#Prague 13

[theodoreangelos]

View of housing complex Stodůlky and Nové Butovice, Prague 13, Czech Republic Pohled na sídliště Stodůlky (155 00) a Nové Butovice (158 00), Praha 13, Česká republika Blick auf die Großwohnsiedlung Stodůlky und Nové Butovice, Prag 13, Tschechien Вид на жилой комплекс Стодулки и Нове Бутовице, Прага 13, Чешская Республика Vue sur le grand ensemble Stodůlky et Nové Butovice, Prague 13, République tchèque

[hugheses]

Jesper Bratt #63, Ondrej Palat #18, Nico Hischier #13, Jack Hughes #86, Erik Haula #56 and the New Jersey Devils pose for their team photo prior to the 2024 NHL Global Series Czechia at O2 Arena on October 03, 2024 in Prague, Czech Republic. (Photo by Ben Jackson/NHLI via Getty Images)

[metamorphesque]

Franz Kafka, the day of his Bar Mitzvah in Prague (Czech Republic, June 13, 1896)

[eroticlamb]

Lana Del Rey photographed in Prague, Czech Republic, for Electronic Beats magazine, April 13, 2013 ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ˖ ࣪ Photographed by Robert Carrithers

[ileftmysoulinnorway]

IWTV S2 cut scenes / things I keep wondering about (while patiently waiting for news on S3 production)*

1. THE FIRE

The first episode? Louis and Claudia standing in front of what? The castle? Random town? Did I miss it somewhere? (x)

2. PARK GUYS

How different was the scene originally planned from what ended up in the show?

It's the only one that I know of that was reshot. They filmed it in Kinsky garden on June 2 (pic on the right), then they returned to the same location on October 12, at a time when they were otherwise already shooting scenes for episode 8. One day later, on October 13, they shot part of this same scene in a completely different location in Průhonice Park (pic on the left). I guess they weren't happy with what they shot in June?

3. THE NICKISTAT KISS

Not a proper cut scene, more like a different take.

4. THE EXTRAVAGANT PARTY

For Cafe Extravagans, they were looking for men and women who wouldn't mind playing in opposite costumes. Men dressed as women and women dressed as men. The casting agency was also looking for a real gay couple for the same date.

5. THE REUNION

The Loustat reunion scene was shot in a studio in Prague, but they also change the exterior of a house in NOLA. However, they didn't end up using the shot in the show. @lynneville2

6. THE VAMPIRE DANIEL

Thanks to the BTS episode, we know that Daniel's reveal was originally much more dramatic.

.

.

.

*From what I see it doesn't look like they will be in Prague for S3. At least not this year. Probably the next? I'll have it confirmed around November 10, but by then we'll most likely know more from other sources.

[scavengedluxury]

Augusta Kurz in her apartment, Vinohradská ulice 13, Prague, 1931. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

[anastasiareyreed]

dear world, you have the opportunity to show your support for Ukraine in real life! please share!

you can support Ukraine and call on your authorities to help Ukrainians survive the ecocide and expel the russian invaders from our territories!

in the coming days, a peaceful march in support of Ukraine will take place all over the world! please join and show by your example that the world need to be on the side of good!

please spread the word and look for cities where you can join the march, Ukrainians really need your support!

📍Bucharest, Parcul TNB 19:00 10.06

📍Sydney, Town Hall 14:00 11.06

📍Batumi, Europe Square 19:00 11.06

📍Paris, Place de la Republique 16:00 10.06

📍London, 10 Downing Street 16:00 10.06

📍Krak��w, Rynek Główny 1 16:00 11.06

📍 Netherlands, Amsterdam, Dam Square 14:00-16:00 11.06

📍Danmark, Aarhus, Molleparken 13:00 11.06

📍Adana, Ataturk Park 16:00 10.06

📍Porto, Praça Aliados 13:00 11.06

📍Lyon, Pl. de la Comédie 18.00 10.06

📍Prague, Staroměstské náměstí 17:00 10.06

📍Wroclaw, plac Solny 18:00 11.06

📍Nottingham, Speakers Corner, 16:00 10.06

📍 Barcelona, Passeig de Lluís Companys 16:00 11.06

📍Strasbourg, Parlement européen 17:30 12.06

📍Brisbane, Australia, King George Square 14:00 11.06

added new cities and dates:

📍Stockholm, Norrmalmstorg, 12:00 11.06

📍Tel Aviv, HaYarkon St 120 18:30 12.06

📍UK, Bristol, College Green 12:00 11.06

📍Vancouver, Jack Pool Plaza 14:00 11.06

📍Poznan, Adam Mickiewicz Square 11:00 11.06

📍Warsaw, Ukrainian embassy, Szucha 7 18:00 12.06

📍Valencia, Monument Antoni Ferrandis 16:00 11.06

📍Brisbane, King George Square 14:00 11.06

📍Freiburg, Platz der alten Synagoge 18:00 10.06

📍Kassel, Deutschland 17:00 10.06

over time, new cities and dates will be added

more information here!

[lastknownwork]

Title: Apotheosa z dějin Slovanstva (Apotheosis of the Slavs)

Artist: Alphonse Mucha

Year: 1926

Medium: Egg tempera or oil on canvas

Dimensions: 4.05 m × 4.80 m (13 ft 3 in × 15 ft 9 in)

Location: currently disputed, prior to 2012 in the chateau of Moravský Krumlov, 2012-2016 in the National Gallery in Prague, on tour 2018-2019, back in Moravský Krumlov for now.

[deadpanwalking]

I too once danced in a ring. It was in 1948. In my country, the Communists had taken power, the Socialist and democratic Christian ministers had taken refuge abroad, and I took other Communist students by the hands or shoulders and we took two steps in place, one step forward, raised the left leg to one side and then the right to the other, and we did this nearly every month, because we always had something to celebrate, an anniversary or some other event, old injustices were redressed, new injustices were perpetrated, factories were nationalized, thousands of people went to prison, medical care was free, tobacconists saw their shops confiscated, aged workers vacationed for the first time in expropriated villas, and on our faces we had the smile of happiness. Then one day I said something I should not have said, was expelled from the party, and had to leave the ring dance.

That is when I understood the magical meaning of the circle. If you go away from a row, you can still come back into it. A row is an open formation. But a circle closes up, and if you go away from it, there is no way back. It is not by chance that the planets move in circles and that a rock coming loose from one of them goes inexorably away, carried off by centrifugal force. Like a meteorite broken off from a planet, I left the circle and have not yet stopped falling. Some people are granted their death as they are whirling around, and others are smashed at the end of their fall. And these others (I am one of them) always retain a kind of faint yearning for that lost ring dance, because we are all inhabitants of a universe where everything turns in circles.

It was God knows what anniversary and the streets of Prague were once again filled with young people dancing in rings. I wandered among them, I came very close to them, but I was forbidden to enter any of their rings. It was June 1950, and Milada Horakova had been hanged the day before. She had been a Socialist deputy and the Communist tribunal had accused her of plotting against the state. Zavis Kalandra, a Czech surrealist and a friend of Andre Breton and Paul Eluard, was hanged at the same time. And the dancing young Czechs, knowing that the day before, in the same city, a woman and a surrealist had been swinging from the end of ropes, were dancing all the more frenetically, because their dance was a demonstration of their innocence, in shining contrast to the guilty darkness of the two who were hanged, those betrayers of the people and its hopes.

Andre Breton did not believe Kalandra had betrayed the people and its hopes, and in Paris he called on Eluard (in an open letter dated June 13, 1950) to protest the insane accusation and try to save their old friend. But Eluard was busy dancing in a gigantic ring between Paris, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw, Sofia, and Greece, between all the socialist countries and all the world’s Communist parties, and everywhere he recited his beautiful poems about joy and brotherhood. After reading Breton’s letter, he took two steps in place, then one step forward, he shook his head, refusing to defend a betrayer of the people (in the June 19, 1950 issue of the weekly Action), and started to recite in a metallic voice:

“We shall fill innocence With the strength that so long We lacked We shall no longer be alone.”

I wandered through the streets of Prague, rings of laughing, dancing Czechs swirled around me, and I knew that I did not belong to them but belonged to Kalandra, who had also come loose from the circular trajectory and had fallen, fallen, to end his fall in a condemned man’s coffin, but even though I did not belong to them, I nonetheless watched the dancing with envy and yearning, unable to take my eyes off them. And that is when I saw him, right in front of me! He had his arms around their shoulders and along with them was singing two or three simple notes and raising his left leg to one side and then his right leg to the other. Yes, it was he, Prague’s darling Eluard! And suddenly the people he was dancing with fell silent, continuing to move in absolute silence while he chanted to the stamping of their feet:

“We shall flee rest we shall flee sleep, We shall outrun dawn and spring And we shall shape days and seasons To the measure of our dreams.”

And then everyone abruptly began again to sing the three or four simple notes, speeding up the steps of their dance. They were fleeing rest and sleep, outrunning time, and filling their innocence. They were all smiling, and Eluard leaned over a girl he had his arm around:

“A man possessed by peace is always smiling.”

And the girl started laughing and stamping her feet harder so that she rose a few centimeters above the pavement, pulling the others up after her, and a moment later not one of them was touching the ground, they were all taking two steps in place and one step forward without touching the ground, yes, they were soaring over Wenceslaus Square, their dancing ring resembled a great wreath flying off, and I ran on the ground below and looked up to see them, as they soared farther and farther away, raising the left leg to one side and then the right to the other, and there below them was Prague with its cafes full of poets and its prisons full of betrayers of the people, and from the crematorium where they were incinerating a Socialist deputy and a surrealist writer the smoke ascended to the heavens like a good omen, and I heard Eluard’s metallic voice:

“Love is at work, it is tireless.”

And I ran after that voice through the streets so as not to lose sight of the splendid wreath of bodies gliding over the city, and I realized with anguish in my heart that they were flying like birds and I was falling like a stone, that they had wings and I would never have any.

Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (tr. Aaron Asher)

[headcanonsandmore]

The Doctors react to "It's Raining Men" (1-13)

One: *covers Susan's eyes with his hand* My child, I think we ought to swiftly move on and leave these gentlemen to their business.

Two: *chuckles* I don't know, I imagine they think I'm rather handsome. Wouldn't you say so, Jamie?

Three: Fascinating! I wonder if they've been able to reduce the polarity, Jo. Come along, let's ask them-

Four: *cheerful shrug* These are handsome men, probably.

Five: Ah, hello! Would any of you gentlemen happened to have seen a pair of young women run past here? They may have been kissing, for some reason. Really? Thank you, I- Adric, stop staring at that man's muscles! Honestly, I can't take you lot anywhere!

Six: *gets complimented on the coat* See, Peri; I told you people would understand!

Seven: *Has to physically pull Ace away* Yes, thank you, gentleman. Ace, I really don't think you're their type.

Eight: *starts flirting and dancing along*

Nine: Fantastic! *successfully unionises the men* *gets snogged by a passing man, grins* Absolutely fantastic!

Ten: *gets flirted with, gets flustered, runs away before Rose sees*

Eleven: *adjusts bow-tie* How would I know, Amy? All human and private things, after all. *blushes red*

Twelve: *shreds on his guitar* Wicked! Reminds me of that time in Prague-

Thirteen: *looks bored and walks off to find Yaz*

[elegantauthor]

Saving Grace Chapter 13

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Aurora Stark

Summary: Aurora is left in the dark, as Zemo travels to Prague.

Warnings: threats to one’s safety

Series Masterlist

Aurora awoke with a gasp, bolting upright only to find herself restrained. Disoriented, she thrashed against whatever was holding her in place, until the sound of Zemo chuckling doused her panic like ice water. She fell back against the seat, inwardly cursing the seatbelt. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She glanced sidelong at Zemo—eyes tight, he must’ve drove without stopping.

She would risk jumping out of a moving vehicle, but she wasn’t about to imperil her life by attacking him while he was driving. There was, of course, another option, but she doubted that he’d feel anything. Still, she thought, it was worth a shot.

Worming her way inside his heart, she stood at the precipice of an impenetrable fortress—more so than with Bucky. The calm that she now exuded was more for her benefit than Zemo’s. She needed it like a security blanket. If she couldn’t read him, sway him, let alone control him, then she was powerless against him.

Seeming to pick up on her distress, Zemo frowned. “I have no intention of harming you, as long as you behave.”

“And if I don’t?” asked Aurora, tersely.

Zemo clicked his tongue. “As defiant as your father, I see.”

“Don’t think I’ll make this easy on you.”

“Of course not,” he sighed. “After all, you are the Winter Soldier’s lover. Who else but a woman of your stature could tame him?”

Ignoring the implication, Aurora redirected. “Where are we going? Clearly, you’ve been driving all night.”

“Prague.”

“What’s in Prague?”

“Patrons who would be very interested in someone like you.”

“You said you weren’t going to hurt me.” Aurora tried and failed to suppress the tremor in her voice. She turned to stare out the window, her breath fogging the winter-kissed glass. She didn’t want to think about what awaited her in Prague, yet the intrusive thoughts impeded her calm all the same.

One hand gripping the steering wheel, Zemo reached over to wipe a stray tear from her face. “I am a man of my word.”

~ * ~

Seven years ago

“Bucky?” Aurora reached the hut in near-record time. After he bolted from the medical facility, she quickly followed after him. The Super Soldier beat her by several minutes and was now hunched over on the floor.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he chanted like a mantra, shaking his head. “If Ayo says the words, and something happens— I can’t.”

Kneeling at his side, she tentatively reached out. She released an aura of calm, and once he relaxed, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing is going to happen,” she assured him.

Slowly, Bucky lifted his head. As if just realizing she was there, his wide eyes narrowed into a glare. “You shouldn’t have been in there,” he snapped. “You don’t know what he could’ve— what I could’ve done to you, Aurora.”

“Nothing happened,” she repeated, firmly yet gently.

Scowling, he pushed himself into sitting position and leaned against the bed. “You are so goddamn stubborn.”

“So are you,” she chided softly, “but you don’t see me throwing a fit.”

Bucky quirked a small smile, as some of the tension in the room ebbed. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Stubborn and a force to be reckon with, if I’m the one who’s finally going to take down the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky wasn’t sure whether to laugh at that, or not. Sighing, he took her hand and held it. “Your hand is so delicate, so fragile, I could break it easily.” He applied pressure with barely a squeeze. “And I don’t need a metal arm to do it. Don’t you see?”

Lacing her fingers with his, Aurora shook her head. “I’m not scared of you. Do you want me to be scared of you? Because that will only reinforce the narrative you keep telling yourself, and I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

“What do you know about what I want?”

“I’d like to think you want to heal. You want people to look at you with some semblance of normalcy.”

“Never gonna happen,” he scoffed, gesturing to his empty left arm socket.

“Having a metal prosthetic, or lack thereof, doesn’t make you the man you are.” She shifted so that she was sitting next to him. “Take me, for example. I’m Tony Stark’s daughter. Naturally, everyone expects me to be some sort of prodigy. They assume I have a passion for science and technology, which I don’t. Then, there are those who label me as shallow simply because I have a rich dad.”

“You’re anything but shallow,” Bucky murmured, turning his head to look at her. “You’re so smart. Hell, you help me make sense of all this mess. And- and… you’re beautiful. You’re one of the most compassionate people I know.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make.” She smiled, looking up at him. “You are more than what HYDRA made you. You’re not their legacy. You’re a victim, but even that doesn’t have to define you.”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see a man who has been traumatized, but is strong enough to overcome. You are brave and resilient. You’ve showed me and the people of Wakanda nothing but kindness. Then, there’s the you when Steve visits… the you whose grin brightens a room, and with your charm and presence…” She paused and chewed on her bottom lip, unsure whether she should continue. “Managed to capture my heart.”

“I—” He huffed out a breathless laugh, the corner of his mouth begging to curl into a smirk, unable to out of astonishment. “You’re a demigoddess, the demigoddess of love. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not going to pressure you for anything. I… can’t help how I feel, but if you need time, I—” Aurora was rambling.

Her words and subsequent whimper of surprise were swallowed the moment Bucky pressed his lips to hers. Without breaking the kiss, she knelt beside him once more, as he circled his arm around her. The pull of his regret instantly quelled at the push of her lips against his.

Arm wrapped around her, Bucky broke the kiss to look up at her. “I wanna be the man you see.”

Aurora tenderly kissed his forehead, whispering into his skin. “You are that man.”

[lumieresdanslacave]

oooops it's already november my favourite month of the year! so what's up? 🩹I have to haha I really have to do more stupid useless thiings I have ideas 🩹I'm in the process of cleaning the originals from my next comic, to be printed this month, and released in December. As you might know it's the second episode of my last comic Sad Country Death Song and I'm pretty proud of what I've made! We will also reprint the first episode as we're sold out. 🩹I'll be in Lyon for a transfem exhibition + lectures from nov 13 to nov 16!! Maybe I have mutuals here? All infos in the link. I'll read a text maybe that'll help me to progress on my short novel! 🩹Next up we have 2 releases this month with Cosmic Studios, our small seasonal halloween zine featuring @okenki and the third issue of Comète 🩹And at the end of the month (nov 30 to dec 2nd) we'll be in PRAGUE for FRAME festival!!!!! great big adventures awaits!! Hit me up if I have mutuals or followers there I'd love to meet! I'm so happy to go there 🩹I have some drawings to queue that date back to august Well that's all for this month folks, hope you're good and that life is sweet, free Palestine, fuck cops etc etc etc etc!!

[earlycuntsets]

mcr shows on youtube pt. 4 (2011 - 2023) last one :]

-> pt. 1 (2002 - 2005)

-> pt. 2 (2005 - 2007)

-> pt. 3 (2007 - 2011)

08/05/2011 pnc bank arts center holmdel nj - the academy is my beautiful romance

08/13/2011 hersheypark stadium hershey pa - the academy is my beautiful romance

08/20/2011 first midwest bank amphitheater tinley park il - the academy is my beautiful romance

08/26/2011 little john's farm reading england - em

08/31/2011 rogers arena vancouver canada - catie cunningham

09/03/2011 usana amphitheater west valley city utah - delaney nye

09/04/2011 comfort dental amphitheater greenwood village co - the academy is my beautiful romance

09/09/2011  capitol federal park at sandstone amphitheater bonner springs ks - the academy is my beautiful romance

09/11/2011 dte energy music theater clarkston mi - justanotherkilljoy

09/18/2011 farm bureau live at virginia beach va - the academy is my beautiful romance

09/20/2011 verizon wireless amphitheater charlotte nc - the academy is my beautiful romance

1/22/2012 gold coast parklands gold coast australia - the academy is my beautiful romance

02/03/2012 adelaide showground adelaide australia - the academy is my beautiful romance

02/05/2012 mccallum park perth australia - myxinfinitexromance

05/19/2012 north beach asbury park asbury park nj - ryan hanratty

12/20/2019 the shrine expo hall los angeles ca - gabe havel photo

05/16/2022 the eden project day one st austell england - the academy is my beautiful romance

05/17/2022 the eden project day two st austell england - the academy is my beautiful romance

05/21/2022 stadium mk milton keynes england - TheChickenGiraffe

05/24/2022 royal hospital kilmainham dublin ireland - the academy is my beautiful romance

05/28/2022 sofia gardens cricket ground cardiff wales - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/04/2022 bologna sonic park arena parco north italy - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/06/2022 olympiahalle munich germany - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/07/2022 budapest park budapest hungary - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/09/2022 progresja warsaw poland - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/11/2022 o2 arena prague czech republic - the academy is my beautiful romance

06/13/2022 stora scenen gröna lund stockholm sweden - live from stockholm

08/19/2022 paycom center oklahoma city ok - tony

08/23/2022 bridgestone arena nashville tn - the academy is my beautiful romance

08/24/2022 heritage bank center cincinnati oh - the academy is my beautiful romance

08/29/2022 wells fargo philadelphia pa - ronaldb2985

08/30/2022 mvp arena albany ny - the academy is my beautiful romance

09/05/2022 scotia bank toronto ca - the academy is my beautiful romance

09/16/2022 riot fest douglass park chicago il - geoffrey gardner

09/20/2022 prudential center newark nj - deadhoarse

09/24/2022 fla live arena sunrise fl - the academy is my beautiful romance

10/03/2022 tacoma dome tacoma wa - seattle concerts

10/05/2022 oakland arena oakland ca - HisoKu

10/07/2022 t-mobile arena las vegas nv - wormspeddler (smeagles)

10/08/2022 aftershock discovery park sacramento ca - the academy is my beautiful romance

10/09/2022 barclays center brooklyn ny - the academy is my beautiful romance

10/15/2022 kia forum inglewood ca - the academy is my beautiful romance

10/23/2022 when we were young day day two las vegas - the academy is my beautiful romance

10/29/2022 when we were young fest las vegas nv - PichyJr

11/18/2022 autódromo hermanos rodríguez mexico city mexico - leashalia

03/11/2023 the outer fields at western springs auckland new zealand (soundcheck) - the academy is my beautiful romance

03/23/2023 qudos bank arena sydney australia - the academy is my beautiful romance

-> pt. 1 (2002 - 2005)

-> pt. 2 (2005 - 2007)

-> pt. 3 (2007 - 2011)

[scotianostra]

IT'S A PURE DEAD GIVE-AWAY THAT YOU'RE SCOTTISH IF :-

1. You consider scattered showers with outbreaks of sunshine 🌞 as good weather.

2. The only sausage you like is square.

3. You were forced to do Scottish country dancing 🕺🏻

every year at secondary school.

4. You have a wide vocabulary of Scottish words such as numpty, aye, aye right, auldyin, baltic...

5. You destroyed your teeth when you were young using Buchanan's toffee, Wham bars, Penny Dainties, MB Bars, Cola Cubes etc

6. You have an enormous feeling of dread whenever Scotland play a 'numpty' team like the Faroe Islands.

7. You happily engage in a conversation about the weather with someone you've never met before.

8. Even if you normally hate the Proclaimers, Runrig, Caledonia , Deacon Blue and Big Country, you still love it when you're in a club abroad and they play something Scottish.

9. You used to watch Glen Michael's Cavalcade on a Sunday afternoon with his side kick Lamp Paladin.

10. You got Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals at Xmas.

11. You can tell where another Scot is from by their accent - "Awright, pal, gonnae gies a wee swatch oa yur Sun ? Cheers, magic pal." Or "Fit ya bin up tae ? Fair few quines in the nicht, eh ?", etc

12. You see cops and hear someone shout 'Errapolis'.

13. You have participated in or watched people having a 'square go'.

14. You know that when someone asks you what school you went to they only want to know if you are catholic or protestant.

15. You have eaten lots and lots of random Scottish food like mince 'n tatties, Tunnock's Caramel Logs, oat cakes, haggis, Cullen skink, Lees Macaroon Bars, etc.

16. A jakey has asked you for money.

17. You think nothing of waiting expectantly for your 1p change from a shop keeper.

18. You know the right response to 'Ye dancing ?' is 'Y'askin?' followed by 'Ahm askin' and finally 'Then ahm dancin'. 💃

19. Whenever you see sawdust it reminds you of pools of vomit as that's what the jannies used to chuck on it at school.

20. You lose all respect for a groom 🤵 who doesn't wear a kilt.

21. You don't do 🛒 shopping ... you 'go the messages'.

22. You're sitting on the train 🚂 or bus and a 😵 drunk man sits next to you telling you a joke - and asking 'Ahm no annoying ye ahm a?' and you respond 'Naw, not at a', yer fine. This is ma stoap, but'. 🛑

23. You can have an entire phone 📞 conversation using only the words 'awright', 'aye' and 'naw'.

24. You have experienced peer pressure to have an alcoholic drink 🍷 when out - regardless of the circumstances.

25. You know that ye cannae fling yer pieces 🍞 oot a 20 storey flat, and that seven hundred hungry weans'll testify tae that. Furthermore you're sure that if it's butter, 🧀 cheese or jeely, or if the breid is plain or pan, the odds against it reaching earth are 99 tae wan.

26. You know that going to a party 🥳 at a friend's house involves bringing your own drink.

27. Your holiday abroad is ruined if you hear there is a heatwave in Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 while you're away.

28. Your national team goes 2-0 up again the Czechs in a qualifier in Prague and your mate says we'll end up losing 3-2 here and you think "Probably". ⚽️

29. You can properly pronounce McConnochie, Ecclefechan, Milngavie, and Auchtermuchty.

30. Your favourite pizza is deep fried and battered from the chippy.

31. You're used to 4 💨 ☔️ ☀️ ❄️ seasons in one day.

32. You can't pass a chip shop or kebab shop, without drooling, when your 🥴 drunk.

33. You can fall about 😵 drunk without spilling your drink.

34. You measure distance in minutes.

35. You can understand Rab C Nesbitt and know characters just like them in your own family.

36. You go to Saltcoats because you think it's like being at the ocean.

🌊

37. You can make a whole sentence out of just swear words.

38. You know what haggis is made with and still eat it.

39. Somebody you know used a football 🥅 schedule to plan their 💒 day date.

40. You've been at a 👰 🎩 wedding where the footie results were read out.

41. You aren't surprised to find curries, pizzas 🍕 kebabs, Irn Bru, nappies and fags all for sale in one shop.

42. Your seaside holiday home has Calor ⛽️ gas under it.

43. You know that Irn Bru is an infallible hangover 😵 cure.

44. You understand all the above and are going to send it to your pals.

45. and, finally, you are 100 per cent Scottish if you have ever used these terms - "How's it hingin'?", "clatty", "boggin", "cludgie", "dreich", "bampot", and "dubble nugget"..

😂🕺🏻🥳

[ancestorsalive]

Libeň Bridge, Prague, July 1942. Germans collecting bells from Bohemia and Moravia.

They were smelted down and used for the war effort. At that time, five ships sailed from Prague on the Vltava and the Elbe river, 9801 bells with a total weight of 1563 tons.

A total of 43,776 bells were removed and smelted in former Czechoslovakia. Of the pre-war number, 13% remained in Bohemia and 6% in Moravia.

This happened throughout most of the occupied countries.

[dragonnan]

Eavesdropping

May Prompts 2024

May 13

Here is another one from the archives - it actually has two instances of eavesdropping so it was an excellent fit for the prompt!

Beware the Jabberwock, My Son

Warnings: Child Abuse, Abuse of a Minor

Forty-five minutes. Not the first time he'd been left to linger in the blazing sun while his brother cavorted with some random dignitary in need of a good pandering. Mummy and Daddy had been in Prague for the past week, and weren't due back for another three days, so Sherlock's fate, then, rested with his lazy git of an older brother to collect him at the end of term. Of all the luck.

Sherlock held back on the urge to kick at the untidy scatter of gravel that had been strewn across the pavement, with the exodus of students, not long ago. It had been a hit to his dignity, being the last student remaining after everyone had gone. It wasn't so much his outcast status; he rather preferred it to the humiliating and, at times, painful treatment he'd received during his brief stint at Winchester. That didn't mean, though, that he wanted to wander the grounds indefinitely like some wraith from a Dickens novel.

Stomping down the zig zagging steps to the small courtyard below, Sherlock tugged the stiff collar of his starched shirt away from his throat – the loathsome tie already wadded and crammed in the pocket of his dark blue blazer, which hung askew from one slender arm. Mummy would have a fit at the state of his neckwear but he could barely tolerate it most days and tended to rip it free the first chance he got. Cutting across the manicured lawn, he worked his way round the side of the complex where large trees offered an amount of shade. His overnight bag dragging behind him, leaving a small groove in the verdant grass, Sherlock was nearly to the wide spreading oak near the dormitories when he heard a clipped whine.

Shoving his bag up against the peeling tree bark, blazer thrown aside and landing atop the bag more by luck than design, he scuttled to the outer wall of the raised courtyard in order to gain an unimpeded view. The trees were thicker, here, towards the back. Too early for the groundskeeper, the litter from an impromptu rugby game, among the older boys, still lay scattered about. Sherlock toed aside a paper serviette, stained with grease, before gracefully climbing into the branches of one of the smaller beech trees. Hidden amongst the aubergine leaves, he leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around a branch smoothed by many a young man's grip, to peer out at the scene below.

There were two figures – one significantly larger than the other – about 10 yards further on and close to the treeline. The large man Sherlock didn't recognize; though it wasn't difficult to surmise the relationship. The boy was someone Sherlock knew more by nature of a shared disdain, cast upon them by the greater student body, than due to any sort of interaction. Intelligent, gentle, and possessing a sort of oddness that set him apart, Lucas Peacock had even less in common with the rank and file of Harrow than Sherlock did. At 16 he was two years Sherlock's senior. However he was one of the few students whom Sherlock had felt any sort of affinity; though their interactions had started and ended with Lucas offering the rare smile and Sherlock giving Lucas his lunch on exactly one occasion. It had been beans and franks; appalling, bland, and of an unidentifiable protein source. Not the first meal he'd foregone – there were limits, after all. Lucas hadn't minded one bit – gangly as he was and somewhat concave he'd wolfed down the meal and nearly licked the plate.

Now, he frowned as the large man; father, going by the similar features, gave Lucas a vigorous shake before slapping him across the cheek.

Slipping from his perch, Sherlock darted across the manicured green, quickly drawing dual attention.

Mr. Peacock scowled at his approach. “Run along, boy!”

Thin arms folded over his chest, Sherlock took in the darkening bruise on Lucas's cheek as well as the swelling of his lower lip.

“The grounds are off limits to anyone not a student and are restricted to students and faculty only. You aren't supposed to be back here.” Not entirely true, in fact, though it was unlikely the brutish man would be aware of school policies.

“Aren't you a bit young to be attending this school? Where are your parents?” Peacock looked about himself with a trace of unease.

Sherlock sniffed. “I'm nearly sixteen.” Well, sixteen being relative; he was roughly thirteen months shy of sixteen, not that this thundering oaf would know the difference anyhow. “Aren't you a bit old to be beating up children?”

Drawing himself up tall, the man shook Lucas by the grip on the boy's collar. “What I choose to do with my son is no concern of yours, boy! Now run along! This is no affair of yours.”

Instead, Sherlock crowded closer – sneering at Peacock's unkempt clothes – the spot of gravy on his collar – the untucked shirttails – the overall slovenly manner with which he carried himself. “Perhaps not but I'm betting the school administrators would take an interest in what you're doing.”

The congealed rage was barely a warning as Lucas was abruptly thrust towards the grass, his shoulders impacting hard enough to knock the wind from his chest, as Peacock turned fully towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was suddenly, vibrantly, aware of two things. The size of the man he'd elected to confront, and the absolute absence of any other human life, outside of their tiny drama.

He realized that a wise option, hinted in his brother's bored tones, would be to turn heel and run for the main building and the promise of adult support. He was light on his feet and very fast and knew he could easily outpace the stumbling drunkard at barely half his normal speed. However that option also came with a cost. By the time he was able to reach the headmaster's office, navigate the throng of staff demanding he explain what he was doing indoors “without a parent or guardian”, locate an adult willing to actually listen, and then prod, wheedle, and harry said adult back out onto the grounds, Peacock would be long gone and Sherlock would very likely be presumed of either a wild imagination or outright lying.

So, instead, he spread his stance; feet slipping a bit in the damp grass, and subtly turned himself to the side. Instructions unfolded in his mind – those long afternoons in a light cotton gi, the pants of which were always slightly too long.

At his movement, Peacock first grinned; then laughed. “And what is it you intend to do with those tiny fists, boy? Box my kneecaps for me?” He laughed again – making a mock lunge. With practiced ease, Sherlock twisted to the side, spun on one foot, and slammed his heel in Peacock's groin – hard.

The large man howled – cupping between his legs and nearly going down on one knee.

And that was where Sherlock made his devastating mistake. Intent on ending things, quickly, he darted around the broad figure, elbow poised to bury in a kidney, when a shattering blow impacted the side of his head and threw him five feet back into the solid ground.

His shoulders twitched as he tried to remember how to lift his arms. There was a reason he needed to stand, and quickly, but he couldn't seem to order his thoughts enough to remember why. And then pain tore at his scalp as heavy fingers twisted into his hair and pulled; forcing him to his knees. Peacock shook him violently and Sherlock was certain he was going to vomit. A bright halo surrounded the man that Sherlock knew meant Bad Things. But before he could consider that information Peacock was spitting something furious at him – similar to the hate-filled words directed at his son. Sherlock was finally able to lift one hand and lace his fingers around the man's wrist.

“Get your hands off me you little shit!” Peacock released his hair just as he backhanded Sherlock across the cheek.

He was on the ground again – stomach heaving acidic bile when the hands grabbed him for a third time. Sherlock couldn't help it, he whimpered, arms raising to cover his face. And Peacock laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and then his open hand struck the side of Sherlock's head; once, twice, and on the third slap Peacock let him drop.

“Stay away from my family or there'll be more of that! And worse!” Sherlock heard him spit; and then there followed a hazy period – the vague sense of footsteps retreating and time slipping by in some fashion.

Shadows passed over him but he couldn't imagine moving – between the halos and throbbing shapes and tinnitus if he so much as lifted his head he would vomit. So he stayed on the ground and counted his breaths and tried his damndest to block the misfiring signals-PaIn-nAuseA-bleEdiNg-DizZy-hammering at the soft tissue inside his skull.

He had no idea how long he lie there.

He'd been cringing at the piercing screedch of cicadas when the cacophony of mating insects was broken by the rapidly building thunder of steps pounding through the grass.

Peacock coming back for more, just as he promised! The moment hands touched him Sherlock bellowed – swinging blind and feeling his left hand rake along flesh; the satisfaction of a pained grunt immediately lost as his wrists were caught and soft words made headway through his panic.

“Easy. You're safe. Focus on my voice.” Repeating cadence as slowly he was released – the hands staying well away and allowing him space to breathe – to regroup.

Then, eyes still tightly shut, he sniffled and turned his head. “Mycroft?” He hated the tiny warble but couldn't help the relief when his brother responded.

“I'm here. Are you able to move? Is anything broken?”

Sherlock flexed his hands; his arms. But when he braced against the ground and tried to push up he gasped – subsiding again as sharp pain ballooned through his skull and shrieked through his ribs. “It's... I can't...”

A firm hand pressed solid against his leg. “I'll fetch the matron...”

“No!” Sherlock snatched outward and managed to catch a sleeve by pure luck. “Please, My just... I want to go home... please...”

A sigh followed. Then... “Very well. However I will need to carry you. Do you need time...?”

“I...” Fingers dug in the grass, Sherlock curled into himself. So Mycroft waited while Sherlock steadied himself – taking the steps needed to prepare for what would certainly be both painful and grating. Deep breaths – fingers playing against the earth. Then, finally, he nodded – even that small movement crashing a tsunami of stomach rolling agony through his head.

Mycroft was careful but there was no avoiding the turmoil caused by hefting his brother in his arms. It was brutal. Sherlock gagged; longer fingers clinging to Mycroft's jacket as he used every technique he knew to hold himself together. It seemed an age before, sweet blessed relief, they reached the car and Mycroft helped ease him onto the back seat – covering his face with his jacket to block out the throbbing rays of sunlight.

He sank against the cool leather and knew little more until, an undetermined time later, his brother's voice intruded once more.

“We're home. Just a short distance to the house, if you can manage it?”

He could – though he had to cling tight to his brother the entire time and depend upon his guidance to avoid stumbling as Sherlock still couldn't manage vision without a sickening swoop through his belly.

And then he was laid on the couch – both of them agreeing that navigating the stairs to his bedroom was too daunting a prospect. What followed was yet another exercise in misery. For half an hour Mycroft held him steady as he repeatedly heaved into a bowl. Attempts to stifle the flow with medication led only to repeating bouts to the point he was sweaty and shaking by the time it abated. In between gagging up his organs, Mycroft dabbed a wet flannel at his various wounds – primarily the seeping split that cut a line through both his upper and lower lip – courtesy of the ostentatious emerald on Peacock's ring.

Eventually, though, the bloodied rags were gathered and the bowl rinsed and left on the floor near his head. Mycroft insisted on pain medication and a few tentative sips of juice. Afterward Sherlock was left alone. It was only a short time later that sleep finally pulled him under.

It was dark when Sherlock woke. His head still hurt but not in that violent way from earlier. He was able to open his eyes and, best of all, the sickening halos were gone. But other aches had now asserted themselves. His ribs and right hip were nearly immobile after repeated impacts against the ground. There were bruises and small cuts on the back of his hands from trying to block the blows Peacock had rained on him – the gemstone in his ring leaving narrow gouges behind – and his shoulders felt half twisted from the sockets. As for his face it was a network of throbbing hurts.

Grunting, he stiffly pushed upright – wobbling as he struggled to regain his balance. From the kitchen, he heard a small sound, and then Mycroft stepped into the room. His face gave away little but his eyes flicked up and down Sherlock's form in an evaluating fashion.

Sherlock noted, however, that Mycroft's hands were in fists at his sides.

“You've been asleep for three hours. How is your pain?”

Both arms wrapped around his middle, Sherlock groaned. “Painful.” He squinted as he regarded his older brother. “I see you capitalized on the opportunity to invade the icebox.”

Eyes losing some of their softness, Mycroft snorted. “Quite. The devastation was incalculable.” Stepping forward he braced a hand against Sherlock's back. “I prepared dinner, you insufferable brat.”

Swatting away the probing fingers, Sherlock was, nonetheless, grateful at the proffered ice pack – which he held against his tender scalp. He briefly considered an entire tub of ice water – surely every bit of him could benefit from the soothing cold.

While he was busy with the ice, Mycroft returned to the kitchen; only to reemerge minutes later with a bowl and glass of water.

“Lentil Bolognese.”

Sherlock regarded the heavy soup; inhaling the rich scent and wary of his sensitive stomach. However there was no indication of further upset so, gathering some broth on his spoon, he sipped delicately. In short order he'd eaten more than half before setting aside his utensil. Dinner was followed by a decadent slice of tarte tatin supplied generously with a heap of thick créme fraîche. Sherlock ate every crumb and watched enviously while his wretched brother followed suit without so much as offering a single bite from his share.

After the plates were cleared away, Sherlock settled back against a heap of pillows and sighed. When Mycroft took the chair across from him, however, Sherlock clenched his fingers and stared towards the fireplace.

“This cannot be avoided, brother mine. I need to know.”

Still looking away, Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “What for? There's nothing to tell. I picked a fight and lost. Certainly that wouldn't be the first time I came out the wrong end in a scrap.”

“No, but you also are not one who typically initiates a fight. So why now? And with an opponent of clearly larger size, going by the shape of those bruises.”

At the continued silence Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I suppose I shall have to speak with the Administration as well as members of the staff. Surely one of them will have seen...”

“It was Mr. Peacock.” The admission came out in a soft murmur – Sherlock's throat flushing with heat.

Mycroft stared at him, openly aghast. “Bradford Peacock did this to you?”

Finally lifting his head, glaring, Sherlock jutted his chin. “I believe I told you that I started it.”

“Yes, you did. However, you failed to mention that your opponent was an adult man with at least ten stone on you.”

Sherlock's thumb dug into his index finger while pondering the stability of his limbs. At least in his own room he could conceivably lock Mycroft out. Not that his brother wasn't capable of entry if he so chose – locks were more of a suggestion for the both of them, much to the dismay of their parents.

“He has a young son, as I recall. A boy close to your age. Lucius.”

“Lucas.” Sherlock's eyes had returned to the fire but he could feel Mycroft's heavy gaze bearing on him.

“He was abusing him.” There was no question in the statement. Sherlock didn't reply but his teeth tightened together. Mycroft's voice fell softer still; dangerous. “And when you attempted to stop him... he beat you.”

“Beat me. He hardly-”

“You have two cracked ribs, a concussion, and there was blood in your vomit!” The fury in his brother's tone snapped Sherlock's jaw shut like a vise. His fingers twisted and pulled at the legs of his trousers until he noticed and forced his hands still.

Twice his mouth opened with a retort at the ready and twice he swallowed it back. His tongue dragged across his broken lip and he flinched. His fingers resumed their movement so he tucked them beneath his arms. Voice a dull rasp, he finally managed to get something past his teeth.

“I did what I had to do.”

Across from him, breathing out heavily, Mycroft nodded. “As will I.”

It was a week later; Sherlock's bruises mutated to a sickly green and yellow, that he was crouching in his favorite listening spot at the top of the stairs behind the top pillar. An unrepentant eavesdropper he had his head tilted back and both feet braced on the opposite wall. Below, his mother was preparing breakfast while his father and Mycroft sat at the table sharing the paper. Since his parent's return he'd been expecting some sort of outrage with regards to his injuries. Though he'd been able to mask the pain to his ribs he couldn't hide the variegated hues on his face. Yet, upon their arrival home, collected by Mycroft in Father's old sedan, Mummy had merely tsked; brushing the hair from his forehead with worried eyes before sighing. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Whatever fantasy Mycroft had spun, it had clearly been good enough for his parents. No doubt painting Sherlock in a less than favorable light.

Still, the truth would have been worse, with consequences that didn't bear consideration.

The scent of his mother's scones began to waft up the stairway. Sherlock breathed in appreciatively – eyes closed and lifted towards the warm morning light, when his mother's voice, and a familiar name, suddenly cut across his musings.

“I heard Bradford Peacock was arrested.”

Sherlock stilled – a cool weight heavy in his belly. After a beat his father hummed; likely swallowing a sip of coffee. “I hate to speak ill of anyone but I have always felt there was something not quite right about him.”

Mellie made a sound before her voice rose again. “It seems he was discovered behind a pub in the village.”

Mycroft's voiced filled in when Mummy trailed off. “As I read it he had apparently been beaten. Severely. In fact, both hands were broken and several teeth were knocked out. Given how he had been treating his son it was the least he was due.”

“You needn't sound so delighted, Myc! Atrocious business.”

Sherlock barely held himself back from peering around the corner and giving himself away – though he had no doubt that his brother knew he was there.

“No, what was atrocious is the reason why he was arrested in the first place. And I will delight in any punishment delivered to a man for hurting a child.”

In that moment Sherlock was certain Mycroft was not, entirely, thinking of Lucas. It left an odd heat behind his eyes.

There was a familiar clunk of the oven door and the rattle of a tray setting down on the counter. “No. I suppose I cannot fault how you feel. In truth, when I read how he'd been abusing that precious child I wanted to race to the constabulary and personally tear out his eyes.”

Father chuckled. “I would have driven you there, my love.”

Nose wrinkling, Sherlock let himself slump back against the bannister.

“Still, I feel for that poor boy. It destroys me to think of him taken into care.”

Mycroft's voice interceded again; deeply pleased with himself, no doubt. “You needn't fear, Mummy. I understand he will be taken in by his maternal grandmother. From what Sherlock has told me, she cares for him a great deal.”

Sherlock had told him no such thing; though he didn't doubt it was true. Not that he appreciated being made an accessory to his brother's schemes. Still, he could admit to being... content... with the outcome of Mycroft's intervention.

Conversation soon drifted to less interesting topics and Sherlock entertained himself with his own thoughts – roaming the fields in his mind until-

“Alright, young man, enough lurking! Breakfast is on! But do wash up before coming down here; no doubt you've collected several pathogens on those hands.”

Silently, Sherlock stood and crept back from the stairway. Mummy may suspect him of listening in but as yet could not prove fact without eyes on. On cat's feet he eased his way back to his room and up onto his bed – waiting several beats before loudly allowing his heels to thud against the floorboards. Shuffling to the door, he cracked it open – letting the hinges squeak, before calling down in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Did you call, Mummy?”

Her less than convinced snort carried easily from below. “Oh, you heard me. Hurry, now, before your eggs go cold.”

Grinning, Sherlock made his way to the washroom.

No doubt he would owe Mycroft for his illicit use of manpower on a less than sanctioned mission. His brother always did collect on his debts. Still... Sherlock couldn't deny that the results had been worth it. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to procure a booking photo of Mr. Peacock.

Fingers clean enough and somewhat dried, Sherlock pressed his arm against his side and headed for the stairs.

It appeared it was going to be a fantastic day.

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