#bristol sort it out

[malewifekane]

why on earth has it dropped to -2° when it was 13° yesterday r u havin a laugh

[iguessitsjustme]

Ren Faire closing weekend with @heretherebedork

I am now simultaneously sweaty and dusty

I only have a few pics of myself from today but I don’t post my face on tumblr so you get these instead

[mitamicah]

.

[nerdie-faerie]

The universe is working against me going to the balloon fiesta at this point

[enigmaris]

Reading a lot of DPxDC fics lately, heres my take on the Danny is Damian's twin AU:

Danny was injured to near death and left for dead by the League as a young boy. Ra's only wanted one heir and Danny was less bloodthirsty than Damian, so it was decided that Danny had to go.

Danny is found and taken to a hospital in Illinois, barely alive. He is saved and wakes up with basically no memories of where he was from and speaking a rare dialect of arabic that none of the cops investigating his case can identify. What words Danny does know in english are concerning so the cops figure Danny was being held by some sort of murder, death cult.

The investigation runs cold and Danny is sent to foster care once his injuries heal. He is then adopted by the fentons and moves to Amity Park. As he grows the only clear memories he has of his past is another boy his age who he felt safe with. He knows the other boy is important to him but not why. He cant even really remember his face, certainly not his name. Danny always felt shitty that he couldnt remember the other boy because if he did, then the cops would have rescued him from the murder death cult too. Instead the other boy is presumably there and getting hurt all the time like Danny was.

Danny gets his powers like normal at 14 and decides that now that he has superpowers he absolutely has to save that other boy. Sam and Tucker help him gather clues, he starts to remember a bit more. He remembers the word ahki and realizes that the other boy is his brother!! Which just really enhances Dannys need to save him from the murder death cult. Eventually Tucker finds a picture of Damian Wayne and Danny is like thats him. Thats my brother.

Wait.

Bruce Wayne is his brothers dad???

Bruce Wayne is a rich fruitloop like Vlad obviously, so he is probably a member of the murder cult. Danny has to rescue his brother from the illuminati.

Cue Sam going to a socialite dinner in gotham much to her parents delight. Getting close to Damian by talking about animal rights, slipping him some sleeping pills in his vegan food. Tucker hacking into the gala and causing a commotion. Danny lugging an unconscious Damian out of the Gala and into the GAV ( no, his parents dont know why he borrowed the car or where he is).

Damian wakes up and immediately tries to attack Danny thinking hes a clone. Danny is like woah shit no its me! Its your brother. Damian is like Danyal is dead. Danny is like obviously not. Now chill out im rescuing you from the cult.

Damian, who has been secrectly mourning his twin for years, has never heard anyone call the League of Assassins a cult. He has to reevaluate a lot of things while Danny drives the GAV out of Gotham as fast as he can. Danny explains his whole backstory and how he is sorry he didnt come to save Damian earlier, his memories were gone but he had never forgotten how important Damian was to him. Damian doesnt do emotions on a good day and is unable to handle that like a normal person.

"Father isnt part of the cult, Danyal."

"Hes a billionaire from Gotham, of course he is!"

Damian who has fought many rich people from gotham, all of whom were evil, tries to find an explanation that isnt 'our dad is batman'. Danny isnt listening to any of it, promising Damian that he will be safe from the murder cult in Amity.

Damian eventually gets out that their mother was in the cult and their father didn't know about them. Danny pulls the GAV over and looks at Damian.

"Did i just kidnap you for no reason?"

"It was a kind gesture at least Danyal."

"Fuck. I just kidnapped bruce wayne's kid in the middle of a gala, am i super villain now?"

"Not if you take me home. Father will understand Danyal."

"I dont want to go to jail!"

Damian gives Danny the address to Wayne Manor and Danny drives to Bristol.

When they walk inside Damian now has to explain the whole 'had a dead brother i never told you about' thing to a less than amused batfam.

Danny introduces himself to Bruce and says that he has an adopted family back in illinois, but that he would be happy to get to know Bruce, also sorry about the kidnapping i dont normally do that i thought you were part of the illumimati and i had to rescue my brother.

Bruce just hopes this kid is normal.

(Hint: he's not)

[trulyhblue]

Could you possibly do a Grace Clinton x Reader please based on what Alessia mentioned on her podcast about Grace being a big hugger and like a sloth ! x also love your work ❤️

Just A Hugger

Grace Clinton x Lioness! Reader

Warnings: fluff, secret but established relationship, very short!

______________________

You were sitting on one of the bean bags for the first time all camp, snuggled under an array of blankets, cuddling your phone as you stared up at the TV in front of you. The room was dark, holding refuge to more than a dozen tired athletes, all clad in their sponsored trackies and hoodies. You were among the handful that had been able to snag a bean bag before they were all full.

Alessia and Ella shared one beside you, and Niamh and Lotte planted theirs together in order to create one combined. On the lounges behind you, many of the girls lay across one another, sluggish in their endeavours to soak up some team bonding while also maintaining the silence. Beth had made you a hot chocolate, and Esme had picked the movie, which was of no complaint to anyone, considering the City girl always seemed to know best. You could hear Lauren muttering about her latest Lego creation to LJ, who was somewhat endorsed by the topic of conversation, yet scrolled aimlessly on her phone as she hummed along in agreement, since Hempo’s tangents often let on for prolonged periods.

Your feet peeked out from under the blankets, your fluffy pink socks matching with your girlfriend, who was nowhere to be seen. There was a quiet hum of chatter as the movie played, and everyone was content with the mixture as it was the first time anyone had really gotten to bond with another teammate outside of training.

The euro qualifiers were tough, and your fresh arrival to the team made it even more difficult to mould into a routine. In such high stake games, you certainly weren't looking for any significant game time, but you were a halftime sub during England’s campaign against Sweden, and you were hopeful of getting the same minutes this time against France.

You were younger than most of the girls but had been around professional football for long enough to have known them all for quite some time. You made your debut at United only a few years ago before playing for City in the Youth groups. There you met the likes of Mary, Katie and Ella, who were the first Lionesses that you had truly gotten to know. You had eventually met Grace when she came from Bristol to United, and from then, you were both sent on loan to Tottenham, where your friendship blossomed into a North London Treasure. Fans are no longer sure Grace is a United player, but their NLD golden girl. You were born and raised Manchester-bound, and you were not prepared to face the fact that you were slowly becoming among the faces of Tottenham’s affiliates. It took you a while to process the hurt that came with your loan, and at some points, you envied how quickly Grace fit in with your teammates and the game they played. But you soon moulded well as a striker, especially as your relationship with Grace consumed your everyday life.

You had moved in together as friends and slowly found your deep feelings for her embedded into your heart. The hugs during celebrations, and the post-match interviews matched with longing stares and soft compliments. Fans jumped to the joyride of how calm and collected the two of you held yourselves, especially as a duo in the games. Grace was always helping you up after badly set tackles, and you pushed her away from unnecessary quarrels with opponents. The media would pick up on the assists Grace would give you, and the spectacular goals that came as a result of your chemistry. There weren't any other two players that had this sort of combination together, and clubs were quick to realise that if they wanted one of you, the other was instantly included.

It was only half way through the season when the two of you got together. It was after your win against Arsenal, and the celebrations mixed with alcohol were quick to loosen your tongue. It was a well-kept secret between you two, except your two best friends Charli and Celine had caught on about your feelings long before you had even gotten together. The media were just enamoured by your friendship with Grace. The fans adored the affection you showed each other. There was inevitable shipping rumours, but they never held much significance.

While you liked the privacy of your relationship, Grace wanted to make it known that you were hers. It wasn't like you kept it discreet. You had shown each other the same amount of PDA before you made it official, so there was minimal change when it came to the way you interacted with each other, save for the heavy affection shown in the showers after a match, away from prying eyes. However, Grace had found herself falling more protective of you. If someone had made a false tackle on you, she’d be all over it before you had even hit the ground. It was an anger that had never presented itself beforehand, but it was sure to unleash the second you winced into the grass.

You were very reserved on the pitch. There wasn't much you got up to, and your card count was very low. Grace was much more vicious, but held accountability when it was due.

Everyone just thought that it was the end-of-season drama, where teams were making last-second challenges that would aim to help their position on the ladder.

Now, as both of your loans with Tottenham were soon to be over, Grace and you had not only made yourselves comfortable in the London atmosphere but had created special bonds with the likes of Celine with Grace and you with Charli, which made the return back a little difficult to face. You were both extremely valuable to each team, and there had been an inexplicable improvement that United wanted a piece of, though Tottenham wanted to keep. You were conflicted with the history of your home, and the alliance of your new life, which added to the stress of debuting with the England Senior Team.

You felt a familiar figure crouch beside you, placing another layer of soft blanket over your figure. With a soft kiss on your forehead, you snuggled up to Grace’s side, immediately cradling her waist with your arms, engulfing her chest with your head, and listening to her steady heartbeat.

“God, you're so warm.” She muttered, pulling your thigh over her leg, letting your weight lean against her. You let out a silent laugh as Grace wrapped her arms around your shoulders, running her hand through the nape of your hair, playing with the loose strands.

You peered down at her feet, feeling the familiar fabric of your matching socks. “Where have you been?”

Grace tucked you into her chest further, breathing in your scent as she sighed. “Talking to Sarina. She wanted to see what I was doing with Tottenham?”

You looked up, carefully calculating the mood on your girlfriend's face. “What about it?”

“Just whether we— whether I was staying.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d have to ask you.” Grace glanced down at you, smiling at the crease between your eyebrows. She pecked your nose, tracing your features subtly. “She said that she could see that we were dating from a mile away.”

You scoffed at that. “Bet she did.”

None of your national teammates mentioned anything, though some of the senior girls had caught on quite quickly that something had changed since the last time they had seen you in Manchester. Ella, who was usually the slowest had walked in on you two that very morning, yelping and whining over breakfast, making your face go red with embarrassment and Grace shoving Tooney over to Lessi, who, inevitably, now knows.

You had told Beth and Leah that you two had gotten close while partnered together at training. Leah had told you it was obvious, and Beth had given you a big hug before listing things she and Viv did to keep their relationship a secret before it got out.

Grace had told Mary, who told Millie, who told Rach, and soon enough pretty much everyone who cared had found out over the course of a day. They were quick to subtly congratulate you, but the attention had died down by the time dinner had past and you all were watching the somewhat indulging film Esme had put on.

You weren't keeping your relationship a secret, but neither of you found a point in letting it known. If someone asked, you’d tell them. Both of you were waiting for the media to catch on, but until then, you were content with the quietness of it all.

“I’ll go wherever you go, you know that?” Grace muttered, placing soft kisses down the coloum of your neck. You pressed your figure closer to her, sighing when her hands ran against your sides.

You held out your hand to grab hers, tracing the ridges in her knuckles. “What do you think? Tottenham or United?”

“I don't care, baby.” She spoke, peeking up from where her face hovered above your collarbone. “I would warm the bench if it meant I was with you.”

You laughed into the blankets, nudging your face into her neck. “You're a sweet talker, Clinton.”

Grace didn't deny the statement, smirking down at your cosy position against her. She wouldn't trade you for any contract offer in the world. No amount of money or years of playing football could equate to holding you in her arms.

______________

yourusername

Liked by Graceclinton, Leahwilliamson, and 98,367 others

tagged — graceclinton, alessiarusso, ellatoone

yourusername — training and socks 🧦🎀

_____________

Comments:

user78 — if they are not in love then idk what love is

lionesses — pretty in pink! 💕

graceclinton — I love the way you look at me

graceclinton — feet on feet 🤢

^ yourusername — you love it 😙

wosofan — THE WAY THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER I CAN NOT DO THIS THEY R SO CUTE

alessia — 😍

* liked by creator

user17 — im dreading the time their loan at Tottenham ends.

^ user67 — what if one of them stays at Tottenham and the other stays at United?

^ user66 — I will become violent if this happens

^ user16 — both teams will want them both. I doubt this will happen

charlottegrant — my little koala 🐨

^ yourusername — miss you char char 😣

ellatoone — less and I third wheeling

^ alessia — you’ll live tooney

^ graceclinton — double date?

^ user62 — Y/N AND GRACE CONFIRMED???????

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[holllandtrash]

say don't go | charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

based off of taylor swift's 'stay don't go' why'd you have to lead me on? why'd you have to twist the knife? walk away and leave me bleedin'

word count: 5.2k tags/warnings: slight angst, mentions of being disloyal, this is kinda sad, mention of smut i guess but blink and you miss it

You weren’t one to let your past haunt you. It was the past for a reason, it belonged behind you, all you could do was grow into a better version of yourself.

But what the hell were you supposed to do when Charles showed up at your door after six months of silence? 

It was a week into December and you were reluctantly putting up Christmas decorations because you were tired of the comments your friends made, telling you to get into the holiday spirit. Now you had the silver tinsel gripped in your hand as Charles stood on your front step, light flurries landing on his coat only to melt immediately after. 

It was the middle of the day and you lived in a crowded area, but passersby on the sidewalk and those driving past had no idea there was a Ferrari driver only metres away from them.

But no one would guess that Charles Leclerc would be travelling to Bristol during his holidays.

“What? Were you in the neighbourhood?” You asked, flicking the tinsel off of your hand and shaking off any remnants. You watched it fall to the floor before looking up, “Felt like stopping by?” 

“Can I come in?” Charles asked, glancing behind you. Was he looking to see if you had company? If you had moved on? Regardless of what, or who, he was looking for, his shoulders relaxed when he could tell you were alone. All that was behind you was cardboard boxes labelled Christmas. 

“Give me three good reasons why I shouldn't shut the door in your face,” your demand was laced with your usual sweet tone, the same one that always intimated Charles because he never knew what to make of it. Never once did you raise your voice, you never yelled, never showed signs of anger. Even when you were annoyed, you always sounded calm. 

He sucked in a breath, “Well, it’s cold out.” He chuckled, but when you didn’t see any humour in his words he just nodded and moved on. “I was, in fact, in the neighbourhood- well I was in London, just figured I’d make a quick trip out west.”

Those weren’t good enough reasons and he knew it. You moved to grab the door and Charles reacted by holding his hand out to stop it from shutting, eyes trained on yours. 

His cheeks were red, not accustomed to the British winters. He wasn’t wearing mitts and you could see how his hands had responded to the dry air by cracking at the knuckles. His lips trembled, not because he was nervous but because this was probably the coldest his body temperature had dropped to in a long time. 

Which had you questioning how long he had been standing outside your door before finally knocking.

“There’s some things I’ve been meaning to say for a while now,” Charles spoke softly and you could see his breath with each word. “And you don’t need to say anything, but I’d love it if you’d listen.”

Maybe you felt bad that he was cold. Maybe you were curious as to what he had to say to you after so long. Maybe part of you still missed him and if these were the last few minutes you’d get with him, you weren’t going to let them pass.

Whatever the reason, you held the door open and he stepped inside. You watched as he ran his fingers through his hair and slid his coat off, hanging it on the empty hook on the wall. Your eyes darted down to the shoes he wore and Charles recognized that look, knowing better than to walk any further with his shoes on. He smiled, sort of, remembering the first time you asked him to take his shoes off when he entered your apartment. 

If this was six months ago, you would have had slippers waiting for him to put on, but instead Charles was left to just his socks. You, though, seemed quite cozy. The matching sweats and jumper was only a shade darker than the slippers you wore and Charles almost asked where you purchased the set from, but he held his tongue because now wasn’t the time for casual conversation.

“Tea?” You offered, glancing at the kettle sitting on the stove. It had started whistling only minutes before he showed up but you hadn’t had a second to pour yourself a cup, too caught up in trying to untangle tinsel.

“Don’t want to put you out,” he shook his head, but when you manoeuvred past him to step into the kitchen, he didn’t stop you from grabbing two cups from the cupboard. He watched, standing at a cautious distance, as you made the two drinks the same way you always did. 

Charles was brought back to the time he walked into his own flat in Monaco and you were kneeling on the counter, trying to find a suitable cup because all of his mugs were too big and bulky for tea. He held his hand to your back, worried you’d tip backwards, which you didn’t, but you were happy he was there to help you off the counter and greet you with a kiss. 

“I’ll invest in new cups,” he said. He never did.

He didn’t like the silence that lingered between you now, probably the first time it ever bothered him, so he cleared his throat, “I like your new place.”

You nodded, “Thank you.”

He glanced around at the decor and spoke up again, “So you’ve been well?”

“You don’t need to pretend to care about how I've been.”

“I do care.”

The slow yet icy stare you gave him as you peered over your shoulder had Charles wondering if showing up here was a good idea. Instead of opening his mouth again, Charles looked at the decorations littered on the floor. 

He was drawn towards the open box of ornaments that was placed on the couch. He noticed the tree in the corner, but all you had put up so far was a string of lights. Curious, he looked closer into the box and smiled to himself when he saw a vintage Formula 1 Ferrari, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He also spotted a racing helmet, but couldn’t recognize the driver it belonged to.

It wouldn’t have shocked him if the rest of this box was F1 inspired Christmas ornaments. Either ones you had purchased yourself or ones that were given to you as gifts. 

Charles was always amazed at your knowledge of Formula 1. With your father being a retired driver himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised when you swept him under the rug during a trivia night. He admired your passion for the sport and maybe that’s why when he met you in the Ferrari garage, he wasn’t as quick to judge you like he was to everyone else who had purchased VIP passes for the weekend. 

You were there for the sport, for the racing, you didn’t care who was driving the car, it wasn’t like you had favorite drivers.

You were raised to appreciate the history of the sport, the roots, the beginnings. Because of that, you were drawn to the older teams, the classics. Williams, McLaren and against your fathers wishes, Ferrari. So of course you wanted to experience the Ferrari hospitality during a race weekend at least once. To see the cars up close, to be in the garage, to see the race from an entirely new perspective.

It was Australia, the third race of the 2023 season. It was a race that Charles tried hard to forget due to his DNF at the first turn, but there were highlights he cherished before the incident. 

He remembered standing in the garage before the first practice session and turning his head to flash a smile towards the VIP members standing at the back. He paid no attention to any of them in particular, but you stood out. The way you were so focused on the screen, taking in the Tech Talk segment that was playing on F1TV. You hadn’t even noticed Charles looking.

He saw you again the second day, closer to the front of the group before the start of FP3. You were wearing a white set, arms crossed over your chest with the headphones resting around your neck. You weren’t watching anything this time, instead you were in the middle of a conversation with a few of the mechanics. 

At first, Charles thought they were flirting with you. But when you pointed at the rear wing, lines drawn across your forehead and eyebrows pinched together in studious fashion, Charles got the hint that this wasn’t just a casual conversation. 

And then you held out your hand to introduce yourself, your once serious expression turning soft. You smiled at the mechanics as you shook both of their hands, seeming truly grateful to have met them. 

Naturally, Charles was curious as to what sort of conversation just took place. He waited a few minutes before asking Mark, the one of two mechanics who seemed to be doing most of the talking. 

“What was that about?” Charles asked.

Mark looked over his shoulder at you, but you were too engrossed in the screen again to notice the few sets on you.

“You don’t know who she is?” Mark asked. 

“Should I?” Charles glanced your way. This time, you caught it. 

You were also the first to look away.

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” Mark chuckled, probably in disbelief himself over who he just met. “She’s also got her masters in engineering. You know what she pointed out- the activation time for DRS is delayed compared to everyone else on the grid. I don’t know how she noticed it, but we’ll take a look at the data and if she’s onto something we’ll fix it before qualifying.”

Damon Hill’s daughter. The 1996 world champion. He had made a name for himself, known for being one of Schumacher's rivals during his prime. Charles knew he had kids, but didn’t know who they were. 

He wanted to introduce himself, but he waited till after qualifying. 

Was he a little taken aback when you seemed to be paying more attention to Carlos’ side of the garage at the end of the day? Maybe, but you had been watching him all weekend so far so he didn’t like the sudden change. 

His P7 starting position was nothing to be overly proud of, but the congratulations was the first thing out of your mouth when he approached you.

“Thank you,” he nodded, suddenly feeling a bit more pride now than five minutes ago. He glanced at the car and then back at you, at the VIP lanyard resting over your chest, at your eyes that momentarily had him forgetting why he walked over to you in the first place. 

You held your hand in the same polite manner you had with the mechanics and you introduced yourself as Charles shook it slowly. 

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” he stated. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You cocked your head slightly, “Is that a line?”

A blush crept up to his cheeks when he realised how flirtatious he sounded without trying to, “No- I mean,” he licked his lips. “I guess it could be but I wasn’t trying for that.”

“I only just graduated,” you answered his question, which wasn’t really a question. “Figured I’d watch a few races, check out a few teams before I decide if I want to dip my toe in the motorsports field.”

“Driver?” He asked, eyebrows raised even though Mark had told him what you studied. But you laughed and Charles was glad he brought up the idea of you getting behind the wheel. He could get used to your laugh. 

“Engineer,” you corrected. “To be honest, I think IndyCar might be more my thing. Plus I know Arrow McLaren is looking to expand, hire a few more performance engineers. Mind if I use you as a reference? I saw those mechanics working on your DRS set up, don’t let them take the credit for catching the activation error.”

It was his turn to laugh. He liked your humour, something else he could get used to.

“Mark mentioned you pointed it out,” Charles nodded, unable to keep from smiling. He liked the way you spoke. Not only did he find your accent endearing, but he liked how sure you were of yourself. You knew your talents, you knew what you were capable of. He admired it. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” you said, taking it upon yourself to end the conversation. You adjusted the purse over your shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “It was nice meeting you, Charles.”

And then you walked off, happily letting someone else from the team accompany you, probably an engineer. Probably someone who could match your expertise in a conversation.

Charles didn’t know when he’d see you again, but he took it upon himself to make sure it was sooner than later.

Following Australia, the drivers had a bit of a break. Almost an entire month.

It was only a few days into the break when he asked his manager to get Damon Hill’s contact information. 

Confused was an understatement when your dad called you and said ‘Tell me why I just got an unsolicited text from Charles Leclerc asking if he could have your phone number’. 

By the end of the week, Charles had flown you from Paris, where you resided at the time, to Nice. He was there at the airport to pick you up and drive you to Monaco. 

You spent that entirety of the break together. 

Charles was smitten. As were you. 

But you were cautious. 

You knew first hand that racing was at the top of his priority list. You weren’t about to get your hopes up and think that these few weeks meant anything. He just had time on his hands and you showed interest. 

However, it was hard not to fall for Charles. He treated you well when you were together. He was easy to talk to. He made you feel safe, admired, wanted. He asked all the questions he could think of to get to know you. He made you breakfast in the morning, or at least he tried to. The mornings when you woke up to the smell of burnt eggs were just as entertaining. Plus you figured you could get used to the way he wrapped his arm around your waist as you took over. The kisses he peppered on your shoulder that tempted you towards pulling him back to the bedroom.

By the time the season picked up again for round 4 in Baku, you were so used to being around him that you had to tell yourself not to be hurt that he didn't suggest you go with him.

You and Charles did a lot of things during those few weeks, but never once did you label what you were. That conversation never came up. Neither did the exclusivity talk.

He still called. He texted you daily. He treated you like you were special, but racing came before a relationship. Even your dad reminded you of that. He told you not to dwell on it, that Charles would come to his senses when he felt secure with the team, with the season. He didn’t need the support of a girlfriend, he needed the support of his team.

And then Charles informed you he was flying you out to Miami. He wanted you to watch the race again. He wanted you there. 

You didn’t accompany him to the track, but he greeted you with wide arms and the brightest grin when you showed up at the Ferrari garage. His hand stayed on your lower back for a bit as he showed you around, giving you a proper tour but when you came across Mark it was almost as if Charles passed you off. 

He said ‘Here, chat with Mark for a bit, I’m sure you’ve got some opinions about the car’ and then he walked away.

You tried not to think too much about it, maybe he had obligations, media, signings, something. He wouldn’t fly you out to Miami and abandon you the first chance he got. He was a driver, he had priorities. You weren’t one of them, not yet.

It was a difficult situation to be in. When Charles gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. But when he was gone, he was gone. Distant, on his phone, sometimes he quite literally disappeared like at the end of the day on Saturday and you were left in the Ferrari garage wondering where the hell he got off to. 

But then he knocked on your hotel room door at a little after 10 and who were you to turn him away? 

Charles pulled you towards the bed, dragging you with him as he laid on the mattress. He asked about your day between the kisses he left down your neck. You answered as best as you could, but when his hands found the button of your trousers, it became a little more difficult to collect your thoughts. 

When he gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. 

You had forgotten all about his disappearances earlier. They didn’t matter, he was here now. His lips trailing every inch of your skin as your back curved off the bed. You tried to remind him that he had a race tomorrow, that you both could just go to sleep if he wanted but Charles only smirked and raised his face back to yours.

He hovered his lips above yours, teasing you with a ghost of a kiss, “Ma chérie, I’m not going to sleep until I hear you scream my name.”

He kissed the corner of your lips and then trailed down towards your ear, adding a quiet, “At least twice,” to the end of the original statement. 

And Charles was true to his word. He had you seeing stars with just his tongue alone in a matter of minutes. 

Charles worshipped you, he took care of you. In a short period of time, he came to know your body and how to get the reactions he desired. He loved seeing you come undone, loving being the one to bring you to the edge and watch you spill over. 

Maybe it was a pride he was chasing, but you wouldn’t think of that possibility until it was too late.

When he climbed under the covers next to you at the end of the night, you could still make out the shape of his body, his gentle features, even in the dark. Your hand found his chest, sliding upwards until it wrapped around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him.

He traced his fingers over your cheek, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as he whispered, “Comment ai-je eu cette chance?” How did I get so lucky? 

That did it for you.

You weren’t just smitten anymore. You were in love. 

Another impromptu break after Miami meant you had a few more weeks with Charles before he had to give his attention back to racing. You didn’t spend it all in Monaco this time. After about a week, Charles suggested the two of you go back to your home. Back to Paris.

Paris with him was heavenly. 

The rest of the world didn’t matter when it was just the two of you together. Your days were spent taking in the city, your evenings were spent in a variety of restaurants, lounges, anywhere he could spoil you, it seemed. 

It was nearing your last few days before he had to leave when he suggested you take a midnight stroll. The weather was perfect, the streets wouldn’t be too busy. You had no reason to say no. 

And there was something about walking the streets of Paris with Charles at night, holding his hand while he spun you under his arm beneath the glow of a street lamp. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling in the distance. Charles’ eyes lit up brighter than it. 

There was something about him. About this moment. About the last few months. All of it led up to standing here with him now.

And you knew better, but that didn’t stop you.

“I love you.”

And just like that, you faded into madness. Slowly, silently, but it was inevitable. 

Charles didn’t say anything. His lips parted like he wanted to, like he thought about it, only to ultimately lick his lips and inhale a sharp breath. 

By saying I love you, you plunged a knife into your own chest, opening yourself up to vulnerability, but his silence only twisted it in deeper. 

You backed up, hand dropping from his. Was that his doing or yours? He whispered your name, but only out of pity. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love you. 

Suddenly Paris didn’t seem so heavenly.

Charles left that night. Maybe he thought you were asleep, but you heard the door swing on its hinges. You heard the wheels of his suitcase being dragged out into the hallway. You turned over in bed, despite knowing you’d find his side empty, but you didn’t think it would turn cold so fast. 

A few days later, Charles was spotted walking into the paddock of the Monaco Grand Prix, but he wasn’t alone.

Next to him, the stunning Alexandra Saint Mleux. Even her name was beautiful.

You had heard whispers that Charles and her had a history, but you didn’t think anything of it. Why would you worry yourself with speculation when he was putting you on a pedestal when you were together? 

He had a way of making you feel wanted, but you weren’t the only one who felt that way.

Did she know you two were together? That he was with you in Paris? Was he seeing both of you or did he run back to her the second you told him something he wasn’t ready to hear?

You tried to move on, really. There was no relationship for you to cling to, Charles never said you were exclusive. He just knew the right words to say to make you feel like you were. 

You flew to Indianapolis for the Indy500. A rash decision, but the further away from Monaco the better. Your connections at Arrow McLaren gave you the chance to get a closer look at the inner workings of the team, had you momentarily forgetting about Charles. You wanted to be an engineer, not the girlfriend of a driver. You told yourself to get it together.

But then you returned home and seeing the slippers you had bought for Charles had you wondering why you couldn’t be both. You would have been both if he just said something, if he just told you he loved you. 

You should have distanced yourself from Formula 1, at least for a little while. You should have turned down the invitation from a partnering brand of Ferrari, enticing you to come to Spain for the race. You should have flown back to the states, reconnect with Arrow McLaren.

Instead you found yourself in Barcelona. The entire time you were there you knew it was a mistake and if you couldn’t figure that out on your own, seeing Alexandra chat with some Ferrari team members below while you sat up above in the hospitality was a painful reminder. 

Part of you considered talking to her. You wanted to know if she was in the same boat you were- and if she was clueless, maybe give her a heads up that Charles was going to say sweet nothings to her at night only to leave her in the dark. 

But Alexandra wasn’t the one you needed to talk to.

Between practice and qualifying on Saturday, you made your way to the paddock knowing that’s where Charles would be. You walked past Alexandra chatting to someone a few motorhomes down, so you felt better knowing she wasn’t currently with him.

Luck would have it, you ran into Mark outside of Ferrari. He invited you in of course, always happy to chat about the sport with someone who appreciated it on the same level and you assured him you would, you just had to talk to Charles first.

You knocked on the door of his driver's room, not even sure what you were going to say. You were hurt, you were saddened, you were angry but you hadn't had time to think about what you would say to him when you were finally face to face again.

The door swung open and there he was. Shocked to see you, first of all, but not upset. You stood in the hallway and watched as Charles took a breath of relief, a sliver of a smile creeping up on his lips as he held the door open for you to walk in.

Your heart jolted at the idea that maybe, he still wanted you. The look he gave you was almost enough for you to forget he hadn’t said a word to you since you told him you loved him. 

Almost. 

You stepped in and leaned against the door after it shut, keeping a safe distance as he stood back against the massage table. 

Your lips parted, but before you could get a word out, his phone started to ring. You both glanced at the contact, at who was trying to get a hold of him.

Alexandra.

You swallowed, waiting until he let it go to voicemail before your timid voice filled the room. “You love her?”

Maybe Charles didn’t know how to love anyone. You’d believe it, with the way he tensed the second the word passed through your lips. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.

“I can’t commit, Y/N.” He tried to say, like that made up for everything. Like that’s the answer you were looking for. 

“No, you can, Charles, but not to me.” You stated, keeping your voice calm. You weren’t one to yell. Causing a scene wasn’t your thing. You were always so soft spoken. Soft spoken, but straight to the facts. “Were you seeing both of us at the same time?”

“She knows, if that's what you're wondering." Charles quickly slid that piece of information in there. “She found out- about us. Threatened to leave me if-”

“If you didn’t choose?” You raised your eyebrows. Once again, his silence spoke volume. “So did you make up your mind before or after Paris?”

Charles averted his gaze for a second, “I realised in Paris I couldn’t love you the way you loved me.”

“You probably realised that a lot earlier,” you pointed out.

Charles must have known you adored him. There was no way he didn’t see the way you looked at him, the way you worshipped him. He knew and still strung you along, making you think he could love you back if you were just patient.

“You didn’t need to lead me on as long as you did, Charles.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

I didn’t want to lose you, he says. Bringing light to the fact that he had you. You were his, in a sense. Despite never saying the words out loud. 

But he was never yours.

“So I was there, for what?” You asked. “As a backup? In case things with Alexandra didn’t work out?”

Charles was intimated by how calm you were. He would have preferred if you yelled at him, if you fought with him. It would make it easier on both ends to put whatever this relationship was to rest. Instead, you were serene. You came here to talk, to get answers, you didn’t come here to form a divide. 

Because if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t ready to let go. How could you let go when you hadn’t spoken? He hadn’t given you closure, he didn’t say I don’t love you he just…didn’t say anything. 

You weren’t going to beg for him to come back, but in the far corners of your mind you were hoping that your appearance here would make him question his decision. You were banking on the idea that when he saw you, he’d remember what he saw in the first place when you met in Australia. 

If he changed his mind right now, you’d put all of this behind you. You’d stay at his side, you’d be there for him, you’d be his for real this time.

If he, once again, said nothing, you’d go. You’d go and you’d stay gone.

“I loved you,” you whispered. The past tense striking Charles more than he thought it would, but he didn’t show it. Loved. You loved him, and you still could. 

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Almost two and the only thing that lingered between you was silence. Heavy, loud, painful silence. 

You grabbed the handle of the door and decided enough time had gone on. You deserved better than this, than a man who couldn’t make a decision, than someone who played with your feelings because they couldn’t figure out their own. 

The second you pulled the door back, your name fell from Charles’ lips. You were one step into the hall, halfway to gone, and he stopped you. 

All he had to do was say don’t go. All he had to do was tell you he wanted you. 

With your back still to the Ferrari driver, you waited for those next words but they never came. You knew they wouldn’t. 

That was the last time you spoke to Charles. You knew how to stay true to your word too. 

So why was he suddenly here, six months later, sitting on your couch and looking at you like he was waiting for you to say something first when you made it clear a long time ago if you were gone, you were gone.

Charles only took a sip of his tea before putting it on the coffee table. He then moved the box of Christmas ornaments, not liking the divide it put between you as if he wasn't the one to create the wedge in the first place. 

You were stupid, to speak first, but you were tired of the silence. He came here for a reason and if he wasn’t going to tell you why in the next two minutes, you were going to send him back out into the snow.

“How’s Alexandra?” You asked, not that you were interested in knowing if he was happy or thriving in his relationship. You were, however, impressed to see that he could in fact commit, but you were right about that. He just didn’t want to commit to you. 

“Do you care?” He asked in return. 

You shook your head slightly, “I do not.”

Charles smiled at your honesty. Your gentle tone didn’t match the brutal truth.

“So let’s not talk about her,” Charles said and you nodded in agreement. He shifted in his spot, glancing at the decorations, the tea, really anything but you. 

And you weren’t about to wait again, not if this was going to lead to the one thing your silence always led to. 

You sucked in a breath, “Charles if you don’t tell me why you’re here…”

He nodded, knowing that this was all on him. He was lucky enough to even be allowed into your home, and he knew you were slowly regretting that decision the longer he just didn’t get to the point. 

Charles lifted his head, eyes finally meeting yours. He even flinched, like he was trying to reach for your hand only to decide against it at the last second, relying on just his words for a change.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

Part 2 - now that we don’t talk

[sillywizardman]

HI!!! After finishing Disco Elysium I wanted to read Sacred and Terrible Air, but there were two issues:

1. It’s not officially released in English

2. I don’t like staring at pdfs!

So I did what any sane person would do. That is take three days of my life printing and binding it.

TRANSLATION (“thank you Group Ibex” we all say in unison!):

PROCESS PICS:

I apologize in advance for anyone who has experience in this sort of thing this is so botched.

I have NEVER done anything like this before, I don’t even read books on my own volition, but if the Disco fixation wants me to learn how to sew and bookbind I’ll do that.

Four of the signatures above. There were nine total, eight of them with 8 sheets/32 pages and the last was five sheets I think. Threw the pdf into adobe acrobat and went straight to printing with those settings and the “booklet” option enabled.

Pricked holes through each signature! Used thumbtacks and a piece of foam I scavenged from my room, worked out great. It’s probably also worth mentioning I do not have a bone folder, book press, or any of the other fancy schmancy bookbinding tools. Flattened the pages with a pencil and pressed with D&D books…

SEWING TIME. I have never sewn in my life. My success in this regard can be majorly attributed to Sea Lemon on youtube, particularly this tutorial:

The process from printing to finishing sewing the signatures took ~8 hours. Now we hit our first roadblock, I had no glue for the spine! After going to sleep and waiting what felt like ages (literally 10 hours or so) before I was free to visit a craft store, I tried to find PVA glue because that’s what you’re supposed to use I think?? Yeah. They were out of PVA glue and my impatient ass got mod podge.

‘Tis glued! As you can see I added cardstock to the ends. Joyous day.

Also, you see that sketchbook in the pic? Yeah? You see that lovely cardboard?

It is now the cover. Rest in piss bristol sketchpad backing.

———

EDIT: I see a bunch of people want to attempt this so here’s a video on how to make the hardcover: https://youtu.be/Av_rU-yOPd4?si=7T5zgVJGAfPFBxn-

I didn’t use any measurements or advice from it but it’s a good reference for when it comes to assembling the cover from ~3:50 onwards. The boards are same size as your text block pages and spine, I think I made the cover width a bit longer just in case it doesn’t cover the text block though. Do not do this with the spine, I regret it.

And note, this is NOT a tutorial, it is the process of someone who got a bit too silly and decided to bind a book, obviously do your own research lol. Don’t be afraid to try it though, it’s surprisingly simple!

———

… So, now that’s done! I swore to myself I wouldn’t start reading SATA/PJÕL until I finished this project completely, meaning I’ll be doing that now yippee :]

[transmutationisms]

in addition to being prone to an obvious naturalistic fallacy, the oft-repeated claim that various supplements / herbs / botanicals are being somehow suppressed by pharmaceutical interests seeking to protect their own profits ('they would rather sell you a pill') belies a clear misunderstanding of the relationship between 'industrial' pharmacology and plant matter. bioprospecting, the search for plants and molecular components of plants that can be developed into commercial products, has been one of the economic motivations and rationalisations for european colonialism and imperialism since the so-called 'age of exploration'. state-funded bioprospectors specifically sought 'exotic' plants that could be imported to europe and sold as food or materia medica—often both, as in the cases of coffee or chocolate—or, even better, cultivated in 'economic' botanical gardens attached to universities, medical schools, or royal palaces and scientific institutions.

this fundamental attitude toward the knowledge systems and medical practices of colonised people—the position, characterising eg much 'ethnobotany', that such knowledge is a resource for imperialist powers and pharmaceutical manufacturers to mine and profit from—is not some kind of bygone historical relic. for example, since the 1880s companies including pfizer, bristol-myers squibb, and unilever have sought to create pharmaceuticals from african medicinal plants, such as strophanthus, cryptolepis, and grains of paradise. in india, state-created databases of valuable 'traditional' medicines have appeared partly in response to a revival of bioprospecting since the 1980s, in an increasingly bureaucratised form characterised by profit-sharing agreements between scientists and local communities that has nonetheless been referred to as "biocapitalism". a 1990 paper published in the proceedings of the novartis foundation symposium (then the ciba foundation symposium) spelled out this form of epistemic colonialism quite bluntly:

Ethnobotany, ethnomedicine, folk medicine and traditional medicine can provide information that is useful as a 'pre-screen' to select plants for experimental pharmacological studies.

there is no inherent oppositional relationship between pharmaceutical industry and 'natural' or plant-based cures. there are of course plenty of examples of bioprospecting that failed to translate into consumer markets: ginseng, introduced to europe in the 17th century through the mercantile system and the east india company, found only limited success in european pharmacology. and there are cases in which knowledge with potential market value has actually been suppressed for other reasons: the peacock flower, used as an abortifacient in the west indies, was 'discovered' by colonial bioprospectors in the 18th century; the plant itself moved easily to europe, but knowledge of its use in reproductive medicine became the subject of a "culturally cultivated ignorance," resulting from a combination of funding priorities, national policies, colonial trade patterns, gender politics, and the functioning of scientific institutions. this form of knowledge suppression was never the result of a conflict wherein bioprospectors or pharmacists viewed the peacock flower as a threat to their own profits; on the contrary, they essentially sacrificed potential financial benefits as a result of the political and social factors that made abortifacient knowledge 'unknowable' in certain state and commercial contexts.

exploitation of plant matter in pharmacology is not a frictionless or infallible process. but the sort of conspiratorial thinking that attempts to position plant therapeutics and 'big pharma' as oppositional or competitive forces is an ahistorical and opportunistic example of appealing to nominally anti-capitalist rhetoric without any deeper understanding of the actual mechanisms of capitalism and colonialism at play. this is of course true whether or not the person making such claims has any personal financial stake in them, though it is of course also true that, often, they do hold such stakes.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Question?

We talk about how Tim, Jason and Damian’s parents raised them pre Bruce but why don’t we talk about Dick Graysons.

Bc even before all of the court of the owls shit the way that man was raised was wild.

So remember Dick was a member and active participant of a circus as a child. A trapeze act without a net who was expected to pull his weight since he could walk.

That means that despite what everyone thinks John and Mary Grayson absolutely could not afford to gentle parent their child.

At all.

Dick had to know how dangerous his life was forever. He has to be perfect because if he fails him or his parents die. They die with a mistake. Don’t stretch your hand out far enough and someone falls.

And despite the fact that the Romani aspect of his character was born out of a writers need for fetish content. I still find it interesting to explore.

And since I am European! Halys circus truther

It gets more interesting because the anti-Romani sentiment in Europe is vile, obvious and violent. (And I say this as a poc who grew up outside of Europe and moved here for college. Like you’d never imagine the type of shit they say about a group of people with no shame before turning around and commenting about how crazy it is that poc are treated poorly in the rest of the world.) Now imagine your child is working a dangerous gig while being part of a hated minority and you have to go and advertise your whole families location because you are the centerpiece of a show.

Yall think Mary and John Grayson didn’t teach their kid to lie? To fit in with any group humanly possible.

You think Mary and John didn’t teach dick to switch from, mama to mom to Daj. To switch accents and tones and languages since before he could walk on his hands?

You think that this kid who grew up traveling everywhere wouldn’t know how to integrate himself so fully into the society he’s in that he’s invisible as an outsider?

When Dick talks to Bruce in Juvie right before hes taken in as a ward he has an American accent. A Gotham accent and not the ones the other kids has no Dick has a Bristol accent. When he first meets Alfred he has a charming softly British accent, the kind that isn’t immediately noticeable unless you share the accent. The softening of the vowels and heavy central consonants. Think kids who went to British schools abroad and learned English from people with British accents.

Bruce notices this but doesn’t think much of it I mean kids can adapt to their environments startlingly quick maybe the kid just kinda picks up accents.

But then Dick becomes robin and he’s horrifically good at it from the get go.

Which sends alarm bells in Alfred’s head because he raised Bruce at that age. He taught Bruce to defend himself at that age. Bruce wouldn’t be about to do 1/10 of what this kid can do.

No eight year old should be able to throw items with that sort of precision even a child as good at gymnastics as dick. No child should be that comfortable with a knife in his hand.

And of course dick always had an excuse, he grew up around fire breathers and knife throwers of course he’s good.

And Bruce notices when Dick goes out as Robin and begins to help people because for the first few months, he never speaks first.

He’ll save someone and when they thank him, he’ll reply in their exact accent.

The crime alley rougher tones

The high class smarmy Bristol accent

The open vowel Jersey accent

When he meets Superman there’s the barest edges of midwestern twang in his every word.

And it’s just unnerving

He flickers between cultures like their clothes in his wardrobe, accents like they’re a new set of perfectly fit shoes.

He’s just good at it.

And it’s a game to him.

He sees how close he can get to your accent without coming off as suspicious.

By the time he’s being doing the Robin shtick for a while and knows the areas he just immediately switches to the most common accent there even if there aren’t any people around.

His facial expressions and hand gestures change as well.

It adds to the myth of the Batman because the gcpd for a long while believes any Robin reportings to be a myth because one minute someone is reporting a Jersey accent the next genial Californian, or a tv safe reporter tone, one minute the kid is conversing in perfect Russian the next he’s speaking Spanish like he grew up in Mexico.

When he wants to get away with a mistake his voice switches to one indistinguishable from a scared child, with a mild stutter, overgramarization and the scared world slurring children do that makes your heart soft

When he wants people to listen to him his he’s eloquent and enunciating perfectly. He sounds far older than his years.

And everyone thinks they’re hearing the real Dick Grayson speak and it makes their hearts happy because look at how he puts on a show for everyone but trusts me enough to talk without lying.

Without ever realizing that they’re one of the people watching the show.

[captain-ross-poldark]

Red Magazine October 2024

I here’s a moment in Rivals, the new television adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s bestselling novel, when Aidan Turner’s character recites WB Yeats’ famous poem When You Are Old. It’s a moment of peak Irishness, and, for Turner, who has long cherished a yearning to play a literary Irish character, the scene was joyous. ‘I loved it!’ he exclaims over Zoom, grin wide across his face. ‘I think I was enjoying it way too much. I could smell the classroom again when I started reading that. I was going, “Oh, my god, I remember all of these poems!”’

Turner is trying hard right now not to use the word ‘fun’ when describing Rivals, but he tells me that it’s proving rather impossible. ‘It was the most fun I think I’ve ever had on a production,’ he declares. Watching the show, I can’t say that I doubt him for a second. Set in the fictional upper-class county of Rutshire, Disney’s raunchy new series delves into the cut-throat world of independent television in 1986, in which a long-simmering rivalry between Lord Tony Baddingham (David Tennant), controller of Corinium Television, and notorious womaniser Rupert Campbell-Black (Alex Hassell) is threatening to boil over. Against a backdrop of sex, scandals and scheming, Irishman Declan O’Hara (Turner), a talented talkshow star who is wooed to the countryside to join Corinium, vows to get his revenge.

‘I THINK WORKING ON RIVALS WAS THE MOST FUN I’VE EVER HAD ON A PRODUCTION’ 

‘It happens once in a while when all the stars align,’ enthuses Turner, ‘and you get a bunch of really great actors who want to work with each other, want to work on this material and who want to be in this particular place at this particular time.’ Reading the script, he could immediately understand O’Hara’s sense of alienation as he steps into a quintessentially British world obsessed with class. ‘Because I’m Irish, I didn’t have to try too hard to put those glasses on,’ he explains. ‘It seems to me very much like he is the outsider. He doesn't really like the people or what they’re trying to achieve. He sort of has a bohemian sensibility. He’s a literate person, a more serious person. He’s a journalist. He likes things black and white, straight and clear, and this world I think he finds a bit gross.’

As you’d expect from a Jilly Cooper adaptation, Rivals is a rollickingly entertaining romp, full to the brim with helicopters, horse riding, lavish parties and romantic entanglements. But the show has political shades, too, examining questions of race, gender, class and sexual liberation through a 2020s lens. ‘I think it feels really truthful and honest,’ Turner says with sincerity. ‘I think we’re showing a world that, I think in some ways, still does exist, but very much existed in a different way back then. And I think we show it in a kind of no-frills approach to it.’ With the exception of high-powered executive Cameron Cook (Nafessa Williams), Turner notes that the majority of the women in the show don’t hold positions of power. ‘We show the hypocrisy and the bigotry in that,’ he adds passionately. ‘It’s not just like, “Here’s what it was like, let’s move on,” you know? It’s not just a museum piece. I think we’re showing how wrong that was, how difficult that was, and I think how we’ve made improvements in the years gone by.’

He suspects that some viewers won’t expect that commentary from a show like Rivals. ‘They may think it’s fluffy, or it’s just a comedy,’ he says. ‘I mean, it’s very much not. I don’t think you get the calibre of actors involved in the show if it was just that, either.’ The cast became like a family unit, he says, and for actors of a similar age to himself, some of whom are parents, filming the show in the Cotswolds offered a unique opportunity to bond. ‘You know, we’re getting out of London for a week or two, and we’re getting to hang out in Bristol and have cocktails at night and talk about the show and do all these things,’ he explains. ‘We quickly realised that this is quite special, and we’re going to lean right into it.’ Did that involve getting into the party spirit, I ask? ‘I don’t want to start getting in trouble,’ he chuckles. ‘But there was a sprinkle of hedonism over the production, for sure. It makes the show better.’

If Rivals offered Turner a little escapism, it’s also further proof that as an actor, he can’t be neatly categorised. Since galloping onto our screens as the swashbuckling, scythe-swinging protagonist in Poldark, he’s resisted being pigeonholed as a romantic lead, winning plaudits playing a top coach accused of abuse in tennis drama Fifteen-Love, and a chilling clinical psychologist in crime thriller The Suspect. ‘It was nice to do a couple of shows that were in contemporary worlds, you know, wearing suits and jeans and shoes and carrying iPhones,’ he says modestly. ‘And not riding around in horses and carriages, or in a world of goblins and orcs or whatever. So yeah, it’s good to mix it up, but you never know what’s around the corner.’

Let it be known, though, that if the occasion calls for Turner to jump on a horse, he’s more than up to the task. As well as riding, he boasts an impressive range of talents, including being a champion ballroom dancer. What skills did he learn on the set of Rivals? ‘I can drink whiskey like nobody’s business,’ he laughs. That, and drive O’Hara’s yellow Mini. ‘That Mini was almost impossible to drive, and I’m pretty good at it now.’ He did also grow a statement moustache. ‘For the first time in my life as an actor, I felt a little bit sad to get rid of it,’ he says ruefully. ‘I had it for so long. We’ll see if it comes back’. 

He’s excited for Rivals to make its way out into the world. ‘We’re all just really happy and proud, he says. ‘You know, it’s the show that we set out to make, which is also a rare thing.’ That said, he’s not in a rush to find his next project. ‘Sometimes you also just need to step back for a while and not work all the time, and wait for the good thing to come along,’ he muses. ‘I’m a better person when I do the work that I really want to do.’ When we speak, he’s in Canada with his wife, Succession star Caitlin FitzGerald, who is filming, and his two-year-old son. They navigate who takes on the next project, he explains, by having an open dialogue. ‘I mean, our lives have changed a lot and not a lot at the same time, if you know what I mean. We’re still both working. We’re still both lucky that way. We can keep working and keep our family life together, and everything is just great and happy.’

‘I LOVE BEING AN ACTOR, BUT I THINK THERE’S ALSO SOME OTHER HATS THAT I CAN PUT ON’ 

Turner’s not at liberty to discuss his next project, but he’s very excited for it. ‘It’s a very different type of show than anything I’ve done before,’ he smiles. In the future, he envisages working more with friends and hopes to turn his hand to producing. ‘I love being an actor. But I think there’s also some other hats I can put on that I can be equally as good at, if not better.’ In the meantime, he says, his roles are only getting more interesting. ‘It’s the best thing!’ he exclaims. ‘I mean, I sort of knew it was gonna happen.’ With the benefit of life experience, he explains, his characters are naturally getting more layered. ‘I think that matters you know? I want to listen to a 41-year-old man, over a 21-year-old man. I just do,’ he says emphatically. ‘For me, that’s more interesting.’ 

Twenty years after breaking into the industry, he’s lost the ‘cacophony of nerves’ that came with trying to impress as a young actor. ‘I’ve learned that it’s okay to find the thing, or to not know the thing, to get on set and go, “Okay, I have no idea how we’re going to do this.”’ It’s been freeing, he says, learning to let go. ‘Now it’s fun and creative and it feels more relaxed, and then the work is better through all that, too. So I guess if I could say something to the younger actor, it would just be, breathe. Everything’s gonna be fine. You know the lines, you know the work. Just get in there and have fun. And don’t worry so much about the work itself. The work will happen. Just let you happen first.’ 

Rivals is streaming on Disney+ this autumn 

[sgiandubh]

Just one more question then. T was already a partner/director in two of C's companies, three if you count the Irish one. This movement for the others happened immediately after the end, for good, of the OL recordings. Of course, there are still publicity commitments, but why choose this moment to bring him on board? In fact, two questions then: Is Cait part of any of T's other companies? I imagine that some are still functional, since he keeps them active. Thank you for your time

Dear Two Questions Anon,

Before anything else: there is not one, but two Irish companies. I am formal on this point and I have discussed it before. Well, sort of -lest you would think I am foolish enough to favor cheap bravery and take inconsiderate risks. I don't know if you already figured it out, I am always waiting for the shite to hit the fan across the street: these people are very predictable and it never disappoints, because even if they do have the paperwork (no NASA secrets, either), they have no clue about the proper way to understand and interpret what they read and always get in a vortex of sorts. It is not this blogger's editorial choice to bring these topics forth.

Your first question is a resounding and very rhetorical why. Your guess is as good as mine, Anon and I really do believe it would be wiser not to push your luck. While I do have a point, I feel you are clever enough to think by yourself, too.

Regarding the second question, as per the Companies' House available public documents, there is one Anthony Gerard McGill and one Anthony McGill. Both are, in fact, the same person. I am mercifully not going to discuss Gerard's string of failed entrepreneurial adventures.

The First Siamese Twin, Anthony Gerard McGill currently holds 5 different company officer appointments. If you take away the three companies that are owned in reality by Mrs. CMB only (see my recent posts on the Persons with Significant Control in a company), you will find two more companies. Both are breathing clones of the Business Ghosts of Christmases Past:

Who runs the shop?

Ma:

'Imself:

Da:

Bro (🦷):

Most importantly, perhaps: who really owns the shop?

Surprise 😮?

Family business. I see no trace of C, here. Which really, is perhaps wiser: the Firm is not exactly doing great.

Fair enough. Onwards to...

'Confirmation statement overdue'...oh, the nostalgia...

Who runs the shop (oh, well - 'runs')?

Ma & 'Imself only:

Where on Earth is Caitriona Sandiego? Well, apparently not in Bristol.

Who owns the shop?

'Imself:

Again, nothing to write home about:

The Second Siamese Twin, Anthony McGill is perhaps less active: only one appointment.

Who runs the shop?

Again, Ma and 'Imself:

Who owns the shop?

No C here, either. Not even remotely. That being said, the bulk of his visible, traceable funds is placed here:

Therefore, the answer to your second question is no. Make of it what you wish, Anon. Thank you for your patience and civility.

[yodeler12]

Tim Joins the Batfamily Early Prompt:

Gotham County office of Child Permanency and Placement:

Two exhausted workers trolled through their very tall stack of their many cases, and their extremely short stack of available foster homes. As they sorted through the backlog, the office clerk came in and dropped another file on the desk.

"Got another one for you Montero, Whit. Exotic location this time, Bristol Heights."

"Bristol, we haven't had a case from Bristol for two years. The richies either don't hurt their kids or they hide it real well" griped Montero.

Whit opened the file, "Hey Monty, you know the Drakes, from the society pages you're always reading."

"Those wannabe Indiana Jones yuppies? Yeah, what about 'em?"

"They got arrested abroad, Kasnia it says, stealing cultural artifacts."

"HA! Couldn't have happened to a nicer pair of snobs. What's with the report?"

"They've got a seven year old, boy, nanny turned in the report, says the authorities froze the Drakes' assets, she hasn't been paid so she left the kid at Bristol PD."

"So let's add the kid to the placement pile, the Richie Rich kid can deal with foster care I'm sure."

"No dice, the Bristol PD file has an addendum from Gotham PD, says the Drakes got financing for their dig from Sal Maroni, and if their assets are frozen..."

"He might go after the kid, fan-freakin-tastic. Should we give him to GCPD to put in a safehouse or sumthin?"

"Nah, let's pass his case over to Santos, she did the Todd kid's adoption by Wayne, and he is an emergency placement option. He's got great security, we'll see if we can get the kid there. At least there he'll be safe from the Maronis and from foster parents who want his money."

And so it was that Tim Drake, utterly obsessed with following Batman and Robin around Gotham City but not yet aware of their identities was placed in Wayne Manor and the awkward dance of keeping their nightlifes secret while trying to keep him from sneaking out into danger began.

[its-all-papaya]

For the landoscar word prompt: homesick

okay i'm sorry this one took 55 minutes and still like. doesn't rlly end. idk, i couldn't work it out, have some melancholy rambling ig....

It's snowed every winter Lando's been at university, and this is his fourth, so he really should be used to it. It's just. He'd had an exam in the morning that he'd spent all night cramming for, and it hadn't been snowing on his walk back. It had been cold - enough that he'd tugged on a hoodie before crawling back under his covers - but it hadn't been snowing when he'd set his alarm and started his nap.

It's snowing when he wakes up, though. Maybe there's something about opening his eyes and turning his face out from the pillow and seeing it first that way. The sun's about to set; maybe it's the way it glows in the last afternoon light. Whatever it is crawls under his ribs and sits there like a pill he's swallowed the wrong direction, aching every time he swallows and breathes. He's not even fully awake. The memories are half dream when he blinks out the window and sees the ghosts of his little sisters in puffy jackets and his mum calling them back to tug hats on each of them so their ears won't go too pink.

It doesn't even snow much in Bristol. It snows much more here.

The washer is running when Lando pads out into the living room and he hadn't started it himself, which means Oscar is home from his afternoon class. His bedroom door is closed, and Lando really shouldn't bother him, but his stomach is heavy like lead and it feels out-of-sorts in a way that only his mum's tea would fix. He's afraid if he crawls back into bed he might do something silly like cry about it, because it's past ten at home and his parents will be asleep and he's not even sure calling would fix it anyway.

"You can come in," Oscar calls when Lando finally does knock.

He's sat propped against his pillows in bed, paperback folded open on his knee and blinds drawn shut. Lando's fairly sure his lit class is the one Oscar's just come from, but it would be like him to do the homework immediately after.

"You okay?"

Lando realizes a minute late that he's just been standing. Just staring. He swallows around the oblong feeling and pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands so Oscar won't see him worrying them.

"Yeah," he answers eventually, "Just. It's snowing."

Oscar smiles, says, "Is it?"

He can't reach the window from his bed, so Lando crosses the room for him and pulls the curtains back so he can see - so they both can.

It's snowed every winter they've been in university, and this is Oscar's fourth. He really should be used to it, but his smile is just as awed as Lando still remembers it being freshman year, when they were crowded together around their shared bedroom window, tucked in together over the weekend holiday all of their classmates had gone home for.

"Perfect reading weather, then," Oscar says, settling back against his pillows.

Lando should go. He should nurse the weird, sad feeling with a hot shower, or something, and not by bothering his roommate-and-something-more-too when he's trying to study.

"Can I sit with you?" he says instead.

Oscar smiles. His, "of course," comes out like there weren't even other answers he'd considered.

He's warm when Lando curls up at his side. He's still got the book propped open against his knee and he goes easily when Lando nudges up under his arm and props his cheek against the ball of Oscar's shoulder.

"What's your book about?" Lando asks.

"Um," Oscar lifts it to show Lando the cover like that'll help, that plonks it back down like he's realized it won't. "This orphan girl, bit of an outcast. It's like a coming-of-age thing, I think, I'm not too far into it."

His fingers trace absently along the strip of skin where Lando's hoodie has ridden up at his waist, and it makes Lando shiver.

"Will you read it to me?"

"Yeah. You might be a bit lost, though," Oscar thumbs through the pages he's already been through like an explanation.

Lando doesn't say he'd probably be lost even if he'd read those, too. That it's not about the story, really. He thinks Oscar probably knows.

"S'okay," he says.

"Okay." Oscar turns his head enough that his lips brush Lando's forehead. Lando can't tell if it's on purpose.

Oscar's got a nice voice. Lando thinks he could probably fall asleep to it, and he wonders if he'd wake up without the knot in his chest, whether the bittersweet fog over his thoughts would have lifted. Maybe the snow would have stopped by then, even, maybe it'd all be melted.

Lando yawns into Oscar's chest as he flips a page, and Oscar pauses for a second to turn his head again. This time, his lips press more firmly at outside corner of Lando's eye, where he knows he's still got a pillow crease working its way out after his nap.

"Snowy weather is a bit sleepy, innit?" Oscar says, softer than the tone he'd been using to read with, "Peaceful and stuff."

Lando looks back out the window, where it's gotten heavier - big, wet flakes that stick to the glass and leave trails when they slide slowly down towards the frame.

"I think I'll miss it if I move back home after graduation," Oscar continues, voice sounding a bit like Lando's insides feel. Lando doesn't want to think about it.

Oscar goes back to the book. His hand is warm on Lando's hip, voice warm in Lando's ears, and Lando wonders if someday, down the road, Oscar will wake up to snow showers and think of this moment.

from here

[erinwantstowrite]

Okok fr questions because I’m obsessed with Tim figure skater AU

Because the bats aren’t aware of tim being the one behind his vigilante mask, how are his relationships with them out of the suits? Do they interact often or on spare few occasions? (I see the happy birthday Bruce message and think they don’t talk *too* often? idk)

ALSO JANET AND TIMS SIGNATURES… them being so similar has me rocking back and forth crying (interpret as you will)

AHHHHH I LOVE FIGURE SKATING TIM AUUUUUU

be prepared i am about to YAP cause i love this au sm and now i gotta talk about it LFMAO

So far, the backstory is that Jay ended up not dying and was just extremely injured after the Joker incident. When he got back on his feet again, he joined a hockey team to make more friends outside of the hero community. Cass wanted to try figure skating and they start going to a rink in Gotham, and that's where they met Steph, who is "not" a vigilante. (She is, but more on that in a sec.)

While there, they start to hear more about "Tim" who comes by sometimes and is Steph's friend (they met when they were much younger and they are besties), and they end up connecting that the Tim they're talking about is "that famous figure skater from Bristol" that's always in the news. Cassie is a huge fan of Tim's, and she freaks out when she hears from Jason and Cass that this rink is one that Tim frequents. That's why she ends up dragging Bart and Kon to the rink to see Jason's practices or to hang out with Cass- so she can meet Tim.

However, it's sort of a well kept secret that Tim and his rink friends have. He's not supposed to go there anymore, because he has a private rink. Janet lived, but Jack went into his coma still. He eventually woke up and while Jack is recovering, he finds out they moved back to Bristol full time and there's no more travelling. In turn, they spend more time with Tim, but it's also a strain on their relationships. Jack gets on Tim's case about school, and Janet becomes Tim's manager and pressures him about skating. So Tim doesn't get to visit the rink as often anymore because of his workload. Like, he's in the gym 24/7, does his schoolwork online (he's grades ahead), doesn't ever get a break. Meanwhile, Jack and Janet are always fighting and sort of using Tim as an outlet/weapon against the other.

Buuuuuut, when he does visit, he meets Jason, Cass, Cassie, Bart, and Kon through the connection with Steph and other unnamed rink friends. They start getting to know Tim through the times that he's at the rink, and Steph, who is Janet's #1 hater and an instigator at heart, starts pushing for the vigilantes to look more into Tim's life and befriend him.

The dynamics at play are super funny because Steph and Tim are a vigilante. "A" vigilante, as in sharing the same identity. Tim doesn't have the time in his schedule to go out there, so Steph takes up that part of the role and they share this identity together- Steph taking out the bad guys as "Bird Watcher" and Tim doing the computer/tech work as "The Ornithologist". They're both detectives in their own right and work so well together that it's incredibly hard to distinguish that they aren't one person. They both know that the Bats are the Bats, but the Bats are unaware that these two are the same vigilante they've been trying to figure out for years now.

The rest of the family meets Tim through Jason's hockey stuff, away from Janet and just who he is as an individual. And then they see his figure skating side and the dynamic he has with Janet when Cass enters the same competitions as Tim. (This is my world and they compete against each other.) Obviously, Bruce sees this black haired, blue eyed kid who has parents that treat him like shit and goes "Another one, thank you!" So Tim ends up getting closer to them that way and Steph (again, Janet's #1 hater and looking for members for her club) is having the time of her life causing chaos on the side.

There is... a "tiny" little detail that I won't share yet, cause I truly do want to write this au at some point, and it's way more fun to see people react in real time to it. (I have SOOOO many Tim aus it's not even funny. Blame alighterwood for that.)

Also YESS Tim and Janet are so alike but so completely different it makes me CRAZY

[zahri-melitor]

Still speculating on 'where did the $50,000 go' as far as Jack's debts. Because.

We know Bruce is quite willing to give Dick and Tim, in particular, access to money in a manner that doesn't offend them (selling the Redbird for $50,000? Dick's famous 'inheritance' from John and Mary that just happened to be worth far more than his parents likely had unless there were serious life insurance policies?).

$50,000 was more than the median US household income for 2002 (which was $42,409), and it was tax-free. In terms of a cash injection into the household budget, it presumably was more than enough money for Jack to be meeting his regular debt payments for the loans for months or potentially even years. It would have covered Tim's school fees for at least a year, so he wouldn't have had to be pulled out. It was 'your debt issues don't need to affect your son's lifestyle outside of moving house' sort of money.

And what happens to that money? They give some of it to Mrs Mac to pay for her flight back to Ireland, and then the rest of it just...goes, but doesn't seem to change the situation in terms of how much of a financial hole Jack feels that he's in. (And again, if the Bristol house was owned outright, that was a far bigger contributor to fixing this problem).

That was the sort of money that Jack should have had as a savings nest-egg for emergencies, given their family situation.

Is that $50,000 doing what Bruce clearly intended it to do, and servicing Jack's debts for the next 6 months or so until War Games and Identity Crisis hit and he dies anyway, and anything further ends up being sorted out by his deceased estate? So Jack's supporting his family on the money brought in from Tim's car? (Plus Dana's salary, but it's Jack's lack of income that has caused this situation).

Did Jack throw it all onto the principal of the loans or into an offset? So while it was bringing down his loan repayments it wasn't actually helping with the problem of the family getting by until Jack found work?

And even after Tim has just contributed FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS to the household bottom line (plus the savings on not paying insurance premiums for a 15 year old's vehicle, plus whatever he's sold online for Jack, because Jack just wanted to have a garage sale and would have lost even more money that way), Jack has the hide to go 'and Tim can get a job' about their finances.

Why don't you get a job, actually, Jack. Not your 15 year old who you just pulled out of school before the end of the school year. He's already contributed more than he could earn in multiple years as a kid, by selling his beloved car.