusement “I can’t decide who I am from one day to the next!” The malleability of identity is a recurrent idea throughout Morrison’s work and one guaranteed to be reexamined from all sides in years to come now that they’ve come out, from the memeplex replacing the personality in the 2012 of the last issue of The Invisibles and their reinvention of Joker as “21st-century big-time multiplex man” shuffling identities with the times to the Greg Feeley/Ned Slade divide of The Filth and Crazy Jane’s system of 64 identities in Doom Patrol, as well as regular forays into the infinite incarnations offered by the multiverse. But this isn’t a shift Clark’s equipped for. Generously, if Superman is already an ideal being than any deviation from his norm is going to be for the worse. More harshly and honestly, we’ve already seen in the last two issues that his relationship with his identity is as rigidly self-imposed as it is somewhat unthinking, and letting go of his restraint isn’t going to end well. It’s a theme throughout Superman’s history going back to the 50s and 60s stories All-Star predominantly draws on where he’s regularly forced to succumb to the mind and body-warping influence of assorted shades of Kryptonite, magic spells, uncanny technology, or other contrivances to force him into the horror of a situation where he can no longer pretend to be normal. When he’s made to give up on his self-definition he isn’t going to bloom, he’s going to let all his emotional baggage spill out over everyone in his path: if All-Star is mundane life writ large, this is a man on a bender who needs his best friend to reel him in before he does irreversible damage to his life courtesy of a bad trip on Black Kryptonite.

As we’re about to reach my favorite panel of Superman flying of all time, let’s talk art. The visual language for this issue begins as mostly medium shots of assorted talking heads, as to serve the (purely relatively) mundane human world Jimmy operates in; when the sparks begin flying the action shots are either Authority-style widescreen tableaus of superhumans in the distance wreaking havoc with Jimmy often in the background (even for smaller ‘safe’ scenes like the meeting with the Electrokind, until he overwhelms the panels himself as Doomsday) or stiflingly intimate perspectives from the heart of the storm. This is a human perspective on Superman’s world and the comic reconfigures itself to match, the panels literally tilting back and forth as Jimmy dodges a heat vision blast.

Broad strokes aside, some more art stuff I love-love-loved:

* The blimps between the buildings in Metropolis.

* The miniature sun on the surface of the moon (which fits into an aspect I’ll discuss later).

* It’s a portal to another universe but it LOOKS like a vat of acid you could fall into, perfect Super-world aesthetic.

* The page with Clark and Perry where he goes in three panels from fully in Clark mode to realizing something’s up to Superman before he even takes off his glasses (even putting on his jacket which makes no logical sense but visually evokes him suiting up).

* Those cool lasers probing the Black Kryptonite.

* Superman’s Clark-esque exhausted posture and narrow, angry-looking eyes beginning to signal the change, and immediately afterwards posturing and posing for the first and only time in the book where it’s not an obvious front.

* The workers reacting to Superman from the other side of the window.

* Jimmy’s eyes going red from oxygen loss as Superman flies away, Phil Balsman having his laughter literally trail behind him through the hole in the ceiling.

* Superman mowing through the Bizarros and Voyager Giants (having finished Fourth World since annotating #1 I now know said giants are a reference to Kirby’s initial version of Cadmus, though I still think the realization here is a bit Manhattan-ey).

* You can see the air ventilating through the shattered Daily Planet globe! I assume Jamie Grant did that, such a great little commitment to detail he must have known most would never notice.

* DOOMSDAY’S LETTERING HAS BONE SPIKES

* The Bizarro technician at the end is visibly heaving to hold up the sample of Black Kryptonite, as it’s naturally heavy due to hailing from a higher-density universe.

So Superman goes wrong - hell, the FIRST THING THAT HAPPENS when he shows up is that he, Superman, fails to save someone - and for the first time in the book he has no choice but to lean on someone else. He’s in no place to help himself, because however much it’s the Kryptonite inverting him and how much this is unleashing the ‘bad’ that always lay inside him, the fact of the matter is this is the opposite of the creative teams’ “Renaissance idea of the ideal man” of the rest of the story: resentful of his responsibilities, reveling in his ego and the material, giving in to fear, incapable of seeing value in others. He may pointedly be lesser for that, weaker and dumber the worse he gets, but no matter how broken he may be he’s still Superman and still more than the world can handle. 

So Superman’s Pal has to step up. Because as self-absorbed as he can be, Jimmy Olsen is a guy who looks out for his friends, who cares about their dignity more than his own, whose reckless forays are first and foremost about doing the right thing no matter the risk to himself. He didn’t just learn to be a cool guy from Superman: he learned to be a good one, and even in the depths of his most horrible transformation of all, from Superman’s Pal to Superman’s Killer, he’s anchored to his true self beneath all the identities by a totem of the friendship he earned through that decency. A decency that wants to protect his friend from humiliation when in the end the one unquestionable scrap of truth comes of this debacle, a feeling so terrible Superman could never let it out under any other circumstances. That underneath all his love and appreciation for the life he’s lived and concern for what the world and people he cares for will do without him, he’s also still a mortal man who’s fucking terrified because he’s knows he’s going to die soon.

For now though, even as Jimmy gave up his scoop to offer his friend the help he needed - though don’t feel too bad, he got free tickets to the Broadway smash Frankenstein on Ice - he brushes off off the Black Kryptonite Superman as “a liar”, leaving it up to us to decide how much he really put together. Either way this is the one page where we actually get to see them as friends, and it all clicks - Superman’s the coolest guy ever who even Jimmy defers to, the best big brother who would never really turn on you, but also Jimmy’s the coolest guy ever (“No firewall is Olsen-proof.”) and even Superman looks at him in amused amazement. It’s a sentiment we’d see further with Morrison when they’d go on to expand the Clark/Jimmy side of it in Action Comics and Clark’s taken under Jimmy’s wing, but the fact remains that as differently as they approach life each is one of the few people in the world who can regularly impress the other, each to the other is ‘the cool one’, and from that awe comes respect and trust and friendship, such that we get the first chink in Superman’s self-reliant armor. So while the journey into the book’s shadowier phase of the solar cycle may only have just begun, for the time being? Everything’s coming up Olsen.

Additional notes

* As benefitting the human perspective here, Jimmy goes through a miniature version of All-Star of his own in here: the most ‘elevated’ version of the character we’ve ever seen on a journey from the moon (and sun thanks to that miniature reactor) to the Underverse and finally to a brawl on the streets of Metropolis, he takes on a dangerous power that threatens to undo him that is ultimately a necessary sacrifice to save the day and those dear to him, and by the end there’s a marker of his adventure hanging in the sky. Except it all works out for him, because again, Jimmy just gets the fun parts.

* Jimmy in here is visually modeled in part on English singer-songwriter Robbie Williams, at his request.

* For some reason even the Absolute edition of All-Star didn’t correct Superman’s shield being shown with inverted colors three times over on the first page. Perhaps this mishap was an influence on Calvin Ellis down the line?

* "Rock Hansom, the space pilot” where is his ongoing

* The queen who cast Jimmy’s ‘bad luck curse’ in this issue is another big instance of “oh right, this book was written a decade-and-a-half ago”. Or unfortunately maybe not, the CW’s The Flash was using a character from Justice League Detroit with the same name as recently as last year.

* Quintum’s ‘Warcops’, “Bio-engineered to end large scale conflict using non-lethal means” are another element that raises an eyebrow in the rear-view. Interestingly Morrison originally planned on reusing the title Warcops as the name of a comic they were planning with Sean Murphy in 2009, though the name was about all this was going to have in common with that proposed black comedy on the post-9/11 atmosphere of war, terror, and consumerism; evidentially this intended collaboration later morphed into Joe the Barbarian.

* Ok, I’m going into the weeds on this one: One of the cornerstones of Morrison’s autobiography is their experience of being ‘abducted’ by higher-dimensional beings in 1994 while on a trip to Kathmandu. You can read them discussing the experience and how it redefined their subsequent work in any number of interviews, and the Electrokind in All-Star were specifically noted by them in an interview to be modeled on aliens they saw during a brief detour in their ‘trip’ to Alpha Centauri. However, looking at them I’d swear they’re in fact visually and conceptually modeled on the ‘light ray’ alien beings seen in Action Comics #271, “Voyage to Dimension X!” by Otto Binder and Al Plastino...which are themselves a hoax! Am I saying Morrison’s been constructing an elaborate lie all these years and deliberately left an extremely obtuse tipoff in their masterpiece only someone who religiously reads their interviews AND has extensive knowledge of Silver Age Superman comics could untangle? Seems less likely than them having read that comic at some point prior, forgetting it, and the imagery filtering into their journey, but still wild. Or maybe that’s coincidentally what folks look like out in Alpha Centauri, Morrison’s all about the power of synchroniciy.

* The G-type who’s dedicated his life to articulating the unified field sets up Lex’s moment of enlightenment later on.

* Speaking of Lex, Quintum’s creations are all noted as being predetermined in their actions. Another hint?

* At its foundation, time is a solid thing in the reality portrayed by the physical object of a comic conveying existence one frozen image at a time? In a Grant Morrison story (where also beings are noted to communicate by a purely visual language)? You don’t say...

* P.R.O.J.E.C.T.’s origins as Cadmus not only connects it back to Kirby, but in its transformation from a U.S. Army division to “the ultimate futurist think tank” demonstrates once again the power of Superman’s influence.

* The Underverse catastrophe here is the first major instance of gravity entering the story; like time, while not obviously center stage a recurring motif that’s fitting to have begin here with the start of the nightside leg of the tale. It’s also another instance of a sub-world/miniature world (after looks at the Fortress and Subterranosauri as encapsulations of Superman’s stifling world and approach to relationships and curdled masculinity respectively), a major thread of the series I’ll discuss much more extensively when getting to #10. Mining such a world is also a carryover from The Filth, which I’ll discuss MUCH more extensively with #10.

* Speaking of that scene, while it’s never stated outright, the Bizarro drone falling into the Underverse before a never-before-seen new type of Bizarro invasion emerges from that realm in subsequent issues suggests to me that given how time operates differently down there, the genetic material left behind by the dead worker evolved over generations into the creatures roaming Bizarro World. Whether you think that’s an intended implication or not, Black Kryptonite also results in some Bizarro-esque changes to Superman’s speech patterns when it’s retrieved from the Underverse after the worker’s death, reinforcing the connection.

* Love Jimmy’s nervous conversation with Superman in the early stages of Black Kryptonite poisoning basically being “This is a goofy low-stakes Silver Age premise, right?” “NO.”

* Of course Superman built Anti-Superman weapons, he doesn’t see himself as infallible.

* “A no-exit ride to oblivion!” is an appropriately Kirby description of the Phantom Zone for the issue about the main preexisting DC character he worked with.

* Superman’s basest impulses when ‘under the influence’ resulting in him calling out “Still strong as ever was! Where am Lois Lane?” is another masculinity-gone-wrong bit hot on the heels of the last issue.

* Ponder if you will, as I did, the surprising number of connections between Jimmy Olsen and Doomsday extending backwards and forwards in time from this issue. Jimmy took the picture of Superman’s death. Fourth World basically does Doomsday decades in advance as the first threat Darkseid ever unleashes against the Man of Tomorrow (“The answer to a finely disciplined Superman--is what you have created--a chaotic fury of a thing--an uncontrollable organic murder machine!”) and it’s a mutated clone of Jimmy. Doctor Doomsday of Amalgam Comics formerly worked for Cadmus. In Smallville Jimmy and Doomsday’s human form Davis Bloome compete for the love of Chloe Sullivan. Earth-45 Jimmy was among those who sold Vyndktvx the technology to create Superdoomsday. They debuted together in the DCEU, as Jimmy died and Doomsday was born (and died himself) in the latters’ first big-screen appearance in Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice. Each has had stories where they received four counterparts in homage to the post-Death Reign of the Supermen. Both the ultimate adaptors, inextricably intertwined with the same man but through the separate prisms of love and hate, two sides of the same coin? Or maybe it’s just those pesky synchronicities again.

* JIMMY-DOOMSDAY CRADLES SUPERMAN’S BEATEN BODY UNDER THE RUINS OF THE PLANET LIKE LOIS DOES IN DEATH OF SUPERMAN.

* Along with the obvious influence from the one, this issue also homages The Last Days of Superman with the writing on the moon at the end; I Love Lucy is also a nice shout-out, given Superman actually guested in an episode once upon a time.