#Oscar Wilde died too soon

[anneangel]

Timeline of the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson!

*I had already posted this, but I deleted. I found new information as flipped through my books. So, sorry who had rebloged the previous post that I deleted, but I prefer to delete and rewrite CORRECTLY, ok?

1881 - Sherlock and Watson meet each other, through for Stamford. As per A Study in Scarlet.

1881 to 1886 - Both continue to live together in Baker Street.

1887- Watson tells us that will marry a woman, whose name he never tells us. As per, The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor

1887- Watson is married to a, no name, woman. Although his friendship with Sherlock remains and Watson even stays at Baker's when his wife is out of town. As per The Five Orange Pips.

March, 1888 - Watson remains married to an unnamed wife, according to A Scandal in Bohemia.

September, 1888 - Watson meets Mary Morstan, falls in love with and becomes engaged to her, as read in The Sign of the Four. There is no mention of what happened to the previous wife, apparently he didn't have any children either with her (I think it unlikely that she died, after all Watson never mourns her, and is soon engaged again without bereavement). It's almost as if this previous girl did NEVER exist.

1888 or 1889 or 1890??? - Watson married Mary, as read in The Adventure of the Stockbroker's Clerk. Watson says his marriage took him away from Holmes. But curiously there are some cases after his marriage where Watson is with Holmes and makes no mention of his wife (strange, isn't it?)

*that's confused me in the post I deleted, regarding the date of Watson's marriage to Mary.

Watson mentions one of his weddings being in the summer/spring and another in the fall/winter. But he does not deign to say in which he married Mary. Having met Mary in September, if he married her in the same year then it was autumn, but if he married her in summer then it is 1889.

Still, Watson says that his marriage and return to the medical profession took him away from the Holmes cases, however there are some cases where he seems to live on Baker Street in 1888 and 1889!! And this confused me earlier, whereupon I said that perhaps he was married in 1890, for how can he be married in 1888 or 1889 and also live with Holmes? Lmao.

Yes! It could just be Watson/Doyle being an unreliable narrator. But do you agree that it leaves room for doubts and assumptions/subtext?? correct?

1890 to 1891- The point is that Watson married Mary, because in The Red-Headed League, which takes place in 1890, he is married! Well, as he mentions his marriage in The Final Problem, allegedly stating that his marriage alienated him from Holmes, a case that takes place in 1891, where Holmes supposedly dies.

1894- Holmes resurfaces, and we are briefly informed that Watson's wife has died, apparently he had no children with Mary. So he returns to live with Holmes in Baker Street. As per The Adventure of the Empty House.

1895 - They aren't on Baker Street, aren' t in London, Watson refuses to say why. They weren't out on a case! (Coincidence or not, this was the year of Oscar Wilde's trial who, although married and with children, was condemned for his relationship with men). They are back in end of April and July in the The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist case and The Adventure of Black Peter case. But travel to norway after that. Return to Baker in September, as seen in the case of the Bruce-Padington plans case.

1894 to 1901 - Time they lived together in Baker Street again. In that time, Watson stops practicing his profession and sells his medical clinic (at Holmes' request), Watson does nothing more than follow Holmes on cases and write them down, curiously Holmes keeps Watson's checkbooks with him (not there is no explanation why, although assumptions are made that Watson had problems with overspending or bet) and Watson helps Holmes get off drugs too! As per The Return of Sherlock Holmes book.

*p.s: in the year 1896 there are cases where Watson says he does not live in Baker Street, as for example in The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger. However, these cases ALWAYS have narrative inconsistencies. And to other cases in 1897 where he LIVES with Holmes, as per The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.

Yes, Watson/Doyle is a miserable and unreliable narrator because many cases have DATES or DATA and inconsistent FACTS that don't fit, so that it's impossible to organize the 60 cases in chronological order, there comes a point where we get out of accuracy and we have to start to ASSUME/suppose/imagine where some several cases take place. As someone who has tried to organize, believe me, it's a never-ending headache, which is why there are different lists of Timelines. So I'm ignoring Watson's inconsistencies as a narrator in order to claim that he lived with Holmes from 1894 to 1901, okay? I'm just putting here the dates given by Watson that don't have apparent contradictions.

1902 - Watson left Baker Street, for reasons he does not tell us. Claims to live on Queen Anne Street. Although he still takes part in Cases and Turkish Baths with Holmes, as per The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.

1903 - Last cases. Sherlock regrets that Watson has left him to marry a woman (another nameless wife of Watson), so the detective is left alone to investigate the cases. As per The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier. And Watson returns to practicing medicine with a good clientele as per The Adventure of the Creeping Man.

1907 - Holmes is retired. He lives with his bees and a housekeeper he doesn't talk to much. He gets along well with the director and teachers of a school close to his house, to the point of visits, walks and swimming on the beach. Sherlock says he sees Watson on weekends. As per The Adventure of the Lion's Mane.

1908 to 1913 - Watson claims he rarely sees Sherlock, because Holmes prefers to send short telegrams rather than letters. Watson continues to write old Holmes cases whenever Holmes lets him. As per The Adventure of the Devil's Foot (which takes place in 1897, but Watson does just tell us until after Holmes is retired).

1914 -The last appearance of both at Canon. Date of the First World War. Watson had not seen Holmes for about 2 or 3 years, he thought that Holmes had become a hermit with his bees. But Holmes was actually undercover as a spy for 2 years on matters involving the war. As per His Last Bow case.

P.s: In the post I deleted mentioned that Watson got married 3 times and claims to have experience with women on 3 different continents. While Sherlock says he has never loved, has no interest in women and has his body as an appendage and is against emotions that undermine his reason. What they both think in terms of homoaffective relationships cannot be exposed since it was a crime at the time. Watson explicitly exposes to the public a fact that he is Heterosexual while Holmes seems to fit in Asexuality. However, narrative inconsistencies, narrative omissions and errors leave gaps for subtexts. Watson also admits to omitting data and facts that could expose clients or Sherlock and himself. So this also adds assumptions for subtexts.

#sherlock holmes #dr john watson #sherlock x john #john watson x mary morstan #mary morstan #johnlock #arthur conan doyle #acd canon #assexual sherlock #gay subtext

[alisbackalleybbq]

Puppy Love - Chapter 7

After having some major computer issues, I was finally able to sit down and write today!!

@northern-neighbor @chickensarentcheap @oscars-wifeyyy

A/N:  Buckle up, buttercups.  This one is going to be wild.

New FCs for this chapter: Jo Trager is Katey Sagal and Denver Trager is Kim Coates (Gemma and Tig together in my own way)

TW: violence

The knock on the door startled Charlotte who had been curled up on the couch reading a book.  

“I got it!”  Nathan yelled from the kitchen and barreled into the living room, flinging open the front door.

“It’s probably just Jonah.”  Charlotte muttered under her breath.

“Oh fuck,” Nathan whisper-shouted.

“Is that any way to speak to your mother?” Jo Trager snarked as she pushed her way past her son and entered the house.

“You don’t seem very excited to see us,” Denver Trager noted as he followed his wife.

“Mom? Dad?  What are you doing here?”  Charlotte asked, standing from the couch.

“Why the fuck did we have to hear that you got stabbed from Jeff?”  Jo demanded, hugging her daughter.

Charlotte winced.  “I was going to tell you.”

“Well, you didn’t.  I had to hear from him that you almost died.”  Jo released her daughter from the hug and hugged her son.

“It’s not that dramatic, Mom.”  Charlotte huffed.

“It was that dramatic, though.” Nathan released his mom.

“He also said you were having delusions and you had him arrested.”  Denver hugged his daughter gently, placing a kiss on her head.

“That wasn’t a delusion.  That actually happened, too.”  Nathan shrugged.  His mom slapped him on the back of the head.  “Wow, Mom!  What the fuck?”  He rubbed the sore spot.

“That’s for you not picking up the fucking phone and calling us yourself!”  Jo snapped.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I know you love Jeff and all but he tried to kill Charlotte so maybe don’t love him anymore’?” Nathan huffed.

“That would be a fucking start.”  Jo growled.

“Nathan, why don’t you go make some coffee?  Let’s sit down and I’ll explain everything.”  Charlotte sighed.

“What are we doing here?” Jackson West asked his training officer as they pulled up to an unfamiliar house.  There had been no calls that had come over the radio.

“Friend texted me,” Doug Stanton said.  “His girlfriend hasn’t been answering her phone.  He asked me to do a welfare check.”   Doug put the shop in park and started to get out of the car.  The address was familiar to Jackson but he didn’t know why.  Doug stopped him at the walkway leading up the house.  “You can wait here.”

Jackson nodded curtly and watched his T.O. walk up to the door and knock.  He pulled his phone out so he could text Lucy about how it was bullshit that he was waiting on the sidewalk.  

“Can I help you?”  A man Jackson didn’t recognize answered the door.

“I’m looking for Charlotte Trager.”  Doug answered.  As soon as Jackson heard the name, he quickly scrolled through his contacts, and tapped Lucy’s name

“And who are you?”  The man asked.

Doug scoffed and gestured to his uniform.  “I think it’s pretty apparent who I am.”

“What do you want with my sister?” 

“We got a call from a concerned friend that they hadn’t been able to reach Charlotte.  They asked us to check on her to make sure she’s okay.”  Doug smirked.

“Jackson,” Lucy answered smiling.  “How’s it going?”

“I’m texting you my location.  You need to get here now.”  Jackson said quickly.

“Why?  What’s going on?”  Lucy immediately became concerned and shot Tim a look.

“Doug said his friend asked us to do a welfare check on his girlfriend.”  Jackson explained.

“I’m putting you on speakerphone.  Say that again.”  Lucy held the phone out so Tim could hear as well.

“Doug told me that his friend texted him  to do a welfare check on his girlfriend.”  Jackson repeated.

“What’s so concerning about that?”  Tim asked, confused.

“Because he’s doing a welfare check on Charlotte.”  Jackson answered.

“If you don’t let me talk to Charlotte, I will arrest you for obstruction!”  Doug shouted. 

“What’s happening?”  Lucy asked as Tim turned the shop’s lights and sirens on headed for Nathan’s house.

“The guy who answered the door won’t let Doug talk to Charlotte.”  Jackson sighed.

“Jackson, try to calm him down.  Don’t let him arrest anybody.  We’re on our way.”  Tim barked.

“Easier said than done.”  Jackson said as he hung up the phone.  “What seems to be the problem?”  He asked walking up to the house.

“I told you to stay on the sidewalk!”  Doug snarled.

“Maybe I can help.”  Jackson shrugged.  “Sir,” he turned his attention to the man standing in the doorway, “I’m Officer Jackson West. I’m a friend of Officer Chen’s.  Would it be okay if I talked to Charlotte?”  

“I’m not letting anybody in my house that says they’re here on her ex-boyfriend’s business.”  The man replied.

“You have ten seconds to let me in so that I can talk to her or I am placing you under arrest.”  Doug got into the man’s face.

“Mmm,”  the man hummed.  “I’m pretty sure the law says that I don’t have to let you into my house without a warrant.”  

“Sir,” Jackson attempted again, “would you please let me in just to check on her?  All I have to do is lay on her and make sure she’s okay.”

“You said you’re a friend of Lucy’s?”  The guy asked.

“I am.”  Jackson affirmed.

“You can come in.  Your friend here has to stay outside.”  

“You’re not going in there alone.”  Doug glowered.  “Officer safety.”

“Fine.  Then neither of you are coming in and you can tell that rat bastard to take his fake welfare checks and shove them up his lily-white ass.”

“I am warning you,” Doug snarled.

“I’m fine.” Charlotte said, pushing past Nathan to stand on the porch in front of Doug.  Jackson couldn’t  help but notice the hatred burning in her eyes.

“Are you Charlotte Trager?”  Doug asked.

“You know that I am.”  She said through gritted teeth, crossing her arms over her chest.  Jackson wondered what that meant.

“Can I see some ID?”  Doug asked.

“No,” Charlotte shook her head.  “You don’t need to see it.”

“Law says if an officer asks for ID, you have to supply it.  Hand it over.”  Doug responded.

“I don’t think I will.”  Charlotte shrugged.  “You’re here on a welfare check.  I am telling you my welfare is fine.  You can go.”  Nathan noticed the tremble in Charlotte’s shoulders but chalked it up to her being nervous that Jeff was mentioned.

“I will arrest you.”  Doug stated.  “Give me your ID.”

“Arrest me.  I don’t really give a fuck.”  Charlotte challenged.

“You little bitch-” Doug started.

“Hey!” Nathan shouted.

“Whoa!” Jackson held his hand up to Doug.  “There’s no need for that.”

Doug pulled his handcuffs out.  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.  You’re under arrest.”  Charlotte did as she was instructed.  She winced as Doug locked the handcuffs into place.  “I’ll take her to get booked in.  You stay here and get statements.” 

“That makes no sense,” Jackson replied.  “How will I get back to the station?”

“I’ll come back for you,” Doug responded.

“What the fuck are you doing to my daughter?”  

“Dad, I’m fine,” Charlotte answered.

“Sir, go back into the house before I arrest you, too.”  Doug shouted.

“No,” Denver shoved Doug’s shoulder lightly.  “Get your hands off my daughter.”

“That’s assault!”  Doug screamed.  “You just assaulted a police officer.”

“Oh come on!  I only shoved you a little.  That’s not assault.”  Denver laughed.

“Shoving is assault.”  Doug turned to Jackson.  “Give me your cuffs.”

“I think we all need to settle down here.”  Jackson held up his hands.  “There’s no need to escalate this.”

“Fine, if you won’t do it, I will.  Give me your cuffs and get her into the shop.”  Doug shoved Charlotte at Jackson.  

“You’re really going to arrest me for a slight shove?”  Denver challenged.

“You bet your ass I am.  You and your piece of trash daughter can go to jail together.” 

“Well, in that case,” Denver shrugged before slamming his fist into Doug’s nose, knocking him to the ground.

“Dad!”  Charlotte cried.

“Goddamnit, Denver!”  Jo shouted from the porch.  

Doug coughed as blood spilled from his nose.  “That’s a felony.”  He groaned.

Tim slammed on his brakes in front of Nathan’s house, trying to figure out what he was seeing.

“What the hell is going on?”  Tim demanded.

Doug coughed some more before standing up.  “They’re both under arrest.”

“What for?”  Lucy asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Her for obstruction,” Doug nodded at Charlotte, “and him for felony assault on a police officer.”  

“That’s what you get for calling my daughter a bitch and a piece of trash,” Denver spat.

“Jackson, get her out of those cuffs.”  Tim glared at Doug.

“You can’t do that!”  Doug got in Tim’s face.

“I just did.” Tim shrugged.  

“What are you even doing here?”  Doug asked.

“Dispatch couldn’t get an answer from either of you on your radios when they status checked you.  They tried checking your body cam to see if you were okay but it just shows the inside of your car.  They got the location of your shop and had us come check on you.”  Tim answered.

“They didn’t status check us!”  Doug scoffed.

“How would you know, Officer?”  Tim challenged.  “It looks like you don’t have your body cam or your radio on you.  That’s a real concern.”

“Jackson, did you hear a status check?” Doug demanded.

“No, sir.  Remember, I told you at the beginning of the shift that my radio was acting weird but you said we’d just use yours and it would be fine?”  Jackson answered quickly.

“Whatever,”  Doug spat, “cuff him.  He’s still under arrest.”

“I dunno,” Nathan shrugged.  “It looked like you tripped and fell to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”  Doug whirled on him.  “You saw him hit me.”  Doug pointed at Denver.

“What did you see?”  Tim asked Jackson.

“I wasn’t paying attention to him.”  Jackson shrugged, knowing he was going to pay for saying that even if it was the truth but the satisfaction of seeing Doug Stanton laid out was worth it.  “He passed Charlotte off to me.  My back was turned so I  could escort her to the shop.”

“You lying sack of shit.”  Doug stomped up to him.  “You know exactly what happened!”

“Looks like we have a problem here.”  Tim crossed his arms over his chest.  “You have been aggressive since we pulled up.  Sounds to me like you’re trying to falsify charges because you have a vendetta against Charlotte and this man.”

“That’s asinine!”  Doug screamed with rage.

“Ma’am,” Lucy locked eyes with Jo, “what did you see?”

Jo shook her head.  “I was talking to my son about how we were going to have to bail these two out.  I didn’t see anything.”

“It’s on body camera you stupid cu-”  Doug started.

“Hey!” Tim yelled.  “You don’t talk to witnesses like that.  Jackson, pull up your body cam app on your phone and let’s review the footage.”  Tim’s stomach sank and he shot an apologetic look at Charlotte who was rubbing her wrists after Lucy unhooked the cuffs.

“I can’t,” Jackson responded.  “The app doesn’t work for me; hasn’t in about a month.”

“What have you done to get it fixed?”  Tim asked Doug.

“He never told me it wasn’t working,” Doug glared at Tim.

“Sir, I emailed you about it four times.  I have your responses, if you’d like to look at them.”  Jackson answered.

“That won’t be necessary,” Doug huffed.  

“Then we’re done here.”  Tim declared.  “Jackson, drive Doug to the hospital to get that nose checked out.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

“You okay?”  Tim asked Charlotte once Jackson and Doug were gone.  Tim could see that she looked terrified.

“No,” Charlotte shook her head.  Tears started spilling down her cheeks.  “It was him, Tim.”

“Him who?”  Nathan asked.

“I recognized his voice,” Charlotte whispered, her teeth chattering as her whole body broke out into shivers.  “He was the guy who stabbed me.”

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat.  He wished he’d been the one to punch Doug.  “I’m going to need you to identify who the voice belonged to so I can bring this to Internal Affairs.”

Charlotte nodded before looking directly into Tim’s body camera.  “I recognized the voice of the man who stabbed me as the officer you referred to as Doug.”

#tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more …

1870 – On this date Lord Alfred Douglas was born near London (d.1945). Forever known as Bosie, the lover of Oscar Wilde was regarded at the time as a mincing queen intent on self-destruction. In the end it was Wilde who was destroyed.

In 1891, Douglas met Oscar Wilde; they soon began an affair, though, according to Douglas, they never engaged in sodomy. Though Douglas consented to be the lover of the older Wilde, he shared Wilde's interest in younger partners. Of the two, Douglas was known for preferring schoolboys, while Wilde liked older teenagers and young men.

When his father, Lord Queensberry, suspected that their liaison may have been more than a friendship, he began a public persecution of Wilde. In addition to invading the playwright's home, Queensberry planned to throw rotten vegetables at Wilde during the premiere of The Importance of Being Earnest. In 1894, the Robert Hichens novel The Green Carnation was published. Said to be based on the relationship of Wilde and Douglas, it would be one of the texts used against Wilde during his trials in 1895.

When Lord Drumlanrig (Douglas' eldest brother and the heir to the marquessate of Queensberry) died in a suspicious hunting accident, rumors circulated that Drumlanrig had been having an affair with the Prime Minister, Lord Rosebery. As a result, Lord Queensberry began a crusade to save his youngest son.

That his life was ruined by the celebrated trials of his lover, Oscar Wilde is hardly debatable. Still, Bosie was as thoroughly unpleasant as a grown man as he was when he was young. A snob, an anti-Semite (Douglas translated The Protocols of the Elders of Zion in 1919, one of the first English language translations of that anti-Semitic work), and a bit of a liar too, Douglas, who never had to worry about money as do us lesser mortals, published tolerable poetry. Douglas's 1892 poem "Two Loves", which was used against Wilde at the latter's trial, ends with the famous line that refers to homosexuality as "the love that dare not speak its name."

He went on to crank out reminiscences that vilified almost everyone from the Wilde circle, eventually married, and declared to the world that he had long ago thrown off his childhood vices. He described Wilde as "the greatest force for evil that has appeared in Europe during the last three hundred and fifty years". Douglas added that he intensely regretted having met Wilde, and having helped him with the translation of Salome which he described as "a most pernicious and abominable piece of work".

1844 – Sarah Bernhardt, French actress born (d.1923); She has been referred to as "the most famous actress the world has ever known". Bernhardt made her fame on the stages of France in the 1870s, and was soon in demand in Europe and the Americas. She developed a reputation as a serious dramatic actress, earning the nickname "The Divine Sarah".

Sarah's close friends included several artists, most notably Gustave Doré and Georges Clairin, and actors Mounet-Sully and Lou Tellegen, as well as the famous French author Victor Hugo. Alphonse Mucha based several of his iconic Art Nouveau works on her.

Her friendship with Louise Abbéma (1853-1927), a French impressionist painter, some nine years her junior, was so close and passionate that the two women were rumored to be lovers. In 1990, a painting by Abbéma, depicting the two on a boat ride on the lake in the bois de Boulogne, was donated to the Comédie-Française. The accompanying letter stated that the painting was "Peint par Louise Abbéma, le jour anniversaire de leur liaison amoureuse" (loosely translated: "Painted by Louise Abbéma on the anniversary of their love affair.")

She later married Greek-born actor Aristides Damala (known in France as Jacques Damala) in London in 1882, but the marriage, which legally endured until Damala's death in 1889 at age 34, quickly collapsed, largely due to Damala's dependence on morphine and his being a homosexual. During the latter years of this marriage, Bernhardt was said to have been involved in an affair with the Prince of Wales, who later became Edward VII.

1935 – Delmas Howe is an American Painter and muralist whose figurative work depicts mythological and archetypal - often homoerotic - themes in a neoclassical, realist style. In paintings of the American West, such as Atlas (1982), he endows cowboys with the heroism and dignity of ancient classical gods, while managing to capture the aura of "whiskey, tobacco, leather, and sweat" that he obviously finds exciting.

Born in El Paso, Texas, Howe grew up in Hot Springs (renamed Truth or Consequences in 1950), New Mexico. Believing that formal education was a waste of time, Howe's father encouraged him to become a cowboy and occupied his time with jobs involving "fixing the fence, [and] stuff with animals." Although Howe hated these tasks, he was excited sexually by his father's cowboy friends, and he still cherishes childhood memories of sitting on their laps.

After graduation from high school he progressed through undergraduate work at Wichita State University, then four years in the US Air Force, a move to the East Coast, graduate work at Yale University and several years of classes in NYC at the Art Students' League and the School of the Visual Arts while working as a professional musician.

Howe chose New York as his destination partly because he felt that it would provide an environment in which he could begin to act upon his sexual and romantic attraction to other men. His exploration of his own sexuality corresponded with the emergence of the gay community in New York from underground clubs and with the flourishing of what Howe has described as an "incredible, sexual party."

After a return to the West and a successful design studio in Amarillo, Texas he returned to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

The Three Graces

His work is in the collections of a number of museums including the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History where his important transitional painting "The Three Graces" from 1978 is on permanent view.

In response to Jesse Helms' emasculation of the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition in 1989-90, produced his Painting for Jesse Helms (above).

1986 – U.S. Surgeon General C. Everett Koop advised that sex education that includes information on both Gay and straight relationships would help prevent the spread of AIDS. His advice was ignored by the Reagan/Bush administration he served.

1999 – Boeing announced it would begin offering domestic partner benefits to its Gay and Lesbian employees. The company explained that unmarried opposite sex couples would not be included because marriage is an option for them, which brought criticism from union leaders.

2009 – The Church of Sweden votes to allow same-sex marriages.

[greypetrel]

✨9 Ship Songs✨

Rules: List nine songs for one of your ships

Tagged by @shivunin, thank you thank you thank you! :D

It's... It's long, so it goes under the cut. I have at least ten better for Aisling and Cullen I believe, but for now it goes like that. Jackie and Wilson is their ultimate song, the second... I'll keep the Cranberries because the death of Sinead O'Connor made me nostalgic for Ireland all over again, so yeah we're going Cranberries. But still.

Tagging! @ndostairlyrium @rowanisawriter @demandthedoodles @salsedinepicta (if you want!) @rosella-writes @scribbledquillz @heniareth and YOU!

Alyra + Alistair

Siúil a Rúin, Clannad ( Spotify || Youtube ) I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel I'll sell my only spinning wheel To buy my love a sword of steel Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán (and may you go safely, my darling) Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin (Come, come, come, o love) Siúil go socar agus siúil go ciúin (quickly come to me, softly move) Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom (come to the door and away we'll flee) Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán (and may you go safely, my darling)

Ballata del Carcere di Reading, Vinicio Capossela ( Spotify || Youtube ) (It's the Ballad of Reading Gaol of Oscar Wilde, translated in Italian and put in music, I'll just copy-paste the lyrics of the original poetry) Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

Alyra + Morrigan

Kamikaze, Susanne Sundfør ( Spotify || Youtube ) Did you ever feel your heart stopping? Did you ever feel like a moth drawn to a flame? It's time to put on your lifejacket 'Cause I'm about to step up the game, oh They say help is near, but no one here can feel our fear It's a minefield, us, it'll never disappear 'Cause you take me back, you take me back I'm your kamikaze And tonight is the night that we might fall together

Hidden Place, Björk ( Spotify || Youtube ) Now I have been slightly shy And I can smell a pinch of hope To almost have allowed Once fingers to stroke The fingers I was given To touch with but careful, careful There lies my passion, hidden There lies my love I'll hide it under a blanket Lull it to sleep I'll keep it in a hidden place

Raina + Isabela

Wetsuit, The Vaccines ( Spotify || Youtube ) Does holy water make you pure? Submerged, your vision's just obscured You're a lot like me In up to our knees In over your chest is way too deep

On Board, Alana Handerson feat. Joshua Burnside ( Spotify || Youtube ) I'll be the figurehead On your ship's bow I'll be the last glimpse of a topsail As we go down I'll be waiting on the seabed Repeating the words Don't forget (you said), ships were not built to be safe And in all my life's mistakes You were not one 'Cause all I've ever done All I've ever done Is love you To the bottom of the deep blue sea

Raina + Merrill

Too Late to Turn Back Now, Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose ( Spotify || Youtube ) I found myself phoning her At least ten times a day You know, that's so unusual for me To carry on this way I'll tell you, I can't sleep at night For wanting to hold her tight I've tried so hard to convince myself This feeling just can't be right Let me tell you It's too late to turn back now I believe, I believe, I believe I'm falling in love

Lay All Your Love on Me, Avantasia ( Spotify || Youtube ) It was like shooting a sitting duck A little small talk, a smile, and baby I was stuck I still don't know what you've done with me A grown-up woman should never fall so easily I feel a kind of fear When I don't have you near Unsatisfied, I skip my pride I beg you, dear Don't go wasting your emotion Lay all your love on me

Aisling + Cullen

Jackie and Wilson, Hozier ( Spotify || Youtube ) She blows outta nowhere, roman candle of the wild Laughing away through my feeble disguise No other version of me I would rather be tonight. And, Lord, she found me just in time 'Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young She's gonna save me, call me "baby" Run her hands through my hair She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily Better yet, she wouldn't care We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives Ride 'round picking up clues We'll name our children, Jackie and Wilson Raise 'em on rhythm and blues

Dreams, The Cranberries ( Spotify || Youtube ) I want more, impossible to ignore Impossible to ignore And they'll come true Impossible not to do Possible not to do [...] Oh, my life is changing everyday In every possible way And oh, my dreams It's never quite as it seems 'Cause you're a dream to me Dream to me

#9 ship songs #tagged petrel #aisling lavellan #alyra mahariel #raina hawke #it's been nice to dig up eheheheheheh #some I've already put in other asks but I hyperfixate on songs to link to characters #Layla by Eric Clapton could be a good Alistair and Alyra song if it wasn't linked permanently to another OC #for example #On Board felt like a must have also ahahahahah #singing petrel

[bestworstcase]

My midnight shower thought: for Ozma and all his incarnations Salem has remained the same visually. She looks more or less the same since he met her for the second time, in the first new life where they became gods among men and had a family. But for Salem the Ozma that she loved and lost too soon has never returned to her. It’s his soul moved up in there, an undercurrent of his voice below all the others. But she hasn’t truly seen Her Ozma since many man lifetimes ago. Stagnant water isn’t safe to drink. The Salem he loved he saw for the last time as he died in a bed. They have not seen each other in so long god. God!!!

ok ok ok

the thing

this is a wild tangent from what you said i apologize

but the THING IS

the first thing we learn about the grimm beyond the vague mythical description of inevitable darkness, creatures of destruction, so forth—the first proper information we get about them is that they are “manifestations of anonymity,” that their darkness is the darkness of ignorance, of not knowing, contrasted against the light of knowledge and understanding. the soul is identity and grimm lack souls because they are anonymous

which is all very interesting as it pertains to salem’s monstrosity being so inextricable from her anonymity, from the isolation enforced by ozma’s absolute commitment to erasing her from history and keeping her existence a secret. obviously. BUT,

salem throws herself into the pool of grimm because she reasons that the force of pure destruction it holds might cancel out the pure creation she has been forced to carry, right. it changes her profoundly, restoring the equal balance between creation and destruction that people are supposed to have and in the same stroke making her grimm. there’s an obvious metaphor being constructed here about scapegoating and dehumanization that like 95% of the fandom is missing in truly hilarious fashion but also more saliently to the point i’m getting to, salem stood on that precipice and gazed down into the abyss and thought about what might happen to her if she jumped before making the choice to actually jump, and i think maybe the most critical piece of information we have about what she thought the pool of grimm would do to her is “if the fountain of life granted her immortality, then surely the pool of grimm would take it away.” jinn implies a suicide attempt but her description of salem’s own reasoning is not about death, it’s about trying to become mortal again. trying to remove her infinite life by throwing herself into a darkness equal to the light inflicted upon her; i don’t think it mattered to her much either way whether the pool would kill her outright or spit out one more monster as long as whatever was left of her afterwards had the possibility of death. she didn’t know exactly what would happen, but she very much chose to do it to herself with full awareness of what that choice entailed.

and then when ozma comes out of his impulsive agreement to do what the god of light asked, screaming in disorientation and terror, when a stranger asks him “who are you?” and he recoils in horror as the realization of what happened to him sinks in, it’s with oscar standing by to mutter pityingly that he didn’t know. he didn’t know what he said yes to, what it would mean, and then god of light hurled him back onto a battlefield and he didn’t even know who he was.

salem has always been herself and her face has always been her own, the face of her birth and the face that she chose for herself, and it is so so achingly clear that the physical transformation did not fundamentally change her. she’s still just the person she’s always been, if buried under the weight of a thousand facile narratives piled on her shoulders by people who cannot or will not see her for who she is.

but ozma said yes to a duty he didn’t want just so he could see her again and he’s spent every goddamned minute of his existence since then having his identity shredded by an endless parade of other people whose lives and souls he’s forced to consume and then become, over and over and over again until it becomes fucking meaningless, until he’s spent thousands of different lives doing the exact same fucking thing in different flavors, variations on a theme. and the only comfort he can get is don’t worry, eventually you won’t even know whos who anymore. he still doesn’t know who he is, he’s spent thousands of years not knowing who he is, because the god of light tricked him into saying yes to being torn apart and molded into an instrument of divine authority.

and there’s, like

i go a little nuts every time i think about the fact that salem still calls him ozma, that she intuitively knows whether it’s him speaking or oscar, that even the very first time she saw him with an unfamiliar face she recognized him instantly. bc ozma can’t tell the difference, ozma doesn’t even self-identify as a person anymore and treats the distinction between himself and oscar as a temporary technicality, but salem still knows who he is as clearly as she knows herself, just as he has lost his sense of who she is as thoroughly as he’s lost his own identity. and by the same token ozma has for lifetimes defined himself solely in opposition to her, solely by his fixation on destroying her.

and all of this in the narrative that made it explicitly, plainly clear upfront that the soul is a person’s knowledge of themself. that what makes a monster a monster is having no sense of identity.

the god of light tried to take his champion’s soul and salem is the reason he can’t.

#she is continuity to his loss and change to his stagnation #she makes a SPECIFIC POINT of learning oscar’s name #( hazel didn’t tell her. hazel probably didn’t even know. ) #salem had not the slightest idea who neopolitan was #but she took the time to learn oscar’s name #and she used ozpin when she talked about him #so it’s not like she doesn’t know what he calls himself #it’s a deliberate choice #to use his name #when she speaks to him #and when she speaks about him to the boy whose soul he’s eating #i just hbnnghbndn #ITS ABOUT. KNOWING

[wordsandstrangeways]

Tagged by @wishflower4 (I had not done been tagged before because I lurk on the internet like a pond frog)

And I'm gonna tag @makesometime who will likely get far more interaction than I do and may have done it before <3

Rules: Go to your published works on AO3 and list the first fic you ever published there, the last fic you published, any fic that you wrote for a fandom/ship only once, your favorite fic you wrote in the fandom/ship that has the most works, the fic you wish more people read, the fic you agonized over the most, the fic that sprang fully formed from your mind without any effort, and a work you are proud of—for whatever reason.

First fic published on Ao3: A Moment Eternal with @iguanastevens March 2021, just post Magnus Finale when we were sad and got into aggressive poetry battles on RQO

Last fic published: You're my delusion Jarthur Malevolent fic and also my 69th! So.. so it's 69ing.

Fandom/ship I only wrote once: The mechanisms, and I'm not linking it because though it's not terrible it's also not one I like to think about too often, Silver Tongued Devil if you want to go find it.

Favorite fic in most popular fandom/ship: The Magnus Archives is the most popular fandom I've written for and I guess my favourite is A Soft, Consuming Embrace as it was the first true narrative fic I ever published, John wakes up to find the Lonely rushed in to fill the Eye's space.

Fic I wish more people read: Hmmmmm, I'm gonna be cheeky and say the RQBB Fic I wrote with @makesometime: A Chance To Run because I think it's a really solid narrative that is a love letter to RQG and it came at a time when the fandom was waning but I believe holds its own and Zolf and Oscar deserve their gin soaked speak easy. It can also be read as either SFW or exceedingly NSFW based on chapter headings and I think to be able to weave that together in the chapters was really cool of us.

Fic I agonized over: If I were being glib I'd say all of the kinktober fics I've published which can be found in my kinktobAmS series and are for but being serious I'd say I don't have an agenda. This is the final installment of my RQG 18m gap exploration of what's going on in the heads of Wilde, Zolf, Barnes and Carter and Carter's was the final one and it was like pulling teeth. I wanted to get his voice right so badly. I think it went okay.

Fic that popped out fully-formed: Conversely, the first in that series (Say something , do it soon) flowed out of me like water. I adore Wilde in so many ways, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the way he thinks and what motivates him and It's too quiet in this room was like writing down something being dictated it flowed so well

Fic I'm proud of: This is a toss up between Stems of White, Flowers of Green and Lets be flexible about this (both RQG). Writing both I made myself cry, just a little. The heartache of the first (a fic about Zolf's life when Oscar has died and returns to him with the blooming of flowers) felt so poigniant at the time and even reading it now it feels like such a lovely them. The latter is my longest SFW fic and was true labour of love. It actually started with a NSFW idea but it got away from me dramatically and I'm really proud of the twists and turns of it. Zolf in physio after losing his leg meets, surprisingly well put together, yoga instructor Oscar Wilde.

I have no idea if any of these will appeal to anyone, but it's funny to think of my random scribblings out there in the wild(e). Special shout out too to my erotic sonnets (all RQG) cause they make laugh and they're great fun. I should write more of those.

#fic ask #@wishflower4 is amazing you should read all of their fic too #malevolent #rqg #rusty quill gaming #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #my fics I guess #gosh this was introspective in a way I hadn't anticipated this morning

[ardentreader]

I am here, on my deathbed, taking my last breath, full of regrets and wishing I could go back and live a little. Hoping that I could play, have fun, ride, dive, and fly for the first time. But I know that I cannot. I know that I lost the chance that I had.

They say, "All work and no play made Jack a dull boy." I'm the Jack here, and I die full of regrets.

Ever since I was a little boy, I never touched a toy. My parents were strict and never allowed me to play. When I was a toddler, I used to complain about how other kids get to play while I do not. "Playing, fun and toys are a distraction. If you want to be successful you need no distractions, " was always the answer I got. Slowly I started to accept this. I stopped complaining and focused on my studies.

I passed high school with top grades but with no memories to cherish, to make me smile and shed tears with nostalgia. I got into a good college but there too I made no friends, had no fun and did not live, simply existed. Once again, I passed with grades but with no fun.

I got a good job which paid me handsomely. I became a workaholic. I worked till late at night and came early. I had no family, my parents had died when I was in college due to a car accident. I had no wife as I was busy with work and had no time to find one.

I was so engrossed in work that I did not pay attention to my health. Soon I was diagnosed with Coronary artery disease. I had very little time to live. The hospital became my home. I am too young to die, only 30. I die without family, friends, without anybody who cares.

Oscar Wilde once said, "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Some people exist, that is all." I only exist but I beg you to live a little. Dance in the rain, break a museum, stay up late and watch the stars, wake up early and watch the sunrise, kiss random strangers, sing in the shower, bunk lectures, take vacations, call in sick at work and go to a party, have some fun and live.

This is all I beg of you. Live, and have fun because you only get 'one shot at life.'

#books & libraries #short story #writers on tumblr #quotes #scenarios #so yolo #yoloooo #original story #story #writing #writers and poets #writeblr #writing prompt #writerscommunity #writer things #creative writing #female writers #words #writers #yolo i guess #regret #grief #existence #emotions #anger #loss

[gloryride]

24, 43, 45, 51, 60, 69 for Vanessa and Virgil

[CP2077 OC ask]

24/ what gang/faction/corporation do they align with, if any?

VANESSA She is not a member, but Vanessa is friends with the Valentinos. She is more of an honorary member because part of her family is there, Gustavo Orta was her first boyfriend, and her father died a hero for the gang. She helps them and loves their aesthetics, but joining a gang is out of the question!

And after Mikoshi, she enters the closed club of the Afterlife, the legends, and fixers of the city ♥

VIRGILE Virgile is aligned with the Aldecaldos, he joined the clan in 2077, after helping them, along with V, and being with Panam. He is back in a nomad clan after ten years long wandering.

He too, is affiliated with the Afterlife. He works there for several years as a netrunner, and coworker of Nix.

43/ describe their ideal date.

VANESSA Simple or Fancy date ? Both work !

Simplicity is always a winner.

The place doesn’t matter, whether it is a small restaurant, just a drink or a wild trip in the Badlands, she likes to be surprised (little advice : the moto ride, she loves it !) No need to be dress up, but Vanessa appreciates the effort. Being clean, smelling good is already very good.

For the fancy, it's mostly the same.

A chic, sophisticated place and have a little intimate corner, playing big game with suits/pretty dress, because Vanessa will bring out her best wardrobe so try to do the same. She likes Champaradise, Donaghy’s or those very sweet cocktails with bubbles in them. Little chance to screw up.

VIRGILE Some provisions, a little alcohol and here you are taken by motorbike (or car) not far from the dam, or in the Badlands, with a nice view of the city while being quiet. A little privacy never hurts to get to know each other.

Going out to a restaurant, eating well in a pleasant setting allows you to be confident. If he doesn’t cook, the netrunner knows the best restaurants in Japantown (especially japanese) and Kabuki, as well as a charming Italian restaurant in Vista Del Rey where he chats with the boss in Italian. In this kind of place, he talks more, feeling at ease. It can continue in a nice little bar, a stroll where … elsewhere (a)

45/ what was your characters first impression of their partner(s)?

VANESSA

"He's a handsome young man." "Rude, ordinary, self-confident. No, Pepe, he's not for me." "Are we talking about the good-looking guy with green hair? Ordinary, him? V, you're saying that in the worst possible way because he's an ex-corpo guy." "Maybe, but I'm not going to be touched by another corpo. I'd rather become a nun like my sister!"

Vanessa would never be in love with Valentin or even sleep with him in a million years. She found him detestable as soon as she saw him. Then she wanted to play with him as he continued to flirt with her. Her plan? Make him die of desire and then abandon him. But… it didn't work out that way at all, caught in her own trap, and desire.

VIRGILE

"What's with the madwoman, Nix?" "Are you serious? Panam is a lovely girl, a little rough, but she's great." "Unfriendly, impatient, and rude, I wouldn't call her a great girl."

It didn't start well there, either. Panam was starting at Afterlife, working with Nix first, then sent her to Virgile, an expert on nomad deliveries. If she was unkind, it was just that it was a critical delivery; Rogue had pissed her off, it was last minute … but all this Virgile knew much later. They worked together several times before talking and drinking together. Great stories don't always start well!

51/ do they like having multiple partners or do they prefer monogamy?

VANESSA Vanessa prefers to feel free and not feel trapped with someone. She was with Gustavo and then Oscar, but she was much younger. She has a perfect understanding with Valentin because they are in an open relationship, they can go and see elsewhere. But the most important thing is that they always come back to each other ♥

VIRGILE Virgil prefers monogamy, he is faithful when he is in love.

60/ are they more submissive or dominant?

VANESSA Vanessa is more dominant, which is not surprising with her fiery character. She can sometimes switch, especially with someone as dominant as her, but she likes to get back on top quickly.

VIRGILE Virgils is submissive, which also goes hand in hand with his character. But also because, when he was younger, he was active in the foreplay and preferred that others take charge for the rest, so as not to tire his heart. And there is nothing sexier than to see his partner on top of him (a)

69/ do they like having music on while they have sex? share three songs they’d play while getting down.

Crap i'm so bad with music xD

VANESSA She loves music, it's often played in her flat, so it's normal that she also likes to have sex to it. I can imagine the two idiots starting to dance, before continuing in a horizontal tango

Solo Quiero - Montoya, Pedrina Sexual Healing - Marvin Gaye (a very good classic) Ma Benz Brigitte (X)

VIRGILE Virgile has no music for that, and doesn't play music during sex. If the other one does, why not, some people have very good taste in music to set the mood.

#oc ask #about : vanessa vergara #about : virgile sarto #loooong post x) #thanks again ♥

[puntointerrogativo]

The “if your ship has not been deemed toxic by some rando on the net it’s probably not sexy enough” post made me go on a walk down shipping memory lane: did I ever have a ship that would not be considered toxic*? (If anyone wants to share theirs I’d be very curious!)

In vaguely chronological order:

Tokyo Babylon/X 1999 Seishirou/Subaru: underage, age gap, sworn enemies, attempted murder, kinda successful murder (or suicide, really), completely fucked up, Seishirou is a Total Bastard (TM) ✅

Vampire Chronicles multishipping galore: LOL. Also it was at the time Anne Rice was rampaging all over fandom, which deserves a double LOL ✅ And another ✅ for tv show loustat.

X Files (which I didn’t even *watch*) Mulder/Krycek: they…mostly communicate through punches, lies, blackmail, and the occasional cheek kiss ✅

ACD/Grenada Sherlock Holmes Johnlock: the most “wholesome” ship on the list and it’s a cocaine addict and his (at times married) exasperated bff in Oscar Wilde London. Toxicity by randos standards unsure ❓

Harry Potter (which I only started reading because I stumbled onto ->) Drarry, Severus/Draco, and a dash of Draco/Albus Severus: uh, violence, obsession, problematic faves, underage with a student, underage with the son of an old obsession. ✅✅✅

Brokeback Mountain Jack/Ennis: Well, healthy it was not. How could it be? It was damn heartbreaking. Still, I *remember* seeing people calling it toxic ✅

House MD House/Chase: older, addict, occasionally violent, verbally abusive boss and his kinky, walking daddy issue wombat ✅

The Silmarillion Maedhros/Fingon (not shippy but let’s not forget the KidnapFamily and my special soft spot for Maglor & Elrond) LOL. The actual ship would probably be considered the least problematic, mostly because Fingon died before the second kinslaying, but the Feanorians and toxic go hand in hand. And as soon as you say kidnap!family ✅

The Borgias Cesare/Anyone Really: …it’s Cesare Borgia. I’m going with ✅

Batman Bruce/Tim: Let’s see *checks notes* underage, incest, lies galore, paranoia, mistrust, trauma, one more fucked up than the other. Also, I like them kinky. This one gets ALL THE ✅✅✅

Hannibal nbc Murder Husbands: LMAO Hannibal beat Seishirou for the Total Bastard Crown when he attempted to saw Will’s skull open to eat his brain ✅

Sherlock bbc Mycroft/Lestrade: well, it’s a pair the favorite spares ship because bbc Johnlock never clicked for me. Too irritating. (Let me tell you, it made watching the fandom flail about queerbaiting an experience). It could theoretically be perfectly fluffy but it’s a bit difficult *not* to have a toxic relationship with British Government Bastard Mycroft -my favorite- in the mix ✅

Blahmood: Rpf with age gap, commitment issues and an allergy to labels? I bet some rando would weave the toxic flag pretty hard ✅

*I was mostly thinking by randos standards but…well, I like Fictional Bastards

#it was fun trying to remember old ships #I’m fairly sure I missed a few

[project1939]

Day 49- Film: Affair in Trinidad 

Release date: July 29th 

Studio: Columbia 

Genre: Noir 

Director: Vincent Sherman 

Producer: Vincent Sherman, Rita Hayworth 

Actors: Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, Alexander Scourby 

Plot Summary: Chris Emery is a nightclub singer living with her painter husband in Trinidad. One night at the club, the police come to tell her Neil has died. At first it seemed a suicide, but on greater investigation, the police suspect murder. One of Neil’s friends, the rich and mysterious Max Fabian, may have something to do with it. Chris agrees to help the police find out more information about Fabian. Then Neil’s brother Steve suddenly arrives, complicating everything. Especially when he and Chris start falling for each other. 

My Rating (out of five stars): *** 

This is a hard film to rate and discuss because everything is so mixed. There were things I liked about it, but lots of things I didn’t. Some things worked, but a lot didn’t. It was kind of a muddle. This was Rita Hayworth’s big return to Hollywood after four years of being married to an Italian Iranian Prince, so no stops were pulled trying to advertise this as her big comeback as a sex goddess. 

The Good: 

The sophisticated classy noir feel. This is probably the first noir on my list that falls into that more rare category. Most noirs are gritty and take place in dark dirty realistic places. But some noirs take place in exotic wealthy worlds, and this is one. I love gritty noirs, but the classy ones are a lot of fun too. 

The mystery at the core of everything. We learn in smaller bits and know there must be some political intrigue, but it still takes awhile to put everything together. (I think they did give one piece of information away a little too soon when we discover one of Fabian’s cronies did research on V2 rockets.) But the foreboding sense that something consequentially awful was at the center of everything was effective. 

Rita Hayworth’s body type again proving that Hollywood used to look at curvier women as the ultimate objects of desire. She’s not overweight, but she is definitely thicker than sexpot hotties today. And I love it. I find her body type much more attractive than the stick thin Hollywood types today. 

Valerie Bettis as Veronica Huebling. She was sassy and hilarious and about the only bright spot of light and life breathed into the film. 

The Bad: 

None of the main actors really captivated me. Rita Hayworth is of course gorgeous, but her acting was kind of all one-note. Glenn Ford is also lovely to look at, but he lacked charisma for me. Even Max Fabian as “the baddie” wasn’t that interesting. There wasn’t any character that really pulled me in. 

The lip synching. I hate dubbing in films where it’s really obvious, and this unfortunately was. It’s just distracting when it isn’t done well. 

The dancing. What was some of that stuff Rita Hayworth was doing? I’m no dance expert, but some of it was almost comedically weird. I think it was supposed to be wild and sexy, but it didn’t really come off for me. 

The romance between Hayworth and Ford as in-laws! I don’t really care that Chris was never really in love with Neil, it’s still off-putting to just start shacking up with his brother only a week or so after he died! 

Why did they name a major character Max Fabian only a year and a half after All About Eve swept the Oscars? When I watched this film I kept thinking, “Max Fabian... Max Fabian... wasn’t that the theatrical producer character in All About Eve?” It was. I just thought it was kind of weird to use the same character name from such a high-profile film. Maybe they didn’t realize it, I don’t know. 

#project1952 #1952 #project1952 day 49 #100 films of 1952 #rita hayworth

[thelazyhollow]

Just finished reading The Picture of Dorian Gray and now I kinda want to get a tattoo..of the entire book or maybe a quote or 2…I haven’t decided yet.

#Oscar Wilde died too soon #bookblr #book blog #bookish #aesthetic #books #currently reading #lgbt #dark academia #Oscar Wilde #dark academia aesthetic #dorian gray #the picture of dorian gray #literature #dark academia literature #dark academia books #tattoos #book quotes

[uhyeahmaybenoidk]

Part 2&3 of ‘I’ve connected the two dots’ the Gilded Age edition

I don’t like the intro. Way too much is happening out there for my taste.

Butlers are the only sane people in this show.

One of these days ladies will gang up on Marian. She is walking on thin ice.

The tea party was pure comedy. Nobody is subtle and Agnes is one step from murder.

Marian: I wish I understood what brings you to New York. Me: Girl, are you blind?

I love the ‘we like riling Agnes up’ club.

Listen I have nothing against Marian but please spice her up a bit. I have like no interest in her as separate character apart from potential love triangle. So far she looks to be a Mary Sue dressed in historical clothes. Honestly, Julian, you can do better.

On the other hand, I’m really intrigued by Peggy. Her past is a total mystery. Frankly speaking I know nothing about America of that period so I cannot tie whatever happened to her to any real life events that would explain why she needs a lawyer. That is why my totally wild and uneducated guess is that she married someone in Pennsylvania against her father’s will and now she’s like ‘oh shit that was a mistake but I won’t admit it to him’. Yep that’s a cliché and dumb theory. I know.

Mrs. Chamberlain is another intriguing character. She is married or she was married. Oh I have a theory! She is a widow who married a very rich but old man who died soon and after his death she got herself a toy boy or whatever they called it in 19th century. That does sound scandalous enough to make Anges’ blood boil, doesn’t it?

I have a question about the dress worn by Carrie Astor in the last scene: what the heck? Did she lose a bet and has to wear this atrocity for a week?

I kind of respect Mrs. Astor. Is she a snob? Yeah. Is she a clever snob though? Hell yeah.

Raise your hand if you don’t trust Tom Raikes. *raises hand*

I mean… yeah I get it sex before marriage is a taboo so if you want to get some, you need to put a ring on it and blah blah blah but dude seems to be too hasty with proposal even for a horny teenager, let alone grownup gentleman.

Agnes is right about him, isn’t she? I bet he is an opportunist indeed. However, what can a middle class lawyer get from this marriage? Money? Nah, Marian is penniless and he knows it. Social status? Eh it isn’t of much use for him.

Unless she isn’t penniless after all. Remember they were talking about shares in railroad companies or something like that which he claims are worthless? What if they are actually worth a freaking fortune?!

Will it have something to do with the station George Russell is about to build? Maybe. IDK. It sounds reasonable now but we’ll see.

I still want to giggle every time George Russell is mentioned.

That freaking maid… She is too clever to seduce George just for the sake of seducing him.

Is she planning to become his mistress? Bitch please. Bertha will twist her neck.

Is she planning to blackmail him? Bitch please. George will twist her neck.

Someone wake Larry up.

Dude, remember that blond neighbour you were flirting with? Yeah it’s time to act. Now!

Give Gladys a sock and set her free.

I seriously try to look at it from 19th century perspective but boy oh boy.

Option #1: Oscar van Rhijn. Is he the worst thing that can happen to a young lady? *remembers what was said about late Mr. van Rhijn* Probably not.

Option #2: whatever her mother planned for her. That one sounds like Gladys is about to be shipped to England and search for a husband with a title. It worked for Cora from DA but a long time ago I’ve read about those American heiress who ended up totally miserable as a result of it so that sounds scary…

Option #3: the boy she mentioned. Archie? I cannot remember the name. Anyway, as Agnes van Rhijn said: ‘sounds dull enough to be respectable.’

I feel for John Adams who lies there imagining quiet life with Oscar and their three corgis while Oscar goes on and on about money and how wonderful Gladys is.

Marian gets on my nerves. Seriously, I get it: she’s strong, fearless, modern woman and all that stuff. But it’s 19th century higher society for Pete’s sake and Marian acts like a time traveler from 21st century. She seems to have no control over her mouth and just says the first thing that comes to her head. In the company of the family it might be sassy and endearing but with strangers she sounds really dumb.

Like how many times can she ask why they don’t include Mrs. Russell? Does she expect that if she asks it a hundred times, they’ll get tired and give up? I really struggle to understand this character.

On paper her lines are clever, in action though… She ain’t one and only dowager countess of Grantham. Sorry not sorry. She’s just too young and her position in society isn’t high enough for her to speak her mind so freely in public.

Ada still creeps me out at times but I felt really sorry for her.

However, it’s one more proof that Agnes sees right though people.

Peggy doesn’t deserve this shit. Period.

I should have seen it coming, right? Yet I didn’t. I was so happy for her and ugh. I hope when she becomes a famous novelist, she’ll write in one of her books something like ‘Dear assholes from The Christian Advocate, screw you!’

‘Do you think we should kneel?’ line aged well.

I naturally disliked Patrick and Anne Morris. They deserved punishment for their actions but daaaamn not like that. I didn’t expect this show to go so far.

How many brain cells does Anne have? Zero?

Somehow Aurora Fane pisses me off even more than Anne.

The boy toy theory… yep I was an idiot.

#the gilded age #tga s01e02 #tga s01e03 #agnes van rhijn #ada brook #bertha russell #george russell #george russell (tga) #peggy scott #marian brook #gladys russell #oscar van rhijn #larry russell #tom raikes #sylvia chamberlain #aurora fane #mrs. astor #anne morris #carrie astor #caroline astor #turner #patrick morris #john adams

[bookishjules]

I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS

She acts like this is the most innocent thing.. she's trying to turn us away from the fact that ghosts stay for SPECIFIC things and people. Now, presuming this random golden retriever IS in fact Oscar Wilde...

Option 1: Oscar stayed behind to protect Matthew who was with him when Oscar passed

the wiki states that some spirits "simply choose their fate and decide themselves to stay in the world instead of passing over. Often times, these spirits do so to protect their loved ones."

the absolute sweetest and most golden retriever-like thing to do

sits nicely in my heart

he likes people = he likes matthew

(still concerned about why tf he would be at cirenworth but)

Option 2: Oscar died not knowing where Matthew was

Matthew would then have become Oscar's "object" that ties him to this world, because he will never be able to find him.

if oscar's ghost is still around, it means matthew never came back to cirenworth after he left

this either means the carstairs (presumably) living there also left soon after oscar died

or matthew died before oscar did and was therefore never able to return to his pup

perhaps matthew left oscar at cirenworth so that he would have a home while matthew went on some dangerous journey and never came back

he likes people = he likes matthew

i don't like this one as much at all

and why does this make me scared that mr. ghostie is the late matthew fairchild??

is it too much to hope that sobh is just about reuniting a boy and his dog?

#sobh #secrets of blackthorn hall #matthew fairchild #ghostie

[kazieka]

@a-swarm-of-crabs said Uhhh can I get an accidental Zoscar first kiss? Like oops sorry I didn't mean to to that it was a weird instinctual reaction, oh haha you're into it?

i’d like to apologize because this was supposed to be a little drabble and oops it’s 2,730 words long oh no

content warnings! alcohol as a coping mechanism, rqg spoilers, discussions of canon-typical violence, innuendo, and two really, really emotionally detached men

Zolf Smith is too many drinks deep in a Polish bar when Wilde finds him.

There’s no particular reason why Zolf is in Poland, other than that he didn’t want to be in Prague and he didn’t want to go back to England. He liked Poland. Damn near no one spoke English, so he couldn’t overhear any news. He didn’t want to. What would it change, if he overheard a man talking about a massacre in Prague, about some mercenaries that tried to help and failed and died? Zolf has enough grief to carry.

But by now the world is pleasantly blurry around the edges and his blood feels hot and full and the screaming memories of brains in vats and Sasha’s lungs in his bare shaking hands and Feryn’s dirt-muffled shouts start to fade into the background noise of fuzzy apathy. The barkeep is a dwarf — she doesn’t speak much Dwarven, but she speaks enough — and she’s looking at him with a professional frown that probably means she’s going to cut him off soon. Zolf asks for another round before she can make up her mind.

“Again whiskey?” she asks in thickly accented Dwarven.

“Please.” He puts his silver down before she can change her mind. His fingers are clumsy with it. He’s running low on cold coin, but he’s been avoiding the banks. He thinks about Hamid and about money and about Sir Fucking Bertrand and his mind trails off for a bit until the bartender sets the whiskey down in front of him. It’s lower quality than what she’s been serving him. She probably figures he’s drunk enough that he won’t notice or care, and she’s half right. He swallows a burning mouthful of it without complaint.

The door opens and lets in a thick sheet of rain. The barkeep shouts something in Polish that, if Zolf had to guess, was something along the lines of close the fucking door. The wave of damp, cold air sweeps over him for a moment and, pissed as he is, Zolf experiences a dizzying moment of feeling back at sea, with wet air on his face and the floor rocking beneath him and a trail of carnage and death behind him. He shuts his eyes and takes another swallow of shitty whiskey like it’s an antidote. It might as well be.

Zolf, he thinks in a voice that sounds a dreadful lot like Hamid, this isn’t sustainable.

Fuck off, he thinks to the Hamid in his head.

Mr. Smith, says a voice that sounds enragingly like Bertie, now isn’t this a state to be in, hmm? And in public, no less! Well, you know, dwarves are rather predisposed to ailments of this sort—

Zolf, says a voice that sounds like Sasha Rackett, are you listening?

“Fuck off,” he mumbles into the whiskey.

The barkeep looks at him warily, and then fires off a string of annoyed Polish. Zolf takes another swig of whiskey and is about to remind her he doesn’t fucking speak Polish when someone else speaks.

“Oh, good, you’re not busy.”

Zolf shuts his eyes. Oh, he’s nearly drunk enough for this, but not quite yet.

Oscar Wilde slides into the dwarf-sized chair next to Zolf, folding his legs out to the side to fit. “I need to talk to you,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

“I wouldn’t have had to teleport halfway across the planet to find you if I didn’t.”

Zolf continues staring straight ahead at the chipped and scratched bar surface. It spins in front of him.

“Zolf.” Wilde’s voice darkens. “Have you been paying attention? Have you heard about the riots? The fighting? Cairo?”

Zolf tips back his glass and drains the rest of the shitty whiskey in one go. The barkeep is eyeing them both with open suspicion now, her hands on her hips. He’s not getting another drink.

“Meritocratic rule is breaking down. Communications are compromised at best. Zolf, things are collapsing. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.”

Zolf snorts and weighs the odds of being able to storm out of the bar with his dignity intact. Probably not, if his swimming vision is anything to go by. Regardless, he slides out of the chair and takes a few seconds to adjust his balance. Between the whiskey in his blood and the legs he still hates — the density is all wrong, and gods, he can’t even kick a wall when he feels like it, it just splashes — he has to hold the edge of the bar for a minute.

By the time he’s got his balance sorted out, Wilde is already standing, too. “Go ask the lot that still works for you,” Zolf manages. “I’ve quit.”

“They’re gone.” It’s curt.

Zolf is too drunk and angry to care. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“You can get a scry at most apothecaries these days. And you aren’t being terribly careful at covering your tracks. Zolf, listen—“

Zolf turns to leave. He doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind other than out and away and just fuck off, Wilde.

Wilde, predictably, annoyingly, follows him. “Listen,” he says again, and that’s when Zolf whirls and lands a sucker punch in Wilde’s gut.

To his credit, Wilde takes the hit like a man and hardly even doubles over. He does take a minute to cough and gag, and Zolf takes the opportunity to stumble out the door and into the pouring rain.

He doesn’t get far before Wilde appears in the doorway behind him, still half-crumpled, and shouts “Hamid’s dead!”

Zolf stops.

“Hamid’s dead,” Wilde repeats, and even though he’s got Zolf’s attention he doesn’t stop shouting like he wants to tell everyone in Konin. “Bertie’s dead, Sasha’s dead, and, and — fuck, you don’t even know the others but they’re dead too, Zolf! They are gone! The world is ending, do you understand? It’s — it’s just me.” Wilde suddenly sags against the brick wall like his shouting was the only thing keeping him upright.

Zolf reels a little and tells himself it’s from the alcohol. His mind feels thick. “That’s,” he starts, and then stops. “Are you sure?”

Wilde laughs with an edge of hysteria loud enough to hear over the driving, stinging rain. “Am I sure — yes, Zolf, I’m sure. It’s been months.” He pauses. “They went to Rome.”

Rome. It echoes around Zolf’s sluggish brain like the doleful sound of a funeral bell. His pulse starts to pound. “They… you…” He stops, licks his lips. They taste like rainwater and shit whiskey. “You let them go to Rome?” And oh, something is hitting him, something like grief or rage or the gaze of Poseidon. “You sent them to Rome alone?” he shouts.

Wilde pushes off the brick wall, something wild and desperate in his flinty eyes, and rises to his full height like he’s about to grab Zolf by the throat, and then he stops and steps back and sinks into the brick again. “Yes,” he says faintly. “I did.”

Zolf sways a bit, unsure. He wasn’t expecting that. He struggles to think around the rolling waves in his head. The seawater that makes up his legs swirls in currents that try to keep him steady. He hates them for it. “There’s… right. Hang on a minute.” He shakes his head like a wet dog. “Barrett, he… gave Hamid that ring, di’nt he? I mean, fuck ‘im, but he might know—“

“Barrett’s in prison.” Wilde sounds hollow. “Grizzop gave him to the Artemis lot.”

“Who the fuck’s Grizzop?”

Wilde rubs his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

Zolf hesitates a moment, then moves to stand by Wilde, then leans against the brick wall with him. It’s cool and wet and soaks through his clothes instantly. (He’d sold the chain mail back in Dresden for hostel money.) Wilde’s hair is short. Much shorter than Zolf remembers it being. “Then — then what do you need me for?”

Wilde stares straight ahead at the sheets of rain. “Because I can’t think of anyone else.”

Zolf thinks for a long moment. “Right,” he says to stall for time. “Right. Okay. First off. Let’s get out of the sodding rain.”

Wilde’s mouth quirks in a way that isn’t a smile and isn’t a frown. “Was that a pun?”

“Shut up. I’m stayin’ nearby. It’s a shithole, but it’s got four walls and a roof.”

“You’ve not checked your bank accounts, have you?”

“Been trying not to use mercenary money.”

“You should. Hamid made sure you still got paid for the last job you did.”

Zolf tries very hard not to think about that. If he thinks too long about Hamid — beautiful, argumentative, spoiled little Hamid — he’s going to unravel. Of course Hamid would handle the money. Of course Hamid would die in Rome.

The rooms Zolf paid for are really just one room and a water closet that really is a closet. They’re both drenched from the walk, and as Zolf wrings out his beard, he expects Wilde to click his fingers and suddenly look immaculate. (Like Hamid did.) (Don’t think about Hamid.) (Don’t imagine Hamid wide-eyed and unseeing and broken and bloody and dead on the cursed sand of Rome.) (Don’t imagine Sasha split open on a table, her kidneys on one plate and her still-beating heart on another, her intestines held like a banner between several delicate pincers, don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it)

But Wilde doesn’t. He stands, dripping onto the bare floorboards, as bedraggled as Zolf’s ever seen him, and delicately shakes out his sleeves into an ever-expanding puddle. “I suppose a towel might be too much to ask,” he says.

“You can’t just magic it away?” Zolf asks. His tongue feels heavy.

Wilde laughs like it’s forced its way out of him and runs his hand over his sodden face. “Not anymore. I’m on a, uh. A bit of a magical sabbatical at the moment.”

Zolf turns that over in his mind a little and then muddlingly accepts it, nods, and fetches a passably clean towel from the water closet. “Right. You wanna. Start at the beginning? Prague?”

Wilde accepts the towel and stares past it at the floor. “Prague,” he repeats. It seems like all the fight has gone out of him. His too-short hair is still plastered to his skull, dripping. He shakes himself a little and scrubs the towel over his face. “Hell. Prague wasn’t even the bad bit. Bertie died there, but we won.” He turns the towel on his hair. “Hamid’s sister, too.”

“Ah.” Zolf doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t quite recall any of Hamid’s family’s names, but he knows Hamid was close to them. The whiskey makes his heavy tongue loose. “Death of a sibling, that’s rough, innit?”

Wilde’s hands clench on the towel. “It is,” he says after a moment.

The rain lashes the groaning windows in the silence.

Wilde dries himself to a seemingly acceptable level and then produces a bottle out of his damp coat. “I got this to share,” he says, “but I’ve changed my mind. This is for me. You’ve had enough. The girl at the bar told me to get you out before you passed out in the corner.”

“You shouldn’t call female dwarves girls,” Zolf mutters. “‘S offensive.”

“Noted.” Wilde uncorks the bottle with his teeth and takes a sip. “Prague, then.”

It only takes Wilde about two hours to tell the highlights. He’s tight-lipped about the goblin, and Zolf can’t be arsed to ask, but it’s over soon enough. They sit in silence as the rain pounds the glass. Wilde undoes his collar. The bottle is half empty and his eyes are bright and Zolf wonders if Wilde is having some sort of breakdown, because that’s sort of what’s been driving Zolf all over Europe and it’s what drove him to a shitty dwarven bar in Konin.

“Huh,” says Zolf instead of saying any of that.

“Yeah,” says Wilde. He stretches his legs and takes a lazy sip of vodka. “I got orders that didn’t make sense, and, you know? I just left. The Meritocrats are scattered or cowering or compromised or whatever-the-hell. So I fucked out of there. Found Einstein. And now, I’m just…” Wilde makes a vague gesture with the hand holding the bottle. “Trying. My best. There’s… there’s something in Japan, I think, but I don’t know, and I can’t do it on my own, and I don’t have a team anymore, Zolf, it’s just me, and I didn’t go with them to Rome, I barely even remember most of Damascus, there’s just fuzzy… bits, you know? You know, when… when you’ve not slept in eight days an’ the shadows are all moving?”

“Yeah,” says Zolf, because he does.

“I was going to go with them. I was.” Wilde sniffs, and Zolf realizes he’s dangerously close to tears. “But I just. I wasn’t thinking right. I don’t remember when Grizzop took me to the temple for healing. I know they cut my hair. But I don’t remember any of it. I never thanked him. I called him an it, you know? Just to be cheeky. I didn’t…” Wilde stops there and stares down at the bottle, looking lost in thought.

Zolf draws a deep breath and levers himself off of the wobbly stool. “Go on, then, scoot over,” he says, gruffer than he means to.

Wilde scoots without complaint. Zolf sits beside him and smoothly snatches the vodka from Wilde’s loose hands. “Listen,” he says, choosing his words as carefully as he can with the alcohol still buzzing through his head. “I’m not… I’m not an asset anymore, Wilde. I’m not a cleric. I’m done with Poseidon, an’ he’s done with me. I mean, sure I’m still a fair hand with polearms, but I’m not… I’m not useful.”

Wilde heaves a sigh and flings an arm around Zolf’s shoulders with the heavy carelessness of half a bottle of vodka. “Zolf,” he says in a very pompous way that reminds Zolf uncomfortably of Bertie, “I am exquisite at my job. I am a scion. A legend. I am the apex predator of my line of work.”

“Oh, get to the point.”

“My point is that I didn’t pick you and your team because I thought you were the best cleric the world has ever seen,” Wilde says with the easy honesty of the pissed. “I picked you ‘cos—“

“Because Bertie was the only top you could find?”

Wilde swats at Zolf’s head with the hand that isn’t slung round his shoulders. “Shut up, Smith. I picked you ‘cos you’ve got heart and balls in spades.”

“You’d better not know a gods-damn thing about my balls.”

Wilde laughs at that. Not a forced one and not one that sounds like a bark of pain, but a surprised and easy bubbling-up that pulls at something in Zolf’s chest. “You’re such a dick,” says Wilde. And he leans over to plant a kiss in Zolf’s hair.

Zolf turns at just the wrong moment.

It’s accidental and he tastes like vodka and rain, but Wilde makes a soft sound of surprise against Zolf’s mouth, and then he doesn’t pull back, and Zolf thinks very hard for moment about whether he wants to — or should? — before he gently eases back.

“Er,” he says.

“Ah,” says Wilde.

“I, didn’t mean—“

“Neither did I,” Wilde says. He lets go of Zolf’s shoulder. His eyes are bright and his hair is drying in wild waves and Zolf can’t look away.

“I just,” says Zolf.

“No, I know, I wasn’t—“

“Right, yeah.” Think about Sasha. Think about Hamid. Think about Bertie, gods, anything other than vodka and rain and waves of dark hair that would feel so soft under his hands.

Wilde looks away. His leg bounces. The shackle around his ankle clinks a little with it. Something’s changed in the air between them. Zolf can’t quite tell what. But he sets his jaw and thinks of Sasha split open from chest to hip and thinks of Wilde explaining what a botched resurrection means and even though Zolf knows it wasn’t his doing there’s still a horribly familiar tingling of guilt stirring in the back of his mind.

Zolf says, “Then let’s go to Japan.”

#lindsey shut up #oh i love..... Them....... #zoscar #rqg #rusty quill gaming #zolf has so much GRIEF it makes him DELICIOUSLY fun to write #rqg fic

[hellandholywater]

A Midnight Clear

It's Christmas Eve, 1896, and all Aziraphale wants is to read his book in peace. His plans are thwarted when he receives a special assignment, but a long-missed demonic visitor appears and sidesteps the Arrangement to grant Aziraphale's wish. In the end, the angel finds that all he wants is his demon back at his side, but where is Crowley?

Aziraphale/Crowley Rated: Teen & up 4k words

Read on ao3

Many thanks to my beta readers, @chiaroscuroverse​ and @wordsintimeandspace​, for making this story so much better than it would have been. I’ve made a number of changes since they’ve seen it, and any errors of style or substance are my own.

Part of the @go-july-celebration​

London, Soho, 1896

A knock came at the door of A.Z. Fell & Co. for the thirteenth time that evening. It was Christmas Eve — a night for peace and goodwill towards men — but after his reading had been interrupted by twelve groups of carolers, each increasingly intoxicated and off-key, even an angel might lose his temper, and this one had. The sign on the door clearly indicated that the bookshop was closed for the night.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet and stormed to the door, unlocked it and yanked it open, seething, intending to give this latest batch of warbling merry-makers a large and vivid piece of his mind. 

"Now, see here!" he began, but his next words came to a sudden, guttural stop. 

"Gabriel!" he choked as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "And Sandalphon … what a lovely surprise!" Aziraphale stepped back abruptly and flung an arm out to invite them inside. He tried to wring the venom from his planned anti-caroling tirade and inject a bit of enthusiasm in his greeting to the Archangel and his underling, rather than the unmitigated panic he was feeling. He hadn't seen either of them for decades, and his mind raced trying to puzzle out why they were here in his bookshop now. 

Gabriel smirked at him as he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and handed it to Sandalphon, whose metallic teeth glinted as he smiled insincerely at the Principality. 

"Calm down, Aziraphale!" boomed Gabriel, as if speaking to an audience in a large hall rather than the bookshop. "It's Christmas Eve! You should be celebrating the occasion, not shouting at people. What kind of angel are you?" he said, throwing up his arms in scornful emphasis. 

At this, Sandalphon let out a chortle that spoke more of schadenfreude than good cheer. Gabriel smiled at him indulgently, making Aziraphale feel slightly ill. 

"I do apologize," Aziraphale said, trying to resist the sarcastic tone he felt like interjecting. "It won't happen again. But, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" 

At this, Gabriel sobered, and he clasped his shoulder firmly. "Aziraphale, I have a special assignment for you."

"Oh?" The angel raised his brow and pasted on a smile, doing his best to look intrigued rather than indisposed. 

Gabriel continued as if he hadn't noticed Aziraphale at all, which he probably hadn't. (Sandalphon had noticed, however, and shot his fellow angel a rather nasty grimace.) "You're aware, of course, that Frederick Temple was recently nominated Archbishop of Canterbury?" 

"Ye-es, I thought I'd heard something to that effect."

"Well? Temple's participation in Essays and Reviews was nothing short of heresy! And here he is being rewarded for it with the highest religious office in England!" 

"Yes, yes. Terrible," said Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. He’d thought the essays rather funny, but he didn’t want to appear to disagree with the Archangel.

"Aziraphale…." Gabriel intoned deliberately and with more than a hint of condescension. "Did you even read the essays? Denying that true prophecies exist — refusing the very possibility of miracles — even questioning the eternal nature of damnation!" he scoffed, shaking his head. 

Sandalphon glared at Aziraphale as if he were personally responsible for writing and publishing the heretical texts, and nodded slowly. 

Aziraphale winced. "Yes, of course I've read them," he said, hoping fervently his irritation with Gabriel didn't show. "I can't say I find much to agree with in them."

"Duh!" said Gabriel. "And Temple's little writer friends hold too much sway with him. He's starting to have doubts of his own. That's why I want you to prepare a visitation for him, before he's officially installed as Archbishop. Remind the old boy of the divine power of Heaven."

"You mean…."

"Yes. The halo, the wings, the heavenly vestments — the whole nine yards."

"But…on Christmas Eve?" Aziraphale asked, thinking longingly of his abandoned reading. 

"What better time?" said Gabriel. 

"I suppose you're right," Aziraphale said as agreeably as he could manage, under the circumstances. 

"Of course I am! Now, hop to it, Aziraphale," Gabriel smiled, exchanging a toothy grin with Sandalphon. "I look forward to reading your report."

"Er, yes, quite," Aziraphale said as he showed the two angels to the door, and bolted it shut behind them as soon as he dared. 

His shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to a ruined evening. He went to his section on religion in England to locate the book with Temple's essay, in order to refresh his memory before he confronted the man.

* * *

A few minutes later, there came another knock. Beyond frustrated with the way his evening was going, and frazzled by the Archangel's visit, Aziraphale stomped to the door, unbarred it, and flung it open. 

"I'm not interested!" he started to shout at the fourteenth interruption of the night. The words died in his throat as he recognized the interloper. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said with a swirling mix of shock, relief, and something he couldn't quite identify. Something that hollowed out his chest and filled his stomach with butterflies. 

"Aziraphale," said Crowley quietly. "I know it's been a while," he started, but stopped abruptly as he found himself being hauled bodily into the bookshop.

Aziraphale poked his head out of the door and quickly looked from side to side. Satisfied, he withdrew and closed the door, the bell at the top ringing with finality as he locked and bolted the door. He turned around. 

"It's been 34 years, you great pillock! Not one word in all that time," Aziraphale accused. 

"I've been asleep. I'm sorry," Crowley apologized, sounding genuinely contrite.

“Asleep! For 34 years?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “Yeah. Well, after our last meeting, I was feeling sort of … melancholy. And I sleep a lot when I get like that.”

“Oh, Crowley….”

“It’s not a big deal. I just…I woke up today and thought I’d stop by, all right?”

Aziraphale just stared at him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. Crowley was attired in a Homburg and black top coat over a black suit with dark red lapels. He was nearly clean shaven, with just neatly trimmed sideburns remaining. He was as dashing and handsome as ever. 

Crowley doffed his hat and set it on the counter. Aziraphale began to pace the floorboards. 

"What is it? What's the matter, Angel?" Crowley said in concern. "I really am sorry," he said emphatically. 

"Oh no, it's not you, dear boy. I just had a visit from Gabriel."

"Gabriel! What did he want?" 

"He wants me to appear to the new Archbishop — Temple — in full regalia, wings, halo and all. Tonight!"

"Ha!" Crowley started to laugh, then thought better of it. "An Angel of the Lord visiting, well … anyone these days, is hard to come by. What brought this on, then?" 

"There was a book he contributed an essay to, years ago, that had some rather … heretical content."

"Ahhh … the Essays and Reviews."

"You know it?" Aziraphale said in surprise. He narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you don't read?" 

"I don't! I … skim," Crowley admitted. "Besides, that book is well known down in Hell. Top ten humor book since it was published. But Temple's piece isn't so bad. Why did Gabriel order a visitation for it?" 

"Gabriel is concerned that Temple's friends may hold undue influence over him. Seeding heresy."

Crowley shook his head. "Guilt by association. And the church on the verge of a schism. It's no wonder the humans are leaving it these days." 

"I'm sure that's just a temporary anomaly," said Aziraphale, sounding not very sure at all. 

"Right. Well, I suppose I'd better go and leave you to it," said Crowley. But he didn't move, and Aziraphale was heartened. 

"I was so looking forward to reading Dickens tonight…." He glanced coyly at Crowley for a moment, then quickly looked away. 

Crowley smirked at Aziraphale, then sighed quietly. "I suppose I could do the angel visitation bit for you," he proposed. 

"Oh, would you?" 

"'Course I would.”

"Thank you, Crowley!" Aziraphale smiled, reaching out to grasp the demon's shoulder in gratitude. He lingered for a few seconds, holding Crowley's gaze, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and withdrew. 

Crowley gave a barely visible shiver when the angel removed his hand, and Aziraphale wondered if he'd caught a draft. He was so sensitive to the cold. 

"Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, pulling a suspiciously book-shaped, festively wrapped package from inside his coat. He held it out towards Aziraphale. 

"Little Christmas present for you, Angel."

Aziraphale reached out and took it, grinning in delight. 

"Crowley! But I don't have anything for you," he said regretfully. 

"'S' alright, Aziraphale. It was my pleasure." Crowley gave it to him with a wistful smile. 

"May I open it?" 

"Please."

Aziraphale tugged on the end of the ribbon and set it loose, then carefully unwrapped the paper. It was indeed a book, housed in a red Morocco-backed slipcase, its spine lettered in gilt, with red cloth sides and chemise. Aziraphale tilted the slipcase and removed the white book, the stamped red and black design of the cover proclaiming it one of Oscar Wilde's most beloved works. 

"The Happy Prince and Other Tales?" 

Crowley nodded. "First edition, of course."

"Well! This is a lovely gift. The Selfish Giant has always been one of my favorite stories of his. Poor Oscar…. I do already have a first edition, but of course, another copy is always welcome!"

"This one's inscribed," said Crowley with an inscrutable smile. 

Aziraphale opened the book to the title page and read:

Aziraphale, my dear friend. May this book bring you as much joy as you have brought me. You're an absolute angel. ~Oscar Wilde, 1896

Aziraphale looked up and stared at Crowley open-mouthed, turned back the book in wonder, then set it down next to Crowley's Homburg. "You didn't!" Aziraphale said in disbelief. "He's in Reading Gaol, isn't he? How did you …?" 

Crowley smiled genuinely for the first time that night. "Richard B. Haldane, liberal MP and reformer, has been visiting Oscar from time to time, appealing for improved conditions for him. I simply impersonated Haldane and they let me in to see him."

"But… he can't have been in a mood to sign autographs — how did you get him to sign this for me?" Aziraphale said in amazement. 

"Oh, I took him some books and writing materials he hasn't been allowed. Convinced the warden it would be in his best interests to let him have them."

Aziraphale shook his head, then looked at Crowley as if he'd never seen him before. "You went to all that trouble for me?" 

Crowley just smiled crookedly. "It was no trouble," he said, and then, softly, "I'd do anything for …," he choked back the final word, biting his lip, but it didn't matter. He might have been confessing his every sin, the way the unspoken end of that sentence rang in the silence. 

Aziraphale was stunned. He needed to say something, to tell Crowley that he felt the same way, but he hadn't expected this revelation, and he just wasn't good at change. What did Crowley expect? What was he hoping for from Aziraphale? 

Crowley cleared his throat, stepped forward to reach for his hat, and suddenly he was in Aziraphale's arms. He froze for a moment, then he hugged the angel back quite desperately. They had rarely touched over the centuries, and never before had there been… whatever this was, with Aziraphale's hands fisted in the back of his coat and their heartbeats separated only by a few layers of cloth and thin corporations. They stayed like that for a long time, the seconds ticking by into minutes, and gradually relaxed into each other. 

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said breathily into Crowley's neck. 

Crowley let a stifled moan escape him. 

Aziraphale responded with a sharp intake of breath. But he didn't let go. 

Slowly, Crowley straightened and withdrew. 

"I should go — get started on that visitation before it gets too late," he said reluctantly. 

Aziraphale was sure he was looking at Crowley with darkened eyes, and he was dangerously close to telling him to stay, to forget about the incoming Archbishop. 

Instead, the moment passed, and Crowley put his hat on and turned to go. His hand was on the doorknob when he was stopped in his tracks by Aziraphale's hand covering his.

"Wait," said Aziraphale softly. 

Crowley waited, holding his breath. 

"When you're done with Temple, will you come back here?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, 'course I will… if you want," he murmured. 

Aziraphale's hand squeezed his gently and then let go. 

"It's been far too long, dear boy. I… I'll see you when you return," Aziraphale said as firmly as he could manage.

"I'll be back before you know it," Crowley said. And he disappeared into the night and the fog. 

* * *

Aziraphale returned to his desk and tried to resume his reading of A Christmas Carol, but he was distracted, thinking about Crowley. He thought about his utterly perfect gift, and the visitation tonight that was so far outside of the Arrangement, Aziraphale couldn't see it as anything but another gift. 

He knew, on some level, how Crowley felt about him, but it had been more of a vague sense of love that radiated off of him. He'd never heard him use words the way he'd done tonight. "It was no trouble. I'd do anything for…," and, "'course I will… if you want," swirled in his mind, and warmed him from the inside out. 

He flushed as he thought about how beautiful Crowley was, his crooked almost-smile, his kindness, and how right it felt to hold him. And he thought about the way his stomach swooped just from touching his hand.

By 10 o' clock he'd abandoned Dickens in favor of Wilde, and at a quarter past 10, he began pacing the floorboards in front of the door, stopping every so often to peer out the window and watch for Crowley's return. 

He needed something to do to stop him from flying out the door in search of his demon. 

He got out two bottles of claret, and set them on his desk, then summoned a stockpot with a snap of his fingers. Another snap brought a bowl of oranges, a cup of sugar, a small cutting board and grater, and an assortment of mulling spices to the counter. 

Aziraphale studded the oranges with whole cloves and set four of them in a shallow pan. He opened the door of the cast iron stove, stoked the fire with a few pieces of split wood, and balanced the pan of oranges on top. After grating a quarter of the nutmeg, and peeling the ginger and slicing it thinly, he set the spices aside. He peeked inside the oven, sighed and snapped his fingers again, removed the pan of fully roasted oranges and set them on top of the stove. 

Aziraphale uncorked both bottles, poured the wine into the pot, and set it on the wood stove to start heating while he carefully cut the hot oranges and squeezed the juice into a tall mug. He added the sugar and spices to the claret and cleaned up the mess as he waited for the mixture to simmer. 

The angel sat down with Wilde and tried to read, but was unable to concentrate, glancing at the door every few seconds. Sighing, he got up and put a record on the gramophone, and started to tidy his piles of books, adding his resonant baritone to the choir of St. Paul's Cathedral as they sang:

It came upon a midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men, From heaven's all-gracious King." The world in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing.

Aziraphale strained out the spices, added the orange juice and stirred, sniffing the fragrant steam appreciatively. He closed his eyes as the song came to a close. 

For lo!, the days are hastening on, By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold

When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.

When he opened his eyes again he noticed an ornament that was askew on the bookshop’s small Christmas tree. He straightened the ornament, and checked the rest of them while he was at it. The gold-sequined star on top of the tree gleamed.

The angel moved the steaming pot of mulled wine to a large trivet. He ladled two cups of the concoction into mugs and snapped a light miracle on them to keep them piping hot. 

As cozy as it was in the bookshop, Aziraphale felt uneasy. He checked the clock again, sighed and shook his head. It was nearly midnight. It wasn't like Crowley to take so long on a job. What if something had happened to him? It would be all Aziraphale's fault! 

The angel puttered around the shop, reshelving books and dusting everything in sight, though nothing needed it. He had worked himself into quite a state by the time the door opened, ringing the bell. He startled, and turned around to see Crowley slipping inside the bookshop. The fog had dissipated for once, and the clear night let in a crisp draft of air with a hint of snow. 

"Crowley!" he exclaimed, hurrying forward. 

"Hello Aziraphale!" Crowley grinned. His grin faded, replaced by a blissful expression, as Aziraphale hugged him tightly. 

"I'm so relieved you're back! It went well, then?" He drew back to look at Crowley. With one hand, he locked and then bolted the door. 

"Yeah, it went… surprisingly well," he started, but was struck silent when Aziraphale took his cold hand in his warm, soft ones, and led him to the sofa next to his desk. Crowley sat down, and Aziraphale, instead of sitting at the desk as he'd done every other time in the last century, sat next to him. He didn't let go of Crowley's hand, but rested it on his thigh. 

"Ngk," said Crowley, flushing beautifully. 

Aziraphale pressed a glass of the mulled wine into Crowley's hands, then picked up his own. "Tell me what happened, my dear. Why were you gone so long?"

Crowley nodded, taking a sip of the sweet, hot liquid gratefully. 

"Well, I took a cab to the residence of the Archbishop, and waited for the horses to trot off, and for quiet to settle there. I miracled myself into angelic robes and unfurled my wings, and cast a glamour on them to make them appear white. And then I popped into Temple's chamber with a burst of light."

Aziraphale hung on his every word as he described Temple's shock. 

"I thought he was going to have a heart attack, at first," Crowley continued. "He'd been reading in bed. He grabbed at his chest with one hand — very dramatic, it was. If he'd been wearing pearls, he'd have clutched them," he laughed. 

Aziraphale laughed, too, and squeezed Crowley's hand. He didn't let go. 

Crowley paused, taking a deep breath. "We wound up having an interesting chat about science and religion, actually," he said. "I sort of forgot why I was there. Sorry about that, Angel," Crowley apologized. He took a swig of the mulled wine. 

"I'll think of something to tell Gabriel," Aziraphale assured him.

"This isn't Smoking Bishop, but it's close," Crowley said curiously. "What is it?" 

"Oh — it's made with claret instead of port. Little creation of mine. I'm calling it, 'Smoking Archbishop,'" Aziraphale said proudly. 

Crowley cheerfully toasted the angel's ingenuity, taking another swallow of his invention and gazing at him fondly, his glowing golden eyes just visible through his dark lenses. 

Aziraphale preened under Crowley's attention, fluttering his eyes at him, and took a large sip of punch. "I'm just glad you're all right," he said insistently. "I shouldn't have sent you. It was an indulgence, so I could read, and I was too distracted worrying about you to enjoy it for long," he fussed, too caught up in his self-flagellation to notice his confession. 

Crowley brought their joined hands to his lips and brushed a kiss over Aziraphale's knuckles. 

Aziraphale blew out a sharp breath. 

"Angel, I'm fine. It's all right. It was a lark, to be honest. I had fun."

"But…you shouldn't spoil me so," Aziraphale fretted. 

"I don't mind," Crowley said roughly. 

"Well… Anyway, thank you," Aziraphale said, his voice like warm honey.

Crowley visibly melted. "Nggyeah," he babbled. "I…," he stopped speaking as Aziraphale brought his hand to his chest. Crowley gasped. Aziraphale was sure that, even through multiple layers of cloth, Crowley must be able to feel his heartbeat tripping under his fingers. 

"My dear…," Aziraphale started breathily, but the rest of his words got stuck in his throat as Crowley removed his hat, set it aside, and ran his free hand through his hair. His sunglasses followed, set down next to the Homburg. 

He looked straight at Aziraphale, and cupped his cheek in his hand, all of his defenses down. 

Aziraphale was thunderstruck. He felt so much love radiating from the demon, it was a miracle he'd ever been able to keep it cloaked from him all this time. Aziraphale felt as if he was going to discorporate on the spot. When he didn't, he turned his head to the left, and kissed Crowley's palm. 

Crowley managed a small, "Hnnggh," and dared to stroke Aziraphale's cheekbones with his thumb.

Aziraphale closed his eyes in bliss for a moment, then, unconsciously parting his lips, he leaned forward. Crowley's mouth met his with a softness and tenderness that would have shocked the demons of Hell. 

Crowley brought his other hand up, framing Aziraphale's face with his fingers. He deepened the kiss until the angel moaned. 

Aziraphale brought his hands up to Crowley's head, sliding his fingers through soft red hair. He ran his fingers around to the back of his head, pulling him closer, a frisson of excitement sparking through his body like fireworks. 

Crowley slid his hands down to the angel's shoulders and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer still. Aziraphale matched him breath for breath, kiss for kiss. From a church nearby, there came a chime, followed by twelve bells.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and drew back to see a dazed expression on Crowley’s face. 

"It's Christmas. Merry Christmas, Aziraphale," Crowley breathed. 

"Merry Christmas, darling." Aziraphale grinned. 

"I love you," Crowley whispered fiercely. 

Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath, then let it whoosh out again as he drew the demon's unresisting body close. 

"Oh Crowley … I love you, too," Aziraphale said shakily.

They settled back onto the sofa in each other's arms, and Aziraphale reached for his mug. Crowley picked up his own and held it aloft. 

"To… to Gabriel for being an utter bastard, for giving you the assignment that finally brought us together."

Aziraphale pursed his lips and raised his eyebrow, and Crowley looked uncomfortable. The angel relented with a giggle. 

"To new beginnings," he suggested with a smile. 

"To new beginnings," Crowley echoed, and raised his mug.

Outside the bookshop, snow began to fall. Aziraphale noticed the fluffy flakes out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to watch them fall. He turned back to Crowley, eyes shining brightly. 

"Snow, in London! It's a Christmas miracle!" he exclaimed. 

"Nonsense. It's going to inconvenience tons of people. They won't be able to see their families for Christmas dinner. Got to be one of ours.”

"Oh really?" Aziraphale smirked. "It wouldn't do for me to let you go home in this dreadful weather. You'll have to stay the night."

"I take it back, it's a miracle," Crowley intoned. 

Aziraphale beamed at his demon.

#good omens #good omens fic #christmas fic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale/crowley #christmas fluff #go-july-celebration #gojulycelebration #good omens july celebration #good omens july #mutual pining #romantic fluff #good omens fanfic #I wrote this

[agentnico]

The Suicide Squad (2021) Review

This may be the better of the two, but the first Suicide Squad film will always hold the crown for managing to win an Oscar... somehow.

Plot: The government sends the most dangerous supervillains in the world -- Bloodsport, Peacemaker, King Shark, Harley Quinn and others -- to the remote, enemy-infused island of Corto Maltese. Armed with high-tech weapons, they trek through the dangerous jungle on a search-and-destroy mission, with only Col. Rick Flag on the ground to make them behave.

“So that’s it, huh? We’re some kind of suicide squad?” says Will Smith in the original first film, with the line in itself being a poor attempt at a fourth wall break, yet, that movie never reached that promise of being a true Suicide Squad film. Because hardly anyone died, and as a whole David Ayer’s film was a generic mess, regardless of studio interference or not. In comes James Gunn from Marvel, who seems to have cracked the code for how to bring this comic book series to live action in proper gratuitous form, with even the ‘The’ in the title symbolizing that this is the one!

I remember going to see the first Guardians of the Galaxy film at the cinema, and back then I was still only just getting acquainted with watching western media, and that included superhero films. Heck my first ever Marvel movie was Thor: The Dark World! I know, what a banger to start with.......NAAAWT!! Anyway, I went to see Guardians and it was one of the first superhero films I came out of feeling like I truly witnessed something special. It had action, comedy and a good heart to it, and wouldn’t you know, my good old pal James Gunn was behind that flick. I don’t know why I called him my good old pal, I don’t even know the fella. Except in my dreams, but we don’t talk about that. So, flashforward to Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, which I absolutely hated, and for that movie I’m pretty sure Marvel gave Mr Gunn mostly full reigns of creative freedom, as long as he kept it family friendly, and the result was a mess. Hence naturally now I was really sceptical when James Gunn ended up at Warner Bros. following the controversial moment when cancel culture decided to aim it’s slimy fingers at him, as he was given directing and writing duties for this new The Suicide Squad film, and also it was heavily insinuated that Warner Bros. basically told him he could do with the movie whatever the f*** he wanted, excuse my French. And we remember how it panned out last time when James Gunn was given a lot of creative freedom. 

Flashforward to present day; here I am wondering and scratching my head thinking what in the heavens has happened, as by golly I am happy to report that The Suicide Squad is a total winner and a blast with a capital B - Blast! Gosh goodness golly goblin, this movie is so much fun from beginning to end. Right from the opening sequence you know that this film isn’t holding back any punches. It’s going at a 447.19 km/h speed of a Koenigsegg Agera RS crashing through any barriers like it’s nothing. Speaking of the opening sequence, it establishes why the movie is called what it’s called from the get-go. You straight away are proven how not a single character is safe, minus the obvious one that we know who it is, as there ain’t no way Warner Bros. would have allowed James Gunn to kill off that one character. But besides that person, everyone else feels like they could die at any given moment. That’s really a big charm of it, as it is frustrating how in many superhero films, let alone any blockbuster action flicks, so many characters always feel so safe and unstoppable, no matter how many times they get shot or how many buildings crash down upon them. And yes, this movie features a certain CGI character that constantly gets that treatment and survives, although it’s very self aware in that regard and is purposefully humoristic. But overall the entire set of characters feel easily disposable, and so so many of them die in such gruesome fashion, so indeed don’t get attached, as they don’t. 

Speaking of which, this movie is hardcore gory! You see limbs and intestines flying round left and right, a guy gets ripped in half by a humanoid shark, another’s face gets teared off by a shotgun bullet and so on forth in all kinds of gruesome fashion. Visually this is one for the big screen, as here’s the thing: you’re either a mummy’s boy or you grow some cojones and go see a man’s heart get stabbed with a piece of debris glass in 4K high rate definition! Your choice! Oh, and it’s not just the violence, also the cinematography and the practical set pieces all look incredible. This is easily James Gunn’s best looking movie. The entire think LOOKS incredible!

We also have to talk about the cast, as they are all great! There literally isn’t a single weakling among them. Each one, no matter how big or small their role is, brings something to the table. I can’t talk about all of them, as we’d be here all day, so I’m simply going to mention a few of the stand-outs. Idris Elba comes in to replace Will Smith as a character called Bloodsport, who is in some ways a different character but evidently is a replacement of Smith’s. But that’s no bad thing, as with any ensemble movie you still need a main character to latch onto and have an emotional hook towards, and he is that character. In fact, I’d say he’s arguably better than Will Smith in the last movie, or at least he seems to be having more fun here. He works as a solid leading man, however what works even more is his banterous competitive genital-size-measuring back and forth with John Cena’s Peacemaker, who by the way is awesome as that character. He is not a good character, in fact he is as bad as a bad guy can get, especially cause he’s someone who believes that what he is doing is right, making him much more of a dangerous wild card. This is easily John Cena’s best role, with him adding to the comedy one-liners, but also delivering such an interesting character who I’m looking forward to seeing more of in his standalone spin-off show confirmed for next year. Oh, and he wears a toilet helmet on his head which he defines as “a beacon of freedom” which says it all. We also have returning characters from the last film Joel Kinnaman and Viola Davis as Rick Flag and Amanda Waller respectively, and both are given much more room to stretch their talents and spread their beautiful acting wings like the Hollywood angels that they are. Kinnaman’s Rick Flag is the moral compass of the group, as even though Elba is our main guy, he’s nonetheless a villain still, whilst Flag is a genuinely good guy and what is defined as a true American hero, to which Kinnaman fits the part well. And Viola Davis as Amanda Waller is on an absolutely different level. You can tell she’s an Academy Award winner through and through, as she plays such a serious character in an otherwise goofy movie, and so her presence is felt and it is felt BAD! She’s such a despicable yet intimidating personality and she gravitates all of the screen presence to herself. Margot Robbie returns as Harley Quinn, and she gets even more chance to develop this character that she’s played in multiple DCEU films now, and as per usual the Harley Quinn shtick works well for her, though I do kind of wish she didn’t always get all the attention. Look, I think she’s a fun character and Robbie plays her well, however she’s constantly used to overshadow others in these films which I don’t think is too fair, and its evident as ever in this film too. Anyway, the remainder of the cast including Jay Courtney as Captain Boomerang, David Dastmalchian as Polka-Dot Man, Michael Rooker as Savant, Nathan Fillion as TDK, Daniela Melchior as Ratcatcher 2 (who gave me strong A Plague Tale: Innocence vibes) and many more all play villains, but villains that don’t have particularly great superpowers. This is where the tragedy of Task Force X as a team plays a part, as many of these villains aren’t even good at being villains. They are useless, and the movie is really self aware of this and so treats all characters as they should be. Dare I also not forget to mention the CGI characters in this film, with both Weasel and King Shark being absolute scene stealers! 

The Suicide Squad is the type of wham-bam-thank-you-mam batshit crazy entertainment which exists for the pure reasons of fun. It doesn’t set out to be the best superhero film ever, nor does it need to be. It’s an exhilarating, shocking, funny and amusing ride from beginning to end, with the energy never stopping, and is easily the best time I’ve had with a comic-book film in a long while, and I’m even talking about before COVID! Do yourself a favour and watch this one as soon as you can, as I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - The Suicide Squad is a BLAST!!

Overall score: 9/10

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