#Brent London

[xtruss]

British Muslim Children Reassert Their Right To Pray In School

— Penny Rabiger | January 31, 2024

There are those in education circles not surprised to see that the high priestess of populist polarisation narratives, Katharine Birbalsingh, founding headteacher of a school in Brent, London, has hit the news again. This time, it is in relation to a High Court challenge by a student over the banning of Muslim prayer on the premises of the school.

The name of Michaela Community School suggests it professes to serve the local population, so it is interesting to note the school’s local community context. According to the 2021 Census, the second largest religious population in the borough is Muslim at 21.4%, with the proportion of Christians at 38.8%. Hindus make up 15.6% of the community; there are about 4% who are Jewish, Buddhist, Jain or Sikh, and the rest have either ‘no religion’ or did not state. Nationally, that ‘no religion’ category stands at 37% compared with Brent’s 13.6% so as school communities go, it would be pretty accurate to say that it is one where religion might be assumed to be integral to people’s identities and sense of belonging.

This prayer ban case has exposed two seemingly distinct themes, one of which is the place of prayer and religion in our schools. There are those that would have a complete ban on all forms of religion in schools, whatever religious character that may be. This might be tricky considering that one third of state-funded schools in England are faith schools, 68% of which are Church of England schools and 30% Roman Catholic.

Michaela Community School Taken To High Court Over Prayer Ban

However, few may be aware that since The Education Act 1944, all state schools in England and Wales no matter their religious character, are legally required to provide acts of ‘broadly Christian’ daily ‘worship’. People might not also be aware that simultaneously, this legal duty has been condemned by the United Nations as a breach of the Convention on the Rights of the Child, and the National Governance Association has called for a ban since 2018.

As is apparent, the idea of banning religious prayer of any kind is a deeply divided topic, and one that should not be implemented without careful consultation with members of the school community with particular attention to the local and national contexts. Not only was the decision-making on the part of the school governing board described by the student’s lawyer as “remarkably poor, littered with factual errors and paid no weight to the serious risk of alienating Muslim students”, no consultation with the school community took place before the ban was implemented - nor since.

Perhaps most stark about this case however, is the way that narratives around it have delivered yet another Islamophobic moral panic and racially-charged existential angst which plays to the general post-colonial melancholy exacerbated by Brexit and which surges every time Britishness is pitched as being under threat by the idea that there is a stealthy infiltration of Islam into our schools.

Poster referring to the news story of a school banning prayer ritual

One high profile example is the Trojan Horse affair in Birmingham in 2013, which started with a hoax letter claiming there was an ‘Islamist’ takeover of a school. This same letter ultimately led to significant changes to policy and law through the UK government’s counter-terrorism and counter-extremism strategies, even though it is widely believed to have been a manufactured story designed to systematically vilify Birmingham’s Muslim community. When 15 year old Shamima Begum was groomed online and trafficked to Syria in 2015 to become an Islamic State child bride, little did she know that she would end up in a war zone, giving birth to and losing three babies. Labelled as a terrorist, Begum’s UK citizenship was removed rather than bringing her home to overcome the incredible trauma she has experienced. Muslim students local to her school in Bethnal Green, London, also reported that the knock-on effect for them has been to feel targeted and under pressure as potential threats to British security.

The testimony of colourful descriptions provided by Birbalsingh include consternation at what she describes as ‘ritualistic prayer’ which was ‘visible from the street’. She recounts events taking place as creeping infiltration, domination and ‘Islamic bullying’ which was a risk to the school community. Birbalsingh’s justification of the ban exposes the fusion between these two themes: the place of prayer in schools and the perception of Islam as an encroaching threat to Britishness.

The irony is that Michaela’s self-image as the ‘strictest school in Britain’ includes pride in its absolute control over its students of the sort that is often insinuated as what is oppressive about some religious regimes. Routines are strict and scrupulously enforced at set times during the school day. Physical deportment is rigorously monitored and sanctions given if children aren’t sitting up, leaning forward, smiling, nodding their heads and tracking the teacher with their eyes. Social interaction is strictly managed as well. Lunchtime conversation is structured around a ‘family’ set meal which everyone must eat and only daily prescribed approved topics for discussion are allowed. These are started and stopped at regular intervals with a series of hand claps or other audible cues. Teachers supervise ‘guided socialisation’ in the playground to control and monitor group mixing - and all of this is part of the fundamental nationalist culture and ethos of the school where “children of all races and religions buy into something bigger than themselves: our country”.

You might conclude that Birbalsingh’s methods could be seen as cultish, coercive and deploying intimidation in the same way that she describes students’ growing interest in their faith through prayer and observance. When a school allows no room for self-expression and teaches that race and religion need to be erased in the name of a nationalist pride in Britain, is it any wonder that British Muslim children would reassert their right to Britishness in multicultural, multi-religious Brent by turning to their faith and realigning their social, moral and spiritual compass?

— The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Islam Channel.

[dubmill]

Harrow-on-the-Hill, London; 14.1.2024

[broccolidevourer]

Some mistoffelees actors without makeup. Who's your favorite?

Try to guess who's who!!

sorry some pics are so hard to find that they are blurry

I appreciate everyone's act and that's only a few of them, sorry if anyone was left out. I got a few pics from the fandom. Thank you whoever uploaded them.

[aneverydaything]

Day 2185, 16 June 2024

[archie-bassist]

Hey! This is my first Tumblr post so I can’t guarantee that’s it’s gonna be any good but I just wanted to introduce myself 👇

⚡️My name is Archie and I’m a fan of Rock and Metal which also happens to be mostly what I play. 🤘

My biggest inspirations are Jason Newsted, Mike Dirnt, John Deacon, Rob Trujillo and Cliff Burton.

⚡️I was also heavily inspired by other musicians who aren’t bass players like my dad ( huge inspiration ) Billie Joe Armstrong, Brent Fitz, and Kirk Hammett.

Some of my favourite bands include Metallica, Mötley Crüe, London After Midnight, Gojira, Avenged Sevenfold, Thunder, Scorpions, Green Day, Guns N Roses, Slash, Kiss, AC/DC

⚡️ Currenty I play a Harley Benton MB-4 SB Deluxe 👇

( isn’t he beautiful ). But in the next couple of months I’m getting a Spector Legend 4 Standard Black Stain.

Feel free to send any asks about anything. Things like music, artists, song and album recs etc. I’d love to explore more

⚡️ Also I’m gonna post recordings of myself playing ( when I get a good take ) so send in some recommendations for something you’d like to see played 🎸

Thanks for reading! 🤘

[brent-linen-hire]

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[zombieee-queen]

Wheelchair spaces were too expensive for the Stray Kids concert, and with that + hotel, travel, etc it’s gonna be over £400 at least for one night and I can’t afford that. Im fucking gutted.

[ramnathguruji]

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[iamtryingtobelieve]

Panic!, meet the press

[theetherealbloom]

The Things I Would Do, Just To Be Here With You

Summary: Amidst the whirlwind of movie premieres and busy schedules, you and Pedro Pascal, both thriving in your respective careers, find ways to celebrate each other despite the distance. While Pedro promotes Gladiator 2 in London, he longs for your presence at the after-party.

Or, you two would scream at the stars for keeping you apart... and the government too.

“Pedro Pascal x f!reader, Pedro is promoting Gladiator 2, and reader is in Wicked (Elphaba or Galinda of course!) for the screenplay of Wicked, and they are just really supportive of each other but also joke about their own movie being the best. Finding time to come to each other’s premiers. Posting behind the scenes or visiting each other.” — From @imaginemixedfandom

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Red Carpet, Cameras, Paparazzi, Long Distance, Timezone Difference, Social Media, Interviews, I’m not a Spanish speaker, I might be wrong with the terms, please don’t come after me T^T,

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Ty @imaginemixedfandom for giving the idea! I didn’t really want to replace the reader with the cast of Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo. Those two are just too iconic. So instead I will make the reader a writer for the screenplay adaptation of Wicked tehe. You all should listen to brent iii by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler, it’s absolutely one of my favorite albums of this year. Lastly, remember this is all fictional and for fun! Enjoyyyy my loves!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: and the government too! By Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

gif by @andrew-garfielld

| Main Masterlist |

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING

“Hi.” Your voice was soft as you nestled deeper into the duvet, your body cocooned in its comforting folds.

“Hola, mi amor.” Pedro’s face lit up on your phone screen, the warm timbre of his voice washing over you like a balm. “I miss you.” “I miss you too… so much,” you replied with a little pout. The time difference between London and New York was merciless. Between his packed schedule promoting Gladiator 2 and prepping for Fantastic Four, and your whirlwind of work with the Wicked movie premiere, your conversations had been reduced to stolen moments like this. Still, even through a screen, Pedro had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. “You look cozy,” he said with a lopsided grin, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Meanwhile, I’m freezing my ass off here on set. I think my nose might fall off.” You laughed softly, the sound tinged with longing. “I’d trade you, you know. I’ll take the cold if it means I get to see you.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He leaned closer to the camera, his face filling your screen. “If I weren’t contractually obligated to be here, I’d hop on the next flight and show up at your premiere tomorrow. Red carpet and all.” You smiled wistfully, your fingers brushing against the edge of your phone as if you could reach through it to touch him. “You’d outshine me. Imagine the headlines: ‘Pedro Pascal steals the show at Wicked premiere.’” “Please. Everyone’s going to be talking about you. ‘Brilliant screenwriter dazzles Hollywood!’” He paused, his tone softening. “You’re incredible, you know that?” Your throat tightened at his words, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Stop, or I’ll actually cry, and my face will be all puffy for tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Okay, okay. But seriously, mi amor, I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard for this.” “And so have you,” you countered. “The Gladiator 2 trailer broke the internet, and you still found time to send me flowers last week. You’re amazing, Pedro.” “Yeah, but flowers aren’t the same as being there with you.” His voice dipped, a hint of regret slipping through. “I hate being this far away.” You sighed, your heart aching in tandem with his. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with the unspoken tension of your shared longing. Then, Pedro’s grin returned, bright and mischievous. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “who do you think has the better movie? Be honest.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Are you seriously asking me to compare Wicked to Gladiator 2? One’s a heartfelt, magical adaptation, and the other is a testosterone-filled epic. They’re different.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, crossing his arms. “Sounds like you’re dodging the question. I knew you were scared to admit Gladiator 2 is better.”

You scoffed, sitting up straighter in bed. “Scared? Please. I just don’t want to hurt your feelings when Wicked inevitably becomes a global phenomenon.”

Pedro laughed, the sound rich and contagious. “You’re lucky I love you. Otherwise, this would be grounds for war.”

“Lucky? You’re the lucky one,” you shot back, smirking. “I’ll prove it when I finally see you in person again. But until then…”

You brought the phone closer, pressing a soft kiss to the screen. Pedro mimicked your gesture, his lips brushing his camera lens.

“Goodnight, mi vida,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Pedro.” Your voice was tender, laced with all the love you couldn’t put into words.

As the call ended, you clutched the phone to your chest, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. Despite the distance, despite the chaos of your lives, you knew one thing for certain: Pedro Pascal would always be worth the wait.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — MORNING

Today was the day. You were walking the red carpet for the Wicked movie premiere. A sea of celebrities, producers, fellow writers, and editors would surround you. The sheer magnitude of it all left you feeling both giddy and utterly petrified.  

You smoothed your hands over the silk robe you wore, your palms damp with nerves. While you loved the craft of storytelling, the spotlight had always felt daunting. You preferred to let your work speak for itself—a tendency that paired surprisingly well with dating Pedro Pascal, the literal human embodiment of charisma and charm.  

“There, all done,” Laura, your makeup artist, said with a satisfied grin.  

You blinked at your reflection in the mirror. Your skin glowed, your eyes were accentuated just enough to look striking without overwhelming, and your lips were painted a perfect shade of confidence.  

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you said, giving her a warm smile.  

“Of course I did,” Laura replied with a wink. “Big night for my favorite screenwriter.”  

Mia, your stylist, emerged from behind a rack of gowns, holding up the dress. “Speaking of big nights... Ready to put this beauty on?”  

You nodded, though your smile wavered. “I just wish Pedro were here,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.  

Laura and Mia exchanged sympathetic glances before Laura gently squeezed your shoulder. “You’re going to look incredible, and he’d lose his mind if he saw you. How about we take some pictures to send him? A little preview for the man himself.”  

You hesitated, glancing at your phone on the vanity. “I don’t want to distract him. He’s busy with interviews and set work. London and New York aren’t exactly next door…”  

“All is fair in love and war,” Laura teased, her giggle breaking the tension. “Come on, babe! If anything, it’ll be motivation for him to hop on the next flight.”  

Mia chimed in, smirking. “Or just to remind him what he’s missing. Trust me, teasing Pedro is a public service.”  

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the nerves lift slightly. “Fine, fine. But if he complains, I’m blaming you two.”  

They ushered you into the dress—a masterpiece of emerald silk and intricate detailing that clung perfectly in all the right places. As Mia zipped you up, Laura stepped back, her hands pressed dramatically over her heart.  

“Pedro’s going to lose his shit.”  

“You look like a literal goddess,” Mia added, spinning you toward the mirror.  

For a moment, you hardly recognized yourself. The reflection staring back radiated elegance and confidence, even if you didn’t entirely feel it yet.  

“Okay, okay. Take the pictures,” you relented, biting your lip as you tried to contain your grin.  

Laura grabbed your phone and started snapping. You struck a few playful poses, twirling and laughing as Mia adjusted the hem of your dress. It felt silly, but imagining Pedro’s reaction warmed your chest.  

Once the photos were taken, you grabbed your phone and hovered over the message screen. You debated for a moment, then attached the best photo and typed a quick message.  

You: Wish you were here. But since you’re not... Enjoy this. Don’t let it distract you too much, cariño.  

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, the familiar swoosh of the message sending making your heart race.  

The reply came faster than you expected.  

Pedro: Distract me? How am I supposed to do anything now? You look like an angel. No, better than an angel. Drop-dead stunning. 

You couldn’t stop the grin from taking over your face.  

Pedro: Red carpet better be ready. They’ve got no idea who they’re dealing with tonight.  

The butterflies in your stomach multiplied tenfold. Before you could reply, another message appeared.  

Pedro: I’m so proud of you. Go knock ’em dead, mi amor. I love you.  

Your throat tightened, and you had to blink back the sudden tears threatening to ruin Laura’s hard work. You tapped out a quick reply.  

You: I love you too. Now go back to being the coolest man alive.  

“You okay over there?” Mia asked, watching you with a knowing smile.  

“More than okay,” you said softly, tucking your phone away.  

As you prepared to step into the whirlwind of the premiere, Pedro’s words echoed in your mind. Even from thousands of miles away, he made you feel invincible.  

Tonight wasn’t just about the red carpet or the glitz and glamour. It was about celebrating what you loved—and knowing Pedro would always be your biggest cheerleader, no matter where in the world he was.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON — AFTERNOON  

Pedro sighed deeply, his head resting against the back of his chair. The steady hum of activity on set felt like background noise, the voices and clatter muffled by the ache in his chest. His fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, the motion absent-minded, a physical echo of the restlessness he felt inside.  

He missed you.  

It wasn’t the casual longing of someone who hadn’t seen their partner in a while—it was the kind of yearning that settled into his bones, heavy and persistent. A few hundred miles of ocean separated you, but it may as well have been an entire galaxy.  

He opened his phone and scrolled back to the picture you’d sent him that morning. The emerald dress, the way it hugged your form, the way your eyes sparkled even in a still image—it took his breath away. You looked like a dream. His dream.  

“If I were there right now…” he murmured under his breath, running his thumb over the screen as if he could touch you.  

If it were as simple as hopping on a flight, he’d already be on his way. He imagined the way you’d light up when you saw him, how you’d rush into his arms. He’d bury his face in your hair, inhale your scent, and hold you so tightly that he’d forget about the world outside.  

But it wasn’t that simple. The timing was off, as it so often was with both your careers in full swing. He was tied to the production schedule of Fantastic Four, and you were in the spotlight for Wicked. The universe seemed determined to keep you apart, and for the first time in years, Pedro felt the cracks in his patience.  

He closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Damn stars. Damn schedules. Damn… government,” he muttered bitterly. The laugh that followed was humorless, the frustration thick in his voice.  

If he could, he’d scream at the stars for conspiring against you both. Curse the invisible forces that made life so complicated. He’d barter with time itself, twist it and stretch it, just to have you here with him for a few stolen moments.  

He wondered what you were doing right now. Were you nervous about the red carpet? Did you feel as hollow without him as he felt without you? Pedro clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him. You deserved to have him there, to walk that carpet with you, to hold your hand and beam with pride as you took in the applause for your work.  

“Pedro, they’re ready for you!”  

The call from a production assistant jolted him from his thoughts. He blinked, the weight of reality crashing back down as he stood and stretched.  

“Be right there,” he called back, tucking his phone into his pocket.  

As he made his way back to the soundstage, he couldn’t shake the thought of tomorrow. The Gladiator 2 premiere loomed ahead, another milestone he should be celebrating with you by his side. Instead, you’d be halfway across the world.  

But one day, he promised himself, one day, nothing will keep us apart.  

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING 

The flashing lights were relentless, casting an almost blinding glow over the red carpet. The screams of fans and the constant click of cameras created a symphony of chaos, one you weren’t entirely comfortable navigating. You’d always preferred the quiet—curled up with a book, tucked away from the world’s prying eyes.  

But tonight, you smiled and posed alongside your cast and the production crew. You owed it to them, to yourself, and to the story you’d helped bring to life.  

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Winnie Holzman, the original writer of Wicked, leaned in with a smile, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the crowd.  

You nodded, though your voice was tinged with nervousness. “It’s incredible. Overwhelming, but in the best way.”  

“You’ve done amazing work,” Dana Fox chimed in, her excitement infectious. “We wouldn’t be standing here without your screenplay tying it all together.”  

Jon M. Chu, ever the cheerleader, clapped you lightly on the back. “Tonight’s your night too. Own it.”  

You laughed softly, feeling a little more at ease with their encouragement. Together, the four of you posed for the cameras, sharing a few candid laughs before heading closer to the press area.  

As you stepped into the spotlight for interviews, the questions started flying.  

“How does it feel to see Wicked finally come to life on the big screen?”  

“It feels surreal,” you answered, your smile genuine. “Everyone on this project has poured so much heart into it. To see it come together like this is... overwhelming in the best way.”  

“You’re known for being quite private. How are you handling all the attention tonight?”  

“It’s definitely out of my comfort zone,” you admitted with a small laugh. “But I’m surrounded by such a talented and supportive team, which makes it easier.”  

Then, inevitably, came the question you’d been bracing for. “We couldn’t help but notice that Pedro Pascal isn’t here tonight. Do you miss him?”  

The question tugged at something deep inside you. “I miss him so much,” you said softly, your expression softening. “He’s busy promoting Gladiator 2 and filming in London. I know he wishes he could be here, just like I wish I could be there for him. We’re both incredibly proud of each other, though.” You grinned, a playful sparkle in your eyes. “But, of course, Wicked is better. Don’t tell him I said that.”  

The interviewer laughed, and you followed with a wink before stepping away.  

AFTER THE PREMIERE  

As the credits rolled and the crowd applauded, you walked alongside Jon, Winnie, and Dana toward the exit. The night air was cool and refreshing after the heat of the theater.  

“You were glowing on that carpet,” Winnie teased, nudging you gently.  

Jon smirked. “Bet it’s because of a certain someone who couldn’t make it.”  

You flushed immediately, your cheeks warming. “Stop,” you mumbled, though your smile betrayed your embarrassment.  

“Oh, come on,” Dana added with a laugh. “You were gushing about him earlier. Just admit it—you’re head over heels.”  

You sighed dramatically, though your heart raced just thinking about Pedro. “Okay, fine. I miss him like crazy. I just—” You paused, glancing up at the stars. “I wish I could be there for him, you know? For his premiere. He’s always so supportive of me. It feels wrong not to do the same.”  

Jon stopped walking, turning to face you with a thoughtful look. “So go.”  

“What?”  

“Go to him,” he said with a shrug. “Take the jet. I’ll make the call.”  

You blinked at him, stunned. “You—you’d let me do that?”  

“Of course,” Jon said, waving off your concern. “You’re part of the heart of this project. If being with him makes you happy, it’s worth it.”  

“But I don’t have a ticket, and I need to pack, and—”  

Dana held up a hand, already pulling out her phone. “Relax. I’ll call a car, and we’ll pack together. You just focus on getting there.”  

Before you could protest further, Jon had already stepped aside, dialing someone on his phone. Dana grabbed your arm and started steering you toward the waiting car.  

“You’re really doing this,” she said, grinning.  

“I—I guess I am.” Your voice trembled with excitement and nerves. “What if I don’t make it in time? What if—”  

Dana cut you off with a gentle squeeze on your shoulder. “You’ll make it. And even if you don’t, just being there will mean everything to him.”  

AT THE AIRPORT  

The private jet was waiting for you, its sleek frame illuminated by the glow of the runway lights. You quickly texted Pedro’s manager and assistant, letting them know you were on your way.  

You: I’m coming to London. Please don’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.  

The response was almost immediate:  

Franklin Latt: Got it. He’s going to lose his mind—in the best way.  

As you settled into your seat and the jet began to taxi, your heart raced. Seven hours separated you from Pedro, but for the first time in days, the distance didn’t feel insurmountable.  

You leaned your head back against the seat, clutching your phone tightly as you closed your eyes. You could already picture the look on his face when he saw you.  

Just hold on, Pedro. I’m on my way.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING

The energy in Leicester Square was electric. Fans filled the barricades, the roar of excitement nearly drowning out the camera flashes as Pedro made his way down the red carpet. Dressed in a sharp black shirt, the top unbuttoned, slacks, his signature charm, and a warm smile lit up every interaction as he stopped to greet fans and pose for photos.

The press area was bustling, and soon Pedro found himself standing in front of a journalist holding a microphone.

“Pedro, congratulations on Gladiator 2! How does it feel to be here tonight celebrating this film?”

Pedro grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It feels incredible. This is one of those projects you dream about as an actor, and to see it all come together, to see everyone’s hard work pay off, it’s… it’s a real honor.”

The interviewer nodded. “You’ve had an amazing year, between this and your other projects. But we couldn’t help but notice that someone special in your life had a big night recently—the Wicked premiere in New York. Did you get a chance to see any photos?”

Pedro’s face lit up instantly, a laugh bubbling out of him. “Oh, I did. Believe me, I did. She sent me some pictures, and I’ve seen the ones floating around online too. I mean… she looked absolutely stunning. Like, knock-you-out, breathtakingly gorgeous. I might be a little biased, but still.”

The crowd nearby caught wind of his gushing, and a few cheers erupted. Pedro laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Honestly, I’m so proud of her,” he continued, his voice softening. “She poured so much of herself into that screenplay, and to see her get the recognition she deserves? It’s the best feeling in the world.”

The interviewer smiled. “There’s definitely a lot of love and mutual admiration between you two. Word on the street is you’ve got a bit of a friendly competition going on—Gladiator 2 versus Wicked. Any truth to that?”

Pedro chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, it’s absolutely true. We’ve got a bet going. She’s convinced Wicked is going to sweep the box office, and I, of course, have complete faith in Gladiator 2. Let’s just say the stakes are high—winner gets breakfast in bed for a week.”

The interviewer laughed along with him. “That’s adorable. Who’s winning so far?”

Pedro smirked. “Let’s just say she’s got me a little worried. But I’ll never admit that to her.”

LATER, BACKSTAGE

Pedro leaned against the wall, sipping from a glass of water while chatting with Paul Mescal. Their conversation flowed easily, but Pedro’s gaze kept drifting toward the entrance, as if hoping for some sort of miracle.

“You’ve got that look again,” Paul teased, nudging him with his elbow.

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning ignorance.

“The ‘I’m desperately in love and missing my girl’ look,” Paul quipped with a grin.

Denzel Washington, who had just joined the conversation, chuckled. “He’s not wrong, man. You’ve been staring off into space like a lovesick teenager.”

Joe Quinn walked by, overhearing the exchange and throwing in his two cents. “It’s cute, though. Very romantic. Someone should write a movie about it.”

Pedro rolled his eyes, though a bashful smile crept onto his face. “Okay, okay, I miss her. Can you blame me? She’s halfway across the world, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Frank, Pedro’s manager, stepped in, giving him a supportive pat on the back. “You’ve got it bad, buddy. But hey, it’s not a bad problem to have.”

Frank couldn’t help but smile to himself, already knowing what Pedro didn’t—that you were on your way. He could only imagine Pedro’s reaction when he saw you walk through those doors.

“Alright,” Pedro said with a dramatic sigh, “can we please focus on the fact that we’re here for Gladiator 2 and not my love life?”

“Sure,” Paul said, smirking. “But if she shows up, we’re all watching you lose it.”

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll take that bet.”

Little did he know, he was about to owe a lot of people a round of drinks.

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING  

The crowd in the after-party buzzed with excitement, a mix of A-list chatter and glasses clinking. Pedro stood near Lux, their conversation about the night’s success lighthearted, though his gaze kept drifting toward the entrance. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that the ache of missing you hadn’t dulled, even amidst all the celebration.  

Lux, sharp-eyed as always, caught the slight shift in his expression and smirked. “You’ve got that look again,” she teased.  

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning nonchalance as he sipped his drink.  

“The one that screams, ‘I wish she were here.’” Lux nudged his arm playfully.  

Before he could muster a witty retort, Lux’s eyes darted toward the entrance, widening in surprise. “Well, speak of the devil…”  

Pedro turned, following her gaze, and the breath left his lungs.  

There you were, stepping into the room, your black silk gown catching the dim lights perfectly. Your hair, slightly tousled from the rush, framed your face with an effortless beauty that made his heart stop. Heads turned as you walked in with Frank, but Pedro didn’t notice anyone else.  

He froze, jaw slack, his mind racing to comprehend that you were actually here.  

“Pedro,” Lux whispered, amused. “Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”  

But Pedro couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was watch as you walked toward him, the soft smile on your lips turning into a grin as your eyes met his. He vaguely registered Joe, Paul, and Denzel laughing nearby, but he didn’t care. You were here.  

When you finally stopped in front of him, your grin widened, and you quipped, “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was terrible—there’s a movie premiere happening, and I—”  

Before you could finish, Pedro moved.  

He swept you up in his arms, lifting you off your feet as a chorus of cheers, whistles, and laughter erupted around you. You let out a surprised giggle, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he held you close, burying his face against your shoulder.  

“Dios mío,” Pedro murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re here.”  

“I’m here,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his curls.  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with love. “I can’t believe this. You’re really here.”  

You smiled, tears threatening to spill as you cupped his face. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”  

Pedro didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance, kissing you with a fervor that made the entire room fade away. The kiss was deep, all-consuming, and when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.  

Your laughter broke the moment, and Pedro pressed his forehead to yours, his hands still firmly around your waist as if afraid you might disappear. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.  

“For what?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.  

“For being here. For being you. For… everything.” His voice was low, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’ll never stop thanking the universe for it.”  

You kissed him again, a soft press of lips this time, and smiled against his mouth. “You don’t have to thank the universe. Just let me love you.”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, his arms tightening around you. “You’re incredible, you know that?”  

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” you teased, resting your head against his chest as the room slowly came back into focus.  

From the sidelines, Joe nudged Paul, chuckling. “Think he’s gonna let her go anytime soon?”  

Paul smirked. “Not a chance.”  

Denzel clinked his glass against Joe’s. “Now that’s a man in love.”  

And Pedro? He didn’t care about the laughter, the cameras, or even the early morning call time tomorrow. For now, you were in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

[dubmill]

Churchyard, Kingsbury Old Church, London; 27.11.2009

[360homesecurity]

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[mrsparrasblog]

How I met your father pt.1

An COD au for the series How I met your mother, the boys are civilian in this and live in London.

Reader is described as plus sized

Tw: Author only knows shit about London from vacation

--------

James and Sophia sat on the couch in the living room, bantering about what they should watch today. It was usual for the kids to start World War III over TV privileges. Sophia won and settled for a romance movie. “Mom, how did you and Dad get married?”

“It was the summer of 2021. Your Uncle John and Aunt Holly had finally gotten engaged. They were searching for their own apartment in London, which led me to move in with Johnny in a shoebox apartment in Ealing. He was working as a gym instructor at that time—hard to believe, I know—but he needed that extra money for his law studies. I was still working at the investment banking firm where I met Kyle. We spent most of our time at a pub in London called The Swan near Hammersmith.”

“Are you getting to the point?”

“It’s a long story, sweetheart.”

“I wish I never asked.”---------

----------------

Price and Holly had been all over each other since their engagement, his hands never leaving her hips, her lips never leaving his. You were glad for your best friend, but the urge to settle down yourself grew every day.

That day, Simon came into the pub. You had never seen him before, but you were mesmerized instantly. He was the biggest man you had ever seen—bulky, handsome and dressed in a black turtleneck.

“Bonnie, are you even listening?” Johnny complained, tugging on your arm as he always did when he tried to grab your attention.

“That guy at the bar? I’m going to marry him and have a bunch of blonde-haired mini-versions of him,” you declared. He was the definition of your dream man.

Kyle eyed Simon and smirked. “I can understand that. I’d fuck him—both of you at the same time if you’d let me, babe.” That earned him a swat from Price.

“You fuck everything that has two legs and is above 21.”

“If you look this good, it would be unfair to settle down.”

“Yes, what would the girls do without a Kyle Garrick by their side?” Holly replied sarcastically.

Holly and you had known each other for ages, even before her transition. You were there for her during the hardest time of her life, supporting her when her parents kicked her out. You found a small apartment in Brent and moved in with her.

One day, Mrs. Miller from downstairs forgot to take out her roast, and the apartment complex was engulfed in flames. You thought it was over, but that’s when you met John Price. He was very new to firefighting then—not the imposing captain he is now. He was just John.

“I think everything will be better now,” Holly said, and she was right. She got together with John a few weeks later. As for you, you met Johnny in college. You were hurrying down the stairs when you ran into him. You were ready to hear, “Watch where you’re going, cow,” but instead, he helped you up, and just like that, you became inseparable. Johnny and you spent every day together—shopping, studying for exams, cooking. You even held his hand when he got his nipples pierced, and he was there when you got that terrible UTI from a one-night stand. At one point, you were sure John MacTavish was your soulmate, but you were content with being his platonic soulmate, playing the role of the funny friend.

You motivated him to go to law school even when no one believed he could do it with his ADHD. Johnny had his first internship at the investment banking firm where you got your job in HR. Everything was perfect, and then you met Kyle.

Kyle could be a supermodel. He won the genetic lottery many times over—he had the prettiest face, a perfect muscular body, and, according to half the office, the biggest dick you could wish for. Despite the odds that he would even notice you, he spent every lunch with you and became one of your best friends, much to Johnny's chagrin.

“He’s not that good-looking, Bonnie. You deserve better.”

“Are you blind?” Even John could appreciate a handsome man when he saw one, and the blonde, scarred guy was beautiful.

“He’d probably crush you. He looks like the type who’d fuck you and never call you back,” Johnny protested. He knew what he said was unfair, but he just wanted to protect you.

“Are you implying I’m only good for one night, John Callan MacTavish?”

“Full name, Johnny—you better run.” John laughed as if you weren’t close to telling Kyle that Johnny’s middle name was William. Kyle had offered you £1,000 for John’s middle name.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, Bonnie. He’s just not good enough.”

“I can decide that for myself, Johnny.”

“Before you start World War III, maybe find out if he’s actually single,” Holly suggested, and she was right. So you looked at Kyle with puppy eyes.

“Don’t worry, babes. I’ll handle it.” Kyle was the perfect wingman, though Johnny always declined his offers.

“Hey, mate, mind if I actually sit down?” Kyle asked, not waiting for Simon’s reply and already sitting down.

Simon only replied with a gruff hello, not in the mood for the overly cheerful man. He was here because he had to be. His brother’s wife had organized a blind date for him. He had half a mind to stand her up but didn’t want to disappoint Beth.

“So, you’re waiting for someone?”

“I missed the part where this is your business.”

“So, no date? Single?”

“I have a blind date.”

“What’s her name?”

Simon just stared at him. If he left now, he could watch the Manchester game against Tottenham.

“I’m just asking because my friend has a blind date and wasn’t sure if it’s you.”

Simon could detect a lie from a mile away, but he was interested in where this was going, so he lied, “Rachel.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’ll show you, Rachel.” Fucking liar, Simon thought, but then he saw you. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered as he stood up, walking towards you.

His blind date was forgotten—sorry, Beth—but you were exactly his type, shorter than him with the right amount of curves. You had a beautiful smile and a face that almost made him forget about your soft chest that pushed against your shirt and the belly pouch he wanted to grab as he rutted inside of you. Concentrate, Simon.

He extended his hand, and you shook it, looking at him with big eyes. “Hi,” you said, your breath almost stuck in your throat. His smirk grew wider, noticing the effect he had on you.

“Simon.”

“Simon?”

“Simon.”

You wanted to punch yourself for being so awkward, but all the confidence left your body. You wanted to run back to Johnny and beg him for help, but if you had looked back, you would only see anger in his baby-blue eyes.

“Let’s go to the restaurant. I have a reservation.” You looked confused but only nodded. How did he have a reservation if he didn’t even know you four minutes ago? But that’s a question for another day.

The Italian restaurant was beautiful, far from the tourists. It looked authentic, and the staff was overly nice.

“So, what do you do, Simon?” you asked, pushing your fork into the pasta.

“I was a lieutenant in the army but got discharged. I’m doing tattoos now.” His voice sounded gruff, and you weren’t sure if it was just his voice or if he was annoyed by you. You didn’t even know what major lies Kyle had told him about you—hopefully not something like the time, he told a girl he was Lewis Hamilton. He did look like him, though.

“Do you have many tattoos yourself?” Curiosity piqued, you couldn’t see much behind his long black pants and the turtleneck. The only evident body modification was the piercing on his tongue you noticed.

He pulled his sleeves up, revealing tattooed sleeves covering some scars. You wouldn’t have noticed them if your manicured finger hadn’t instinctively traced the fine lines of the beautiful artwork.

“You like them?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“I have a few more.”

“How many is a few?” You didn’t have the guts to ask where.

“About 23. Do you have any?” You remembered how you wanted to get one the day Johnny got his piercing, but you chickened out as usual.

“I’m afraid of needles.”

“It only hurts like this,” he replied, tracing the outline of his jewelry on your skin, giving you goosebumps and shivers. Embarrassing—you were acting like a schoolgirl because an overly handsome man gave you attention. “Tell me what you do for a living, love.”

You didn’t have a cool job like him or John, a well-paid one like Kyle’s, or as sexy as Johnny’s. “I’m just an HR coordinator.”

“Leave the ‘just’ out of that sentence.”

The server rolled out a TV, starting the Premier League game. You desperately wanted to watch it—oh god, you promised Johnny you’d watch it.

“What’s so interesting there?” He looked around. “Into football?” His caramel-colored eyes lit up, and he seemed smitten.

“Yes, I love Tottenham.”

“Do you want to send me to an early grave? My date is a Tottenham fan?”

“Hey, they’re good! Are you a Manchester fan?”

“Of course, born and bred there.”

“Tottenham will win.”

“In your dreams.”

You watched the game in anticipation, screaming your lungs out when Tottenham scored. Even if he wanted to be disgusted, he could get used to this—a soft little thing watching football with him.

Maybe he’d even get lucky today. He still needed to work on your taste, though.

You walked outside the restaurant, too distracted by cheering and laughing to notice his big hands around your waist as he walked with you towards his apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was above his shop in Camden.

“We’ll win next time,” he said, his thumb kneading the flesh of your hip.

“Sure you will.” He stopped at an ice cream shop next to his apartment. “What’s your favorite?”

“Honeydew melon.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Say something normal like strawberry.” He laughed, flicking his thumb over your lips. You automatically parted them and stopped pouting at his ice cream insult.

He ordered your ridiculous ice cream choice and for himself, dark chocolate ice.

“Want to try?”

“No.”

You licked the ice as some of the remaining cream stayed on your lips. “Not even now?”

“Cheeky little minx.” His burly hands cupped your full cheeks as he placed his lips hungrily on yours. He could curse that you were right again—the ice cream was delicious. His hands drifted down to your hips, groaning as they filled his big hands. He wanted more, needed more, so he pushed you against the wall, placing his hand behind your back to protect you from the cold.

The kiss was perfect, but when you felt his way too big bulge against your stomach, overthinking thoughts bombarded you. You didn’t shave, what if he didn’t like your body, you had on a pink thong and a grandma bra, what if he was a serial killer? You panicked, and before Simon could address your panic, you were already running to the next tube station.

“That’s a first,” he muttered.

You walked inside, finding Johnny half-naked as usual on the couch, glaring at you. “You missed the match.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny. I’m an idiot.”

“You ran away again?”

“Mhm.”

He sighed as he walked to the fridge, his six-pack glistening with sweat, probably from a workout. You should be used to that sight after six years, but it still made you breathless. “Got a tub of honeydew ice cream and vinegar crisps.”

You planted yourself on the small couch and dipped the crisps in the ice as Johnny listened to everything you had to say.

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[thatscarletflycatcher]

I have been using some dead times these past few weeks to go through/purge my latest Project Gutenberg raids, and there are two funny findings I have made:

1- Patricia Brent, Spinster (1918), by Herbert George Jenkins

In general a run-of-the-mill fake dating romance, short and innoffensive, but here's the thing, for anyone familiar with Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey

The love interest is a lieutenant-colonel Bowen (the story is set in the last year of WWI), wounded in action, D.S.O., M.C. now working at the staff

He's later revealed to be Lord Peter Bowen

He's the second son

His brother holds the title, and his mother, the dowager, is a kind, generous woman with a special link with her second son

Lord Peter has a sister too, Lady Tanagra, who helps the war effort with volunteers

Lord Peter has a man by the name of Peel on the same type as Bunter and Jeeves

Lady Tanagra is in love with a friend of Peter and hers, but nothing has come of it yet because he's of a lower class than her and not rich.

Lord Peter falls in love at first sight with Patricia, and proposes marriage to her many times

She refuses him as many times because of a sense of shameful gratitude and what his family would think

Of course the story and characters are different in several ways, and they are not as charming as Sayers', but the coincidences, the coincidences!

2- The Lonely House (1920) by Marie Belloc Lowndes (sister of Hillaire Belloc)

What I didn't know before downloading this book, is that it is subtitled A Hercules Popeau mystery. Yes, you guessed it, Poirot. But it predates Poirot for a little. The wikipedia page on Poirot puts it this way:

Poirot's name was derived from two other fictional detectives of the time: Marie Belloc Lowndes' Hercule Popeau and Frank Howel Evans' Monsieur Poiret, a retired French police officer living in London.[2] Evans' Jules Poiret "was small and rather heavyset, hardly more than five feet, but moved with his head held high. The most remarkable features of his head were the stiff military moustache. His apparel was neat to perfection, a little quaint and frankly dandified." He was accompanied by Captain Harry Haven, who had returned to London from a Colombian business venture ended by a civil war. [3]

But to say that the name was derived is to understate the situation immensely. Popeau has the physical shape, age, and way of talking and dressing of Poirot. Like Poiret, he's French (though still living in France; the plot of this story happens on a vacation he takes to Monte Carlo with... you won't guess... his friend captain Angus Stuart. A Scottish man, who, believe it or not, falls in love at first sight with our fair protagonist!).

Jules Poiret. Hercule Popeau. Hercule Poirot.

And like, wow, we complain about fanfic with the serial numbers filed off, but if you were into reading many novels in 1920s Britain, there were THREE eccentric, short, plump, dandy-ish, French speaking, British captain adopting sleuths around. We'd have three nickels. Historians 1000 years from now would believe there was a significant number of French and Belgian sleuths traveling England and Europe during the first half of the 20th century.