#One Blackfriars

[sea-of-concrete]

📸 Elephant and Castle shrouded in mist at sunrise

[haxanbroker]

One Blackfriars. London, June 2023.

[richardsfotoseite]

One Blackfriars London - schwarzweiss

Das im Jahr 2018 eröffnete Hochhaus “One Blackfriars” in London. Die Pfeiler im Vordergrund sind Rest der alten Blackfriars Eisenbahnbrücke, die 1984 abgerissen wurde. Direkt daneben ist die neuere Brücke zu sehen. Das Bild entstand im September 2019.

[markrothen]

Elizabeth Tower - aka Big Ben - as seen from St James's Park at sunset, London

[alexsmithson]

Time Goes By So Slowly In London Town!

Time goes by so slowly in London Town, and I love that I can take moments to breathe, unwind and find myself inspired by the city at every passing second. #shotoniphone #photography #london #architecture #sun #nature #madonna #ABBA #music #thefugees

[dlyarchitecture]

[fideidefenswhore]

I hope this isn't stupid, but did Henry really do the Great Matter the right way? I just feel if he'd used a normal argument instead of making it a religion problem it'd be easier for him. If he said "I have no son, so I want to make a new marriage and get one, to protect my people from war" then wasn't that a reason other kings had, and they got annulments? That would be just a fact and everyone at the time knew no son had problems. Sure Catherine would still fight but she couldn't really say he was wrong. But instead if he says it's all Leviticus and God's mad it gives her the out to say she never slept with Arthur so God's not counting that as a real marriage. Then Henry has to say she's lying and so she looks the injured party and right to be offended, and nobody knows what to believe so it just drags out hoping someone dies.

Precedentially and in hindsight, making it a "religion problem" might not have been the best course; but I think it was genuinely his belief and also he had been so highly respected as "Defender of the Faith" (literally) up to that point that he saw an opportunity for fame and acclaim in (what he believed to be) the "righteousness" of his case, and a way to shore up the image, power, and prestige of the English monarchy; even when it became clear it would be one from a position of defiance. We have to place his belief in the context of his acclaim as a scholar and theologian up through the 1520s...it was bold, but so was Henry, and while the common narrative is that his case was facile; after further reading I found that to be reductive:

"In Henry’s obsession with an idiosyncratic interpretation of natural law and his apparent indifference to the strength of his own case on Deuteronomy we may discern a litigant who seems determined to snatch defeat from the jaws of possible victory. Nevertheless it is hard to resist the conclusion that the biblical texts themselves support Henry’s claim that his marriage contravened divine law as expounded by Moses. [...] In the field of legal codes Henry’s view, whether treated as a matter of divine or human law, held a strong position. Among other examples the Council of Neo-Caesarea and the regional Council of Agde followed the Levitical injunction by forbidding the marriage of men to their brothers’ widows. Faced with such arguments, Bishop Fisher usually asserted that the prohibitions did not specifically forbid all dispensations – yet nor did they specifically allow any. As on the Leviticus/Deuteronomy dilemma, Fisher reasoned that in cases of ambiguity the pope should interpret the matter. Yet such a papal interpretation had been given by Innocent III in a rider to his judgement on the Livonian issue discussed below: that, whatever the validity of pagan marriages to which the Deuteronomical exception might apply, a man’s marriage to the widow of a deceased childless brother should not be permitted to baptised Christians." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

I don't think there's really anything he could've done to assure a 'secure' outcome, tbh (besides the possible counterfactual of applying for an annulment circa, say, 1520 rather than 1527, he did seem to have a better understanding and alliance with Leo X). The final judgement from Clement was that Henry had lived too long in matrimony with Catherine by principle of the dispensation granted to be able to legitimately protest the dispensation.

Precedent ran against Henry in the specific matter of Popes erasing former dispensations. That was not something they had done; but arguably Popes did reverse decisions of their predecessors in other matters, or sometimes reverse their own decisions-- there are many cases, for instance, of Popes granting annulments and then reversing them. This can make better sense of Henry's decision to reify the legitimacy of both his annulment with Catherine and his marriage with Anne via Parliament, even before the Pope has made declaration (because, even if he had made one in his favour, it might not have stuck...the sands were always shifting, too, even if, say, Clement had died without declaration and his successor had been an anti-Imperial candidate, like the later Paul IV, that did rule in his favour, was it not possible he himself would die and his successor reverse that decision? It is plausible to consider, also, a counterfactual where Henry made his application late 1525 or 1526, had it granted January 1527, and Imperial troops stormed as they did by May, pressurizing Clement to reverse...):

"And here it must be acknowledged that, while a substantial case could be built to support Henry’s challenge on the issue of the bull, the fact of that issue had significantly changed the situation and the canonical context within which it might be viewed. On the question of possible rescission of the bull the critics seem to have been right: on balance, precedent would appear to run against the king. Neither a dissolution nor an annulment would seem likely to have been granted. No previous marriage had been ended on the grounds that a pope had acted ultra vires; nor, as David d’Avray notes, ‘was any dispensation to my knowledge … ever revoked because the alleged political ills that it was meant to cure were later shown to be imaginary’. The application of the principle of dissimulatio – the turning of a blind eye to the legal weaknesses of a long-standing union in view of the greater good that would accrue by leaving well alone – could also have favoured the queen’s cause; a similar canonical rule held that ‘doubtful cases ought to be resolved in favour of the marriage’. Most significant of all might be the maxim asserted by Gilles Bellemère in the count of Armagnac’s case, that if the pope asks for advice before taking action, he should be told that the dispensation should not be granted; however, if he has already acted, then he should not be opposed. Thus, even if Henry had succeeded in convincing an impartial court of the impropriety of Julius II’s granting the dispensation, all [of his] lengthy campaign might well have gained him not that triumphant solution for which he had striven but merely the cold comfort of a Pyrrhic victory." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

And, that's actually a misconception; it was probably the predominant of his arguments/case, but hardly the only one or aspect:

"Like many other litigants, Henry adopted a ‘scatter-fire’ approach to his task of seeking an annulment, attacking a vast array of targets, hoping that at least one shot might reach its mark. His opponents tended to follow suit, thus a comprehensive analysis of each pellet might seem desirable to do the parties full justice. This has not been attempted in the present study. Instead it has seemed best to concentrate on three of the most serious and most often cited defences of the queen’s case, those based on the questions Henry asked of the universities in 1530-1, thus setting the agenda for the debate. The first of these was that, while forbidden by the texts of Leviticus, marriage to a brother’s widow was prohibited by the Church only if the previous marriage had been consummated, whereas Katherine insisted that she came to Henry 'virgo intacta'. Secondly, it was argued that the Levitical prohibition should be interpreted as being limited by the command in Deuteronomy requiring a man to marry a childless brother’s widow, exactly what Henry had done. Lastly, the king’s critics cited a number of what they considered relevant precdents for the dispensation granted to Henry and Katherine by papal bull in 1503.

Each [argument of the Queen's side] appears to have serious weaknesses. The strict application of canonical procedures in the case would appear to favour a verdict that Arthur and Katherine had indeed consummated their union. On Deuteronomy, not only had the Church generally regarded the command as obsolete and inapplicable to Christians but the contentious verse does not on close examination cover Henry’s case at all. Finally, none of the oft-cited papal dispensations involved a clear-cut breach of the Levitical injunctions: the bull really does seem to have broken new ground and might not have been issued had all the facts been known." HADWIN JF. Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Henry VIII. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History. 2019

Royals being anti or pro papal tended to be a matter of political timing, and this wasn't unique to Henry VIII. Hell, Mary I's spouse was excommunicated (not just threatened with excommunication, as her father had been circa the Great Matter era) by Paul IV because he had sent the Duke of Alva to occupy the papal states in retaliation for his alliance with France, and deprived her councilor and Archbishop of Cantebury, Reginald Pole, of his legateship and ordered him to return to Rome to answer charges of heresy ; and she chose to defend them rather than repudiate them in kind.

So, for the matter of claiming Catherine wasn't a virgin when he married her...I don't think he anticipated that she'd confess otherwise to Campeggio and unseal the confession; or use the trial of Blackfriars for the opportunity to repeat her own claim otherwise and then refuse to attend the rest of the hearing of evidence. For the hearing in Dunstable in 1533, she refused to attend, as well, and so did her supporters, so there's some revionism in the narrative that the Henrician side of the divide refused to hear her own evidence and supporters. They clearly did not regard it highly; arguably they gave it short shrift, but the political tactic of refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of any proceedings or hearings outside strict papal jurisdiction (not that all of Catherine's supporters adhered so strictly to that, when it suited them...see: Trial of Zaragoza) by Catherine and her supporters precludes the accusation, reified by Marian Parliament, that Henry and Cranmer "refused to hear evidence" from oppostion. This was a convenient fiction, underrating agency and choice and emphasizing a narrative of corruption vs "godly truth".

But at the same time, I think that aspect of it was a matter of principle for both of them and yet a nothingburger both legally and politically: it was impossible to prove or disprove. There was ambiguity on the matter because the dispensaton covered any possibility ("forsan"); even Clement's declaration did not really fully vindicate her side because he didn't comment on the matter of her virginity upon her marriage to Henry. It was, ultimately, a non sequitur. Henry pursued it because he vehemently believed it was true, and that the proof was in his deceased children by the marriage, that they had died because of the Levitical 'curse', for lack of better word...

And Henry had legal/canonical precedent on his side (see excerpt from JF Hadwin's excellent article on the case above, and this one: "[...] the canonical procedures for determining non-consummation suits would have worked against her. As in any such dispute, witnesses were questioned. Not surprisingly, their stories differed according to their nationality: like the decisions of the universities this was a case of what Hans Thieme delightfully described as cuius regio, eius opinio. English ones remembered a raunchy young prince boasting of his having ‘been this night in the midst of Spain’. Most of the interrogation records of the queen’s Spanish servants have been lost, but they seem to have agreed with the implications of the leading questions that they were fed by recollecting only an immature wimp. Canonical rules, however, held that in such controversies, the husband’s view was to be preferred to the wife’s. Furthermore, in the absence of sound evidence to the contrary, in any marriage that had lasted more than a few days, consummation [would] be presumed. This is why neither Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, nor his successor, Chapuys, was enthusiastic about Katherine’s claim and probably why Campeggio felt relief that the question was not to be argued at Rome. As Gardiner had warned the queen earlier, presumption would run against her: rightly or wrongly, in any court operating under standard canonical rules and procedures, she would probably have lost this argument."), but not circumstance.

My unpopular judgement is that Henry was actually far more judicious in his timing of the Great Matter than he's given credit for; as early as 1529 he's saying he's "about to undertake the annates", he delays the cessation of paying the annates until Easter 1533; he waits to pass the Act of Kings alone nominating Archbishops and consecrating bishops until Cranmer is elected Archbishop by the Pope (a fait accompli, because it does mean that Cranmer's annulment of his marriage can be viewed as an act of the papacy, by extension; and forces Clement's hand...arguably this backfired, but not fully, he did not excommunicate Cranmer, probably because doing that to someone he had so recently promoted would call his judgement into question); and he doesn't pass the Act in Absolute Restraint of Annates until 1534, after Clement declares for the validity of his marriage with Catherine. Was the timing different (annates are forbidden by law irrevocably, and then Clement declared for the marriage), one could argue otherwise (that Henry had been too hasty); but Clement could've secured annates from England for the rest of Henry's reign had he done the opposite, or possibly delayed their total annihilation had he just continued to not declare on the matter.

[cocteautwinslyrics]

after nearly 200 years Farringdon is still the best placed spot for a london central station

[tobyregbocharacterfanfiction]

Cold Case.

TRIGGER WARNING: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, AND INFIDELITY.  DRUNKENNESS. MURDER.

Over a century ago your husband died an agonizing death. Detectives still to this day are floored by the case which has since gone cold. Now with Jack's return and his apparent blood rage. The wheels in your mind start turning as to what truly could have happened. You sit in front of the fireplace going through everything in your mind. Jack walks into the room, you quickly glance at him before talking.

You: The last time I saw my husband, he beat me so bad I lost consciousness. When I woke up the sun had just gone down and he was gone...I assumed he was doing what he always did. Storm out, go to a pub, and talk to other women before bedding them. Except for this time, he didn't come home the next morning.

Jack: (nervously) What happened?

You: Two days later they found his body just outside of town, deep inside the woods. Lying in a pool of blood. His blood. The police detectives told me it looked like he had been savagely attacked by an animal.

Jack stays silent

You: But the thing is my husband died in the middle of winter. Bears were in hibernation and mountain lions don't live in the area of the woods he was found in. And there were no gun or knife wounds on him. They never did figure out what killed him. His case quickly went cold. Now I wonder if it was a vampire that killed him. One with blood rage.

Jack: You think I killed him?

You: Did you?.... I'm not angry Jack, I just want to know the truth.

He takes a deep breath before continuing.

Jack: I saw you with him several different times walking down the street.

The way you looked. The way you were around him. I knew something was wrong. One day I followed you home and I saw him slap you across the face before you even walked through the front door. I should have killed him then and there, but I knew I had to wait. That last night I followed him to a pub and then to a woman's house in the country. I waited outside and when he walked out that's when I...afterward I dragged his body into the woods as far as I could go and I left him there.

You: Was Benjamin with you?

Jack: No.

You: And the woman he was with?

Jack: I didn't harm her. She was innocent. She didn't deserve to die.

You're tempted to ask why, but in your heart, you already know. You get up from where you're sitting and put your arms around him. He returns the gesture.

You: (softly) Thank You.

[julialametta]

one a day 366/227

"walk on by" / Blackfriars / London / Great Britain / ©Julia Lametta

[bookish-bogwitch]

Hello! Thank you for the tags, @blackberrysummerblog @mooncello @monbons @artsyunderstudy @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @thehoneyedhufflepuff @nausikaaaand and @alexalexinii. You are wonderful!

Today I'm sharing an anxious plea for reassurance + a snippet of chapter 9 of Basil Pitch's Diary, posting June 7. Below the cut for spoilers and anxiety.

<ANXIETY> I'm working on chapter 10 now and friends, it's slow going. I still love this fic with all my heart, but chapters 1-9 I had mapped out more or less scene by scene months before I started posting, and before writing most of them. Writing them was like novelizing a movie I'd watched in my head a countless times.

For the rest of the fic, though--Ch 10-13--I had only broad strokes figured out. I knew the very ending, and a handful of key emotional beats along the way, but the connective tissue was basically "Collect Underpants ... ? ... Profit."

I've now plotted the rest out in reasonable detail, with help from the extremely kind and insightful @facewithoutheart and @thewholelemon. But I am a plotter to the core and it feels much scarier to be writing a story I just made / am still making up than one that's been living in my head for years.

Also, you guys: Chapter 9 is really fucking good. I'm really proud of it and excited to share it. And also scared that the rest of the fic won't live up to the promise of all I've set up. This fic is my baby and I just really want to nail it.

Intellectually I know I'm just swinging on the creative-confidence pendulum, and that future me will be able to write as well as past me. These doubts are just intrusive thoughts, skittering around my head like the mice that live in my walls. Harmless, but such a nuisance. </ANXIETY>

Anyway! Here are some sentences of Chapter 9, which, did I mention, is really good. Baz is finally going dancing with DeNiall.

“So, cousin. What’s your strategy?” I just raised an eyebrow and gestured at myself. My shirt was a perfectly cut navy so sheer that it read as cobalt over my pale skin. Climbing my chest were embroidered red and pink roses, between which you could clearly see my nipples. I’d changed out of Oxford cloth at Fiona’s. (I didn’t tell her I’d stopped in Blackfriars to drop off my grandmother’s furs and my grandfather’s Dickens.) Through my sleeve you could also see my mother’s wand holster, which my father now insists I wear whenever I leave the house. He’s also looking for a second dog. Something more territorial than Rusty, whose lick is worse than his bite. After the numpties he spent a week teaching me defensive spells. His skill surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. Once, when I was small, someone tried to mug him as we were leaving a theatre. My father didn’t panic or capitulate, just calmly kneecapped the man with a vicious Why me, why now. 

Tagging @angelsfalling16 @brilla-brilla-estrellita @palimpsessed @cutestkilla 

@comesitintheclover @confused-bi-queer @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @drowninginships @dragoneggos

@emeryhall @ebbpettier @aristocratic-otter @hushed-chorus @youarenevertooold 

@ic3-que3n @shrekgogurt @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @j-nipper-95

@katatsumuli @valeffelees @martsonmars @whogaveyoupermission @whatevertheweather 

@messofthejess @nightimedreamersworld @alleycat0306 @raenestee @wetheformidables 

@onepintobean @run-for-chamo-miles @skeedelvee @alleycat0306 @iamamythologicalcreature

@twokisses @shrekgogurt

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

[the-modern-typewriter]

November 2023 Book Rec

Fraternity by Andy Mientus

Queer, Historical YA (USA, 90s,)

Dark Academia vibes

Demons

Multiple POVs

Found family

Note: period typical homophobia/racism, bullying, AIDs crisis

In the fall of 1991, Zooey Orson transfers to the Blackfriars School for Boys hoping for a fresh start following a scandal at his last school. However, he quickly learns that he isn’t the only student keeping a secret. Before he knows it, he’s fallen in with a group of boys who all share the same secret, one which they can only express openly within the safety of the clandestine gatherings of the Vicious Circle – the covert club for gay students going back decades. But when the boys unwittingly happen upon the headmaster’s copy of an arcane occult text, they unleash an eldritch secret so terrible, it threatens to consume them all. A queer paranormal story set during the still-raging AIDS crisis, Fraternity examines a time not so long ago when a secret brotherhood lurked in the shadows. What would Zooey and his friends do to protect their found family?

TMT notes: It wasn't what I expected when I picked it up, but I loved it! It's a dark, unique book, lightened by the genuine-feeling connections and love between the main cast of complex characters. Despite the paranormal elements, it felt very real to me. The narrative voice is distinctive and rich. I personally had an amazing time from start to end :)

(Previous monthly recs here)

[letters2fiction]

Welcome to Letters2fiction!

The concept here is to send in a question or a letter request, and you’ll get a response from your fictional character of choice, from the list below. Please stick to the list I’ve made, but of course, you can ask if there’s some other characters I write for, I don’t always remember all the shows, movies or books I’ve consumed over the years and I’m sure I’m missing a lot 😅

Status: New Characters added - Thursday March 21st, 2024

TV SERIES

A Discovery of Witches:

Matthew Clairmont

Baldwin Montclair

Gallowglass de Clermont

Marcus Whitmore

Philippe de Clermont

Jack Blackfriars

Sarah Bishop

Emily Mather

Diana Bishop

Ysabeau de Clermont

Miriam Shepard

Phoebe Taylor

Gerbert D’Aurillac

Peter Knox

Father Andrew Hubbard

Benjamin Fuchs

Satu Järvinen

Meridiana

Law and Order:

Rafael Barba

Sonny Carisi

Joe Velasco

Mike Duarte

Terry Bruno

Peter Stone

Hasim Khaldun

Nick Amaro NEW!

Mike Dodds

Grace Muncy

Kat Tamin

Toni Churlish

Amanda Rollins

Olivia Benson

Rita Calhoun

Casey Novak

Melinda Warner

George Huang

Sam Maroun

Nolan Price

Jamie Whelan

Bobby Reyes

Jet Slootmaekers

Ayanna Bell

Jack McCoy

Elliot Stabler

One Chicago:

Jay Halstead (Could also be Will if you want)

Antonio Dawson

Adam Ruzek

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz

Dante Torres

Vanessa Rojas

Kevin Atwater

Sean Roman

Matt Casey

Kelly Severide

Joe Cruz

Sylvie Brett

Blake Gallo

Christopher Hermann

"Mouch"

Otis

Violet Mikami

Evan Hawkins

Mayans MC:

Angel Reyes

Miguel

Bishop

Coco

Nestor

911 verse:

Athena Grant

Bobby Nash

Henrietta "Hen" Wilson

Evan "Buck" Buckley

Eddie Diaz

Howie "Chimney" Han

Ravi Panikkar

T.K. Strand

Owen Strand

Carlos Reyes

Marjan Marwani

Paul Strickland

Tommy Vega

Judson "Judd" Ryder

Grace Ryder

Nancy Gillian

Mateo Chavez

The Rookie:

Lucy Chen

Tim Bradford

Celina Juarez

Aaron Thorsen

Nyla Harper

Angela Lopez

Wesley Evers

BBC Sherlock:

Greg Lestrade

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Moriarty

Molly

Bridgerton:

Anthony Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

Simon Basset

Daphne Bridgerton

Eloise Bridgerton

Kate Sharma

Edwina Sharma

Marina Thompson/Crane

Outlander:

Jamie Fraser

Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser

Frank Randall

Black Jack Randall

Brianna Fraser

Roger MacKenzie

Fergus Fraser

Marsali Fraser

Jenny Fraser Murray

Ian Murray Sr.

Ian Fraser Murray

Murtagh Mackenzie

Call The Midwife:

Shelagh Turner / Sister Bernadette

Dr. Patrick Turner

Nurse Trixie Franklin

Nurse Phyllis Crane

Lucille Anderson

Nurse Barbara Gilbert

Chummy

Sister Hilda

Miss Higgins

PC Peter Noakes

Reverend Tom Hereward NEW!

Narcos:

Horacio Carrillo

Peaky Blinders:

Tommy Shelby

Downton Abbey:

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham

Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham

Lady Mary Crawley

Lady Edith Crawley

Lady Sybil Crawley

Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham

Isobel Crawley

Matthew Crawley

Lady Rose MacClare

Lady Rosamund Painswick

Henry Talbot

Tom Branson

Mr. Charles Carson

Mrs. Hughes / Elsie May Carson

John Bates

Anna Bates

Daisy Mason

Thomas Barrow

Joseph Molesley

Land Girl:

Connie Carter

Reverend Henry Jameson (Gwilym Lee's version)

Midsomer Murder:

DCI Tom Barnaby

Joyce Barnaby

Dr. George Bullard

DCI John Barnaby

Sarah Barnaby

DS Ben Jones

DS Jamie Winter

Sgt. Gavin Troy

Fleur Perkins

WPC Gail Stephens

Kate Wilding

DS Charlie Nelson

Sergeant Dan Scott

NEW! Once Upon A Time

Regina / The Evil Queen

Mary Margaret Blanchard / Snow White

David Nolan / Prince Charming

Emma Swan

Killian Jones / Captain Hook

Mr. Gold / Rumplestiltskin

Neal Cassidy / Baelfire

Peter Pan

Sheriff Graham Humbert / The Huntsman

Jefferson / The Mad Hatter

Belle

Robin of Locksley / Robin Hood

Will Scarlet

Zelena / Wicked Witch

Alice (Once in Wonderland)

Cyrus (Once in Wonderland)

Jafar (Once in Wonderland)

Gideon

Tiger Lily

Naveen

Tiana

Granny

Ariel

Prince Eric

Aladdin

Jasmine

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Hercules

Megara

Tinker Bell

Merida

Red Riding Hood

Mulan

Aurora / Sleeping Beauty

Prince Phillip

Cinderella

Prince Thomas

NEW! The Vampire Diaries / The Originals

Stefan Salvatore

Damon Salvatore

Caroline Forbes

Elena Gilbert

Bonnie Bennett

Enzo St. John

Niklaus Mikaelson

Elijah Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

Rebekah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Finn Mikaelson

Mikael

Esther

Marcel Gerard

Davina Claire

MOVIES

The Pirates of the Caribbean:

Captain Jack Sparrow

Barbossa

Will Turner

Elizabeth Swann

James Norrington

Kingsman:

Merlin

Harry Hart

Eggsy Unwin

James Spencer / Lancelot

Alastair / Percival

Roxy Morton / Lancelot

Maximillian Morton / The Shepherd

Orlando Oxford

Jack Daniels / Whiskey

Gin

BOOKS

Dreamland Billionaire series - Lauren Asher:

Declan

Callahan

Rowan

Iris

Alana

Zahra

Dirty Air series - Lauren Asher:

Noah

Liam

Jax

Santiago

Maya

Sophie

Elena

Chloe

Ladies in Stem - Ali Hazelwood books:

Olive

Adam

Bee

Levi

Elsie

Jack

Mara

Liam

Sadie

Erik

Hannah

Ian

Fourth Wing - Rebecca Yarros:

Xaden Riorson

Dain Aetos

Jack Barlowe

Rhiannan Matthias

Violet Sorrengail

Mira Sorrengail

Lillith Sorrengail

Bodhi Durran

Liam Mairi

[scotianostra]

The Edinburgh Royal High School riot took place on the 15th of September, 1595.

It seems that tales of shootings in schools are not confined to the lost and lonely, socially isolated, outcast, lone teenagers of the ones that are so publicly known about nowadays.

Did these atrocities start their life in Scotland? We have pride for all the good things that Scots have brought to this world but lets perhaps share some of the blame of the bad things as well. Well the story goes....

During the riot this day in Edinburgh, John MacMorran,a wealthy magistrate, was shot and killed by one of the schoolboys, William Sinclair. The pupils occupied the school, barricading themselves into a classroom, in opposition to the authorities' proposal to reduce holidays. To this day, you can see Bailie MacMorran's house in Riddles Court, off the Lawnmarket in Edinburgh.

The pic is a depiction of the old School at Blackfriars.