#happy Boxing Day

[thisischeri]

instagram: cheri.png

[alithographica]

On a scale from Roy Mustang to Gojo Satoru, how poorly do you react to seeing a villain wearing your dead mass-murderer best friend’s body?

[annahxredaxted]

WAKE UP BABE THERES A NEW TAG GAME

GUYS GO DECORATE IT

(@communisticbones @mrsmiagreer @heartsofhounds @themonotonysyndrome @slushrottweiler @cyc-chilla @riverflowsanywherebuthere @badwolf52 @bratty-telepath @frenchiefitzhere @angelicaether @angelcactus @davidshawswife @friendly-waffles @hotmcrodz @conniesrockstargf @sweetlemongrove @nylasredactedshitposts @vilf-lover @running-tweezers AND LITERALLY ANYONE)

(decorate someone’s tree than make your own! ps: feel free to not participate if i tagged you and you don’t celebrate christmas happy holidays 🫶🏼)

[robthegoodfellow]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove's Mother, Neil Hargrove, Steve Harrington's Mother, Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Angst and Feels, More Feels Than Angst, Abuse of Christmas Carols, Drumming is Life Summary:

Billy is born with a beat. Billy loses the beat. Billy gets his beat back.

[kiwidotcom]

12.26.22 ✌️😁

[thegreatgildy]

Yes. 

[doctorfriend79]

🎁 Happy Boxing Day! 🎁

[ohhhhhhenry]

Happy Boxing Day!! 😉

[moonmoonthecrabking]

i wholeheartedly believe that the whole choir is some flavour of fruit but also it matters to me that noel is perceived as the only out gay person in town. personally, i see it as noel feeling isolated from the rest of the choir from being different when, really, they all share this trait. i believe that some of the choir are aware of their sexualities or genders but closeted because they see how noel is treated, or cannot yet accept themselves, while others haven't realised they aren't straight and/or cis yet because of internalised homophobia and other reasons. they don't know everything about themselves, nor can they process everything about themselves. they were teenagers.

[moaninmoonen]

The Day Will Come...

[spookyhotmess]

[robotshowtunes]

Happy Boxing Day! 🥊

Background from x4.ofgraphicdesign.com

[thegreatdivorce]

26th December 1933: A line of children wearing identical new woollen trousers, jumpers and hats at Leytonstone Children’s home, London.

[princess-from-another-galaxy]

[qwertycake]

snowgrave

[paulinedorchester]

Hastings — July 1943 (excerpt from a work in progress):

Foyle pays the driver and turns to face the house in the mid-morning light. The first thing to catch is eye gives him pause. He’s quite certain that he’d left the sitting room curtains drawn. They’re open, although the blackout’s been done.

He opens the door as quietly as he can — it’s locked, an encouraging sign. Perhaps he was mistaken about how he’d left the curtains; but that possibility raises other questions, equally unsettling.

Ah. Well, then, he thinks as he stands in the hall. A happy surprise: Andrew’s tunic and cap are hanging from the coat-tree. And here is Andrew himself, standing in the centre of the sitting room, clad in pyjamas. Just as well the curtains are drawn, then, Foyle remarks to himself.

‘Hello, Dad,’ Andrew whispers, puzzled. ‘Thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.’

‘So did I,’ Foyle replies. At once Andrew raises a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, makes the sort of gesture that clearly calls for, if not silence, then at least a good deal less sound.

‘Plans changed,’ Foyle goes on, in an obliging whisper. ‘Something’s come up. Delighted to see you, of course, but, um, how do you happen to be here, Andrew?’

‘There’ve been eight alerts since Thursday late afternoon.’

‘I know. All of them passed over London.’

‘And I scrambled in all of them, so yesterday morning WingCo put me on seventy-two hours of leave.’

‘Oh! Well, good for him. Good for you as well. Andrew – why are we whispering?’

‘Sam’s sleeping — or I hope she is, anyway — in the spare room.’

Before Foyle can reply to this, Andrew motions towards the kitchen. Foyle follows him there.

‘Why -’ he begins, still whispering.

‘We can speak a bit more normally in here, but even so it’d be best to keep our voices down,’ Andrew breaks in.

‘All right.’

‘Did you have any breakfast?’

‘Not much, but that doesn’t matter. Andrew -’

‘How are Uncle Charles and Aunt Pamela?’ Andrew asks, depositing the cutting board onto the kitchen table with a thud as he does so.

‘They’re very well — they asked to be remembered to you, or course, and wanted to hear all about you. So did Alan, who’s doing splendidly from what I could see.’ Foyle has been moving in the direction of the larder. Most of the loaf has disappeared, he notes with chagrin.

‘Good! What about Averill? How’s she holding up?’

‘Oh, Averill wasn’t there, I’m afraid. She’s still in Yorkshire with her school. Look here, Andrew — how does Sam come to be asleep in my spare room?’

Creaking floorboards become audible, the sound coming from above.

‘The Jerrys strafed a friend of hers quite badly during the last alert — her arm had to be amputated!’ Andrew explains. ‘Sam went to St Mary’s to wait for news, and I found her there. She was exhausted and hadn’t eaten much and wasn’t sure that anyone else would be at her billet, and I thought she oughtn’t to be alone, so I brought her here and gave her, well, gave her some food and sent her to bed.’

‘Mm. How’d you know to look for her at St Mary’s, though?’

‘Oh, I didn’t! I went there because a chap in my flight was shot down during the same op,’ Andrew explains. ‘It was still dark, and we weren’t sure whether he’d bailed out into the drink or over France. He’s Jewish, and we were pretty bloody worried about what might happen to him if Jerry got hands on him.’

‘Yes, I can imagine.’

‘But WingCo telephoned to say he’d been found and taken to St Mary’s. That’s why I was there. He’s pretty badly banged up, but he’ll be all right. Mark Benjamin. Flight Sergeant. Quite a good pilot — the makings of a very good one, really. He only got his wings six weeks ago and he’s not yet nineteen.’

Foyle nods. ‘Well, you did Sam a good turn,’ he tells Andrew, whose eyes widen slightly.

‘I’m not likely to leave Sam, of all people, to wither away in a hospital waiting room, Dad! I thought she ought to sleep in my room,’ Andrew continues. ‘The mattress was new in ’38, wasn’t it? But she insisted on taking the spare room.’  

‘Hm.’ Foyle feels a faint pang of concern whose source he can’t immediately identify.

They now hear the first-floor plumbing being put to use.

‘Did she say why she wanted the spare room?’ Foyle asks.

‘Said I’m home on leave, I ought to sleep in my own bed.’

‘I see. Well, yes, I suppose not. And you bedded down on the sitting room floor instead because... ?’

‘Don’t know that I entirely trusted myself to stay in bed upstairs with Sam down the passage.’

Well, that’s honest, at least, Foyle thinks.

‘Andrew? Good morning,’ they hear Sam saying in the hall. Andrew hurriedly pulls his dressing gown more tightly around him. ‘Are you — oh!’ She stands in the kitchen doorway, looking quite horrified. She is fully dressed, only slightly disheveled, and looks a good deal less worn out than she must have done yesterday. ‘Oh!’ she exclaims again. ‘Sir!’ Then, pulling herself together a bit, she smiles and adds, ‘Andrew wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘True enough — something came up, though, and I decided I’d better come back today.’

‘Not a very restful holiday, I imagine, sir,’ she commiserates.

‘Well, no, that’s true as well, but it was, er, eventful in a number of ways. Sam, I understand you have a friend in the surgical ward at St Mary’s. Since it appears that you two have been emptying my larder anyway -’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘- why don’t you have some breakfast before you set out?’

‘I was going to telephone in advance, actually, to see whether she can have visitors — she hadn’t come ’round yet when Andrew persuaded me to leave — but thank you!’

Over breakfast — more toast, Women’s Institute blackberry jam, a sausage split three ways — Andrew asks, ‘What happened in London, Dad? Or is it something you can’t discuss?’

‘Interesting question,’ Dad replies. ‘It actually involves you pretty directly, Andrew. It seems that we have a relation no one knew about before now — though in my case the connection is only through marriage. You, though, have a long-lost first cousin.’

‘I wonder whether I ought to be hearing this, sir,’ Sam interjects uneasily.

‘Hm. It requires some discretion, undoubtedly. Trouble is, the woman’s present whereabouts are unknown, at least to any of her relations. You might be able to help us with that, Sam.’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes.’ He wipes his hands carefully, reaches inside his suit jacket, removes a neatly folded piece of letter paper and turns to Andrew. ‘On Thursday morning,’ he begins, ‘Uncle Charles received a letter from a complete stranger who is, like him, an uncle of the missing woman. This isn’t the letter itself — he let me copy it.’ He unfolds the paper, hesitates for a moment, then continues, ‘Perhaps you’d both better read this,’ offering it to Andrew as he does so.

Andrew takes the letter and moves his chair close enough to Sam’s that they can each hold one of its edges.

It’s all written out on both sides of the page in Dad’s neat hand.

There is silence for a few moments before Foyle hears the two of them gasp in unison. ‘But, Dad,’ Andrew begins, just as Sam exclaims, ‘Oh, sir!’