sheafrotherdon

[sheafrotherdon]

For @raedear:

Sometimes the missions lingered long after the job was done. Joe could still feel the reverberations of every shot singing through his bones, hear the hollowed-out sound of the aftermath of the explosion, a ringing that penetrated his heart like a child’s wail. He could see the faces of those they had saved and the three they did not, could feel the awful stillness beneath his fingertips that was a missing pulse. That he stood, now, in the warm yellow kitchen of their safe house, a damp dish in one hand and a towel in the other, with everyone gathered in and locks sunk deep into the doors—it didn’t matter; couldn’t matter. Not when he could close his eyes and see the light that lingered there, the shocking flash of explosives after the percussion of their guns.

“Joe,” Nicky murmured at his elbow. “Where are you?”

Joe let out a long breath, looked up from his hands to Nicky’s face. “I can’t . . .” He set down the dish and the towel. “I just can’t . . . it . . .”

Nicky hummed a low, sweet sound of understanding, so familiar, so weighty that it that curled around the fine bones of Joe’s wrists, grazed the inside of his forearms, rose to pull his shoulders from around his ears. “You do not have to,” Nicky whispered. “Never.  Not alone.”

He reached for Joe and pulled him in close. Joe’s body settled—foot between feet, cheek pressed to cheek—and he swallowed hard as Nicky nudged him gently, set them to swaying, side to side. They moved as though they were soothing a child, as though dancing to music at the end of a wedding, and the heat of Nicky’s body bled into Joe’s skin, and he realized how deeply he was chilled.

“I have you,” Nicky said, voice low, and Joe sighed into his shoulder, alive with fear and longing and the staggering share of the love between them.

He laid his head.

He let his heart take ease.

[sheafrotherdon]

For @raedear:

Sometimes the missions lingered long after the job was done. Joe could still feel the reverberations of every shot singing through his bones, hear the hollowed-out sound of the aftermath of the explosion, a ringing that penetrated his heart like a child’s wail. He could see the faces of those they had saved and the three they did not, could feel the awful stillness beneath his fingertips that was a missing pulse. That he stood, now, in the warm yellow kitchen of their safe house, a damp dish in one hand and a towel in the other, with everyone gathered in and locks sunk deep into the doors—it didn’t matter; couldn’t matter. Not when he could close his eyes and see the light that lingered there, the shocking flash of explosives after the percussion of their guns.

“Joe,” Nicky murmured at his elbow. “Where are you?”

Joe let out a long breath, looked up from his hands to Nicky’s face. “I can’t . . .” He set down the dish and the towel. “I just can’t . . . it . . .”

Nicky hummed a low, sweet sound of understanding, so familiar, so weighty that it that curled around the fine bones of Joe’s wrists, grazed the inside of his forearms, rose to pull his shoulders from around his ears. “You do not have to,” Nicky whispered. “Never.  Not alone.”

He reached for Joe and pulled him in close. Joe’s body settled—foot between feet, cheek pressed to cheek—and he swallowed hard as Nicky nudged him gently, set them to swaying, side to side. They moved as though they were soothing a child, as though dancing to music at the end of a wedding, and the heat of Nicky’s body bled into Joe’s skin, and he realized how deeply he was chilled.

“I have you,” Nicky said, voice low, and Joe sighed into his shoulder, alive with fear and longing and the staggering share of the love between them.

He laid his head.

He let his heart take ease.

[sheafrotherdon]

Kiki Layne At "Milan Fashion Week", 2025

[sheafrotherdon]

For @raedear:

Sometimes the missions lingered long after the job was done. Joe could still feel the reverberations of every shot singing through his bones, hear the hollowed-out sound of the aftermath of the explosion, a ringing that penetrated his heart like a child’s wail. He could see the faces of those they had saved and the three they did not, could feel the awful stillness beneath his fingertips that was a missing pulse. That he stood, now, in the warm yellow kitchen of their safe house, a damp dish in one hand and a towel in the other, with everyone gathered in and locks sunk deep into the doors—it didn’t matter; couldn’t matter. Not when he could close his eyes and see the light that lingered there, the shocking flash of explosives after the percussion of their guns.

“Joe,” Nicky murmured at his elbow. “Where are you?”

Joe let out a long breath, looked up from his hands to Nicky’s face. “I can’t . . .” He set down the dish and the towel. “I just can’t . . . it . . .”

Nicky hummed a low, sweet sound of understanding, so familiar, so weighty that it that curled around the fine bones of Joe’s wrists, grazed the inside of his forearms, rose to pull his shoulders from around his ears. “You do not have to,” Nicky whispered. “Never.  Not alone.”

He reached for Joe and pulled him in close. Joe’s body settled—foot between feet, cheek pressed to cheek—and he swallowed hard as Nicky nudged him gently, set them to swaying, side to side. They moved as though they were soothing a child, as though dancing to music at the end of a wedding, and the heat of Nicky’s body bled into Joe’s skin, and he realized how deeply he was chilled.

“I have you,” Nicky said, voice low, and Joe sighed into his shoulder, alive with fear and longing and the staggering share of the love between them.

He laid his head.

He let his heart take ease.

[sheafrotherdon]

Dr. Robby hand to hair episode 1x10

[sheafrotherdon]

I wrote a new fic!! i have to share it like this for whatever reason because the link sharing thing is not giving me a preview :< anyway!! this is my extremely self-indulgent joenicky early days language barrier fic, enjoy!! here

[sheafrotherdon]

Luca Marinelli For "Esquire Italia", 2025

Instructor: Johan Sandberg

[sheafrotherdon]

Luca Marinelli For "Esquire Italia", 2025

Instructor: Johan Sandberg

[sheafrotherdon]

Hideo Kojima fan boy for the ages!

Hideo's story of how he came upon Luca Marinelli.

[sheafrotherdon]

Riffing on a Guardian Blind Date column; for @sheafrotherdon

If Joe's first instinct hadn't been to laugh, the whole evening might have gone very differently. But he laughed, belly-deep and genuine, and after a startled moment, Nicky laughed too, and whatever awkwardness or prickliness might have been on the verge of springing up between them ebbed away. 

"What are the chances?" Joe said, scooting along the blue velvet banquette to let Nicky join him in the booth. "It's been what, a decade?"

"Nine years," Nicky said, smiling up a quick thank you to the waiter who set a water jug on their table before turning his full attention back to Joe. His eyes were a far more startling, sea-glass colour than they had been in Joe's memory. "It was the first summer I lived in London."

Two years after Joe had moved here himself, then—a newly-minted graduate who'd been determined to see the world beyond Rotterdam but then had liked his first stop so much he'd stayed. 

"Nine years? Wow." Joe found himself fiddling nervously with the edges of his menu and made himself put it down. It wasn't as if he didn't already know what he planned to order—he'd been wryly amused at the fact that out of all the places in the city the newspaper could have sent them for this blind date column, the choice had landed on a Middle Eastern restaurant that Joe came to semi-regularly. He busied himself instead with pouring out water for both of them. "Time flies, I guess."

"Yes, you did not have this…" Nicky gestured towards Joe's face. "... this beautiful beard, when last I knew you."

Joe bit back another laugh because this was flirting, this was definite flirting, there was already a warmth kindling between them, and that wasn't at all what he'd expected in the first moments after the waiter had led Nicky over to the table. They'd gone on two dates back in the day—the second somehow even more awkward than the first—having been gently bullied into it by a coworker. Two dates had been more than enough then. Joe had no recollection of any spark between their younger selves, no instinctive pull towards the new guy on the fourth floor with the bad haircut and the strong Italian accent. 

With a few years of hindsight, Joe had been able to recognise that maybe trying to date a guy who had moved to the U.K. less than a month ago and who had only come out publicly the week before had always been doomed to failure. With a couple of more years' experience under his belt after that, Joe had also understood that his mid-twentysomething self had been self-righteous in a way that made him cringe now to recall. 

"Looking this good takes time," Joe said, with a mock toss of his curls and a flutter of his lashes. Then he grimaced and said, more seriously, "I guess I should apologise for the last time and the, uh, respectability politics stuff." Joe's younger self had had strong views on the only right way to be a gay man and hadn't been shy about telling Nicky what he thought he was doing wrong. 

"Only if you'll let me apologise for my behaviour as well," Nicky said. Joe didn't understand any Italian beyond gelato and ciao, bella, so he had no clue what Nicky had said to him back then, but tone and volume had conveyed enough. They'd come very close to being kicked out of the coffee shop. "I shouldn't have been so…" His broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. "I wasn't so long out of the seminary, then. I was very—I was inflexible."

The waiter picked that exact moment to come and ask for their orders, which was deeply frustrating but Joe made a conscious effort to be on his best behaviour. He had no desire to be kicked out of here unnecessarily, not when Nicky was unexpectedly sitting next to him, looking at him with those beautiful, changeable eyes and with that tiny hint of a smile playing around his lips. 

Their drinks came out promptly, the food not long after, and they ate and drank and talked and talked and talked. Joe barely registered the fact that the restaurant was slowly emptying out around them, because how had he not known before that Nicky was fascinating? Conversation flowed between them with an ease and a warmth that would have been remarkable on any first date—a TV show they'd both been watching, their respective experiences visiting Istanbul, their thoughts on urban chicken keeping, where each of them worked now and what they'd been up to the past few years, the time Joe and a cousin visiting from the Netherlands had accidentally ended up at a BAFTA afterparty and Joe's picture had appeared in a tabloid newspaper with the caption 'Mystery Man Woos Soap Star?'

By the time they had finished their bowls of baklava ice cream and pot of mint tea, they were the only diners left and the staff were clearly longing for them to leave.  Joe left them a hefty tip in apology, though he didn't feel too repentant as he followed Nicky out into the London night. 

The weather had turned, and something heavier than mist and lighter than drizzle was falling around them, catching the light from the streetlamps and gilding the tips of Nicky's hair. He'd brought his bike with him, which he unlocked before offering apologetically to walk Joe as far as the tube station with it. 

"It's just that I was not very optimistic when I let Nile talk me into this," Nicky said. "Although I try to bike when I can, anyway."

"I see," Joe said, sticking his hands into his coat pockets and aiming as best as he could for casual. "And  your optimism levels now are?"

Nicky looked at him sideways through his lashes and there was that tiny smile again. "Rewarded, I think."

Under the light of the last streetlamp before the station, Joe and Nicky paused to swap phone numbers and for one tentative, hopeful little kiss. It was one of the most chaste kisses Joe had had in years, but when it was over he felt his breath hitch and he opened his eyes and blurted out, "Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?"

Nicky laughed, but he was—tomorrow night, and so many others after that. 

[sheafrotherdon]

🎨

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🌞 mage Yusuf for @captainshakespear ! Thank you so much for commissioning me, I had so much fun with this. Our beautiful rpg boy🩷

[sheafrotherdon]

Adorabili 🥹

[sheafrotherdon]

Yusuf turns in time to see Nicolo pull his sword from the torso of the last attacker. The mercenary stumbles backward, a look of astonishment on his face, and crumples to the ground in an unnatural sprawl. Death is rarely graceful, Yusuf has learned; nor is grievous injury. He sees Nicolo collapse to his knees.

Yusuf hurries to Nicolo’s side, catching him just as he sways to fall. “Hush,” Yusuf says fervently, as though Nicolo had spoken. “It is done. We are safe again.”

Nicolo’s eyes are closed, his mouth open as he pants softly, and Yusuf is glad of the sound, relieved to hear it. Blood runs sluggishly from the corner of Nicolo’s mouth; blood stains his tunic where it is slashed and torn; blood and dirt are caked under his nails as he twists his fingers in Yusuf’s shirt.

“Rest,” Yusuf whispers. “You are healing.”

“It does not feel so,” Nicky mumbles, and his eyelids flutter open. He frowns, grimacing, annoyed. “Such godforsaken children," he manages. "They fight like chickens.”

Yusuf feels his eyebrows rise. “Like chickens.”

“Scrabbling in the dirt.” Nicolo winces.

“You arm your chickens in Genoa?”

Nicky lets out an unsteady breath and turns his face against Yusuf’s chest. “Do not be absurd.”

Of everything that has happened, Yusuf saw only the mercenaries coming. The mercenaries always come. But this—this man, painfully mending in the safety of his arms, trusting him with the slowly-receding agony of his body . . . Yusuf feels his eyes burn. “You are the absurd one,” he says weakly, his voice cracking.

Nicolo unclenches his hand from Yusuf’s shirt and clumsily pats him on the arm. “A volley for the ages,” he murmurs.

Laughter spills from Yusuf’s lips, and he thinks aloud. “How I love you,” he confesses.

Nicolo goes very still, then pulls back from Yusuf with great effort, peers up at him, blinking once, twice. “You do?”

Yusuf sighs and shakes his head. What is to do be done about this now? There is no longer any lie he could tell. “Yes.”

The corner of Nicolo’s mouth twitches. “This is how you tell me?”

“You are a thankless son of a goat,” Yusuf says firmly.

“But I love you,” says Nicolo, and Yusuf laughs brokenly again, Nicolo an infuriating, precious weight in his arms.

[sheafrotherdon]

Yusuf turns in time to see Nicolo pull his sword from the torso of the last attacker. The mercenary stumbles backward, a look of astonishment on his face, and crumples to the ground in an unnatural sprawl. Death is rarely graceful, Yusuf has learned; nor is grievous injury. He sees Nicolo collapse to his knees.

Yusuf hurries to Nicolo’s side, catching him just as he sways to fall. “Hush,” Yusuf says fervently, as though Nicolo had spoken. “It is done. We are safe again.”

Nicolo’s eyes are closed, his mouth open as he pants softly, and Yusuf is glad of the sound, relieved to hear it. Blood runs sluggishly from the corner of Nicolo’s mouth; blood stains his tunic where it is slashed and torn; blood and dirt are caked under his nails as he twists his fingers in Yusuf’s shirt.

“Rest,” Yusuf whispers. “You are healing.”

“It does not feel so,” Nicky mumbles, and his eyelids flutter open. He frowns, grimacing, annoyed. “Such godforsaken children," he manages. "They fight like chickens.”

Yusuf feels his eyebrows rise. “Like chickens.”

“Scrabbling in the dirt.” Nicolo winces.

“You arm your chickens in Genoa?”

Nicky lets out an unsteady breath and turns his face against Yusuf’s chest. “Do not be absurd.”

Of everything that has happened, Yusuf saw only the mercenaries coming. The mercenaries always come. But this—this man, painfully mending in the safety of his arms, trusting him with the slowly-receding agony of his body . . . Yusuf feels his eyes burn. “You are the absurd one,” he says weakly, his voice cracking.

Nicolo unclenches his hand from Yusuf’s shirt and clumsily pats him on the arm. “A volley for the ages,” he murmurs.

Laughter spills from Yusuf’s lips, and he thinks aloud. “How I love you,” he confesses.

Nicolo goes very still, then pulls back from Yusuf with great effort, peers up at him, blinking once, twice. “You do?”

Yusuf sighs and shakes his head. What is to do be done about this now? There is no longer any lie he could tell. “Yes.”

The corner of Nicolo’s mouth twitches. “This is how you tell me?”

“You are a thankless son of a goat,” Yusuf says firmly.

“But I love you,” says Nicolo, and Yusuf laughs brokenly again, Nicolo an infuriating, precious weight in his arms.

[sheafrotherdon]

Luca Marinelli and his jaunty hat for Esquire Italia.

[sheafrotherdon]

I've just finished watching Luca Marinelli's tour de force as Benito Mussolini in M. Son of the Century. If he doesn't win a bevy of awards for his performance—uncanny channelling of Mussolini's physicality, mannerisms and voice; mesmerising breaking of the fourth wall; some baroque swearing in Italian and Romagnol—it will be a crying shame.

If you too would like a searing reminder of the horrors of fascism set to an EDM soundtrack, containing at least one disturbing scene involving puppets, I've uploaded all eight episodes (.mp4), together with accompanying English subtitle files.