#bollock (singular)

[dandorime]

Test Read, Anyone?

I am trying to determine if this is too confusing. Please complete smol reading comprehension quiz at the end if you have a minute. Thanks!

In his dreams, Ricardo Morales was in France. He couldn't sleep. Every time he laid his head down on the thick Persian carpet that they'd snatched from a burned-out brothel across the street, he swore he heard the distinctive off-key hum of German bombers, creeping up on them through the cloudless night. Nerves, Reynaldo reassured him. The Luftwaffe didn't have the time to send bombers after such a ragtag irregular force in an abandoned town, not with the hell the Americans were giving them along the coast. It wasn't likely anyone even knew they were there in the first place. 

Nevertheless, it was Reynaldo who sacrificed his own rest to sit up with him far past midnight, the two of them perched awkwardly on rickety wooden chairs at a tiny tin table. The glow of a single candle, stolen from the ruined church two blocks south, provided just enough light for a game of Gin Rummy. It was their mutual favorite.

Ricardo sipped the juice from the tin of anchovies that had been their dinner, savoring the salt. He preferred it to fine wine in those days. Hunger made every can they scavenged the most delicious meal they had ever eaten. Reynaldo made a fussy show of rearranging his cards. He certainly wouldn't gin this round, but he was too proud to accept it until he'd made a proper effort.  The creak of wooden floorboards overhead testified to the fact that some of the men were still awake as well. Either up to take a leak, gambling at some other game, or listening for the Germans themselves, Ricardo assumed.

"Knock!" Reynaldo declared, laying down his cards and looking unhappy about it. "Pobrecito," Ricardo chuckled, laying down his own hand. He reached across the table to tuck his singular ace into his opponent's meld of three.  "Bollocks," Reynaldo muttered, "absolute bloody... well, that's gin for you then, isn't it?"  "I still must draw," Ricardo mused innocently. "And it'll STILL be gin," Reynaldo huffed, scooping up his own cards with an exaggerated sigh.

At that final breath, the very air itself seemed to punch its way from ceiling to floor like the fist of a vengeful god. Time slowed to reveal how everything in the room was at once crushed down to the stones and swept away. The cards, strewn everywhere, fluttered and turned like autumn leaves through rays of searing yellow-orange light that pierced between the narrow cracks and knotholes of ceiling planks above as they buckled -- then splintered to pieces -- under the tremendous force. The Persian carpet flipped up and flew as if it was enchanted, dashing itself into a wall and collapsing in a heap. The tin table screeched as its metal legs crumpled like those of a dead fly, tumbling uselessly into the corner. The candle, extinguished, struck Ricardo square across the bridge of the nose with a smart snap and splashed scalding wax into his eyes. He was blinded an instant before he felt his shoulder strike the floor, dislocating on impact. Then he tumbled like a log over the stone floor until his back collided with the wall. Then it was dark.  Ricardo clawed at his face, desperately trying to clear his vision. There was a fire somewhere; he could smell the smoke, thick and oily, from burning fuel, and tinged with the all-too-familiar scent of burning flesh. Where? How close? His whole body was still vibrating with the blast, too disturbed to yet decide if he was in pain or not; if he was on fire or not.  Christo, why couldn't he see? Was he blind? The hot wax in his eyes was relentless, no matter how thoroughly he tried to clear them, and his left arm felt locked to his side. He could sit up, at least, by finding gravity and pushing back against it. At last upright, one of Ricardo's eyes seemed to clear a bit. A cloudy, unfocused image emerged. The front and east walls of the parlor were altogether gone, dashed into pieces of stone and wood and shattered glass, open and empty into the cold night. The glow of fire to his right, burning fiercely in the rubble, threatened to bring down what remained of the two stories still hanging precariously overhead. The ceiling hung ragged, half of its timbers broken and cast into the ground floor below. The second floor was even more utterly obliterated, scorched so deeply black by the incendiary explosion of bomb that it seemed to blend into the night sky. There had been eight men on the second floor, Ricardo thought. Another ten on the floor below. And on the ground floor, it was only himself, and- "REYNALDO!" He put everything he had into that shout, but heard nothing in response. His own voice was only a muffled, distant thunder inside his skull. He gave up on his eyes to feel at his right ear, hoping to clear it of the blockage, but found only more hot liquid wax running there, the same consistency as was dripping into his eyes.  Not wax, he realized. Blood.  Ricardo Morales shifted to his knees. His legs, at least, both seemed in working order, despite the long jagged wooden splinters impaled at odd angles through both calves, the left far more ragged than the right. His pants did a good enough job of stopping the bleeding, he thought, and with no small effort, staggered back to his feet. "REYNALDO, DONDE ESTAS?!"

No reply. His vision was still blurry and narrow, a small field of the ruinous carnage around him, further muddled by the smoke and the darkness. He was beginning to hear things again, but they were distorted through his blown-out eardrums. He could not be sure what each sound was: was that the groan of a dying man, or the creak of a failing pillar? A distant whistle calling the wounded to safety, or another falling bomb?  "REGINALD CRANE, ANSWER ME!"

Something familiar passed through his slim range of view. A hand, gripping a bloody stone in the rubble. The arm to which it was attached disappeared beneath more ruined stone, crossed over by a colossal oak timber, one of the heavy wooden beams that had upheld the floors above. He knelt by the hand and felt for a pulse, not knowing what action he could possibly take if he found one. He had only one functional arm himself, and could barely distinguish the edges of each slab of collapsed stone through his unfocused eyes. His men, if any of them had survived, were likely all in similar states, and the masonry that yet upheld the towering walls of the house had begun to warp inwards, threatening to collapse altogether.  If there was a pulse in the buried man, he could not be sure. His own hand was shaking too hard from the flood of adrenaline, the smoke in his lungs, the exertion, the blood loss, and the cold. He was determined not to leave until he knew for certain, though. So he remained, crouched there, for what seemed like the rest of eternity to him...

"CHRIST, RICHARD, GET UP!" ...until someone grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet, barking orders like a mad dog. "GO! MOVE! NOW!" They stumbled over the wreckage together, a sense of pain finally striking Ricardo for the first time that night as his savior/assailant grabbed him by his dislocated arm to yank him over a deep chasm in the pile. The shouting and shoving didn't let up until they had both finally staggered out into the cobblestone street, clear of debris, and collapsed together in a heap.  Reynaldo was on him in an instant, pouring water over his face and tearing at his own bloodied sleeves to make bandages. Less than a moment later, the two remaining walls of the old chateau fell inward with a deafening roar, finally burying whatever survivors may yet have lain trapped alive under the rubble of the bomb blast. The collapse was so swift and forceful that it hurled chunks of mortar and chips of limestone as far a block down the streets in all directions, powdering the ruins into a  chalky white limestone dust that rose from the site and hung in the air. Ricardo's last memory of that night was Reynaldo hovering above him, howling orders to rally the surviving members of the unit even as the white cloud enveloped them all.

Test: In what place/time are the characters? What happened to them? Who is "Reynaldo"?

[bridenore]

Author rec : The_Sinking_Ship

The_Sinking_Ship is one of my favorite authors. Here are a few recs, listed in alphabetical order.

Chasing Dragons by @the-sinking-ship [98k]

Draco can think of only one way to outclass his pleat-front-khaki-wearing politician ex, and that’s by making headlines with an obvious upgrade. And who better to upstage the cheating bastard than the Saviour of the World, Harry Potter himself? Sure, Potter is a little rough around the edges in ripped jeans, a rumpled tartan shirt, and a permanent scowl. Draco reckons a haircut and a shave wouldn’t hurt, either. But Potter is also in need of a Healer willing to keep his secrets, and Draco is just the man for the job. It’s a perfectly reasonable exchange. They need only attend a couple parties arm-in-arm, smile nicely for the paparazzi, and tolerate each other long enough to convince everyone they’re smitten. In return, Draco will keep Potter alive and in one piece. But it isn’t long before Draco realises he might be in over his head, because Potter is ten tonnes of trouble packed into a leather jacket, and seems keen on hurtling himself towards death on the back of a flying motorbike. And that says nothing of Potter’s penchant for fire-breathing beasts and things that bite. Ah well, at least they’ll have some fun while it lasts. After all, Draco always did like a bit of danger.

Criminal by @the-sinking-ship [83k]

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?

Dwelling on Dreams by @the-sinking-ship [135k]

Draco thought he could avoid Potter for the duration of his brief return to England. He’d stick to his schedule and be back home in Paris, where he belonged, in a few short months. No trouble at all. He had plenty to occupy him, what with the opening of the London branch of his successful apothecary, his innovative research, drinks with Pansy, a backlog of unread potions periodicals. Except Head Auror Potter is everywhere — in Draco's chair, at his door, in his dreams. All six feet of motorbike-riding, combat-boot-wearing, sex-hair-sporting Saviour of the World packed into one unfairly fetching uniform. Potter won’t leave Draco the bloody hell alone, won’t let him breathe, let him forget, let him sleep. Because no matter how fast Draco Malfoy runs, Harry Potter is always hot on his heels.

Finely Drawn Lines by @the-sinking-ship [61k]

Draco doesn’t consider himself an artist (though the dozens of sketchbooks lining his shelves might suggest differently). Yet ever since Potter returned to Hogwarts, accepting a teaching position alongside Draco, his drawings have taken on a rather singular focus. From the curl of his lips to the exact number of lines that form at the corners of his eyes when he laughs, Draco has catalogued every shade of one Harry James Potter between the pages of his sketchbook. So long as Potter remains none the wiser, Draco will have no trouble controlling his crush. But when Potter comes to him with a dangerous proposition, Draco fears things are about to get so much more complicated.

Never Mind the Bollocks  by @the-sinking-ship [118k]

If someone told Harry six months ago that by autumn he would be single, living on whisky and toast, and dancing the night away with Draco Malfoy, he would have told them to get their head checked. And yet, here he was.

Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship [58k]

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend. Now all Draco has to do is convince him.

On Target by @the-sinking-ship [13k]

A charity dunk tank, some sorry excuses for friends, a Slytherin with freakishly good aim, a (mostly) empty locker room, and one very small towel. Because, apparently, everyone is dying to get Harry Potter wet.

Sugar Sweet by @the-sinking-ship [5k]

Draco thinks everyone forgot his birthday. (They didn’t.)

Things We Do by @the-sinking-ship [16k]

Drinking, dancing, and the sorts of decisions made after one too many shots of vodka.

'Tis a Far Better Thing by @the-sinking-ship [37k]

'Tis a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people — or however the Muggle saying goes — because Potter is in need of professional help, and Draco is just the man to give it to him. A Drarry Clueless AU.

The Unspeakable by @the-sinking-ship [24k]

Healer Draco Malfoy took the job at the International Department of Mysteries for the paycheck and the prestige. But what he got was Unspeakable Harry Potter and the most fascinating curse he’d ever seen.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[anincompletelist]

wip wednesday + six sentence sunday :D

HELLO HELLO FRIENDS I AM ATROCIOUSLY LATE TO THIS PARTY BUT HERE I AM !!!!!!!

THANK YOU FRIENDS for the wip wednesday, six sentence sunday, AND last line tags, I am going to attempt to wrangle everyone that tagged me below!!! I had so many lovely words to catch up on today!

please have an extra long snippet to make up for my crimes, another piece of febkinky coming very soon! xx

+

“Dare I ask for a colour?” 

“Mmph,” Alex mumbles eloquently. “Verde, cariño.” 

Henry’s hips give a futile little twitch, and Alex groans into his neck when he clenches. “Fuck, Alex,” he mutters. 

“Holy shit. You curse?” 

“We’ve lived together for four years,” he says a little exasperatedly. “You’ve heard me curse.” 

“Yeah, okay, but it’s always, like, bollocks, or some shit. Bellend. Bloody hell.” 

He gives a long suffering sigh, but his smile betrays him. “Is there a particular genre of expletive that you’d prefer that I use, love?” 

Alex’s arm feels like dead weight when he lifts it to press a sloppy finger against Henry’s lips, Henry’s brow raised as he holds back a laugh. 

“Shh,” he slurs, moving his hand over to pat Henry’s cheek. “Only nice things.” 

“Only the nicest things,” Henry confirms. 

“M’kay. Sleep now.” 

“Alex. You’re still inside of me, love.” 

He cracks one eye open, rubbing his cheek on Henry’s shoulder. “So?” 

“‘So’,” Henry scoffs. “We need to get cleaned up. Off you get, let’s go.” 

“I already got off.” 

“Alex.” 

Alex snorts. “Mm, moaning for me again already, sweetheart?” 

“You are the singular bane of my existence,” Henry kisses his forehead, the tip of his nose. “And I love you very, very much.” 

Grumbling because Henry knows what those words to do him, Alex clumsily raises himself up and lets Henry help him pull out, falling onto his side on the bed. 

“Alright. I guess we can take a shower,” he heaves, rolling his eyes. “You might have to carry me though.” 

“Oh, dear,” Henry says drily, scooping an arm around Alex’s back and one underneath his knees. “What a grave and unforgivable hindrance. You’ll be indebted to me forever, I’m afraid.” 

Alex hums, tossing an arm up around his shoulders. “That sounds nice.” 

“Do not fall asleep in my arms,” Henry warns, crossing the threshold to the bathroom. “Because I’d quite like to aftercare the absolute shit out of you, as you would say.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, baby,” Alex mumbles, his eyes already shut against his shoulder.

+

LEAVING THIS AS AN OPEN TAG FOR OBVIOUS REASONS KJSHKHSD

and thank you so much to everyone who tagged ME:

@wordsofhoneydew @heybuddy-drabbles @bigassbowlingballhead @priincebutt @firenati0n @happiness-of-the-pursuit @rockyroadkylers @tailsbeth-writes @littlemisskittentoes @nocoastposts @junebugclaremontdiaz @sparklepocalypse @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @onthewaytosomewhere @kiwiana-writes @inexplicablymine @eusuntgratie @magicandarchery @leojfitz @suseagull04 @captainjunglegym @iboatedhere @getmehighonmagic @violetbaudelaire-quagmire <333333

I LOVE YOU ALL AND HAPPY VALENTINES DAY FRIENDS! :D

[makemeimmortalwithahug]

first sentence fanfic game

thank you @paraphwrites for the tag (I got tagged like 6 times for this but since paraph tagged me first, they get the thanks /silly)

rules: share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have less!) & tag 10 people

The Case of Bruised Dreams: For a company that was mainly run by ghosts, the agency was very alive.

My Girl: To think that just hours ago, she and Shelby stood in the backroom of the shop, watching the moving castle plod along the landscape, in no hurry but focused all the same.

The Road to Ruin: Hell wasn’t forever, but it certainly made you feel like it was. That’s what Charles thought as he walked down the steps curving their way down into Hell that apparently, from the looks of it, went on endlessly.

To Marry or Not to Marry: Years had passed but Edith still heard the words loud and clear, scratching at her with claws of guilt. She had given up trying to drown out her aunt’s voice, her distinct Scottish accent a companion to her, even now, all the way from the park to the estate.

Honey Walk Me Home: “Hey mate! Fancy checking out that new café?” Inwardly, Edwin sighed dreamily but he still had enough of his dignity left in place that he did not show any of his emotions on his face.

Once You Cross the Line: The end of Alma’s cigarette glims orange as she puts her lighter to it. She breaths in and turns her head away from where Charles is walking next to her, trying to keep up with her larger steps.

Until We Weep: The happenings in Port Townsend would go down in their shared history as a shared singular event so far out of their usual routine that it was almost comical.

We Made It: Nothing screamed Monday more to Crystal than almost having a breakdown in the tiny employer's only bathroom while furiously trying to rub a coffee stain out of a white shirt and talking to her mother on the phone all at the same time. There definitely were better ways to use her break.

Sweet Dreams of Holly and Ribbon: Even if Charles had tried to forget what time of year it was, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. His ears had been ringing since he stepped out of the petrol station he worked the day shift at and stumbled into the chaos that was the Christmas market on the south bank of the Thames on his way home.

and a sneak peek from a WIP that's coming soon(ish): No body, no crime. There were few other than Charles and Edwin who knew just how bollocks that phrase was.

(I don't think there are a lot of people left who haven't already been tagged but here we go) no pressure tags: @king-of-colors @arrow-jsy @regretsofaghost @the-fandom-hopping-mage @steampunk-dandy @tragedy-machine @writerofstuff @oddessea @ahyperactivehero @genevievefangirl

[danikriatura]

From Darrell McNeill:

"This took me a minute, because I'm still in my feelings and I'm still sorting through them all...

"I know how it feels to expect to get a fair shake

But they won't let you forget

That you're the underdog and you've got to be twice as good (yeah yeah)

Even if you're never right

They get uptight when you get too bright

Or you might start thinking too much, yeah (yeah yeah)

I know how it feels when you know you're real

But every other time

You get up, you get a raw deal, yeah (yeah yeah)"

-- "The Underdog" by Sly & The Family Stone, 1967

Sly…

There’s too much to unpack. But, so far, I’ve heard all the usual suspects say all the usual things…

And Sly requires… DEMANDS, actually… A decidedly deeper conversation… MUCH deeper...

He requires a Beatles conversation. A Stones conversation. A Dylan conversation. A Bowie conversation. An Eno conversation. A Joni conversation. A conversation equivalent to Bono, Townsend, Garcia, Springsteen and all of Jann Wenner’s so-called “Masters.”

Not a “either this or that” conversation, either… But a “this AND that” conversation…

Because Sly Stone has objectively and unequivocally created work equally masterful and influential as any of these icons (several of whom were patently influenced BY Sly), Sly Stone DEMANDS a conversation that transcends the reductive shorthand reflexively assigned to Black genius to avoid an equitable, comparative discussion with White artists championed by the rock cognoscenti.

AGAIN… Not a “either this or that” conversation… But a “this AND that” conversation…

But I know for a FACT he ain’t gonna get that conversation because of America's fatal psychosis of racial and cultural segregation, with White supremacy as the default setting. Sly’s barely been gone 24 hours and the same ol’ same ol’ tired ass patterns have already emerged and the same ol’ same ol’ tired ass conversation has started ever since his obit hit the world wide web…

You know the one. We have it INCESSANTLY in rock music. The one where Black folk go on nonstop about how momentous our late geniuses are in so-called “Black specific” genres, and the one where a handful of hip, knowledgeable White folks give their props, but the rock cognoscenti at large shrugs its collective shoulders, says “Whatever,” and keeps it moving…

Because they resolutely REFUSE to acknowledge Black folks have ANYTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH ROCK AND ROLL… Under pain of death…

“Godfather of Funk…” “Pioneer of Funk…” “Progenitor of Funk…”

Seriously…? After all Sly Stone has done to COMPLETELY TRANSFORM THE ENTIRETY OF ROCK AND POP MUSIC…? F’realz…?

Just dead all that noise... Miss me with ALL of that...

Sly Stone, in his prime, mastered ALL popular forms of music: funk, rock, blues, jazz, gospel AND pop. Sly seamlessly navigated genres and categories and transformed and elevated ALL of them with his singular mastery.

And that WAS THE ENTIRE POINT...

To create a sound that was original, singular, inimitable... A SLY STONE sound…

A sound BEYOND CATEGORY...

And Sly did that, a BILLION-fold. Mission accomplished…

Yet everybody, Black and White, continues to categorize, compartmentalize and box up Sly's music in ways that shackle discourse and dialogue because of ingrained cultural biases and the segregated distribution, marketing and promotion of music. And this continues to bollocks any cohesive discussion about equity and legacy in the American pop music canon…

Confining Sly to the “funk” box means we can’t talk about how deftly Sly and his cohorts deftly navigated genres and cultures and modalities. We can’t talk about his early days as a producer, creating Top Forty hits on the Beau Brummels (“Laugh, Laugh”), The Mojo Men (“Sit Down, I Think I Love You”), Bobby Freeman (“C’mon And Swim”) and early collaborations with Grace Slick’s first band, The Great Society. We can’t talk about The Family Stone’s ten Top Forty hits, including three Number Ones, that crossed Top 40, urban and rock radio formats. We can’t talk about the band’s epic appearance at Woodstock (the band wasn’t even the night’s headliner—that fell to The Who—and NOBODY wanted to follow Sly & The Family Stone. The Who admitted their set was disastrous and no one even remembers it). We can’t talk about how Sly’s sonic experimentations altered the musical landscapes of all the bands that played at Woodstock. We can’t talk about how much of that ethos the band brought to the subsequent Harlem Music Festival celebrated in “Summer of Soul.” We can’t talk about how Sly elevated rock music fashion, with radical, flamboyant street clothes, that artists of all genres began copying.

Of course, Sly is always getting dinged by the rock cognoscenti for the small sample size of peak level work. I would submit, comparably speaking, the same could be said about Charlie Parker, Wes Montgomery, The Beatles, Notorious B.I.G., Jeff Buckley, Lee Morgan, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Buddy Holly, Duane Allman, Otis Redding, and others who have similar small peak catalogs, but have generated generations of artists who’ve been influenced by them and millions of pages written, millions of broadcast hours, thousands of remastered reissues and never-ending consumption driven content. Concentrated output was never an impediment for other rock icons—that certainly shouldn’t be held against Sly, particularly when his best works matched and even exceeded that of his contemporaries…

And as far as influence goes, Sly was paramount. In fact, his legacy is equally about how many people copped the best of what he did, as it is about his body of work. Artists, entire genres of music, and technologies, really, are built out of Sly’s DNA: Jimi Hendrix, The Isley Brothers, Stevie Wonder, P-Funk, Norman Whitfield, Frank Wilson, Earth Wind and Fire, Labelle, Isaac Hayes, The Bar Kays, Rare Earth, Chicago, Blood Sweat & Tears, Peter Frampton, Toto, Tower of Power, Average White Band, Ohio Players, Miles Davis, James Brown, Betty Davis, Grace Jones, Bob Marley, David Bowie, Talking Heads, Sly & Robbie, Black Uhuru, Nile Rodgers, Rick James, Prince, Fishbone, Living Colour, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Soundgarden, Janet Jackson, Public Enemy, A Tribe Called Quest, Outkast, D’Angelo, J. Dilla, Questlove, Janelle Monae, and pretty much all of hip-hop and sample-driven R&B that followed…

THIS is the conversation we owe Sly now, an assurance of his TRUE place in history, a 360-degree assessment of where he stands in the COMPLETE firmament of popular music. Not just the funk, R&B or soul or any other siloed musical ghettos the industry confines us, but ALSO pop, rock and blues. THIS is why diversity, equity and inclusion matter, to ensure ALL the best of the best of the best are at the table, not just the ones we choose to see based on our dogmas, biases and blind spots…

All this has already been done… A BILLION times… And it’s just tired now. To say nothing that it shortchanges Sly’s MUCH BIGGER legacy…

Sly DEMANDS a Beatles conversation. A Dylan conversation. A Bowie conversation. An Eno conversation. A Joni conversation. A Springsteen conversation…

And unless folks are trying to get hip to Sly on THAT level…? I am REALLY NOT trying to fuck with anything anybody has to say about the matter…

AT ALL...

Forever thankful and thoughtful to you, Mr. Stewart…

“I know how it feels

For people to stop, turn around and stare

Signifyin' them, they low rate, low rate me (yeah yeah)

Say I'm the underdog

I'm the under- (underdog)

I don't mind 'cause I can handle it (underdog)

It's gonna be alright

I'm the under- (underdog) hey!”"

[loderlied]

got tagged by @the-raging-tempest to do this!! i'll do it for zeke. thank you <3

BASICS

- NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES >> only common. speaking is already hard enough for him. can write and understand tons of other languages though.

- TONE OF VOICE >> high / average / deep

- ACCENT >> yes / no (not of any language but it's very much audible that he started speaking very late. off enunciation etc etc)

- DEMEANOR >> confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (creepy as hell)

- POSTURE >> slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS

head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY (Fill in the circle’s as you wish)

- VOCABULARY >> ⚫️⚫⚫⚫⚫

- EMOTION >> ⚫️⚫⚫⚪️⚪️

- SENTENCE STRUCTURE >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪

PROFANITY

- FREQUENCY >> ⚫️⚫⚫⚫⚫

- CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity) >> ⚫️⚫⚫⚫⚪

BOLD THAT APPLY

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

THIS OR THAT

straightforward or cryptic? / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity, neutrality, or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or flattery / excessive or minimal hand gestures / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

- DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? almost always / frequently / rarely / never (with the exception of gortash)

- DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK?

 almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS?

almost always / frequently / sometimes / never

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS?

almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

- WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE?

yes / no / only ironically

- YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE?

but / though / although / however / perhaps / maybe

- HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? 

walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're done here / remain quiet / they don’t

- WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?

upper / middle / lower

- IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS?

accent  / vocabulary / tone / level / politenes / brusqueness / it doesn’t

Anything that wasn’t touched on?

zeke is a man of very few words. most of what comes out of his mouth besides blood and excessive amounts of saliva is hostility and occasionally attempts at trying to explain his cases/obsessions. most of his speaking only consist of singular keywords without any sentence structure. gortash is really the only one who can completely and effortlessly understand him, he would be able to do that even if zeke was still totally non-verbal like he has been the first 10 years of his life. he is also extremely uncharismatic and disgusts and hurts people even in the rare cases he doesn't intend to.

[jor-elthatendswell]

The person who captioned the pictures on the Wikipedia article for the song "Adolf Hitler has only got one ball" was having fun.

[yjhariani]

Written with Southeast Asian Reader in mind.

I don't personally think they'll react to it this blunt, but it just sounds funny in my head.

You entered the meeting room with a husk of rambutan. Having one singular rambutan in the other hand, you tossed it at Ghost as you took your seat.

Ghost caught the rambutan that you tossed and looked at it before tossing it at Soap as if it was a grenade. Soap caught the rambutan and looked at it before yelping and juggling it onto the table where you put down the husk full of rambutan.

“What the fuck are those?” Soap questioned.

“It’s a fruit,” you caught the rambutan that Soap tossed which almost fell over the edge of the table.

“Fruit? Looks like balls,” Soap replied.

“Hairy balls,” Gaz added.

“Infected, hairy bollocks,” Ghost said.

“Oh, come on,” you chuckled lightly. “It’s rambutan. It’s sweet. Here, let me show you how to eat it.”

The three were actually curious and leaned closer towards you as you held the red rambutan in your hands. You made a tear on the skin and slowly pinched the fruit open. There was a spurt of rambutan water coming out as you did that.

“Ugh, you’re dissecting the ball,” Soap cringed.

“Stop calling it balls. It’s food!” you insisted, now revealing the fruit. “See, you eat it, but don’t eat the seed inside. You spit the seed out.”

There was a pause and you realised that what you said sounded rather ambiguous and when you looked up at your squadmates, Soap was elbowing Ghost and Gaz was biting his lips in.

You looked, especially at Soap, disapprovingly. He shrugged at you.

“You know what, I’ll try the balls,” Soap stated. “Give me the hairy balls.”

“Stop calling it that!” you tossed half the skin of the rambutan at Soap, which he avoided with a shriek.

[maneskintookawaymysanity]

BASIC MÅNESKIN'S ROMAN/ITALIAN SLANG DICTIONARY:

So, I've noticed that lots of people are interested at learning some italian because of Måneskin. The thing is, they often use Roman dialect or italian slang, and some words can be lost in translation. So here are some of the most common words that I've heard them say. As you'll notice, most of them are slur/swear words, but that's because italian has a myriad of swear words, it's just how we communicate.😂

A regà/ regà! (in the roman dialect people often use 'A' in front of words as an intensifier/to add emphasis): Hey guys!

A bbello(M)/A bbella(F): Hey handsome.

Ahò/Aò: can't really be translated; very popular way to address someome, used in a wide range of occasions. For instance if you're walking with a friend, and they walk in the wrong direction, you can say "Aò, where are you going?".

Ammazza aò: can't really be translated; expression of surprise/astonishment/wonder.

Aridaje: closest translation is "oh, not again", expression used with an annoyed/bored tone.

Avoja: closest translation is "yes, of course" (emphasized). For instance, if a friend asks if you want some water after you went running, you answer 'Avoja, I'm so thirsty'.

Bella (lit. beautiful): 'sup!

Bono(M)/ bona(F): hottie, good looking.

Bonazzo(M)/ bonazza(F): same as 'Bono' but emphasized.

Caciara: confusion, noise, bustle.

Caciarone: cheerful and noisy person (affectionate or derogatory).

Cesso (lit. toilet): ugly looking person.

Che palle (lit. bollocks): bummer, what a bore.

Coatto: basically the roman equivalent of a Chav.

Cojone (italian: coglione): asshole, jerk.

Daje: closest translation is "let's go!" or "come on!"

Eccallà (italian: ecco quì): there you go.

E 'nnamo (italian: e andiamo): let's go!

Esse de coccio (lit. being made of earthenware): being dense, thick.

Fregno(M)/ fregna(F) (lit. vagina): hottie, good looking person.

Grazie al cazzo (lit. thanks to this dick): no shit.

La maggica: the magical, affectionate way AS Roma supporters use to call their football team.

Ma chittesencula? (lit. who will f*ck you in the as*?): closest translation is "I couldn't care less about you"

Manzo (lit. beef): male hottie

Me cojoni (lit. my nuts): closest translation is "oh wow, I don't believe it", expression of stupor, bewilderment. 

Mò (italian: adesso): now, right now.

Monnezza (italian: immondizia): trash, garbage

Mortacci/ Li mortacci tua (lit. The soul of your dead relatives): very important and common roman interjection, not necessarily directed to a person, mostly used in a derogatory way but also in an affectionate way.

'Na cifra: closest translation is "a whole lot of", "plenty of". For instance if someone asks you if you had fun at the concert yesterday, you answer "'Na cifra!"

No vabbè (lit. no, whatever): expression of bewilderment, surprise, closest translation is "I can't believe it!"

Oh cazzo! (lit. dick): oh shit!, oh fuck!

Pazzesco: insane.

Porca puttana: holy shit, bloody hell.

Rompere il culo (lit. to break the ass): to kick ass

Rompersi il cazzo (lit. to break my own dick): to get tired/bored. For instance, you can say "Me so rotto er cazzo" when you are annoyed or bored.

Sborone: a person who's a show-off.

Spaccare (lit. to break something): to rock it, to kill it.

Sticazzi (lit. these dicks): closest translation is "IDGAF". For instance, someone if someone tells you that Prince William got married, but you don't give a sh*t about him, you answer "E sticazzi!". Sticazzi state of mind.

Stocazzo (lit. this dick): it's not the singular form of 'sticazzi', but it has a whole different meaning. Ikd how to explain it but it can be used as an answer in various circumstances, like to express surprise/admiration ("I got employed at NASA" "Stocazzo!") or to express disbelief ("I had a one-night stand with Victoria" "Seh stocazzo!) but also in other occasions.

Vaffanculo: one of the most important and vital words in italian; fuck off!

Ps. Feel free to add more words, I just put the first ones I could think of. Also tell me if I made mistakes or you have better definitions.😁

[spacehippieface]

It was a strange figure—like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white, as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand: and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm.

Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For, as its belt sparkled and glittered, now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And, in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever.

I’m sure no adaptation of A Christmas Carol has ever truly captured this ever-shifting nature of the Ghost of Christmas Past. It’s as though Dickens inadvertedly depicted this spirit as a Biblically Accurate Angel, which fits. On the other hand, this lack of a constant form the spirit has could also fit in line with something from the Cthulhu Mythos. Although Dickens goes out of his way to describe the ghost’s fluid form while Lovecraft was very fond of the word “indescribable” regarding his monsters.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just talking bollocks, not getting what I want to say out properly, but this spirit’s description is truly fascinating.

[spider-biter]

Table 25 - Stevens POV

Cross posted to AO3!

Words: 1.8k 💪💪

Warnings: none, just fluffy asf

Requested: naur

Summary: Steven Grant was having a shitty night. He got stood up because he stood someone else up and now he’s just trying to make it through the night and not breakdown and get locked in a padded room for the rest of whatever the fuck his life is-

Until you came along.

———————

Steven Grant was having a very, very, very shitty night.

First, he woke up and felt like he got hit by a bus. Then he realized his phone was dead. Then he remembered he had a date. That he doesn’t remember making. At a place he’s never been to. With a woman that is WAY out of his league. Like by A LOT.

So yeah. Just peachy.

And now he was suffering through the 90’s romcom esc “what the bloody hell am I going to wear” montage that was just him standing in front of his mirror hating every single article of clothing he owned.

‘I love this white shirt-‘ is how it always started.

And 6 minutes later, he wanted to burn it in effigy.

When he finally did make it to the restaurant, he was 7 minutes late, already drowning in anxiousness, and just wanted to eat a salad.

“Hi, welcome on in! What can I do for you today?” The hostess smiled at him. Soft eyes greeted him, their curiosity piqued. Her hands were being kept busy already grabbing silverware and menus. Her hair was live and vibrant, perfectly matching the welcoming vibes of vivacity she exudes. He was enraptured.

For all of .7 seconds.

“Sir?”

Oh for Christ’s sake-

“Hi- um- I uh have a reservation!”

2 beats of silence

“Alrighty what was the name for that-“

“Oh bollocks- I didn’t add a name, it was just 1 vegetarian & one regular? I- I uh can give you my tele number if needed-“

“Nope it’s all good! Sorry, we have a new trainee, it’s been happening all day. We do have a party of 2 at 7:00, 1 vegetarian & one regular, which I believe is you!”

She smiled and grabbed the menus before passing them to the host next to her. “Seat him at 25, and call to kitchen one vegetarian“

The other hostess nodded before giving a quick “follow me!” and leading him through the restaurant. He stole one last glance at the other host as he walked. He found her staring back at him, almost examining him. But when she realized he was looking back at her, she quickly turned away and went back to whatever she was doing.

Steven, respectfully, did not have time to worry about the vaguely mysterious and stunning hostess. She was probably just making sure her trainee was just doing her job. Right?

Right.

——

Now, however, he hoped someone would pinch him, & he would wake up from whatever nightmare he was in.

Maybe in a world where his boss didn’t taunt him day in and day out or maybe where he didn’t feel like someone was always watching him or where he would know what day it was or where his mom would finally, just one singular time, answer his phone calls. Or maybe he would just simply wake up, and function like a normal person.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead Steven slowly dropped his phone onto the soft white linen that covered the table.

“You stood me up”

“It’s Sunday, Friday was 2 bloody days ago!”

“That means, loose my number you twat”

2 days??

2 whole days??

48 hours??

Just. Gone.

The entire earth rotated twice and he remembers none of it.

The tears were coming, the spiral was wounding up, and of course this is the time for the waiter to come to his table.

“Sir this kitchen is about to close, would you like anything before it does?”

The fact that Steven doesn’t even know what the last meal he ate was is still blowing his mind.

“I- um- yeah-“ what he was trying to say is “hey sorry for keeping you for like 2 hours and now I’m about to leave without getting food which I know makes me a total asshole but-“

But it didn’t come out. Instead, a familiar voice cut through the uncomfortable stammering on his side.

“We’ll have 2 house salads. No tomatoes on mine, god I hate them,” the voice said from behind him. Before he could even blink, the hostess from earlier was sitting down across from him.

It felt like someone had pressed pause on his entire situation. Why was she sitting across from him? Who was she? Did she genuinely want to talk to him or did she just pity him?

“-sand. Do you want tomatoes?

Steven quickly realized she A) had been speaking beforehand and B) just asked him a question.

“Toma- Yes! Yes! Tomatoes are fine!” In all honesty he was indifferent about tomatoes but with her eyebrow raised expectantly at him, what else was he supposed to say?

She smiled and unrolled the silverware, tucking the napkin into her lap. “Strike 1”

Oh blimey. It had been less than 3 minutes and he had already mucked it up.

She smirked over at him, possibly noticing the anxiety radiating out from him. “What dressing do you want?” She asked while picking up a menu. Stevens brain was still going 60 kilometers an hour, trying to make this make sense. Why did she choose to sit with him? Why did he loose two days? Is he dreaming? And while all of these life altering questions raced through his brain, all he could ask was “Um- do you have balsamic?”

Mystery woman’s eyes quickly shined, before they turned up to the waiter. She held her waiting pad & pen, but her face was still stuck trying to put everything together. The waiter continued to stare until finally answering with a quick “yes! Yes. We do have a balsamic! You said 2 house?” The waiter quickly turned to the hostess, feverishly writing.

Steven took this opportunity to pinch himself, making sure he knew he was infect, awake. That yes. He did in fact loose a major chunk of time again. And yes. A amazing mystery woman was sitting across from him. And yes. He probably forgot the feed Gus today. Life is going great.

The hostess smiled at him before turning around and yelling something at the waiter. The waiter quickly poked her head out of the kitchen with an affirming thumbs up. The MW suddenly looked at Steven with almost nervous smile. Her mannerisms slowly turned more self consciousness, but he didn’t even notice. He was taking her in. She was absolutely stunning.

“Sorry if uh- you didn’t want a salad-“

“Nono! I’m- I’m vegan so I was probably going to get the salad anyways- I mean I was about to go home but then you came in and now im about to eat a salad with a wonderful mystery person, who’s name I don’t even know-“

Steven quickly shut his mouth. He was rambling. again.

How many more minutes would she feel obligated to stay out of pity? 5? 8?

Steven quickly stopped his small dissociation sesh just to see her lazily stirring her water. All of her movements seemed to be done slowly, but still calculated. Like she had all the time in the world to speak about life. She wasn’t in a rush, no quick anxious leg bouncing.

“Well, to be fair, I don’t know your name” she sipped the water.

Steven immediately blushed, “Grant. Steven Grant.”

“Steven Grant.”

The way she said his name.

Not Stevie. Not Scotty.

Steven Grant

He nearly choked on air.

“Do you normally introduce yourself like a super secret international spy or am I just special?” She smirked setting down her water.

He laughed. Genuinely. For the first time in what felt like forever.

“Nope, ah- it’s just a you thing I guess” he tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

“Well Steven”

Oh.

Oh

that certainly invoked…. A feeling

“I do hope that if you are a super secret international spy, you at least bring me to one of those cool spy galas they always have.” She continued

Imagining her in a dress like that? Not the time.

“I wish- I’m just a gift shopist at the museum,” Steven nervously fidgeted in his seat.

“Do you like it?“

“What?” He was confused.

“Do you like your job?”

“I- um- yeah I guess so?” He was confused!!

“Then you’re not ‘just’ a gift shopist. You’re doing something you love,” She smiled softly. Her smile looks beautiful.

“Yeah- I uh- I guess so huh?” He had never thought about it that way. He might hate Donna and the marketing department and the occasional bratty kid. But so much a fr up for it. The way he was always surrounded by raw history. The people he saw go on dates. The glimmer in a kids eyes when they learned something interesting. Seeing people walk by themselves, silently enjoying the wonders of the past by the,selves. Seeing humanity as an outsider looking in, that was what he loved about his job.

“I promise I’m usually not this optimistic about life” she laughed lightly, interrupting his love for the human race.

Light bulb moment

“So it’s just a me thing, huh?” He repeated her words back to her, smiling throughout.

“Yeah… it is just a you thing I guess.” Some blush crept up her cheeks, and Steven would kill to know what she was thinking at this moment.

He smiled at her, his heart beating with solely love for her.

He quickly shifted the conversation to talking about her, wanting to find out more about this mystery woman.

He asked about her job outside of this one, and bloody hell!

A doctorate in Psychological Ancient Theology???

Aphrodite must’ve stabbed him herself for him to feel this much adoration for the woman sitting across from him. He never found someone who could listen to him ramble about their Egyptian gods and actually understand what the fuck he is talking about. She was….

Incredible.

He stopped mid-ramble. “Was this entire conversation just so you don’t have to tell me your name?

“No of course not!” She playfully acted offended.

Steven leaned over to her side of the table.

“Then what is it?”

She rolled her eyes and said her name.

Steven repeated it. It felt like chocolate melting in his mouth. A cold drink of water after a hot day. Warm hot tea inside on a rainy one. It felt like…. home.

“Ding ding ding. Although the last part might be changing soon” She smirked and stirred her drink.

“To what?” Steven was very confused.

She leaned over the table, their noses almost touching. The candlelight was flickering in her eyes, giving her an ethereal beauty.

“Grant.”

Oh Steven?

Steven was finished.

[houndsofbalthazar]

Wanted to use the phrase "the bees' knees" earlier but wasn't sure where to put the apostrophe so I made an executive decision and am issuing the following guidance for all animal-possessives:

The cat's pyjamas (singular cat)

The bees' knees (plural bees)

The dogs bollocks (it's not possessive, bollocks is their name, like The Brothers Grimm)

[egg-emperor]

"Hey Eggman, what do you think The End looks like?" "A BOLLOCK."

ahigahbskgabfk he's not wrong! and it's just a singular one, couldn't even be a pair. absolutely disgraceful smh. not even comparable to Eggman's TWO huge balls of steel to do the craziest world shattering evil multiple times, be the most dangerous threat, and actually put up a great fight tons of times with so much more bravery than lame little bullets and lasers. he'd tell it to grow a pair and move aside as he shows it how it's really done XD

[spiltscribbles]

Here’s a prompt from the tag! “ Giving them your dessert when you eat out because it’s their favorite.” bc I have a feeling Remis would be the type to end up eating Sirius’ dessert instead of his bc he doesn’t know what to order but Sirius knows his taste dkfjsjaha

~Notes: Oh no baby! I read this wrong, thinking it was Person A ordering for them instead because Person B didn’t know what they wanted.... And well this came out-- I can totally write a different prompt though to match this one! Just LMK! <3 <3

.-

Send Me A Prompt  |  Reblogs are like the tastiest dessert!!

.-

Remus pads softly into his and Sirius’s room, a mug of steaming Darjeeling in hand and clad only in a his robe as he gazes longingly at the sleeping form of his partner for nearing on three years now. 

The early morning sun pans across the wide expanse of Sirius’s shoulders, and dips into the planes and valleys of his muscular torso and angular face. Lying there, with his dark hair fanning the pillow and the blanket slung lazily around his hips, he looks like some sort of fallen angel. Beautiful and remote and impossible to touch by sullied hands that aren’t half as sacred. It makes his heart thud an uneven staccato when he remembers that he’s his— Sirius chose Remus, Sirius loves Remus— Maybe even nearly as much as Remus has always loved him.

How remarkable of a revelation indeed.

Gingerly, Remus sets down his tea and crawls back into bed with Sirius, insides thrilling when the dark haired boy subconsciously snakes his arms around him and curves around Remus’s body like so many times before, so often that Remus reckons it’s become by rote, an ingrained response to whenever they’re in close proximity to one another.

With a quiet laugh, Remus stretches around, begins peppering Sirius’s chest and abs and the space surrounding his cock with tender kisses, slowly rousing him to wakening the way Sirius always appreciates after a night of patrols for the Auror’s academy. And as usual, it doesn’t take long at all for Sirius to begin moaning out appreciative sighs, thrusting languorously for the warmth of his mouth, making Remus chuckle as he tugs down his pants, and kisses the length of him, peering up to watch as Sirius’s gorgeous, gray eyes flutter open.

“Wh— Moony?” He says in a peculiarly squeaky voice that Remus can’t ever remember slipping out of his mouth. 

“Yes— Problem, Paddy?”

Another discontent, borderline terrified noise rumbles in his throat, and before Remus could even ask what’s got his boyfriend acting like he’s touched in the head, the door to their flat flings open none too gently, and it’s an irate looking James who storms into the bedroom— fists clenched and jaw set as he glares daggers into the face of his practical brother.

“You’re dead Potter!” Is all he shouts before madness ensues— Madness that’s James’s flying fists for Sirius’s face, Peter’s choked laughter flowing in from the other room, and a Lily who looks stuck between horrified and amused

And Remus is so fucking bewildered as he slides off of his boyfriend to avoid any untoward hits accidentally aimed his way.

“Lily?” he presses expectantly, but is totally unsurprised when all she replies with is a bout of uninhibited cackles.

.-

Fifteen minutes, a magically healed split lip, and a physically restrained pair of animagi later, finds the ragtag group of friends surrounding the kitchen Island while a terse James and enraged Sirius are explaining what had happened the previous night. Namely, them getting hexed by a sour faced old bint with a Guinness in hand, after Sirius had driven his motorbike through her rosebushes.

“You guys got bested by a drunk hag!” Peter guffaws for the third time in a singular minute, clutching at his stomach while his body wracks with a continuous stream of  laughter

“I will singe your bollocks off Wormtail,” Sirius seethes from Remus’s left— Except no, it’s not Sirius. It’s James, his best mate James who’s now inhabiting the body of his lover. And God how strange of a fucking turn of events. It’s seriously unnerving. He’s just standing their, all too familiar arms crossed against his chest and thick brows furrowed. And God, Remus really wishes he wouldn’t do that— worry on his bottom lip mid snarl. It’s such a quintessentially Sirius thing to do. a look Remus knows well. One that Remus would always coax away with a gentle kiss and a hand carding through his hair and— 

“Oof!”

He glances over to where Sirius— wearing James’s face— is glowering at him with pure irritation after having elbow checked him. “Eyes front and center Lupin!”

Remus flushes, glancing over at Lily since she out of everyone here could understand his plight. But of course she’s only snickering to herself in her cup of coffee, the trader. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just because ’s my body doesn’t mean you get to give another bloke the come hither eyes!” Sirius fumes, a sneer caught on his features that Remus never thought the face of the easy going James Potter could ever conjure. “Crikey, it’s plenty that you decided to give him a full on show already.”

“How was I to know this would happen!” Remus sputters the same time James defends that they even barely started, which of course made Peter fall over on his chair with pure delight and Lily walking over to the kettle so she can hide her own laughter.

“Lucky you,” Sirius snipes back, glaring darkly at James and snatching Remus’s hand to interlock with his— erm James’s?— own on his lap.

Remus is so totally fucked.

.-

Graciously, Professor McGonagall— who told the graduating Gryffindor  class of 78 to always reach out if they ever needed help with a strangely wet glint in her eyes— Replies to the pleading missive Remus had sent almost immediately, giving Remus the proper instructions to reverse the jinx and wishing him and Lily the best for the impending tribulations about to befall them.

“She’s totally loving this,” James mumbles moodily as Lily massages his head. And Merlin, is that a strange sight— Lily not only deigning to touch Sirius at all, but look at him sympathetically on top of that. Remus has to constantly remind himself of the body swap before his ridiculous envy begins carving at his insides when James only looks appreciatively back up at her, a gentle, open expression painted over his face that is ordinarily reserved for Remus and Remus alone.

“God this is weird,” Lily tells him, slowly inching away and sitting besides Remus instead. “I usually can’t stand even the sight of Black, and now I’ve got to treat him like the bloke I’m in love with.”

“That’s not what you said this morning Evans,” Sirius goads from Remus’s other end, suddenly reverting back to looking like the James of fifth year— when he was still too cocky for his own good and still didn’t understand how much it made Lily want to hex him to hell for it. “I actually think I recall a lot of back robs and straddling action this morning.”

Lily casts him a look that would absolutely scorch lesser beings, and Remus reasons that his own glower is emulating the same energy because Sirius quickly presses their foreheads together and squeezes Remus’s hand between both of his own in silent repentance. “I knocked her off once i realized it wasn’t you love.”

“Didn’t even bother to aim for the bed you absolute sod.”

“It was fight or flight while you had your grubby little hands all over me Evans!” Sirius airily sniffs.

“Oh I’ll show you grubby little hands!” Lily seethes, pouncing forwards right when Sirius hides behind Remus’s back.

“Children,” Remus intones, beyond over it. “Did you all not realize the massive problem with this little mishap.”

“You mean besides dealing with James’s pitiful little knob.” Sirius asks, faux owlish.

“You touch my knob Black and I swear to God I’ll shave off all your hair.” James snipes, which really isn’t all that fair considering how Sirius doesn’t even care about his perfect locks half as much as Remus does.

“Bloody hell! That’s brilliant!” Peter squawks from the loveseat, absolutely glowing. “James, you think you can get Moony’s name tattooed on his arse.”

James’s face goes sly, Remus’s favorite smirk toying the edges of his lips and his stormy eyes glinting with mirth that Remus only ever sees on his boyfriend’s face before a prank or while Remus is undressing in front of him. 

“What did I say about that look Moony!” Sirius shouts, scathing and skewering him with a look James only ever  employed as Head Boy  on the third year students stupid enough to get caught while trying to pull off a prank.

“Erm— Ahem.” Remus adjusts himself in his seat, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Yes well, that is rather besides the point.”

“So what is the point, Rem,” Lily asks smugly, and Remus absolutely hates how much she’s enjoying this. She should be suffering just as much as him for the sake of Circe.

“Well didn’t you have that lunch date set up with your older sister and her husband for today?” Remus points out, a mutinous little part of him preening at how her face goes a sickly sort of pale at the reminder. Finally someone is as ill over this as he is.

“Oh bloody shite! You’re right! And Professor McGonagall said that this incantation can only be done at night, the same time as it was originally cast!”

“We’re not in school anymore Evans, you can just call her McGonagall. Or Minnie if you’re so inclined.”

“Shut the fuck up Black!” Lily shrieks, and Remus can’t help but unfavorably liken her to a banshee. “I promised Petunia that I’d see her before she leaves on holiday tomorrow! And she bloody hates Black!”

“nasty harpy.”

“What are we going to do!”

“Erm— Well maybe you can explain to her the switch up?” Peter offers, always meek in the face of Lily’s wrath.

“She already thinks I’m a freak for being a witch Peter! I can’t bring James looking like that and expect her to be fine with it!”

“Most people would consider James having upgraded,” Sirius argues.

“The tattoo will be bright pink I reckon,” James muses loudly to himself, pretending not to have heard Sirius. “A nice contrast to your pasty white arse don’t you think Padfoot?”

Sirius bares his teeth at him and Remus feels an impending migraine while Lily continues to lament the idiocy of their boyfriends.

.-

Remus idly contemplates how normal his life could’ve been if he had fought harder with the sorting hat to be placed into Ravenclaw. It would be a much less wonderful existence, to be sure, but it’d be so blessedly normal. Remus would probably have gone steady with that Hufflepuff prefect, Andre, and they would probably still be together. And Andre didn’t have a best friend who he got into insane and improbable situations with, so Remus definitely wouldn’t have been forced to do this. To be forced to go to lunch with his best friend’s wizard hating sister and her pug faced husband and not look longingly over the table at the face of his other best friend where the love of his life is inhabiting his body.

Jesus, is Remus’s life confusing as fuck.

“I need to take a pis— Oof, I mean. I have to use the gents,” Sirius declares as everyone’s entrees are being served, giving a pointed glance to Remus. And he supposes he should talk to him about that, how incredibly obvious Sirius can be when he’s flustered and isn’t trying to show it.

Five minutes after his boyfriend, Remus leaves to meet him in the first open stall, finally feeling less wrong footed for the first time today when Sirius takes him into his unfamiliar arms.

“I’m going to stab my eyes out with a fork Moony!” He hisses, and it’s odd how alien his face— James’s face— is to him. How Remus has never spent the time to memorize the precise slope of his nose, or the shape to his lips. How Remus can’t understand what it means when he squints his left eye or when he flares his nostrils with a slight curl to his mouth. But Remus does recognize the way Sirius has always grabbed his hips in that desperate way when he’s fed up, and how he always presses his nose to the curls behind Remus’s ear when he needs to be grounded. And it’s a bit awkward now that they’re the same height instead of Sirius needing to stoop slightly, and how Sirius now smells like that pricy cologne that James has always sprits with gusto. But it’s familiar enough to make Remus’s shoulders relax from the tension sown through them all day, and breathe out with relief with how the pair of them still understand one another with an innate sort of knowing.

Gingerly, Remus wraps his arms around Sirius’s now less defined torso, and they stand their, tangled into one another amidst the hush settling over  them.

“Oi! You berks!” James hisses from the doorway all too soon, clambering inside and stomping his feet. “I swear to Merlin if you pricks are fucking inside there!”

“Don’t worry Jamie, I’d never put my Moons through the indignity of dealing with that after he’s had me,” Sirius jeers, preening when James replies by throwing something hard against the doorway.

“C’mon you idiot,” Remus sighs, tugging on a lowly chuckling Sirius as they meet James by the exit of the loo.

“I’ve had three different birds sliding their numbers into my trousers on my way here alone,” James complains, shuffling foot to foot and looking more awkward than Sirius ever has. “It’s obscene.”

“It’s the life of the beautiful,” Sirius corrects as Remus swaths his hand away from his arse. 

“I’d rather not have Petunia getting a heart attack when she sees her sister’s boyfriend copping a feel of another bloke,” he chides before looping his arm through James’s and begins strolling back to the table.

.-

The rest of the lunch is thankfully uneventful, but as stilted as expected, filled with Sirius needing to be kicked in the shin every time he starts gazing absentmindedly at Remus, and Lily flickering her eyes over to James disappointedly while he pouts at her with Sirius’s best puppy dog eyes. And Every time Petunia starts eyeing them all as if they’re all fucking each other behind the scenes, Remus clumsily changes the topic to the weather or how lovely her engagement ring is or asking Vernon about bloody drills— Even if all he wants to do is reach across the table and hold Sirius’s hand.

But thankfully, it all seems to be going along decently enough— That is until the waiter comes around to take their orders and spends a little too long leering at Remus, asking if he’d like a cinnamon roll on the house.

“He’d like a slice of the chocolate fudge cake and he has a boyfriend that probably wouldn’t appreciate the extra service.” Sirius growls out, specs gone askew and dark knuckles paling from where he’s clutching his spoon vindictively.

The waiter only smiles at him, shrugging in that what can you do kind of way before dashing off to place the orders in with the kitchen.

“Hmm,” Petunia levels him with a glance, unimpressed looking. “So James.”

It takes a beat too long for Sirius to respond and Remus silently curses his every damn star. 

“Erm, yes Petunia.”

“How long have you been fucking my sister’s friend behind her back?”

Lily goes shellshocked and James looks ill while Remus sinks lower in his seat, trying to force Sirius to get it together through his eye contact alone.

“Hah— Wow, you’ve been watching those silly Muggle dramas have you Petunia.” Sirius says in a mangled tone of voice, but of course that’s the precise wrong thing to have said.

With matching red faces and spluttering words of indignation— a few curses thrown in for good measure— Petunia and her husband rise from their seats and make a hasty retreat to their car towards the back of the building.

“Oh Christ,” Lily groans, jumping up to sprint after them— but not without swinging a perfectly aimed cuff to the back of Sirius’s porcupine head. “I’ll hex you once you’re out of my boyfriend’s sodding body Black!”

“I understand Evans!” He calls after her before swinging his head over to James and Remus with a mischievous grin. “We tried didn’t we?”

“You just couldn’t keep your bloody jealous  temper in check,” James scolds with no real heat.

“Oi! And what about you lusting over Lily so blatantly you tosser! It was revolting.”

“Yeah, well maybe you’ll remember that next time you’re gazing at Moony’s arse out in public you mongrel.”

Exhausted, Remus just rises and tells them to stay behind and make sure Lily’s alright. “I need a bath and some quiet.”

“Can I join,” Sirius pouts. “I miss you.”

“Only once you’re my  Sirius again,” Remus instructs, brooking no arguments before he finds a safe place to apparate, telling himself that he deserves an entire bottle of that cheap merlot they bought last weekend.

[alltingfinns]

Ending the year in Sherlock/TJLC style.

The Empty Hearse

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it’s very telling that this version of events is dependent upon the removal of Moriarty’s body.

I can’t imagine putting contacts in with pliers. But hardly the least credulous thing going on.

And the closest sherlolly is ever going to get to a canon kiss. When I watched this with my brother, he was still buying the whole explanation and was just surprised that we got a kiss scene.

Heteronormativity is a helluva drug.

Had no idea the hypnotist guy was famous first time I watched.

“Bollocks!” You said it, Lestrade. Never mind the kiss or the perfect corpse dress up or the hypnotism, you can’t bungee jump discreetly.

But Anderson thinks it’s obvious because it keeps his sherlolly fic canon.

“There was a body.” A. Singular. Body. #moriartylives

I honestly wonder how many theories Anderson subjected Lestrade to.

I know the transition of the coffee cups to John’s eyes is haha funny, but it’s also drinks code funny. Blinded by heteronormativity, that one.

Also great job on turning his life around, “Mary”. 🙄

Might poke fun at the guard listening to music on the job, but it makes sense to want to drown out the beating of a prisoner who can’t very well escape a second time.

The torturer being a John mirror. (Unhappy love affair in the navy = Sholto, electricity not working in the bathroom = not good shaving and of course unfaithful wife.) Considering this is the season where Sherlock is most pained by his feelings for John, it makes sense. Ouch, but still makes sense.

The deep wounds in his back. If John only knew…

And that sweet smile about Baker Street… he smol

Boy, John does look so happy!/sarcasm

First time I learned about Guy Fawkes day was in an Enid Blyton book where the plot involved someone stealing the crime solving gang of youngings’ guy money. So I was proud of myself for being like

But like about a culture.

John really hasn’t been back since the funeral.

Kind of weird that Sherlock is okay with someone else shaving him when he’s been on the run, hunted and threatened for two years. But no one ever claimed the writers of this show actually understood ptsd.

Milieu. Or miljö, if you’re Swedish.

Ahh, sibling bickering. “I saved you” “no you sat and watched me getting beaten!” Classic.

“Field work! Ugh!” Very canon Mycroft. (Hence why he never leaves The Diogenes Club)

Passive aggressive Hudson is best Hudson!! 🤣

“Ages you.” The facial hair is a bit of a bad match there.

And again I’m sad that Una Stubbs didn’t live long enough for s5.

“Many bothans died for this info-“ “yeah yeah, where’s my Jawn?!?”

Of course Mycroft had a folder at the ready.

The facial hair must go!

Okay, so John’s grieving process is a bit much. But mrs Hudson… your income (supposedly) depends on renting out your one good apartment. Yet here you are letting it gather dust. “Not your mother” doesn’t seem quite right.

John, so stoked about his proposal, that mrs Hudson assumes he’s about to tell her he’s ill.

“I’m moving on.” What a normal heterosexual flat mate thing to say. What are you moving on from, John? The flat? You left it ages ago! Sherlock’s death? What does Sherlock being dead have to do with your relationship status? Why are you equating a proposal to your friendship (?) with Sherlock?

Hudson is way happier about John’s relationship than he is.

“So soon after Sherlock?”

Don’t you *deep breath* “well yes” at mrs Hudson, young man! You’re the one making the implications she’s inferring from.

Why is mrs Hudson shocked that it’s a woman? Bisexual erasure? Maybe she thought Sherlock was his closet key, or his exes were all beards. Well, not like any of those relationships lasted that long.

“Of course it’s a woman!” Of course. Because he’s moving on and don’t want any reminders of the “could-have-been”s. That’s why she’s short, blonde, has big eyes and is in his mind as far removed from Sherlock as possible.

“Sherlock was not my boyfriend!” No, just your “could-have-been”.

“I am not gay!” Immediate transition to Sherlock sighing.

“Jump out of a cake!” Very heterosexual flat mate of you, Sherlock.

“Baker Street?” Here I paused on Mycroft looking like he’s thinking “my dumb gay little brother really thinks he left London on pause, doesn’t he?”

“What life? I’ve been away!” At first I thought he really was just dismissive of John’s non-Sherlock life. But rewatching I can see a slacking of his face as he takes in the fact that of course John moved on. So he plasters on some false bravado to cover for his mistake of confusing the dream (returning to old life with John) with reality (missing out on his friends living their life).

“How would I know?” Trying almost desperately to save his little brother from the inevitable heartbreak.

And Sherlock feeling his upper lip. If not imagining bristly kisses, then why?

“It’s possible you won’t be welcome”. He can’t say it outright because a) Sherlock won’t believe him and b) Sherlock will just become more determined to prove Mycroft wrong.

The deerstalker = his public image. The coat = his armor.

Stop standing atop buildings!!

I love whenever he does drive by deductions.

This disguise on the go is so fun. Like I don’t care if it makes sense for him to get away with it or not, it’s just good old fun!

“Madam, can I suggest you look at this menu? It’s completely identical.” Fun!

And the fake accent!

All to amuse John who doesn’t even notice his dramatic reveals!

Hmm, The Quiet Man feels. John may be so used to seeing Sherlock everywhere that he doesn’t even think about seeing him in a waiter he never looks directly at.

Dear God in heaven, I’m not even twenty minutes in!!

The femme fatale entrance. It’d be only more perfect if she had her fur coat on.

“You’re the best thing that could have possibly happened to me.” “I agree. I’m the best thing that could have happened to you!”

Gaslighting girl boss.

You may not think it’s a big deal that she dropped the “possibly”. But John is always careful with his word choice. And Sherlock is the best thing that could happen to him, because he did the impossible before, and maybe he can again. He asked Sherlock not to be dead. Maybe…

Does she really have to giggle and prod him while he’s struggling with his words? Best thing my foot!

Did he steal that wine bottle from a table or even the kitchen/bar? The latter seems more likely what with it being unopened and all.

Direct look and the mood has extreme shift.

“Not dead.” Maybe not the best time to remind John of Irene.

“In my defense it was very funny.” 😠 “okay not a great defense”

“Does yours rub off too?” You know, a better title for this episode might have been “Everyone Bullying John Over His Ugly Mustache” though it would make for an awful title card. (EBJOHUM, almost sounds like a biblical name.)

“Donde estas, Yolanda?”

How Sherlock survived = what the fans/Anderson cares about

How Sherlock could do this to John = what actually matters to John/the writers.

The gag of the eating establishments getting progressively less refined as they’re thrown out for violence. 😘🤌 (Am I doing chef’s kiss right?)

Srsly, Sherlock. Why not bring in John into the secret when you already got 25 members of your homeless network involved? Is it because you’d rather he think you were dead? Because if you told John Danger Boner Watson that you’d travel the world to dismantle a criminal network, you knew he’d tag along? So instead he grieves your death. Lose-lose situation, I guess.

Wow, they sure are harping on John about his facial hair in the episode where he gets engaged to be married. No hidden meaning in that.

Even his beard doesn’t like his mustache.

John, this is how mrs Hudson felt. Don’t you see?

Tbf, John. Sherlock has seen your “acting” before. Also, anyone suspecting Sherlock faked his death would watch you more closely than any of the people Sherlock involved.

That said, he isn’t “over” reacting. Just reacting.

“Still a secret” love the extra in the background shaking his head at these terrible secret keepers.

“SWEAR TO GOD!” Angry John is very human, but also very funny.

Martin “do that with a face” Freeman acting out “can you believe this bitch?”

Love that this line that was used as an awesome epic voice over for the trailer, is just a reason for John to headbutt Sherlock in the episode itself.

“I’ll talk him around”. Gatekeeping girl boss. Putting herself in the position of mediator. At the start she was all “omg what have you done?” But now she’s on Sherlock’s side, supporting him in the face of her boyfriend’s (justified) anger.

Also could she pick a more femme fatale coat? Especially with that hairstyle.

“Can you believe his nerve?” “I like him.”

Forget supportive girlfriend, a work acquaintance would feel socially obligated to be more emotionally supportive!!

Stopping here. Apparently this episode will have to be a three part series of observation.

[justkeeptrekkin]

Prompt: Crowely tells Az he loves him by accident while going on a big long rant about (dealers choice) Az catches right away and just smiles and waits as Crowely comes to the realization of what he said

Anon. Anon. I love you for this. 

***

“See, thing is-”

Crowley’s words elude him- as they have a habit of doing, the sneaky buggers. He watches the white lines in the middle of the road streak by, feels the tarmac roaring beneath the car. It’s a rainy evening and they’re driving home from a restaurant north of Watford that Aziraphale has been banging on about for months. Since the world had ended- and then promptly not ended- the angel’s zest for food hasn’t lessened in the slightest. In fact, it’s only gotten bloody zestier, as if their near-apocalypse experience has made Aziraphale realise that life is too short. Even an immortal life such as his. 

Crowley loses his track of his thought entirely. “Thing is…”

“You were talking about-”

“KINDLES!” Crowley exclaims, taking his hands off the wheel to celebrate this eureka moment. Aziraphale straightens out beside him nervously and grabs a fistful of his corduroy trousers. Crowley slaps the leather of the steering wheel enthusiastically as he continues, “Kindles. Are not. Demonic! We didn’t come up with them- that was all you, I’m certain!”

“Why on earth would I invent the Kindle, dear boy? Do you even know me at all?”

“You-plural, not you-singular. Angels you, Heaven you.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t sanction it.”

“Alright but- listen- what’s the problem with kindles? Why’re- what’s the problem? I mean really, it’s a book, isn’t it. Just a book on a screen. What’s the problem?”

“The problem-” Aziraphale begins confidently, bordering aggressively. Then the wind appears to be knocked out of his sails. “Well,” he tries again, a little weakly. “The problem, the problem lies therein. In that. Well-”

“See! See, it’s clearly a good thing, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about- all these people going ‘oh, ho-ho, oh dear, books aren’t physical anymore, what a travesty! Let’s all- grab our pitchforks! And lament the loss of our children’s education’.” He adds a mocking, whinging voice to this last bit. 

Aziraphale tuts, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them. 

“No, you’re wildly misinterpreting the argument, Crowley.”

“You know it’s true, don’t deny it! People are only against them because humans don’t like change- they get all squirmy and anxious about it. As if, you know, as if the transition from a physical book to a little screen is the end of the world- and! Now that they’ve actually had a taste of the apocalypse, they really haven’t gained any more perspective, have they? I mean, you’d think they’d start worrying about global warming properly, but instead they’re just sad about kindles and- oh! That’s another thing, kindles aren’t paper! Less deforestation! Clearly- listen, come on, that’s got to be angelic work.”

Aziraphale pouts and averts his gaze, brows slightly raised in indignance. 

Crowley snorts. He notices the lines of the road streak by a little slower, presses down on the accelerator. 

“Aha!”

Crowley flicks his gaze over to Aziraphale, who’s turned his whole body towards him in his seat eagerly. A smug finger pointed in his face. 

“What? No,” Crowley shakes his head. “You- don’t try and argue with me on this, I’m absolutely certain-”

“Amazon! Kindles are owned by Amazon, notoriously corrupt!”

Crowley scowls, rolls his head wearily. “No, angel, they weren’t always bad, we only got to them a couple of years ago. You can’t argue that-”

“Amazon. Invented. Kindles! Thereby, kindles are evil. The end, full stop. Fin.”

“That’s just- you’ve been around long enough to know that’s not how it works.”

“And you can’t honestly argue that books are bad just because they’re made of paper. Books are knowledge! Books are the weapons against the armies of ignorance! Righteous tools-”

“Righteous tools,” Crowley snorts.

“Against the dark forces of evil!”

“Not this bollocks again. Look, books are fine, books are all well and good, but not everyone’s into them, are they? Times are changing, angel, you can watch things like Netflix or whatever it’s called and, listen to podcasts and- the way people share knowledge is different now. Listen, I love knowledge, love the stuff. You know I do, I was the one who got Eve to eat the apple after all, but even then, even then I’ve never really read books, unless I really have to, the only reason I read Pride and Prejudice is because I love you, and admittedly, yes, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever put myself through- actually, I think trying to read A Tale of Two Cities was what really did it for me, Charles Dickens- Christ alive, did you ever run into Dickens, angel? Miserable sod.”

Crowley drums his fingers against the steering wheel expectantly. The road side lights cast an orange glow in the car- brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening as they drive past one after another. Aziraphale is silent. 

And it’s only then that Crowley realises his mistake. 

It dawns on him the way a glass fills up slowly with water in the washing up bowl and sinks to the bottom. Slowly, then a sinking feeling. And then hitting rock bottom. 

He keeps his eyes on the road. His fingers tight on the steering wheel. 

“You…”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t. Just don’t. Alright?”

“But Crowley-”

“I said don’t.”

Quiet fills the car. There isn’t even the sound of Freddie Mercury to assuage the nauseating pain in his stomach, the feeling of his throat closing like he’s having an allergic reaction. He wants to cry. He wants to cry for the first time in a very, very long time. He blinks away the feeling, and holds himself together with pure will power, just like he held together this car a few weeks back. 

Only, he’s been holding himself together for roughly six thousand years. It’s getting close to too much. His metaphorical knees are buckling. Atlas only wishes he were as resilient as Crowley. 

Aziraphale exhales- a long, shaky breath. Crowley doesn’t turn to look, can’t bear it. 

Besides, he’s known him- loved him long enough that he can see him in his mind’s eye easily. Eyes sometimes dreamy, brows sometimes pulled together in concern. Lips sometimes twisted in disapproval, sometimes beaming with so much unreserved joy that Crowley has to tease him. Just so he doesn’t end up gazing, bathing in the brightness of that smile. 

And then Aziraphale huffs to himself- a determined little noise that sets Crowley on edge. And he’s already too close to the edge to handle. He’s only just got a hold of himself as it is, hands shaking on the wheels and knee bouncing. The threat of tears still there, threatening to make him choke on his breath- it gets stuck in his throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. So gently. 

That’s almost what does it- it’s almost what makes Crowley lose control, teeth grinding painfully and eyes stinging. The motorway stretching out in front of them, empty. Time stretching out even further. 

Then the angel speaks again. “You can go faster, Crowley.”

The words trickle through his brain slowly, like drops of water building at the rim of a tap. Then- drip. Understanding. Crowley’s throat clicks as he swallows, painfully. 

“That is- of course, only if you want to,” Aziraphale rushes, waves his hands desperately, “You can- drive- go- uh, you can go as slowly as you like, only, don’t feel obliged to go slowly on my account. Anymore.”

The angel clears his throat. And Crowley turns to look. 

He’s smiling. He looks absolutely bloody terrified, eyes a little wide and watery just like that day-

You go too fast for me, Crowley. 

-except now he’s smiling. A quiet, wobbly smile to himself as he stares out of the rain streaked window. Crowley watches the way the orange street light passes through his silver hair, making it appear more like brass. He watches him bite his lip, then continue.

“We could. Oh, I don’t know. We could do that picnic we talked about. Or, perhaps a walk through Wimbledon Common. Together. Or.” He pauses. “Or, if you wanted to, you could drop me off and come in for a night cap. I have some rather nice port hiding somewhere in my office.”

Aziraphale turns to meet his eyes. A look filled with welcome and kindness and understanding. Light catching his face like a Vermeer painting. And Crowley lets himself stare. 

“Eyes on the road, my dear.”

He only realises that his mouth is hanging open when he tries to forumlate his next words. He shuts it, then says, “What?”

“Eyes on the road, Crowley. Before we both get discorporated.”

It takes another moment to register. But then his head snaps forwards and he looks ahead again, the road continuing into the dark towards London. He can feel all the air rush out of him like a balloon. And then something else replaces it- something lighter than air, something that makes his mind feel like it’s drifting to another plane. Something weightless. 

“Picnic,” Crowley eventually says, nodding to himself. He scratches his chin nervously. “Picnic then walk. Or, walk then picnic.”

Because- and Crowley can’t quite believe himself for this- he thinks a night cap might be a bit too fast for him. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. The word comes out in a whisper. “You can pick me up at midday tomorrow. If that’s-”

“That’s.” Crowley stalls. Nods his head compulsively like a nodding car-toy. “That’s. Yeah. Midday’s good. Midday it is.”

“Crowley?”

“Angel,” he replies seriously, business-like.

There’s a moment of hesitation. Aziraphale breathes deeply beside him, like a man stepping off the train from London to Cornwall, taking in the countryside air for the first time in years. 

“I do love you. An awful lot.”

Crowley continues to nod. But he can feel the facade slip. He can sense his bottom lip wobble, so he clamps his jaw tight shut. To no avail. He continues to drive them down the M25, although at this point he could be in St James’ Park, or in the middle of a desert, or on another planet- his mind is entirely elsewhere. 

It’s not a conscious decision to stretch out his hand over the gear stick towards Aziraphale. It’s something desperate in him, something needy and disbelieving. He feels Aziraphale take it without pause, his clasp warm in his own.