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phynoma · 6 months

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HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN

As a countdown to Halloween, I'm sharing the original statements I wrote for the Consuming AU! (<<click for ao3 link) The statements function as horror shorts that work on their own, and I'm proud of them, ngl

Without further ado:

Statement 1: The Chocolate Pot

CW: Manipulation, supernatural compulsion, accidental dead-naming, drowning

[Tape clicks on. Head Archivist’s Office]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Corey Garrett, regarding his discovery of a vintage, silver chocolate pot. Original statement taken August 9th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

It was an estate auction that did it.

My cousin, Niamh Flaherty and I, would get out of mum's house by taking our bikes up and down Elvendon Lane. There aren't a lot of turnoffs, and it's one of those narrow, country lanes that seems like it keeps its own secrets. We were lonely, in the way that two young adults in the countryside could be: on the edge of adulthood and the fears of being cast into the unknown, even as we longed for it with all our fledgling desire for flight.

It was the end of summer, and Niamh was visiting from Limerick, and we were terribly bored with country life. Just eighteen, the both of us, and playing at being proper adults. Independant, all that. Both of us had a thing for antiques–though I’ve lost a bit of my taste for it, now–and we were incorrigibly curious.

There's not much that goes on around Woodcote that the whole village doesn't know about, so when Niamh and I saw the lorry at the end of a short drive, nearly blocking the narrow road into town, we stopped. The drive itself was far too small for the mini tipper to navigate; just a blind opening to a gravel track so overgrown it could have just been a path into the woods that would end, like a fairy-path, with no house or sign of humanity in sight.

My parents had moved out to the village when I was at school, and I didn’t know whose house it was that had attracted the house clearance auctioneers like flies to a decaying corpse. All I knew was folks that needed seven tonne lorries were likely old and rich, and that sounded like a magic combination. A proper treasure hunt, you know?

Maybe it was a bit ghoulish, but the idea of a dusty, mouldering house of forgotten and unwanted treasures really got to us–Niamh and me. Like I said, Niamh and I were still pretty young, but I was always impressed with her. She seemed sort of worldly, always got men's attention. She wasn't that pretty, I don't think–well, I mean, I don't know. I'm her cousin, aren't I? But she had a way about her, something that drew people in. I could never figure out if I was jealous of her or if I wanted to be her.

Anyway, watching strangers pack up a lorry with some old, unlucky geezer's worldly treasures might not seem like a good time, but we made the most of it. We made guesses of what was in the boxes, what kind of person they'd been, why they didn't have any family to collect the goods. It was an “adult” kind of fun, nothing kids would be interested in, but now that Niamh and I were grown up we could watch the delivery men carting boxes and furniture down the dusty drive and feel like we were gossiping like real people, real adults did. We were so hungry for a world beyond us.

And there was plenty to gossip about. Crates of old knickknacks and rubbish– porcelain table sets shaped like too-quaint dolls, ratty old tapestries from the 70’s made to look mediaeval and missing the mark– that sort of thing. We sat on our bikes across the lane and kept our eyes peeled for the priceless artefacts we knew we’d spot among all the junk. With our keen, young minds we had a plan that if we did see anything, we’d be the first down at the auction houses and charity shops in Reading to snatch it up. Ghoulish, like I said. But at the time we felt very clever and sophisticated as we guessed at values and made crude but cutting remarks.

We could see a bit of the house from the road–disappointingly normal, all told. Renovated maybe in the mid-90s, one of those monstrosities that was probably a fine thing when it was built two centuries ago and which had been “upgraded” nearly out of existence. We were guessing at how terribly the inside had been refurbished when a woman wearing a cream suit left the front door. For a moment, I could have sworn she looked right at us, down by the road. And she smiled. I don't know how, but I could feel it, like an itch behind my teeth. Then she turned and disappeared behind the hedges and fruit trees that blocked most of the house.

I shook off the shudder that half-imagined smile had given me, and put her from my mind. In any case, Niamh hadn’t seemed to notice the woman. I’d have almost thought I’d made her up, except after a good ten or fifteen minutes she appeared again at the bottom of the lane. She must have walked all the way down, and her cream suit was coated in a fine layer of dust. She held a small crate in her hands.

I don’t know how, but I knew that crate was full of the treasures Niamh and I were waiting to see. I tried to be subtle watching her, but Niamh and I were the only ones on a long, lonely lane, so it was pretty obvious we were gawking. I expected an annoyed glance, maybe, or for the woman to shoo us off. Instead, she looked up. Our eyes met, and I got that weird feeling again, like she was…amused, somehow. It turnt my stomach right over.

I didn’t notice that Niamh had grabbed my arm until later, when I saw the bruises, because I was so focused on that woman. She walked over to us with that little half-smile, the crate still in her arms. She said her name was…I think it was Karen? Karen…something common, I think, but like an old man name. Withers, maybe.

Anyway, she came right up to the both of us and asked if we had known the owner of the house. I don’t remember what we said–if we lied and claimed we did, or what. The answer didn’t really seem to matter. She said the owner had been old and eccentric, and he hadn’t had anyone to leave his belongings to, so they’d been called in. Hope Charities, she said, and pointed at the lorry. There wasn't a name painted on it or anything, but the men doing the loading were wearing white coveralls with B&H on the back. Don't know what the "B" stood for.

She– Karen– showed us the crate. It was open. Inside was a jumble of knick-knacks, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect: a couple of old books with faded dust covers from the 50s or 60s, some miscellaneous silverware, a snowglobe that was nearly opaque from the dissolved snow, a single Skittles pin.

She said it was a box of the things they didn’t think would sell, and offered to let us take anything we’d like. She smiled when she said it, and the smile didn’t match her eyes. Even though it’d been what we were hoping for, I was suddenly uneasy. It didn’t feel like we could say no. I wanted, desperately, to say no. I think I hoped Niamh would do it for me.

Niamh took a book–at random, I think–and I picked up a tarnished chocolate pot. I had half a mind that I could give it to my mum as a birthday gift, with a bit of polish. Karen nodded like I’d made a good choice and gave me one more of those little half-smiles. It reminded me of a crocodile, somehow.

“Enjoy,” she said, and brought the crate back to the lorry to be packed away.

Niamh and I went home after that. There wasn’t much more for us to do, really. We laughed about it, about how we thought we’d been in trouble. Niamh said I must have charmed her with my wicked good looks–but Niamh was always the charmer, and she didn’t seem to realise I didn’t have her way with people.

She showed me her book. It looked like it’d been a library book at some point, and the dust cover was a bit torn. It had one of those generic, oil-painted landscapes as the cover art, of a circle of grey-green mountains with a blue-grey sky behind. It was called A Very Windy Day, and I didn’t know what possessed Niamh to choose that over everything else in the crate. When I asked her, she shrugged and said it reminded her of something.

In the end, I was rather proud of my chocolate pot, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to shine it up with some of my mum’s old Wright’s jewellery cleaner. Niamh settled down with her book–I don’t know if she was actually that interested in it, but after my teasing she made a point of reading it in front of me. She even read a bit out loud–something about big spaces and the ever-expanding entropy of the universe. It was way more dry than I expected, and it made me feel sort of funny and small, so I told her to read to herself.

The chocolate pot shined up nicely, though it took a good deal of time. By the time I looked around to ask Niamh something, she had left with her book–probably to get away from the smell of the cleaner. I was a little miffed that she hadn’t said anything to me; but then again, I had been rather focused.

I cleaned the inside of the pot, and noticed that it was in good shape but had some strange scratches on the inside, like someone had gone in with a wire scrubber at some point in the past. The scratches weren’t deep enough that I was concerned it would be unsafe to drink from, and I resolved to make some tea in it, just to try it out.

I steeped a few bags of breakfast tea directly in the pot itself–after all, if the thing was to be used for brewing chocolate, it shouldn’t have any sort of flavour itself, and there was no point in putting hot water from the kettle into the pot and then pouring it over bags from there. But when I poured the tea into my cup, it was almost black, and thick as mud. It had a strong, earthy aroma that wasn’t unpleasant– a bit like a very strong, very unsweetened cocoa.

This was rather off-putting, but I figured to myself that perhaps I hadn’t cleaned the inside of the pot as much as I’d thought, and the hot water had now cleared it out. The vaguely-chocolate-like scent could be from years of accumulated grime, for all I knew. I poured out the rest, washed out the remainder, and tried again.

The second steeping, the stuff was a little thinner, and the aroma thick but sweeter. Perhaps, I thought, the boiling water was doing its job to scrape out the inside of the pot. I poured it out again and resteeped it a third time. This time, the liquid was a warm, golden brown, like a well-sweetened and milky cocoa mixed with cinnamon or turmeric. It smelled mouthwatering.

I realised, belatedly, that I hadn’t added the teabags at all, and couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the reason for the odd black sludge the first time. Whatever the reason, the fact was now that this chocolate pot was a more exciting find than I could have ever hoped for in my attempted grown-up adventure-seeking. I allowed myself a bit of childish delight, that I had something truly special.

Of course, I wasn’t a fool– I wasn’t about to start serving this mysteriously appearing chocolate to my family without some more research. I did some internet research and found very little in the way of magical chocolate pots or cursed items. There was absolutely no record of regular chocolate pots creating chocolate from hot water, although there was plenty about cast iron and other sorts of well-seasoned kitchenware, and some tales of Chinese clay teapots being used for so long that one only had to pour in hot water to get tea.

This seemed unlikely for my silver pot, but I clung to the idea that there was at least some reasonable explanation. I would have even taken a reasonable supernatural explanation–anything that meant I wasn’t simply going mad. And, just in case I was somehow hallucinating the sight and smell of the chocolate, I figured a few other senses were necessary.

For some reason, it was very important to me that I was alone. The childish feeling was stronger; that I had something special, something precious, like a stuffed animal worn to an inch of its life. I wanted to test the chocolate pot in privacy, in a little tent of my own making, someplace dim and close and warm. I imagined sharing chocolate with Niamh like we had as children in a fort made of cushions and blankets, our small hands wrapped around second-best china, in a small, dark world of our own. Safe. Intimate.

I locked myself in the bathroom and climbed in the tub, pulling the curtain around me in as much of an approximation of a fort as I'd allow myself. I poured myself a new cup of chocolate and dipped my finger into the liquid. It was pleasantly warm, not boiling, and thick and silky smooth. I rubbed it between my fingers, marvelling at it, and then without thinking I licked it from my fingers.

It was delicious, just as rich and sweet and full as it smelled. Emboldened, I took a sip directly from the cup. Flavour exploded over my tongue, rich and complex and very clearly chocolate. I finished the cup within minutes and poured another. I was starting to rethink my idea to gift the chocolate pot to my mother, when I could just as easily share its contents with her but keep the pot to myself.

I refilled the pot only once with more water–which I got straight from the bath tap– and looking back, that should have been an alarming sign. At the time, I was simply amazed at how the flavours seemed to change with every cup, perfectly setting off the previous so that each was distinct. It was impossible to tire of, and it seemed to spread through my stomach and then my whole torso and limbs like a good scotch.

I was feeling pleasantly warm and buzzing when Niamh returned. Again, I didn’t hear her come in through the door, but she was suddenly there, in front of me, asking what I was doing. I hesitated, wondering if she would want a cup. Dare I share my magic? Of course, I decided, with a warm, happy surge of devotion. How wonderful, to share in the chocolate pot! How lovely, to be embraced together in such a remarkable creation! It occurred to me that everyone was deserving of such a gift. Perhaps I could sell it. Even better, I could give it away. I could open my home to any and all and share this incredible, magical drink that tasted like the very essence of comfort!

But first, I wanted to share it with Niamh. I wanted to capture a bit of that childhood we'd been so fierce in pushing away. I invited her into the tub with me, my sanctum, my fortress.

It was then that I noticed how distant Niamh's eyes were–as if she were in the room with me, but not. I felt as if she were looking at me from the other end of a very long tunnel, like a mineshaft. She stood in a square of light, while I crouched safe and warm and hidden in the dark. It pressed around me. It was deep, fathomless, but the pressure was comforting. It was the darkness of the womb, of a mother's arms who would never grow too frail, would never turn away. There was no need to fear growing old, there. It was a place where we could huddle in the dark and drink chocolate and always be children.

By this point, it felt as if the chocolate was in my very blood. Its thickness coated the inside of my oesophagus, my mouth. In a slurring, muffled voice, I offered my cousin a cup of the magical liquor. She refused, her eyes still empty.

I felt a surge of despair that she should be so far from me, when all I longed for was closeness. I took Niamh's hand, and when she tried to pull away with a cry of anger, I simply wrapped my arms around her instead.

For a moment, it felt as if I were holding a thousand stars in my embrace–or a million dandelion seeds, about to be blown away by a breath of wind. Niamh wiggled in my embrace and then, all of a sudden, slumped against me. As I hadn’t anticipated this, I could only lower her as slowly as I possibly could to the ground, where she lay curled and sobbing. Her face was a mask of fear and anguish. She draped over the tub, spilling the pot over. Dark liquid poured from it, thick and endless, clogging in the drain and slowly rising.

I righted the pot and handed her a cup of chocolate. This batch was dark as a moonless night and it smelled bitter and woody, but it was still obviously chocolate. When Niamh trembled so much that she would spill it, I helped tip it into her mouth.

At once she became still and quiet. Her eyes were wide and very dark, and she stared at me as if she had seen unknowable horrors.

I drank the rest of the cup, as she seemed uninclined to finish it, and felt the bitterness prick through me like deadly nightshade. My head swam. For a moment, I was drowning. My mouth was filled with thick nectar, and it ran down my front in muddy rivers. My eyesight blurred.

For some reason, my only thought was that I had something in my throat, and that the solution was clearly to wash it out with more chocolate. I poured another cup with shaking hands and slipping gaze, and when I spilled it I simply raised the chocolate pot and poured the sweet liquid directly into my mouth.

There was no end to the flowing chocolate, and for a moment I had a vision of the chocolate continuing to pour, and pour, until it flooded the room and down the street. I imagined the faces of the village as they saw the approaching wave, surprised and then delighted. I pictured them licking their hands like I had, or scooping up teacups full of the stuff to fill their own, hollow bodies. Like a children's story, a fairytale. All was innocent and sweet again, simple. I could save the world with my chocolate pot. All I had to do was keep pouring.

I could imagine how it would sit in us like ballast, thick and choking and so full that no one would ever have to feel loneliness again. To be embraced, inside and out, in thick, sweet nourishment. It was horrible. I had never imagined anything better, or worse. If I’d had any air left in my lungs, if the chocolate wasn’t already pouring from my mouth in an endless fountain, I would have screamed and not stopped. I sobbed, for the fear that I might never reach the beautiful image in my head, the promise of an endless, close embrace.

I felt arms around me, and then Niamh was trying to force the stuff from my stomach, my lungs. I coughed and choked and only managed to let more of the chocolate fill in the last bits of air I had. I was drowning in it. No, that's not right–it was swallowing me. I lay back in the tub that was slowly filling with chocolate and knew it would be my tomb.

I saw, rather than felt, Niamh’s hands pound against my chest. The tub could be our tomb, if only Niamh would join me. I tried to grasp her hand, to pull her into the warmth with me, but the chocolate coating my hands was too slick and she pulled away.

I wailed for her. My consciousness slipped. I was sinking into a deep, black pit of primordial warmth, and I knew I would never escape.

Except…well, I did, didn’t I? I’m still not completely sure how. I think Niamh did it, somehow.

I woke in my bed, with a horrible pressure headache, and Niamh at my side. I could have sworn, in the moments before I woke, that I heard her reading aloud to me–though I can’t recall the story, I do have a vague memory of her setting aside that little hardcover book she’d taken from the crate when I woke.

She explained that I had fallen asleep in the bath, of all places, and nearly drowned. I asked about the chocolate pot, and she seemed confused for a moment. I reminded her about the house, and the crate, and her eyes lit up. She brought to me a small, silver teapot and claimed that this was the thing I had chosen.

I was so tired that I hadn’t the energy to argue with her, and simply decided to ask about it more when I woke again. By the time I did, I could hardly recall what the original chocolate pot had looked like, and I couldn’t truly confirm whether or not the teapot she showed me was the one I had taken from the crate.

Niamh left at the end of that summer, and besides a few emails, we’ve mostly lost touch. It’s too bad, because we were very close once and I have a strange feeling that something that happened that summer contributed to her distance. She moved to Switzerland, I think, to be a ski instructor.

I gifted the silver teapot to my mum after all. She adores it, and it makes very good tea. But sometimes, whenever I’m drinking something, I get a thick, sweet taste on the back of my tongue like the finest of chocolate.

Statement ends.

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

If I’d read this a year ago, I’d have dismissed it out of hand. It's exactly the kind of urban legend I'd expect would flood the shelves. But perhaps The Magnus Institute is a far less interesting or gratifying audience for such creators of tall tales than the usual, hungry internet forums.

(sigh) Nevertheless, there are a few details of note.

[Paper flips]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

(clears throat) Hm, excuse me, it seems that–Cora Garrett has not suffered any long term effects from her experience.

(to self) Note to self, re-record the intro of the statement using the correct name and pronouns.

(aloud) From the preliminary follow-up, it seems like Cora spent a few days in the hospital to get rid of what appeared to be a sudden case of pneumonia. No police report was ever filed, and we've had difficulty tracking down any relations to the original owners of 15 Elvendon Lane, assuming that number 15 was, indeed, the correct house. It was certainly the only house on auction around the correct time. It seems to have been renovated by the new owners, and there are no pictures online of the original house to try and match to Cora's description.

Karen Withers, or Smithers, or whatever her name might be-- the auction agent-- does not seem to exist–either in the Reading area or beyond. I am exceedingly curious to know who and what she is, or if she even exists. For all we know, she could be an invention of Cora and her cousin to explain away an adolescent break-in, or a hallucination like that of a (heavy sigh, dry) overflowing chocolate pot.

The most interesting piece of this statement, to me, is of course the reference to A Very Windy Day. The details are vague, but it could very well be a Leitner, and if that's the case I–

[Door opens]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

Ah. Martin.

#tma #the magnus archives #horror shorts #fanfiction #original statements #the consuming au #jonathan sims #the Archivist #fanfic #ao3 #phynoma #phyn writes

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rosesandalfazemas · 2 years

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Imagine if Port had a punk phase in support of Eng's punk phase.

In fact he had!

My HC is that a phase correspond (and it is created) to a very important social, historical, political, economical or cultural movement in their history; and, in fact, Portugal has a quite interesting punk time.

70's was a big moment for them, because in the rebellion against rules and society's european manners, they could make love demonstrations in public, such as kissing or playing around and touching everywhere. I think it gave a new flame to the old marriage.

It's funny anon because I DO LOVE punk and, in fact, this year I wrote a long fic about Arthur being punk in a human AU called Sobre gustos no hay nada escrito. The ship is UkArg (Argentina x England), but it made me to research A LOT about London's movement and I fell in love with the music.

Untidy color sketches because... you know, punk.

#hetalia #engport #aph portugal #aph england #porteng #the fic is in spanish #sorry anon #but i do made the ukarg couple too #latin hetalia #punktalia #punk arthur #punk gabriel #hwsengland #hwsportugal #hws portugal #hws england #and yeah that look is in the fic #and Arthur has a crushed with gabriel in the fic too #because EngPort supremacy

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dumpsterfireofsubtext · 1 year

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what are some of your favorite movies? i can’t remember if i’ve asked this before so if i have please take this as a free space to share something about your writing and/or writing process

actually even if i haven’t asked the movie question before, please share your fav movie *and* some stuff about your writing and/or writing process that you want to

I don't think you have so I'll answer both!

I have quiteeeee a few fav films so it's difficult to not go on and on and on. I go to the cinema a lot on my own and try to catch a film at the BFI whenever I'm in London so this question is *chefs kiss*.

Obviously, Wings of Desire (1987) Wim Wenders is up at the top. This is a well-established fact on this blog lmao.

My top films right now on Letterboxd are Wings of Desire, La Notte, Desert Hearts, and Thelma but it changes a lot. (Thelma was an absolutely bonkers film but I loved it sosososososo much, though there is a pretty intense scene with flashing lights that freaked me out, and Desert Hearts is an 80's Gay classic with a happy ending and cowboy hats, plus Helen Shaver is in it and she's adorable and perfectly cast).

I have a thing for 1960's black-and-white films too! I love La Notte (1961), Mother Joan of the Angels (1961) which is a Polish psychological thriller set in a nunnery), Persona (1966) but I just love Bergman in general.

Anything Peter Strickland makes is always unsettling and weird and I love it. In Katalin Varga (2009) there's a monologue that happens in a boat that will forever be seared into my brain. Highly recommend (but CW reference to sexual assault and violence)

Also am slightly obsessed with Argento films. He made really ridiculous Giallo slasher films (his most popular one's are from the 70's). They're not that scary since the blood is like neon red in every film and the film dubbing from Italian is sososososo horrendously bad. Argento films are, in a nutshell, so bad they're good.

‎Miśiek is oscillating’s profile • Letterboxd My letterboxd is here if anyone fancies a closer look.

In terms of my writing process... I don't have a lot to say lol. I have a separate document for fic outlines and plans for how I want things to go, but I don't plan much further than that. I take the various plot points I want for each chapter, split them up, and then fill them out.

The chapters evolve a lot and actually, in the WoD AU chapters 3 and 4 were originally one long chapter. I'm glad I split it up since Ava and Bea's reconciliation felt a little too fast without the extra stuff I added later at the start of Chapter 4. I'm proud of all of the chapters I put out but particularly Ch 3 (the basilica scene!) and Ch 5 as a whole. It's been a blast writing it :)

My 30s AU started off as a little fun side project in between Wings of Desire AU chapters so that one is even less planned out (since WoD is veryyyyyy plot heavy whereas 30s AU is powered on homosexuality, period clothing and vibes).

In terms of my writing, It's weird. I haven't written so much in so little time in agessss. I write a steady amount of poetry but don't share it, so jumping in cold into prose was a realllyyyyy reallyyy weird thing to get used to. Nevertheless, I don't think I've had this much writing (and reading!!) ever. It's a goddamn delight and the community is awesome.

#ty for the ask <33333 it was a joy to answer #misiek asks #wings of desire au #1930s au #warrior nun #avatrice #other #writing #fan fic related

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ao3feed-larry · 1 year

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She is Beauty, We are World Class

by exquisitelycloseted

Harry grinned widely. "Okay," he said, giggling. "Take me out to somewhere nice then, Mr. Tomlinson. I’m free tomorrow."

"I will, I promise." Louis couldn’t help reflecting Harry’s grin. "Meet me near the Royal Opera House, at four thirty?"

Harry hesitated. "What if someone sees?"

"Someone is bound to see." Louis’ smile dimmed a little, the fear that pulsed through him earlier in the evening coming back. "But society is blind to things they do not want to see, love. Let’s take advantage of it."

"As the historians say, they were friends."

"I’d even go so far as to say they were roommates." ***

A 70's London AU where Louis loses himself, and Harry finds him before he gets lost.

Words: 3262, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Niall Horan

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, well not historical per say more like, 70's London AU, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Strangers to Lovers, harry in a golden skirt, Historical Inaccuracy, because this fiction and i do what i fucking want, Happy Ending, kind of fluff, harry is a gay singer, which, ofc he is

via AO3 works tagged 'Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson' https://ift.tt/J7wkTAt

#author #larry stylinson #larry fic #ao3 feed larry #She is Beauty #We are World Class #<p>by <a rel= h

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luderailing · 1 year

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Alright so,, ,,,a looong loonglong while ago I mentioned something silly about posting my writing here. I DO write I just keep chickening out of posting it here or on AO3 but I thought I’d say fuckit and throw some ass-biscuit writing crumbs to the birds (YOU!) from something Ive worked on for fun.

No way in diddly darn heck am I posting the whole thing I’ve just been adding on to it to procrastinate editing it. It’s very bad.

Anyway these are waay out of context but for some background: It’s a high school AU and the MC is a character I’ve blessed with the name of Rell. (At first I DID NOTT mean for this to be a Hetalia fanfic,,I made Rell specifically to write a story then halfway through chapter one I just…slid Denmark into there and now it’s about them, oopsies.)

Anyways, enjoy your bread.

[ Scene 1 ]

Gilbert, Roderich and I congregatie on the beige tiled floor with the Bassoon and Bass Clarinet players, neither of which I have gotten names from. We form a wonky circle with a pool of paper assignments souped in the middle to exchange homework answers.

“My algebra worksheet! Where is it?!” Gilbert shouts, pushing and shuffling through papers, flinging them everywhere. Roderich lifts a stack and tosses a sheet at him.

“It’s wrong, by the way.” Roderich retorts snootily.

“I copied off of you!”

“I know.”

I laugh. Roderich always manages to keep his unimpressed ‘the world is too poor and boring for me’ face no matter what crazy shit Gilbert pulls off. His physique, posture, expression, all of it is so specific and strict in a way that he looks like he’s straight out of a picture book about random events in 1890’s London, meant to be read to kids. He might as well be pure porcelain. Gilbert waves a pencil at his face, spitting Gilbert-like insults. Roderich only dismisses him and focuses on a paper assignment. One that may or may not be Gilberts’.

A noise from behind me jerks my attention. A wavy, accented, raspy noise. A voice.

“Hey.. Rell? You’re Rell? Am I right?”

I turn my head. It’s the Bassoon player.

“Oh! Yeah. That’s me.” I say, my voice choppy with anxiety. “Do..you need help with something?”

I try to hide the hopeful after sound to my speech. I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to work up the courage to talk to him for about a week now. His face is tall and curved, like a sharp blade. No defined anything—just smooth edges. His eyelids droop and give him a welcoming expression, decorated with an obsidian septum piercing.

“Yeh, thought so. Feliks was telling me about you.” His curious gaze shifts to the pile of papers. “You coming with us after school? To the Junior High, yeah?”

I nod, sliding finished homework into my folders. His speech is like sliding a wooden spoon over a washboard. It’s beautiful to listen to. He would be a great voice actor.

The Bass Clarinet player beside him mutters in defeat. He then hands the stack of stapled papers to Bassoon kid, saddened.

“God, I don’t get any of this.” Bass Clarinet kid sulks, complaining to the both of us.

“It’s a’rrite. I’ll help you.” He stares at the paper for a moment, then turns to me. “Oh. No… Rell, are you good at biology?”

“My highest grade.” I reply smoothly, trying to make it sound like my highest grade isn’t a 70. Bassoon kid hands me the papers, and I start flipping through them. Geez, I’m procrastinating on this same assignment. Not because I can’t do it, but because it’s really annoying.

“I, ah, uh… never got your name?” I try, scribbling down vocabulary definitions.

“Oh! Sorry. Vlad. Vladimir, really. But no one calls me that. Too long for people, I guess.” Bassoon kid says, then gesturing cartoonishly to the other student beside him. “That Aleks.”

Oh, shit. Deja vu washes over me. Vlad. Did Feliks say that? Was I supposed to remember?

“Hm? What about me.” Bass Clarinet kid looks up from his open laptop, clueless.

Aleks fits him, I would think. His face is rounder and more chiseled than Vlad’s, with a few faint freckles. His lashes are heavy, giving both his eyes a bold outline. His gaze is shifty and expressive, he scrunches his nose a lot, making the same face but somehow showing a different emotion every time.

[ Scene 1 end. ]

Ooohkay, wowza! I think for now at least I’ll leave it at that. I think I should have mentioned in the beginning that they’re in band? That’s the class they’re in in this scene,,haha. But it was turned into a study hall kind of thing for that day. Hence the “Bassoon” and “Bass Clarinet” players. This scene is from literally the middle of the fanfic. I wrote a shit tonn more. Like a looot more.

I actually took what I wrote in actuality and edited it a lot, I think it’s better this way though.

#hetalia #fanfic #writing #my writing #hetalia fanfiction #hws prussia #hws austria #hws romania #hws bulgaria

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steelycunt · 2 years

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The hip music scene aquivilant of dedicating a shot to your lover and missing (or losing a fight for your lovers honour) is surly to write a song for someone and it being a total flop.

So, in an au in which r and s are in the hip music scene at the time (tbh I prefer the London music scene of the 60s bc I think that more happens. like rockers vs mods. and the big stars are mostly not yet THAT starry. and there was a lot of overlap between rich young aristocrates and every plebien in the scene. also acid. also police raids. also religion and spirituality. can you imagen any of the mauranders meditating? lmao. But 70s would be canonical so whatever. and a lot of things carry over I belive) some illconcived ballad with like too many strings (like early disco too many strings) or something gets zero radioplay and s bandmates are like 😬 when they hear it but somehow it gets made and published (by the power of love, s charisma, fate) and r is like you wrote a song 🥰 for me🥰🥰😍 but it's rubbish. It's a rubbish song. Wouldn't that be funny? And fitting tbh.

(It could also be mastered at the wrong speed if s is supposed to be a decend songwriter. He'd sound like a chipmunk. That'd be funny too)

hii hello!! firstly the idea of him writing a song for r and then it just fucking sucks is sooo fucking funny to me. thats wonderful i want him to play it in front of people and hear pure crickets afterwards except for r going omg :-) omg a song for me? for boring old me omg :-) or even the other way around. remus could write a song that is frankly dogshit its soo bad but sirius would b so obnoxious about it anyway he would go insane over this terrible little song written for him by an absolute loser of a guy.

+ re: the music scene topic!! i would lav to put them in something like that i would Lav to read/write that...you make a good point about the sixties too and the whole mods v rockers subculture conflict which could be done sooo well. i think i gravitated towards the punk scene in the late seventies because of canon timelines as u say but the sixties is just as interesting if not more. having them be around in one of those cultures not necessarily as big, successful players or notable figures or anything just kids who are There with everyone else. that would work even better for the song thing too like theyre starting bands but they Arent Good. sirius is writing songs for remus but they are Not Good...but it doesnt even matter none of it does...they are in Love...

#it would be sooo much research but writing sumthin like that. would lav it. it could be a little five-chapter thing or something idk #telegram #zier-jasmin

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kraftwerk113 · 2 months

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Life´s too short for weird music Tagesempfehlung 18.02.2024

Classic Album of the week: Wings / Band on the run (1973)

Track: Bluebird (underdubbed vers.)

Das dritte Album der Wings - Band on the run - wurde im afrikanischen Lagos unter chaotischen Umständen eingespielt. Nachdem Paul McCartney kurz vor Aufbruch nach Lagos die halbe Band abhanden kam, spielte er im Alleingang mit Ehefrau Linda McCartney und dem in 2023 verstorbenen Denny Laine das Album ein. In Lagos entstanden die Underdubbed Mixes, die dann zurück in London von George Martin soundtechnisch überarbeitet wurden, ehe Band on the run als Album Ende 1973 erschien. Auf dem Album schafft es McCartney sich musikalisch endgültig von den Beatles loszusagen und aus dem Dunstkreis der seit der Beatles- Trennung in 1970 sehr erfolgreichen Kollegen zu treten. Zum 50. Jubiläum von Band on the run erscheinen nun erstmals offiziell die underdubbed versions von Band on the run. Obwohl McCartney – anders noch als bei Let it be (1969/70) mit der finalen Veröffentlichung von Band on the run zufrieden war, erscheint nun als Ergänzung zum 50. Jubiläum Band on the Run als Doublealbum – ergänzt um die – wenn Sie so möchten – Demo-Tapes der Tage in Lagos. Und insbesondere Bluebird in der underdubbed version zeigt, dass McCartney zu den besten Songwritern der Seventies zählte.

#Wings #band on the run #bluebird #underdubbed versions

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somethingboutafic · 3 months

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Hurt/Comfort

Keep Driving by dead_tobeginwith (M) word count: 11,726 Louis works as a driver contracted through the local cancer institute. All of his clients are associated with the hospital—mostly patients and their families heading home. One rainy afternoon, he picks up Harry.

Ever Since I Tried Your Way by fairytalefemme (E) word count: 25,896 In 1949 Harry left his bride at the altar, running away from the only life he'd known. When a kindhearted farmer offers him a ride in his truck and a place to sleep the two find themselves inexplicably drawn together. Isolated on Louis' farm with nobody but a field of dairy cows to intrude, the men are finally able to explore the parts of themselves they've spent their lives hiding away.

Get Out Of My Head (and I'll get out of yours) by Imogenlee (E) word count: 29,128 The one for the Bottom Harry Fic Fest where Harry bottoming is more of a side plot, because angst got in the way--but it doesn't really matter because the fest stopped existing when I was halfthrough.

Happy To Be Found by ashavahishta (E) word count: 69,860 The weeks spanning October 2012 - January 2013 are a rollercoaster for Harry and Louis. There's shows to play, an album to promote, publicity stunts to be acted out...and several new tattoos to be inked. Throughout it all, the boys focus on the most important thing in their lives - their relationship.

I like the way you say my name (when you soak it in grace) by louisismycat (E) word count: 73,852 Louis is transferred to a new city to temporarily cover for his counterpart while he is on maternity leave for the next six months. His new co-workers talk endlessly about Harry, the omega who he’s covering for. And Louis finds himself jealous of whatever alpha as snatched him up. Until he learns Harry is actually an unmated omega three months out from becoming a single parent.

Chasing Empty Spaces by Lis(domesticharry) (E) word count: 79,028 The year is 1934 and Harry Styles was to inherent the largest tobacco firm in the south. His parents have picked out the “perfect” girl for him to marry and he has the privilege of receiving the highest education possible. The problem was, Harry hadn’t realized he didn’t actually want any part of that future until he met a mechanic named, Louis Tomlinson.

Summer's in the air and baby, heaven's in your eyes by starryhaze (NR) word count: 82,280 a 70s tennis au filled with skirts, pet names and intrigue

Here In The Afterglow by fondleeds (NR) word count: 88,649 1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

Halfway Home by Itsmotivatingcara (M) word count: 103,158 Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson were improbable childhood friends, much to Harry's dismay. They were thrown together each summer when Harry was forced to visit Louis' grandfathers' ranch in Black Hills, South Dakota. With each passing year their friendship blossomed into something more. When trail rides turned to stolen kisses, and tragedies turned to confessions, until they could no longer deny the inevitable draw they felt for one another. Though life and their future plans soon set them on different paths. Ten years later, Louis is the proud owner of Halfway Home Wildlife Refuge. Harry returns to the ranch to escape the perils of his past in London, and though their memories still haunt Louis, he won't let that deter him from his goals. However, someone has been keeping a close eye on the refuge, and possibly Louis specifically, and Harry's return may have unleashed more that just old passions. There's a hunter lurking in the Hills, someone who's decided they've bided their time long enough.

Beautiful War by Itsmotivatingcara (M) word count: 103,380 Five years ago, Louis was nearly the next victim in a string of murders plaguing Portland, Oregon. He managed to escape and the Angel Killer was apprehended and sent to prison. Now, Louis' a best-selling author that assists state police with minor cases. He still suffers from the events of the days he'd been held hostage, but he's found ways to cope. That is, until the killings start up again. A body was found in the woods. A body that bared the same signature the media had dubbed: The Angel of Death. Special Agent Harry Styles leads the case, and he doesn't buy into the clairvoyant bullshit that Louis spewed to save face five years ago. He's certain that Louis Tomlinson was involved. Until they meet, and they're both left questioning everything they'd thought to be true. Or an FBI-Clairvoyant AU

a heaven of hell by Itsmotivatingcara (E) word count: 108,567 Harry has spent years training to become a guardian. He gets drafted to join the program in Nova where he plans to build his new life. During his probationary period, he's selected to guard none other than the Council head of Skara, Louis Tomlinson. After surviving a demon attack on his very first night in Terrabith, he's forced to work alongside his new charge to uncover the truth behind exactly what happened that night, and why. Suspicions run high among the Council, and they all lead back to Louis. But is the Darkling responsible for the deaths that have cropped up over the past two decades? Or is it simply a rogue demon that's found its way through the Divide...

Drops of Jupiter by Itsmotivatingcara (M) word count: 121,826 In a small, sleepy town ruled by prejudice, Louis Tomlinson runs his grandmothers shop for the occult. He finds comfort in his tarot cards, his friends, and a dog that he doesn't have room for. He thought the worst he'd have to deal with would be bigotry, until a new sheriff arrives with a headstrong little girl that's impossible not to fall in love with. But what happens when a string of break-ins leads to a brutal attack, and the towns' darling is murdered right under their Sunday hats? A murder that just so happens to bear the same modus operandi as similar homicides in neighbouring states. Has the killer been circling Virginia, or is he a local of Lavender Hills? And what will Louis do when the charming Sheriff Styles starts to suspect him of such a heinous crime?

In The Name of Being Honest by sunlouwerhabit, therogueskimo (M) word count: 123,563 After two years of living in an everlasting cycle of work, sleep, and regret, Louis finds himself wandering brand new streets perpetually haunted by the ghosts of his past. The Chicago Fic.

Saving Symphony Hall by HelloAmHere (E) word count: 124,766 “I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.” “Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.” “Wait, what?” Zayn asked. “Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,” “What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand. “I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.” “That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

Golden by shaylea (E) word count: 128,077 On a rainy night in Auckland in the middle of his world tour, popstar Harry Styles loses his ability to carry on. Instead of continuing to Sydney and the rest of his tour, he seeks sanctuary with Louis Tomlinson, a man with a macadamia nut farm and a mysterious past.

Love Is A Rebellious Bird by 100percentsassy, gloria_andrews (E) word count: 134,891 AU in which the boys still make music. Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best. Zayn and Liam are around too. Don't hum Bolero.

Own the Scars by crinkle-eyed-boo(KimmieRocks) (E) word count: 144,707 Louis has never felt like he was good enough: for his stepdad, for his life-long best friend, for the life he's supposed to want. After an accident that nearly costs him his life, Louis' parents send him to rehab where he’s forced to face his demons. On the long and difficult road to recovery, Louis must confront the truths he’s been avoiding about his future, his relationships, and his sense of self-worth. Because before he can love anyone else, he’s got to learn how to love himself first.

Take My Breath Away by RealityBetterThanFiction (E) word count: 153,658 There is a prestigious school in the British Royal Navy classified as Premier Delta - or as it is known by its flyers, 1D. These select pilots are an elite set of Naval lieutenants who are trained in the skill of aggressive aerial combat. They are instruments of war, trained in times of peace. They are dogfighters, relentless and fearless in their mission to protect their beloved country. From their lofty vantage, they are always watching, waiting, and ready to lay it all on the line.Lt. Harry Styles, call sign Sparrow, is a prodigy when it comes to flying. The owner of an unrivaled Naval pedigree, being a pilot was always written in the stars for Harry. With his trusty RIO, Lt. Niall Horan, Harry has made an unprecedented ascension in the ranks of the Naval aerial combat elite, and has been recruited to the esteemed Premier Delta flight school, carrying on his family’s legacy. What he finds there are unexpected friendships, perilous challenges, and something beyond what he ever thought possible. Because as his father had always told him, before the great Captain Styles went tragically missing in combat, you don’t fall in love with the sky, you fall in love with what keeps you on the ground. - Top Gun AU

How Many Times Will It Take (To Get This Right) by LilyBlue28 (E) word count: 157,806 The one where Louis and Harry used to be good friends (and casual fuck buddies), until Harry's music career took off and he left for a world tour. Louis disappeared from his life after that and for the next four years Harry mourns the loss of his friend (and his lover) until fate brings them back together, and Harry's life turns upside down...again.

Fading by tothemoonmydear (M) word count: 202,393 Louis knows about beauty; the combination of qualities that pleases the aesthetic senses. He creates that combination every day in the garments he designs while studying fashion at uni. The cut of the design, the color of the fabric, the intricacy of the stitching; it all comes together to create something beautiful. When the science student with the long legs and dimpled smile agrees to model for him, Louis decides he’s found beauty personified. Harry just thinks Louis needs someone to show him how beautiful he is.

Angels Fly by LilyBlue28 (NR) word count: 203,082 Harry is a lonely omega in the North Western White River Pack who is uncharacteristically drawn to nature and his now outdated primal instincts. He fills his days with going through the motions and clinging to the one actual friendship he has in the omega Zayn, and when he gets a chance he sneaks away to the edge of their territory to sit with the trees and the wildlife and sketch his favorite part of the river. But what happens when one day he spots the pack alpha, Louis, having an intimate moment with something, or someone, unexpected? Suddenly his quiet, nearly invisible existence gets upended, and secrets he never wanted to know quite literally won't leave him alone, and even when he tries to stay away, he keeps being pulled back into Louis' turbulent orbit. A magical love story featuring a generations long grudge, a menacing curse, and secrets that keep pulling them apart. Will they be able to find a way back to one another through the dark?

Call Answered by beechersnope (E) word count: 249,287 The day after his 27th birthday, Harry Styles attempts suicide. Louis is flown to his bedside to unravel the mystery of why he did it after a flash drive is found with a note attached, addressed to Louis. On it are a collection of 78 songs, all written for different dates from their past.

Time Bomb by ThisSentimentalHeart (M) word count: 291,555 The one where Louis has everything: a lead role in a giant Hollywood franchise, a glittering new house with an entertaining Irish neighbor, and a steady, normal boyfriend who he probably loves. Louis never expected to become a household name among young Hollywood overnight. He also never expected to find something endearing about the enigmatic rockstar who keeps showing up on his back porch.

#larry fic rec #larry fanfiction #larry fic #hurt/comfort

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thegreatlibraryfangirl · 7 months

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one of the coolest things about the slump au for tgl is the research like i did not know that in northern britain, up to 70% of population in areas were unemployed. and like not even that but because britain was already in a not so great place economically when the depression hit, the literal only way they could go was up. and crazier was that throughout the 19th century, aristocracy in London specifically had been in steady decline already and had to pay higher taxes due to WW2, so they had to sell things like clothes, paintings, jewelry, all that stuff so they could live the way they were used to living. anybody correct me if im wrong or provide more info about late 1920’s - 1930’s Britain information if u have any bcs oh my god i actually cannot wait to incorporate some of these facts in the writing.

Anyone got any research for anon? Loving the sound of this!!!

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airixaram · 2 years

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But like, yes.

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #stucky au #70's #red sea diving resort #i'm dying up here #clay appuzzo #ari levinson #sebastian stan #chris evans #last train to london #electric light orchestra #Spotify

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robinrunsfiction · 2 years

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Can I pls request a Frank x fem reader high school AU where he’s really popular because of his band and Y/N is kind of a loner and the popular kids pick on her, except Frank doesn’t and then one day they cross a line and he snaps at them and then goes after Y/N to comfort her but she doesn’t want anything to do with him at first, but he tells her those people aren’t his friends and that he’s always had a crush on her, but never said anything because he thought she was too good for him. Thank you!

James Dean Daydream

Pairing: Frank Iero x Femal Reader Rating: General Requested By: Anon Word Count: ~1,550 Author’s Note: A little something for you all this Monday morning.

(YN) knew she didn't belong anywhere.

In her estimation, she was the dumbest kid in the smart kids group, having to work twice as hard to get average grades in the advanced placement classes she was enrolled in. She had the worst hand-eye coordination known to mankind, and would never voluntarily play a sport, so making friends with the jocks was never an option. The one thing she prided herself on was her taste in clothes and music. They were much more vintage inspired, which made her the frequent target of teasing from her classmates, but after school her record collection was her escape. Imagining what life could have been like if she had been in London in the 60s, or New York in the 70s. Hell, even New Jersey in the 80s. But not now.

Now, like a Springsteen song, she just wanted to escape.

But for the next couple years she was stuck, waiting for the next part of her life to begin. And another day at school meant another day of snide remarks and rude looks shot her way as she walked through the halls. Another day of assignments she'd struggle through. Another day of eating alone in the cafeteria, people watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

(YN) was certain Frank Iero was the coolest guy in the entire school, maybe even their town. He had his own band, he could play multiple instruments, he even knew all about music, she'd heard him talk about it before. She had run into him a few times at the record store where she's been browsing the previously owned vinyls. (YN) had heard him before she saw him, glancing up to see him talking to one of his friends about a record he was searching for. She had the album he was looking for, and if she had even an ounce of self confidence, she could have gone up to him and offered to lend it to him, or invited him to come over and listen to it with her. But she didn't. The words never formed and she couldn't even get up the nerve to look at him and start the conversation.

Much to (YN)’s dismay, it was apparently Homecoming week. She hadn’t really had the time, or interest, to pay attention to the dance, the football game, or any of the “spirit week” activities leading up to it. But, when she sat down at her lunch table, alone, she found a flier announcing the theme days. Apparently that day was twin day, and now that she looked around, she did notice people dressed alike. Other days included a pajama day, and a school colors day, but those days didn’t matter, because tomorrow was “retro day”. Her face lit up at the thought of wearing one of her favorite vintage dresses to school and for a moment she thought maybe some of her classmates would appreciate her style for once. Maybe she wouldn’t be the weirdo for a day.

The next morning when (YN) arrived at school, she hurried up the steps, looking like she stepped out of the 1950s scenes from Back to the Future. But her smile immediately faltered when she realized that while lots of other students were participating, they weren’t taking the day as seriously as she did. Most students looked like they had gone to Party City and bought the “hippie” or “80s girl” or “Saturday Night Fever” costumes. (YN) sighed and shook her head until her eyes landed on Frank. As usual, he looked gorgeous, but even more so with his hair slicked back in a pompadour and a leather jacket that she could have sworn looked vintage. But she didn’t have the nerve to ask, and rather headed to class.

The day did seem to go a bit better than usual, mostly because a few of her teachers asked about her outfit, as well as a couple of the girls from her classes that usually intimidated her with their smarts. Hearing a compliment from them was worth more than an A on any paper, and it helped her to tune out the snickering and muttered comments when she walked by.

At lunch, she walked into the cafeteria, her lunch tray in hand. Glancing around the room, she tried to find an open table, preferably completely alone. Seeing one in the corner, she hurried toward it before someone else could grab it, but in her rush, she didn’t see Jesse from her algebra class stick his foot out.

Before she could even stop herself, she tripped and hit the ground, or rather, her lunch tray that landed under her. The commotion brought the cafeteria to a silent standstill until the bully and his friends burst out laughing.

(YN) could barely hear it though, her heart was pounding too loud in her ears, and she was fighting the urge to cry as she looked down at her now stained dress. As she finally got to her feet, she looked up and realized that Frank of all people was standing in front of her, a horrified expression on his face. That was it, she could no longer hold back her tears and ran from the cafeteria and hid for the rest of the hour.

The afternoon was probably the longest afternoon of (YN)’s life. She was humiliated, hungry, and worried that one of her favorite dresses would be ruined. All she could think about was the stain setting in as she tried to pay attention to her lessons.

She’d been home for a while, changed into her pajamas, even though she hadn’t had dinner yet, when she heard the doorbell ring. Wondering if one of her parents had forgotten their keys, she jumped up to check, but her heart was in her throat when she saw who was outside.

“F-frank? What are you doing here?” He was still wearing that leather jacket, looking like he’d just been hanging out with James Dean or something, and (YN) was shocked she could even form a sentence.

“I wanted to check on you, (YN), and apologize. I’m so sorry that Jesse tripped you, he’s a fucking asshole. I actually just came from his house.”

“Why?” (YN) shook her head, not fully understanding what was happening.

“Because I punched him his stupid fuckin face,” he replied as if he’d just told her the sky was blue.

(YN) was taken aback. "But why? Why do you care? You don't know me," she replied, wrapping her arms around herself.

Frank sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. It was still slicked back, and (YN) hoped he’d wear it like that more often, not that her opinion mattered. "Well for one, no one should get tripped like that in front of everyone, it’s a shitty thing to do to anyone. Do you think your dress will come clean?”

“I dunno, I called my Mom, and she's gonna take it to the dry cleaners tomorrow. Can’t just throw it in the washer."

Frank nodded. “It was vintage, right? Like a lot of the stuff you wear?”

(YN)’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Y-yea, yea it is.”

Frank smiled before glancing down. “I umm, got this jacket from my Grandpa, it’s from the 1950s actually.”

“I was wondering, but I didn’t wanna bug you and ask.”

“I was hoping you would though,” he said looking up at her.

“What? Really?”

Frank smiled softly and nodded. “(YN), I umm, I know we haven’t gotten to talk much, but you seem so cool. You’re not afraid to dress differently than everyone else, and it’s so cute, and you listen to different music than everyone else, I mean from what I’ve seen you browsing at the record store.”

(YN) laughed. “I assure you I’m not, I’m… very not cool. I’m not anything like you.”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “I’m not anything special. I’m just a dude.”

(YN) dropped her gaze to look at the ground. “I still can’t believe you know I exist.”

“I know you exist, and I know I’d like to hang out with you more.”

“You’re not just saying that, like as a prank?” She asked softly, afraid of what the answer might be. But when she looked up, he looked taken aback.

“No, why would I do that?”

“Because you’re popular and cool and I’m nobody with no friends.”

Frank took a step closer to her, tilting her chin up so she was looking in his eyes. “Hey, no. Popularity, being cool, none of that matters to me. And I wanna be your friend. If I’m being completely honest, I want to be more than just friends, but that’s up to you.”

“I…I think I’d like that too,” she breathed.

Frank smiled and (YN) felt herself blush. He glanced down at her lips and back up to her eyes before leaning in, and ever so gently pressed a kiss to her lips. When he pulled back, a faint blush dusted his cheeks as well.

“Would you like to come in and check out my record collection?” (YN) asked, finally finding that confidence she was looking for back in the record store.

“I’d love to,” he smiled, following her in.

#frank iero fanfiction #frank iero fan fiction #frank iero fan fic #frank iero fanfic #frank iero x reader #frank iero imagine #my chemical romance imagine #my chemical romance fan fiction #my chemical romance fanfiction #my chemical romance fanfic #my chemical romance

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 years

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Hi!

I'm currently in the process of collecting as many fics/fanbooks/fanart as I can. Obviously, it's all dependant on my pay and things, but I've been trying to buy something every month. Just to bulk out my collection I guess.

Anyway, I was wondering if you knew where to get some? Which authors have published, who makes fanbooks, that sort of thing. Or even if anyone that follows you does.

I'd really appreciate it. I think you posted a spreadsheet a while ago but I couldn't find it.

Thanks! Hope you have a great day.

Hey Nonny!

Ah, yeah, I have a few fics that I know have been published, though under different names:

A Lord to Love by SaraDobieBauer (E, 10,345 w., 5 Ch. || Historical AU || Age Difference, Pining John, Virgin Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Sherlock’s Violin, Light Angst, Sad Sherlock, Love Confessions, POV First Person John, Love at First Sight) – Sherlock Holmes is only nineteen when his father dies, and he becomes the new Lord Holmes. Lord Watson is his neighbor, and together, they have land boundary issues to work out. Only, Lord Watson is interested in a lot more than land. In fact, he's about to make an offer, and an admission, that will change everything. PUBLISHED AS ‘A Lord to Love’

Gimme Shelter by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (E, 159,368 w., 21 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || 70′s Surfer AU || Period Typical Homophobia, Hawaii, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Professional Surfers, Gay John / Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, John was a Sailor, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining) – All John Watson wants is the feeling of a freshly waxed surfboard under his feet and the hot California sun baking down onto his back. To finally go pro in the newly formed world of professional surfing and leave the dark memories of his past behind him as he rips across the face of a towering blue barrel. To lounge beside the beach bonfire every evening with an ice cold beer tucked into the cool sand beside him and listen to Pink Floyd and the Doors while the saltwater dries in his sun bleached hair. That's all he wants, that is, until the hot young phenom taking Oahu and the Hawaiian shores by storm steps up next to him in the sand in the second round of the 1976 International Surf Competition. (PUBLISHED AS ‘The Sea Ain’t Mine Alone’)

The Jewel in the Tower by PoppyAlexander (E, 207,079 w., 39 Ch. || Dystopian AU || Violence, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Mild Dub Con, One World Government, Class Issues, Assassin John / Geisha Sherlock, Self Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Espionage, Miscommunication, Sexual Fantasy, Masturbation, Letters/Texting, Phone Sex, Infidelity, First Time, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Injury Recovery, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Scars, Misgendering, Happy Endings) – In a contemporary dystopia, Unity is peace – despite the fact unsanctioned information, illicit currency, and every sort of danger flows unchecked in the world's pleasure districts. John Watson, a weary hired gun, is assigned by the mysterious Mentor to investigate a subversive element lurking in the Icehouse, the world's most famous House of Repose. As accustomed as he is to dealing with the unexpected, John is nevertheless woefully unprepared to meet the gem of the Ice house, Xie, the world renowned "drashaskaya," the living work of art after which all other drashas are modeled. In sumptuous suites, amid trailing puddles of silk and fervent whispers in the night, John soon learns that nothing is as it seems in the floating world of London's pleasure district. (PUBLISHED AS “At Night in the Floating World”)

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Next, I do know a few authors on here have self published under their Patreons (@the-pen-pot ), and I recently received beautiful gifts from @totallysilvergirl and @khorazir of books they self published. AND I do have a tag here with a lot of self-published book locations.

That all said, I'd love to know more so I can also support these authors. Please let me know if you authors are self publishing your fics OR publishing as original stories via Carnation books so I can boost them for you! <3

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #help steph find fics #published fics

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sarahisslytherin · 3 years

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Hello! How are you? Congratulations on your 50 followers, I hope many more will arrive in your future. Can I request something very cute with Sirius where he buys tickets to go to some kind of show that he knows the reader loves but he doesn't like?I hope you can write it, thank you :)

thanks so much for the request! i love this idea and i hope you like it :)

concert tickets // s.b.

Summary: Sirius has never been a fan of Taylor Swift, but for you he’s willing to set that aside for one night. Contains: Just fluff, babes. A/N: I’m not sure if this is a modern!au or if we’re just pretending Taylor Swift was alive in the 70′s, so whichever one floats your boat, I guess.

Sirius had placed the concert tickets in a simple gift box as soon as he got home and now he's growing rather impatient as he waits for you to get back from your trip to Hogsmeade. Though he’s never really been a big Taylor Swift fan, he knows how much you idolize her, made evident by the posters that adorn your portion of your dormroom and the fact that you own pretty much her entire discography on vinyl.

The concert would take place in muggle London, which was the only bump in the road, he’d thought to himself. You’d always been hesitant about breaking rules. He’d learned this after the countless times he’d tried to string you along with the marauders on their occasional nightly trips to Honeydukes. What he’d also learned, however, was that, when properly persuaded, even his dear little goody two shoes could let her hair down and have a good time.

Which is why he’d snuck out the night prior after seeing the smile on your face as you read the announcement that the Taylor Swift would be coming to London, and the frown that followed shortly as you realized you wouldn’t be able to get away from school to see it.

It was a quick apparition to London and back to Hogwarts, and even if his wallet had come back considerably lighter, to Sirius, it was worth it. He never did understand what was so amazing about the American singer. Sure, she was good. But she was no David Bowie, no Freddie Mercury. But then he’d thought of how you loved all his favorite singers just as much as he did, how lovely you looked belting “Somebody to Love” at the top of your lungs, and his heart melted a tad. He wanted you to experience something entirely your own, to watch you sing along to lyrics you’d known by heart since you were a little girl.

So now he sits on the edge of your bed, wringing his hands together as you walk in through the door.

“Hey, babe.” you greet him as you sit down beside him and drop your school bag. You press a quick kiss to his cheek and you notice he seems a bit stiff. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” he says, giving what you can tell is a forced grin as he stands up. “I’ve got something for you, actually.”

“Ooh, something from the kitchens?” you ask excitedly as you shed your school robes and sit back on your haunches. Sirius’s nerves subside as he takes in the picture of his sweet girl anxious for her present, like a child on Christmas morning.

“No, puppy, but I can go get something for that sweet tooth of yours later, hm?” he coos as he cups your jaw.

“Well, what is it then? Show me, show me!”

His heart warms at your impatience and he can’t not smile. He reaches beneath the bed to hand you the box. You waste no time tearing the lid off and sending it flying back onto the bed.

“Oh, Godric.”

You look back up at Sirius, who is practically beaming with pride as he watches realization fall upon you, the way your eyes light up and the ends of your lips curl up into an uninhibited smile.

“You didn’t!” you gasp.

“I did!” he laughs. You race towards him and leap into his open arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders.

“I-love-you-so-much!” you squeal, peppering him with kisses between words. Suddenly, you’re pulling back to face him properly.

“Wait, but - you don’t like Taylor Swift.” you frown, worried he won’t enjoy the experience the same way you will.

He tuts and pulls you flush against him.

“Well, she’s not Bowie.” he chuckles. “But it doesn’t matter, baby. You love her and I love anything or anyone that makes you happy.”

“Oh, alright then.” you cave quicker than you thought you would.

“Easily persuaded, aren’t you, pup?” he teases as he presses a kiss to your nose.

“Maybe.” you giggle, escaping his embrace and rushing to your closet, “Or maybe I’m just too damn excited!”

Sirius whines momentarily as you leave him behind, plopping onto your bed dramatically without taking his eyes off you.

“I need to find something that goes with all the eras, something that says ‘I’m a lovestruck cowgirl but I’m also heartbroken and I don’t give a damn about my reputation’.” you mutter to yourself avidly as you sift through your clothing, imagining all the possible ensembles you could put together, and Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever seen a prettier sight than the one before him just now.

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius isn't a swiftie here i'm sorry #soft sirius #my swiftie is showing ain't it

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scotianostra · 2 years

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Happy 79th Birthday to The Big Yin, Billy Connolly.

The comedian and actor Billy Connolly was born on November 24th 1942 in Glasgow, into a poor and not altogether stable family; he left school at age 15 and served as (among other jobs) a shipyard worker, a paratrooper in the Territorial Army, and a welder, the latter including a stint building an oil rig in Nigeria. Shortly after his return, Connolly quit working and, supporting himself with the money he’d saved, concentrated on learning to play folk music on the banjo and guitar. He became a regular on the Glasgow folk scene, instantly recognisable with his wild hair and beard; he drifted in and out of several bands before forming the Humblebums with guitarist Tam Harvey in 1965. Gerry Rafferty (later of Stealers Wheel and “Baker Street” fame) joined sometime later, and the group built a following with their live performances, which spotlighted Connolly’s humorous between-song bits.

As Rafferty’s songs became the Humblebums’ primary musical focus, tensions among the members escalated; Harvey departed, and Connolly and Rafferty recorded two albums in 1969 and 1970 before disagreements over Connolly’s concert comedy split them up in 1971.

Connolly soon began performing around Scotland and northern England, concentrating more on comedy but still mixing occasional folk songs into his act. 1972 saw the release of Connolly’s first album, Live, and also the debut of The Great Northern Welly Boot Show, a musical play Connolly co-authored with poet Tom Buchan based on his experiences in the shipyards of Glasgow. The show was a hit in Edinburgh and London, and Polydor signed Connolly to a recording contract. In 1974, his Solo Concert album sparked protests from the Christian community over a rowdy routine in which Connolly described the Last Supper as if it had taken place in Glasgow; all the publicity only helped his career, and he was quickly becoming one of Scotland’s favourite entertainers.

His 1974 follow-up album, Cop Yer Whack for This, became his biggest hit yet, going gold in the U.K., and the comic take on Tammy Wynette’s “D.I.V.O.R.C.E.” became a surprise number one hit single in 1975. That same year also saw Connolly put in star-making appearances on Michael Parkinson’s chat show and at the London Palladium. He consolidated his success with a rigorous touring schedule over the next few years (including the massive Extravaganza tour of the U.K. in 1977), and continued to release comedy recordings on a regular basis into the ‘80s.

During the late '70s, Connolly began taking on acting roles in television and film productions, and tried his hand at playwriting, with somewhat less success. His first marriage dissolved in 1981 amidst an affair with comedienne Pamela Stephenson (whom he would later marry in 1989, the same year he shaved off his trademark shaggy beard). Taking up residence in London with Stephenson, Connolly continued his comedy career while taking on more theatrical and television roles.

Toward the late '80s, his appearances on American television became more frequent, which – along with an unsold pilot for a Dead Poets Society series – helped Connolly land a gig replacing Howard Hesseman on the high school honour-student comedy Head of the Class in 1990. His highest-profile American exposure was short-lived, however, as the series was cancelled after just one season; however, Connolly was back on American airwaves in early 1992, starring in the sitcom Billy. It too was cancelled after a short run, and after appearing in the film Indecent Proposal, Connolly returned to the U.K. (though he still officially resided in the Hollywood Hills).

In 1994, he hosted the acclaimed series World Tour of Scotland, which explored the flavor of contemporary Scottish culture. It proved so successful that Connolly hosted two further exploration-themed BBC series: 1995’s A Scot in the Arctic, in which he spent a week on a remote northern Canadian island, and 1996’s World Tour of Australia. Lent a new respectability, Connolly appeared in BBC Scotland’s historical dramas Deacon Brodie and Mrs. Brown, the latter of which also featured Judi Dench and was released worldwide to much acclaim.

In 2012, Connolly provided the voice of King Fergus in Pixar’s Scotland-set animated film Brave, alongside fellow Scottish actors Kelly Macdonald, Craig Ferguson, Robbie Coltrane, Emma Thompson, and Kevin McKidd. Connolly appeared as Wilf in Quartet, a 2012 British comedy-drama film based on the play Quartet by Ronald Harwood, directed by Dustin Hoffman. In 2014, Connolly appeared in The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies as Dáin II Ironfoot, a great dwarf warrior and cousin of Thorin II Oakenshield. Sir Peter Jackson stated that “We could not think of a more fitting actor to play Dain Ironfoot, the staunchest and toughest of dwarves, than Billy Connolly, the Big Yin himself. With Billy stepping into this role, the cast of The Hobbit is now complete. We can’t wait to see him on the battlefield.”

In September 2013, Connolly underwent minor surgery for early-stage prostate cancer. The announcement also stated that he was being treated for the initial symptoms of Parkinson’s disease.

Connolly had acknowledged earlier in 2013 that he had started to forget his lines during performances, adding later he was finding it hard to remember how to play his banjo.

In 2017 for his 75th birthday Glasgow bestowed upon Billy three 50 foot murals , to add to the many murals in the city, in 2007 and again in 2010, he was voted the greatest stand-up comic on Channel 4’s 100 Greatest Stand-Ups. He once again topped the list on Channel 5’s Greatest Stand-Up Comedians, broadcast on New Year’s Eve 2013.

Recently Billy has spoken about his Parkinson’s saying that he now walks “unsteadily” and that his “hearing is going”. He admits he would love to go back on stage but that “I don’t know if I can do it with the state my mind is in.” he appeared on Radio 2’s Chris Evans show and told him “I don’t think the way I used to,” he went on…“….and steadily more symptoms come and it’s incurable. It’s not going to end. As a matter of fact, I had a Russian doctor in New York who said, 'You realise this is an incurable disease?’"And I said, 'You got to get a grip of yourself, stop calling it an incurable disease, say we have yet to find the cure. Give the guy a light in the tunnel.’”

Billy retired from his stage shows officially IN 2018, but he has kept himself busy, he hit our screens with another series of his Great American Trail, which will follow him as he replicates the route taken by Scottish immigrants who came to America in the early 18th century. He also brought out a new book, called Tall Tales and Wee Stories, to launch it Billy’s face was projected on to buildings in Glasgow and Edinburgh.

In November 2019, The Glasgow Evening Times named Connolly as The Greatest Glaswegian as determined by a public poll. Connolly has been a patron of the National Association for Bikers with a Disability. His first sculpture, which is inspired by his past as a welder, was released in March 2020.

When recently asked on BBC's The One Show, what is it like living with Parkinson's, he said: "It has its moments. It's like just now, my left hand is shaking. I used to be able to stop it by staring at it, but it doesn't work so much anymore. It's not a frightened of me as what it used to be."However, during the BBC documentary Made in Scotland, viewers became worried about the star's health after he said: "My life, it’s slipping away and I can feel it and I should."I’m a damn sight nearer the end than I am the beginning. But it doesn’t frighten me, it’s an adventure and it is quite interesting to see myself slipping away."

However, Billy made it clear following the documentary that he was not close to death, and posted a video online to address viewers' worries.

In the video he could be seen playing his iconic banjo, saying: "Not dying, not dead, not slipping away. Sorry if I depressed you. Maybe I should have phrased it better."

Long Live The Big Yin!

#Scotland #scottish #comedian #actor #glaswegian #funny man #writer #Singer #musician #parkinson's disease

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