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slavghoul · 11 months

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First musical emotion?

TF: I grew up in an environment full of music, with a very open-minded mother who listened to a lot of pop and rock music and, above all, an older brother who was 13 years older than me. That's how much I was immersed in teenage culture as a child. I was 3 years old in 1984 when the glam metal wave invaded the airwaves and TV screens. These bands, like Kiss, WASP or Mötley Crüe, very strong visually for a child, attracted me irresistibly. And let's not forget Twisted Sister. I Wanna Rock is the track that remains the basis, the trigger for everything for me. A song that, at 3, 13, 23 or 43 years old, still has the same effect on me as soon as I hear it: to jump in the air like a madman.

First record bought?

If not Kiss, probably a Rolling Stones album. It didn't make much of an impression on me because my brother used to buy so many of them, so my money was mostly spent on Star Wars stuff. There are tons of bands I love, but I think the Stones are my favourite. Because they embody everything I love about rock, even though they weren't as sophisticated as the Beatles or Pink Floyd. Between 1967 and 1972, in their darkest period, nobody did it better than them: they had the look, the attitude, the style and, on top of that, the songs! Let It Bleed is incredible, with songs like Midnight Rambler and Live With Me. As much as I admire technical singers, virtuosos of harmony, Jagger remains unique. I've never tried to imitate him, but as a performer he is the absolute model.

First concert of note?

My brother used to take me to see local punk bands at a very early age, but I remember B.B. King most of all, when I was about 5 or 6, with my mother. It was a jazz festival, outside in the courtyard of a castle, a very cool atmosphere. As soon as B.B. King started playing, there was electricity in the air. Everyone got up and started dancing, I was blown away. And as I was the only one of my age, I could move around freely, so much so that I found myself in the backstage, in front of B.B. King himself! He invited me into his dressing room: "Do you play the guitar?" - Yes! - so don't stop!" And I took his advice. Even though I sing on stage, the guitar is still my favourite instrument, the one I play and master the most.

The band that best managed to avoid the pitfall of the image taking precedence over the music?

Kiss, unfortunately, was far from being up to the task musically. Alice Cooper, after two minor first albums, went on to make four incredible albums with the original Alice Cooper Group. Above all, he made a phenomenal comeback with Welcome to My Nightmare in 1975. After that, the show took over... The band that managed to stay straight and dignified, without compromising the artistic quality of their work, is undoubtedly Iron Maiden. All of their 80's production is impeccable, and if they had a slump in the 90's, they came back even stronger with the return of Bruce Dickinson, and have been going strong for twenty years! Their work ethic is exemplary. With Ghost, we take up Phantom of the Opera, one of my favourite tracks from their early period, and one of the few where I felt we could add a little something to it.

Best punk song in the world?

There are so many, because I was also brought up on the sounds of the Pistols, the Ramones, the Dead Kennedys... But as a kid, I never got tired of listening to The Great Rock'n'Roll Swindle again, especially the sequence where Sid Vicious sings My Way. His version is one of my favourite songs of all time. What could be more awesome than to see a guy slaughtering this standard while doing the same, shooting the shit, with the audience that came to see him! It was like the ultimate middle finger, and it made me happy, and it showed me the way.

The band that remains the grail for you?

Queen, because the show side, the big show, is the ultimate for me. In the early 70s, my favourite musical period, there were no big shows yet, like the Stones started doing afterwards. Queen is the same. Of course, their best albums are from the 70s, but the peak of their career for me is the Wembley concert in 1986. Magic wasn't a great record, but the show was breathtaking, dantesque, with a repertoire as vast as it was delirious. If Ghost could ever come close to the 1986 Queen, I would be delighted.

The greatest Swedish band?

ABBA, of course. No one will ever be able to stand in their way. The Beatles are the monarchs of English rock, ABBA the monarchs of Swedish pop. Björn and Benny are national heroes. I found myself at a huge, formal party when Benny suddenly sat down at the piano and started Thank You For the Music. There was silence in a second. This guy is a monument. You can't imagine what ABBA has done, not only for pop music, but also for Sweden and the Swedes. This band proved that you can move mountains.

Which Ghost song are you most proud of?

Cirice, probably. I often write my songs by singing into my phone a melody that is in my head. We were about to finish the album Meliora. And the co-producer tells me that a really heavy and powerful track is missing. I tell him I have this heavy, heavy, macabre sounding tune with a long intro and a crushing riff. He suggests I tweak it while he goes for a run. When he came back, I had written a chorus, lyrical, catchy. It wasn't the leaden track he was hoping for. But it won us a Grammy!

The most evil band?

Certainly not Mercyful Fate, as one might imagine. They, like most Norwegian death metal bands, more or less satanic, are the most charming guys I've ever met. They seem more like nice teachers than evil creatures. The scariest band is probably Von, a mythical American black metal band from Hawaii. These guys were really scary, with their terrifying size, they looked really dangerous. But I think the evil is mostly on the side of those who pretend to defend the good. For me, the most evil and unattractive musician is Ted Nugent. He's pro-life, pro-hunting, and claims he's only fighting for freedom. But the world he defends is about as free and tolerant as Vladimir Putin's. I refuse to listen to him.

#the band ghost #tobias forge #interview

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ecoamerica · 23 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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greypetrel · 2 months

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Hello! ⭐ Maybe "i had a dream about you" for Raina? Feel free to change it tho!

Hey there! <3

I kept Raina, but hoping you don’t mind, I tried to dip my feet in the Whale AU 2.0, the fully original one. I blame @theluckywizard for putting the HawkexInquisitor bug in my ear. Then I remembered that my toxic trait is recycling characters. I know this, as all OC content here will interest three people, but please indulge me. Raina will change her name, but I kept her as Raina still for commodity. A sketch at the bottom!

Ah for your knowledge: we’re in Iceland in the Edwardian Era, I still haven’t set a precise date, but I’m pending towards 1910.

Tis the prompt list

Morning, Noon and Nightime, too

“I had a dream about you”

[ Famale Hawke x Female Lavellan || An Edwardian AU || 3256 words || CW: Shipwrecks, storms, non-graphic description of violence ]

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. - T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Raina was born by the ocean. Raised on it. Her first steps had been on her father’s boat, her first memories were by the seaside. She knew the ocean, her feet were more stable on a ship than on dry land. She knew how to move, knew how to read the waves, knew when a storm was coming and it was time to seek shelter and drop the anchor, knew how to move if the coast was too far and the anchor wouldn’t reach the bottom.

That night, nothing mattered.

That night was cold and wet and salty, she was cold to her bones, the ship swayed left and right, waves scroshing down the bridge white with foam, too much for her footing to keep sure.

At a certain point, she had to hang on the railing and wait for the next wave to shift the Hvalur around and sweep the bridge. It made it slippery and wet, but she had something to hang onto and avoid slipping down, down, in the black of the water and to a certain death.

She was desperately trying to reach the wheel, but it seemed like the hull extended longer and longer the more steps she took. The more difficult, harsh and slippery steps she took. It felt like for each step she made, the storm pushed her back two.

Rain filled her eyes, it didn’t matter how much oilskin she had covered herself with. The ship rolled too much for it to be effective, the Northern Atlantic cold and unforgiving. It mattered little that it was the same ocean that saw her whole life passing by.

She used her hands to drag herself further. Further. A little more, headed to the stern lantern. Closer and closer, she gritted her teeth in effort, pushing her heavy, cold legs to work for a little more. Just a little more, and-

- someone yelled to her back, someone Raina knew.

If she thought her blood was frozen from the cold before, she was wrong. It froze now, recognizing that voice as her brain filled with dread.

She turned, heart beating fast, in time to see two things.

The first, was that whales were blowing in the water, puff glowing starkly white against the blackness of the surroundings, black noses emerging, mastodontic tails breaking the waves right after. Everything was fast and quick, but those tails, growing bigger and bigger -too big, a part of her brain knew they weren’t as-

The second thing was Aisling, climbing over the railing of the vessel. One foot, the other, hands propping herself up on the border…

Panic took her, making her limbs suddenly light, too light. She forgot about the ship -she never reached the wheel in time and the ship wrecked, she knew, trying to change it was pointless anyway- and lunged for the other woman. The ship was lost, but Aisling was not. Aisling would not be. She let go, slipped and turned, yelled at her not to jump, it wasn’t-

- Thunder cracked in the sky, illuminating the night, and everything seemed to go slower.

Raina turned, in time to see a tail -huge, enormous, too enormous- contrasting black against the whitened sky, horribly close to her. Aisling slipped and fell with a yelp that wasn’t happiness, was dread.

Raina knew what was about to happen. She knew it all too well.

She saw the same scene before, after all, even if she couldn’t remember when or why, and some details where off. It was the first time that Aisling was there, but the rest, she knew.

Time sped up, recovering the pause of before. The tail descended on the ship, heavy and quick, the ship tilted to it obediently.

A crash, a boom, the pavement slipped from under her feet and her hand lost grip, Raina collided heavily on the water.

The ocean filled her clothes, slipped inside her oilskin, her trousers and sweater and shirt. She thrashed madly, confused and not understanding where was up and where was down.

Everything was black, she never felt so cold in her life, nor so scared.

Or well, she already saw and felt everything there, and she, indeed, felt just as cold and just as scared.

But she couldn’t remember when.

She saw Aisling back again, taken down by huge jaws full of teeth, eyes void.

She screamed, and her lungs filled with water and salt.

A familiar flavour, at least, just before she drowned.

---

Raina woke up screaming from the bottom of her lungs, jolting awake and up.

She couldn’t breathe -or well, she could but it was difficult- her heart thrummed in her ears, and she was still mortally cold, and felt wet. Everything she saw was black, black, a vast nothingness and an infinite ocean where up and down were the same thing, and each meant death.

She struggled to breathe, body not fully responding, blinking and squinting to get a clue of where she was, anything to tell her that it wasn’t the bottom of the Atlantic, there were no whales around her.

Something shifter beside her, something else squeaked from the same direction, but it made her just more on pins and needles than she was before.

“Raina?”

A voice, groggy with sleep, which brought a too vivid image to her mind. Not being able to see her didn’t help: she kept imagining her maimed and mauled, brought down in the ocean by sharp teeth.

“It’s ok. It’s just me. It’s fine, you’re safe.”

Aisling kept on, shifting closer, voice soft and quiet. Not the voice of a person who is dying. It calmed her a little, but not seeing her didn’t fully help, even if slowly breathing was becoming easier.

“Can I touch you?”

She asked, and slowly, oh so slowly she approached. Raina felt the faintest of touches, barely the shifting of the cloth on her shoulders, brushing over her skin. When she didn’t react, the touch became a real one, hands placing delicately on her shoulders. Gradually, very gradually, fingers squeezed, and when nothing else happened, the squeeze became a hug, a cheek rested on her shoulder, she felt hair brushing on her jaw.

Her body wouldn’t move on its own, but she let Aisling gently move her, to lean on her more thoroughly first -her fingers combed through her hair, nails gently scratching her scalp- and then down, back to bed, when her breathing got more regular and her shoulders unclenched some.

She remembered where she was, then, and why it was so dark.

It wasn’t the ocean, it was Aisling’s hut. The embers in the fireplace must have extinguished, and the rain still ticked on the glass of the curtained window, behind the steel bars of the bed’s headboard. They were sharing the bed because Aisling received some bad news about her research, yesterday, and all she had asked was if she could sleep in her bed tonight, and not in the hammock hanging from the ceiling. Raina couldn’t tell her no, not when she had looked so uncharacteristically down. It was her bed, after all, and Raina had been occupying it since two months. Two months since Aisling found her on shore, miraculously still alive after the shipwreck. She tried to offer to sleep in the hammock, but she was too tall for it, and too heavy for the hook in the ceiling. So, they shared.

Sweat had cooled down on her skin and she shivered. Quickly, the blankets were back on her. Aisling shifted around, as she kept chatting in a soft voice about what she was doing and why. Tucking her in, so she was fully covered, the night was chilly and they both didn’t want her to get another fever. Fixing the sheet and the blanket together, Raina apparently had twisted them around while thrashing in sleep.

It was too much, and a part of her brain was screaming to tell her to stop -she would have, Raina had only to ask. One thing was pining and finding her cute and not acting upon it not to make the situation any weirder than it already was, another was sharing a bed, waking her up in the middle of the night and taking advantage of her kindness like so.

Maybe it was the nightmare, maybe it was still some lingering fear that clutched her throat and her heart like so, maybe it was the bone-deep need of knowing she was unharmed, she wasn’t bloody and drowning.

Raina listened to the other part of her brain, and as soon as Aisling too, finally, curled down beneath the covers, she shifted forward and slipped her arms around her waist, dragging her closer.

She felt the other gasp, the chatting stopped for a moment. Raina squeezed her eyes hard and clutched the other’s body closer, if but for a moment before rejection came crushing hard on her.

The moment passed, another came. And another.

The next, she felt Aisling sigh and shift. Not to slip away, but to slip an arm in the crook of her neck and hug her shoulders back, cheek resting on top of her head and fingers coming back to caress her hair, tread in short black locks leisurely.

“Don’t let me go.” It slipped out of Raina’s lips automatically, without her thinking too much about it. She would have hated how hoarse and whiny it sounded, if there had been anyone else with her.

“I won’t.” Aisling just told her, staying right where she was and hugging her tighter in all answer.

Soft and steady between her arms and under her cheek, she pressed her ear on her shoulder, and felt her heart beating, her chest rise and fall with breath.

She smelled liked salty water, but on her, it didn’t make her antsy.

Her breath calmed, and she forget embarrassment and pining, and let the solid body in her arm, the fingers in her hair, Iull her back to a dreamless sleep.

---

The next time she woke up, the hut was illuminated by grey light filtering from the other window in the kitchen corner.

The day was cloudy, and there was still noise of rain, more intense on the glass, even if curtains were drawn to cover the window on the bed.

Raina, on her belly, took a moment to get used to the waking world again. She didn’t feel so tired after all, even if she felt a weird pressure on her back, pinning her down.

The cupboards and cabinets were all in their place, with the stove. The table was still full of papers, books and writing materials in terrible order, the fireplace, the yellow armchair beside the bed, in front of her, was still there. Everything -the few things that could fit that barrack, that was, and they had to choose between the table and a second bed because both wouldn’t have fitted- was exactly where she left them the night before.

It felt silly, now, to have actually believed that it was the ocean and everything could have been swept away by the storm.

She couldn’t see in the dark the whales and waves and sea animals painted on the walls. And even if she could, Aisling was an enthusiastic painter, but not a talented one. She knew that was a seal –“a sea lion, that’s very different”- only because she tried to guess and mistook it for an otter first. Little to fear, even in the night and after a nightmare.

She shifted, trying to get awake and at least get some of her dignity back by getting breakfast ready, when Aisling groaned, too close for comfort, and the weight on her back shifted, something squeezed her waist.

Raina fell back down with wide eyes, turning her head as she could to glimpse the curve of Aisling’s back at her side, disappearing up her back when she couldn’t see. One of her arms stuck close to her bust.

Fuck.

Embarrassment came all back, and the exact memory of what she did in the night crushed on her barely awake conscience. Well, she was fully awake now, and ready to panic.

Aisling had found her after the shipwreck and welcomed her in her home. In the home that was allegedly too small for one person alone. She left her her bed, slept in an old hammock that she hung on a hook on the wall that couldn’t have surrected Raina’s weight. Aisling never complained, never once even when they quarreled because all the biologist could speak about were whales and Raina didn’t want to hear anything about them that wasn’t how monstrous they were.

And two months later, she took advantage of her kindness in that way.

Hell, she had a fiancée back home. A façade of one, but still she had one.

And Raina didn’t want to intrude letting her know that she could as well see her as more than a friend. Now it would have been difficult to explain otherwise.

But, as her pining mind scrambled to find a passable excuse that kept her behaviour proper and fitting, Aisling shifted again. She felt her nuzzling in the space between her shoulder blades, rustling her shirt, squeeze her waist with her arms and curl up more snugly against her side, groaning with a groggy voice.

“Mmmmh, five minutes more…”

Which was perfectly, blissfully normal, and made Raina snort, despite her heart beating too fast.

“Let me go-” she didn’t want her to let her go. “-and I’ll get breakfast ready while you sleep some more?”

Another groan from her back, longer.

“No. You’re warm and cozy.”

That didn’t help.

“And you told me not to let you go.”

That helped even less.

Raina cleared her throat, biting her tongue before her traitorous mouth could answer with something else she would have regretted later.

She shifted amongst drowsy protests and arms trying to keep her there -that helped very, very little- and seeing her face all pouty still with her eyes squeezed close made her want to bend down and kiss her.

Bad.

She bravely resisted the urge, and deftly slipped her pillow between Aisling’s arms, slipping down the bed and depositing her back on the mattress. She ruffled her hair -that was proper, maybe- and tucked the blanket up her shoulder.

And went directly to the kitchen, hoping that cooking would have cleared her mind more, and maybe distracted Aisling enough to forget to talk about things Raina wasn’t exactly ready to discuss.

She lit the fire in the hearth and then approached the kitchen. Picked from the larder eggs, butter, sugar, milk and flour. It was a pancake day she decided, and shifted bowls and tools out of their cupboards. Cooking had been something she took up since she could stand for long enough. Partly to thank Aisling for her hospitality, partly to not feel so much a dead weight and get a little less restless while forced to rest, partly because Aisling was even worse a cook than she was a painter.

And, the stove allowed her to give her back to Aisling, and clear her mind with another task to keep her hands busy. Crack the eggs, mix them with sugar, add the melted butter and the milk, add flour, little by little.

Skillet on the fire, she let some butter melt on the iron, swinging the pan back and fort to distribute it.

Mechanical tasks that kept her attention on them. Soon enough, whatever emotion was swirling around in her mind -how Aisling smelled like sea-salt, the exact curve of her waist- tuned down, substituted by pouring batter and checking it didn’t burn up.

It lasted little. Muffled steps on the wooden planks, a chair got dragged back, and her roommate sighed heavily, paper rustling under her arms.

“Pancakes?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“You had a rough day yesterday… I thought it could cheer you up.” It was true. Also, a thank you for not making it weird.

“Mh.” She hummed, with a certain tone that told Raina she wasn’t convinced. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Raina asked back, too briskly maybe, her muscles contracting.

Aisling got the hint and waited before answering. Her eyes burned on Raina’s neck, but she soldiered on, flipping one pancake on a plate and pouring another ladleful of batter on the skillet, rolling it around to spread it in a circle. Just another officer checking her work, she was. Nothing she hadn’t faced before. Or so she tried to tell herself.

“What did you dream about?”

Aisling, finally, asked, voice impossibly soft, hesitating as if she wasn’t fully sure she even could ask.

They’ve been in contact in a narrow space for enough time -Raina spent almost half her life on ships to know that time didn’t matter much in relationships of any kind between humans when space was scarce. And the hut was narrower than any ship she ever worked on. She knew that the biologist wouldn’t have minded if she had changed the topic. She knew all too well. And yet…

…Yet, that kindness melted away fears. She knew, from experience, that if she had told her, she wouldn’t have minded. As she wasn’t minding last night accomodations and talking to her normally now.

Raina sighed heavily, flipping the pancake around. She burned it a little, in all her musing, and she glared at him as if it was its fault.

After a minute, she slid it on the other plate she had readied -her own-, and left the skillet on the stove on its own, turning towards Aisling.

“I dreamt about you.”

She declared, simple as that. No pain, no gain.

Aisling’s cheek turned pinker, and it was her turn to lower her eyes.

“Oh.” She just told her. “I see. Well, I must have been horrible if you woke up so startled, I apologise.”

Raina laughed at that. Let it to her to apologise for someone else’s dreams. Aisling turned her face up, giggling shily with her.

“Anything else?” Aisling asked, a smile still on her face.

“Well...” Raina shrugged, turning back to the skillet. More butter on it, and more pancakes when the butter melted. “The usual.”

She told her, ironizing on how only her could try and make friend with a gigantic whale on a murder spree. It made Aisling laugh, agreeing and counter-arguing -as Raina knew she would have- that the whale surely had her good reasons, probably was just scared and didn’t do it on purpose.

In the morning light, with laughter filling the room, the perfume of sweets in the air and rain ticking rhythmically on the windows and buttering the sea outside the window, it all seemed less scary and less serious than it did even half an hour before.

They ate their breakfast, still bickering and laughing about how murderous whales exactly were, as their usual.

Aisling said nothing about the night and sleeping hugged together.

But, she shifted on the chair, collecting her legs on the sittee -she could sit straight only if she took an effort- and one of her feet rested on Raina’s chair, at her right over the corner of the table. Toes gently resting on her thigh.

Raina felt herself blushing, Aisling smiled and her cheeks were pink as well. Nobody said anything about it, and it felt right, there and then, before another day fully began.

It didn’t help at all, but Raina didn’t mind it.

#whale au #dragon age inquisition #hawke x inquisitor #writing #writing petrel #aisling lavellan #raina hawke #I have NO idea how to tag this LOL #doodle #koalaisling is back on track #if you read this and want to ask something/send a prompt do so!

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casmybelovedass · 1 year

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I hate how New Who's problem is fundamentally the writing, cuz then people can just decide to ignore it and blame the actors to win the best doctor war.

Chris had fantastic writing g for a test season, and he was a great Doctor. He really embodied the whimsical of it all while still showing the darkness of an ancient being who had lost it all and was ready to make it rain Hell. Unfortunately he only lasted one season for us to enjoy, but canonically he'd had a century of being himself.

He's skippable.

David had some BRILLIAN writing and some really fucking MEH writing, but he did portrait the figure of someone trying so hard to run from their past while still being haunted by it in a poisonous way. BUT he was also trying to paint this image of himself as dashing merry-go-lucky but tragic hero, which inevitably brought him to his downfall. Water of Mars, while being a kinda MEH episode, contains the most important lesson of them all for him. He is not a human, nor a God, and he was trying to be both at the same time. And he is especially tragic because in canon he only got to live about 6-7 years. Fuck.

He's a crybaby.

Matt. Was. It. He WAS whimsical itself in that "I am clearly not a human and I do not care in the slightest 😀" way. WHILE being the one to actually almost succeed in leaving everything behind. The man who forgets. Fucking beautiful. BUT fucking Moffat had to go and create all these beautiful and interesting storylines to just... kinda fuck them up. Sometimes there really is a feeling of missed closure that makes me visibly shake. Oh well. But for real, I'm a hardcore 10girl (gn) and even I say that Matt's Doctor was the PERFECT combination of friendly and scary. 11/10

He's not Tennant.

PETER. WAS. IT. I will never rest until he gets recognised as one of the fucking best doctors. He was done. SO fucking done with it all. And while 9 was anaesthetised, 10 was PTSD-ed, and 11 was TIRED™️, 12 is 💯 done. Him finally getting back to Gallifrey only to fuck off in his childhood shed as people keep trying to talk to him? His fucking look when Rassilon interrupts him from eating his soup? AND THEN STRAIGHT UP LEAVING?!?!! Iconic. He is done playing young Prince Charming. He is Done trying to be human. He is letting all his years hit him like a truck and being incredibly autistic about it. SO fucking real. BUT his writing was shit. Same thing happened with Matt, he was given shit material to work with but CONSTANTLY like I can count on almost two hands the number of episodes I for real FOR REAL enjoyed. And unfortunately most of them would be because Missy or River were there. That was a mastodontical fucking loss. Fuck.

He's old and tasteless.

And Jodie. Poor fucking Jodie. She got caught in the Chibnall hurricane and suffered massively for it. The writing? Shit. The storylines? Shit. Motives? Shit. Characterisation? Sometimes really fucking shitty. AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE TIMELESS CHILD BULLSHIT my god help me lord I am going to be sick. She did an amazing job being 🦄The Doctor🧚‍♂️, BUT her writing for the Oncoming Storm was so shit she couldn't do anything with it. They made her a tasteless Tennant and then blamed her for it. They really treated her as the "Yeah you got your female Doctor now shut up" Doctor, and gave her nothing else to be remembered for, unless you count the having the most fucking absurd writing Doctor. And to make her leave after having broadcasted to the moon and back that David was reprising the role, and that a non-british actor of colour was coming next, really took her moment away. Fucking awful.

She's a woman and tasteless.

Shameful.

#doctor who #doctor who analysis #9th doctor #10th doctor #11th doctor #12th doctor #13th doctor #fandom #writing

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thistlearts · 1 year

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How it feels to be an artist today

#artist #twitter #life of an artist #social media #artist on tumblr #artist on twitter #artist on instagram #artist on tiktok

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jacker-raccoonn · 1 year

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Thanks Twitter now I felt like dusting off my tumblr.

It is curious that a few years ago tumblr tempted many users to leave the platform, or to move to Twitter itself.

Years later, Twitter achieves something similar. Now artists either go back to Tumblr, or look for alternatives like Mastodont (which I'm not too encouraged to use).

Well... Here I am again. After doing a massive cleanup of this dusty account, I guess it's time to start from scratch 🤷‍♂️

#twitter sucks #new start on tumblr #artists on tumblr #furry artist

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mikimotopearl · 2 years

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People on anonymous platforms act like toddlers testing their parent's boundaries, especially women who interact with other women. The same people that ask you for advice dozens of times every month will turn around and try to piece together random crumbs of information to put holes in what you say and denigrate you through accusatory questions formulated in the snarkiest way possible, almost as if they need to get a weight off their shoulders. My first Instagram with an attached Tellonym profile was an interesting experience lmao

I feel like other less experienced girls see you have 1-3 things or traits they desire and start studying everything you do to try and steal what they think is your secret recipe. And they can't stand when your image is too curated! They are entitled to know the bad and the ugly, they put themselves through the mastodontic ordeal of pressing a button to follow you! If you don't provide that they'll just have to make it up, they don't have any other way to cope with someone else having something they desire. Elevating themselves isn't even an option, they just have to put YOU down. They have to manage to prove to themselves (and in more severe cases, to your whole following) that you cheated somehow. Or that you straight-up don't deserve what you have. It's so pathetic, I hope y'all get better but simultaneously please go die in a ditch

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rotterdamvanalles · 10 months

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De Schiekade met de Akragontoren, een onderdeel van de Technikonscholen, 1969.

Al in 1955 ontstonden de eerste plannen voor het Centrum Technisch Onderwijs, een scholencomplex in het Zomerhofkwartier. Van het begin af aan was er een gekromd hoofdvolume langs het Hofpleinviaduct bedacht met een apart gebouw voor de gymnastiekzalen. De gebouwen zouden aanvankelijk met elkaar verbonden worden door een luchtbrug. Het concept voor het schoolverzamelgebouw lag in de lijn van de verzamelgebouwen waarmee Rotterdam zo succesvol had geëxperimenteerd in de wederopbouw: bedrijfsverzamelgebouwen en winkelcentra. Ook bij deze combinatie van scholen lagen de voordelen voor de hand. Men kon flexibel gebruik maken van de beschikbare lokalen en faciliteiten delen. Daardoor konden met name de aula en de gymnastieklokalen van hogere kwaliteit worden. Uiteraard was de aangewezen architect voor een dergelijk grootschalig project Hugh Maaskant (1907-1977), die de Industriegebouwen en het Groothandelsgebouw had ontworpen. De Mastodont van Maaskant, zo werd het scholencomplex Technikon aanvankelijk genoemd. De naam Technikon kwam pas kort voor de opening. Niemand wist wat het betekende, maar het klonk goed.

De foto is gemaakt door de Fototechnische Dienst Rotterdam en komt uit het Stadsarchief Rotterdam. De informatie komt van Platform Wederopbouw Rotterdam. https://wederopbouwrotterdam.nl/artikelen/scholencomplex-technikon-hofpleintheater-gymnastiekgebouw-akragon

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yardtrust · 2 years

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Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie

Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie mods#

Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie series#

Some in the post’s comments are even against them returning, claiming that these custom emblems are a “double edged sword,” with some choosing to create inappropriate images. Read more: Black Ops Cold War Standoff map change causes big debate.Of course, the custom emblems from previous Black Ops games were fairly controversial, as players would often create things a little too explicit. The argument is that these season pass emblems aren’t creative enough for players to express themselves, wanting more for player identification and customization. This means that players are given emblems in the season passes, which can be various things. Read more: JGOD explains which Warzone barrels you should be using for Cold War Assault Riflesīlack Ops Cold War has taken on a seasonal format with its integration with Warzone.Reddit user AllergicToAnime put a post up expressing the wish for custom emblems to return while also giving their reasons.

Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie series#

One thing Treyarch is yet to bring back to the series is the infamous custom emblems, which allowed players to create their own individual emblems to show off. xd.Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War has done a pretty good job at making people feel nostalgic about previous Treyarch titles, but some players are now asking for the classic custom emblem system.įrom r emastered maps to classic weapons, Treyarch’s latest Call of Duty has stayed true to its Black Ops roots, giving players who are familiar with the franchise a sense of comfortability. However they come way too quickly, anything before round 40 or 50 shouldn't be THAT hard jeez. Bosses weren't as good as bo1 & 2, just keep spawning more and more, which I understand why, it's to make it harder the higher in rounds you go so things aren't so easy as in the first black ops games. I absolutely LOVED the maps and weapons, but hated the extensive easter eggs you had to do in order to do basic things such as pack-a-punch. Both multiplayer and zombies felt worse than before. No but seriously, I felt like bo3 wasn't as good as the first 2 by a longshot. Why I said that I hope bo4 doesn't flop is because I truly don't, duh. I'd love to see Five, Buried, Die Rise, Call of The Dead & Mob of The Dead. (Anything beyond this is my own opinion and isn't important)Īlso while i've mentioned it, I personally hope that treyarch will continue to remaster old maps they've done for bonus dlc's such as the one we got on Bo3, Zombie Chronicles.

Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie mods#

There aren't that many mods yet sadly, but there are some amazing ones released that'll guarantee more fun on classic treyarch maps, custom zombies or/and multiplayer! Anyway, hopefully this will help you get custom maps (this collection will be updated) easily without having to go through 1200+ maps in the workshop. Would also love to see some of my favorite WaW maps come to bo3. Hopefully in the future there'll be more creators who can and are willing to work on a map for a longer period of time to make it epic. So far there isn't that many, only something near 150 custom maps that're even worth looking at(in-game). This is a collection of, what I personally believe, are the best Custom Zombies & Mods in the whole workshop.

#Embleme mastodonte bo2 zombie

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drean-ann · 2 years

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THESE ANIMALS ALWAYS BEEN WEARD....YOU WHERE CHASING TO KILL EVERYBODY, NOW YOU HAVE TIME TO LOOK AT YOURSELVE....EVERYBODY WORN YOU NOT GO DO THAT, THESE ARE THE REDOULTS....FOCOUS, SHE DID'NT COMMITED, HE IS A DOCTOR, HE MADE A MISTAKE, ADAM....THERE ARE EVOLUTIONARY EVIDENCE SPIECIES PROVES THAT THIS IS TRUE,...HIPOPOTAMUS, RIGNOSORACE, MORS, THE OCEAN PIG, THE ELEPHANT, THE WALE....THESE ARE SAVEGES OF PIGS NOT MUCH LEFT, THERE WASN'T ANY MASTODONT EVER....YOU CAN REVIEV WHAT EGSISTED, WHAT EGSISTS AND SEE FOR YOURSELVE....FOCOUS, WE DIDN'T DO IT, THEY HE WANTED TO TAKE THEM ALL, SNAILS ARE IN THERE TOO FOR EGSAMPLE, CORAL REEF...WHAT IS IT...HAS A SHIELD, SOMETHING LIVES INSIDE, IT IS A SNAIL....100KM OF SNAIL....LIVE IS DYING IN OCEAN BECOUSE OF THAT SHIT.....MOOOOOOOVVVEEEE....ITS THEREE.....

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lignes2frappe · 2 years

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MAIS POURQUOI LES RAPPEURS SONT-ILS TOUS OBSÉDÉS PAR GUCCI ?

Chaque année c’est la même rengaine : quand sont publiés les classements des marques les plus référencés par les rappeurs, Gucci s’arroge systématiquement ou presque la première place.

Mieux, quand l’année dernière Genius a compilé dix ans de textes pour designer la marque la plus populaire de la décennie, Gucci est arrivé en tête avec 12 282 mentions (!), coiffant sur le poteau les mastodontes Nike et Mercedes Benz.

Il est vrai que sans même rentrer dans le détail des chiffres, ce résultat semble tomber sous le sens, tant sitôt évoquée la maison italienne viennent spontanément à l’esprit quantité de rimes à sa gloire.

C’est Future qui se vante d’avoir couché avec la go d’un autre en claquettes Gucci sur Thought It Was a Drought… C’est 2Chainz qui clame solennellement vouloir être enterré dans un magasin Gucci sur Birthday Song… C’est Chief Keef qui liste les contrefaçons Gucci dans le top des choses qu’il n’aime pas sur le remix de I Don’t Like… C’est Lil Pump qui répète frénétiquement 54 fois Gucci en deux minutes et quatre secondes sur Gucci Gang… C’est Lil Nas X qui parade en chapeau de cowboy Gucci sur Old Town Road... Ce sont les Migos qui ont eux carrément enregistré un morceau intitulé I’m Gucci...

La liste est sans fin.

Un parfum d’aristocratie, un zeste d’excentricité

Évidemment une telle omniprésence s’explique en partie par la manière dont le nom sonne à l’oreille (deux syllabes très courtes et très musicales) et la facilité avec laquelle il est possible de le placer dans un couplet – là où citer Yves Saint Laurent ou Louis Vuitton se révèle déjà plus technique.

Ce n’est cependant pas la seule raison, ni même la raison principale.

L’amour inconditionnel que les rappeurs portent à Gucci tient en effet à l’identité même de la marque. Ou pour le dire plus précisément, dans la double identité de la marque, tant Gucci joue à la fois la carte de la respectabilité et celle de l’audace, pour ne pas dire de l’ostentation, deux variables auxquelles les rappeurs sont extrêmement sensibles.

Petite entreprise créée au début des années 20 dans le nord de l’Italie, Gucci était à la base spécialisée dans la maroquinerie à destination d’une clientèle extrêmement aisée. Il faut ensuite attendre 1953 pour que sa première boutique ouvre ses portes sur le sol américain, avant que dans les années 60/70 se fixe pour de bon l’image aux yeux du grand public. Avec d’une part une l’avènement du célèbre logo GG, et de l’autre, la diversification de son offre : des produits tous positionnés sur le créneau premium (montres, foulards, accessoires de voyages, habillage d’automobiles…).

[Oui, il fût un temps où l’industrie du luxe ne générait pas l’immense majorité de son chiffre d’affaires en refourguant du vulgaire merch…]

C’est ainsi que lorsque le hip hop commence à prendre de l’ampleur dans la seconde partie des années 80, les rappeurs jettent naturellement leur dévolu sur Gucci, tant pour son côté « ancêtre au roi » que pour son côté immédiatement reconnaissable.

S’afficher en rouge et vert, c’est au même titre que porter des bijoux ou conduire une grosse voiture, signifier sa réussite matérielle aux yeux des autres.

Et puis Dapper Dan est arrivé.

Né Daniel Day, il ouvre à Harlem en 1982 la Dapper Dan’s Boutique, un magasin de vêtements d’un genre nouveau où il personnalise à des pièces de streetwear avec les monogrammes des enseignes de luxe les plus prestigieuses – Versace, Vuitton, Chanel, Fendi, et bien entendu Gucci, la plus demandée de toutes.

« Il me suffisait d’avoir le tissu. À partir de là, je pouvais faire ce que je voulais » expliquait-il en 2015 dans le documentaire Fresh Dressed. « J’embellissais tout ce que les designers n’avaient pas. Je rendais ça plus black. À l’époque, tout ce que je voulais c’était servir ma communauté. Jamais je ne me suis imaginé l’impact de mes créations. »

Cette offre nouvelle attire rapidement une clientèle nouvelle très « new money » composée de rappeurs (Big Daddy Kane, KRS-One…), d’athlètes (Mike Tyson, le basketteur Walter Berry…) et, épidémie du crack oblige, de dealeurs (Alpo Martinez, Azie Faison…).

De fil en aiguille, certaines de ses pièces siglées Gucci se retrouvent sous le feu des projecteurs comme le haut de survêtement rouge de LL Cool J ci-dessus, ou les ensembles portés par Eric B et Rakim en 1988 sur la fameuse pochette de l’album Paid in Full ci-dessous.

L’amour vache

Malgré cet engouement sincère, chez Gucci on fait comme si tout cela n’existait pas.

Aucune reconnaissance, aucun deal, aucun partenariat, pendant de longues années le monde du luxe snobe du mieux qu’il peut, pour ne pas dire méprise, le monde du rap.

Ce statu quo va durer trois longues décennies.

Tandis qu’au début des années 2010 les lignes commencent timidement à bouger (cf. Kanye West ou A$AP Rocky qui se font désormais voir en public avec des créateurs), il faut attendre 2017 pour que le déclic se produise.

En mai 2017, lors du défilé de la collection 2018, Alessandro Michele, le directeur créatif de Gucci, présente un manteau en fourrure au volume de manches disproportionnés qui ne va pas sans rappeler un modèle similaire créé par Dapper Dan en 1989 pour la sprinteuse Diane Dixon.

Jugez plutôt :

Immédiatement accusé de plagiat sur les réseaux et dans la presse, devant le tollé suscité, Gucci opère alors un virage à 180°.

L’année suivante, la marque s’associe avec Dan pour inaugurer Dapper Dan of Harlem, son nouveau magasin de luxe à Harlem, puis collabore avec lui dans la foulée sur la collection A/W17 qui reprend la formule qui a fait sa renommée.

Ce succès d’estime ne suffit néanmoins pas à remettre les compteurs à zéro.

Invité cette même année dans l’émission Queen Radio de Nicki Minaj sur Apple Music, Swae Lee ne cachait ainsi pas son amertume quant à l’ingratitude de Gucci, résumant là le sentiment général du milieu.

« Ça fait trois ans que je mets du Gucci. J’ai peut-être dépensé plus de 200 000 dollars chez eux. Tous les rappeurs que je connais ont fait de même. Et bien, ils ne nous montrent aucun signe d’amour. On participe à booster leur valeur, mais ils ne nous envoient même pas une paire de chaussettes. Rien, même pas une réduction. »

Du coup lorsque début 2019 Gucci commercialise un col roulé pour femme au faux-airs de « black face », certains rappeurs comme T.I. ou Soulja Boy prennent très mal la chose.

[Ou feignent de très mal prendre la chose pour se mettre en scène, c’est selon.]

S’il est franchement très peu probable que Gucci se soit sciemment amusé à frayer avec ce genre de tabou, toujours est-il que la marque finit par « s’excuser profondément », avant de là encore, faire un pas en direction de la culture urbaine.

Comme une évidence, Gucci recrute alors dans ses rangs… Gucci Mane !

Revenu de ses excès de conduite et de ses écarts avec la loi, non content de devenir le premier rappeur de l’histoire signé par Gucci, l’ami Radric Delantic Davis se retrouve au centre de sa nouvelle campagne de promotion.

Certes, quand bien même comme le concède volontiers l’intéressé « ce n’est pas comme si Gucci avait besoin de lui », et quand bien même l’opportunisme de la démarche saute aux yeux, l’évènement est de taille.

Qui sait, l’obsession des rappeurs pour Gucci n’en est peut-être qu’à ses débuts ?

Publié sur Booska-p.com le 23 décembre 2021.

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lounesdarbois · 3 years

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Aider un camarade à déménager

« Quittez tout, vous trouverez tout. »

Saint François d’Assise

Il faut aller chercher une camionnette de déménagement à l'autre bout de la ville. On fraude un métro, on fraude un train, on marche longtemps dans un parking souterrain, voilà c'est ici. Le camarade fait un crochet par Quick pour prendre un menu à emporter et il s'éloigne sous la pluie et mes blâmes diététiques, pendant que je remplis en ligne les formulaires d'état des lieux du véhicule, déverrouille la portière avec un téléphone. Une camionnette louée avec un téléphone loué, c'est fou le commerce "interface-machine". Le pote revient et monte au volant, moi à droite, démarrage. Tout se passe bien. D'abord une petite marche arrière à l'aveugle pour se mettre en jambes, avec le levier de vitesse dans la main droite et un cheeseburger dans la main gauche, à hauteur du nez pour y faire un croc de temps en temps, et l'autoradio sur Nostalgie FM qui chantonne un morceau des Beach Boys Aruba, Jamaica, oh I want to take ya to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama. Des tas de voyants s'allument sur le tableau de bord, et une stridulation d'alarme retentit par-dessus la musique. C'est le frein à main qui n'est pas desserré voyons! Et paf tout de suite l'allure du véhicule augmente. Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go. C'est parti pour deux jours de déménagement de cinglé. Nous nous y sommes pris trop tard et c'est en catastrophe que nous accomplissons chaque geste, pressés par les échéances qui sont autant d'heure H et de couperets sur un billard: douze heures pour rendre un appartement vidé et récuré de fond en comble, vingt-quatre heures pour rendre ce véhicule.

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Adolescent je me promettais une fois adulte, de vivre dans la beauté, par et pour la beauté: j'aurai la verve d'Edouard Baer, l'ameublement Armani Casa, les vêtements hooligan chic, l'érudition de Pierre Grimal, le courage physique de Marcel Bigeard, le détachement de Sempé, et la France pour jardin semée de maisons de pierres blondes, de dentelures de feuilles de chênes qui se détachent sur un ciel de soir d’été et de clairières comme sur les tableaux d'Hubert Robert. Il n'y eut rien de tout cela et j'arrivai à la majorité dans un Grenoble abominable, dans le shit, le tam-tam et les dépressions.

Nous avons au préalable "fait les cartons" c'est à dire bourré des sacs de fortune avec toutes sortes de tableaux, de linges de maison, d'objets sortis d'héritages lointains et dont plus personne ne connaît la valeur. Les dentelles de Bruges, les écharpes de cachemire, les lustres du plafond, trésors des cristalleries européennes, emballés tous en vrac dans des journaux titrés "Alan Waquebaert quitte Namur", émergent ça et là d'un amoncellement de sacs, sachets, boîtes, paquets. Nous avons démonté des meubles, vidé le contenu des tiroirs à la verticale dans les poubelles, puis judicieusement entassé celles-ci sur le palier, palier dont les voisins d'en face se trouvent être les propriétaires d'ici.

Fracas dans la cuisine, le cache de porte du lave-vaisselle a frappé le carrelage. Catastrophe. Bientôt un réparateur bruxellois accourt, long et maigre, soixante-cinq ans, cheveux blancs jusqu'aux omoplates, gestes fébriles. Il se blesse au doigt en manipulant le cadre intérieur de la machine, toute de métal à bord tranchants, abominable. Du sang partout, des jurons, nous improvisons un pansement au sopalin et scotch et le congédions ; cette porte doit être réparée dans les dix heures prochaines et nous devons vider le chargement du véhicule d'ici une heure dans une maison des faubourgs de Charleroi, l'un des comptoirs du camarade.

En route il me semble soudain que ce n'est pas la grande forme. J'ai tous les symptômes d'un empoisonnement alimentaire passager et il va falloir rendre ce qui est de trop, tout en déchargeant des paquets dans un décor de briques et de désespoir wallon humide. Bientôt à Charleroi étalé sur un canapé, en proie aux joies des chauds et froids internes je rabat la capuche et médite un remède possible. Il me revient soudain que les Grecs recommandaient de traiter l'acidité par l'amertume et je progresse bientôt courbé en deux vers la cuisine, à la vitesse de 0,2 kilomètre par heure. En fouillant ici et là il s'avère possible de mêler dans une eau frémissante du thé vert et du curcuma en poudre. Un grand verre de ce mélange vous donne des frissons tellement c’est amer mais se révèle très vite constituer un baume souverain sur la douleur, et un fortifiant merveilleux. Me revoilà dispo et mon ami a dans l'intervalle terminé la manutention. Nous rentrons à Bruxelles. Tout s'arrange?

On bombarde sur l'autoroute. Des voyants s'allument sur le cadran de bord. Avant même de pouvoir y prêter attention un orage effroyable s'abat sur le pays, et l'autoroute devient un tobogan de parc aquatique. Le halo des phares ne porte plus qu'à trois mètres. Trente-cinq minutes de ce régime et nous arrivons, parquons le véhicule devant le logement à vider et mettons pied à terre. La portière latérale est grande ouverte. C’était pour ça les voyants allumés. Elle a été grande ouverte pendant trente-cinq minutes sous une averse de mer du nord. Bon, on ne dit rien. Un sac en toile que l'on avait bourré de paires de Crockett & Jones, trempé. On ouvre le sac pour vérifier les chaussures: miracle elles étaient cirées et fourrées d'embauchoir en pin, la pluie a glissé sur le cuir lorsque le bois sec ne l'a pas bue. L’averse a tourné au crachin. “La pluie tombait comme une aumône” dit quelque part Houellebecq dans un poème.

Avant de charger encore le véhicule il faut abandonner un bureau années 60 les quatre pieds en l'air sur un trottoir, sous la pluie, comme un bœuf abattu. Ces trucs sont invendables, les gens ne distinguent plus l’artisanat de la camelote, ne jurent que par Ikéa, les copeaux agglomérés sans style, sans race, sans passé. Signe des temps. Bientôt plus rien ne vaudra plus rien sur le marché, la beauté seule restera le critère inattaquable.

Il faudra beaucoup d'autres choses. Il faudra porter des tapis emballés dans des rideaux chouraves au logeur depuis la camionnette en triple file aux warnings dans un escalier branlant qui tient par miracle avec des poutrelles de soutènement jusqu'au 4ème étage chez des locataires ahuris et pas prévenus pendant qu'un GSM sonne pour la neuvième fois d'affilée dans une poche sans pouvoir l'éteindre (deux mains occupées). Mais qui appelle, bon sang? C'est un candidat Airbnb avec accent africain complètement paniqué qui a payé sa location et ne trouve pas la clé, normal nous sommes occupés à autre chose! Et puis le logement que tu as loué, mon petit père, a été vidé par nos soins et tu vas dormir par terre, ça te va comme ça? Et puis quoi, est-ce que nous sommes au service de ces fils d'ambassa-bassadeurs qui n'ont d'argent que par notre argent? De toute façon il patientera. Demain après l'état des lieux et la remise des clés, de ses clés à lui-aussi, il devra pour finir son séjour passer par la courette et grimper au logement par une échelle dissimulée sous une bâche dont lui indiquons l'emplacement, puis pousser la fenêtre de l'antichambre que nous aurons maintenu entrouverte au moyen d'un segment de carton astucieusement inséré entre le vantail ouvrant et le dormant précadre. Ce stratagème permet de sous-louer le bien au-delà de la fin du bail même après en avoir rendu les clés au logeur. Mais ce primitif à peine capable de saisir la complexité de phrases du genre de "clé sous paillasson" et qui téléphone 9 fois de suite pour se les faire répéter sera-t-il à même de suivre les directives évoquées ci-dessus? C'est le cadet de nos soucis.

On redescend, on remonte encore avec des tringles chargées de vêtements, des tapis, des trumeaux en marbre. Il reste un canapé à 40 euros et une armoire Ikéa. Ecœurés nous abandonnons ces marchandises sur le trottoir.

Mince, le lave-vaisselle cassé avec sa porte effondrée! Bim une idée, je me rappelle que nous avons un camarade menuisier dans un quartier tout proche. On l'appelle en catastrophe et le pressons de passer réparer d'ici une heure, il accepte. Réseau en béton, nous avons. Il arrive, pose des points de colle avec un pistolet à colle, compresse la porte... Ça tient. Merveilleux, on a presque fini. Dans douze heures il faudra avoir quitté les lieux.

Bientôt il y aura les effroyables négociations d'état des lieux, sous le regard furieux de propriétaires rêches comme des toiles de jute, dans une ambiance en bronze massif d'une pesanteur insoutenable, lorsque l'on compte les secondes et que ça ne finit jamais.

Nous sommes à jeun et j'aime extrêmement cette sensation lorsqu'on est au bout de ses forces et que l'on s'en découvre de nouvelles, insoupçonnées. Cette phrase dans les romans autobiographiques de Dostoïevski: "il n'avait rien mangé depuis trois jours", me porte et me transporte. Il y a une noblesse du jeûne et Paul Morand me comble avec son "J'aime manger, mais je n'aime pas avoir mangé". J'ouvre une porte d'armoire de cuisine pour vérifier que tout est vide et que voilà dedans? Bon sang un énorme lave-linge. Et par-dessus le mastodonte, quoi? Un sèche-linge rotatif. Je claque la porte écœuré et gueule des insultes à travers les pièces désertes à l'intention du camarade.

Il nous faut un "diable" pour bouger ces crasses, et un lieu de stockage. Oh ça c'est réglé: le gars fréquente une meuf actuellement qui a un logement avec cave dans le quartier européen, on lui fourguera le tout à cette eurocrate. Il reste juste le temps de foncer au grossiste de vin là-bas plus haut dans la rue, cinq minutes avant fermeture pour un mois, pour lui soutirer un petit peu son diable. Les heures suivantes sont brouillées, nous descendons et montons l'électroménager sur des escaliers, dans des camionnettes, dans des tunnels de cave, occupés que nous sommes à rentrer des lave-linges dans des caves, des sèche-linges dans des ascenseurs comme on fait rentrer des carrés dans des ronds, au forceps, au chausse-cube et au "han" de porteur d'eau avec la sueur qui perle au front. Mais tout s’arrange.

Le camarade m’offre un magnifique tapis, et un tableau splendide: le panthéon de Rome.

Je rentre écouter ceci. Bon, bon, je sais... Mais elle a une voix superbe.

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#prose

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brilmans · 3 years

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De eerste fossiele sperweruil van Nederland

Sperweruil (Fotograaf: Sander van der Wel).

De geschiedenis ingaan

De wolharige mammoet, het reuzenhert, de neushoorn, het rendier en de grottenbeer, het zijn stuk voor stuk iconen uit de ijstijd. Sla de geschiedenisboeken uit je jeugd er maar op na. Net kan niet missen; ze staan er in. Met een beetje mazzel staan in jouw boek zelfs de grottenleeuw, hyena en wat kleinere beesten zoals, haas, hoen, eend en bever afgebeeld. Welk beest je zo goed als zeker niet ziet afgebeeld is de sperweruil.

Om in een boek te komen moet je je sporen hebben nagelaten, moeten deze worden gevonden en, heel essentieel, moeten ze worden herkend en op naam gebracht. Zolang niemand van je bestaan weet, wordt je niet aan het papier toevertrouwd. Om die reden barst het in boeken over de Nederlandse prehistorie van de Mammoeten, grottenberen en andere ijstijd iconen. Van die dieren zijn er namelijk duizenden fossielen bekend die hun prehistorische bestaan op ons grondgebied bewijzen. Om diezelfde reden ontbreekt de sperweruil. Voor de aanwezigheid van de sperweruil, Surnia ulula (Linnaeus, 1758), in ons prehistorische landschap was geen enkele bewijs. Maar, daar heb ik, uw beste Brilmans, eigenhandig verandering in gebracht. Ik heb het fossiele voorkomen van de sperweruil in ons land aangetoond. Dit alles aan de hand van een ogenschijnlijk nietig stukje bot.

Het fossiele fragment van een tarsometatarsus van een sperweruil.

Over mijn publicatie

Om er voor te zorgen dat deze kennis niet beperkt zou blijven tot mijn eigen kleine wereld, besloot ik mijn bevindingen te publiceren in het tijdschrift Afzettingen van de Werkgroep Tertiaire en Kwartaire Geologie, de WTKG. Simultaan verwierf de sperweruil zijn eerste plekje in de Nederlandse geschiedschrijving: hij staat op papier!

Naar aanleiding van mijn publicatie ontving in tal van reacties waaronder enkele van gerenommeerde namen uit de Nederlandse paleontologie. En die reacties waren louter positief. Volgens Dick Mol, een mastodont in de Nederlandse paleontologie, betrof het zelfs belangrijk nieuws.

‘Ik ben onder de indruk van jouw artikel in Afzettingen over de sperweruil van de Zandmotor. Een schitterende vondst. En, dat zullen velen zich niet onmiddellijk realiseren, nieuw voor de fossil record van Nederland en de aangrenzende Noordzee. Dat is heel belangrijk, want met jouw artikel is de avifauna opnieuw uitgebreid met een vogelsoort. Dat is echt nieuws!’ (Dick Mol)

Wetenschappelijke waarde

Doordat ik het bot op naam heb weten te brengen en er over gepubliceerd heb, heeft het wetenschappelijke waarde gekregen. Het is het eerste stuk fossiele sperweruil van Nederland! Maar daarmee zijn we er nog niet. Het fossiel kan van nog grotere waarde zijn voor de wetenschap als we de ouderdom ervan kunnen bepalen. Omdat het fossiel van de Zandmotor afkomstig is en dus per definitie ex situ, is de enige manier om het te dateren een zogenaamde C14-datering.

Dick denkt dat het C14-dateren, een kostbare aangelegenheid, in dit geval de moeite en het geld meer dan waard is en wil dit graag samen met mij oppakken. In de nabije toekomst zal het bot dus gedateerd worden. De kosten hiervoor hoeven niet uit eigen zak betaald te worden, dat heeft Dick voor mekaar. De rekening die ik betaal, is dat de helft van het bijzonderste bot uit mijn collectie vernietigd wordt. C14-datering is namelijk, zoals ze dat noemen, een destructieve onderzoeksmethode.

Lees het artikel ‘Een sperweruil Surnia ulula (Linnaeus, 1758) van de Zandmotor’ in het tijdschrift Afzettingen van de Werkgroep Tertiaire en Kwartaire Geologie, de WTKG, van maart 2021.

#sperweruil #Surnia ulula #tarsometatarsus #Zandmotor #fossil #fossiel #vogels #uilen #roofvogels #northern hawk-owl

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the-dork-neko · 5 years

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The Hardest Path (Father Brown, one-shot in English)

[Sinopse] Basically, The Owl of Minerva (S03 E15, season finale) with Sid's point of view, a bit of slashy twist, and some drama that could give a nice Mexican soap opera a run for their money. Sorry for it. :3

[Word Count] 4,444

[Disclaimer] Father Brown belongs to the family of the writer G.K. Chesterton (books and short stories, published between World War I and II), and to BBC (adaptation into the very groovy TV series, since 2013). This is just a fanwork, meant for some pleasure, enjoyment, entertainment, and maybe some tears, absolutely without any intention of financial profit whatsoever.

Cross-posted to AO3 and FFN.

- Kembleford, 731.

Wasn't it easier just to say “Hello?”

He never knew how to react to any joke, to the point of making his pranks lose any trace of fun.

He also never did anything the easiest way.

Probably had never been allowed to go through the easiest path, never had been given any opportunity to play, relax, chill out, try to live a normal life. And for some reason, as absurd as the iron-hard discipline imposed on him, he just never have spared any time to complain, or to rebel.

It was unbearable, to see that stupid act of a trial, with tons of false evidences and bought testimonies, could be taken to the last consequences. Who could see a murderer in the most upstanding man in town? How could such an uptight, unable to turn a blind eye to some useless, silly rule, be unable to disrespect the sacred gift of life? Even more, the life of a fellow copper, an apprentice who also swore to serve and protect innocent civilians?

The house that they have temporarily given him would remain empty, until the arrival of the next Inspector.

For a few weeks, it'd be, again, an old, empty cottage. Just as dead as any of the graves in the cemetery behind the Church.

Regardless of how many people would be living there, for Sid, that house would never come back to life again.

The next time that the phone would ring, it wouldn't be that boyish voice, affecting cold and authority, that would answer the unlucky interlocutor. That lost expression, a tired attempt to keep people at arm's lenght, would never repeat the address, instead of trying to keep a normal conversation.

If Sid picked the lock, with his good old magic trick, instead of a key, like the previous resident, or any "honest person", he wouldn't have to worry about the nearly empty cupboards, always forgotten by the owner, neither about the ancient plumbing, which would never spend more than a month without breaking, and giving an unpleasant but never unexpected surprise.

He'd never see the well-known mugs stained of coffee or tea, or the plates of pancakes in the sink; and would never listen to the sound of big bands, easy listening or jazz, and never would get weirded out by the otherworldy voices of an opera, because any part of the small and smart collection of long-plays would spin lazily in that old turntable again.

The slim and well-known figure would never come back to nap or brood in the armchair in the sitting room. There would never be another trenchcoat, wet with dew or rain, or any well-tailored suit jacket, in any dark, austere colour, hanging in the rack by the door. And the sofa would never be laden with that mess of old books full of markers and scribblings.

The next occupant of the police cottage would never have time to stop and enjoy their own home.

And Sid would never have to worry about other nightmares but his own.

Because the person for whom he used to make the nest of blankets that was not in the bed anymore would never come back home, seeking shelter for another cold and sleepless night.

When Her Ladyship answered the phone, soon after breakfast, Sid feigned the typical mischievous smile, thinking that the call had no more news than another wave in Mrs. M's, or another of Lady F's informants, eternal river of gossiping.

However, when she fell instead of sitting in the sofa, and raised those beautiful green eyes to her loyal servant, the sadness in the precious face became a telepathic message. A single mind, heavy with affliction, multiplied into two.

To the contrary of Sid's fear, the endangered person wasn't the Father, but the person involved in his new "amateur" investigation.

The man that Sid though as gone to never be seen again; condemned to death, for a crime he'd never even think to commit. A man who finally raised in riot against the useless machine that chewed him up, and spat no more than an empty shell back into the world of the living.

Fragile, subdued, dirty, covered in bruises. He was beaten, wounded and broken, physically, mentally and spiritually, in the unjust prison. Didn't look, even in the slightest, like the equivalent guarded in Sid's memory, heart and senses.

Nevertheless, the tired voice had the same timbre, and the hazel-coloured eyes, the same innocence, for which the driver would never be able to resist.

His smart eyes devoured that exhausted shadow, and focused instantly where the suit sleeves couldn't hide parts of horrible red marks in the other man's wrists.

Blood boiled in fury, destroying impulse without a certain target, the need to protect someone who ignored his own closeness to death. An infinite conflict on sentiment, silenced by the former petty criminal.

It was easy, too easy, to fake a joke with the absurd irony of the situation, and even easier to open the cuffs, in less than five seconds.

Look into the well-known eyes and see them full of pain was hard, too hard, and fight the will to soothe the wounded innocent, dress, balm and clean his wounds, almost impossible.

Like always, the black-haired young man ignored his needs, and went on with his story. After biting back a tired sigh, he exposed the free-masons' conspiration, and his own desperate masterplan to clean his name, and get his honor back.

Good God. He still thought about going back and serving the stupid machine of "justice"? With his own life, probably??

Carter felt even angrier, and questioned the prisioner's sanity even more vehemently. The fugitive broke out of jail... to refuse all other offers of help, and go back to the enemy's lair, in a few hours, to get the only and last true evidence that still remained for the case.

A clue that costed two lifes, and his could perfectly be the third.

"Have you forgotten which one of us is the police officer?"

Why did he come and ask for help and shelter, to the found family he despised, for all the time he lived in the town, if he was planning to go alone, in a damn suicide mission, first thing in the morning?

The Father offered a conciliatory answer, soon ignored by the kamikaze; a blanket and the presbytery's sofa, and a break for sleep, and plan a more appropriate counter-attack in the morning.

Sid could see Sullivan, though the shadows in the curtains; his vague outline, curled up in a tight ball of tense muscles, painful bruises and restless nerves. Could feel him struggling in insomniac silence. Both man had been unable to sleep that night.

Sidney was already used to see the stubborn officer working until falling to exhaustion, every time an enquire proved to be more complex than usual. It was obvious that he haven't had even a nap in the previous few days, and that his conscience hasn't gotten off for even a moment of rest, since the start of that perverse circus act.

During the brief, but lovely time they spent nearly living together - in clandestinity, of course - the repentant scoundrel learned to use all sorts of silly and sly tricks and persuasions, to get his constantly tense companion some time to rest, or to eat, even if it were just once in a while. He definetely saw no bother in the fact that the only place where the enslaved policeman could have a proper night of sleep was in the warm nest between a certain thief's chest, and one or two fluffy blankets.

The few exceptions were the annoying, unnecesary situations he spared to make his very best Inspector pose, and be more resistent than his usual.

The bloke was an Atheist and came to ask for sanctuary in the Chuch; to beg for the blessed interference of a man whose kindness and wisdom he overlook and misunderstood.

But he didn't ask for help to the man who know him better than anyone, who kept the most precious and most dangerous secret of his wounded heart.

The silent rejection, a quiet goodbye, sounded loud and clear in Sid's heart. The pain in the con artist's chest was not new. Seeing the Father go back with the Army, to the War; watching Susie go in a bus to London. Biding farewell to a beloved person always hurt the same.

Although, the family had an urgent problem right now. Thomas Sullivan was an innocent man, who brought them a case to solve, and a need of justice to be attended.

The man came, in a moment of despair, to ask the protection of the family. Regardless of how many times he'd soon ask to be abandoned again, none of them would leave him in his darkest hour. Even less a penitent rascal.

When the Father organized the family's combined efforts, Sidney adored the idea of playing the living dummy, a running bait in the police's man hunt. He was already well-used to playing tag with the coppers; a fox could easily run away from a troop of mastodonts.

Throwing the recalcitrant's suit and hat in the river was just a bonus. Such a typical, perfect specimen of well-bred city boy, always obsessed in keeping an immaculate elegance, would be livid after the end of the situation, when he came back home, put his things back in order, and noticed that the coat and the fedora were missing.

Nobody needed to know about the miliseconds of hesitation spent by the young rogue, because the hat and the gabardine still smelled like their owner.

A whiff of that mixture. Cologne, tea, ink from the fountain pen, rain, aftershave. The atmosphere impregnated in the cottage, when it was still a living house. An attractive perfume, painfully calling to his missing heart, and his needy senses.

The sounds of whistles and runnings brought him back to reality.

Whoever saw the shambles of dark blue fabric, floating in the peaceful early morning currents of the river, could only think that the runaway, in an act of despair, threw himself in the cold waters of Hambleston, to avoid the hangman's rope.

When Carter got back to the presbytery, he'd expose the found family's smarts, and maybe he'd succeed at calling Sullivan back to reason.

May God have mercy of the person who needed Sidney Carter, Agnostic hedonist, professional madcap, and reformed criminal, to be adviced back to the common sense!

Lady F. brought news and evidence. The Father, a perfect deduction. Mrs. M., a newly-sewn disguise, and Sid, the overview of enemy territory, and a perfect distraction to cover the theft.

... Naturally, he didn't listen to the voice of wisdom.

He reacted just like his predecessor, Valentine. An unkown observer would think that the younger officer was interested in no more than getting another accomplishment to his starry curriculum.

A distant illusion.

Of course that he'd get back into damn "copper mode", and refuse the family's help, to carry an impossible burden alone, and risk his life in vain.

"Do you really think I'd let a cold case loose in my Evidence Room?? Besides, he doesn't know what he's looking for!"

Despite the extreme situation, the reluctant accomplice was still an adorable sight, and a lovely company. The grumpiness with which he hid the obvious vulnerability broke the trespasser's heart. And the ironic answers to all bickering amused him to no end.

Of course, that sourpuss would get even sourer if Sidney remarked on how he looked like an excited thief carring his prey, when he laid avid hands in the clue, and got distracted with the possibilities it opened.

In reality, both got distracted. They went away safe and sound, because they owned their lifes to Sgt. Goodfellow. Two more souls who'd vouch for the giant's pure heart, when God welcomed him into Heaven.

Sullivan was not an ungrateful man, although his inflexibility could inspire envy in a stone; and his stubborness, in an immortal entity.

He went alone to the station, in the pursuit of the dead jounalist's briefcase. Like that wasn't enough, followed the Father, whom he'd mistaken for an interested trader in favour of the conspirators, and nearly got both killed by Harriet Greensleaves, an evil woman successfully disguised as a victim of domestic abuse.

Sidney would like that the stubborn innocent could learn to trust the family without the cost of more lifes.

Sid would also like to be free of the need of waiting an entire week, in bitter suspense, after going back home... or to his caravan... in a cold night, of rare clean, starry sky, after drinking his last pints at the Red Lion, before the court and the stay of some months in the fridge, and finding a brown paper bag on his tiny, wobbly table.

The intact, labled package, exactly as it was in the shelf at the police station. Inside, the evidence, plus a bonus, the case file.

He still was the most upstanding, honest man in town, and paid all of his debts accordingly. On the other hand, he was susceptible to the bad influence of a cheap thief, who now smiled from ear to ear.

Immediately sober, Sidney ran up the field and the dusty road after, in a mad dash to the police cottage.

Didn't even need to think about picking locks in doors or windows. There was the lonely inhabitant, sat by the back door, with a mug of cold tea in a hand, and a star map, just like the one kept by the Father in St. Mary's library, in the other. A rare sight in shirtsleeves, an insomniac, unsheltered and placid, sitting in the cold night, playing a staring contest against the sky.

The quiet stare flew to the newcomer, just for the time needed to sign that his arrival was noticed, before it went back to the counting of stars and galaxies. Like this was more natural than a worker resting in bed, after a long, tiring day.

Regardless of the light, or its absence, around the two man, Sid known that his interlocutor hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks; and that he refused any superior orders, medical attention, or other disciplines that came with a prescription for barbiturates.

He knew and felt the extension of the dark circles under the hazel eyes, the pain and oppresion, physical and mental, the wounds, the scars, the bruises, as well as if they were upon his own flesh.

Also knew that he'd need a silver tongue to convince the benefactor of the sincerity of his gratitude, and his offer of caring feelings.

A simple, modest thief, a man of insignificant crimes and petty ambitions, had his little skills in his hands, not in his words.

There was only the easiest way to start. He sat in the stone floor, close to the back door of the cottage, and closed the distance between the policeman and himself with the package.

"Evening, Tom."

No answer, but at least now he had some attention.

Practically every single person with whom the austere Inspector had interacted with would hate the intensity of that stare. A silent, gloomy attention, thal almost never blinked, and reminded the unlucky observer of a loud, clear, constant warning of "Keep away!".

Sid also had a body language that went misunderstood by most of the people who passed through his life. And, for the sake of his hard-earned livelihood, learned to discern other postures that went off the beaten path. Among them, there was Tom's unique way to keep people at arm's lenght, to evaluate the people around him, to calculate all possiblities to reveal the minimum possible about himself, and to avoid to get even more hurt, at all costs.

Nothing could be more appealing, more unresistible, to Sid, as the potential of the shy stargazer giving him his hurt trust again.

All at his reach was gratitude and retribuition.

"Thanks, handsome. Thank you, a lot. You saved my sorry skin..."

The compliment, to his aesthetic beauty, or to his gentlemany, thankless honesty, made him look away.

Or maybe was he blushing? How sweet.

"Without your goodness, I'd spend six months in a damn cell."

The other voice failed in a hesitant answer.

"I thought you saw it as just the payment of a debt... Nothing more."

So, that was the poor sweetheart's problem, all the time. He haven't let him down, he lost all hope, before everyone, and bid him farewell. After all, he had all reasons to believe he'd come back dead, after the encounter with the "Enlighted". At the end of the hellish ordeal, the clueless upstanding didn't know how to thank the beloved accomplice for the victory.

The same innocent of always.

Relieved and even more grateful, Sid grinned and shaked the package.

"No way! We were in the thing against the Illu... Illumi... Illumi-whatever... those guys..."

It was so good to see him trying to hide a smile, trough the corner of that beautiful mouth, no matter how briefly.

"... 'cause you came to us, and asked for our help. You got into the family, you're one of us now. And we never let each other down. You'll never see any of us, left to get drown, in the boiling water..."

While his attention was still into holding back some mirth, Sid could hide his own blush, and gather the bone to say the few words still missing from his speech.

"I'd get into your thing anyway, 'cause I love you, and I wouldn't sit still and watch you get arrested for something you'd never do!"

The usual guarded expression in the stoic face opened in naive stunning.

"What??"

It wasn't typical, seeing a man who could force confessions from cold-blooded killers, getting speechless after a talk with a small-time thief. However, it was even funnier than stealing evidence, or exchanging banter with him.

"And now, because you're family, I have even more reason to love you, and take good care of you."

Sid ignored the discomfort of his burning cheeks, and smirked again, before getting up, and taking the other unprotected body with his.

"That's it, mate. When have you last slept? Or ate? Or had any medicine for these wounds??"

"I can't remember... "

Merciful Lord. He felt so cold and rigid. Felt, now more than ever, like a figure cast in stone, marble, or some rusty metal. If all he could do was answer his questions with a weak voice, he was terrible exhausted, maybe even sick.

Or just a bit stunned, with the feelings that neither of them had never confessed.

"Your working hours are already over, Tom. Get over your Inspetor mode. Let's go home. Come back to me."

The cottage was still bereft of the mismatched fusion of order and mess, zeal and forgetfullness; the environment of an inhabitant who was nearly always out, who could almost never stop for a while and enjoy its comfort. The atmosphere Sid remembered and missed was still not there.

Tom was very shy and introverted, and Sid didn't want to think on how devastated he felt, going back to the place that slowly became his home, and see it invaded, nearly destroyed, brutally ransacked by the search of evidence that had never even been there.

First, the kind-hearted rascal would take good care of the living. And after, he'd help him... as much as possible... to take care of the home. Their home, with some hope.

The door closed behind them, and he sheltered the slightly smaller body in a long, timeless embrace, a hug like they missed for uncountable days, lived by both like infinite, bitter years. Adored each inch of the body melted against his own, molded in a perfect fit, and the quiet relieved sigh, impossible to discern from whose mouth it went, and Sid didn't care; too busy in feeling dematerialize, in his body, the tension he didn't know that was guarded there for too long.

Bending down, just a little, he got drunk in Tom's smell, before kissing his hair, his forehead, his temples, his lips, and delight in the heat that slowly, so slowly, enveloped both their bodies.

Under any other circunstances he'd love to caress, spoil and venerate each little part of that delectable body, before pleasing them both in loving possession. He'd love to watch the quiet, stoic expression melting into innocent, stunned pleasure. With some reluctance, the former con man let go of the luscious mouth, and fell even more in love with it and its owner, and the needy murmur it couldn't bite back. Also let go of of their embrace, just enough to open the cuffs of the black-haired man's shirt sleeves, and to let his braces loose, before resting a hand in his still bruised wrist, and the other in the back of his neck, and call both their attentions to other needs, more urgents in that moment.

"Come here. Let's give you a nice warm bath, and put something in these wounds."

The insomniac still had some complaints, something about not being a child, neither being under no pain and suffering no wounds;and the ultimate proof of his clean bill of health was his presence at home, instead of the Cottage Hospital in the nearest town.

Or maybe that was what Sid could telepatically guess, from his lover's rough, broken voice, and the words suffocated by the face pressed against the crook of his neck, and the desperate hands squeezing his back.

“It's all right. I'm not letting go of you any sooner. Come here.”

He dozed in the warm water of the tub, and was totally unaware of Sidney's furious, horrified gaze. Was just too lost, far away from the borders of conscience, trying to find out, why was him in the water, and not in the backyard, counting stars, like usual, or in the armchair in the sitting room, curled up with a book, or in the bed, under the cocoon of blankets that he hid under in the coldest nights. Didn't notice the loving, careful hands washing and massaging his body, neither the pained eyes full of empathy, making an inventary of his cuts, bruises and wounds.

Didn't feel the ointment in his hurting flesh, nor the new bandages in the wrists, ribs and right hand. His very tired, green and naive eyes opened up on their own accord, well-fixed, but completely blind to his beloved. Like he dreamed of his presence, but the solidity of the dream was more strange than its irreality.

Wasn't used to sleeping, even less dreaming. There was never a safe, peaceful place to do it. Lived in constant alert, kept his eyes open, for the maximum of possible time, and when he closed them, only nightmares appeared before his eyelids. Usually, the creatures there were, indeed, pretty solid, and had really big hands. But their touch was cold, bloody and painful; never warm and soothing.

Since his eyes were unable to show him a logic image, they went closed again.

Sid washed himself in a hurry, quickly got rid from the smell of alcohol in his body and breath. Had years of practice into going to work, absolutely functional, after a good, long night ot drinking and brawling. Got up and off the tub, taking Tom with him, before getting them both dry, and dressing his wounds in new bandages.

Tried to tell his own heavy mind that dressing him in some pyjama bottoms was hard because he was a very, very attractive image, so perfectly into his reach, so effective at getting him distracted. Both the petty man and his conscience knew that it was the relief of finally, finally see that he was safe and resting. The usually tense muscles, the sinew that was dead cold not too long before, were now warm and malleable to the touch, like Mrs. M's homemade bread dough.

Sid chuckled with his own comparation, and with how it'd affect both people who were the subjects in his figure of speech. His delighted mirth grew when he felt Tom's hands tangling in his torso, searching for him in a tired, slack grip, treading his chest like a sleeping cat.

He retributed the kind caress, in a continuous, careful touch on the young man's naked back. His hands roamed carefully over the recent bruises, and other scars, older, probably from the War, things that Tom was terribly ashamed of talking, even more of showing. The con man delighted in feeling the body nestled in his chest relax even more, in warm docility. Threw the blankets over them both, and fell asleep, enjoying the shelter of mutual conforting, healing warmth.

Tom took several hours to get back even a shred of his conscience. Didn't remember when was the last time he slept trough the night. His head felt like full of cotton. His already very off notion of time went away, along with the sunlight streaming through the window. Tried a clumsy movement to sit up in the bed, and after waking Sid up, accidentally, ended back in the lazy brunet's chest.

"Morning, handsome. It's your day off. Come back here!"

"??"

Sid exulted. He wouldn't lose his freedom, nor the contact with the family, nor even the man he loved even more, after fighting those darn conspirators.

They were both alive, whole, free, cleaned their wounds that were slowly closing, while they could rest to fight another day.

Regardless of the adventures, news, or dangers brought by the next sun, Sid was feeling optimistic and well ready to face whatever would appear in their way. Being a petty, mediocre small-time thief haven't made him unable to fight world-level conspirators, for the sake of the safety of his beloved and his family.

Tom couldn't struggle for more than some seconds, trying in vain to awake his blurry conscience. Hands, enormous, kind and warm, ran over his back, the hands from the dream, counting, feeling, playing with his vertebrae and his shoulder blades. Their caress molded and rebuild his nerves and bones, transforming him into a shapeless, thoughtless mass of confort.Didn't stop to ask himself about why was him in bed, instead of the tub, or why Sid was there. Didn't have strenght to more than fall back asleep.

The reformed criminal smiled to his innocent lover, adoring the pleasure of watching him, and the illusion of protecting him, while he finally got some rest after his hellish ordeal.

#my fics #fanfiction #fanfics in English #Father Brown #Sid/Sullivan #otp: arrest yourself; you stole my heart

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caroline18mars · 5 years

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A Man On Fire - Chapter 27

“Sean, do you think you can give us a moment in private so I can have a word with my girlfriend?” he deliberately emphasized the last word, just to get on his nerves, Sean looked up all uncomfortable, “sure yeah” he stammered but all he wanted was to tell Jared to take a hike, but he was still his boss. Nostrils flaring, chests nearly bumping, one trying to stare the other out of the room, ok boys, easy on the testerone already, Harper stood up to take Jared's attention away from Sean with a kiss “hey handsome” she whispered as he pulled her against his chest, “hey..we need to talk..” UH-OH!. Jared pushed her back on her seat and sat down next to her, oh those lines of worry on her pretty face were heartbreaking “I think I need to clear some air between us first”, oh here it comes, please don't confirm what Sean just told me, I pretend to be unaffected by it, but it does affect me, Jared, it really does, I don't want you to have a million girls on the side, I was just acting tough you know?. “I couldn't help but overhear what Sean said and I feel like I need to be honest with you” he started, just hurry up, maybe it's not too late and she'll actually believe you, “it's ok, Jared..you don't need to explain” stop trying to be so brave, Coco, come on. “Yes I do, babe, I just need to get things off my chest..look, what he said about the gazillion girls I got stashed on the side? I wish I could say he was lying but he's not..I used to have a different girl every night and day, it's crazy and I'm not exactly proud of it, you know that, I've written it in an e-mail somewhere that I was more into casual encounters..no hassle, remember?” he grabbed her hand that was a little clammy by now. “But they are my past and you're my present and I honestly feel like I don't want anyone else in my life but you, so I've given up on all the girls and the nights they gave away. What I'm trying to say is that I want you, Harper, I want us, and I know there's a lot of rumors flying about me, but I'm telling you right here and right now that I'm no longer into occasional flings since I met you, I want us to be exclusive..do you think you could live with that? Because I kinda gathered from what you said, that you saw us as a casual fling..” he licked his lips that had gone dry. Millions of butterflies all seemed to flutter at the same time in her stomach “Floppy hair, silly, beautiful floppy hair” she whispered as she kissed his temple and caressed his hair. “I'm being serious, Harper..I couldn't go on if you don't want this as much as I do” talk to me woman, come on, are you breaking or healing my heart?, her finger pushed against his lips, silencing him “of course I want us to be an exclusive item as much as you do, I just didn't want Sean to know, alright? I just wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my level of upset when he told me all that crap! Around here I need to be one of the boys, not the boss's sidekick, remember?” her eyes smiled at him. “You're not my sidekick, babe..” his hand nestled through her hair and cupped the back of her head, “I know, but while I don't have to be one of the boys, will you just shut up and kiss me already?”.

”Everybody know where to be at the exact time? So, like I said, everybody follow Harper's instructions, ok? Everybody got their ear-ins tested and working?” the tourmanager looked around the circle of crew who was positioned in the closed light cube, everybody nodded and were patting her back and ruffling her hair, they were a good bunch of guys, she stared at Sean who just stared blankly back at her and that worried her because they were the two main people working from the air and if you didn't have each other to count on and trust up there, then who could you trust? “Alright? Any questions?..none? Ok, let's do this, showtime in 10 minutes, this is the moment we've been working to for weeks, have fun everyone!”. While everyone quickly scattered away from the cube, she stayed behind to check the last few details, oh please let this work out, this was her new business card, so she could hopefully start living of her art instead of constantly investing in it without anyone noticing it. “Five minutes before showtime” the tourmanager pulled her out of her daydream, oohh her stomach was in knots, she held her hand over her stomach as she slipped out of the cube and tried to not bump into anyone or anything in the dark of the back of the stage that was buzzing with adrenalin and anticipation. “There you are” Jared suddenly stepped in front of her, fiddling with his in-ears, “is everything checked? Are you gonna be ok up there? You're still not strapped into that safety harness..” woaaaa slow down floppy hair. “I'll be fine, don't worry about me, have you heard the crowd out there? It's insane” she shouted in his ear and pushed a sneaky kiss underneath it “this is your night and all you need to do is have a blast and make it unforgettable for them and yourselves”.

Harper stepped back before he could return the kiss and turned away to get herself strapped in and hoisted up to the ceiling, it was times like these when he wished she wasn't this professional “I'm starting to understand why you like her so much” Shannon winked at his brother “she's got a genuine, raw cool on top of being the sexiest monkey around here, I mean look at her” his eyes followed her crawling up the rope ladder. “Like her??..uhm yeah I like her alright, I like her a lot” Jared stammered and tried to focus again, he'd never get used to her dangling above his head, it was too frikkin' dangerous. “Ok guys, ready?” the tourmanager came to escort them to the stage while the lights in the venue died out and the lights flashing around the closed cube lit up the stage to the hypnotizing beats “will you look at that? She's a frikkin' genius, I've done thousands of shows, but this really gets to me, it's so fresh, so innovative” he mumbled more to himself than to the brothers, but Jared couldn't agree with him more than he was doing right now, it even gave him chills and it was definitely working with the crowd as the cries and cheers of anticipation deafened them while Shannon fled inside the cube and launched the first hits of 'Monolith'. “Front cube slowly up” there was a tremble to Harper's voice that resounded in every crewmember's in-ears, just breathe Coco, she mentally ordered herself as the mastodont finally lifted and the crowd went absolutely nuts. “Jared's entering stage, full lift cube” that's my man down there, look at him, look at the crowd..the electricity bouncing around this room was breathtaking, so much love was thrown in the brothers' direction, this was probably what divinity looked and felt like. “Hey guys, see those blondes front centre? What do you think? Should we get them backstage passes? They're gagging for it, what do you say we let them gag on our dicks first before they can go gag on Jared's?” she heard Sean's voice in her ears, addressing the rest of the crew, really Sean? You just can't help yourself, can you?. “A little bit more respect for those ladies and Harper please and more focus on the cube would definitely be nice, Sean, sideflaps up in 5-4-3-2-1..and go” luckily it was one of the boys downstairs that brought everyone back to reality. She pulled the right lever in time, but Sean didn't and she couldn't stop herself from cursing in her microphone, “goddammit Sean, how much more countdown do you need? Want me to do this on my own or what? Anyway, Thom, everything on Jared and front of house..right now..thank you” get a grip, Coco, don't let him get to you now, later, ok, later “footage sent to TV backwall..great job guys”. Launching into 'Kings & Queens' gave him some time to breathe as the crowd was singing it back to them, they were digging it, no, that was the understatement of the year, they were loving it so much and damn did it feel good to be on a stage again, everything was coming full circle, life was fan-fuckin-tastic!.

The last notes of 'Closer to the edge' were vibrating around the venue and it felt like she could finally breathe again, it had been such a rush and a ride, apart from Sean's slip-ups that all seemed to be on purpose, he just couldn't be that thick!. Awww, her back and neck were so tense and she was definitely developing a bit of a headache, probably just the tension and the stress trying to find a way out, first get up out of this little 'spaceship' construction and down to Jared, he would definitely find a way to relieve some of this stress, hihihi. Excitement all around and everybody high fiving and hugging one another as Jared came running backstage, where was she? “ yeah thanks man, was amazing, crowd was lit!..” he accepted the crew's congratulatios “where's Harper? She still up there?”. Nobody seemed to know or care in all the euphoria so he beelined it out of the hallway and back to the venue where Sean was waiting for her up there to get out onto the steel beam. “Come on Harper, I'd like to get a drink, tonight preferably” he sighed impatiently, “Yeah yeah, I'm coming..it's just my back..hold this” she handed him her radio and headset. Oh there she was, “hey sexy, you're coming down or what?” he couldn't help but shout up at her, his heart was exploding and the adrenalin was still rushing through his system, high up there Harper just put her foot on the beam with a lot of effort as her back wasn't cooperating but the yelling from downstairs startled her and she misstepped causing her to slip. “Aaahhh” everything happened so fast and her scream made his blood curdle, he saw her fall back like in slow motion but in reality everything happened in the blink of an eye. Her safety harness and line luckily kicked in and instead of crashing down to the ground, she was now swinging horizontally through the air, groaning, hissing and cursing. “Oh fuck” she heard and saw him curse and shout for help, oh her back, awawaw..anybody, somebody, just get me down, even though I don't like to admit it but I'm not too fond of these heights. Finally she was being lowered and on her way to safer grounds until she felt his hands steady her swinging body and pulled up right until her feet touched the ground again.

”You ok?” Jared looked so worried, “fine” she huffed as she was finally able to step out of that harness, “it's my back..no, don't touch” she tried to gracefully wriggle free from his hands “I just need a drink, just point me in the right direction”. There was no way she was gonna show them her pain, she was too embarrassed, Jared frowned when he noticed her tiptoe and walk all funny towards the backstage hall with Sean in close pursuit. “Harp, that was quite a fall, you ok? Did you slip?” he put his hand on her back when he caught up with her, could everyone just stop touching her? “don't 'Harp' me, Sean, honestly, I'm in pain and definitely cranky and don't get me started on slipping up, ok? You seemed to do your fair share of that tonight”. Calm down, Harper, don't make heads turn..too late, fuck!, “come on, Harper, enlighten us, why don't you? After all everyone's right here..celebrating how well the first show went..” Shayla sarcastically flapped her eyelashes and licked her lips before she took a little sip of her drink, burn bitch, serves you right for trying to diss my man. Harper noticed Jared's nostrils flare in anger but stopped him right before he could say anything, “you're right, Shayla, this can wait, my bad” be the bigger person here, grant her the spotlight, defuse the situation. As she walked towards the bar, the party started up again, “acting tough, are we? If you're trying to be one of the boys, then I've turned gay, because it would mean that you're as much a boy as I am, and last time I checked, you were definitely not a boy. Anyway, what do you say we go back to my room and I'll call a doctor to check on your back?” her lover's voice breathed against the back of her neck, “tempting, the 'room' part, the 'doctor' part? Not so much” she downed her glass of scotch in one go without turning around and shuddered at the high dosage of alcohol burning her throat. “You can take me up to your room later, but first let me congratulate my wonderful boyfriend on an amazing first show, you were amazing, I'm even more in awe of you now, if that is even physically possible” oh yes, scotch already starting to work its' magic, pain is actually subsiding, yay! Now calm the hell down and focus on your man instead of yourself, this is his moment, not yours! Worry about getting back at Sean and Cruella later!

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