#jilted john

[skaboards]

jilted john stimboard

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[julio-viernes]

Bizarros, nerds, feos, frikis, Jilted John en Top Of The Pops ejecutando su primer single "Jilted John" (nº 4 UK). Bez y Baz. Bernard Kelly aka Gordon the Moron, el "bailarín de manos" y corista de la era punk, memo, muy bien. El cerdo de Jimmy Saville se divierte.

El cantante Graham Fellows: "Bernard era mi 'Baz' realmente, pero también una gran influencia musical, sabía de música pop mucho más que yo, y era una parte muy importante de nuestras actuaciones. Hacía un baile estúpido, un poco de movimiento de brazos y manos, y luego se quedaba en estado catatónico. Incluso tenía sus propios fans y, finalmente comenzó a hacer sus propios conciertos".

[broadwayy-kanaya]

For Anonymous

[tojisun]

cw: this is silly </3; smut; there’s a smidge of plot but otherwise pwp - d/s dynamics

john prides himself on his patience but you seemed to be testing even that.

he doesn't even know what happened just that one minute you were on his lap, hot lips mauling his own, then next you were off, screaming and yelling at him to go away. demanding that he leave and to never come back.

he had barely gotten a croaked, "what-" before you were slamming the door of the bedroom shut with a definitive click of the lock, effectively leaving him abandoned on the couch with his cock half-chubbed up underneath his pants.

no, really, what.

john wipes his face with his palms, breathing in deeply.

he knew that you were a damn brat. that the way you shyly smiled and tittered when he first met you was deliberate because you were hiding the deviousness underneath all the softness. but john had fucked the brattiness out from hiding; used his tongue and slurped your pussy until its raw because not yet. your soft mewls and quiet whimpers were not what he was after. what he was looking for was-

"fuck me!" you cried out before fisting his hair to tug him up from between your plush thighs. "want it now, johnnnnnnn! want yer cock, want-"

you blabbered on so prettily, all angry and teary-eyed in your frustration, and demanded. god, you are so demanding. so pretty at it too.

but your ire is staggering right now, more so because you were all soft and sweet, warm on top of him, and now you've locked yourself away in the room, leaving his balls all blue and his head throbbing with faint worry and exasperation.

john stands up with a huff and pads towards the locked door.

"baby?" he asks tentatively before rapping his knuckles on the door.

there is silence on your end. john doesn't know if he prefers this over you lashing out.

"baby, c'mon," he says, lust abating to make room for worry. "what is it so i can fix it-"

"go fuck your mistress, john!" you hurl from the other side, your voice muffled by the door and the space in between, but john catches sound of it anyway and feels his whole world halt to a confusing pause.

mistress? what-

"-mistress?"

"her cologne's on you! you think i won't recognize it even underneath all your aftershave?!"

john is-

truthfully, john is lost.

there is no one else - it has always been you. from the moment that you batted your eyelashes at him from across his squad's table at the pub, he was gone. he wanted you then and he continues to want you now - you exist as his cornerstone, the one that grounds him amidst the tides. the better half of his soul.

his beautiful, snarky, teasing, devious of a lover.

no one can even come close, not that he lets anyone even try because it’s either you or death, and nothing less.

so the… accusation makes him bleed. he feels unsteady, like you’ve just jilted him and left him to ruin. john wants to fix this. he doesn’t want to let the insecurity fester or the distrust to unfurl even further. but you smelled someone else on him and john knows you will never lie so he thinks hard, mapping what could ever happen to cause you so much distress-

oh.

oh, how cute.

he remembers now - remembers swinging by laswell and getting pulled into her wife’s hug because it’s been years since he visited. she joked that she thought that he’d died, and he laughed because of how elated he had been at the callout.

because john could never settle down in his home, finding comfort back in the barracks instead; always twitching, always willing to stay in the desert longer than laswell demanded them. and when the loneliness crept into his heart, laswell extended her home to him. but he didn’t need that balm anymore. he didn’t need the distraction anymore because john, he-

he found home in you.

and kate’s charming wife teased, asking when he’d get to meet you, and john promised soon, hugging them again on his way out. and now, you’ve thought he is going around slighting you like he won’t give you the gun himself and press the barrel on his temple if he ever did.

now, to tell you this…

“baby,” he tries once more, feeling his lips dancing in mirth. “baby, i promise to you - there is no other woman. s’always been you, peanut.”

there is a thud on your end, a tentative beat, only for silence to ring out once more. that’s fine - john’s not done explaining anyway.

“went to laswell,” he says. “her wife cooked lunch f’r us, and then they hugged me on my way out, and that’s it, peanut. there is no one else i’ll be with.” he licks his lips, debating, but the hunger has unfurled and his eyes have darkened.

“there’s no one else i’ll fuck because there is no one good enough to make me forget the way y’feel ‘round me - all plump and warm and, christ-”

john’s prick twitches awake again, remembering the weight of your body as you rode him last night, and how your pudge dimpled with his every manhandling. you gasped and whined, telling him he wasn’t allowed to be too rough like you weren’t being deliberate in your teases, trying to coax him into exploding. into taking over - and he did. he fucked you on your front, pressing your body on the bed with a hand pushing down on your neck as he drilled you for hours-on-end.

yes, there really is no one else for him. jesus, baby, your pussy ruined him for anyone else. you got him pussy-whipped; got him slobbering for a taste, for a dollop of your slick on his tongue.

you are crack on your own - something so divine that he always feels like a devotee when the passion sizzles into quiet shocks; skin twitching, sexes all rubbed raw.

john would have started pawing at his cock, even if he was mid-through his apology, if it wasn’t for the door clicking open until finally, he sees you peek through the small gap.

“y’promise?” you ask.

“yeah, baby,” john replies, and he doesn’t even feel shy at the gravel in his voice; how he sounds all parts ruined and desperate. “let me show you my devotion. won’t you let me?”

you sniff, then, “okay.”

.

it ends with you covered in so much of his spunk - dripping from your cunt, filling your stomach from when he fucked your throat, and even staining your winking asshole.

lord, it even coats your toes, your thighs, your trembling hands.

john really had his way with you, proving that there’s really no one else that drives him this way. he loves you - he’s murmured this to you so much - but you’ve been a brat. you teased and then threw a tantrum so it’s only right that john punished you. that he tamed you, until you are as you are now - body wracked with jolts, your gaze all faraway, and your pussy moulded to his shape.

“i love you,” john sighs dreamily. you can only manage a warbled hum.

cute.

[pricegouge]

price x pregnant!f!reader meetcute drabble i whipped up on my lunch dedicated entirely to the girl at work who's too heavily pregnant to fit her scrubs rn. john price would love you, girl, keep your chin up

The worst part wasn't actually the discomfort of the papery material, nor the cheap elastic waistline which dug into your plush sides and itched like a sonofabitch. It wasn't even the embarrassment of having to track down your lead at the start of your shift and shamefacedly admit that you could no longer fit into your designated scrub pants and ask if he could maybe please find some spares somewhere? (He couldn't, because apparently no one on the team before you had ever fallen ill with a baby in the belly or even just gained a little weight.)

No, the worst part was the noise.

It hadn't been something you'd even considered until you were already barging into your first patient's room, swishing away with each step. Mr. Jeffreys had grumbled in his sleep, eye peeking open just as you'd leaned over him to start your morning check. Enough ruckus, woman. You'd thought he was just being irritable, a common enough occurrence, but then it happened again and again, each new room bringing another grumpy occupant, displeased about being woken up so far ahead of breakfast. Still, you almost preferred that to the early risers, the old biddies who would turn to greet you, already alert, take one look at you with your swollen belly overhanging the thin paper pants they'd made you wear over your reliable leggings, and start cackling loud enough to draw attention from the other orderlies. 

You weren't the first pregnant woman to outgrow her pants, but you were perhaps among the first to have done so in a professional setting. 

At least it got easier the more the day dragged on, quippy remarks coming more naturally to you the more you had them levelled at you in kind. You'd even let a little boy doodle on your shin, an attempt to keep his mind of his mother groaning in pain, attempting to work through a kidney stone. You're fairly sure you're rocking an Incredible Hulk there now, but it was a bit hard to tell with the way the magic markers had bled across the tyvek weave. 

"Missed your calling." 

You frown down at the man before you, thick brows only slightly pinched despite the way you knew his shoulder must be killing him. GSW. Didn't get many of them 'round here, but you'd seen enough hunting accidents to figure out the good stuff didn't always cut it. And this didn't seem like your average misfire, or pulled-shot graze. He'd been the talk of the nurses station when the call had come through to prep for him, bullet taken straight on, center mass. He wasn't from here, didn't seem to know anyone from here. No one believed it was a simple hunting accident, but the authorities had come and gone, sent skittering by a rather severe woman yielding a badge no one had gotten a good look at. No arrests, minimal testimonies. Rumors had sprouted roots, grew too tall too quickly to be believable. You'd heard everything from a jilted lover to some sort of military coup, but you hadn't placed much stock in anything other than the three letters which had remained unchanged on his chart since the moment he'd been admitted, and then later the surgeon's notes.

GSW. Successful operation.

That had only been two days ago. You'd been in his room once before, set about the same task. He'd been fast asleep, the handsome man who's been visiting offering charming but ultimately short conversation. It hadn't bothered you as you'd been in a rush, and you'd known full well the stress loved ones usually felt, trying to ensure the best possible rest for their injured loved ones. 

He had no guard dog today, no one to send you packing when your putzing made too much noise. And now you've woken him, poor man.

"Pardon?" 

Blue eyes blink open, cloudy with pain and the influence of strong meds but surprisingly alert. They flick down to your leg, shoulders tensing a bit as he lifts his head to see properly. "Pretty tree you've made there." 

You can't help but laugh. "Seems I'm right where I should be, then, seeing as that's supposed to be the Hulk. I think," you add once you've earned a smirk.

"Can't even remember what it is you've drawn? You the reason I can't find a comfortable position? Been stealing my morphine?"

"I wish," you sigh, pat your belly dramatically. "But they say it's bad for baby."

His brows lift into his hairline, pain momentarily forgotten as he looks you over again, as if seeing you for the first time. You realize pretty quickly that he's one of those people, the crinkling around his eyes revealing him as the type. It's one of the weirdest parts of being pregnant, the strangers who look at you with awe, as if you've hung the moon. You try not to think too much of it, don't like imagining couples who've tried for years when all you've managed to do was slip up your birth control one time, like a fool. This man isn't wearing a ring, but that doesn't mean much. Most women who carry on after you are single, too. At least he's not trying to touch your belly.

"Is that why you're half way to a paper gown? Come wandering from maternity?"

"Har, har," you deadpan, waving your stethoscope at him although you know full well he's seen it - hard to miss, resting atop your swollen tits. "No, I've simply grown too fat for my scrubs. And I think my lead's having too much fun embarrassing me about it."

He frowns, somehow vaguely patronizing even while heavily medicated. "No spares for someone in your condition?"

"Nope! Apparently I'm lucky enough to be the only fertile little heifer ever on the team," you snark, and then squint at his monitor when his pulse spikes unexpectedly. 

"Sorry," he mumbles - odd - and when you check, you notice some color to his ears. He clears his throat to distract you from fretting, though the softness is gone from his eyes again, replaced by an implacable type of tension. "Perhaps they're simply not used to expectant mothers working so late into their term?" 

Ah. At last, the well-meaning concern. It grates at you worse than usual, the ease and simplicity (albeit annoyance) of your silly morning falling apart in seconds. Perhaps it's that, the whiplash, that has you huffing irritably, mood plummeting. "Well. Someone's got a pay my bills," you gripe, snapping the claw of his clipboard just to work out some aggression. Maybe it's the hormones.

There's a huff of breath, almost as animated as yours. When you look to make sure he's not aspirating or something, your new friend's absurd mustache is twitching. "Well. That's what Mr. Pretty Nurse is for, no?" 

The phrasing makes you smile, hands gentling as you busy yourself with his monitor. This is familiar ground, at least, a path well-tread which you'd like navigating with a conversational partner who would call you Ms. Pretty Nurse. "Sure," you concede, tapping away at his station to check the trend of his vitals. Steady, even. All night. Like he was practiced at taking bullets. "You ever see him, you tell him he owes me a back log of bills, alright?" In truth, your 'mister' never was a mister, just some guy you'd been trying to blow off steam with. He'd cut and run the second you'd brought up the pregnancy, but you'd decided to keep it after some thought and had never followed up with him, deciding it ultimately was no longer his concern. You harbored no ill will, really, but the dead beat dad was a common schtick, an easy conversational piece when simply shooting the shit with talkative patients. If the worst part about pregnancy was the noisy pants (and the morning sickness, and the belly hair, and the leaky nipples and the -) then the best part was surely the built-in small talk.

"Be sure to let him know," chops murmurs, voice tight. You check his file again, correct your mental dub with his real name, John Price. Traditional, like the neat beard hiding the growing color in his cheeks. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly rougher. "Who did that, then?" 

You think he's pointing to your belly, far too forward, but when you check you see his finger aims lower, towards the art that started this conversation. "Kid over in pre-op. Was upset watching his mom writhing around. Passing a stone," you supply with an exaggerated whisper, as if telling him some scandalous secret.

John grins, soft again. "You'll be good at it, then."

"Pardon?" you ask absently, watching as his heartbeat seems to flutter weakly. 

"Said 'too round for scrubs,'" he chuckles. "Good job, mama."

You scoff, scandalized, but when you turn to him you find he's got that far off look in his eye, a sharp contrast to the lucidity of his speech. That does it. You tut, leaning over him to check his forehead with the back of your hand. And outdated practice, sure, but still useful in a pinch. He doesn't feel overly warm, but his focus has slipped back into that slight haziness, blissed out and vaguely absent, staring a good half a foot below your eyes.

"Mr. Price -," you start but he interjects.

"Just John, love."

"Sure. John. Are you feeling okay?" 

Eyes crinkling again, he gives you an unbearably soft smile, at odds with everything you've managed to glean from his chart. "Never better, doll."

banner by @/cafekitsune

[undying-love]

Beatles biographers saying totally normal things about John and Paul: A compilation

"‘John always used to say,’ Yoko told me at one point, ‘that no one ever hurt him the way Paul hurt him.’ The words suggested a far deeper emotional attachment between the two than the world ever suspected - they were like those of a spurned lover." -Philip Norman

"No matter how much he loved Yoko, the Gibraltar ceremony seems like something close to an on-the-rebound reaction to the loss of his first great love, Paul McCartney." -Chris Salewicz

"Almost in each other’s face, John and Paul quickly gained an unusual closeness, little or nothing hidden. Paul noticed that ‘John had beautiful hands." -Mark Lewisohn

"With Yoko present, Paul McCartney’s reign as Lennon’s princess was doomed.” -Peter McCabe

"John's in love with Yoko," Paul confessed to a reporter from the 'Evening Standard', "and he's no longer in love with the three of us." But for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been talking about himself." -Bob Spitz

'I thought Paul's was rubbish,' opined Lennon, saying that he preferred George's All Things Must Pass. McCartney studied the article with the morbid fascination of a jilted lover receiving a kiss-off letter. -Howard Sounes

“Lennon could have abandoned the (US) immigration case and returned to Britain, and possibly even to McCartney, but that would have meant accepting that his relationship with Ono was over.”-Peter Dooget

"Theirs was a volatile relationship right up to the end, and was fraught with emotional summits and valleys. While the connection between them was strictly heterosexual, it was deep, passionate, and highly explosive." -Geoffrey Giuliano

"John was insecure, and when he saw Paul he wanted to look cool. He gave up all his friends for Paul. Aunt Mimi recalled that John jumped around the kitchen when he told her about his new friend. She sarcastically said to John that they were like ‘chalk and cheese’ meaning how different they were. And John would start hurling himself around the room shouting ‘Chalk and Cheese!'’ smiling and laughing. He was fucking in love with him, he adored him. She understood he found the partner of his life." -Thomas Rhodes

“The last week in August, Paul McCartney returned to Liverpool, tanned and noticeably slimmer. In addition to starting school, he came back to begin a relationship he seemed destined for: hooking up with John Lennon." -Bob spitz

“Seeing Lennon focus on Ono rather than him [Paul] was as devastating as it would have been for Cynthia Lennon to witness the couple making love.” -Peter Dogget

[bethanydelleman]

I don't know if you can ever beat a family meal with the Ferrarses from Sense & Sensibility when it comes to awkward relatives. Edward and Elinor, sitting next to the girl who jilted him (Lucy), the brother who stole his fiance (Robert), and then the half-brother who denied his father's deathbed request to help his sisters (John), and the woman who encouraged him to do so (Fanny). Then the matriarch, who declared both of her sons dead, then allowed them to live, and whose favourite child is now Lucy Ferrars (nee Steele)

I can't even imagine.

[wearethekat]

Best Books of 2024

All of my favorite reads from last year!

The Tainted Cup, Robert Jackson Bennett. A Sherlock Holmes-style political mystery about a woman investigating a murder in a truly original secondary fantasy world.

The Warm Hands of Ghosts, Katherine Addison. Haunting story about a woman looking for her missing brother who's trapped in a pocket realm on the battlefields of World War I.

The Square of Sevens, Laura Shepherd Robinson. An ingeniously twisted historical fiction thriller about a woman who was brought up as a fortuneteller in the 1730s recounting her past.

Someone You Can Build a Nest In, John Wiswell. Sapphic body horror gore monster romance that commits to the bit while also somehow being cozy.

Necrobane, Daniel M. Ford. Bisexual necromancer and all-around menace Aelis engages in pulp DnD like adventures as the protector of a rural village. Book 2 of a series.

The Reformatory, Tananarive Due. A Southern Gothic where the real horror is racism about a young boy sent to a prison reform school in the fifties.

Triple Sec, TJ Alexander. Poly romance about a bartender falling in love with a woman—and then realizing that she's into the woman's partner too.

Lady Eve's Last Con, Rebecca Fraimow. Space opera romcom heist about a woman getting revenge on the man who jilted her sister.

Running Close to the Wind, Alexandra Rowland. An absolute souffle of poly pirate shenanigans. Strong character voice a la Gideon the Ninth that you'll either love or hate.

Rakesfall, Vajra Chandrasekera. Let me be honest, I'm not sure I have any idea what happened in this fever dream of a novel, but it was really good.

The West Passage, Jared Pechacek. A deeply strange and original monk book along the lines of Susanna Clarke's Piranesi.

The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System, Mo Xiang Tong Xiu. The most devoted hater of a popular webserial dies mad about it and ends up in the world of the book. A masterpiece of dramatic irony, made me feel insane for at least four months.

Asunder, Kerstin Hall. Another excellent installment in the guy stuck in your head genre in a wild and original fantasy setting.

Dark Breakers, CSE Cooney. A gorgeous collection of interlinked fairy tale novellas set around the same Gilded Age mansion.

Swordcrossed, Freya Marske. An absolute delight of a gay romcom with a large amount of detail about the fantasy wool industry.

[ceilidho]

Kind of interested to know if in your 1800s John story the bride will arrive- just after the marriage tho? Like, John realizing he married a stranger and spanked her??

Realistically she probably took his money and ran but I also think it’d be fun if she decided to show up like moonnnthhsss later after you’ve been married to John for quite awhile and you’ve grown to really like him (I think it’s also funny if John just never believes you when you say that you weren’t there to marry him; he thinks you’re just too ashamed for almost jilting him) and it just pisses you off. like you hiss at her to find some other man to trick and slam the door in her face when she shows up. And that’s around when John finally figures it out, but it mostly amuses him. His little docile wife finally showing her claws. Probably fucks you extra rough that night or makes you ride him to show him that he’s yours.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - Media/The Paris Date

Part 5, basically, if we're going in order. Find the rest on this masterpost.

AU Summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: I am altering the official Olympic events schedule slightly to accommodate my needs here, mainly so Bucky can watch Gale compete. This installment mentions the stadium jumping round of eventing, which I will likely go back and actually write later. For now, enjoy whatever this is!

---

Bucky will never understand the public fascination with “famous” people’s personal lives. Everyone is always so concerned about all the wrong things. Who was seen with who and are they dating? What does this or that social media post mean? Why does so and so suddenly have a new hair style? 

He also doesn’t quite understand why or how or when he became “famous.” All he ever wanted to be was a gymnast, so he did that. He worked hard, did some flips, won some medals. Then suddenly, one day, there were reporters reaching out to him and photographers taking his picture and morning shows having him on TV and everyone cared far too much about his physical well being all the damn time. He became the USA gymnastics poster boy and he doesn’t recall anyone ever even asking him if that’s what he wanted to be. He won't complain, but he doesn't get it, either. All of a sudden, the girls wanted to date him and the guys wanted to look like him and everyone wanted to know if he was single.

And then, one day, he woke up to a media storm that compounded an already tumultuous time of his life. His coach and teammates were blowing up his phone. Reporters were emailing him and asking ‘for a comment.’ A jilted lover was knocking on his door and demanding he fix this.

It was 7:00 in the morning on some should’ve-been-normal weekday just a few months after the Tokyo Olympics, and suddenly the whole country knew that John Egan, U.S. gymnastics darling, was gay. 

Bucky isn’t exactly proud of the little phase he went through after the Tokyo Olympics. He can admit that now. His older sister, his rock and his best friend, died in a car crash just weeks before he left for Tokyo. She never got to see him accomplish everything she’d ever wished for him. The night that she died, she asked him if he could drive her to the airport. He doesn’t even remember where she was heading - such a small detail in the grand scheme of it all, but one he wishes hadn’t slipped away. He told her he couldn’t, because he had to be at the gym. He had to train for the Olympics, the team to which he’d only just been selected for the first time. So she drove herself. 

She never made it to the airport.

Bucky’s last text to her – “make it alright?” – remains to this day unanswered in his phone. He’ll never even know that she hadn’t been mad at him in the slightest for denying her a ride. That she was just too proud of him. He’ll never know that she’d never blame him, not even for a second. 

At the Games, Bucky managed to concentrate all of his anger, all of his grief, into his sport. He did what they call “angry gymnastics,” and it served him well for those few days. He threw every fucked up thing he felt onto the floor, the bar, the rings, like if he could somehow just win a medal there, do what his sister always believed he could, then it might make something okay again. 

Spoiler alert: It didn’t. 

He did win a medal, a silver on rings. Sure, he was proud of himself. Sure, he knew his sister would be, too. Sure, it felt good. But really, he couldn’t feel a damn thing. He went home. Back to his life. Back to his grief and anger and hate for this unfair world. Hate for himself. 

It’s not like he fell off the deep end or anything, but he was lost for a while. He stopped caring about the world around him. Stopped caring about his own well being. Caring only ever lead to pain. He drank too much. Smoked a joint here and there. Barely slept. Ghosted his friends when he wasn’t in the gym pouring his heart and soul into gymnastics. He went to bars and hooked up with a few too many men. 

And then he met a guy who he legitimately liked at first. They went on a few dates, Bucky always trying too hard to avoid the media. The problem was, the guy didn’t like that Bucky wasn’t out. He wanted to go out together, do things in public together, be together. But Bucky refused. Not only did he have an image to think about, a very public career that he desperately needed to keep intact. He was also terrified of commitment. Or rather, he was terrified of being hurt by someone he was committed to. He couldn’t stand another chip being broken off of his already shattered heart. 

So he dumped the guy. Plain and simple.

But not before some reporter leaked pictures of them together to the media. How they got those photos, Bucky still doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. All he knows is they showed up one day: photos of John Egan holding hands across a table with this guy. Kissing him against a wall. Laughing over drinks. They showed up one day, and they spun his life into something he couldn’t control on his own anymore. Suddenly everyone knew this secret he’d been holding onto, and no one knew how to feel about it. 

That was three years ago. He’s in a good place now, despite the shit show of his leg replacing one John Egan gossip story with another. So yeah, he is, perhaps, a little tired of the media, between all of the ‘John Egan opens up about his sexuality’ stories and the ‘John Egan’s shocking comeback’ stories. It’s exhausting. 

He has to admit, though, the stories going around about him and Gale Cleven are a nice change. 

–

The cameras don’t miss a thing. You learn that early on as a public figure.

The cameras are there when the U.S eventing team wins Olympic bronze, their first Olympic medal since 2004. They track each horse and rider through their stadium jumping round, honing in on every knocked rail and every bad line and every perfect takeoff and landing. 

When Gale Cleven has a solid round, they zoom in on the entire U.S. men’s gymnastics team in the stands, on their feet and clapping like they have a clue what’s going on in that arena. John Egan is at the center, pumping a fist in the air. And Gale, cantering Whiskey out of the ring, looks up into the stands with a smile and a wave, directed right at John. The camera sees it, and the world sees it, too. 

The cameras are there when the U.S. men’s gymnastics team wins silver, their first Olympic medal since 2008. They give viewers an up-close view of every single apparatus. Every impeccable event, every fall, every hand out of place and every step back on a landing. They show Curt’s jaw-dropping vault and Croz’s sheer determination to get it done on pommel horse despite a near slip at the start. The cameras see every facial expression, every celebration and every self-admonition.

The cameras zoom in on the stands, and the commentators take note when Gale sits down with Marge and Benny, just in time for the fifth rotation. Gale and Benny are both still wearing their team USA riding clothes, leaving no doubt who they are or where they came from. They’d made a mad dash straight here after winning team bronze, and there is only one explanation for why the youngest members of the equestrian team care to rush over to the team gymnastics final. When John Egan puts up a phenomenal floor routine that night, the cameras hone in on Gale, usually so calm and stoic, cheering louder than anyone in the stadium.

When Gale and Whiskey, against all odds, win silver in individual eventing, the cameras capture his touching reaction. The way he looks shocked and thrilled at the same time. The way he throws his arms around Whiskey’s neck and buries his face in her mane. They record every movement as a medal is placed around his neck, a ribbon on the side of Whiskey’s bridle. They're recording as he and the other medalists take a victory lap around the ring. And they record Bucky’s reaction in the stands, pressed to the rail with unquestionable love all over his face.

There was simply never any point in Bucky and Gale acting like they weren’t a thing. Even if they’re not quite sure what they are anyways. They just are. Bucky thinks there must be too many news outlets if so many of them are this concerned about his relationship status, but he gets a good laugh from the headlines.

‘Fly High and Stick the Landing: big wins for an unlikely Olympic couple’

‘Is John Egan dating Gale Cleven?’

‘Summer Lovin’ at the Paris Olympics’

‘Olympic Love in the City of Love’

‘An Olympic Love Story. What Gymnastics and Equestrian Have In Common’

Interest in the equestrian team shoots up practically overnight. If Gale wasn’t in the public eye before, he sure as shit is now.

Pictures circulate of John and Gale together. John’s arm around Gale’s shoulder during the Opening Ceremonies boat parade. John pointing at Gale in the stands after landing an impeccable vault. Gale messing up John’s hair as they walk outside the Olympic Village dining hall, both of them laughing at God knows what. Holding hands at a café. Walking shoulder to shoulder along the Seine. 

And, of course, that picture-perfect moment after cross country. Gale sitting atop Whiskey at the end of the course, right by the fence with John on the other side. Gale reaching his hand down, John holding it in his own. John staring up at Gale like he hung the moon – no, like he designed the universe itself. Gale looking at him the exact same way. 

That’s the picture that has everyone talking. 

‘Everything We Know About John Egan’s New Beau’

“Buck.” Bucky leans into Gale’s side and shows him the article pulled up on his phone screen. “You’re my beau,” he teases. 

Gale squints at the headline and zooms in on the photo. He makes a note to find it again and save it later. “Am I?” He asks. He tries to sound like he’s joking more than he actually is, but he wonders if John can hear the slight pitch in his voice, if he knows that Gale wants him to say yes. 

Bucky turns his head to look at him. “Certainly seems that way doesn’t it?” He presses his lips gently to Gale’s, using his free hand to delicately cup his cheek. 

“You two are fuckin’ insufferable.” 

They pull apart, Gale chewing his lower lip bashfully and Bucky flipping the bird at Curt as he and Croz approach them. “Fuck off,” Bucky tells him, and he hates the way Gale stiffens and shifts away just the littlest bit, the warmth at Bucky’s side disappearing. 

Croz flicks Curt on the arm. “Leave ‘em alone. Gale is the most emotionally healthy guy Bucky’s ever brought home to us.”

“Hey!” Bucky protests. Gale raises an eyebrow at him, amused. A silent is that true? Bucky groans. 

“What?” Croz asks innocently. “We all know it’s true.”

“I don’t,” Gale points out. 

Curt looks at him. Looks at Bucky. Back at Gale. “Trust us. It’s true.”

Gale awaits confirmation from Bucky, who just shrugs and reaches for his hand, thankful when Gale doesn’t pull away or press the subject further. When Marge and Benny arrive, the group of them set off to take on Paris. They’re celebrating their victories: a bronze medal for the US eventing team, a silver for USA gymnastics, and a silver for Gale. They’re far from done. Marge has stadium jumping coming up in a couple of days. Bucky and Curt qualified for individual all around. Plus Bucky qualified for floor exercise and still rings, Curt for vault, and Croz for parallel bars. 

But for now, they’re going to go be silly American tourists and toast the road so far. 

–

Six friends, some old and some new, meander along the Champs-Elysées. They don’t bother blending in, half of them wearing Team USA regalia and the others talking loudly in their obviously American accents. They stop at a café, where Marge and Gale, as the only French speakers, have to order for everyone. Curt, Bucky, and Benny all insist on trying to pronounce menu items in French – a language none of them know the first thing about other than “oui” and “baguette.” When they butcher the words terribly and somehow manage to offend everyone within a half mile radius, Marge has to apologize profusely to the waiter while Gale pinches the bridge of his nose and begs the others to shut the fuck up. 

This leads to an exchange where the waiter refuses to speak French with the stupid Americans, even the ones who speak French rather well. Marge, meanwhile, refuses to revert to English, leading to an increasingly tense conversation where the Frenchman is speaking English and the American woman is speaking French until finally Gale just pulls them all out of there because they’re causing a scene and people are taking pictures.

They choose a different café, where Gale instructs everyone to stand outside and not do anything stupid while he goes in and orders everyone’s coffee. When he returns, he finds Croz delicately holding the side of his face, Marge stifling a laugh beside him. “What happened?” Gale asks in exasperation, box of to-go coffee cups in hand. 

“He accidentally offended a French girl and she slapped him,” Marge explains. 

“How?” 

Marge shakes her head. “You don’t wanna know.”

“And you didn’t stop him?” Gale pleads. 

Marge shrugs, motioning to the hopeless group of young men in front of her. “They have to learn somehow.”

Gale has no words. Bucky kisses him on the cheek, takes the coffees from him, and starts passing them out. “It’s fine, Buck. Croz deserved it.”

“Buck?” Benny looks between the two of them, his brow furrowed. Gale knows he’ll hear about that when he gets back to their room tonight – “He gave you his name!”

Gale shrugs. “Long story.”

“Buck and Bucky.” Curt nods, like it makes all the sense in the world. “Yeah, I can get behind that.” And no one else says a thing about it.

At the top of the Arc de Triomphe, they can see much of the city spread out like a map around them. Roads extend outwards in all directions from this central point at the Place de l’Étoile, like rays emanating from a star. 

They convince someone to take a picture of all of them together with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Their unwitting photographer takes multiple, capturing a slow, stop-motion procession into chaos as Curt’s empty coffee cup blows away in the wind, he tries to catch it, nearly knocks Croz over in the process, Benny starts laughing his ass off, Marge abandons them in exasperation, and Bucky and Gale hardly even notice as they find themselves the only two left, lost in each others’ eyes. 

Bucky posts the entire sequence on Instagram with a caption that says nothing but “Look out, Paris!”

At Marge’s request, they take the Paris métro through the city to Notre Dame. They nearly board the wrong train, and then proceed to miss their stop completely, but they make it, only to find that it’s still not open to the public. Marge claims she knew this and wanted to see it anyway, and Benny complains about having to traverse the whole city just to stand in front of an old building. 

“It wasn’t nearly the whole city you idiot,” Marge protests. “And it’s not just an old building. It’s over 800 years old. And it’s beautiful!”

They stand in a line of six, staring up at the grand architecture, the arches and spires and ornate detailing that on one hand is exquisite, and on the other seems over the top. “It’s like, some kinda church?” Curt asks. 

“Yes,” Gale confirms. 

“Am I supposed to pray or some shit?”

Bucky snorts. “You could start by not sayin’ shit.”

“That ain’t fuckin’ happenin’,” Curt says. But they wander around outside of the building for a while, until the massive crowd becomes not worth it anymore and all the boys start complaining that they’re hungry. So they meander back the way they came, walking along the Seine in the early evening sun. 

They all get a little wine drunk in some restaurant along the riverfront, raising their glass in a toast to team USA. “To Buck and Bucky for bringing this unlikely group together,” Croz proclaims. “And to our victories so far. May our good fortune continue.” Their glasses clink together across the table, and everyone drinks to that. 

Thankfully, after the café fiasco, the non-French speaking boys in the group conceded all food ordering needs to Gale and Marge. Curt manages not to even say anything offensive about the wine or how obnoxious the French can be about it. Benny, however, mutters something snarky as he takes a sip, and Curt nearly spits Merlot all over the table, coughing and gasping for breath after he accidentally inhales the alcohol. Their whole table gets some annoyed looks as they try, and fail, to keep themselves from laughing, and Gale finds that he likes how these two friend groups mesh together. Even if he, feeling buzzed himself and knowing the others are probably worse off, eventually decides to usher them out before they can do any real damage to the American athlete reputation. 

He fears he may be too late, but he can try. 

That’s when they split up, wandering off in separate directions. Marge and Benny one way, Curt and Croz in another. And that leaves Gale and Bucky, alone and tipsy in the middle of Paris. Again. “Not sure it’s a good idea to turn Curt and Croz loose in this city,” Gale says, watching the pair of them literally skip off down the street. 

Bucky grabs both of his hands, pulling his attention back to him. “Don’t worry about them,” he insists. Then he kisses Gale right there on the sidewalk, as if he’s been waiting to do that all day. “City of Love. Where are we going next?”

Bucky doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s not for Gale to take him for ice cream, that’s for sure. Bucky doesn’t think anyone other than his parents has ever taken him out for ice cream, and he has to admit that this feels an awful lot like an actual date. Bucky hasn’t been on an actual date since his forced coming-out media extravaganza.

But they sit at a cute little table outside of a cute little ice cream shop and Bucky eats the cute little strawberry ice cream cone that Gale just ordered for him. Gale ordered it for him, like they’re on a date. Bucky is mid-competition here; he probably should not be eating ice cream. But he decides he doesn’t give a damn because this is the happiest he’s felt in months, and he’d be a fool to say no when a gorgeous, amazing guy orders him ice cream in the middle of Paris. Gale is leaning his elbows on the table across from him, licking the drips of melted chocolate ice cream that are falling over the sides of his cone. Bucky’s eyes are drawn to that motion, locked onto Gale’s mouth as he thinks about what else it can do. 

“Could you be any more subtle?” Gale asks. 

Bucky holds his ice cream out to the side and leans across the table, tilting Gale’s chin up with gentle fingers and pressing their lips together. “Is that better?” he whispers. 

“You taste like strawberry,” Gale murmurs. Then he kisses John again. 

A camera shutter clicks, and Bucky whips his head around, all too used to that sound. He hopes it’s just a stranger, taking pictures of their own Paris vacation, but sure enough there’s a photographer for some magazine or another with a camera pointed straight at them. Bucky rolls his eyes and groans. He tries to scoot his chair around the table so he’s between Gale and the photographer who has decided their personal lives are the world’s business. He glances behind him and sees that a second one has joined him. 

Gale glances over at them and raises an eyebrow, then gives Bucky the same look. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “We can leave? If you want.”

“It’s fine,” Gale says. 

“I’m tired of the media thinking they deserve a front row seat to my life. I don’t want them to get to you, too.”

“It’s fine, Bucky,” Gale repeats. “Don’t let them ruin this, okay?”

Bucky nods, but he sticks up his middle finger over his shoulder, making Gale choke on a mouthful of ice cream as he laughs. 

“You know if they keep this up, the cameras are gonna be all on you every single time I’m up tomorrow,” Bucky points out. “Wait, you’re coming tomorrow right?”

Tomorrow is individual All Around. Gale looks at him, amused. Just about nothing can keep him away. “Yes, I’m coming.”

Bucky nods, relieved. “They always show the reactions of people the gymnast cares about. So. That’s you, now.”

Gale doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he extends his free hand across the table, inviting Bucky to meet him halfway. Bucky does, their fingers twining together without a second thought.

Several pictures of John Egan and Gale Cleven will surface from today. Kissing against a wall outside of a restaurant or across a table at an ice cream shop. Holding hands outside of Notre Dame. Walking down the Seine with their friends, John’s hand on Gale’s waist. Headlines will read ‘Clegan takes on Paris’ and ‘John Egan’s Parisian Date,’ titles which they both think are highly lacking in creativity.

For now, though, they eat their ice cream and try their best to ignore everything else. Bucky knocks his knee against Gale’s under the table. Gale reaches across and uses his thumb to wipe pink strawberry ice cream off the side of Bucky’s mouth. They laugh about silly things and tell each other random facts about themselves. Their favorite colors and favorite foods, music tastes and movie must-sees, their greatest accomplishments and most embarrassing competition moments. 

“How do you say ice cream in French?” Bucky asks as he reaches the end of his cone. 

“La glace,” Gale responds easily. 

“Strawberry ice cream?”

“La glace aux fraises.”

“Chocolate?”

“La glace au chocolat.” Gale shakes his head with a fond smile, popping the last of his cone into his mouth. “You heard me order in there. You just want me to speak French again.”

“So what if I do?” Bucky nonchalantly reaches across the table to take Gale’s hand in his. He rubs his thumb over the smooth skin before pressing a careful kiss to the back of Gale’s knuckles. 

He’s considered making a game of seeing how many times he can make Gale blush, but he’s forgotten to keep track. The flush that rises to his cheeks now is still a victory. Gale looks him dead in the eye, though, with such indisputable lust, and Bucky feels this magnetic pull, a warmth deep in his chest and an unquenchable want, knowing he has Gale’s full attention. 

“Maybe you should learn the language if that’s how you’re gonna be,” Gale suggests. 

Bucky shrugs, leaning further over the table again. “Why? I don’t care what you’re saying. Just that you’re saying it.”

Gale mimics him, leaning across the table until they’re just about nose to nose. His lips are parted, and Bucky flicks his eyes down to them. Gale smirks. “What if I’m saying something rude?”

“I don’t care,” Bucky insists. “I’d still wanna do dirty things to you on top of this table.”

“Mon dieu,” Gale mutters, his eyes fluttering closed as he wills his heart to slow down. Then he laughs softly and shakes his head. “Come on.” He gets to his feet and tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand, pulling him up out of his chair. “I wanna show you something.”

--

Something turns out to be the fucking Eiffel Tower. Which they are currently standing on top of. “Whoa,” Bucky breathes out. He can't even be disappointed that something wasn't, in fact, a bedroom where they could carry on with their shameless flirting. They’re standing at the railing, looking out over the city as the sun disappears behind the horizon. The sky is painted in watercolor shades of pink and purple, streaked with clouds reflecting what little is left of the daylight. They watch as bright white and yellow lights flicker on in the growing darkness, the city lighting up little by little far below them, like a constellation growing into a galaxy.

“You’ve been to Paris before, right?” Bucky asks. He grabs Gale gently by the waist, pulling him in close, and then wraps his arms around him from behind. He rests his chin on Gale’s shoulder, and Gale rests his hands over top of Bucky’s.

“A few times,” Gale says. “France is big on equestrian competition. Home of FEI.”

“FEI?”

“Fédération Équestre Internationale.” Bucky grins as the words roll off Gale’s tongue, the French accent shining through. Even though he can't see it, Gale knows, and he rolls his eyes.

Bucky glances at all of the other couples around them who are taking in this beautiful city with thoughts of romance and grandeur. “You bring all your dates up here?” 

“You’re the only one I’ve ever brought up here,” Gale says smoothly, like it’s not a big deal. But the hint of a smile, that miniscule uptick at the corner of his mouth, gives him away. Bucky’s satisfied with that.

“You know how to make a guy feel special.”

Gale hums quietly. They stand there in silence, broken by nothing but the sounds of life continuing down below and the murmuring of other visitors milling about around them. Reminders that the Earth still turns even as they find themselves stuck in this perfect moment, feeling like the world was built solely for them to exist in each other's presence.

Then Gale tilts his head thoughtfully, biting at his lower lip. His words come out careful, deliberate, like they’ve been roaming around in his head for a while now. “What are we doing here, John?” 

“We’re at the top of the tour eiffel,” Bucky says matter of factly, punctuated by a kiss below Gale’s ear. He even nearly gets the pronunciation correct.

But Gale shakes his head, letting his hands fall away from Bucky’s where they remain clasped across his middle. “I mean, what are we doing?” He doesn’t know how else to ask without risking driving this conversation down a dangerous road. He’s worried he doesn’t even want to ask. He’s worried everything could fall apart right here and now, a moment of infatuation turning to one of disappointment. But he has to know.

He’s never been one for casual, and he knows that Bucky has never been one for anything but casual. He doesn’t think Bucky knows he knows that. Gale desperately doesn’t want this to be some no-strings summer fling, but he also doesn’t want it to end yet. He hasn’t decided if a couple weeks with John Egan is better than nothing at all.

Bucky is quiet for a long time – too long – and Gale, frowning, starts to squirm out of his hold. Bucky’s heart is hammering in his chest, his brain unable to form a coherent response that conveys what he needs to convey. But when Gale tries to pull away, he feels panic well up like a bubble about to pop, and he knows that whatever happens, he doesn’t want to miss out on possibly the best thing to ever happen to him just because he’s a little scared.

He can’t even pause to realize how much personal growth that thought process represents. 

“Wait,” he sputters out, his hands holding fast to Gale’s hips before he can pull away. “Just hold on okay?”

Gale manages to turn around to look him in the eye, breaking Bucky’s grip. He sighs. “I’m not a one night stand kinda guy,” he confesses. Because he isn’t, even if he wants to be. “I’m not a one week stand kinda guy.”

Bucky nods hurriedly. “I know. I just… I’ve never done anything like this before.” Gale opens his mouth to answer, but Bucky puts a hand on his cheek and shakes his head. “Please.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t really know how it works. I don’t know where we go from here. But I know I really like you. I know I don’t want this to stop.”

God, he feels like an awkward teenager in a high school romance. The words sound so trivial, so ingenuine, but he can’t for the life of him find the right ones. He closes his eyes, letting his hand drop back down, before he looks at Gale again. “I am terrified of losing people, Buck,” he breathes out, all in a rush. And Gale looks surprised for a moment, both at the honesty and also at the reminder that Bucky quite literally gave him his name, linking them together with some invisible thread that, slowly, is becoming visible to the people around them. That has to mean something, right?

Bucky pushes on before either of them can think too much about it. “But I have been happier here with you than I have been in years. So I don’t really know what that means, I’ve never felt that way before, and I don’t know what to do with it. But I don’t want it to go away. So just, please. Don’t leave.”

Bucky half expects Gale to push away from him, to leave him standing here on the top of the Eiffel Tower, unable or unwilling to deal with the chaos of John Egan’s mixed up brain. He can’t think of another time he begged someone for anything, not in any serious way. But Gale smiles softly at him, and he puts his hands on Bucky’s sides, pulling him in close. Bucky wraps his arms around Gale’s back, and Gale tucks his face into the curve of Bucky’s neck, like it belongs there. “It’s okay,” he whispers, because he feels the same. So lost and yet so sure at the same time. “I won’t go anywhere if you won’t.” 

Neither of them fully knows where that leaves them, or what exactly that means for when their time in Paris comes to an end. But standing there, high above the shimmering, bustling city, they hold on tight to each other as they watch the world pass by below. Tomorrow it’ll be back to the Games. Back to the real reason they’re here. For now, though, they’re just two people falling in love like sparks turning to flame, slowly at first, and then all at once. Nothing about it feels like a summer fling, because that’s never what it was meant to be.

…

…

Next part

[orcboxer]

I finally finished reading Whiskey-Four by John Louis and it was easily a 9/10.

Cyberpunk interactive novel where you're a disabled ex government assassin who gets abruptly reactivated and assigned to a case where a corporation is up to some apocalyptic bullshit and you gotta stop them. Also your jilted ex lover is in town and they're obsessed with you after you shot them nine years ago and they're gonna be really inconvenient about it.

The writing is excellent, the characters are memorable, there are some genuinely hilarious moments, and the action is intense (tho it drags on a bit too much for my taste in the third act). Also it seems very much inspired by the worldbuilding of the Warp in wh40k, if that's your bag. No orks unfortunately but there is punching so one outta two ain't bad.

Anyway John Louis is my favorite IF author and he absolutely killed it with this one

[bluebellofbakerstreet]

A-Z Sherlock Fan Fiction Tropes Bingo

Many thanks to @swissmissing for creating this bingo card! Because I'm like that, I decided to go for a blackout bingo! And because, even as I was typing these, I kept thinking of more wonderful fics that would fit the brief, I hope to fill in my bingo card again. Writers are amazing and deserve to be lauded, and I have left off so many amazing fics and authors. Besides, we all need fic recs. 💙

AU/Amnesia The Murder of Emory J Amat by chriscalledmesweetie. Sherlock and John in 1920's AgathaChristieLand. It's a WIP but is currently updating weekly. (52k, T)

BDSM/Bodyswap - Certain Skills by NoStraightLine. John expressly told Sherlock that if he stole his gun again he’d get the fucking he was asking for. Sherlock “Boundaries Are Boring” Holmes stole John’s gun. (3k, E)

Crossover/Crack - Repo Men by Anyawen. In which Mrs Turner's married ones are James Bond and Q. Q is kidnapped; everybody is a BAMF. (7k, G)

Domestic/Disability A Building of Bridges by pengke. Alternate first meeting. No one would ever send Sherlock in to defuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that’s exactly what happened. “Congratulations, Lestrade,” he called out sarcastically. “You’re traumatizing a war veteran.” (11k, G)

Established Relationship/Enemies to Lovers - Interview by bluebellofbakerstreet. In which the boys are in an 80's punk band, and are being interviewed by Rolling Stone. (2k, G)

Future/Fluff 50. Be You - No one Else Can by KittenKin. John's had a bad day and Sherlock doesn't know how to help. They both feel better at the end, and you will, too. (1k, G)

Gen/Genderswap - The Art of Communication by stillwaters01. Lestrade is receiving odd texts from Sherlock; he reads between the lines and brings help. (2k, T)

Historical/Humor - Acceptable Behavior by bbcatemysoul. Sherlock isn't really sure why John wants to shag him, but he's certain that if he's careful to behave properly about it, John can be persuaded to keep doing it. (3k, M)

Illness/imprisonment -  Radioactive Trees in a Red Forest by Maribor_Petrichor. Harrowing account of John's battle with mental health issues and addiction after - you know - everything. (280k, E)

Jealousy/Jilted - Hungry by LipstickDaddy. John can't figure out why Sherlock is being so nice to that new guy working with the yard. (7k, G)

Kids/Kink - The Alchemy of Sea Glass by reveling_in_mayhem. Salt and air and sand surrounded their little party of three. Crashing waves, gull cries, and the exhilarated exclamations of an excited three-year-old served as the soundtrack to a day filled with blue skies and bright sunshine. (22k, E)

Long/Love Triangle The Edinburgh Problem by snorklepie. “A nice holiday, just a bit more...murdery. ” John said drily. “Yes! The best kind of holiday!” Sherlock beamed. “So we won’t get bored!” (152k, E)

Magical Realism/Major Character Death Left by LifeonMars. John Watson is left-handed. He’s tried not to let it affect his life, but as any Lefty knows, that’s almost impossible. (45k, M)

NSFW/Next Gen. Warzone by abundantlyqueer. Three smutty stories that pick up where the first two episodes left off. (13k, E)

Omegaverse/Only One Bed - Scars Don't Lie by CumberCurlyGirl. The prospect of going undercover as husbands to a couples retreat is just too enticing to refuse. (33k, M)

Parenthood/Platonic The Man With the Cartier Frames by JRow. Sherlock's top priority is The Work, just as it's always been ... in between trips to Putney to help with Rosie, collecting Rosie from school, and preparing for Rosie's sleepover at Baker Street. (32k, T)

Queer/Quest Dance With Me by TotallySilverGirl. Sherlock's queer quest for johnlock requires dancing, and some help from Sally Donovan. (28k, E)

Retirement/Road Trip - The Winter Garden by Callie4180. As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical. (31k, T)

Soulmates/Slow Burn Soul Mate by Mottlemoth. Mystrade. The words appeared on Mycroft's arm aged fourteen. He's now lived with the unfortunate words all his life, not certain that he even wishes to meet his soul mate if that's how the man talks. (4k, T)

Teen AU/Time Travel - The Curious Adventure of the Drs Watson by ShinySherlock. What if ACD Watson and BBC Watson switched places? (40k, M)

Undercover/Unrequited - Last Call at the Homesick Pub by Chryse. During the hiatus, Sherlock is both undercover and suffering from unrequited love. (3k, T)

Vampires/Villain POV - Nine Tenths of the Law by bendingsignpost. John knows what's his - of course he'll kill for it. (Modern vampire AU) (18k, M)

Whump/Werewolves When Your Belly’s in the Trench by Morgan_Stuart. The next time that door opens, John Watson will kill the person on the other side. (4k, T)

Xenomorphism/Xmas - Ghost Stories by SwissMiss. Sherlock's parents think he and John are a couple. They might be onto something. (22k, M)

Zombies/Zoomorphism - Aim for the Head by Breath4Soul. Sometimes you don't really find yourself until everything has ended.A fic about finding love, healing, and purpose after everything has gone to hell. Still a WIP, but worth it. (44k, M)

[zablife]

[menlove]

wait this is so sad actually i'd heard the rose/proposal thing but "we'll show 'em, won't we, cyn?" okay man.... try and act a little less like you're both john's jilted wife

[homestuckreplay]

A Hole in the ACE: Anderson, Caveney, Egbert

[This is a deep dive into the pages of Harry Anderson: Wise Guy by Mike Caveney, seen on Homestuck pages 629-630, and its role in the story. About 2.5k words, somehow. A transcript of these pages can be found here.]

=> Read book. Be the wise guy.

Harry Anderson, born in 1952, was a real magician and comedian who achieved mainstream television success in the 1980s and 90s with starring roles in sitcoms and appearances on Saturday Night Live. A street magician since his youth, he continued to tour and perform magic shows well into the 2000s, and opened both a magic shop and a nightclub in New Orleans with his second wife. Wise Guy is the name of a one-man show he presented in his own nightclub beginning in 2005, although he may have used the phrase earlier.

Mike Caveney, born in 1950, has similarly been a magic enthusiast since childhood. As well as performing, he has written over 50 books about magic and its history, including Magic, 1400s-1950s (2009) and of course Harry Anderson: Wise Guy (1993). This is a real book documenting the secrets behind Anderson’s most famous tricks, interspersed with personal anecdotes. John Egbert is lucky to own this – it’s currently out of print, and secondhand editions sell for over $100.

In my attempts to find an online copy of Wise Guy, I found a PDF that billed itself as the book’s introduction, but quickly devolved into a plot summary of Stephen King’s IT. While clearly not the actual introduction, I later learned that Anderson played Richie Tozier in the 1990 television adaptation of IT, which at least explains the connection.

Unfortunately, very little of Wise Guy’s text is available online. One excerpt survives, and accompanies several online publishers’ listings for the book – for example, here. This excerpt describes Harry’s trick ‘The Finger Chopper,’ with his early-career assistant who happened to be missing half a finger. I am almost certain that Andrew Hussie doesn’t own a copy of this book, but that they found this real excerpt, and used it to write their own entirely fake pages for Homestuck.

Some specific phrases appear in both the real excerpt and the Homestuck pages: ‘Here is a perfect example of how Harry could…’ ‘the close up room at the Magic Castle’ and even the full paragraph ‘[he] had one of those little wooden finger choppers that Micky Hades used to sell. The kind where the blade could be removed and clearly shown. It was a very convincing little guillotine that did not look like a novelty store toy. Harry would get a guy to examine the chopper and then cut a cigarette in half. Then he held the guy’s hand up and told this silly story.’

The Magic Castle is a famous performance venue that Anderson really performed at, however it's located in Los Angeles, not New Orleans as the Homestuck version suggests.. Micky Hades is another magician 25 years Anderson and Caveney’s senior, best known for writing and publishing books and magazines on magic. An unverified primary source says that he invented the Finger Chopper while working deep underground in the freezing cold Yellowknife gold mines, which is definitely cool if true.

The rest of what's in Homestuck is invented. In Caveney’s book, Anderson’s trick is successful, no audience members are harmed, and Anderson is presented as a charismatic entertainer in control of the crowd. In Hussie’s version, Anderson’s trick goes horribly wrong, and is presented as overconfident, unpleasant, and ridiculous. There’s a flip back and forth from praising and criticizing Anderson, painting he and Caveney as jilted former business partners who maintain professional respect, or toxic ex-lovers who can’t let each other go.

Hussie also refers to a ‘two foot, six inch height differential’ between Anderson and Caveney, with Anderson implied as the shorter party. Anderson was 6’4”, and while I can’t find a source for Caveney’s height, I think it would have been well documented if Caveney was almost nine feet tall.

Hussie’s version states that once Anderson’s finger chopper trick was successful, he achieved ‘fame, fortune and the crowning position in the television judiciary.’ This refers to his starring role on the sitcom Night Court as Judge Harold T. ‘Harry’ Stone, a 34-year-old night court judge appointed to the bench when none of the other applicants were available to answer their phones. Harry’s methods in the show are unorthodox, including flipping a (secretly double-headed) coin to decide if a woman should go to jail, suggesting in 1984 that the three members of a love triangle try polyamory, and giving a man dressed as Santa information from two teenagers’ government records so that ‘Santa’ could trick the teens into believing in him.

I’d never heard of this show before reading Homestuck, and neither has Rose Lalonde, but John mentions it on p.636. The show appears fairly well received during its original run, winning eight Primetime Emmys, including four consecutive Best Supporting Actor wins for John Larroquette (who withdrew his name from the ballot for future years). I watched a few episodes before making this post and thought the pilot was really great, with subsequent episodes either not living up to its promises, or already feeling stale. It’s over-acted in a way that makes it feel older than its airdate, and definitely tracks as a cheesy thing for John Egbert to enjoy.

The other name mentioned in Hussie’s edition – Blind Willie ‘Buttermilk’ Stubbs – is not a real person, but a legendary jazz musician from Problem Sleuth. This is most likely a reference to the real 1900s blues musician Blind Willie McTell, or the Bob Dylan song of the same name. However, there’s an outside chance it could be another Stephen King connection, as he has a 1994 novella named Blind Willie.

The second trick described in Homestuck, ‘A Hole in the Ace,’ doesn’t appear to be a real Anderson trick. It’s not on this list of the book’s chapter titles, and while I have found evidence of Anderson tearing up cards as part of tricks, I couldn’t find anything about him punching holes. In general this second page is more artistic license and less connected to Anderson’s real life than the first. It seems like this hole-punch trick was invented by Hussie purely to give John the inspiration to advance his alchemy. Narratively this works really well, because John’s not somebody who would come to these ideas by careful thought, but it’s also not satisfying to have Rose always give him the answers.

We’ve seen another Harry Anderson property in John’s room – the fictional video game Call My Bluff, seen on the CD rack (p.31). Although Anderson never had a show named Call My Bluff, in 2000 he hosted an unsold pilot episode of What’s My Line? for Mark Goodson and Bill Todman. Goodson & Todman were famous for creating a variety of TV game shows, including 1965’s Call My Bluff. Is this a coincidence? I genuinely couldn’t tell you.

I really love what Hussie has done with this book. I’d say this qualifies as a transformative work – taking the real text and premise of Wise Guy and mixing it with established MSPA lore, mimicking Caveney’s original writing style while using it to paint a far more absurd picture of Anderson, using it to advance the plot while still feeling like this book could really exist, at least in the Homestuck universe. It shows how much work gets put into Homestuck, even while some plot elements (possibly even John’s decision to read the book) are decided by readers.

=> Read Colonel Sassacre’s text.

Wise Guy is only one of John’s two favorite books. The other of course is Colonel Sassacre’s Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery, and we’ve now seen inside both. They’re fairly different overall. Sassacre’s is a lot more overwrought and soaked in Southern stereotypes, written like it’s trying to squeeze in as many old-timey Southern words as possible, while Wise Guy focuses on telling a story and creating a character. Both texts lean into some grosser imagery than Homestuck usually goes for, with Sassacre’s describing ‘wriggling regency of rubber bugs, plastic parasites, squirming serpents, pliable pests…’ and Wise Guy mentioning ‘a bloody sausage sized piece of a guy’.

The most direct link between the texts is the uncommon phrase ‘listless octoroon,’ which appears in both. Used in the mid to late 1800s, an octoroon was a social and sometimes legal word for somebody who was one-eighth Black. It’s an offensive term that definitely should not be used to describe a real person, and I don’t think it’s funny in fiction either. It reads like another example of ‘post-racial humor’ where Hussie, a white author, uses Blackness as a joke due to a mistaken belief that racism is a thing of the past. This isn’t the first time this specific brand of humor has appeared in Homestuck, and it’s worrying that it’s becoming a pattern.

Sassacre’s, the ‘family tome of humor’ passed down through Egbert generations, focuses on pranking friends and family members, taking those around you by surprise. Wise Guy, which appears to be John’s own interest, is about performing tricks for an audience – both descriptions of the trick and of the mannerisms surrounding the trick that make it successful, leaning into the draw of the professional magician and the cautionary tale of their failures.

Colonel Sassacre’s relevance to Homestuck has so far been as a physical object. It’s what killed Nanna in her human life, it’s been a heavy item in John’s sylladex that he’s used to set off smoke pellets and slay an imp, it was teased as a Tier 2 sprite prototype, and it was found hidden inside Dad’s safe. In contrast, Wise Guy’s relevance has been about the text inside the book, and John’s interpretation of that text.

Which of course makes me wonder about other books we’ve seen in the story. Data Structures for Assholes, the second book of John’s that’s about A-holes, is clearly written to be so over-the-top it becomes funny (like Sassacre’s) but is used for the same purpose as Wise Guy, teaching John a new game mechanic that helps him advance his own story. Other books we’ve seen but haven’t opened are The Fatherly Gent’s Shaving Almanac, found in Dad’s safe, and the writing journals Rose keeps under her bed. Finally, we’ve seen inside Rose’s Grimoire for Summoning the Zoologically Dubious, however as this book is written in the eldritch tongue, it’s hard to offer meaningful insights.

All of these books have been highlighted when they appear, and are more than just a spine among a bookshelf collection. My guess is that all of these will become relevant to the story at some point, whether as objects or as texts.

=> John: Punch card.

Wise Guy first appeared on p.8 of Homestuck, as part of the contents of John’s MAGIC CHEST (now and forever on the roof), which also contains a picture of Anderson stuck to the inside of the lid. John being an ‘aspiring AMATEUR MAGICIAN’ came up even earlier, on p.4. John claims to love this book, which is ‘one of [his] favorite books of all time’ (p.123), but in truth he only likes specific aspects of the book. In real life, Caveney had great respect for Anderson and wrote his book as a tribute, but this isn’t true in Homestuck – Caveney’s ‘ambivalent attitude toward your favorite magician in these anecdotes always struck [John] as a little weird,’ suggesting that John doesn’t enjoy criticism of his heroes and doesn’t want to engage with the more complex and emotional parts of the text.

John ‘mostly like[s] to look at the diagrams for all the cool tricks.’ Given his aspirations, it makes sense that he’d use it as a manual similar to Sassacre’s instead of a biography – but he’s not reading the book as the author intended. If he did, he’d like it less. In most webcomics, any text is contained within the panels themselves, and any blocks of text below are commentary that isn’t necessary to enjoy the joke or story. MSPA is fairly unique in having narrative text that’s story critical, and I wonder if there are some Homestuck readers who just look at the pictures and think the text is ‘weird’ or extraneous. John’s method of reading Wise Guy fits with the fact that he flits from one thing to another, giving up quickly when something is too much effort, whether that’s hole punching through several cards at once or reading stories that are critical of his hero and hard to understand – but it could also be meta-commentary on readers of Homestuck.

John’s relationship to magic, both past and present, is something I’d really like to see explored in more depth. Now that he has unlimited captchalogue cards and engages with them as physical objects, the possibilities for card tricks are off the charts – and the reasons John likes magic aren't yet known. A magician is a showman, somebody who surprises and delights an audience, but can only do this by concealing much of what they’re doing. A magician has to be a master of their craft and in control of the situation both socially and technically. Magic is believed to be among the oldest performing arts, and while magicians are often thought to be secretive about their tricks, Wise Guy is just one of a huge number of books containing detailed instructions for magic.

John's not usually the character we'd expect to want an air of mystery around himself, but he often tries to hide his emotions, with various degrees of success. He also likes the idea of coding, which is a type of magic - producing an effect (a website) while concealing the methods (lines of code) that went into it. There's not much he's good at yet, but he has the manual dexterity to play piano well, which could translate into sleight of hand tricks. I can see why, as someone who struggles with basically everything, John likes the idea of having a high degree of mastery over something and of making it look effortless. I also see how someone who feels like they're always performing their role in the world, instead of actually embodying it, would gravitate towards being another kind of performer. However, that's just some initial instincts, and as I keep reading and re-reading I'll be on the lookout for more connections between John and stage magic.

Additionally, John now has access to real and powerful magic via alchemy. This is magic that can’t fully be explained by sleight of hand and diagrams in a book, and it’s magic that can provide a shortcut to achieving goals, conjuration instead of illusion. Now that John has this power, will he become disillusioned with the artifice of practical magic, or will he lean into it even harder? Will there continue to be connections between alchemy and the tricks John already knows? Instead of always putting that bunny back in the box, will he start pulling that bunny out of the hat?

Finally, it is surprising that John’s never talked to Rose about Harry Anderson before. Given the depths of his interest, I’d expect it to have come up, but Rose is clueless. When explaining who he is, John says ‘EB: he's awesome EB: that's really all there is to say on the matter!’ which directly calls back to what Dave has said about puppets on p.537. In Dave’s case, he’s trying to convince himself he thinks this, but it’s clear he actually doesn’t. Is it possible that deep down, John actually doesn’t like Harry Anderson? Is magic too close to Egbert family traditions of clowning for John to really feel good exploring it? Is John’s greatest trick of all convincing us that he loves magic?

[likelyrats]

ngl most important part of the nmtb episode was carl immediately getting jilted john by jilted john, which is the only punk song ever made tbh