It had taken them less than thirty minutes to go from the Rizla game to just asking each other random questions. The only celebrities that Sherlock knew were nineteenth-century chemists and twentieth-century criminals, which had more or less spoiled the game, and Sherlock had declared it pointless.
Then he suggested Yes or No, which at least required some deductive reasoning, and John agreed. But Sherlock was very good at this game, having deduced nearly everything about John in the first days of their acquaintance. Without asking any question, he deduced that John would choose violin, a human liver, Mrs Hudson’s nephew, and Sherlock’s old mouse-coloured dressing gown.
John gives up. “Fine. What don’t you know about me?”
Do you love her is a real question, he gathers— from the look on Sherlock’s face, which is serious and a bit sad.
The answer, which should be yes, of course I love her, instead comes out, “I’m marrying her.”
“People marry for reasons other than—“ Sherlock stops, appearing to realise he is going in a direction that can only lead to bad feelings. “Sorry, not a fair question. Better: When did you know that you loved her?”
He remembers grief. The intense pain of the days after he saw Sherlock die on the sidewalk in front of Barts. There are few details he can recall after that moment. It was as if the pain had receded just enough to let him breathe, and a kind of grey fog had descended. Pain, then sorrow.
Somewhere during the sorrow part, Mary had appeared. She may have been there sooner, but he hadn’t noticed. At some point he became aware of her bringing him coffee, talking to him, urging him to come out for lunch. Always there, cheerfully bullying him back into life. Eventually he noticed that he wasn’t quite as sad, and that she was rather pretty.
But the pain was still there, a tender spot in his memory, and most days he still felt defeated. Mary helped, though, and he thought that if she stayed, everything would be easier. He didn’t need to explain; she understood. He could keep the memories at bay when she was around.
By then he was having sex with her. He didn’t remember exactly how that had begun. Maybe it was a pity fuck one night when he’d had too much to drink. He woke up in her bed hungover, waiting for the darkness to descend like a weight on his chest, and she was there, making him a cup of tea, urging him to have some toast, sweetly solicitous and not accepting any excuses.
Does he love her?
Sherlock is still looking at him, the question in his eyes.
“She was there when I needed someone,” he says. “I just knew.”
He’d known that morning that he needed to move on, to leave what had happened in the past and live his life. And there she was.
“Your turn,” Sherlock says.
John thinks of all the things he’s ever wanted to know about Sherlock, but has never asked because it has never seemed a good time. Sherlock has a way of warding off questions with just a look. An armour that does not allow anyone in, not even John. He’s wondered about a lot of things, but asking has never been an option. Sherlock never has to ask; he simply deduces. John is terrible at deductions, as Sherlock often reminds him.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Twice.”
“That was a yes-no question, so I get follow-up. So, the first. Who was he?”
Sherlock smiles. “You’re assuming it was a man.”
“Wasn’t it? I thought… you’re… erm…”
“Gay? Yes, I am.”
“You loved a man,” John says. Obviously.
“Well, a boy. I was twelve. I suppose it wasn’t love so much as infatuation and hormones. His name was Victor. I never told him until I met him again at uni.” He gives John one of those looks that makes him feel like he is being x-rayed. “Have you ever kissed a man?”
“I’m not gay,” he says at once. “I mean, why would I kiss a man if I knew I wasn’t gay?”
“Follow-up question, then. When did you know you were not gay?”
John’s mouth may have been open for a bit. It’s an odd question. Everybody knows they’re straight until something happens and they know they’re not. Isn’t that the way it works? “I just knew. When did you know you were gay?”
“When I was twelve. I was at a stupid birthday party my mother made me attend, and we were playing Forfeit. I was asked a question I didn’t like to answer and took the forfeit. Up until then the penalties were stupid things like singing a song or doing a dance, but this time it was kissing a girl. The girl was willing, and I was curious, so I agreed. That was when I realised girls weren’t my cup of tea, so to speak. I wanted to kiss Victor.”
John says nothing, though it’s his turn. He remembers a similar party, a boy who wanted to kiss him, and feeling terrified that his parents would find out if he did. Harry had just come out, and he was trying very hard to make up for all of her shortcomings.
Sherlock asks, “How do you know you’re not gay if you’ve never kissed a man?”
“I’ve kissed lots of women,” he replies. “I don’t need to kiss a man to know I’m not gay.”
Sherlock shrugs. “I assumed that I was like everyone else, that some day I would meet the right girl, get married, and have children. That was how it was supposed to work, and I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn’t like girls that way. All my fantasies were about boys, but I thought I would eventually be attracted to girls as I got older. That kiss told me I would never love a woman.”
“You think I should kiss a man just to see if I’m a bit gay?” He laughs.
“It’s your forfeit, for not having an answer.”
“I’m not going to kiss some random bloke just because you—“
“Not a random bloke. Me. Kiss me.”
This is dangerous ground. Somewhere in his libido lies something that he’s thought about. Maybe he’s even fantasised about kissing a man. Having sex with a man. Just a lark, maybe. Don’t lots of men go through that? It doesn’t mean anything.
But, Sherlock. He lived with him for a year and a half, and they’d been friends. And he grieved when Sherlock died. Not grieved like a friend. He’d lost friends before, and this was nothing like those losses. Pain, darkness, unending regret. Even after Mary, some of that darkness remained. Moments when he remembered something Sherlock had said or done, a stab of pain. If it hadn’t been for Mary—
And it came to him. Mary was balm for his wounds. She brought him back from the edge. He is grateful to her. But gratitude isn’t love. Being in such pain for so long, and then a bit of light— that isn’t love, it’s relief. He’s seen patients in physical pain become almost giddy when given a dose of something that takes their agony away, not even enough to make them high. Relief feels like intoxication when pain has gone on so long.
If it hadn’t been for Mary, he would have understood what he’d only begun to see. She helped him, saved him even. But she was a distraction from the pain, not a cure.
He glances at Sherlock, who is pulling back, looking like he wishes he hadn’t just asked for a kiss. Maybe he’ll make a joke about their game, move them towards goodnight, goodbye, see you at the wedding.
“Yes,” he says. It’s an answer to everything— regret, grief, sorrow, love. It’s an apology for not seeing sooner, for the night at the Landmark, for his anger and cruel rejection of the man he has loved for years. “Kiss me.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Sherlock is right. The kiss tells John things he’s tried hard to forget. It tells him that has loved men before, but called it friendship, that he has wanted to touch men and kiss them, and called it lust, or fantasy, or a phase that all men go through. Women attract him too, and he grabbed onto heterosexuality like a life-raft because he was afraid of the alternative. His sister and his father, yelling. Harry thrown out of the house. His father, looking at him, saying not you too. Never you, my boy.
The kiss tells him that has already met the love of his life.
“I need to call Mary,” he says when they break away.
Sherlock looks sad. He nods. “Of course.”
“One more question,” John says. “Who was the second person you loved?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he says. “I’m about to call my fiancee and break our engagement just days before the wedding because I’m in love with my best friend. So please, answer the question.”
Sherlock’s face does something John has never seen. It crumples and tears fill his eyes, and then he’s laughing and crying and not able to speak.
John kisses him again.
Author note: This is an old ficlet, from Trifles, posted here.
I don't know if this is weird, but I really need photos of Ewan smoking in his daily life??????
Like I know the gifs from WoF are out there, but that's a character.
No, I need pics of him smoking before he got into the bafta's after party, or when he's walking down the street, or him smoking in breaks during hotd filming drESSED AS AEMOND ❤️🔥 so hawt
Sorry I really needed to get that off my chest lol
There is a photo of Phia, Luke, Elliott and Fabien all smoking, and Ewan is in his Aemond get up just out of shot. A missed opportunity.
Also there are photos from season one (the ones where he’s wearing the TLK shirt) where he’s passing what looks like Rizla back and forth with Fabien.
And a quick pan by of him smoking in a video at a TLK party (he’s literally just holding it though)
These are all incredibly low quality and you can’t see him actually smoking, so not really worth going after!
I agree it would be hot, BUT as an ex-smoker/current vaper (I need the nicotine, sorry!), for me there is something really personal and private about the act of getting my fix. Those five minutes are just for me, and it’s sacred to me. I wouldn’t want a camera waved in my face for that, so I’m happy to extend the same courtesy to Ewan so he’s able to enjoy a cheeky fag in peace!
Anonymous asked: “I don’t wanna be alone” With loki please
summary: when Loki comes to see you, you’re not quite sure what to expect... but this isn’t quite it.
tws: smoking, swearing
word count: 565
It was nearing two o’clock in the morning when Loki finally made it to your place, a desperate and upset look on his face as he approached the door, finding it locked, he didn’t usually care for such pesky mortal annoyances such as locks, but when it came to you, he could bring himself to at least tolerate them; so he slipped the spare key you had given him in the door, and he let himself in. The lights were all on, the sound of ‘Rainbow In The Dark’ by Dio playing quietly as he approached, leaning on the breakfast bar opposite you with a frown.
“You alright?” You asked, frowning back as you furrowed your brows.
Loki shook his head, swiping a hand down his face before rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t wanna be alone, not tonight.”
You nodded, reaching out to hold his hand tightly. “You’re more than welcome to stay with me - however long you need, however long you want. You can stay.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, daring to smile a little.
“You wanna talk about it?” You offered with a shrug, looking at your boyfriend like he was a wounded animal.
But he shook his head, letting out a huff as he ran his hand through his hair and relaxed a little, daring to get up on the breakfast bar and sit with his legs crossed, looking down at you with those wonderful green eyes. “I’m alright, actually, I just… cannot stand the thought of being alone tonight.”
“That’s okay,” you told him softly, letting go of his hand and nodding. “But the offer’s there - just because we’re dating doesn’t mean you have to always act like everything’s fine. You can be honest with me, Loki.”
“I’m always honest with you,” he pointed out. “You’re actually one of the few people I’ll tell the truth to.”
“I know,” you hummed, moving to get yourself a glass of water, using a pint glass and filling it up from the tap. “Y’want a sip?”
Loki shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“There’s tobacco, rizla, filters and a lighter over there,” you gestured to where it all sat on the breakfast bar. “Help yourself.”
He did, quite happily, rolling two cigarettes and lighting his own up before sliding yours and the lighter over. “Would it be alright if I stole your hoodie tonight? The big thick one with that stupid band in the masks on it.”
“My Slipknot hoodie?” You asked, and when he nodded, you shrugged. “Sure, if you want - I also got a pair of jogging bottoms in the tumble dryer if you wanna borrow ‘em, should be done in a bit.”
Smiling, Loki leaned forward a little, taking a drag from his cigarette as he stared down at you. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, darling,” you said gently, finally lighting up your cigarette and taking a long drag. “So… what do you wanna do? We can sit here and talk, we can stick on a shit film, we can stick on a really fucking good film-”
“Is it the ones about the cannibals?” He asked. “By the Italian director?”
You nodded, smiling brightly. “Yup! You wanna watch it?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said kindly. “Do you think we could just talk for a while?”
“Of course,” you agreed, tapping his knee gently. “We can talk about fucking anything you like.”
I had a fantastic night last Wednesday involving large dildos, Old Holborn roll-ups and 10 litres of fresh cowshit!
But first a little background....
I knew I was going to have the house to myself for 6 days so started planning what I wanted to do.
Monday night was going to be the first night but two days before the weather forecast looked like it was going to rain!! Shit I thought - well rather no shit - would be watered down or washed away.
Monday afternoon I set off for some "farming" - about 20 minutes from where I live. I parked up and saw that the cows were down the lane, but the fencing was down so did not know where the farmer was so could not take the chance. I walked down the lane a little bit, but nothing there! Dejected I walked back to the car, rolled a fresh one from Old Holborn aromatic and drove home.
I set up the Black and Decker workmate and set about strapping Rambone to one side and Mr Ed the horse dildo to the other. Made up a fresh batch of X-Lube, smoked another rollie and then set about stretching my arse.
2 hours later I was worn out, hungry for food and decided to take a break.
Wednesday was going to be my next chance.
So on Wednesday after shopping I drove back towards home, went straight past and arrived a the lane again. Fence was down but the farmer and the cows were walking away over the far side towards the farm.
With a throbbing cock, rolled one up, got my bags and set off slowly down the lane.
BINGO! Fresh cow pats everywhere!
Using my bare hands I filled two carrier bags with the fun stuff, and headed back to the car.
I didn't plan this properly as I now had hands covered in thick green stinking cowshit. Oh well I used it as hair gel. Hands clean, hair styled, time for a roll-up.
I was shaking with excitement as I drove home thinking how my luck had changed.
I had nearly everything for a great night: fresh cowshit without bugs in as it was so fresh, an ample supply of Old Holborn Aromatic and Original, Licorice Rizla, huge dildos, fresh lube and no disturbances for at least two days.
I was planning on eating some food first so I did not need to stop, but decided on the fuck it approach, no food just smokes and shit.
Tipped the two bags into a large bucket, added some boiling water to get it to the right sticking consistency and texture, also made it warmer for smearing, inserting, eating, etc.
Attached Rambone to the shower wall, had the Irish Cob dildo and lube to hand, Mr Ed laying on the bed and climbed into the shower cubicle.
I was so excited I just stuck my head right in to the bucket, completely submerged and breathed out. Now if I wanted to breathe it would mean getting a mouthful!! So I did!!!
Again and again and again.
After 30 minutes I wiped most of the shit off of my head, and popped a t-shirt on covering what was already running down my body nto my cock and balls, slipped on some jogger bottoms and headed out of the bathroom.
I had to be careful not to drip shit all over my bed as fresh cowshit stains everything green.
Headed outside with a glass of wine and some Old Holborn for a couple of smokes.
I was stinking, plastered in cowshit over my head, chest, cock and balls stood outside in full view of anyone who wanted to look grinning from ear to shitty ear.
The shit in and around my mouth coated the outisde of my wine glass which added to the atmosphere of a complete dirty pig.
I repeated the above for about another 2 hours and was completely exhausted. I hadn't come so was still horny, but needed a break.
I laid on my bed about 3 hours after first dunking my head thinking that I really should get some sleep, but the bucket of hot shit was calling me back.
I'll post the next stage over the next day or so as sat here now with a boner and need to address that first!!!
shame and disq were so fucking good live one rizla was a fucking experience!!! shoutout to the person who threw $20 out, almost had charlie stripping lol
By now you have likely heard about the new NASA Webb telescope? But have you heard of the Halleyscope?
Hoping to cash in on the 1986 Halley’s Comet appearance, Burton Rubin created the Halleyscope around 1983. “A sky telescope. A land telescope. A photographic zoom lens. All in one” for around $200. (Rubin’s previous business was the E-Z Wider rolling papers which he sold to Rizla in 1980 for $6.2 million.)
Vignelli Associates was contracted to design the packaging with Michael Bierut and David B. Law as the designers on the project. We have the packaging in the archives but not the telescope, so we can’t compare any images of the galaxy with the new NASA one.
Did you have a Halleyscope? Or know anything about this design? We would love to hear from you!
Image descriptions:
Images of Halleyscope box on a white table with a pencil for scale plus vintage 35mm slides of packaging with a telescope, and a scan of a photo mechanical for packaging in black and white.
Box is black with blue text and large Halleyscope logotype featuring gradient colors across the logo from white to yellow to orange to red to pink to purple to blue. Weight of type starts out very bold and becomes lighter. The logotype moves at an upward angle across the packaging mimicking the image of the telescope pointing upwards.
Text on box reads: A sky telescope. A land telescope. A photographic zoom lens. All in one. 8-32x, 40mm zoom. Fast, easy focusing. Precision glass optics. Computer optimized lens system. Unique converting system for 45 degree inclined viewing. Solid aluminum body construction. Adapts to 35mm SLR cameras for super zoom photos. Contents: Telescope, tripod, 45 degree adaptor, camera adaptor.
The Hunchback of Notre Dame: Has your muse ever faced any kind of discrimination or oppression for an aspect of themselves that they cannot change? How has this experience shaped their attitude toward that aspect of themselves? Have they ever perpetuated any kind of discrimination or oppression against others, whether unintentionally or deliberately? {ML & MH}
Classical Literature Meme
Upon a slender pedestrian bridge above a dual carriageway at perhaps half eleven at night, Ron sat beside Beth. He had his tobacco tin open in his lap and was mid-way through making up his tenth rolly out of filter, rizla and baccy measured by eye when her curiosity caught his ear. The topic paused his work for a beat; made his mind drift through the annals of his memory until it snagged where it needed to - on something he could share. Before he did though, Ron bought the part-rolled cig he was working on to his lips and ran the paper's adhesive edge by the tip of his tongue before folding it closed. Cigarette number ten wasn't for the tin though. This one Ron set between his lips and lit.
"--There's two fings abaht me I can't change, luv" he said, blowing a breath's-worth of smoke away from Beth before turning back to her. "Two tha's th'sort yer askin' abaht at least. Me sexuali'y, 'n me-" He gestured to his head, not wanting to say skizafrenia out loud. He'd not heard the word all day. It was a reprieve he didn't want broken.
"Me sexuali'y I've 'ad shit ovah. Y'sort'a expect it almos' i's tha' common - everyfin' fr'm side-eye glances t'avin' me teef kicked in in an alley when I was eighteen or so. Maybe nineteen. Tha's where I got-" Ron tipped his chin back and inclined his head slightly, gesturing to the scar that'd once been a wound so deep it split his chin open. "Twelve stitches-" he said, settling back as he'd been, chin dipped and shoulders hunched against the nip in the air. Another drag on his cigarette was puffed away from Beth before he spoke again. "-B'cause I smiled in th'wrong lad's vague direction on me way aht'a gay club..." Ron shook his head slowly, his gaze shifting somewhere middle-distance-ways. "I'll nevah undahstand it" he said, disbelief and confusion making his voice briefly quiet. "-Ow th'notion 'ov affection, want, off a membah ov y'own sex is so 'orrific tha' y'instinct is violence..."
Into the night another smoky exhalation escaped.
He'd need another cigarette soon if he kept this up.
"Anyway." Back to usual volume now; back to Beth with his full attention. "Tha' fuckery - s'cuse me - it didn't scare me inta no closet. If anyfin' it did th'oppasit. Ain't nuffin'a 'ow I love tha' I 'ide. I live openly. 'N if people don't like it, if they seek t'deal wiv it wiv violence, well..." A flicker of something horrific wisped through Ron's expression. "I ain't eighteen, ain't nineteen no more, aye? --Th'rest though-"
Another gesture to his head. He would not use that word for it; wouldn't dignify it with its name. Not this evening. He'd not get so easy an answer out about it either though. That was the rub. This topic...It was a difficult shape in his mind; one he found putting words to a challenge, no matter how long he'd had to practice and how much he knew, now, about how his brain worked and didn't work.
"--Th'rest I don't wear like armour." A thought begat a frown. Rephrase. "Not tha' me sexuali'y's tha'...It ain't armour. I's...ahtside. Y'look 'ard enough f'long enough, y'll see it - much as I don't fink y'd clock me day t'day 'n fink Oo yeah, 'ee's not straight. Bu' th'rest...I can't do tha' wiv it. 'N tha's..."
Silence fell as Ron dredged his mind for the words he needed. To fill it, he lit cigarette number nine with the embers of number ten and took a drag which he blew towards the dribs and drabs of traffic whizzing by below them. Ten's butt, pinched out, was popped into the open lid of his baccy box, and an attempt was made to tease out what he wanted to convey in words.
"--Is it...discrimination...oppression-- I don't know if i's them when i's off family...off friends...Maybe th'bettah word's...reaction? I dunno, bu' wha'evah it is...Was...I learned off tha', 'n off th'world generally-- People like...me..."
A slight wince of frustration flickered across Ron's face, silence coming again as he struggled to catch hold of the whorl of thoughts he had round this specific topic. Dark eyes fell briefly closed as he breathed through a spike of frustration and then, looking down at the traffic, he tried again.
"--I may be wrong in wha' I learned...I 'ope I am, 'n th'world's brightah than th'180 me ma'm 'n bruvvahs did when I got sick...Bu' wha' I learned off them was tha' change-" Another gesture to his head. "-It brings fear off them close t'yah-"
YOU AIN'T MY FUCKIN' BRUVVAH!
A second wince - pain this time as the light in his eyes froze; as they stilled, fixed on the middle distance among the dribs and drabs of traffic. What Ron said next sounded like hard work to get out, like a growl through a dry throat.
"-Fear 'n worse."
He swallowed, stole another drag on number nine - held it in 'til he couldn't no more then breathed it out into the night sky. In the aftermath, when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself; pensive, tense, but himself.
"I learned it ain't f'acceptin'...I's like a wound tha' y'forced t'walk rahnd wiv like it ain't there b'cause God-for-fuckin'-bid someone y'don't want t'notice notices...'N I know tha's wrong-"
Eyes on Beth then. There was an almost pleading edge to Ron's voice.
"I know i's wrong b'cause I ain't wha' all'a them fink me c'ndition makes me - not me family, not th'public, not no fuckah...So me life's turned on unlearnin' all them fings I learned off them closest t'me, bu' as well..." Pleading became something closer to resignation. "I know...there ain't no Pride f'a sk-"
Tension. Everywhere.
Ron clenched his teeth, barely rescued his fag.
He would Not Use That Word. Not this evening.
"-F'me" he amended, that second's pique pulling back like the tide. "So tha' bit...Tha' bit I don't wear openly." Another drag off number nine; eight waiting in the wings.
"--N'me...I ain't prejudiced. I discriminate against them tha' does it t'me - don't care th'nature'a th'person. Come f'me b'cause'a 'oo I love, I'll break yah in 'alf. Come f'me b'cause'a 'ow I am, same goes. 'N if I witness it -- some twat in an alley kickin' ten bells aht a gay lad or a bi lad or girl; some twat 'arrasin' someone b'cause they're wired different--" A slow, disgusted head-shake. "They'll meet th'devil twice on their way dahn, once when they get there 'n once in Ron Kray."
No microfic today, but I’ve been working away on something else and here’s a little snippet of it to hopefully encourage me to finish it. Containing two of my favourite things - Remus’ hands and Remus smoking. Under the cut for smoking and a hint of nsfw
Remus shifts a little, jostling Sirius who opens his eyes with a protesting noise, blinking up at Remus with a huff, “Don’t move.”
“Need a smoke,” Remus says, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth at Sirius’ half-pout, “I’m not a pillow, Pads.”
“You are,” Sirius insists, but he does lift his head enough for Remus to pull the little pouch from his pocket. He doesn’t mind, not really, because he loves when Remus rolls cigarettes and he moves away slightly, so that he can shift onto his stomach. He pushes himself up slightly, chin in his hands as he watches Moony get to work.
Remus brows are furrowed in concentration as he pulls a rizla paper from the small package, carefully positioning the filter at the edge of it before dipping his fingers into the bag of tobacco. He takes a pinch, carefully measuring the brown flakes out in the paper before removing any excess.
Sirius knows he could do it with magic if he wanted to, but for some reason Remus seemed to like doing it the muggle way and Sirius definitely wasn’t complaining. There was something ridiculously erotic watching Moony’s long fingers work nimbly over the paper. But then, there was something ridiculously erotic watching Moony’s fingers doing almost anything, if Sirius was completely honest with himself.
Sirius watches carefully as his fingers work, gently rolling the cigarette to near perfection, quick fingers working and Sirius shifts a little where he’s splayed out, heat pooling in his groin as always when he watches Remus’ hands at work. He lets out a little huff of breath as Moony sticks his tongue out to run it along the edge of the paper, looking up to meet Sirius’ eyes over it, an amused sort of glint to his eyes and a knowing tilt to his half-smirk as he holds up the finished cigarette.
“Roll me one too?” Sirius asks when Remus is done and there’s definitely a knowing look in Moony’s eyes this time as he tosses him the finished cigarette before starting on another one.
“You should really learn to do that yourself,” he teases but Sirius merely shrugs as he lights the cigarette with a snap of his fingers, taking a deep drag.
“Why?” He challenges, arching a brow, “I have you to do it for me.”
Remus licks over the paper with a shake of his head. “Brat,” he snorts, but the softness to his voice takes the edge off the word and Sirius merely smiles sweetly at him.
“You love me,” he states and Moony rolls his eyes but doesn’t contradict him as he lies down, stretching out on his back on the grass.
His slender fingers are holding onto the cigarette as pink lips wrap around the end of it. Remus looks up into the sky, smoking silently and Sirius can’t really look away from him. The way his cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks the smoke into his lungs, eyes fluttering close as he exhales, the smoke dancing towards the sky. He does it again and again, Sirius watching almost mesmerised and he forgets all about his own cigarette, doesn’t remember it until his fingers burn and he drops it with a hiss and curse.
“Dedicated to America’s last platinum blonde bimbo, Jayne Mansfield.” Featuring music from Charli XCX, Rosalía, M.I.A., and more.
Listen on Spotify and Apple Music.
There's something about Jayne that called me to her story. A platinum blonde sex icon in America. From her youth she knew she was destined for stardom. Manifesting her future before the popularity of the Law of Attraction. She was seen as dumb, but was actually said to have a genius IQ. Though it's clear Jayne calculated her image, and how she was percieved. She met a terrible fate, dying in a car crash and the media spurred on a rumor she had been beheaded on impact. Though it was later proven false.
The whole premise of this weeks set, is reimagining Jayne's final car ride. An alternative plot line where she crashes the car herself. (Metaphorically speaking.) The beginning, "Cleo at Abbey Road" by Shygirl and "Interlude - The Trio" by Lana Del Rey sets the soundscape for the rest of the hour of music. In the show, I created a special version where you can hear someone getting into a car, after The Trio, starting the car, flipping through the radio stations, and "Vroom Vroom" by Charlie XCX blaring on the speakers. Signaling the beginning of the car ride.
The music throughout the car ride is a mic of female pop and hyper pop. Which I find fitting for someone like Jayne. The epitome of American femininity. Throughout you'll find music mixed with mentions and critiques of fame, femininity, and money. While also playing with the car ride concept.
"Bad Girls" - M.I.A.
"Suki suki
I'm comin' in the Cherokee
Gasoline
There's steam on the window screen"
"Rich Girl" - Gwen Stefani
"Clean out Vivienne Westwood
In my Galliano gown
No, wouldn't just have one hood
A Hollywood mansion if I could
Please book me first-class to my fancy house in London town"
Throughout the set a lot of the music has these themes of femininity and expression. Music like "Jennifer B" by Jockstrap "Supersoaker" by Eartheater and "Mwah :3" by Dinamarca also pushes in new genres I haven't played yet. I felt that the sets I was showing were not accurate to my current music taste. Electronic, hyper pop, and experimental.
"honda" - FKA Twigs
"On the (on the) M way (yeah)
Honda (Honda), rizla (ooh), baby"
"AMERICAN GURL" - Kilo Kish
"In a locked box, in a locked drawer
Will I find me an American girl?
American girl"
"Paparazzi" - Lady Gaga
"Garage glamorous
Not sure what it means
But this photo of us
It don't have a price"
Rosalia sings in "Dolerme",
"Acelero pa' ve' si consigo estrellarme
Quiero que lo veas y no pienses en detenerme
Y así demuestras que has podido olvidarme"
"I accelerate to see if I can crash
I want you to see it, don't try to stop me
And so you can show me that you could forget me
Or, why are you not doing your part too?
Step on it and let go of the wheel"
Another hint as to what's to come at the end. I love this song, and I found it so fitting.
Jayne was married to a bodybuilder, Mickey Hargitay. They ultimately became divorced. Azeliea Banks raps in "Count Contessa",
"Muscle Mike can't protect ya"
Jayne had so much in her life. Fame, money, and men. But ultimately none of that could save her.
Restating the theme of stardom and the critique of it. "scream my name" by Fousheé is a pop punk anthem of a rich girl at the club. While "XS" by Rina Sawayama is a direct critique to excessive consumerism. (Something prevalent in fame and Hollywood).
The final two songs tell Jayne's story. Of course I could have fabricated some alternate story line where Jayne lives, like Tarintino's "Once Upon a Time.... In Hollywood". But matter cannot be created or destroyed, and sadly Jayne in the end, ends up dying. Though in this alternate timeline she had control of her death, and more importantly had control of how the media would portray her.
"The Ballad of Jayne" - L.A. Guns
"Things ain't always what they seem
What a shame, what a shame
What happened to Jayne"
⸻ MATT SMITH. HE/HIM / have you ever heard of EYES CLOSED by ed sheeran, well, it describes EDWARD ‘EDDIE’ DUNCAN to a tee! the thirty-nine year-old, and CEO OF A HERBAL PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANY was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say HE is more lazy or more INNOVATIVE instead? anyway, they remind me of a coffee table littered with rizla papers and burnt out matches, the constant haze of smoke, chunky knit jumpers and the ability to clean up ridiculously well when prompted, maybe you’ll bump into them soon!
time in notting hill ; 16 years
tw: drug use, drugs, adultery
ABOUT.
Name: Edward Duncan
Nickname: Eddie
Age: Thirty-nine
DoB: 29th October 1983
Occupation: CEO of a Herbal Pharmaceutical Company
Romantic/sexual orientation: Heteroromantic/bisexual
Birth Place: Windsor, Berkshire, UK
Current Location: Notting Hill, London, UK
Eddie was born to money. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. As a result he grew up wanting for nothing. He could have anything and everything that he wanted, so long as he did what his parents said.
For him, that involved heading off to Eton as soon as he was old enough to, just as his father had done before him and his grandfather before him. His younger brother was expected to do the same. When it came to the Duncan children, they were supposed to perform.
When it came to university, he made his way across the pond to the States and to Harvard Business School. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but his father made him do his best and aim the highest that he could. That, of course, was Harvard.
While he was there and away from the watchful gaze of his parents, however, he began to explore another kind of lifestyle, one that he would eventually come back to again. He partied hard, he did his best... to enjoy every second, at least.
Once he graduated, he made his way to London, moving into a three storey townhouse in Notting Hill, purchased with his trust fund of course. He finally made a proper life for himself there.
As time went on, however, he soon realised he wasn’t quite as keen on the lavish lifestyle that he’d grown up with. No, he’d much rather spend his days hanging around in jumpers and joggers, smoking his way through another pack of cigarettes.
His father made a point, of course, that this wasn’t how he wanted his son to live. He was expected to take on his father’s mantle, but when challenged, Eddie made it known that he had other ideas.
Within the year he’d started his own business exploring a passion he’d found in the States, Cannabis, and not in the way you’d think. His company is now, in fact, the biggest supplier of medicinal cannabis in London. They sell a ridiculous amount of CBD gummies as well, which are frequently sold out on the website. There are a few other things they do, too, but that’s the biggie.
While all of this was happening, Eddie met Winnie, and he fell head over heels for her. Six months later they were married, and shortly after that, their first child, Theo, was on the way. He hadn’t planned for it, but when he met her, he had to have her. There wasn’t much that Eddie didn’t get, something that would come to haunt him one day.
Emma joined them a couple of years later and it seemed that their family was complete. For him, though, there was something missing.
A couple of months later he came to realise what that was and ended up entangled in a brief affair with someone he worked with.
It didn’t last, he came clean, but the marriage was over. He couldn’t ever blame Winnie for that either.
Their divorce went through around a year ago and he’s been throwing himself into work for the most part. Is he a mess? Definitely. Does he let her see that he is? Definitely not. Does he pull himself together and hide absolutely everything from his children? One hundred percent. No doubt it’ll all come out one day, though.
Britain's great cinematic translator of the modern queer experience, Andrew Haigh (Weekend, 45 Years, the TV show Longing) returns with a Rizla-paper-delicate rumination on gay loneliness, love, and how grief lingers like a spectre in the corner of the room.
It's part ghost story, part nocturnal romance, part late-stage coming-of-ager. Andrew Scott stars as Adam, a depressed screenwriter working on a new script inspired by the death of his parents. For research, he visits his childhood home on the outskirts of London, only to find his mum and dad — Claire Foy and Jamie Bell, respectively — are seemingly alive and well, looking exactly as they did thirty years ago. Meanwhile, a steamy tryst blossoms with a stranger (Paul Mescal) in Adam's empty apartment complex.
It's stirring, and achingly felt. One of those movies to not see with your dad (or anyone else who you're embarrassed to watch unflinching gay sex scenes with, or endlessly cry in front of). And it's sure to stand as one of the best of the year. You can watch All of Us Strangers on Disney+ from 20 March...'
"People might think less of you for dating me." "Like I care about that."
Some with Officer K x male reader and Some with Six x male reader maybe through a kenobi x male reader in there if you feel like it. I need more bedtime stories please 🏎
summary: K knows that it's rare for anyone to approve of a relationship between a human and a replicant, but he also knows that the chances of you caring about anyone's approval are slim to none.
Music pounded throughout the packed club, humans and replicants alike filling the dance floor and dancing around with drinks in hand, lights flashing all different colours, the sticky floor vibrated under K's feet as he looked around; it wasn't easy to spot you, dancing with a few of your friends in less than innocent ways as you drank and sang together. He clenched his jaw, swallowing thickly as he made his way over, weaving through the crowd; the second he was close enough, it was instinctual for you - putting your arm around his shoulders, the skin on your arm hot against the back of his neck as you pulled him close enough to kiss his cheek.
Your friends were nice enough, a little apprehensive about seeing with a replicant, but they were nice enough and they greeted him warmly; you pressed your drink into his hands, having to get right next to him so that he could actually hear you over the music.
"You came!"
K nodded, bringing your drink to his lips and taking a swig; it was cold, and he felt the ice against his lips, but he didn't shiver and he didn't feel the burn of the rum on his tongue. It wasn't bad, he guessed it was spiced rum but he couldn't be sure.
"I'm glad!" You told him with a grin. "People were starting to think I was lying when I said I had a boyfriend!"
He dared to smile a little, only for a split second, and he held the drink a little tighter when you kissed him again, stiffening slightly; your friends laughed at something, he guessed that it was his reaction and the fact that he wasn't dancing.
But then one of them spoke up, shouting over the music as best as they could. "Oi! We're gonna get drinks and have a piss! Wait here?"
"Yeah!" You shouted, turning back to K. "You want a drink?"
He nodded. "Whisky. Neat."
"Whisky for my future husband!" You laughed, and when your friends disappeared into the ground, you finally took the chance to stand in front of him, pulling him in for a proper kiss.
The song that played was old, not as old as the Frank Sinatra songs that K usually played back home, but it must have been around forty seven years old; but you seemed to enjoy it, trying to get him to dance even though he stayed still, looking you up and down. You finished your drink, and waited for your friends to return.
"Oi!" You grabbed the nearest member of your little group. "We're gonna step outside for a smoke! That alright?"
"Yeah!" They agreed with a nod. "You want my Rizlas?"
You shook your head, smiling at them before grabbing K's hand and leading him outside with you; the air cold and the pavement slick with the rain from earlier, the music was more muffled but still audible, the bins stuffed with empty takeaway containers and cigarette ends. You leaned against the wall, no one was around, lighting a cigarette when K put his hands either side of your head, fingers splayed out against the slick black wall as he sighed.
"People might think less of you for dating me."
"Like I care about that." You shook your head, taking a long drag and humming softly, blowing the smoke directly in his face. "You know me, I don't give a shit what any cunt thinks."
K nodded, he didn't get why you were purposefully blowing the smoke in his face but he guessed it was some kind of signal for something, he chose not to question it as he took the cigarette from you and stole a drag before putting it back between your lips, hardly able to stop himself from staring at how you smiled, your free hand on his shoulder.
"Your friends don't really approve."
"And do I look like I fucking care?" You asked with a scoff and a raised brow. "K, you asked me to be your boyfriend way too fucking long ago. I don't give a shit about approval from anyone, I told you that when we first got together."
He nodded again, waiting for you to finish your cigarette before he took his chance, pressing into you as he dared to kiss you; your breath mixing with his as you dared to put your hand on his jaw to keep him close.
Stubble tickling your skin as you moaned softly and let him slip his tongue between your lips; he was harsh and quick, but you didn't care, you wanted it to last for as long as it could. He rolled his hips against you, drawing the most sinful of sounds from the back of your throat, the type that made him question if he really did want to think twice about being public with you; you let out a shaky breath, reaching for his wrist and putting his hand against your throat, grinning when he applied just enough pressure to excite you.
But then he pulled away, a hint of a smile against his lips as he studied your features; humans were fascinating as it was to K, but you... you were different. He had never met a man as handsome, as fascinating and captivating, as you were; he had never wished to feel the touch of a human in such a way, but fuck, he wanted to keep kissing you. He wanted to feel your skin on his. But then you licked your lips, and he felt his knees get a little weak.
"You gonna dance with me?" You breathed out. "Or do I need to start playing dirty?"
"I'll dance." He agreed, nodding.
if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG
Capítulo Rock traz hoje a trajetória da banda inglesa de pós-punk Shame. Formada em Brixton, Londres, em 2014, a Shame consiste no vocalista Charlie Steen, nos guitarristas Eddie Green e Sean Coyle-Smith, no baixista Josh Finerty, e no baterista Charlie Forbes. O disco de estreia, Songs of Praise (2018), foi aclamado pela crítica e nomeado para o prêmio Mercury, que é concedido anualmente ao melhor álbum do Reino Unido e Irlanda. A reputação do grupo vem crescendo devido às performances no palco e a músicas como One Rizla, Fingers of Steel e 6/1.
MÚSICAS DO PROGRAMA:
1) One Rizla
2) Adderall
3) Alphabet
4) This side of the sun
5) Concrete
6) Fingers of Steel
7) 6barra1
8) Six-Pack
9) Baldur's Gate
10) Tasteless
11) Human, for a minute
12) Alibis
13) Rock Lobster
14) Dust on trial
O programa Capítulo Rock é uma produção da Rádio Senado de Brasília.
Programa Capítulo Rock sexta às 20 horas!
Ouça este programa na faixa das 20 horas na Rádio Sorte Music em nosso site Rádio Sorte Music - Estilo e Música pra Você! ou em nosso aplicativo Radio Sorte Music e boa música.
Light battles darkness in the Kingdom of Casoria as Rizla finds the Earth Skyll's killing room.
Two full vats of congealed blood were in the room, three if you counted the empty one nearest to the Nawab, Milo, that Suga had noticed when peering through the Precious Orb. His face bruised, sitting, knees to chin, collared and chained to the floor. He stared at Rizla, without pleading, having accepted his fate.
Rizla started to speak to him, if only to tell Suga what he’d said, but a river of…